Understanding loss

My maternal grandfather passed away today morning.
As I type this post, I am on my way, on a seven hour journey, to attend his last rites.

I thought for quite some time about typing this down.
What kind of a person sits and records his feelings immediately after learning about the death of a close family member?
Shouldn't he just break down and cry and cry?
I do not know. 
I have been trying to cry ever since my mom called me, three hours back, to inform me about the death. But I have not been able to.
I am unable to even describe the feeling. It does not seem to be of sadness. It does not seem to be of depression or anger either. 
It feels more like the river of emotions has drained, exposing the fossils of words that lay waiting to see sunlight.

I try remembering the old man. All the hours spent with him.
I forcefully keep reminding myself of his statement after he had learnt I had gotten a job in Bangalore.
"Bangalore is a really nice place. I have always wanted to live there. Perhaps, after some time, after you settle down there properly, I will come and stay with you."
I had had grand plans for him.
All those plans seem to make no sense now just like his sudden demise.

I think more about my grandmother. 
She is the greatest victim of the loss.
I wonder what she would be going through now, having built her entire world around her better half. 
I firmly tell myself that when I step into a relationship in the future, I should be careful enough to not let my partner love me to the extent of not being able to cope with my loss. Letting my girl love me without limits and letting her suffer in uncontrollable pain after my death seems too selfish. 
But would asking a person to love cautiously be appropriate?

I continue staring out my bus window. The mountains and paddy fields race behind in a hurry.
I remember the last words my mom had told me on her morning call.
"Make sure you eat something before you board the bus. Please don't travel with an empty stomach. Take care."
When I should have consoled her and asked her to take care, she had done it the other way. 
I wonder what she would be going through now. 
It takes a very long time to recover from losing a father. 
When a child is robbed of its father, it is also robbed of its greatest hero.

I try to understand death. 
It seems really unfair at first sight.
But at a deeper level, it seems to give way to newer, better lives and newer, better bonds. 
When my paternal grandfather had passed away, my paternal grandmother had been in so bad a state the entire family had doubted her recovering from the loss. But today, pride is the feeling that overtakes me when I think about her evolution from everyone's favourite cook to the respected head of a family. 
I wish a similar future for my maternal grandmother.

My mom called me a few minutes back. "The entire family has gathered here. So you travel without worrying. We have one another for support", she had said. 
I imagined the family members seated close to one another, consoling and reminiscing. I imagined the amount of care that would be prevalent now in my grandfather's house.
Now, that is another beauty of loss.
It shows you the value of what you have.

The voter and the voted

Two days back, I was on my way to meet a few of my college friends. It had been a long time since we had met each other and each of us was intrigued to see how the others had changed over time.

On my way, I came across a group of children wearing masks of a leader of a Tamil Nadu based political party. I couldn’t help smiling at the sight. I stopped walking and waited to see what the kids were up to. The kids huddled together, placed their hands one over the other, sang a Tamil rhyme, pulled their hands back and declared a sorry-looking kid as the catcher. The catcher placed his palms firmly over his eyes while the other kids hurried to hide in different locations.

I got interested in the game. I wanted to see how the catcher recognized the other kids despite the similar masks they were wearing. But the catcher faced no problems whatsoever. “Ramesh out'u… Chinny out'u.. Sumathi out'u..” he went winning. The game ended in a couple of minutes and the kids huddled together for a second game.

Looking at the group, I very badly wished that the kids had been given masks of different political leaders. The hide-and-seek game, then, would have turned into a fantastic satire of the current political scenario in Tamil Nadu.

****

Watching the recent election-related advertisements being telecasted on Tamil television channels, I only wonder – “Do these people realize that the more often such ads are going to be telecasted, the more frustration spectators are going to be subjected to?”

We, as a society, have reached a point where when we see a romantic scene followed by a foreign-duet in a film, we sigh exasperatedly in unison. 
We have reached a point where reality has become sufficient for us. 
That being the case, do the political parties still think that ads in which different actors are made to cry/rejoice are going to influence our votes?! Seriously?!

Even the argument that the ads are capable of influencing the less-informed, less-privileged people does not hold good. Because, good governance or bad governance, they are the ones directly affected and when they have their own lives acting as testimonies to the governance, how big an impact can television ads have?

But if one badly wants to campaign via ads, why not try something like this – Shoot real interviews with real commoners, include everything that they say (good or bad) in the video, add a small promise by the political leader at the end saying, “I understand many of my people are happy with the government. But I also see that many people are unhappy. I realize that it is difficult to keep all the people of such a large, beautiful state happy but I promise that I will work towards it.”

Doesn’t such a video seem more realistic? Even if it fails to garner love/support, it will at least refrain from inducing irritation.

Which actually becomes very important in the current scenario.

Because we, unfortunately, have reached a point where we no more vote for a party that we love/respect but instead we vote for a party that we hate less.

****

How many of us can claim of being elected by people for doing them good?

How many of us can claim of laying proper, smooth roads across an entire town/municipality/city?

How many of us can claim of enhancing public transport services across a state?

How many of us can claim of achieving 100% literacy rate in a remote, rural village?

The minority that can make these claims unfortunately does not seem to realize the fact that having a road or a school or a government building named after them is much more fashionable than having a scam or a misdeed named after them.

