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!

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

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?

Pens and a few pennies

Below is a story my friend narrated to me over a few WhatsApp messages. As I reached the end of the story, an appalling realization dawned upon me.
I am sharing the story, in my words, with a similar hope for you:

Owing to a holiday in the United States, my friend had left his Chennai office early one evening. As he had exited his IT park, he had come across a stunted man selling pens. "Sir! Madam! 2 Pens for 10 rupees!" - the man had continued shouting at the top of his voice to a crowd that had cared more about the life inside mobile phones. My friend had passed the pen-seller, feeling bad for the attention he could not get. After some distance, my friend had come across a handicapped man asking for alms. The crowd that had sleep-walked while passing the pen-seller had woken up when it had reached the beggar. Many members had dropped 1 rupee, 2 rupee and 5 rupee coins in the cloth that lay spread before the beggar. Noticing this, my friend had experienced a mix of joy and sadness. Joy that compassion had won over consumerism. Sadness that a man selling pens had lost to a man selling pity.
A month later, my friend had chanced upon the pen-seller again. Overcome by a feeling of justice, he had walked to the pen-seller and had handed him the entire cash that had rested in his wallet - 120 rupees. The pen-seller had looked at my friend with a grateful smile and then, he had handed him 24 pens. My friend had received them and had walked home with a mix of joy and sadness. Joy that he had tilted the natural balance towards a hardworking man. Sadness that he too had always preferred pity over a purchase.

A writer's voice

More often than not, I find talks by writers to be interesting. Be it the can-potentially-change-an-artist's-approach-towards-creativity TED talk 1 and TED talk 2 by Elizabeth Gilbert, or the can-potentially-prepare-an-artist-for-an-unexpected-future talks by JK Rowling and Neil Gaiman. 
An important reason for this can be attributed to the choice of words by the writers. And also the choice of their thoughts. 
Unlike in many professions, a writer is required to think for a living. A single social issue or a single historical fact is subjected to multiple arguments and counter-arguments inside a writer's head. From this trove of diverse thoughts, a writer gets to comfortably choose a viewpoint to present to the audience. As a result of which, my beginning statement. 

I experienced this last weekend when I attended the 6th edition of the Bangalore Literature festival. One of the talks I was looking forward to - 'The writer's role in speaking out' by Paul Zacharia - offered me more than I had expected. 
Paul began his talk by pointing out the characteristics of a good writer. The most important characteristic, according to Paul, was that a writer remained a reformed man inside himself, free from the forces trying to control his thoughts. He then listed and elaborated on some of the thought-control devices prevalent in our society. Religion. Caste. Political parties. Media. 
"I fear the media more than a politician today. We can hold the politician accountable at least once in five years but not the media", he said. And he made a brief mention about a short story he had written earlier, about a robot that could identify the truth and lies in a newspaper. I imagined the state of some newspapers and news channels if they were to be scrutinized by a similarly designed supercomputer, and I could not help feeling sorry. 

As a parallel thought, I recall the TED talk by renowned journalist Christiane Amanpour. When asked the question - What would be the one idea she would want to plant in the minds of the audience gathered - she replied, "..really be careful where you get your information from; really take responsibility for what you read, listen to and watch..."
This seems to be of utmost importance now, especially after 'fake news' has been declared as the 'Word of the year' for 2017.

****

My visit to the Bangalore Literature festival, after Paul's talk, only turned happier owing to the wide range of books that were on display. One of the books I purchased from the extremely-harmful-to-your-wallet collection was Perumal Murugan's Songs of a Coward. The book is a collection of poems written by the writer, during the difficult period in his life, following the ban on his book Madhorubhagan/One Part Woman. 
As I traveled across the different poems in his book, it saddened me that a writer had to be silenced because the society had not matured enough to agree to disagree. 

It is as imperative to stand up for the right voice as much as it is to suppress the noise. Else, we might reach a future where many writers are forced to command their pens, as Perumal Murugan does in one of his poems. 

I have commanded my pen
that the ink-drip from its ball-tip
shall happen henceforth
only for signatures
accounts and 
journal entries.

Freedom of Expression

Whenever I visit my maternal uncle's house, I make it a point to join my 13 year-old and 8 year-old cousins in finishing their homework, which they get to sadly, after cycling and cricket and carom board.
My 8 year old cousin starts making faces when she has to solve complex multiplication problems and at such times, I would want to tell her that life and society have a lot more in store than just multiplication. But I would stop myself, realizing I am not a news reporter releasing harsh realities of the world into every living room.
I would enjoy helping them out in all subjects but my happiest stretch would be when we got down to the English homework. I would go through the poems and short stories and envy all the English teachers. How fascinating would it be to recite a 'In the bazaars of Hyderabad' or narrate a 'The gift of the Magi' to a class filled with blossoming minds, and initiate a discussion about the thoughts birthed?!

