O Captain! My Captain! - II

Last evening, I stood in the smoking area outside my organization, with my first manager who was quitting. As I stood there, I was reminded of my first day in my first project. My manager had taken me that day to the very same spot. 

That first day. That first conversation.
"I want to know more about you. Tell me about the things you are really passionate about" he asked me, lighting up his cigarette. I was surprised. A few hours earlier, I had spoken about my hobbies when I had been asked to introduce myself to the team working on my first project. 
I suspected that my manager had not paid attention when I had mentioned my interests. I started explaining him my field of passion and its reason. He listened patiently, with a tinge of wonder visible in his eyes. I expected him to interrupt me and put forward his opinion. He did not. I continued talking. He continued listening. "You should interrupt now! You should want to say something! You are a manager!" I kept thinking, as I talked on. He never interrupted me. 
I did not understand. I was a kid fresh out of college, still unsure of even his Facebook profile picture. And he was a manager with 3-and-odd years of experience in my organization. What was he doing, spending his valuable time, listening to a kid blabbering about French and Italian cinema?
My brain was burning out faster than his cigarette, in confusion.
And then he started talking. His response showed how genuinely he had listened to me. I was taken aback. I was also glad. How many employees can boast of having had their first manager as someone who knew how to listen and was genuinely invested in each and every member of the team?
That evening, after that 30-minute conversation, I seriously considered taking up smoking just so I could become his smoking-buddy.

****

After I had decided to type a post about my first manager, I was unclear as to the structure or narrative. There were memories aplenty from his beloved Microsoft mobile to the balcony-entrance of his ground-floor flat to his secret crush on 9GAG. But an all-joining thread was required. 
Strangely, before the narrative could fall in place, the title began barking at me. I tried shoo'ing it away saying that I needed the content first. But it continued barking. I then paused and listened to the title. The barking made sense.
The earlier post where I had used the title had been a piece about Robin Williams. 
My first manager is a Robin Williams in his own way.
The enthusiasm of an Adrian Cronauer of Good Morning, Vietnam or of the Genie of Aladdin. The urge to inspire of a John Keating of Dead Poets Society. The patience and care of a Sean Maguire of Good Will Hunting. 
  
Also, the words of Whitman's poem keep coming back.
..The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won..
..Rise up - for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores a-crowding..
My manager was never a man to stay behind for the laurels. He stepped aside after doling out enough inspiration. 
A teacher to the truest sense.

****

Last evening, I stood in the smoking area outside my organization, with my first manager who was quitting. In the brief moments of silence that lingered amidst reminiscing the old days, I remembered the effort he had put in to make this shy, silent, introverted kid get comfortable with his team. That had made all the difference between me loving/hating a job I had accepted not because of my want, but because of my need.

As it was time to finally part, I shook my manager's hand and said, "All the best".
My final words to him have been troubling me since then.
I should have said "Thank you". 
He deserved it. And a lot more.

Demonetization and a dear friend

It was November 9. Around 10:30 PM.
A very dear friend of mine called me. "Are you still at office?", he asked. I had left office early that day and I told him the same. He used a few curse words hearing that. "I reached home just now", he replied, as an explanation to his curse words. I couldn't help let out a chuckle.
I did not have to ask him the reason for his late home-coming that day. The previous day, the Indian Prime Minister had made an unexpected declaration of demonetizing 500 and 1000 rupee notes. And I knew that the bank employees were going to take the worst hit. One of whom was my dear friend.

"You should have seen every person's face as he/she placed the 500 and 1000 rupee notes on top of my counter. Some had mud over them. Some had rice dust. It felt like being in a Shankar movie", my friend narrated his story excitedly. I felt happy for him.
"As I sat down to tally the day's collection by evening, though I was extremely tired, I also felt mildly proud. Who would have thought I would be entrusted with such responsibilities?", he asked, triumphantly, before ending the call. "Really good for you!" I told him.
"You have no idea how proud I feel of you", I wanted to tell him but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning.

****

I remember vividly the last month of the last semester at my college.
Slam books were passed around. Apologies were thrown around. A few late realizations. A few not-so-late proposals. Selfies with favorite professors. Selfies with favorite buildings.
In the midst of such happenings, one late evening, my dear friend and I were seated on a stone bench.
"How do you foresee our futures, 5-10 years down the lane?" my friend asked me, expecting something philosophical. "I do not know", I replied, being my most philosophical.
It irritated him.
"Do you suppose we should have chosen easier fields of interest?" he asked me, smiling. 

