The word thief

He was a ruthless word thief
A thief who stole words that hurt
Words do hurt, don't they?
They hurt worse than wounds
Words uttered in anger and hatred
Words uttered in hopelessness and desperation
Words uttered after consuming alcohol
Words uttered before committing suicide
Words uttered during a domestic argument
Words uttered during a legal judgment
Words uttered to release pain
Words uttered to cause pain..
The ruthless word thief specialized in the theft of the last type
The type that hurts the most
The type that makes man's brain return to its beastly nature
The type that makes man's heart hold unresolved regrets
The type that makes lips bleed
The type that makes languages an unnecessary greed
The type that breaks human bonds
The type that harms health and happiness..
The ruthless word thief specialized in the theft of this type of words
The type that hurts the most
The type that is unintentionally uttered by a wife
Before her husband drives away to die in an accident
The type that is unintentionally uttered by a son
Before his father walks away to die of a weak heart
The type that cannot be taken back
Like the rain drops that cannot be taken back by the sky
Like the shed flowers that cannot be taken back by the tree..
The ruthless word thief would steal such words
And dump them in a garbage yard
To set them later on fire
The words would burn fiercely
Fueled by the flames of regret
And after they had burned out
One could always see their silvery ashes
Lying on the garbage yard like unwanted babies
One could also hear the gentle whispers of the silvery ashes
During cold nights and rainy mornings

Like the breeze's lullaby to a war-torn city

Like the ocean's lullaby to a stranded sailor
The silvery ashes would gently whisper,
"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!"

The houses I have lived in

I wonder if the houses I have previously lived in would remember me.

Would the ceilings remember the times I erupted in celebration? Would the floors remember the tears shed during times of distress? Would the windows remember my yearning for a journey, and would the doors remember my yearning to stay indoors? Would the kitchens remember my never-ending hunger, and would the balconies remember my slowly-diminishing anger? Would the cupboards remember the scent of my clothes, and would the racks remember the stories in my books? Would the ceiling-fans remember my exhaustions, and would the night lamps remember my dreams?
Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't.

But I am sure that a visit to these houses will help me remember a part of myself that has been comfortably forgotten in the pursuit of the present. The visit might even help me remember some dreams I have forgotten, some promises I have broken, and some relationships I have left behind.

Isn't that the scary part of facing our past? Along with our growth, it also shows us the price we have had to pay. The price of progress.

"The magnitude of a progress is gauged by the greatness of the sacrifice that it requires," said Friedrich Nietzsche.
Some of us can gauge our progress by the houses we have left behind. Perhaps, also by the dreams and promises and relationships that are slowly peeling off the long forgotten walls.

Transitioning out...

With about 3 weeks left before my exit from my current organization, my manager and my on-site counterpart placed a request before me. "Please ensure that you help your replacement gain the complete business context and process understanding of your project."

After I finished creating the KT (Knowledge Transfer) plan, I was saddened by the realization that such a procedure did not exist in real life.
Wouldn't life be easier if a person exiting our life could identify a replacement and conduct a KT of his/her responsibilities? Don't many of us helplessly struggle with voids that grow into a quicksand of emotional turmoil?
Yes, most deaths cannot be anticipated. Yes, most people cannot be replaced. Yet, couldn't some pain be avoided?

After I created the KT plan, I worked upon creating an exhaustive QC (Quality Control) checklist that could mitigate the possibility of errors in the project.
Wouldn't life be easier with the existence of a QC checklist? Aren't many of us guilty of repeating the same mistakes, be it with some relationships or be it with some events?
Yes, outcomes of certain choices cannot be anticipated. Yes, certain circumstances cannot be changed. Yet, couldn't some suffering be spared?

As I continued pondering upon this topic, something struck me.

KT plans and QC checklists are created in an attempt to transform a project from being people-dependent to being process-dependent. Why then should these be applied to life? 

Don't we already have enough processes in our lives in the form of smart phone applications?  

Moreover, what would happen to philosophy and poetry if life became process-dependent instead of being people-dependent? Would we like our lives to be filled with user manuals and procedure documents instead of being packed with poetry and literature? 

I, for one, would definitely not want that. 

Like Philip Pullman said, Thou shalt not is soon forgotten, but Once upon a time lasts forever. 

You've got a friend in you!

Last month was a difficult month. It demanded major decisions from me, personally and professionally.
The decision making process made me realize many things. The lack of maturity I had always prided myself of possessing in abundance, the irony of my 'Decision scientist' designation at my organization, the role of a father in his child's life were a few among them.

I generally consult only my brother before making a major decision. Not because he has it all figured out. But he is one person who asks the right questions to help me figure out. He is one of the best fits for my organization in that sense. He doesn't just solve problems; he helps you figure out your own way of solving problems.
But last month, when major decisions were demanded of me, I did not just stick to my brother for advice. Adopting the typical team leader mentality of 'more resources = faster & better work', I went about seeking advice from a lot many people. As I explained my problems to each of my friends and as they offered me possible solutions based on their life experiences, I was surprised to find how different my friends' lives & opinions are. Though the diversity gladdened me, the collection of solutions to my problems resembled a pizza menu - similar in their approaches with slight variations to the outcomes. And I must admit that I am bad at choosing a pizza type; all pizzas taste the same to me. 

Having reached such a mental barricade, I did not know how to proceed. Instead of using my energy to list down my problems and solve them one by one, I started being hard on myself. I blamed myself for lacking maturity. I blamed myself for being fickle minded. I blamed myself for not taking enough risks. I blamed myself for every problem I encountered in a day from being stuck in traffic to missing an elevator at office to a database issue at the client's end to an incredibly priced Uber pool fare. As the days passed, the blame-game got worse and I started hating myself. 

It was at such a point that a friend from a previous project at office approached me for some advice on her MS plans. "I am not sure if I should even be aspiring for a Masters program. What if I am not cut out for this? What if I am not smart enough and I am just not realizing it?" I let out a hearty laugh after listening to her and asked her to take a deep breath. I then had a long conversation with her during which I tried to encourage her and make her understand how wonderfully talented she is in contrast to her fears. After that conversation and after a few recollections of the good old times we had had being in the same team, she was about to leave. As a conclusion to our conversation, I offered her a piece of advice which had stayed with me from a beautiful TED talk.
"Do not be too harsh on yourself. Be that friend to yourself that you would be to another friend in need."
It was only after my friend left that my advice hit me like a hammer for my own hypocrisy. 

If a friend had admitted that he lacked maturity, would I have tried to encourage him or would I have tried to put him down? If a friend had admitted of being fickle minded, would I have tried to motivate him or would I have tried to add more pain to his guilt?

I realized that I am a considerably better friend to others in comparison to the friend I am to myself. 

A few days back, I gifted myself a slow, long walk around my neighborhood. Throughout the walk, I offered advice to myself the way I would have offered to any other dear friend of mine. By the end of the walk, my heart felt a lot lighter than it had been the entire past month. 

After I returned home, I took out my notebook where I have written down the names of all my friends from school, college and office. I made a new addition to the list which should have been added long back. 

Soorya Prakash S.

Home, sweet home...

(A short story - also, my 200th post - dedicated to a dear friend who cannot be thanked enough for leading these writings and this writer to this happy place)


I have always loved wet streets, wet walls, and wet sand with the love of a man who has received a surprise hug from his lover. But today, as I walk through the wet street leading to my wet house with an emotionally dried up family, my love for the wetness resembles the love of a man who is denied a hug from his lover because she has had a tiring day. I pass a television news reporter who is screaming at the camera pointed towards her. “…as Kerala reels out of one of the worst floods any Indian state has witnessed in the recent future, the Indian government is still accountable…” The sight of my house drains out the voice of the news reporter. I halt and look at the remains after an incessant rain. The large, iron-gate that served as the security guard to my father’s Hero Honda Splendor and as the wicket in the cricket games played between me and my sister is now missing. So are the hibiscus plants that my sister so dearly nurtured and the tulsi plants my mother so dearly revered. The television set and the refrigerator lie on the front-yard. A couple of earthworms slowly wriggle out of the butterfly-stickers-laden refrigerator.

My younger sister, Selvi, grabs my arm and breaks down on my shoulder. I notice my mother enacting a similar action with my father. I throw a glance at my father – the man who always has the funniest things to say. He replies with his silence, a silence that teaches me two things. One, my father’s words can be silenced only by nature and never by mankind. Two, it is time for me to step into my father’s shoes.