In such a state of mind, I opened my 13 year-old cousin's English composition notebook. After 3 exercises of letter writing, I came upon an exercise of paragraph writing.
"In no less than 250 words, write a paragraph about your family. Use words such as which, whom, whose in your paragraph."
I could not control my excitement. I had never gotten to know what my cousin felt about my uncle and aunt. I had presumed that he was not yet mature enough to discuss about family. So, I blessed my cousin's school for gifting me with such an opportunity, and eagerly started reading his answer.
"My father is a doctor and he practices medicine at Bombay. My mother is a homemaker..."
I paused. I was confused. My uncle is an industrial worker and my aunt, a school teacher. I closed the note book to check the name on the label, wondering if my cousin had brought his classmate's notebook for reference. But the label showed my cousin's name. I returned to the 'paragraph writing' page and continued reading. The family described in the paragraph could not have been more different from my uncle's family.
"Why have you written this answer?" I asked my cousin. "My class teacher wrote it on the blackboard and we all copied it down in our notebooks", he replied. "But why?" I asked him. He threw me a confused look.
I apologized to my cousin for wrongly questioning him instead of the system.
I felt sad for my cousin's English teacher. Despite a golden chance to get an insight into a child's thoughts about his family, the teacher had opted to train the students to score well in the exams. Why spoil the delight of evaluating creative answers with the routine of just checking for known spelling mistakes and grammatical errors?

I wanted to be different from the teacher and so, I glanced through my cousin's English text book and stopped at a chapter titled "On being an Indian". I looked at the 'Questions' section after the chapter and one of the questions excited me.
"Do you feel happy or sad to be an Indian?"
I read it out loud to my cousin. Immediately, he replied, "I feel happy being an Indian because India is a country that expresses unity in diversity."
I could not help but smile. I told him that I did not want the answer given by his teacher but I wanted to know what he felt. He was silent. I encouraged him to just speak out his mind.
"I feel happy", he answered. "Why?" I asked. "Because my mother and father and sister live here" he replied.
"What if your mother and father and sister moved to Australia? Which country would you like then? India or Australia?" I asked him. Without a moment's hesitation, my cousin shouted, "Australia!"

I fell in love with his answer that shone bright in authenticity. But I also realized that my cousin's English teacher is great and selfless.
Maybe she is in the pursuit of safeguarding her class, by stopping her kids from doling out honest opinions and unpatriotic thoughts in this country at this time when they might cost a person his/her life.

Where there is no way...

Whenever I stepped into the Chennai Mofussil Bus Terminus on Sunday nights, the heart would get heavy for two reasons.

• The feeling of leaving behind a home and a Metropolitan that get closer in 2 days than a flat and a city that stay together for 28 days 
• The sight of countless old, destitute men and women 

In the 20 minute spare time that I would always gift myself with, before my bus ride to Bangalore, I would seat myself by a corner and look around the terminus. People would rush with their baggage and babies to board buses scheduled to leave 10 minutes earlier. People would rush with their baggage and babies, having deboarded from buses that were scheduled to arrive an hour earlier. And amidst this wave of incoming and outgoing people, who would always have a destination to reach, one that would be different from the one in their hearts, seated or sleeping would be a large group of men and women with no destination to travel and reside. These people also possess their own baggage, but more on their minds than the ones below their heads and beside their bodies.

Strangely or perhaps not, a line from the Tamil song 'Vidai kodu engal naadae' comes to mind.
"Thalaiyil konjam, nenjil athigam, sumaigal sumanthu pogindrom."
A line used to describe the Sri Lankan Tamils, many of whom were forced to become refugees, seems appropriate even for the men and women who carry no bus tickets inside the terminus.

At times, as I would survey this group of men and women, certain people would grab my attention. Like a 50-60 year old man, who I noticed during 3 of my visits, constantly reading a newspaper. Like a happy old couple lost in conversation and time. Like a very old woman with a smile glued to her face.
I would wonder about the cause for their destination being the terminus.
Death of the last remaining family member? Ignorance of every remaining family member? Lack of a proper financial planning for their old age when they were young? Globalization? Urbanization?

An article that I came across some time ago explained the adverse effects that globalization, through its creation of nuclear families, was projecting on the older Indian population. Which made me ponder upon the plight of numerous old fathers and mothers, who suffered not from lack of money but from lack of care. With sons and daughters working in faraway cities, with ambitious loans resting comfortably at their backyards, with brothers and sisters scattered owing to corporate convenience, these fathers and mothers do not seem to lack a destination but just a proper home, unlike the earlier group who have neither.

I wonder why the destitute men and women choose a bus terminus as their home. Maybe for the easy access to food and washrooms. Maybe in wait of the day when they would get a destination to board a bus to. Maybe to serve as reminders for the sons and daughters, who travel to their hometowns once/twice/thrice a month, of the state of a lonely parent.

As these thoughts flood my mind, I silently walk to the bedroom where my mother is sound asleep. I had felt happy that I had made my mother shift from my native city to my work city in just 2 years since I started working. But with these thoughts, the 2 years make me experience a sense of guilt. I just whisper 'Sorry' and exit the bedroom, realizing that it would never suffice, neither for the 2 years nor for the countless old, destitute men and women at the Chennai Mofussil Bus Terminus.

