Stepping into a world of contrasts

I looked carefully at the route indicated in the ‘Google maps’ application that was running on my mobile phone. I then raised my head and looked ahead. I had to walk about 500 meters straight after which I had to cross the road and walk another 500 meters to reach the gate of the IT park where my office was situated. I looked at my watch. 20 more minutes to the time specified for entry at the office. I did not want to be late on my joining day and hurried.

After I reached the spot where I had to cross the road, I stood quietly hoping that I could join some random small group of IT professionals who would cross the road for the opposite side served as the source of livelihood for more than thousands of ambitious people. But as I saw people walking down the road hastily, some not caring about the speeding vehicles and some raising their hands thereby making cars swivel around them, I couldn’t believe that those people belonged to the same city and same profession of people who so quietly and so politely had filled the AC buses I had frequented the earlier day. It took me some time before I managed to cross the road, thanks to a lorry driver who took pity on me and stopped his vehicle, enabling me to walk across.

10 more minutes to the reporting time. And I was 200 meters away from the gate of the IT park after which lay another 600 meters to my office situated inside. I hastened my steps. After about five steps, I heard a feeble cry of “aiyya!”. A momentary feeling of excitement grabbed me on hearing a Tamil voice in a city where Hindi and Kannada (in that order) are mostly heard. I then looked ahead and saw a very old woman, dressed shabbily, seated at a corner, holding her hand out. I kept walking. “Aiyya!”, she called out again as I walked past her. I stopped on my way and reached for my pant pocket. As my hand moved over an empty back-pocket, I realized that I had kept my wallet inside my bag. I held the left strap of the bag and as I slowly pushed it down my left shoulder, the time displayed on my watch caught my eye. Not even 7 minutes left. With the bag hanging from my right shoulder, I sprinted ahead hoping badly that the lady would not call out to me again. She didn’t.

A 600 meter walk. A one-minute wait for the elevator. 10 floors up. A security check. After all these, I entered the room that had been assigned for the new recruits. Seeking a desk at a corner, I seated myself, placing my bag down. Most of the people in the room seemed interested in introducing themselves to each other. A guy behind me tapped on my shoulder and extended his hand. I grabbed his hand and shook it, glancing at my watch.

There was a minute more to the reporting time. A minute more.   

And I spent the rest of the day in the tinted-glass walled, marvellously designed, sufficiently air-conditioned office building with the cry of “aiyya!” echoing in my head.

****

Finding a PG (a place to stay as a Paying Guest) in Bangalore is not a hard task. But it is not an easy one either. The options are aplenty but it might take an eternity till you find one that suits your needs.

The one that I and my two other friends locked in on turned out to be a slightly uncomfortable one after we moved in. A small stretch of land with wild unkempt shrubs that lay near our ground-floor room, separated by a small wall, turned out to be a waste disposal yard as opposed to our perception of a waste land.  

We tried to analyse the severity of the 'garbage' situation, examining from behind the small wall and discovered that it served as an abode for many a plump rat.

“We are screwed.. totally! We need to find another good place by a month or two!” said one of my roommates as we gathered in our room after our analysis.

The next morning, I woke up early and with a desire to witness the morning Bangalore sky, I stepped outside my room. Muffled sounds could be heard from the garbage yard and I understood that the rats were busy. A few minutes later, an old man with a stick in his right hand and a jute-bag in his left, walked inside the garbage yard. I silently observed him as he collected the empty plastic bottles lying around. He then noticed me and waved his hand. I waved back, a couple of seconds later.

“Naye waale ho?!” he asked me. I nodded.

“Yahaan chuhae hain.. patha hai tumhe?!”, he asked me eagerly. “Haan! Kal raath hi pathaa chala!” I replied, smiling.

He let out a chuckle. “Par gabraane ki koi baath nahin.. Yeh chuhae toh bahoot achae chuhae hain!”  he said, giving the rats a certificate of appreciation. I smiled again after which he left, having collected the empty bottles in his jute-bag.

Today morning, as I stepped out of my room, I could see a rat busily eating a dish from a small plastic cover. I made a small kissing sound trying to grab its attention. The rat quickly dropped its food and rushed towards its hole. I tried the kissing sound again but the rat seemed to pay no heed.