“Why all this sadness?” I understand my father’s greatness as I mask desperation with hope. “Come on! We wanted to renovate our house anyway.” My father lets out a chuckle and a teardrop. I wonder if the teardrop is for the loss of a house or for the gain of a successor. I place a mild slap on my sister’s cheek to shake her out of her sadness and lead her onto the front-yard.

“No more untimely roars from a refrigerator older than Selvi, and no more dancing visuals from a television set older than me.” My joke works with the entire family and the damp atmosphere begins to lighten up. I lead my family into the house. An unbearable stench welcomes us along with books and utensils spread on the floor. “Were there any leftovers from your mother’s cooking on the day we vacated our house? Nothing else can smell so bad!” My father’s comment signals his return to his normal self and also adds a smile to my mother’s tearful face. An unexpected natural disaster is best dealt with an internal family joke.

My sister and I start picking up the books and utensils. My father points to a stainless steel bowl inside which a snail is resting and makes a happy declaration. “Finally, we have become a non-vegetarian family.” My mother places a mild slap on my father’s back and joins us in picking up the utensils. My sister lets out a giggle as she picks up two books that have gotten glued to one another by water. She holds them like a prize as my father and I understand her joke. The books that have gotten glued are Richard Dawkins’s The God Delusion and Bhagavad Gita. My sister, the rationalist, carefully places the books on a table, not separating their embrace.

My mother steps into the kitchen with the utensils she has collected, and I follow her. The kitchen that had always glowed with the warmth of the first two Harry Potter films now seems to be filled with the eerie coldness of the last two Harry Potter films. My mother places the collected utensils on a shelf and slowly walks towards the battered wet grinder lying on the ground. I feel sorry as I look at my mother having to deal with the loss of her wedding gift from her parents. My sister enters the kitchen and rushes towards my mother to offer her a needed hug. Wanting to reduce the drama, my father also joins us in the kitchen with a ready remark. “Our son is 26 years old now. Let us just get him married immediately and demand a wet grinder from the girl’s parents.” I throw an angry look at my father as the kitchen warms up with laughter.

****

“Mom! Come here! Just take a look at this kitchen!” Selvi’s screams and her enthusiastic face from a faraway section direct me, my father and my mother towards her. We arrive at the section where Selvi is busy with opening and shutting cupboards. “How great would it be to have a modular kitchen at our home!” My mother nods in approval of Selvi’s statement and walks to join her inside the kitchen. I follow my mother, voicing my confusion to Selvi. “Have you taken a sudden liking to cooking?” Selvi throws me the look of a teacher trying to explain an extremely complex concept. “Why should I like cooking to want a beautiful kitchen? Isn’t an inclination towards good design enough to appreciate a good looking kitchen?” I realize my mistake in trying to take a dig at my sister.

I step out of the kitchen and join my father. “Are you liking this?” I doubt if a communist like him would enjoy an interstate visit to IKEA’s store in Hyderabad, especially in its opening week. “It is definitely fun. What is not to enjoy when one gets to learn about the microscopic concerns of people who shut themselves to the macroscopic problems?” I question my father’s statement, realizing that my family always answers with another question. “But then, a society is made up of a few hundred families. Shouldn’t the families want internal happiness to start working towards a happy society?” My father smiles and delivers a lasting punch. “The want for happiness in a family always grows with its expansion. How many families do you know that have stopped expanding?” I remain silent as a family walks past us, discussing about the number of bedrooms they would need once the two college-going sons in the family get married.

“I think we have spent enough time trying to figure the right look for our kitchen. Let us proceed towards the living room section. That’s the room that relatives notice when they visit.” My mother’s finding directs us to the living room section. “Wow! This one has a Japanese table in it. Let’s buy one for our home.” Selvi walks to the table and kneels before it. “We can all have our dinner on this table, with each person kneeling on each side.” I look at my father who lets out a sigh, indicating that a joke is to follow. “Selvi still hasn’t come out of her punishment habit from her school days.” I wink at Selvi and let out a laugh as my father receives a call on his mobile phone. He walks away with his mobile phone only to return after a few minutes with a serious face. “What happened?” My father looks at his mobile phone and calls out to my mother and sister to bring the family closer. “I just got a call from Nambi. It seems the rains are getting intense back home. Let us wrap this visit in the next one hour and try catching the next bus to Kerala.” My sister and mother nod and hurry towards the living room section while I stay with my father. My father starts making phone calls to the other neighbours in our area.

****

I exit the kitchen and enter my bedroom. All the efforts my sister and I would put to keep our cots as far apart from one another as possible seem to have been washed away by the floods. The cots remain one on top of the other. My sister’s wall paintings of butterflies seem to have flown away, leaving behind an empty canvas.

My father joins me and places his hand on my shoulder. “Are you worried?” I turn to look at him. “Are you?” He shakes his head and tightens his grasp on my shoulder. “We will overcome this.” He then lets go of my shoulder and folds his hands. “Do you have any money saved?” I nod. “Do you?” He looks at me with his trademark mischievous smile and replies. “I am not as playful as my remarks.” I feel slightly offended by his misjudgement of my judgment. “I did not refer to the remarks or playfulness. I referred to the communism.” He remains silent. After a thoughtful minute, he turns to look at my mother and sister still seated in the kitchen. “Maybe it will do them some good to visit the IKEA store again.” I look at him confused. “Let’s just say that I am a better husband and a father than a communist.” I return him his mischievous smile with my reply. “Aren’t we all?”

My father and I walk to the living room where my sister also joins us. “Mom wants us to search the entire house and gather the scattered idols of Gods. She wants to perform a pooja before proceeding further.” The three of us separate in different directions and set out on our spiritual quest. After the passage of half an hour, we meet again in the living room with damaged and muddy idols in our hands. “I finally found God.” My sister winks after her joke and my father and I let out a hearty laugh. My mother joins us with two clean, undamaged idols which she had packed with her while vacating our house. She arranges all the idols in neat rows, like school students waiting to be photographed for the school album. She then lights a lamp before them and begins her prayer. My father, my sister, and I silently stand behind my mother, knowing well that my mother’s prayers would suffice for the entire family. As I look at the tiny temple my mother has created for the Gods, I am reminded of my state’s pet name.

Deivathinde swantham naadu. God’s own country.

Understanding art through a haircut and bruschetta

Last weekend, I visited the barbershop in the neighboring street. The barbershop where my barber friend offered me a haircut for 70 rupees and his political opinions for free.  
Last weekend, the topic of discussion happened to be Karunanidhi's death. As hair strands kept falling before my eyes, we discussed about the possible protests that would have erupted had Karunanidhi been denied his final resting place at the Marina beach. In the middle of our discussion, my friend suddenly paused and held a mirror behind my head. He asked if I was satisfied with the amount of trimming on the back of my head. I did not care to pay much attention and hastily nodded in agreement. 
Our discussion continued and a couple of minutes later, my friend paused again to ask if the trimming on the sides of my head was enough. I smiled and calmly replied, "Just give me a haircut that will keep me out of your shop for at least 1 month." My friend laughed and continued his work. 
After about five minutes, he wrapped up his finishing touches and admired my hairstyle. He held the mirror again to the back of my head, to the sides of my head and eagerly looked at my reflection in the mirror hung before me for my approval. I showed him a thumbs-up and as my friend happily began to untie the cloth that had covered me from the falling hair strands, a realization hit me. 
My barber friend cared more about my hairstyle than I did.
For me, the haircut was just a solution to keep my hair out of my ears and eyes. Nothing more. Nothing less. But it wasn't so for my friend. Which gladdened and saddened me in equal measures. 
I was glad because I had met a man who put his heart and soul into his work. I was sad because I did not even attempt to understand his work. 