Maybe. Maybe not. I did not know. 

I had fallen in love with cinema. He, with the Indian army. I badly wanted him to become a soldier and he wished with all his heart that I become a filmmaker some day. But both of us knew that long and dusty roads lay before us. We were also aware of our prior dreams and their success ratio. 

"Even now, it isn't late to change our fields of interest. But imagine this - What if we fail even in those easier ones?" I asked him. He let out a chuckle.

An awkward silence followed.

"Do you know what angers me the most?", my friend questioned and continued, "I see a lot many people who very easily get what they want. And most of them are no way closer to being as good-hearted, as helpful as me or you."  

I looked at him helplessly.

"They keep mentioning karma. They keep telling that good things happen to good people. But I rarely see these sayings come true. Can you recall something in your life that you had wanted very badly and it had turned out the exact way that you had wanted?" he asked me. I had no answer. 

The awkward silence prevailed again. 

"I guess that is how life is meant to be. If things had happened according to my plan and want, I would have never joined this college and we would have never had this conversation" I broke the silence. 

My friend did not find my answer good enough.

"Do you fear that we are going to fail in the pursuit of our passions?" I asked him finally. He chose not to reply. 

"Well, I do not know about you. But I am pretty sure that I am getting an Oscar" I told him. He gave me a puzzled look and in a few seconds, we started laughing.

"And I am pretty sure that you would succeed before me" I wanted to tell him, after the laughter, but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning. 

****

It was November 19. Around 01:00 AM.

I was on my way to Chennai in a government bus. Lonely huts and lonelier lampposts kept passing my window as Rahman's music kept me awake. My mobile screen suddenly flashed to indicate the arrival of a new mail. It was from my dear friend.

He had written how his banking life had been turned upside down after the demonetizing order and how his pride had increased by being a part of a movement that would reform India. 

I felt really happy for him. Also, a bit envious. 

Though he had not been positioned at the country's borders, though he had not been armed with rifles, though he had not been fighting for his life day after day, he had marched closer to his dream. In the end, it had always been about serving the nation.

"Karma exists. Good things happen to good people. Thanks for making me believe" - I wanted to send him a reply but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning. 

But then, there is also no harm in putting it all out once in a while. 

The Umbrella seller

I will be your umbrella seller
Do you want the majestic black one?
Or the bee-deceiving flowered one?
Or the Newton's-disk resembling rainbow-designed one?
I will be your umbrella seller
And I will sell you an umbrella free of cost
But make me a promise and stick to it
Never open my umbrella when it rains.. Never..
My umbrellas are not designed for showers
It should blossom like an inverted flower
Only when tears flow down your cheeks
My umbrellas are designed only for your tears.

He, she and their love stories - II

"I love you" he had said

"I can never" she had replied

Today marks the 40th anniversary of his proposal

He now lives at a hill station

Happy and healthy in a small cottage

Married? No. But he has a partner

His imagination of her

He walks and talks with his illusion

"Don't you miss living with the real her?" I asked him

On my trip to his house yesterday

"Don't you think she is real?" he asked me back

Smiling and pointing to an empty chair

I looked outside his cottage's window at the grey sky

Did the creator want his creations to become such creators?

The empty chair burdened my heart

"She is not the real her. She is 'your' her" I mumbled

Not replying, he rose and walked towards her chair

He slowly planted a kiss on her forehead

A rain drop hit the roof as his tear drop hit the floor

"I live with 'my' her because I cannot, with the 'real' her.

But thousands keep loving 'their' hims and hers, 

Despite having the real hims and hers"

I stepped out of his cottage in the rain

The gentle drizzle fell in love with my heartfelt cry.

Being a super villain

“There are four of us. We can either split ourselves into groups of two ninjas – red team and green team. Or we can have one super villain and the other three can be ninjas who fight against the villain”.
“Let’s play with a super villain. But what powers does the villain have?”
“Dai...He is the super villain. What other power does he need?”