I then remembered Ruskin Bond’s amazing little piece – Those simple things - in which he describes his friendship with a mouse during his stay at London.

“Seems like I too might become a Ruskin Bond someday” I told myself.
“Think about what stands in your way from becoming one” a question arose, followed later by two answers.

Writing.

Developing a friendship with mice/rats (After all, they belong to the same family).

I decided to begin with the easier one and started working on the kissing sound. 

Purpose!

As I stepped on the terrace of our apartment, I checked the time on my mobile phone screen. 5:40 AM. The sky was a mixture of orange, grey and white. I breathed in selfishly a large whiff of the morning air and began walking around the terrace. It had been more than a week since I had seen the sun rise from its slumber.

As I looked around trying to observe the morning life in the nearby apartments, my eyes caught the sight of a dove seated on a dish antenna, a few apartments away. It seemed to be in a meditative state. The sky behind it looked like a painting lavishly splashed upon with a can of orange. The patches of grey amidst the orange splash seemed to increase its beauty. A momentary smile appeared on my face before it disappeared. I repented having forgotten to bring along the camera and rushed below to my home to fetch it. One storey down from the terrace, I realized that I could have captured the piece of beauty with my mobile phone. I stood there, baffled as to proceed upwards or downwards. I do not know what made me proceed downwards but a few minutes later, I came back panting on the terrace with my camera only to find the dove flown away and the painting spoiled by blotches of white.

I relaxed for a couple of minutes. Then I began clicking random shots of the sky. I then paused and started searching around for specific images of beauty. A group of pigeons had gathered over the water-tank of a nearby apartment. As I tried to frame the shot, another image caught my eye. A saree clad lady, a reddish towel bundling the hair behind her head, was spreading wet clothes over a clothesline. From my position, the image seemed a potential for a beautiful silhouette photograph. I directed my camera towards her. I immediately lowered it down as I thought about the possible risk of my intention being misunderstood. I decided to let the image go.

A flock of birds hurriedly made their way over my head. I quickly raised my camera and captured an image. As I looked at the picture on the camera screen, I realized that a black-and-white picture of the same would create a more solemn atmosphere. I changed the mode and waited for another flock. The wait was not long. I followed the flock with my camera, clicking continuously as an airplane made its way into one of the images. Delight filled me as I looked at the image.

I kept roaming around the terrace, the camera leading my way for some more time. But then as I came to the spot from where I had first seen the meditating dove, I could see that the orange shade had nearly disappeared. Blue had begun to dominate. I lowered my camera and looked at the sky.

The camera had made me forget the real purpose of my visit to the terrace.  I placed the camera on the terrace wall and seated myself some distance away from it. My focus did not shift from the sky for some time as the shades of the sky slowly changed and the birds flew above in all the directions, not a care in the world.

As I began making my way to my home sometime later, a question suddenly popped in my head.

Was art making me forget the purpose of life?

A mildly terrifying feeling overcame me. I tried not to think about it and entered my home. My mom who was cooking called out to me. I entered the kitchen and she asked me excitedly to show the images I had captured. I handed her the camera and walked away. A couple of minutes later, she came to me and returned the camera saying that she would try to accompany me the next day to the terrace. She added that it had been a while since she had taken time to notice the beauty of sunrise. 

I smiled hearing her statement.

She had unintentionally cleared the frightening doubt that had overtaken me. 

I slowly placed my camera inside its cover and went ahead with the day’s duties that waited, having had a happy revelation.

Art can only make a person understand the purpose of life better. Never the opposite.

A cry by the candlelight!

Numerous nights have passed, numerous

Since I witnessed absolute darkness

My sleep has given me many

But the sense of vision has been left wanting

For those nights when the house turned pitch dark in a moment

For those walks within the dark rooms, recalling where the chair and the table had been

For those moments of triumph on having discovered the match box

For those pink and blue colored candles, the most..

The colorless candle always seemed boring, its tears pathetic

But those colored candles created a wax world of their own..

Tilting a candle, letting a few drops fall and placing the candle firmly over the solidified drops

Was one of the biggest achievements of my adolescence..

Many occasions have I believed that my sister possessed magical powers

When her finger moved continually across the candle flame

It took me time to realize that the center of the flame was harmless, only the top hurt

Like it happens with many of the short-tempered people

The core is harmless, only the surface threatens..