****

Four days after the haircut, I visited an Italian restaurant near my office. I ended up there since my team was in a mood for authentic pizzas and pastas. As my teammates patiently examined the menu card to decide upon the most mouthwatering dishes, I downed my second glass of drinking water in an attempt to prevent my face and stomach from emitting signs/sounds indicative of my terrible hunger.
My hunger made me wonder if my teammates assumed that they were on a real Italian vacation. They seemed to be conversing and laughing and deciding dishes at a very leisurely pace. Screw you, Dolce Far Niente! In comparison, I seemed to be a man stuck in a Bangalore traffic signal, irritated by the ten seconds remaining for the signal to turn green.
Fortunately, after what seemed like the time required to explore the entirety of Venice and Rome, the waiter brought the starter dish. It was called bruschetta. My hunger did not care if it was bruschetta or bhel puri or bisi bele bath. All that mattered was that it was edible.
I did not care for dining etiquette and reached out for the dish. The waiter stopped me. "Let me serve you the dish, sir." I agreed with a forced smile as my stomach growled.
The waiter took a piece of roasted bread and slowly applied olive oil to one side of the bread. Meanwhile, my stomach armed itself with a pistol. The waiter then took a tiny piece of garlic and gently rubbed the same side of the bread. My stomach unlocked the safety lock in the pistol and was ready to fire at the waiter. The waiter then placed a basil leaf on top of the bread and slowly arranged diced tomatoes one after the other on the basil leaf. Boom! Boom! Boom! My stomach had fired 3 fatal shots already.
The waiter then carefully placed/presented the dish on my plate. "Oh you poor soul! You have already been executed." My stomach let out an evil laugh at the waiter. I picked up the bruschetta and ate it, only to be reminded of the bread-sandwiches I would prepare with my brother when we did not have enough time and ingredients.
My hunger satisfied itself, giving up all hope on food, and I relaxed on my chair, embracing the Italian lifestyle.
But as I relaxed, I noticed the waiter passionately preparing the bruschetta, one after another, for my teammates. His face glowed as he repeatedly applied the olive oil, rubbed the garlic on the bread, placed the basil leaf and arranged the diced tomatoes. His face glowed more as he saw smiles spreading out on my teammates' faces as they chewed upon the bruschetta. Which gladdened and saddened me in equal measures. 
I was glad because I had met a man who put his heart and soul into his work. I was sad because I did not even attempt to understand his work. 

****

For me, fashion and food are only the means to an end (a good life) and not an end in themselves. Owing to this, I have missed many opportunities to appreciate the artistry behind hairdressing and cooking/serving. 
As I understood this aspect of mine through the above incidents, I also understood people who have missed many opportunities to appreciate the artistry behind writing and filmmaking. 
For many people, books and films can be only the means to an end (a good life) and not an end in themselves.  

After this realization hit me, I visited the barbershop in the neighboring street. My barber friend was discussing about the floods in Kerala with a customer. I interrupted him, shook his hand and thanked him. My friend did not understand. "I feel extremely light-headed now." My explanation did not help him. I thanked him again and walked out.

Choosing hope...

A project that I am currently leading in my office is about to shut down in two weeks' time because of funding issues at the client's end. A teammate, during a conversation two days back, asked me if I had started approaching other teams in my office regarding available openings. I told him that I was still hopeful of finding a sponsor for our project from the client's side. He let out a chuckle. "Don't you think you are being too optimistic? Haven't you faced bad times? Are you a guy who believes in happy endings?" 
I understood where his questions came from. 

There exists a perception that being hopeful arises out of an inexperience of life's hardships, or out of naiveté. But why cannot hope be a choice?
Life does seem unfair more often than not but isn't it better to believe than to just buckle in?
Isn't it better to strive for a surprise or a shock than simply surrender?

I am not trying to romanticize suffering by the above lines. Suffering does cause a strain. 
But by succumbing and settling in a safe shelter, aren't we losing out on living a full life? With such an outlook, when would our hearts get to reach a high?

I tried explaining these thoughts to my teammate. His face turned curious. "But, doesn't losing hurt?" I nodded and added a learning. "Not putting in the effort hurts more." It is better to hope and get hurt than hold regrets. He was not convinced. I asked him to hope for hope. He laughed. 

****

When I began publishing posts here four years ago, I would start typing down a piece only when I had my thoughts structured in their entirety, from the start to the end. The content mattered more than the form. But as I persisted with the translation process of thoughts to text, I started falling in love with the writing process more than the idea. 
The endings of the posts started mattering less. I liked letting words conjure up sentences and come to their own conclusion when they could continue no more. 
I started writing simply for the sake of writing and not for publishing. 

I believe being hopeful is a similar process.
One starts putting in the efforts and starts staying positive not primarily for the outcome but for the simple pleasures of living.
A post might turn out good or bad. An event might turn out good or bad.
But one is always the better for having written/hoped.

To my other friends...

The friend who listens to all my stories:

My coffee mug is white colored and narrow-necked, with a curved handle resembling the outline of a human ear. Many a day, I have wondered if this resemblance is the reason for my mug being such a good listener. Be it a happy story or a sad story, my mug always listens patiently and advises, "Have a sip." And with every sip, I am made to realize that life is also like coffee - bittersweet. When the memories are sad, I embrace the entire mug longingly and when the memories are happy, I hold on to the handle with gratitude. Be it the early morning hours or the twilight hours, my coffee mug will always sit across me and lend an ear, letting out steam for all the pressures in my life. 

The friend who will never let go:

My sweatshirt is black colored and two years old with a hood. Unlike other sweatshirts, mine is open to nature and is closed to people. It lowers the hood when it rains but it protects me in a room full of strangers. It takes a nap during sunshine and it loosens up in the midst of friends. My sweatshirt holds this unchangeable opinion that my heart is visible to others and so, it zips up when I am sad. I try telling my sweatshirt that it is okay to let go at times but it remains a steadfast friend who would not let go. Be it a celebratory t-shirt or an uninterested formal shirt or a caring casual shirt, my sweatshirt always ensures that warm hugs are available for every dress and emotion I experience. 

The philosophical friend:

My mobile camera is 24 MP sharp and it allows me to capture photos on 'portrait' mode. But it lays down strict rules such as to use 'portrait' mode only for capturing natural entities and man-made objects. "Respect the spirit residing in non-human elements," it guides me, as it lets me adjust the composition before capturing the photo. It also quotes two other lines constantly. "Celebrate the ordinary"."Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder". When I stumble upon a beautiful landscape or an extraordinary moment, it shuts off forcing me to enjoy the experience, and when I sigh at the mundaneness of something, it opens up throwing light on the beauty I failed to notice. My mobile camera is a friend that has helped me change my perspective about life. 

The friends in need:

My earphones are designed by 'Sennheiser' and my headphones are designed by 'JBL'. They always manage to know when to remain silent and when to play music. At times, when I consciously keep replaying a sad thought, they throw a Rahman song or a Hans Zimmer soundtrack at me. They refuse to leave my ears when I want to cry and they refuse to stay on my ears when birds are singing. They know what to sing when I am travelling; they know what to sing when I am stuck at work. They help me filter out all the abuses and anger, and they help me listen to only love and laughter. They never let me feel lonely and whenever words fail me, they jump into my ears and help my thoughts attain a rhythm.  

The entertaining gang:

The books I read come from different backgrounds and in all possible shapes and sizes. Every book is filled with countless stories and is incredibly interesting that the books, individually, gift me a good time and as a gang, they lead me into new worlds of joy and intellectual bliss. They are so loving that they share numerous stories with me and never expect a story in return, completely understanding my introverted nature. They are so content that they do not even mind if they never get a chance to leave my home. The journey between my bookshelf and my bedroom is satisfying enough for them. These books are truly my friends with whom I can stop a conversation midway and start it from the exact, same point even after the passage of months or years.

****

As I reach a 'Friendship day' in life where I have run out of ways to express my gratitude to wonderful human friends, I have tried describing my other friends to whom my gratitude has been long overdue. 

I have been understood by these friends as much as I have been understood by some amazing humans. 

With limitless love, I wish my other friends a very happy friendship day.

A golden plant

I came across a golden plant tonight
She smiled and shone like a shy moon
Illuminated by her charming sun - the street light
The same street light under which mosquitoes sing,
Kids play badminton, and dogs bark at beggars
The same street light that does not have a political stance
Or an economical one
For it campaigns for multiple political parties
And rents out a 2BHK flat at Rs 20,000 per month
And rallies for a trade union strike happening next week
But why talk about a street light
When we have a golden plant?

I came across a golden plant tonight
She would have put my mom's jewelry to shame
Being beautifully lit by her endearing flame - the street light
The same street light that brightens up the textbooks of poor kids
And guards the return of people to their homes late night
The same street light that sweetens up pani-puris and momos
And glistens up the sweat beads of midnight food-delivery boys
The same street light that serves as the sun to security guards
And gleefully romances balcony after balcony in the surrounding flats
But why talk about a street light
When we have a golden plant?

