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!

May I borrow your life?

I am seated in an air-conditioned Volvo bus, on my way to office. My life and my day have shaped up the exact way I had promised myself not to pursue 3 years ago.

With an hour-wise planned day ahead, and with very little elements that might surprise me, I stare outside the window. An old man is asking for alms on the other side of the road and the cold air that blows out of the air-conditioning vent angers the communist in me.
I then notice a cyclist riding his bicycle at a leisurely pace, earphones plugged in, and a peaceful smile spread out. He seems to be living life at his own pace, letting in only the music he wants to be affected by. 

Would he still pay attention to the hungry wails of a labourer's child, the angry honking sound of a middle-class motorcyclist, the cries of help from an old man seeking alms?
Maybe he would. Maybe he would not.
But looking at the cyclist and the languid pace at which he is traveling, I want to borrow his ride. Perhaps, even his life. For a few hours.
And then, I wonder if he would be willing to borrow mine. How would I sell my life to him if I had to convince him to borrow mine?
"Hmm.... A slightly bumpy childhood but you would get to have the most amazing mother.. A short, dark phase at the end of school and college days but you would get to have the best friends life could offer..."
As I frame sentence after sentence trying to package my life in a pleasant way, I realize that I do have a pleasant life.
Agreed that I am not riding a bicycle at a leisurely pace. Agreed that my day is well planned with very few surprises, at least on the creative front. Agreed that life sometimes gets difficult enough to dole out poems like this. But all said and done, I realize that I cannot bring about myself to lend or replace the people in my life, even for a mere few hours. 

What if my mother wants to recharge her mobile number? There is no way I am going to let some other person accomplish that divine task.
What if my dear brother wants to discuss about a great documentary he has seen recently? I would rather get into a gladiatorial fight before I let anyone else replace me in that discussion.
What if my friends at office want to get together for dinner at the office cafeteria just to make fun of my philosophical outlook? Sorry, mister. The spot has already been taken. 

My people. My childishly possessive life.

As these thought waves crash on my conscious shore and slowly recede to the subconscious ocean, I am hit again by the cold air blowing out of the air-conditioning vent in the bus.
"Some of the essays on your blog are good but your blog description sucks," a dear friend had told me once. I wish that I had also attempted to put out a life description so that I would have gotten to enjoy the bus ride from its start.
Still, better late than never. The Bangalore traffic always lets you enjoy the ride a bit longer.

Life vs Me

Life landed a hard blow on my right chin
My vision blurred, my ears started ringing
My body wanted to give up
But my heart refused
I shook my head vigorously
Splattering my sweat and blood all around
And looked at life with a triumphant grin
Life was visibly angry
It landed a hard blow on my left chin this time
I could feel blood running down my face
The pain was intolerable
My left hand was fractured
My right knee was seriously injured
My nose would not stop bleeding
My left eye was turning blind
I had already urinated on myself
There was no more need to go on
But my heart refused
I wiped my blood and balanced myself again
I taunted at life to land another blow
Life looked extremely irritated
"Why wouldn't you just give up?" It asked me
My left eye went completely blind
But I could still muster up a smile
"Why wouldn't you just give up?" It repeated angrily
And landed a hard punch on my chest
My heart stopped briefly
My body turned cold
I fell down on my knees, my right knee paining excruciatingly
When my heart started beating again
Its rhythm was inconsistent
But it would not give in easily to life's blow
Slowly, rising to my feet again
I faced life
"How do you expect to break me....
....when you were the one who made me?"
I asked, and I spit out blood that had collected in my mouth
I taunted at life to hit me again
I had an unconquerable heart
And liters of blood to spare
The fight had just begun.

A long-lost love

It happened one fine day
It had been impending for quite some time
Like the sunrise that awaits a lonely night
The walls in their house turned into pages
The clothes in their closet turned into parables
The flowers from their plants turned into poems
The house smelled like an old, forgotten book
Only that its writer
Was not the husband or the wife..
The wife lived every day painfully
But she held her pain as close to her heart
As she had held his gifts from the past
After all, her pain was also a gift from him..
The husband lived every day painfully
But he held his pain as close to his heart
As he had always wanted to embrace her
After all, his pain was also an embrace from her..
The wife and the husband were always close to each other
And also courteous and compassionate
But they failed to realize
That a relationship had to be good, not nice..
And so, their silence exploded one fine day
The silence of their pain
It had been impending for quite some time
Like the tears that await a hopeful human
The walls in their house turned into pages
The clothes in their closet turned into parables
The flowers from their plants turned into poems
The house smelled like an old forgotten book
All the unsaid words were out
And hidden somewhere among those words
Rested a long-lost love.

The homemaker

(Dedicated to a dear colleague who has erased the line differentiating home and office)

She continued staring at the constantly changing mathematical statements on the black screen of her laptop. A data processing program, 1500 lines long, was midway in its execution. It would take an hour longer for the program to return the result. She shifted her attention from the laptop to her notebook placed beside. A doodle was midway in its execution. It was populated by the drawings of a laptop screen that resembled a prison, a face that was part-human-part-machine, a human brain that had a damaged electrical circuit within, and a computer program filled with nihilistic statements.