The candle signified unity for me many nights

Each member of the family engrossed in his/her work

Would surround this sentimental guy once darkness settled

Tales and jokes would be shared - family banter at its best

The laughter would echo in the mechanical silence, the bonding seeming endless

But suddenly the tube-light would flash

A scream of joy from many accompanying it

And each member would return to his/her work

Leaving me and the then smoke-emitting candle alone..

I miss those night time power-cuts badly now

In this era of inverters and power-backup devices that I despise greatly..

I want those power cuts again not just for the sake of the bonding

A family’s bonding depends on more than just a candle and darkness

But I want them for much more..

For remembering those moments of sharing in the darkness

When the shadows seemed to reveal the true selves

For remembering those moments of mechanical silence

When the mind realized the existence of humans in a machine-dominated world

For remembering those plastic and wooden hand fans

When the trembling hands of a grandfather showed what affection meant

For remembering those nights when the neighbours would enquire eagerly, “Unga veetlayum current illaya?”

For remembering those nights when all the doors in an apartment remained open

For remembering those nights when the terrace of every house teemed with life

For remembering those nights when the moon’s beauty was noticed

But most important of all, most important of all,

For remembering those nights when power did not make man powerless!

Analyzing adoration..

I remember vividly the images that flooded the television on the day the judgement acquitting the AIADMK chief was issued. The celebration witnessed that day among the chief minister’s followers/worshipers was not of a normal kind. It was not just an expression of uncontrollable happiness. It looked more of a letting out of agony and pain. Agony and pain the worshipers had endured since their hero/idol/god had been accused of a crime.

Their joy did not just seem like the joy a shopkeeper experiences on learning that the area where his shop had been located had survived an earthquake. It was more of a joy that a shopkeeper experiences on learning that his shop had been the only building in its area that had survived an earthquake. 

And I was faced with only one question – Why - which then led to a series of sub questions.

Why should a person consider another person’s victory as his/her own and another person’s failure as his/her own when there is no relationship existing between them except for the admiration of the former for the latter?

Why is this admiration so powerful that it makes a person treat his/her hero important than self?

Why is this prevalent in this country in only the three fields that most people remember when asked to list their 10 favorite Indian personalities – politics, cinema and cricket – and not visible in any other field such as literature or business or even other sports?

I decided to deal with the last issue first since I felt that it would answer the other two questions also.

Politics, cinema and cricket do not require the level of understanding that literature or classical dance or tennis does (This is with regard to the average knowledge required in the fields of politics, cinema and cricket by an average person. Understanding the intricate mechanisms of any of these three fields is a totally different issue). Hence identifying with the heroes of these three fields becomes very easy for most of this country’s population, the identification and idolization becoming aggressive with the less educated and exposed classes.

To dwell deeper into the issue to identify the reasons for the worship, I believe that the description of the two following events is necessary.

****

Event 1:

A day had passed after the release of the film Billa 2. I had had very little interest in visiting the theater to watch the film but a few of my friends – hardcore Ajith fans – had dragged me along forcefully to the theatre. 30 minutes had passed since the film had begun and I had not heard most of the lines uttered by Ajith in the film, thanks to the continuous cheers of the fans every time Ajith’s face was shown. But I had predicted earlier that the dialogues would not be heard properly and had readied myself. The only thing that kept me interested in the film was that it was very evident that the film was loosely inspired from Al Pacino’s Scarface and I let my mind happily compare the happenings of Billa 2 with the incidents from Scarface which made me laugh at most of the serious scenes to the anger of my friends. But as the film neared its end, something happened that left most of the audience scared. A member of the audience had stood up over his seat and had started screaming curse words towards the theater screen. The reason for his anger was a simple one – Ajith was being beaten bare-handed by the antagonist of the film. The people around the guy asked him to cool down and requested him to get down but he wouldn’t listen. He continued abusing the antagonist with curse words (compounded curse words actually) and by then in the film, Ajith had been left to dangle from a helicopter holding on to his life which only made things worse. About 5 minutes later as the guy was literally forced outside the theater, the end credits of the film started rolling, to my relief. I honestly do not remember most of the scenes of Billa 2 – in fact, none of the scenes – but the guy who stood up over his seat, filled with immeasurable anger at seeing his hero being beaten in the film, will always remain in my memory.