I came across a golden plant tonight
She glowed like the FIFA world cup trophy at display everywhere
Basking in the love of her fan - the street light
The same street light that seems to be ashamed for some reason
With its head bowed down at all times
The same street light that measures the intensity of rain
And provides comfort of a power cut all around
The same street light that waves a flickering welcome to bats
And bids a serene goodbye to sparrows and pigeons
But why talk about a metaphorical golden plant
When we have a real one?

Gods of Globalization

(A short story dedicated to the man who wrote Animal Farm and 1984, and whose 115th birthday fell yesterday)

"Sure, Mr. Ganesh. Sure. We understand your concerns. We can definitely look into the 'Prayer granting framework' and investigate what went wrong." Ajit tried his best to convince Mr.Ganesh who was audibly angry. But it was clearly not working. He pressed the 'Mute' button on the Polycom device and looked at his team. "Do you guys think we can fix the issue?" His 8-membered-team of 25-year-olds did not answer. "Do you guys have an estimate for the fix?" Silence again. He pressed the 'Mute' button again to go audible. "Mr.Ganesh, we just had a quick internal discussion here. The team is of the opinion that we should be able to fix the framework by tomorrow EOD."

"Hey, Ajit. This is Jesus here. Are you guys confident that you can fix the issue by tomorrow?"
A smile spread over Ajit's face. Mr.Jesus was a more lenient client that Mr.Ganesh.
"Definitely, Mr.Jesus. We are a 150% sure that the framework will be functioning at its best by tomorrow." Ajit's team members helplessly looked at each other as another sleepless night lay in wait.
"Sounds good, Ajit. But just take an extra day perhaps, so that you can recheck the fixes. Guess you had over-promised even to Hanuman last week and had shared a faulty tool."
But Ajit was not willing to take an extra day. Fixing an issue faster was more important than fixing an issue the right way.
"We understand your concerns, Mr.Jesus. But this time, we are sure that the framework should be up and running by tomorrow."
One of Ajit's team members started typing out a WhatsApp message to his friend - 'Dude.. Am not going to be able to make it to the movie tonight. Find someone else..'
"Okay then, Ajit. Let's wrap this call now. Drop a mail tomorrow once the framework is fixed. Thank you."
"Thanks a lot, Mr. Jesus. Thank you for your time. Thank you too, Mr. Ganesh. Have a great day."
A grumpy 'Thank you' was heard from Mr.Ganesh.

Ajit disconnected the call. "Can someone explain to me what the hell went wrong this time?" Ajit's team members did not answer. "This is the 7th time I have had to apologize to these silly Gods for a sillier mistake." Silence prevailed for a minute. A team member finally gathered the courage to speak up. "We are committing the same mistake time and again, Ajit. We should not be giving these impossible timelines when we know it only worsens things."
Ajit rose from his chair and picked up a marker. He then walked to the white board plastered to the wall of the conference room. "Help me understand how this timeline is impossible. Let us break down the tasks hour by hour."
One of Ajit's team members started typing out a WhatsApp message to his dad - 'Would be held up in office tonight. You and mom go ahead with the cake cutting for Preethi.'
"Help me understand, guys. What is the first task?" Ajit wrote an intimidating 1 on the white board and circled it. One of the team members visualized herself as the '1' trapped inside Ajit's circle.
The next hour was spent thus from differing viewpoints:

• Ajit's viewpoint - Creating an exhaustive hour-level breakdown of the fix for the framework
• His team's viewpoint - Planning needlessly for a fix that would result in a bigger error

These hour-level breakdowns had become a routine after the Great Gods organization had become a client. The Great Gods had approached Ajit's data analytics startup with a problem statement as below.
The prayer data we receive has been exponentially growing with every passing day. It has become difficult to differentiate the good prayers from the evil ones. Help us design a system that sorts these prayers and generates a final list of prayers to be answered.

Ajit had gotten excited with the problem statement. More so because he could visualize this project leading to a chain of potential projects in the future. Ajit and his team had devised a plan for a 6-month long program and had labeled it, 'The God Program'. The components of the program were as below, as written in one of Ajit's team member's notebooks.

• Prayer granting framework - 1 month (Real timeline - 3 months)
• Prayer forecasting framework - 2 months (Real timeline - 4 months)
• Devotee churn analysis - 1 month (Real timeline - 3 months)
• Devotion campaign management - 1 month (Real timeline - 2 months)
• God performance tracker - 1 month (Real timeline - 3 months)

Ajit's clients had been surprised by such an ambitious plan but since they had witnessed all possible miracles of mankind, they had given a go ahead to the program. And so had started the string of errors and the hour-level breakdowns that had become a routine. Ajit's team members never had the time needed for quality control, which meant that every deployment of the framework led to serious consequences. The team usually caught these errors only through the error logs, which were the newspapers. But their most recent error had led to a devastating consequence - the start of a civil war in a middle east country. And hence the grumpy responses from Mr.Ganesh, and hence Ajit's promise to fix the framework in a day.

22 hours later, Ajit sent out a mail to Mr.Ganesh and Mr.Jesus that the issue in the 'Prayer granting framework' was fixed and his team had double-checked the fix. When Ajit's team members read his mail, one member questioned his teammates curiously, "Did we even finish all the quality checks once?" They replied that there were 3 more checks pending. But then, one of the members joked, "How can things possibly get worse than yesterday?" and the team let out a hearty laugh.
The next morning, one of the team members posted a message - 'Guys! We have screwed up again!' - on the WhatsApp group that Ajit was not a part of. When another member asked him what had happened, he shared a news article on the group. 

The title of the news article read, 'The United States of America elects its 45th president'.

Mirror, mirror, what do you see?

I move my hand gently over the mirror

I carefully study my reflection

My reflection looks like a different person
He does not resemble me..

When I feel tears cleansing my face
He seems to be smiling peacefully
When I feel ants biting continuously at my heart
He seems to be smiling peacefully
When I feel silence breathing upon me
He seems to be smiling peacefully
When I feel loneliness embracing me dearly
He seems to be smiling peacefully
When I feel the weight of others' sorrows
He seems to be smiling peacefully
When I feel suffocated in an empty space
He seems to be smiling peacefully..

I want to help him
I try breaking the mirror
I first use my fists
That have turned softer by wiping away tears
I then use my heart
Which has become the hardest part of my body
And only then does it hit me
I am the one trapped inside the mirror
I am the one trapped with the truth
He is living happily in the outside world
He is living happily with a lie
I want to help him
I need to break this mirror
Can someone help me please?
Or rather, can someone help him please?

Understanding life and death

"So, how is the experience?"
My grandmother questioned me an hour back, wanting to know about my experience of having spent 2 days entirely at a hospital. I was accompanying my grandmother who had to be under medical observation for her fluctuating haemoglobin count.

"So, how is the experience?"
When you are an aspiring writer, it gets increasingly difficult every time you are asked to describe an event or an object. The words do not escape your mouth unless they have become a part of a breathtaking sentence.
"When you speak, it is just the first draft. You do not have to put in so much effort as in writing," I tell myself. But the words become paranoid patients, not willing to be discharged before they spend good time at the Intensive Thinking Unit.
I still took my time to collect my thoughts and tried speaking like a writer to my grandmother. I said, "So much blood and so many bandages makes one understand the frailty of the human body and the strength of human bonds." The nurse who was administering medicines to the neighboring patient threw me a look which diagnosed that I also need to be kept under medical observation.
And so, I got down to typing my experiences, wondering why the human mind found it comfortable to write/read truth than to speak/hear it.
(Which led me to remember this earlier post.)

Hospitals seem to be the place where most grandparents and parents face regret for not forcing their children to pursue MBBS. I heard an old lady resting in the neighboring ward say, "We missed the opportunity to make our boy a doctor. Let us at least search for a bride who is a doctor."
Would the future to-be-bride have imagined that her wedding oath would be decided by her Hippocratic oath?

Hospitals also function like cinema theaters playing Indian movies, with a range of emotions being displayed in a room of 4 patients. You see joy. You see longing. You see sadness. You see anger.
One patient was overjoyed because she was informed by the doctor that she could follow her normal diet from the next day, which meant that she could return to eating non-vegetarian food. One patient longed to know if the people in his apartment enquired about him after his admission to the hospital. My grandmother was sad that she was troubling her family members owing to her ill health. And another patient was angered that her Lord was fond of placing one hurdle after the other on her journey. 
I clearly remember a nurse's response when the patient blamed her Lord in anger. "The Lord only tests those who are strong enough to face difficulties."
I wished that every doctor included this quote in his prescription, along with the names of medicines that provide very less motivation.