The actionless thoughts

The event described below happened two weeks ago. The delay in putting it into words is another example of the title of this post.

One late night, my friend and I were roaming the streets of Bangalore, discussing about life in general and our future lives in particular. Many security guards, having arrived for their night shifts, were brimming with enthusiasm. Maybe some of them expected some action in the form of a masked robber and maybe some of them just wanted another peaceful night. The cars and trucks were speeding on the roads, racing against time and themselves, to reach their destinations faster. 

One such car, in its pursuit of an invisible racing trophy, ran over a dog before our eyes. And the car continued ahead, after its deathly punch, not caring to stop for a second. The dog could have very well been a polythene cover.

Unlike policemen or justice-seeking-citizens, my friend and I did not care about the perpetrator of the crime. We were a part of the family-loving, peace-filled-community-seeking common man crowd and hence, our concern was directed only towards the victim.

We ran towards the dog with no clear plan-of-action in our minds. As soon as we reached it, we noticed that blood had started oozing out of its mouth. The sight of the slow formation of a blood pool behind the dog’s face drastically weakened our wills.

“We cannot let the dog lie here - in the middle of the road” my friend told me. I nodded and looked at the dog again. I could no more see a dog. I could only see an object lying over a pool of blood. I looked at my friend, wanting to absorb courage from him but I noticed that he was also being tormented by the blood.

“Let us ask for help” I told my friend and started looking around for someone more courageous than the two of us. There were a few security guards visible at a distance but they seemed uninterested. A few minutes later, a man came walking in our direction but we realized that he was too drunk to understand the situation.

As my friend and I stood by the pavement, unable to take an action, we saw a truck speeding towards the dead dog. My heart skipped a beat realizing the possible outcome and I was about to signal the truck driver that a dog lay on the road. But the driver realized it himself and steered the truck so as to ensure that the dog did not come under its wheels. And the truck continued ahead. I could not believe it. Did the truck driver not care about the dog that lay there bleeding?

Soon, car after car and truck after truck passed the dog, ensuring that it was not run over by them, but not a single person cared to stop.

“I will try calling the Blue Cross” my friend said and dialed the toll free number. No success. He tried again. No success.

The two of us stood there looking at each other. We did not want to let the dog lie in the middle of the road but we did not have the strength to lift it from its pool of blood.

“We cannot do anything. Let’s walk away before we see another vehicle destroying the dog” I told my friend. “But we cannot just let it lie there” my friend shouted. “Do you think you will be able to lift it?” I asked him. He could not answer. “Then let’s just go” I told him. “This is so wrong…” my friend declared, kicking the ground beneath him. He then started walking towards the direction of my flat. I silently followed him.

An hour later, as I lay on my bed with darkness surrounding me, I could imagine the bleeding dog getting run over by other vehicles. 

“You could have at least placed stones around the dog, letting them act like barriers” told a voice inside me. “All you had to do was to lift the dog and place it on the pavement – just 5 seconds of courage” told another voice. “Stop beating yourself up. You tried your best. You were better than many others who did not even care” told another voice. I agreed with the third voice before feeling ashamed of it.

Are thoughts enough to express one’s compassion? Are thoughts enough to make the society or this world a better place? If it had been so, the countless prayers all over the world should have already made it a paradise.

Noble thoughts suffice only for the self-affirmation of one’s goodness but without their transformation into actions, they do not bring about a difference.

Wishing well for a victim inside an ambulance is definitely selfless but what difference would it make if I stood stationary on the side lines as the ambulance got stuck amidst impatient vehicles?

Dropping a ten rupee note inside a NGO’s ‘donation box’ placed at a supermarket's bill counter is commendable but what difference would it make if the son of my maid servant is left longing for education?

Wanting to help a dog die with dignity is great but what difference would it make if I could not muster up enough courage to perform the act and gave up on it blaming a selfish society?

As I pondered upon these questions, I was reminded of an earlier post. It hurt me to realize that the writer had improved but not the human being.

I badly wished it had been the other way. 

And I also realized that just wishing made no difference.

The protest of two minds

"Thamizhan nenaichaa enna nadakkum nu theriyuthaa!" screams a voice. 

"Is this even right? In the wake of emotion, are we sowing the seeds for the downfall of  democracy?" screams another.

The former is filled with passion and rage. The latter is filled with doubts and fears. 

I realize that a new revolution is on its way in my birth state, Tamil Nadu. My friends, standing amidst the sea of people gathered at the Marina beach, call me and ask me why I haven't yet returned to Chennai from Bangalore to be a part of the protests. One of my friends asked me bluntly, "Do you support Jallikattu or do you not?".

I did not know the answer. 

Is not knowing the answer wrong? Is not having an opinion wrong?

The human in me wanted me to take a stand. But the writer in me did not want to. 

The writer wanted me to think about the people who did not want to form an opinion. The writer wanted me to think about the people who did not want to protest. The writer wanted me to remember Aaron Sorkin's lines from The American President.