Event 2:

It was the day of the second semi-final match of ICC Cricket World Cup 2015. India was taking on Australia. Australia had won the toss and had decided to bat and had posted a score of 328 runs in 50 overs. It was India’s turn to bat and three of my friends dragged me along forcefully (Yes! You guessed it right! I am a guy who gets dragged along a lot!) to our college canteen where new LED television sets had been put up. By the time we reached the canteen, about 150 people had already seated themselves on the ground of our canteen before the television sets having pushed aside the canteen-tables. As I looked at the crowd, my eyes widened with shock and fear in complete contrast to the eyes of my friends that lightened up with excitement. I pleaded to be let go but no one seemed to pay heed and by the 10^th over of the second innings, I was seated surrounded by a sea of people who cheered and celebrated every boundary that Shikhar Dhawan scored as if every boundary of his would guarantee a free samosa at the canteen. But as the overs continued, the Indian batsmen began playing gully cricket and the wickets tumbled. By the time the 4^th wicket had fallen, the entire crowd at our canteen had gone very silent but it lasted less than a minute as a huge roar – a literal roar – erupted from the gathering as M.S. Dhoni walked in. The shout left me with goosebumps since it was the first time I was witnessing such an expression of admiration from a crowd personally connected to me. I watched the rest of the match with the crowd’s roar repeating in loops inside my head before two consecutive sixes that Dhoni scored in the 42^nd over stopped the loop in my head. The loop had stopped because a louder roar had erupted. 

A roar of ecstasy though everyone knew that there was no logical chance that India could win the match. A roar that had resulted as an expression of love for a man no one in the crowd had any familial connections with. A roar of unadulterated adoration. A roar that would pop up first in my head henceforth every time I hear the word ‘roar’ shadowing the so-long occurring image of a lion’s shout.

****

These two events showed me the extent to which a hero could be idolized. But the reasons for this admiration, I believe, would be more interesting to learn.

One simple answer for such an expression of love could be wish fulfillment.

A person loves his/her hero for the reason that the hero does things which the person is incapable of doing in real life.

Mainstream Tamil cinema (or perhaps even mainstream Indian cinema) owes its success to this wish fulfillment theory. An actor’s fan gets excited when he sees his hero thrashing the society’s criminal elements – something the fan cannot do in reality. An actor’s fan gets excited when he sees his hero making a really beautiful girl pursue him, pleading, to accept her love – something the fan cannot do in reality. But how would this wish fulfilment hold true in politics and cricket?

Most of the worshipers of Amma who celebrated her acquittal so wildly would not have carried the notions of becoming a chief minister and governing the state. Most of the members of our college canteen crowd that roared for Dhoni would not have carried the notions of representing the Indian cricket team or becoming its skipper. What then prompted such unbridled demonstrations of affection?

Welfare schemes, good governance, MGR’s legacy and the love over AIADMK party for Amma, patriotism, love of the game, his temperament and earlier achievements for Dhoni might be viable reasons to look into but they look lame. 

All these factors would demand respect but would they bring out such adoration?

It was at such a point in my thought process that my mind went berserk and screamed at me, “Why don’t you look inside before examining the outer world?” which though made no sense initially, slowly dawned upon me.

In the process of trying to find the reasons for the admiration of others for their heroes, I had failed to analyse my own hero-worship. 

I had been a person who had, on more than most occasions, grabbed the shirt-collars of my schoolmates for negative comments on Sachin Tendulkar. I had been a person who had worried very badly and skipped a lunch at school when a schoolmate had commented that Harris Jayaraj would overshadow A.R. Rahman in a very short span of time (I would make mincemeat of that schoolmate if I meet him now!). 

Though the increase in age and maturity level has helped to accept Sachin and Rahman as human beings with complete appreciation of their efforts, achievements and shortcomings, there is still a part of me - the adorer, who fumes and goes crazy when I see Virat Kohli being hailed as the next Sachin or when I notice an album composed by Rahman not getting its deserved recognition. 

And it is this adorer, I believe, who makes people roar and curse and celebrate.

The adorer seems to be a guy not defined by logic. His affection and admiration do not seem controlled by concerns of being judged. His likings do not seem to be based upon statistics or achievements though the favorable ones make him wildly happy. 