I also experienced a wide range of emotional states at this place.
Fear. Gratitude. Joy. Sadness.
Fear every time I crossed the casualty ward on my way out of the hospital, that I might suddenly hear a scream of grief. Gratitude that the society and the world are still at a state where they are filled by more screams of anger than by screams of grief. Joy that many nurses alternate very easily between gossiping and being guardian angels. Sadness that the shit of a disabled human still needs to be cleaned up by another human.
And only when I noticed my moods oscillating to the extremes, did I understand how beautifully Buddhist a doctor had to be.

In the room that my grandmother was admitted, the doctors visited the patients every 2-3 hours and provided affirmations that they were en route to becoming healthier. As I noticed this, I marvelled at the irony of the medical profession. Would there be another profession where the employees genuinely wished that their clients never faced any problems, though that meant lesser growth and opportunities to the employees?
I tried imagining a data analyst who wished for his client to never face any challenges with his data. And I understood that my imagination needed some data treatment.

As I continue to type my thoughts, I notice my grandmother looking at me like a kindergarten kid who is eager to narrate the new story taught at school. I stop typing and ask her if she wants to say something. "Do you remember the old lady who lived alone in the house above ours?" she asks. I nod, preparing myself for a tale that could be made interesting only by my grandmother. The writer in me tries to disagree initially, wanting to type more but he gives in pretty soon, realizing that a part of the writer would not exist if not for this storyteller-grandmother.
And so, a tale unfolds. So does my understanding in this place of life and death.

Redistributing love

She would have been 65-70 years old.
Perhaps, in a parallel universe, she could have been resting on a cot that was placed in a corner of her daughter's 2BHK flat, and could have been immersed in a tele-serial brimming with sadness.
But the present universe did not seem to be so generous. It was working towards making her reality sad, and not her pastime.
She slowly walked around the bus stand asking for alms.
All the people were willing to offer their 'No's but not their money. I wished for a new nation to be formed that accepted people's denials as a currency. Wouldn't it be a paradise for beggars and one-sided lovers?

She slowly walked around the bus stand asking for alms. Receiving a handful of 'No's, she then slowly walked towards a roadside eatery. The owner of the eatery looked at her empty hands. He then turned to look at us, the people crowded at the bus stand. Maybe he understood that the old woman's plight was not just her fault. He handed her a plate with a few scoops of rice.

The old woman walked towards the bus stand with her food and sat before us. She then took a handful of rice and turned to look at us. Spotting a small girl amongst us, she called out to the girl and offered her the food.
The girl's mother held the girl's hand firmly, scared that she might step forward and accept the offer of selfless love. The old woman called out again with an affectionate smile. But the crowd that was not willing to offer was also not willing to receive.

Looking at the happenings, I longed for a communist movement to be started, not for the 'redistribution of wealth' but for the 'redistribution of love'.
How beautiful and fair would the world be if every person could receive the same amount of love he was willing to offer!

May I borrow your life?

I am seated in an air-conditioned Volvo bus, on my way to office. My life and my day have shaped up the exact way I had promised myself not to pursue 3 years ago.

With an hour-wise planned day ahead, and with very little elements that might surprise me, I stare outside the window. An old man is asking for alms on the other side of the road and the cold air that blows out of the air-conditioning vent angers the communist in me.
I then notice a cyclist riding his bicycle at a leisurely pace, earphones plugged in, and a peaceful smile spread out. He seems to be living life at his own pace, letting in only the music he wants to be affected by. 

Would he still pay attention to the hungry wails of a labourer's child, the angry honking sound of a middle-class motorcyclist, the cries of help from an old man seeking alms?
Maybe he would. Maybe he would not.
But looking at the cyclist and the languid pace at which he is traveling, I want to borrow his ride. Perhaps, even his life. For a few hours.
And then, I wonder if he would be willing to borrow mine. How would I sell my life to him if I had to convince him to borrow mine?
"Hmm.... A slightly bumpy childhood but you would get to have the most amazing mother.. A short, dark phase at the end of school and college days but you would get to have the best friends life could offer..."
As I frame sentence after sentence trying to package my life in a pleasant way, I realize that I do have a pleasant life.
Agreed that I am not riding a bicycle at a leisurely pace. Agreed that my day is well planned with very few surprises, at least on the creative front. Agreed that life sometimes gets difficult enough to dole out poems like this. But all said and done, I realize that I cannot bring about myself to lend or replace the people in my life, even for a mere few hours. 

What if my mother wants to recharge her mobile number? There is no way I am going to let some other person accomplish that divine task.
What if my dear brother wants to discuss about a great documentary he has seen recently? I would rather get into a gladiatorial fight before I let anyone else replace me in that discussion.
What if my friends at office want to get together for dinner at the office cafeteria just to make fun of my philosophical outlook? Sorry, mister. The spot has already been taken. 

My people. My childishly possessive life.

As these thought waves crash on my conscious shore and slowly recede to the subconscious ocean, I am hit again by the cold air blowing out of the air-conditioning vent in the bus.
"Some of the essays on your blog are good but your blog description sucks," a dear friend had told me once. I wish that I had also attempted to put out a life description so that I would have gotten to enjoy the bus ride from its start.
Still, better late than never. The Bangalore traffic always lets you enjoy the ride a bit longer.

Life vs Me

Life landed a hard blow on my right chin
My vision blurred, my ears started ringing
My body wanted to give up
But my heart refused
I shook my head vigorously
Splattering my sweat and blood all around
And looked at life with a triumphant grin
Life was visibly angry
It landed a hard blow on my left chin this time
I could feel blood running down my face
The pain was intolerable
My left hand was fractured
My right knee was seriously injured
My nose would not stop bleeding
My left eye was turning blind
I had already urinated on myself
There was no more need to go on
But my heart refused
I wiped my blood and balanced myself again
I taunted at life to land another blow
Life looked extremely irritated
"Why wouldn't you just give up?" It asked me
My left eye went completely blind
But I could still muster up a smile
"Why wouldn't you just give up?" It repeated angrily
And landed a hard punch on my chest
My heart stopped briefly
My body turned cold
I fell down on my knees, my right knee paining excruciatingly
When my heart started beating again
Its rhythm was inconsistent
But it would not give in easily to life's blow
Slowly, rising to my feet again
I faced life
"How do you expect to break me....
....when you were the one who made me?"
I asked, and I spit out blood that had collected in my mouth
I taunted at life to hit me again
I had an unconquerable heart
And liters of blood to spare
The fight had just begun.

A long-lost love

It happened one fine day
It had been impending for quite some time
Like the sunrise that awaits a lonely night
The walls in their house turned into pages
The clothes in their closet turned into parables
The flowers from their plants turned into poems
The house smelled like an old, forgotten book
Only that its writer
Was not the husband or the wife..
The wife lived every day painfully
But she held her pain as close to her heart
As she had held his gifts from the past
After all, her pain was also a gift from him..
The husband lived every day painfully
But he held his pain as close to his heart
As he had always wanted to embrace her
After all, his pain was also an embrace from her..
The wife and the husband were always close to each other
And also courteous and compassionate
But they failed to realize
That a relationship had to be good, not nice..
And so, their silence exploded one fine day
The silence of their pain
It had been impending for quite some time
Like the tears that await a hopeful human
The walls in their house turned into pages
The clothes in their closet turned into parables
The flowers from their plants turned into poems
The house smelled like an old forgotten book
All the unsaid words were out
And hidden somewhere among those words
Rested a long-lost love.

The homemaker

(Dedicated to a dear colleague who has erased the line differentiating home and office)

She continued staring at the constantly changing mathematical statements on the black screen of her laptop. A data processing program, 1500 lines long, was midway in its execution. It would take an hour longer for the program to return the result. She shifted her attention from the laptop to her notebook placed beside. A doodle was midway in its execution. It was populated by the drawings of a laptop screen that resembled a prison, a face that was part-human-part-machine, a human brain that had a damaged electrical circuit within, and a computer program filled with nihilistic statements.