"You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest."

I see Facebook and WhatsApp being bombarded with memes praising the involvement of the youth and memes mocking the state and central governments. There's a feeling of fear filled joy. 

It is very evident that social media will continue playing a very important role in the forthcoming major political changes. But the fear builds up thinking about the fairness of the battleground it will provide to the two sides of the scenario. 

"Social media is the voice of the common man", one might say. But can the common man be always looked up to for the solutions of political problems?

I do not know the answer. 

But I know to this extent that not knowing the answer and knowing a wrong answer should be given as much importance as knowing the right answer. 

Not being right is also, after all, a democratic right. Denying that would be wrong.

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. 

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.

Flapping towards freedom

I was standing on the terrace of our apartment. The evening breeze was a tad more ferocious than usual. The clothes that had been hung over the clotheslines were flapping wildly, trying to escape their traps. There were clothes pinned to three different clotheslines - each belonging to different houses in the apartment. But the clothes never really seemed to care about the differences. They playfully hit each other, caressed each other and at times, even twisted each other. Looking at the scene, I felt sad.
Cotton and nylon and synthetic have so easily figured out the path for peaceful lives when we still face severe difficulties.

The voter and the voted

Two days back, I was on my way to meet a few of my college friends. It had been a long time since we had met each other and each of us was intrigued to see how the others had changed over time.

On my way, I came across a group of children wearing masks of a leader of a Tamil Nadu based political party. I couldn’t help smiling at the sight. I stopped walking and waited to see what the kids were up to. The kids huddled together, placed their hands one over the other, sang a Tamil rhyme, pulled their hands back and declared a sorry-looking kid as the catcher. The catcher placed his palms firmly over his eyes while the other kids hurried to hide in different locations.

I got interested in the game. I wanted to see how the catcher recognized the other kids despite the similar masks they were wearing. But the catcher faced no problems whatsoever. “Ramesh out'u… Chinny out'u.. Sumathi out'u..” he went winning. The game ended in a couple of minutes and the kids huddled together for a second game.

Looking at the group, I very badly wished that the kids had been given masks of different political leaders. The hide-and-seek game, then, would have turned into a fantastic satire of the current political scenario in Tamil Nadu.

****

Watching the recent election-related advertisements being telecasted on Tamil television channels, I only wonder – “Do these people realize that the more often such ads are going to be telecasted, the more frustration spectators are going to be subjected to?”

We, as a society, have reached a point where when we see a romantic scene followed by a foreign-duet in a film, we sigh exasperatedly in unison. 
We have reached a point where reality has become sufficient for us. 
That being the case, do the political parties still think that ads in which different actors are made to cry/rejoice are going to influence our votes?! Seriously?!

Even the argument that the ads are capable of influencing the less-informed, less-privileged people does not hold good. Because, good governance or bad governance, they are the ones directly affected and when they have their own lives acting as testimonies to the governance, how big an impact can television ads have?

But if one badly wants to campaign via ads, why not try something like this – Shoot real interviews with real commoners, include everything that they say (good or bad) in the video, add a small promise by the political leader at the end saying, “I understand many of my people are happy with the government. But I also see that many people are unhappy. I realize that it is difficult to keep all the people of such a large, beautiful state happy but I promise that I will work towards it.”

Doesn’t such a video seem more realistic? Even if it fails to garner love/support, it will at least refrain from inducing irritation.

Which actually becomes very important in the current scenario.

Because we, unfortunately, have reached a point where we no more vote for a party that we love/respect but instead we vote for a party that we hate less.

****

How many of us can claim of being elected by people for doing them good?

How many of us can claim of laying proper, smooth roads across an entire town/municipality/city?

How many of us can claim of enhancing public transport services across a state?

How many of us can claim of achieving 100% literacy rate in a remote, rural village?

The minority that can make these claims unfortunately does not seem to realize the fact that having a road or a school or a government building named after them is much more fashionable than having a scam or a misdeed named after them.

Perhaps, it is left to us – commoners – to create an advertisement showcasing how much legacy matters.

****

At times, I wish I become a journalist just to ask the elected representatives one simple question – “Do you guys introspect?”

I fail miserably in understanding the logic behind being in a position where altruism can be practised at its highest level yet not caring to even scratch its surface.

When I hand over a five rupee coin to an old woman asking for alms, I feel terribly sad but some corner of my heart also rejoices the act of giving. Isn’t the feeling same for every person involved in social service? Shouldn’t the feeling be same for politicians/people’s representatives as well?

If anything, their feeling should be manifold since they are the ones who face people’s problems in a more consistent fashion.

****

One of my colleagues, an aspiring I.A.S officer, once narrated me the incident which had made her want to become a government servant.

She and her friends had once visited a tea shop. There had been a 6-8 year old boy in the shop who had been serving the customers tea and snacks. He had been wearing shoes of different sizes with polythene cover tightened to act as shoelaces. My colleague and her friends had ordered tea and when the kid had come over to serve them tea, my colleague had asked him if he attended any school. The kid had calmly placed the tea glasses on the table and had replied, “Every person who comes to this shop asks me the same question. I tell them I don’t go to any school and they feel really sorry. But apart from feeling sorry, no one seems to do anything else”.