When life becomes a computer program, joy becomes a part of exception handling. She repeated her latest nihilistic thought in loops in her head, trying to make it better. She suddenly realized that she had been letting her thoughts play in loops, turning her brain into a computer program. Terrified, she shut her eyes and commanded her brain to stop thinking. But the human brain, taking pride in its paradoxical nature, began to bombard her with more thoughts than before. Realizing that she was trapped between ever-changing statements before her eyes and ever-changing thoughts behind her eyes, she decided to choose a thought and let it live its life.

What if I was a homemaker? She chose the most pleasant thought playing in her brain then. The thought had visited her many times earlier, especially during circumstances when she did not understand the purpose of her job. She knew that she had to provide for her family. She knew that she had to save money for her marriage. But she always wondered if there was an easier alternative available. “After our marriage, just quit your job and relax at home. I will take care of both the families.” Her boyfriend, who owned a start-up, had consoled her once during a crisis. How patriarchal! She had thought then but her boyfriend’s suggestion seemed an enjoyable escape now.

What if I was a homemaker? She let the thought set out on its journey. She would have a life filled with sunrises and sunsets which she missed now badly. She would have a life decorated with reading accomplishments which she had completely stopped now sadly. She would be able to experiment more with her cooking, mixing up spices and sugar and sauces. She would be able to experiment more with her drawing, mixing up shapes and strokes and sizes. She got excited by the number of doodles she would be able to complete. For every successfully executed computer program of hers, a doodle had been stopped halfway. She got excited by the number of letters she could write to her friends and family members, touching upon all the important happenings in their lives that she had missed out because of her work. For every successfully executed client meeting of hers, a major event in the lives of her loved ones had been missed.

What if I was a homemaker? Her thought that had been continuing on an easy path, took a turn to slowly tread on a difficult road. She would have to face the same walls and windows for a major portion of her days. She would have to take care of the needs of the members at home, setting aside time for their desires and sorrows. She would have to take up the tasks of the other members at home, as she would be seen as the person with most time and most thoughts. She would have to be the most responsible member at home as she would be expected to have the least distractions.

Her thought suddenly sought shelter on its journey as she felt a tap on her shoulder. She returned to reality to see her teammate standing beside her. “My head is aching badly….so, I was planning to leave home. I have sent you the initial version of the process flow. Can you review it once and make changes, if required, and share it with the clients?” Her teammate spoke without a pause for breath, as if he was scared that taking a breath would result in questions from her. “Can we just sit together for 15 minutes, now, and finish the process flow? You can send it to the clients yourself.” She ended her statement with a smile, wanting to make it seem like an achievement to her teammate. But he persisted with his request. “No….please. My head is aching very badly.” She realized that her compulsion would only result in complaints and not completion. “Fine….go home. I will look into it. You take care.” She smiled again, hoping that her smile would help in reducing his headache and her teammate smiled back, relieved to rush away with his bag.

She turned to her laptop screen and opened her mail inbox. She had received 5 new mails, out of which 3 had their subject lines starting with ‘Kindly review’. “All part of being a team lead!” She consoled herself and opened the mails, one by one. As she opened the third mail, her brain lit up and a realization hit her. Her thought that had sought shelter took a U-turn and started sprinting.

She realized that she had already become a homemaker. She was facing the same walls and windows of her office for major portion of her days. She was taking care of the needs of her teammates, setting aside time for their desires and sorrows. She was taking up the tasks of her teammates, as she was seen as the person with most time and most thoughts. She was expected to be the most responsible member of the team with the least distractions.

As she realized this, she let out a chuckle, marveling at yet another irony of life. “When are you leaving home?” She got the question from a colleague in the neighboring team who was packing his bag. “In some time…” She replied and waved him goodbye. But internally, she knew the answer to his question. I am already home. She digested the answer with a mixed feeling of joy and sadness and continued checking her mails.

Her doodle that had been stopped midway looked at her sadly, hoping her computer program would fail with its execution.

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

Too busy to be sad

Some days arrive
When our shadows shine in sunlight
Street after street, city after city
Shattering the solitude that smiles..
Some days arrive
When our rooms get crowded with unwelcome people
Night after night, weekend after weekend
Not letting in painful memories and terrifying imaginations..
Some days arrive
When a continuous rhythm plays in our heads
Chord after chord, note after note
Not permitting silence to speak..
Some days arrive
When words hold us imprisoned in reading
Page after page, chapter after chapter
Not wanting us to become writers..
Some days arrive
When nature reminds us of its unnatural beauty
Tree after tree, star after star
Not revealing the hardships of human life..
Some days arrive
When food paves the way for tasting freedom
Scent after scent, bite after bite
Far from the frailties of human heart..
Some days arrive
When algorithms and dashboards weigh us down
Data point after data point, chart after chart
Not favoring the triumph of faith over facts..
Some days arrive
When life gets too busy

Second after second, minute after minute
To sit and be sad, to shed a slow teardrop...