This conversation was a part of the discussion my twelve-year old cousin and his three friends were having, ahead of their game. I was having a great time, overhearing this, from some distance. 

What was I doing?

I was helping another cousin – a nine-year old – ride a bicycle. She did not require much guidance and I felt that she considered my presence an unnecessary nuisance. Because every time a two-wheeler or a four-wheeler passed by, on the street, I grabbed her bicycle and did not let her pedal. The only reason, I guessed, she tolerated me was because her mother had warned her not to ride the bicycle without an adult’s presence and the adult (!) she had found the most jobless and the easiest to convince had been me.

As I stood there, looking at her pedal the bicycle with all her strength, I experienced a sense of pride. I was being a part of her initial steps towards an independent life. 

I imagined her life ten years later and it seemed highly possible that she would grow up to become one of the most beautiful girls in her group. I wondered how she would react if a guy expressed his love to her. I wondered what piece of advice I could give her, if she consulted me then.
What piece of wisdom can any person share about love?

I imagined her life fifteen years into the future and it seemed highly possible that she would drive herself to work. I wondered if on some day, as she was stuck at a traffic signal on her vehicle, she would try to recollect her early bicycle-riding days and how I had played a miniscule role in it. Would she laugh heartily remembering me grabbing her bicycle every time a vehicle passed?

As I was lost in these thoughts, I suddenly heard a high-pitched shout. I turned to see my twelve-year old cousin being punched by his friends. I was shocked and hurried to stop their fight. As I separated them, all the four boys gave me puzzled looks. 

“Why were you fighting?” I asked them, in as authoritative a tone I could put up. “We were not fighting. We were playing a game” my cousin replied, exasperated. I did not know how to respond and smiled sheepishly. 
“Do you want to join the game?” one of my cousin’s friends asked me in an excited tone. “Yeah! He could be the super villain!” my cousin immediately shouted in joy. “Please join us.. Please join us..” they started shouting. I tried to hide my happiness and pretended to agree just out of my goodwill.

“Awesome! You be the super villain. The four of us are ninjas. We will try to defeat you” my cousin explained the entire game and ran away to join his friends who were standing near a gate. A minute later, the four boys held the gate firmly and started shaking it. I was confused. After they stopped shaking the gate, one of them shouted, “Ninja mode full power ding ding”. Then they turned towards me and gave me a threatening look. I realized I had committed a grave mistake. 
A few seconds later, all four boys started running towards me and as they reached me, they screamed “Ninja mode attack ding ding” in unison and they started punching me. I did not have a clue as to what to do. The boys seemed to be punching as hard as possible and my cousin seemed to be extra-excited. I understood that I couldn’t continue taking their punches and screamed the first thing that came to my mind – “Super villain freeze ding ding”. The boys froze like statues. I let out a sigh of relief.

I then turned to notice my nine-year old cousin looking at me from her bicycle. I sensed that she had realized that I was no adult.
I imagined her life five years down the road. I wished, with all my heart, that she would not remember then the sight of me getting thrashed by four twelve-year olds.

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. 

There is a want...

There is a want for silence.
Not for the noiselessness. But just to scream.
It will not be one of pain. Nor one of anger.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for a mild breeze.
Not to avoid the mighty wind. But just to hear the brown leaves in an old tree rustle.
Just to see the hair strands exhibit courage and dangle over her face.
Sometimes, environmental motion helps the paralyzed mind march ahead.

There is a want for the evening.
Not to avoid the morning's expectations. Not to evade the night's weariness.
But an evening has its charm. It makes you hope for a little more before the end.
It shines upon you the last ray of hope before darkness descends.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for the guitar's strumming.
Not to avoid the melancholy of a violin. Nor the celebration of a drum.
But pulling the string tugs at the heart. Pulling the string creates tension.
Even the emptiness inside an acoustic guitar has a rhythm.
Even an unattached string will find its company.

There is a want for irreverence.

Why should there be a pattern? Why a meaning?
Life is not always a chain of events.
At times, it behaves like a cat with a ball of wool.

There is a want to type.
Not to write. Not to speak. But to type.
Writing requires a firm grip. Speaking requires a strong heart.
But for a trembling hand and a feeble heart, dust adorned keys in a keyboard suffice. 

As the cursor moves letter by letter, so does my life, second by second.