I keep repeating the story to myself time and again.   

Not all of our problems need to be resolved by the elected representatives. 
There are so many little things that we can change ourselves.

A drop of life

I was travelling with my brother to my office the other day. Ahead of us, honking its way slowly through the traffic, was moving a water tanker. Water was dripping from a pipe hanging at its rear end. The dripping water had left a squiggly trail of the water tanker's path. "Possibly the worst escape vehicle after committing a crime!" I thought to myself. 
Some time later, as I was filling a cup of water in the pantry at my office, I remembered a story I had heard from my brother a week ago.
It had been about a young African girl of fifteen. She had belonged to a region of Africa where water is so scarce that bath is a luxury and thirst is a crime. The daily supply of water in the girl's home had been one bucketful, which the girl had had to fetch from a small water reservoir situated a-two-hour-long-walk away from her home. One day, the girl who had left her home in the morning to fetch water had not returned. By evening, the girl's family had set out in search of her and at some distance from the water reservoir, they had found her body hanging from a tree. After bringing the girl's body down from the tree, her family had also found something else a few hundred meters from the tree. It had been the girl's broken bucket.
After I remembered the story, I could not bring about myself to drink the cup of water I had filled. I kept staring at it for some time thinking about the water tanker I had seen in the morning. I could hear the water drops dripping from the pipe at the tanker's rear end. 
I then slowly lifted the cup of water to my mouth and drank water from it. As the cup turned empty, tears rolled down my cheeks.

Wrapped thoughts...

I still remember the image my eyes captured one day at a bus stand. I badly wanted to capture the image with a camera/my phone but I was a bit afraid. 

A girl of about 25 years - Let's call her X. She was wearing a sleeveless top and a mini skirt. Sunglasses covered her eyes. Behind her were standing two Muslim women. They were clad in the traditional burqa outfit. And one of the women's eyes fell on X. The women did not just glance at X and turn away. Her gaze continued like it did not have an end. 

What was the woman thinking as she saw X?!

I wanted to know desperately. 

When an average man looks at an under-dressed woman, the man's thoughts could be brought down to a very limited set of possibilities. 

But what does an average woman think/feel when she sees an under-dressed woman?!

Does she experience a longing? Does she feel disgust? Does jealousy take birth? Does she feel sad that her body is not built in such a way so as to be exposed? Does she feel happy that her body is built in such a way that she could never ever get an intent of under-dressing? What would be a woman's definition of under-dressing? 

I wanted to know desperately the thought process that was running inside the Muslim woman's head as she looked at X. 

But I was afraid to ask. 

And I let the thoughts of the Muslim woman - whatever they were - to remain safely locked away in her eyes. The way many thoughts of most humans stay.

****

Why have we become a society that treats the clothing of a person as the most important indicator of the person's qualities/principles?

I do not want to comment on if such an approach is right or wrong. 

But think about the following situation.

It is about 11:30 PM. You are walking alone on a deserted road. As you keep walking, you see a man coming from the opposite direction. Now, from the two given options below, when would you feel more relaxed:

• The man is attired in formal wear
• The man is clothed in a very loose, slightly shabby outfit

If you are a person who says that the second option makes you more relaxed, I must admit that I really respect you. But if you feel that you would be comfortable with the man in the formal wear, I want to extend you my hand (sadly) and let you know that you have a friend. 

Now that our friendship has been established, let's think about this. 

We do not know that the man attired in formal wear is a really good human being. Similarly, we are very vague about the intentions of a man in a loose, shabby outfit. But what makes us feel more secure in the company of a properly dressed person? 

Is it the knowledge that a man in a formal wear is well educated and hence, harmless? 

Which brings me to my next question - Is it right to judge the knowledge of a person from his clothing? Is it right to judge the moral and ethical values of a person from his attire?

One of my colleagues told me this story some time back. 

He had been travelling in a crowded train in Tamil Nadu. Next to him had been standing a man, about 40 years old, holding onto a huge carton inside which lay a new desktop monitor for his son. His outfit - a loose and a slightly shabby one. And nearby the man had been standing a guy about 30 years old - Let's call him Y. Y had been in a professional outfit. The 40 year old man, unable to hold onto the heavy carton, had requested Y to move his feet so that he could rest the carton down. He had even explained Y what lay inside the carton and why it was important for him to protect it. But Y had refused (Who knows what problem he faced at his organization that day?). The man had requested Y again. Y had slightly moved his feet. The man had thanked him and placed the carton  down, vertically, near his feet. Owing to the train's motion, the carton had fallen on Y's feet and Y, frustrated, had pushed the carton aside. The 40 year old man, angered by this, had asked Y why he had pushed the carton. Y, angered beyond control, had started shouting at the man and in a couple of minutes, the fight had become so big that all the passengers of their coach had gotten into stopping the fight. And a couple of minutes later, as the train approached a station, the passengers had forced one of the two men to get down. 

