A Separation

There is a beautiful scene in Asghar Farhadi's A Separation in which the daughter Termeh, looks silently through a window, at her mother who is about to leave the house. Termeh's parents are on the brink of a divorce. 
Having collected her stuff and grabbing a hold of her baggage, Termeh's mother throws a final glance at Termeh, then at Termeh's father and steps out the doorway. As soon as her mother steps out, Termeh turns to look at her father. She does not utter a word. She does not cry or let out a wail. She looks at her father in a state of helplessness. 

I was reminded of this scene two days ago when I came across the following incident on my way to office. 
A family of three was standing outside an apartment. The mother was attired in formal outfit with a handbag garlanding her shoulder. The father was in a casual outfit, carrying a little, excited girl in his arms who would have been around 3 years of age. The girl was playing with her mother and the father was a silent and happy spectator. Very soon, a Tempo traveler approached the family and the mother waved goodbye to the father and the daughter. I could notice the daughter's face slowly changing and as her eyes closed and her nose shrunk, I readied myself for a wail. And a moment later, it happened. 
For a few moments, the mother stood frozen between her daughter and the Tempo traveler. But the father convinced her to go ahead and walked inside the apartment, trying to console his uncontrollably crying daughter. 

I could not get the little girl's wail out of my head for sometime. Not because it was haunting but simply because it was unadulterated love. 
The little girl could not bear the separation from her mother for a mere 9-10 hours. 
I smiled thinking about this innocent possessiveness. But I also felt sad because of the realization that with age, our tolerable duration of separation increases. 
Days. Months. Years. Death.

I tried imagining how it would be if I had turned the 3-year-old girl during all the separations in my life. 
Maybe a few departures would not have happened. Maybe a few people would have stayed behind, preferring love over purpose. 
Would that make me a selfish person? Probably yes.
But I ask myself the question - Would I want to stay an understanding, selfless person storing a reservoir of longing or would I want to be a selfish, possessive person securing the physical proximity of my loved ones?
The answer is not clear.

I feel that as adults, we tune ourselves to let go of people easily. 

Maybe we need to put up a few more fights. Maybe we need to let out a few more wails.

Would that be wrong? Probably yes.

When you ask a 3-year-old girl what is wrong and what is right, she would say that lying is wrong and praying is right. But life would show you that she is right in a sense and wrong in another. 

So, why not be a 3-year-old girl for the rightful sense?!

As I think about this, I also recall a beautiful quote of Kahlil Gibran's.

And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

I would agree because I realized how much my mother meant to me only during the mornings and meals she was not beside me rather than on the days she was nearby. I realized how much a friend meant only during the evenings I was accompanying him in my memories rather than on the days we spent together in the present. 

Then, is separation necessary? Are we well off being empathetic 30-year-olds than being yearning 3-year-olds?

The answer is not clear.

Maybe that is why Termeh looked at her father in a state of helplessness. Maybe that is why she did not utter a word or let out a wail. Maybe she was torn between selfless love and a childish craving for closeness.

Asghar Farhadi is truly a genius.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

I looked at my left hand. My middle finger was missing. 
Strangely, I felt no pain. That night made me realize my anger's might.

I looked around. Four of my men stood covering me, firing hopelessly at the charging enemy troop.
The strength of the enemy troop was 43. We were 5 in number.

We had been 7 when we had set out from our camp. Two of my men now lay dead at my feet. As I looked at their bodies, my anger amplified. "Why did you have to follow my order?" I cried out, in my head. 
A bullet whizzed past me.
Bullets. Blood. Darkness. Death.
Standing there, I could hear my mother's lullaby. I could hear my lover's laughter and my enemy's hatred. I could hear my conscience shouting that I had wronged my men. 

We were not supposed to be surrounded by the enemy troop at that time. That had not been the plan. But who respects plans?
We, at our camp, would occasionally prepare false plans in order to mislead the enemies. Of late, I had started wondering if many of our plans had begun misleading even us. 
The two beautiful souls at my feet were a result of one such erroneous plan.