When life becomes a computer program, joy becomes a part of exception handling. She repeated her latest nihilistic thought in loops in her head, trying to make it better. She suddenly realized that she had been letting her thoughts play in loops, turning her brain into a computer program. Terrified, she shut her eyes and commanded her brain to stop thinking. But the human brain, taking pride in its paradoxical nature, began to bombard her with more thoughts than before. Realizing that she was trapped between ever-changing statements before her eyes and ever-changing thoughts behind her eyes, she decided to choose a thought and let it live its life.

What if I was a homemaker? She chose the most pleasant thought playing in her brain then. The thought had visited her many times earlier, especially during circumstances when she did not understand the purpose of her job. She knew that she had to provide for her family. She knew that she had to save money for her marriage. But she always wondered if there was an easier alternative available. “After our marriage, just quit your job and relax at home. I will take care of both the families.” Her boyfriend, who owned a start-up, had consoled her once during a crisis. How patriarchal! She had thought then but her boyfriend’s suggestion seemed an enjoyable escape now.

What if I was a homemaker? She let the thought set out on its journey. She would have a life filled with sunrises and sunsets which she missed now badly. She would have a life decorated with reading accomplishments which she had completely stopped now sadly. She would be able to experiment more with her cooking, mixing up spices and sugar and sauces. She would be able to experiment more with her drawing, mixing up shapes and strokes and sizes. She got excited by the number of doodles she would be able to complete. For every successfully executed computer program of hers, a doodle had been stopped halfway. She got excited by the number of letters she could write to her friends and family members, touching upon all the important happenings in their lives that she had missed out because of her work. For every successfully executed client meeting of hers, a major event in the lives of her loved ones had been missed.

What if I was a homemaker? Her thought that had been continuing on an easy path, took a turn to slowly tread on a difficult road. She would have to face the same walls and windows for a major portion of her days. She would have to take care of the needs of the members at home, setting aside time for their desires and sorrows. She would have to take up the tasks of the other members at home, as she would be seen as the person with most time and most thoughts. She would have to be the most responsible member at home as she would be expected to have the least distractions.

Her thought suddenly sought shelter on its journey as she felt a tap on her shoulder. She returned to reality to see her teammate standing beside her. “My head is aching badly….so, I was planning to leave home. I have sent you the initial version of the process flow. Can you review it once and make changes, if required, and share it with the clients?” Her teammate spoke without a pause for breath, as if he was scared that taking a breath would result in questions from her. “Can we just sit together for 15 minutes, now, and finish the process flow? You can send it to the clients yourself.” She ended her statement with a smile, wanting to make it seem like an achievement to her teammate. But he persisted with his request. “No….please. My head is aching very badly.” She realized that her compulsion would only result in complaints and not completion. “Fine….go home. I will look into it. You take care.” She smiled again, hoping that her smile would help in reducing his headache and her teammate smiled back, relieved to rush away with his bag.

She turned to her laptop screen and opened her mail inbox. She had received 5 new mails, out of which 3 had their subject lines starting with ‘Kindly review’. “All part of being a team lead!” She consoled herself and opened the mails, one by one. As she opened the third mail, her brain lit up and a realization hit her. Her thought that had sought shelter took a U-turn and started sprinting.

She realized that she had already become a homemaker. She was facing the same walls and windows of her office for major portion of her days. She was taking care of the needs of her teammates, setting aside time for their desires and sorrows. She was taking up the tasks of her teammates, as she was seen as the person with most time and most thoughts. She was expected to be the most responsible member of the team with the least distractions.

As she realized this, she let out a chuckle, marveling at yet another irony of life. “When are you leaving home?” She got the question from a colleague in the neighboring team who was packing his bag. “In some time…” She replied and waved him goodbye. But internally, she knew the answer to his question. I am already home. She digested the answer with a mixed feeling of joy and sadness and continued checking her mails.

Her doodle that had been stopped midway looked at her sadly, hoping her computer program would fail with its execution.

Calculating compassion

Can performing calculations cause a change in the compassionate nature of a person?
I was shocked to find the answer through a research cited in the book, Made to Stick.

A group of people were given $5 each and were divided into two groups. Both the groups were given envelopes that contained letters requesting for donations that would go towards educating a girl named Rokia in Africa. Before proceeding with the donations, one group was asked an emotional question like 'Please write down one word to describe how you feel when you hear the word 'baby'.' The other group was asked an analytical question like 'If an object travels at five feet per minute, how many feet will it travel in 360 seconds?' After the donations, it was found that the emotionally primed people had donated $2.34 on an average while the analytically primed people had donated only $1.26 on an average.

In the words of the authors of the book, Made to Stick, "These results are shocking. The mere act of calculation reduced people's charity. Once we put on our analytical hat, we react to emotional appeals differently. We hinder our ability to feel."

I took a deep breath after reading this.
What did this mean to a data analyst/humanist/writer like me?
Would I be ignoring the endless efforts of a busser in my office cafeteria because I had worked upon a forecasting algorithm earlier? Would I be ignoring a homeless dog outside my IT park because I had had a long day with a regression model? Would my poems run out of tears and turn into a barren desert of words?
But then, I took a step back.
Two and a half years have passed since I was assigned a employee number in my data analytics organization. Have all these days devoted to analyzing data dictated a decline in my compassion?
The answer is a loud no. Because, I seem to have become the ideal 'artist' according to the Tamil filmmaker Mysskin's definition - a person who is capable of breaking down even at the sight of a blossoming flower or a smiling beggar.
Which, in turn, means only one thing. I am a bad analyst.

I set aside my internal conflict for sometime and broadened my thought process. 
What did such a fact mean in today's world where data analytics is the fastest growing profession? What did such a fact mean in today's Indian society where engineering is the most pursued undergraduate course, while courses of arts and humanities have become things of the past like transistors?
Are we on the path to creating a mathematically strong generation that would lack in compassion?
As I pondered upon this question, I realized that we have already become a generation that prefers being knowledgeable over being nice. What else could be the reason for the successes of TV shows like House M.D. and Sherlock and Breaking Bad and many of the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies that project protagonists who get away with all their imperfections because they are intelligent?
Are we on the right path? Do we want to become highly intelligent beings that lack kindness? How would we be different from the machines, then?
I am terrified that in our current pursuit, where we strive to make ourselves more intelligent and make our machines more understanding, we might end up living in a world with kind phones and smart humans.

Alan Turing once said, "..but I believe that the attempt to make a thinking machine will help us greatly in finding how we think ourselves." 
Maybe, it is time that we start learning from our creations.

I take a deep breath as I realize the extent to which I have analyzed the effect of calculations affecting compassion. I request my brain to relax but it seems to be in its own happy world. For, in the midst of all these worldly concerns, my brain seems to have found the reason for my high school Math teacher always being grim.

****

Related reads:
Asimov's fifth law - A robot may not let a human fall in love with it - A piece on the possibilities of falling in love with a machine
Wolf-whistling for the villains - A piece about how we have become a culture that adores its antagonists

Too busy to be sad

Some days arrive
When our shadows shine in sunlight
Street after street, city after city
Shattering the solitude that smiles..
Some days arrive
When our rooms get crowded with unwelcome people
Night after night, weekend after weekend
Not letting in painful memories and terrifying imaginations..
Some days arrive
When a continuous rhythm plays in our heads
Chord after chord, note after note
Not permitting silence to speak..
Some days arrive
When words hold us imprisoned in reading
Page after page, chapter after chapter
Not wanting us to become writers..
Some days arrive
When nature reminds us of its unnatural beauty
Tree after tree, star after star
Not revealing the hardships of human life..
Some days arrive
When food paves the way for tasting freedom
Scent after scent, bite after bite
Far from the frailties of human heart..
Some days arrive
When algorithms and dashboards weigh us down
Data point after data point, chart after chart
Not favoring the triumph of faith over facts..
Some days arrive
When life gets too busy

Second after second, minute after minute
To sit and be sad, to shed a slow teardrop...

I dream in film language

Pursuing an educational degree of one's liking has its own perks, the most important of them being the opportunity to be a part of a crowd equally in love with your liking. I experienced a similar bliss as I attended the 10th edition of the Bangalore Film Festival during the last weekend.