Any guesses on who that person was?!

The 40 year old man and his carton containing the desktop monitor had been penalized for a simple mistake of the man. 

He had not been in a professional attire. 

If he had been in one, I doubt that he would have been forced to get down at the next station with his carton. 

We belong to a race that believes that a book must not be judged by its cover. 

Doesn't the same apply to a person's clothing?!

Why have we transformed something that started out as a means of protection from adverse climate into something that has become a basis for judgement of character?!

In the film Batman Begins, there is a line which is one of my favorites.

It is not who you are underneath, it's what you do that defines you.

I feel bad that in today's scenario, the term 'do' can very easily be replaced with the term 'wear'.

Leading an invisible life...

Imagine.
There are no vegetables left at your home for preparing a meal. You are required to go to the market to purchase the vegetables. But if you step into the market, there is a very high possibility of the Border Security Force arresting you citing the reason that you are not a citizen of the country. And there is no real way for you to protest. 
For, you really are not a citizen of the country, or for that matter, any country. And it has been so for the past 68 years. 
If going to the market presents such a threat, I need not elaborate further on the near impossibility of having an education or holding a job.
What would you do under such circumstances?
What would any person do?

When I read an article last week about the 14,000 odd residents of 51 Bangladeshi enclaves who had officially become Indian citizens after 68 hopeless years, I was affected greatly.
I couldn't even imagine the amount of desperation accumulated by those people leading a life filled with fear day after day after day.

How would you feel when you realized you were country-less?!
How would you feel when you realized you were identity-less?!
How would you feel when you realized you had been leading an invisible life?!

****

The KSRTC (Karnataka State Road Transport Corporation) bus I had boarded at the Shanti Nagar bus stand in Bangalore had reached CMBT (Chennai Mofussil Bus Terminus) after about 7 and half hours. The bus had stopped for the passengers to get down and I slowly walked ahead in the aisle of the bus to reach its footsteps. An old lady who was climbing down the steps was finding it really difficult even with the help of two other women. Knowing that I couldn't help her in any way and having been made to wait for a minute, my attention turned towards the bus driver. 
He was a young man, sporting a french beard, dressed neatly in an all-white uniform. And I couldn't help smiling looking at him. 
After all, I had been subjected to top-3-buttons-unbuttoned-in-the-khaki-shirt-and-collar-a-few-meters-behind-the-neck bus drivers all through out my life at Tamil Nadu.

A minute later, my feet touched Chennai ground and I turned to look at the bus driver. He was looking at me. I don't know what prompted me to do it but I quickly raised my right hand to my forehead and did a short salute. The bus driver reciprocated.
I then joined my friend who had gotten down from the bus earlier and inquired if he had noticed the bus driver, especially the french beard. My friend gave me a puzzled look. I repeated the question again. 
"Who pays attention to bus drivers?!", he asked me.
I did not have an answer and remained silent.

My friend and I then parted ways, boarding different MTC (Metropolitan Transport Corporation) buses to our homes from CMBT. Having seated myself near the window in an almost empty bus, I started pondering over the question my friend had asked.

There had been about 70 passengers in the KSRTC bus I and my friend had traveled in. The age-wise split-up of the 70 odd passengers went like this - 1 new born, 3 kids of 7-10 years, 2 people above 60 years and a majority of the rest falling within the 20-30 age bracket.
I then started imagining something which shook me apart.
The first thing I imagined was the death of the 2 elderly people - the loss of moral support and much more for 2 different families.
The next part of my imagination revolved around the death of the 3 kids - the loss of innumerable dreams and much more for 3 different families.
The imagination then shifted to the death of the new born - the loss of a new hope and much more to an entire family.
And I decided to stop my imagination.There was not a need to imagine further. 
The responsibility that our KSRTC bus driver had shouldered became crystal clear.
70 passengers. 
Hopes and dreams and moral support of those many families.

Having realized this, I closed my eyes, leaned against the window of the MTC bus and let my friend's question bellow in my head repeatedly.

"Who pays attention to bus drivers?!"

Healthy dogs, beautiful girls and lonely cars

There are many reasons that contribute to my liking of street dogs.

They have always accompanied me, sometimes silently and sometimes barking, on my midnight walks to home from an outing or a journey. They have made me contemplate on the purpose of a job. They have made me wonder, when they keep staring at an empty space while barking continually, if they have seen something invisible to the human eye. They have seemed livelier to me than most by-passers on the road.

But in Chennai, the tiny bubble of joy that slowly enlarged on seeing a street dog having its noon nap or seeing a lazy dog trying to pull up a fight with a lazier cow was always immediately popped by a sharp pang of sadness. 

Sadness on seeing their bony torsos. 

Only on very few occasions have I seen really healthy street dogs in Chennai.

Bangalore seems to be different, in a happier way, in that sense. Most of the street dogs that roam around are very healthy – as a matter of fact, a few are healthier than the domesticated ones that I see walking along with their owners on breezy evenings.