My commander had called me to his tent two hours earlier. 11:02 PM. 
"There has been a new development", he had started, "We have received orders from the high command to capture the enemy camp at RM before midnight."
I had remained silent.
"As per reliable sources, the strength of the enemy troop stationed there is 10 men. It should be a walk in the park for you and your team", he had added.
Silence.
"Assemble your men in the next 10 minutes", he had ended.
Silence.

What could I have said? That my men had had a long day? That my men deserved some rest? That my men were just men?
"For the country", my commander would have replied. 
We had all enlisted ourselves for the same reason during the start of the war - For the country. But we had all reached a point when we no longer understood if we loved it or hated it. 
We had fought and killed so much that in some days, we had lost the need for a reason to it all. We had reached a point wherein every morning, we arose, lifted our rifles, ran into the battlefield, shot down our enemies, and returned to our camp, wounded and exhausted. We had become so accustomed to the killing routine that most of us no longer remembered the dreams we had carried before we had enlisted ourselves. 

I had left my commander's tent without a reply and had walked into the resting unit of my team. 3 of my men had been fast asleep and 3 had been on the verge of it. I had clapped my hands loud enough to get all of them on their feet in the next minute. I had briefed them about the mission and they had immediately begun dressing up, without a hint of a refusal. Watching them ready themselves up for a senseless mission, I had realized my mistake of having narrated them story after story of the victorious senseless missions I had been a part of. Their respect for me had extended to their want of following a similar path as mine. 
Ten minutes later, my men and I had walked out of the camp, obediently following orders and secretly wishing that our lives would one day matter as much as the country's pride.

A bullet whizzed past me.
Bullets. Blood. Darkness. Death.
Standing there, I could hear my mother's lullaby. I could hear my lover's laughter and my enemy's hatred. I could hear my conscience shouting that I had wronged my men. 
"Stop firing!" I ordered. My men lowered their rifles and turned towards me. 
"I am sorry", I admitted. A faint smile spread across each of their faces as the enemy's bullets blasted through their flesh and bones. One by one, they all fell beside me. 
I stood there with six beautiful souls resting at my feet. "If only I had not followed my commander's orders and if only they had not followed my orders", I repented. But if it had not been for my men and I, it would have been some other team under some other leader. 
When would this end? Why did man have to bring upon himself this destruction?
A bullet hit my forehead, ending my questions and my anger and my struggle. I fell slowly upon my men to crown a heap of bleeding and lifeless bodies, our heap serving as a symbol of man's stupidity.

Boom!
I snapped out of my imagination and returned to the present, at office.
Two of my teammates were ruthlessly keying in commands on their laptops. My laptop screen was blinking with a message from my onsite. "How much longer before you deliver the ad hocs?" was his question. I repeated the same to my teammates. "15 minutes", came one answer. "20 minutes", came another. I sent him the reply and I checked the time. 01:37 AM.
I rose from my chair and walked to the washroom to freshen up. I closed my eyes and splashed water on my face. As I opened my eyes, I noticed the sink turning red. 
And then I heard it - A feeble gunfire growing louder by the minute. 

The road to the top

Last Sunday, at around 8 AM, I was standing atop Nandi hills. The 10-member-group I had traveled with was some distance away, enjoying the aerial view. 
I was more interested with the view above my head. It made me feel closer to the universe. "Hey you! Are you somewhere out there?" I asked, looking above. I had a lengthy list of topics I wanted to talk about. I had a lengthier list of questions I wanted answers for. "I badly want to believe in you but you seem to be putting very less effort to convince me" I explained. A mild breeze blew in response.   

Before me, a lonely tree swayed. It had nothing special about it but I could sense a poignant poem dancing around its leaves. As I looked at it, I was reminded of 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams' that had played during the car ride to the top. 

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating

"You remind me of myself" I told the tree. It continued swaying - I took it as a smile in return. 
"Do you feel grateful for your life or do you feel it could have been better?" I asked the tree. The swaying stopped. Maybe it had not expected the question. Maybe the answer was a painful one. 

