You are my random variable

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

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

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

Man-made fear

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

The wait for love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The listeners

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

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

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

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

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

Notes & thoughts from a short trip

• Being caged

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

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

• Happiness on screen

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

• Asking for help

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

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

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

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

Realized people will never get tired of talking about themselves. 

Sort of a happy realization for my blog!

• Chuck civilization

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

• The journey always matters

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

What is my reality?

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

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

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

Tragicomedies of my life

Sad memories embrace me more often than the happy ones

Maybe they are like the mothers of teenagers

Struggling for affection and attention

Maybe they are like the schoolteachers

Secretly wishing that they are remembered 

For all the life lessons taught...

Sad memories embrace me more often than the happy ones

And when they do, I reciprocate

Not like a nervous bride on her wedding night

But as a magnanimous father of twins

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

Every sad memory is the first child out of the womb

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

The memory of narrating the sad incident to close friends

Follows slowly, making the heart heavy before his appearance

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

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