And one need not dig deeply to uncover the reason for their good health.

Most of the fast-food outlets (which are plenty in number here) have a street dog waiting nearby like a cautious guard. And the majority of the consumers of these outlets happen to be youngsters – boys and girls in the same ratio and of the age bracket of 20-30 – who generally tend to be more compassionate towards the street dogs than a father of a 5 year old or a mother of a 10 year old. The bones that remain after the feasting of a gang of 5 boys or a gang of 4 girls are dedicated happily to the dog waiting by their side.

The result – healthy dogs that walk the streets as symbols of the younger generation’s 

compassion.

****

“Bangalore ah da?!! Ponnunga laam semmaya irupaangale!!” – This is a comment I got to hear from most of my friends when they learnt that I was moving to Bangalore for my job.

Honestly speaking, I found myself agreeing with the comment after having spent just a couple of days in the city. There was something different to the members of the opposite gender in the city that made a new visitor take notice. And I wanted to figure out the something different.

“Adingu! Azhagaa iruntha paathutu poga vendiyathu thane! Ethuku da ithelaam oru vishayam nu discuss panni saavadikare?!!”, one of my friends shouted at me when I asked him what he felt could be the reason for the difference in the (additional) beauty exhibited by the women in Bangalore compared to the women in Chennai.  But unlike my friend, I believed that understanding the reason would help me appreciate the beauty more, thanks to Feynman’s views on beauty.

Weather, wider range of fashion/cosmetics, better cost of living leading to more air-conditioned homes – these factors were some of the many I considered to have had an additional impact on the opposite gender here. But they did not seem to sum up satisfyingly.

And then one evening, as I was wandering about in a shopping mall situated nearby my office, it hit me. I stopped walking and looked around the mall. 

Right. Left. Up. Down. 

After I had finished observing the entire mall, a smile appeared on my face.

In the entire mall, there were only two women above the age of 40 out of the 100 odd women shopping/roaming/picture-clicking.  And there lay the reason.

Unlike Chennai where you get to see a majority of women in the age category of above 35, Bangalore (in its entirety) functions like a very huge mall filled abundantly with women in the ‘below 30’category. 

And for innumerable pairs of ‘younger’ eyes of the male gender, understanding the beauty that comes with age is a concept as vague as dark matter.

****

Traffic jam.

If a poll was conducted among the residents of Bangalore as to their least favorite thing about the city, I am pretty sure that the aforementioned two words would emerge a clear winner by a very huge margin.

When a person drives a motorcycle very slowly, one of the most common jokes made is that even a person on his feet would reach the destination faster than the motorcycle rider. But very little did I know that the vehicular traffic in a city could worsen things to an extent where, literally, a person on his feet reaches a destination faster than a motorcycle rider.

And the sad thing is that every person stuck in the traffic jams realizes the reason behind it and yet does nothing to reduce its severity.

One car for one man – if you wish to know the reason. 

The space that could have accommodated 4 motorcycles, thereby 4 men, is wasted on a stylish looking four-wheeler carrying one occupant and 3 empty seats.

Will a man sacrifice his luxury for the benefit of others? I have little doubt of what the answer would be.

And I would have no right whatsoever to advocate a well-earning person to do away with his luxuries. He works. He earns. He buys. The logic becomes as simple as that.

But then, what would be a solution to the problem of these accumulating luxuries?

Nature always holds answers to the questions of men.

One morning, as I stepped outside my room, I saw a spider resting in the web it had woven the previous night. Sometime later, a misstep by my roommate destroyed the delicate web, making the spider rush to a corner in our corridor wall. When I returned from my office at evening, I was surprised to see that the spider had woven a beautiful web again.

The eight legged insect was leading a life so simple that it could build its home in a few meager hours how many ever times it might be destroyed. 

But we, on the other hand, lead lives weighed down by assets and luxuries that someday we would be out of breath, suffocating from the very possessions that we had bought in the first place to make our lives admirable.

It’s high time we started leading happy lives instead of the norm of leading happy lives in the eyes of others.

“In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely.” 

                                                                               - Henry David Thoreau from Walden.

Shelter - II

These logs lay in the backyard of my home. They had been arranged in neat rows to facilitate the construction process of a doorway by the entrance of our apartment.

Yesterday, as I was loitering around in the backyard, I saw a small sparrow rest itself over the logs. Looking at the scene, I was unconsciously reminded of the recent pictures of the 'Nepal earthquake' in the newspapers that depicted homeless people standing amidst the rubble of their destroyed homes.  

And I was overcome by an unhappy feeling.
At least the Nepal earthquake was not under our control.

Beauty, sometimes, is the beast!

When a male writes an article supporting womanhood, he is considered feminist. When a guy studying in a college writes an article supporting womanhood, he is thought to be trying to come across as a 'noble' being.

When only three genders exist for classifying our entire human race, how long is a person expected to keep writing about his/her own gender?

Some stories retain their effectiveness only when heard from a member of the opposite gender. 
Some stories need to be told on days that are singled out for the celebration of a particular aspect of humanity so that the attention would be stronger.
Some stories simply need to be brought out.