His fondness seems to make him more defensive and protective. His love seems to have its roots spread widely in the heart, imposing a ban on the brain. 

These qualities of the adorer, when looked at from a distance, present a more surprising finding.

The adorer, with his qualities, seems to be remarkably similar to a mother. 

Or perhaps even the other way around could be possible. 

Which would then point to only one conclusion.

Every single one of us is a hero.

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.

The College Diaries #10

I had hoped to add a minimum of 25 posts in my blog under the label of 'The College Diaries'. 

I still can. 
But I do not want to, after I leave my college tonight. 
I would prefer that the last post under this label be typed, seated on my hostel bed, like it has been occurring with this blog for the past one year. I would prefer that the last post under this label be typed inside this college while I am still a part of it. 

An hour earlier, I had planned to type down all the instances that I had wanted to share about my college life as small paragraphs in this post. But to be frank, I am not in the mood to reminisce. 

I am emotionally drained.

And I would like to type down just one paragraph which, I feel, I would not get a chance to say anyplace else.

"Thank you, my dear 168 acre occupying, 31 year old institution. You are one of the best serendipitous happenings of my life. I became a part of you for the simple want of a degree. But you have managed to give me more than that. You have taught me about life and its workings and I believe that the lessons I have learnt from you, outside of my classrooms, would help me beyond quantification as I grow into a man. 
Thank you again and of course, goodbye."

(The College Diaries which had been a shameless attempt to increase the number of posts in this blog in a short span of time and in the process, recall and cherish various instances and incidents of my college life that had struck pain and pleasure in the heart in the last fortnight that I spent in the college comes to an end.)

The College Diaries #9

A circular steel table that would mostly be struggling for balance as if in an intoxicated state. Pigeons that would be resting on the ledges as if they had had their meals just then. The people at the serving-counter who, apart from calling out the order-numbers, would open their mouths only for saying one statement - "Sollirukaen.. Sollirukaen! Wait pannunga! Vandhurum!".  

Our college canteen reminds me of these things and much more. 

Much more meaning birthday parties attended with a sorry feeling for the wallet of the person celebrating his/her birthday, Sweet lime soda's drunk for the sole reason of staying the duration of a pretty girl's lunch, first few bites stolen from a friend's dish as he left to wash his hands, laser-less scans performed of the entire canteen to check if any known person was eating a costly dish so that it could be devoured.

A college canteen, unlike other eateries, does not just function as a place that serves food. 
It serves many other purposes. 

It helps with strengthening friendships. It helps with making anxious love proposals. It helps with finding solutions for problems faced at a friend's house. And it occasionally does help with satisfying hunger.

Every person would have a favorite dish at his/her college canteen. 
I too have many dishes of my liking at my college canteen but the dish that I eagerly look forward to there happens to be the lunch of my day scholar friends'. Eating homemade puliyogarae (!) and spicy potato curry on the circular steel table with a rose milk by the side and a suspicious looking North-Indian ahead (who seems to have devoted his life to ruthlessly slit open bhaji's for the pav bhaji dish) is an experience unmatched by any other.

I had always reserved a special sweet spot in my heart for my college canteen.
But I realized the vastness of the spot today afternoon when a repeat of the routine conversation between me and the bill-counter guy happened.

Counter guy: Enna ji venum?
Me: Oru Aaloo paratha!
A 50 rupee note is handed over.
Counter guy: 5 rupees change irukka ji?!
Me: Illayae na!
The counter-guy hands over the receipt for the ordered aaloo paratha and searches for a moment before giving a 5-rupee-valued token that can be used within the canteen.

On any other day, I would have looked at the token with frustration. But today, I realized that there was a very high chance that it could be my last lunch at the college canteen and I would no more be issued canteen tokens at the bill-counter.

No more pigeons. No more birthday treats. No more sweet lime soda's with cruel intentions.

So I folded the token carefully and placed it in my wallet.
The small white paper lay there, unintentionally acting as a token of remembrance.

(The College Diaries is a shameless attempt to increase the number of posts in this blog in a short span of time and in the process, recall and cherish various instances and incidents of my college life that strike pain and pleasure in the heart in this last fortnight I spend here.)