I asked myself the same question. Standing closer to the sky, surrounded by a group I loved - it seemed the right place at the right time for the question.
The journey had not been an easy one. But it had also made me meet travelers who had traversed harsher roads. "Why couldn't you have just made it easier for everyone?" I asked, looking above. This time, there was not even a breeze.
I thought about the roads I had crossed. I thought about the roads my friends had crossed. Each of our paths had been different, the starting points had been different, the fellow travelers and the unexpected shelters and the overwhelming hardships had been different. But somehow, we had all reached the same road now. 
Some of us had less baggage and some, more than one could carry. 
While I felt happy that we had all chanced upon this road, I also felt bad for not accompanying some of my fellow travelers upon their journeys. 
"You cannot accompany every traveler you meet. You have to travel your own journey. And not accompanying everyone does not also mean that you go around carrying them in your baggage. Always travel light" - I remembered a friend's advice. 

I thought about the journey that would have resulted had I taken alternate roads every time I had been presented with the option. Maybe I wouldn't have reached Nandi hills. Or maybe I would have reached Nandi hills but the group I had traveled with would have been an unknown crowd. 
I thought about the journeys that would have resulted had every member of my group taken alternate roads when he/she had been presented with the option. Maybe none of us would have reached Nandi hills. Or maybe we all would have reached the top and we all would have been strangers to one another. 
I couldn't help smiling thinking about the scenario. 
I also realized that the answer to my question lay in me wanting or not wanting the scenario to be a reality. 

Without thinking further, I walked ahead and joined my group. There was an ongoing discussion about the path to take to reach the other side of the hills. 
"Let's take that path. It seems more adventurous", shouted one friend, pointing to a steep, rocky road. "No! Let's take this route. This seems a better path to roll this guy down the hill, the next time he cracks a shitty joke", commented another friend, pointing to a route along the edge of the hill, and looking at the shitty-joke-guy standing beside him with a sheepish smile. One friend seemed more interested in selfies than in the discussion. And another friend seemed more interested in recording the beauty of the aerial view from all possible angles.
As I looked at the group, I couldn't help smiling. I had gotten my answer unlike the tree. 
I looked above and gently whispered, 'Thank you!'. 
Few seconds later, a mild breeze started. The lonely tree behind me swayed, smiling.

You and I

I recall our past and I predict our future
My imaginations are clearer than my memories
Perhaps our future resembles a sad song
Their lyrics are easier to remember than the lines of a happy song..
Who were you and I?
Who will we be?
I was a leaking fountain pen smiling at you, my half-filled ink bottle
I will be an overused toothbrush longing for you, my flattened out toothpaste
I was a half-bitten eraser caring for you, my uneven pencil stroke
I will be a broken lock looking out for you, my lost key
I was a punctured tire kissing you, my empty dead-end road
I will be an ineffective malware multiplying for you, my uninstalled antivirus
I was an unwilling raindrop falling for you, my hole-filled umbrella
I will be a damaged brain aching for you, my obsolete X-ray machine
I was a forced smile showing up for you, my silent single teardrop
I will be a friendless childhood waiting for you, my loveless adulthood
Who were you and I?
Who will we be?
We were always meant to be together
Not for our purposes, only for our affection
But we are yet to be understood
Like a comedian's pain, like a celebrity's loneliness
Let us wait for our time
Let us wait for my predicted future
I see it clearer than our past
I will become a slow suicide uniting with you, my premature birth.

Understanding old age - II

After the visit of any family friend or relative to my home, a sweet box would rest at the center of the dining table as a token of their love. My mom and I would stand waiting for the disappearance of the guest beyond the main gate of the apartment after which, we would immediately pounce upon the sweet box. Irrespective of the kind of the sweet, there would always be a fight. And the fights only worsened if the sweets were either rasgullas or kaju katlis.
"You are a mother! You should sacrifice for your son - not snatch from him" I would shout. "I am a mother who has raised her son to be independent. So get your own sweet" she would retort and hurriedly stuff a sweet in her mouth.
A cold-war atmosphere would prevail at home till the sweet box turned empty. The sweets would go decreasing in number but either of us would not know when the other person ate the sweets in question. The most important mission would always be the final sweet - Achieving victory would mean fooling the other person with a closed-and-intact empty sweet box.