Stories like this.

****

It was the beginning of the 1980's. Probably, around the year 1982.

Dustin Hoffman, who had already gained attention for his roles in the films The Graduate, All the President's Men and Kramer vs. Kramer had decided along with his friend to star in a film that required him to disguise himself as a woman.

It was not a story that required a man to disguise himself as a woman so that it would appear funny. It was a story that required the 'woman' to be taken seriously.

Hoffman realized that the seriousness could be brought about only when the audience accepted the 'woman' character wholeheartedly. The character had to appear normal. It could not run the risk of being weird.

Having made a deal with the producers that the film had to be dropped if he could not appear normal as a 'woman', Hoffman proceeded with the make-up test.

Once the make over was completed, Hoffman got to watch his appearance as a woman. As he looked at his transformation, there was only one thing that struck him. 
He had been changed into a woman. All that needed to be done was that he had to be made pretty.
He felt that he couldn't be a woman unless he was pretty.

He asked the artists in the make-up department to make him appear more beautiful. And the reply he got from them, in Hoffman's own words, was
"That's as good as it gets."

And it shook up Hoffman. 
Like it had never before.

He knew that the character he was playing was a terrific woman. But he realized that he wouldn't have probably been open to a conversation with her if he had met her in real life because of one simple reason.
Beauty.

The stunning realization affected his life.
And it also led him to make Tootsie.

(A more effective first person account could be cherished in this interview of Hoffman's.)

****

It is not everyday that one comes across such stories. The first time I came across this story, thanks to my brother, I was as shattered as Hoffman had been after his realization. 
But however effective stories might be, however eye-opening, they do not settle in our minds firmly unless there occurs a personal experience.

****

I do not remember the day. Probably, four or five months back.

I was walking besides my friend, to his hostel, from the college canteen. On our way, we came across a classmate of his, a girl, who smiled at him. My friend hesitated for a moment before he smiled back. 
After the girl passed, I gave him a cunning smile as amateur boys usually do. He asked me if I would not do something similar and I replied, jovially, that I never lifted my stare off the ground while walking opposite people. 

As we walked further, my friend suddenly stopped and looked around nervously. I inquired him as to what had happened. He let out a sigh and said that he had checked if any of his class boys were around. He explained that he would become an object of ridicule amongst his class boys if they had caught him exchanging smiles with the girl. I needed no further explanation since I was a hosteler and I was aware of such ridicules. But I guess the friend possibly wanted to justify the ridicule of his class boys and he asked me if I had seen the girl's face properly. I had not and I replied the same. 
The next two sentences that he uttered are two lines that I would never be able to forget.
"Ava munji la orae pulli, pulli'ya naraya pimples, rashes maari irukkum da. Nalla ponnu thaan but ava face naala naraya pasanga kalaaipaanga."
(Her face would be filled with rashes and pimples. She is, of course, a fine girl but that 'face' aspect makes our boys start the ridicule.)

As he finished uttering those two sentences, I was shocked beyond belief. 
I was not shocked because of the silliness of the reason.
I was shocked because my face was of the same nature. 
Same as what he had described. Pimples. Rashes.

And as we kept taking every step further, I kept imagining that, at any moment, it would suddenly hit my friend that he had said something that bore a close resemblance to my appearance and would apologize saying that he had not directed it towards me. 
But to my surprise, my friend kept walking along with me normally. I couldn't keep it confined within my mind and I asked him, a bit loudly, if those rashes and pimples in the girl's face mattered. He smiled looking at me - looking at my face - and told me to stop worrying about the girl. He still did not seem to mind that my face was also of the same nature.  
It was only when he started a totally unrelated topic as casually as possible did I realize that he could not see the rashes and pimples on my face. 
For him, they ceased to exist. 
For him, my face was just a face. Nothing more.
And the reason - I belonged to the same gender as him. 

After an hour or two in his room, I decided to leave and I couldn't leave without asking him the question that had been troubling me since our walk to his room. I asked him if he knew for sure that no boy would make fun of him if he spoke to a not-so-attractive girl, would he speak more openly and in a more friendly manner. He replied with a 'yes' spontaneously.
He added further that many of his class boys who he feared would start the ridicules also spoke occasionally with the girl we had crossed earlier, if the boys were alone. It was only while being as a group that most of the problems arose.

And it taught me one thing. 
No person, individually, intends any harm. Never.
Things that are generally hidden for the fear of being ridiculed if spoken out are the primary cause, instead.

****

When I decided to type down this post, I was reluctant for a while. 
This is a post that screams to stop the beauty/gender bias and yet is filled with stories that revolve around beauty/gender bias.

But sometimes, there arises a need to analyse an issue extensively before tearing it down.
Like rationalists are generally asked to do before they become one.

And I believe that a rationalism is what could serve as the possible solution for the theme of this post.
A rationalism that stops giving importance to something that possibly amounts to a feel good vibe and nothing else.
A rationalism that starts embracing humans the way they are.