As my brother and I waited in the pleasantly surprising long queues to watch one marvellous foreign film after another, we were absolutely delighted to find the people before and after us discuss the works of a Turkish filmmaker or worry over the state of Russian cinema. The crowd at the film festival turned out to be so great that a huge applause erupted as the words 'Palme d'Or winner' appeared in the opening credits of The Square and I just couldn't help myself from shedding a few happy tears.
Why couldn't these film festivals happen every weekend?

After I admitted to my mother on Saturday night that my brother and I had watched 5 foreign films back to back the entire day, my mother asked me with a very serious face, "Didn't you get a headache?" 

I threw her an indignant look. "I watched 5 really good films", I replied. "Still, didn't you get a headache?"
I decided to write a screenplay about the travails of a son, a film buff, whose mother is exhausted even by the thought of going to a movie theater. And I also managed to catch 5 more great films the next day, without a headache, and with some notes below.

****

Grain (Turkish)

A black-and-white beauty that presents an apocalyptic world where survivors are chosen based on certain criteria and are sent to either a barren region where no plants grow or to a fertile land where genetically modified crops are continuously modified to overcome their shortcomings against nature.
The protagonist, a scientist who sets out to set right a shortcoming, eventually comes to realize that soil and seeds untampered by man are the only way towards permanent harvest. Filled with scenes of acid rain, deaths due to unknown epidemics, and a burning tree, the film made me pay closer attention and more respect to the trees that welcomed me outside the movie theater.
With some of the scenes in the first half of the film being visually arresting and symmetrical splendours, I wondered if a sad and dark Wes Anderson film would resemble Grain.

****

Such is the life in the Tropics (Spanish)

As the film ended and the credits rolled out, I felt that I had watched a realistic Tamil film. With a story revolving around power abuse, land encroachment, forbidden love, elusive justice, and a family that becomes a victim, the film paved way for the birth of a Tamil remake in my head, with the Tamil version set in North Chennai.
But it also showed how similar the strata differences and the societal workings of developing countries remain.

****

Two Irenes (Portuguese)

What would a daughter go through when she finds out that her father has another family, from another marriage, and another daughter with the same name?
The director of the film approaches this subject with the playfulness found in a 13-year-old girl, who is the film's protagonist.
When the first Irene secretly watches her father shower extra affection on the other Irene, a feeling of envy envelops her. But that does not stop an interesting friendship developing between the two Irenes.
In bits and pieces, Two Irenes reminded me of In the mood for Love. Not because of the treatment but because of the theme. Just that the climax of Two Irenes is a lot more fun than the locked-away-secret-in-Angkor-Wat climax in In the mood for Love.
Also, the close-up shots of the first Irene in the film are to be cherished. The camera captures the questions and the emotions in her face for long stretches of time yet the intentions of the character always remain elusive to the viewer.

****

Daha (Turkish)

The spread of a disease from one person to another person can be stopped. But how does one stop the spread of evilness?
Can a human being retain his humanity even when forced to live under the direst of circumstances?
Why do refugees become easy targets for rapes and human trafficking? Doesn't it seem unfair that the man-made concept of countries and countrymen is disrupting the lives of some people unable to belong to a country?
These were a few questions I battled with as I watched the greatly disturbing Daha.
The story is set around a truck driver's son who witnesses an unknown side of his father, after his father smuggles a group of refugees to their hometown, for money, and unleashes his cruelty upon them.
In a scene where the father rapes a young mother from the refugee group, the viewer does not see the happenings but instead just hears the wails of the woman being raped. The wails refuse to leave me even now and they constantly remind me of the pain inflicted by nature upon women, for evolution, and the pain inflicted by men upon women, for gratification.
'How do you escape a prison if you are its guard?' - the son asks this rhetorical question, in a narrative voiceover, after he begins to follow his father's footsteps, losing the compassion in him. The question hit me hard with me mostly being a prisoner of my own creations rather than being a prisoner of life.

****

Pomegranate orchard (Azerbaijani)

Watching this film felt like listening to the 'On the Nature of Daylight' soundtrack from Arrival - the experience of a beautiful sadness.
With the story revolving around a family that tries to accept one of its members who returns after 12 years of disappearance, the film paints a genuine picture of the difficulties in such an acceptance after such an absence. I was reminded of Veyil which dealt with a similar theme but in a harsher sense.
One would think that the return of a missing family member would automatically call for celebrations in a family. But the emotions of a human being tend to be more complex. And emotions also arrive in bundles.
Joy can pair up with memories of a sad past. Pain can collaborate with memories of bygone happier times. Anger can complement sadness and awe can befriend fear.
The film beautifully shows this mixture of emotions the family undergoes as pomegranates continue to ripe and rot in the orchard. As the film neared its tragic end, I took comfort in the fact that the life cycles in nature will go on, undisturbed, despite all the chaos created by humans in their lives.

****

Solo, Solitude (Indonesian)

A majority of the scenes in this film play out before a static camera. Characters walk in and out of the frame with the camera not caring to track their movements. Solo, Solitude can be called a companion piece to Court in that sense. But the similarities do not stop there.
Like the protagonist of Court who is a social activist who protests through folk music, the protagonist of Solo, Solitude is a social activist too, who uses poetry for his protests against the government. And similar to Court, life just plays out in Solo, Solitude without any dramatizations.
The protagonist is told by a character that one of the protagonist's lines affected him badly. 'Why do you read so many books if you would always keep your mouth shut?' After quoting the line, the character laughingly admits to the protagonist that he stopped reading books because of the line. Though the scene plays out with the tone of wry humour, it hammers home the social responsibilities of those of us who are privileged enough to acquire knowledge, not only through life but through other means such as books.

****

Redoubtable (French)

"How do we get to see such brilliance only from the French filmmakers?!" My brother's question/amazement after watching Redoubtable sums up my experience of the film as well.
A film revolving around the love life of the great French filmmaker, Jean-Luc Godard, is destined to be a celebration of cinema. But like the French riots of 1968 that serve as the backdrop for the story, the filmmaking in itself turns out to be a riot against traditions.
The protagonist tells his lover that her life is not a film to have a narrative voiceover when a narrative voiceover begins explaining the feelings of the lover. A discussion on the need to showcase the nudity of artists happens between the protagonist and the lover as they appear nude before the camera.
A Godardian style is followed through the film and metaness reaches new heights as the actor playing Godard admits in the middle of an existential crisis, in one of the scenes, "But I am not the great Godard. I am just an actor playing the great Godard."
I imagined the mouthwatering possibility of turning the lives of great filmmakers like Satyajit Ray, K Balachander, and Mani Ratnam into films that resembled a style very similar to the styles of the filmmakers themselves. I have still not returned to reality after imagining an opening shot for the Mani Ratnam biographical that shows a young Mani Ratnam peering through the windows of a train, as the train curves along the railway track.

****

The Square (Swedish)

The protagonist of the film, a museum curator, asks a question in the beginning of the film - Does an object become a piece of art just because it finds a place in the museum?
I had a similar question after I watched this film - Does a film become a masterpiece just because it finds a place in the shortlist for the Academy Award for the Best Foreign film feature?
But the film comments on the (non) altruistic nature of humans through scenes where people refuse to ask for help and scenes where people refuse to offer help. In a scene where the protagonist tries to explain to his daughters about the titular museum showpiece, The Square, which is 'a sanctuary of trust and caring' as described in the film, he explains how the parents of previous generations had enough trust on other adults that they let their kids roam and play without much worries. One is left to wonder if the lack of trust in the adults of current generation has got to do with the removal of dependency on other humans. We do not need a fellow human to help us with routes and directions anymore. We do not need a fellow human to help us with the best product in a retail store. With time, will we reach a point where we do not need a fellow human to help us with love?

****

I dream in another language (Spanish)

This poetic film from Mexico is my favorite amongst all the films I watched at the film festival. Despite the film carrying themes like selfless love and forgiveness, which are usually found in Russian literature, the treatment of the subject resembles a Ruskin Bond short story.
The story revolves around the efforts of a linguist who tries to start a conversation between two old men who are the last two remaining speakers of a language called Zikril. These men refuse to talk to each other because of a fight in their youth.
As the linguist struggles back and forth between the two men, one understands the sadness in people speaking the same language not wanting to communicate and people speaking different languages wanting to connect. Isn't this the irony in today's world, so connected by technology yet so divided by national/religious/cultural differences?
But then, I also realized the irony in a Mexican film connecting dearly with me, more than most closer-to-home films.