During my visit to home last weekend, I noticed a sweet box, filled with assorted milk sweets, resting on the dining table. The day progressed but I did not find the sweets go missing. 
Tea time arrived. I opened the sweet box declaring direct war. My mom responded with a smile and walked to the kitchen, returning with a plastic container. She sat down with her tea cup and opened the container. Out came a Vita Marie Gold biscuit packet. I threw a nasty look at her. Noticing my look, she explained, "The doctor has advised me against having sweets". 
I threw a nastier look and pushed the sweet box towards her. She refused. 
For what maybe the first time in my life, I could not finish the sweet I was eating and placed the rest of the sweet in the sweet box and closed it. "Don't try to act emotional. Just go ahead and have that sweet", my mom teased me. I threw the nastiest look possible and snatched a biscuit from her hand. 
The half-eaten sweet did not matter anymore because it had never been about the sweet.

I had always fought with my mom over a sweet or a chocolate without foreseeing that a day would come when our food habits would start differing.
No matter how close a friend a mother stays, time always has the knack of hitting you on your head and making you realize that she is eventually a mother.

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.

Relationships and their plane of existence

"The other day, I was spending time with a special someone, and found myself questioning why our interaction is not more intimate."

My brother shared this quote with me from an article he had read. And he tossed off a piece of advice.
"... it seems always better to relish a companionship on a different plane than the one we wish for. In fact, sometimes, that plane could be much more efficient and less susceptible to the human melodrama that comes along with the other plane of relationships."

"If only my heart was as obedient as I was during my schooling!" I wanted to reply.
At times, I wonder if my heart is on a mission to complicate every relationship that it registers. I wonder if it maintains a tracker, wherein, if it sees a relationship sailing smoothly, it decides to spice things up for itself. I wonder if it simply likes to make itself heavier, just so it could remind me that it always surpasses the brain in my life.

I try to let my brain take the upper hand for a brief period, in the hope that understanding would lessen the impact of feeling.
I try to find meaning in my 'Data Analytics' occupation and plot my most cherished relationships in a graph. 

The plotting of my relationships shows me two things:

• My visualization skills need considerable improvement
• My generosity, based on the scores for the levels of intimacy, would make me the favorite of quite a few students if I were to become a teacher

But the graph also makes me realize something else.

The life of every average person consists of a series of peaks and plateaus through his/her timeline.

• The peak hit with parents followed by a plateau*
• The peak hit with siblings followed by a plateau
• The peak hit with school friends followed by a plateau
• The peak hit with college friends followed by a plateau
• The peak hit with a romantic patner followed by a plateau
• The peak hit with colleagues followed by a plateau
• The peak hit with a wife/husband followed by a plateau
• The peak hit with sons/daughters followed by a plateau
• The peak hit with grandchildren followed by a plateau

(*Agreed that every relationship is more than just a peak and a plateau. Such a timeline is presented only for easier understanding)

Through this timeline, one can observe that more often than not, as one relationship hits a plateau, another climbs towards a peak. For instance, when relationships with school friends seem to be following a straight line, the relationships with college friends start reaching a peak. And when the same straight line happens to occur with the college friends, a romantic partner might lead to a new peak.

This shows the constant urge humans express to hit new peaks in their relationships.

Humans, being a social species, their urge to hit new peaks is understandable. But what about the urge to strive for a higher peak in existing relationships? Why the aching to aim for a new high without the contentment for the plateau?

Maybe the most logical step to use the investment of time and efforts in an existing relationship to build upon it and take it to a higher plane? Maybe just the thrill to explore new places instead of settling for the normalcy? Maybe the fear to leave the vacancy in a specific relationship to time/universe/God and instead, try to add the extra burden upon an existing one?

For sometime, I try to imagine a world where people carry with them a graph of their relationships.

How much pain would be spared by suppressing unwanted expectations? How much gratitude would be shared by learning about unexpressed love?

But perhaps, the mysteries need to exist. What would life be without surprises and shocks and pain and unrequited love?

I request my brain to rest and turn towards my heart. It responds with a gleeful smile, starting to get heavier.

Who would this writer be without this heart?