****

Sleeping Giant (English)

This Canadian drama follows the lives of three teenagers as they battle with boredom during a summer vacation. Similar to the melancholic Death in the Gunj, this film also portrays how constant bullying has its slow impact on the victim.
And similar to Daha, this film also leaves you wondering if the spread of evilness can be stopped like the spread of diseases.

****

An apocalypse. The friendship of namesakes. Refugee crisis and rapes. A family's acceptance of a member who returns after 12 years of disappearance. A Godardian take on Godard's life. A linguist's struggle to carry forward an endangered language.
I cherish having spent a weekend in such diverse worlds and having experienced such a range of emotions. More importantly, I cherish the collective experience of celebrating cinema with fellow film lovers.
As I look back at the weekend, I am faced with the same question that I had asked earlier.
Why don't these film festivals happen every weekend?

Phantom Thread & Padmaavat - The pain of love

Phantom Thread and Padmaavat are two films that are as different as they come. 

Phantom Thread is a story set in London in the 1950s, about a dressmaker who falls in love with a young waitress. Padmaavat, on the other hand, is a story set in Mewar in the 13th century, about a Muslim king who falls in love with a Rajput queen. 

Phantom Thread deals with the messiness of relationships. Padmaavat deals with the valor, pride and self-respect of a community.
Yet, they portray love in very similar ways. 

In Phantom Thread, Woodcock (brilliantly played by Daniel Day-Lewis) is a dressmaker obsessed with his work. He designs dresses even when he is seated at the dining table for breakfast. Alma (brilliantly played by Vicky Krieps, whose performance competes with Day-Lewis's in almost every scene) is a waitress with simple tastes and simple routines, and she finds Woodcock's compulsive obsession with work baffling. Don't you work when you work and don't you live when you live? Alma finds it difficult to understand the mind that worships work as life. As her loneliness and the resulting sadness slowly compound, she realizes that the only way she would be able to spend time with him, without disturbing his work, would be if he fell sick. And to achieve this, she takes the extreme step of feeding him poisonous mushrooms. After he falls sick, she is saddened by his state but she is also happy that she can finally love him the way she wants to.

In Padmaavat, Rani Padmavati (played by Deepika Padukone), in her first scene in the film, is busy deer hunting. She shoots an arrow at a deer but the arrow misses its target. She shoots the arrow again only to hit the wrong target this time - Ratan Singh (played by Shahid Kapoor). They lay eyes upon each other and as Padmavati slowly removes the arrow from Ratan Singh's body, love penetrates deeper into the two hearts. After the arrow comes out of his body, Ratan Singh collapses unconsciously in her arms. Padmavati attends to him for a couple of days and when Ratan Singh's wound heals and he says that he has to leave, she is saddened. She then pulls out a tiny knife and slashes at the wound. It is a desperate attempt to make him stay longer so that she can love him the way she wants to. 

Paul Thomas Anderson and Sanjay Leela Bhansali are two filmmakers who are as different as they come. 

Consider a Magnolia against a Black. Consider a There will be blood against a Guzaarish. Consider an Inherent Vice against a Bajirao Mastani. 

Yet, they portray love in very similar ways. 

As I try to find connections between the works of these two artists, one of my favorite quotes catches me unguarded. A quote from Charles Bukowski.

Find what you love and let it kill you. 

Could the group of artists get more diverse, with a PTA and a Bhansali and a Bukowski?

Another example that art/love is so personal and yet so universal.

Love beyond bloodlines

"When would you admit the truth that I am your adopted son? Isn't that the reason you shower so less love upon me?" I would dole out such a melodramatic statement every time my mother prepared a dish with bitter gourd or bottle gourd or beans. 
"I readied myself to admit the truth many years ago. Your real mother is the reason for the delay." When my mother decides to be sarcastic, even bitter gourd dishes taste better. 

But once in a while, after such exchanges, I would toy around with the thought of my possible reactions if my mother confessed someday that I am an adopted son.
Should I be angry with my real mother for abandoning me? Should I be grateful to my adoptive mother for raising me up as her own child? Should a long hidden truth overshadow long-lasting love?
Such questions would eventually lead me to think about the definition of a mother. 
Is mother the woman who introduces us into this emotionally eventful world? Or is mother the woman who travels with us, helping us endure and enjoy the emotions? 
Should a mother necessarily be a woman? Should the relationship even be named? 
At times, I imagine a world without names for relationships. A grandmother's sister, a cousin's cousin and a sister can shower all the affection they want to, not burdened by their positions in the family tree. How beautiful would it be - humans loving humans for just who they are, not for what one means to the other. 

What does it mean to be a mother?
After my mother moved to Bangalore, on the night before her first day at her Bangalore office, she asked me if it would be appropriate for her to wear churidhar to office. "Why not?" I asked. "Wouldn't a sari be more appropriate?" My mother was clouded by doubt. I understood that her appropriateness was directed towards her 'mother' role and not towards her age. "Which would be more comfortable for you?" I asked her the question, realizing that the question had always been asked of me, by my mother, and rarely the other way around. My mother did not answer my question. She instead rushed to the kitchen to prepare dinner. And I felt sad. 
Though I am a son, I have not always thought and acted like a son. I have been just a friend many times. I have been just a brother many times. I have been just a 24-year-old boy many many times. But my mother finds it difficult to not think and act like a mother. This, despite being a daughter, despite being a sister, despite being a friend, and despite being a 48-year-old woman. 

What does it mean to be a mother?
I came across an article two weeks ago. 
It told the story of two mothers from Assam. They had given birth to their sons on the same day, in the same hospital. But as life would have it, their sons had been swapped and each mother had left the hospital with the other mother's son. Within a week, one of the mothers had formed doubts about her son not being hers. And after a 'right to information' request and after DNA tests that had taken 2 long years to be carried out, both the mothers had been delivered indisputable evidence that their sons had been swapped. 
What did the mothers do after this revelation? 
They decided to not swap back their sons. For, they had already become mothers to the sons they had. 

After I read this article, I could not hold back my tears for some time.
I have friends who have been forced by their families to forget their lovers owing to differences in caste or religion. And here were two mothers for whom even the wombs did not matter. 
Maybe the next time a family tries to oppose a marriage, on the basis of caste or religion, they should be narrated this story. 
If a mother can accept to love another mother's son, letting her own son be loved by another mother, to what worth do the differences in caste or religion amount to?

The wrinkles of my grandmother

Yesterday, my grandmother turned 78. As I sat beside her, listening to her animated recollections of her earlier birthdays, I could not help noticing her silver hair strands that danced to the tunes of the ceiling fan. But more than her hair strands, her wrinkled skin captivated me. I ran my fingers through those layers of life. As I passed wrinkle after wrinkle, I wondered if there lay a story behind each one. Stories that could not be shared. Stories that would not be heard.
Maybe the wrinkles signified moments that could not be gotten back. Moments that engulfed joy. Moments that contained tears. Could wrinkles be categorized as happy wrinkles and sad wrinkles? Could joy create a wrinkle? Perhaps joy that is always followed by a feeling of separation could.
Maybe the wrinkles signified places that could not be revisited. Places with walls and doors and shelves made out of memories. Places without walls and doors and shelves that opened out as an ode to nature.
Maybe the wrinkles signified people who could not be gotten back. People who are loved as if they had been a part of our past lives. People who are not-so-loved as if they had come about as a result of our past lives.
I ran my fingers through those layers of life. What did those wrinkles hide? I paid attention to her face and looking at the wrinkles that adorned her cheeks, originating below her dreamy eyes, I caught hold of an answer.
Maybe the wrinkles signified unfulfilled desires that could not be divorced.

Happy New Year!

The coconut tree outside the balcony coughed. The air it inhaled smelled different. The television set in the hall begged to be switched on. It preferred projecting images to the continuous colors that were bouncing off its black screen from the disco light. The Bluetooth speaker screamed in pain as its belly button (strangely named 'volume') was twisted in random directions. The glass mugs, that had been playful inside the cupboard, now experienced a dizzying feeling. A rumor spread among them that the feeling was because of the golden liquid. The thermocol balls inside the bean bags hugged their loved ones. They were nearing their final moments, experiencing more pressure than ever before. The garbage bin let out an exasperated sigh as it noticed the empty chips packets and half-empty pizza boxes that lay before it. The walls of the house were silent witnesses to the chaos happening before them, holding colorful ribbons and a rectangular board that read 'Happy New Year'.