Perhaps, it is left to us – commoners – to create an advertisement showcasing how much legacy matters.

****

At times, I wish I become a journalist just to ask the elected representatives one simple question – “Do you guys introspect?”

I fail miserably in understanding the logic behind being in a position where altruism can be practised at its highest level yet not caring to even scratch its surface.

When I hand over a five rupee coin to an old woman asking for alms, I feel terribly sad but some corner of my heart also rejoices the act of giving. Isn’t the feeling same for every person involved in social service? Shouldn’t the feeling be same for politicians/people’s representatives as well?

If anything, their feeling should be manifold since they are the ones who face people’s problems in a more consistent fashion.

****

One of my colleagues, an aspiring I.A.S officer, once narrated me the incident which had made her want to become a government servant.

She and her friends had once visited a tea shop. There had been a 6-8 year old boy in the shop who had been serving the customers tea and snacks. He had been wearing shoes of different sizes with polythene cover tightened to act as shoelaces. My colleague and her friends had ordered tea and when the kid had come over to serve them tea, my colleague had asked him if he attended any school. The kid had calmly placed the tea glasses on the table and had replied, “Every person who comes to this shop asks me the same question. I tell them I don’t go to any school and they feel really sorry. But apart from feeling sorry, no one seems to do anything else”.

I keep repeating the story to myself time and again.   

Not all of our problems need to be resolved by the elected representatives. 
There are so many little things that we can change ourselves.

The poet warrior

I raise my sword halfway.

I know that I do not want to fight wholeheartedly but I also do not want to back off.

All these days, I had been brandishing the sword for the spectators in the arena. But now, I want to hold the weapon for the heart’s desire.

Sadly, it has fallen in love with the opponent – An opponent like no other.

It is going to be an interesting dual. A dual in which every time our swords meet, my blood is going to be shed.

But I do not mind. For I know that every drop of my blood would transform itself into a beautiful poem.

I reminisce about the dual I had lost in the past. It had left me lying in a huge pool of blood. A pool that had dried and dried before blossoming into a garden of poems. Passers-by had lauded the garden but no one had cared about the mortally injured warrior.

I raise my sword halfway.

I march ahead to be wounded. I expect the pool of blood to be bigger.

I realize that everyone will care only about the garden but if not for the dual, if not for the losing warrior, how would the poet win?

But perhaps once, just once, I would like to see the warrior win. 

No bloodshed, no poems but just a simple, silent victory. A victory where he embraces the conquered opponent and puts down his sword. A victory where the warrior is finally acknowledged.

Once, just once, I would like to see the warrior win.

How much more should the poor guy suffer?!

Artists as lovers

One of my friends, a really good font-artist, was telling me about her desire to learn charcoal painting. I asked her if she preferred portraits over natural scenery. She thought for a few seconds and replied that she had never really tried drawing human faces. She then quickly added that she liked drawing birds. I told her mockingly that I had asked her only about portraits. She angrily retorted asking me why I felt that a bird's face and its expressions should not be treated as a portrait. I did not have an answer. "Birds are better than humans in many ways" she enlightened me. I nodded with a smile. 
I thought about this conversation later that day and I was amazed. I had never really tried to think of a bird's picture as a portrait. "Could a person, other than an artist, have come up with such a thought?" I asked myself. The response was negative.

I continued thinking about artists. My thoughts slowly intertwined with thoughts on love and life. And the more I thought, the clearer it became - Artists are the best/worst possible romantic partners.

****

Artists are the most easily excitable of the lot. 
A sprightly butterfly, a silvery crescent moon, a half constructed brick wall, an iron chain tied to an elephant's leg in a temple, a silent stretch of desert, a dewdrop hanging for its life from a blade of grass - Only artists are capable of getting stimulated by these sources. To any other normal person, all these would only exist as mundane fragments of everyday life. 
That being the case, imagine being in love with an artist. 
Every emoji used, every gesture made, every thought shared, every little present gifted has the possibility of exciting the partner to the extent of inducing a great artwork. But the same cannot be said of a non-artist. The amount of joy on having received a gift from a loved one might be equal between the two but the wonderment caused by the gift will definitely be more in an artist. 
After all, every artwork is a gift to some person in some way. Wouldn't such gift-makers be excited more for the gifts they receive?!
Also, try imagining the gifts such gift-makers would make for their loved ones. If a normal person can become a poet after falling in love, imagine what a poet is capable of after love happens to him/her.

Artists are the best empathizers. 
Try telling a happy story to a bunch of people. The widest spread of a smile will happen on an artist's face. Try telling a sad story to a bunch of people. The first teardrop will roll down an artist's cheek.
A music composer is asked to compose a tune for a village based love story and the same music composer is asked to compose a tune for a futuristic urban love story. How does the composer do this?
Empathy.
When an artist can put himself/herself in another person's shoes so easily, how difficult would it be to wear a loved one's shoes?!

Artists are loners. At least, most. 
The pro of this is having a lot of private time with the partner. There is pretty less chance that a phone call to an artist goes unattended because he/she is partying with a group of friends. 
Most of an artist's parties happen inside his/her head.
But a big con is that most artists tend to prefer solitude over anything else - the 'anything else' might sometimes also include a loved one. The reason being that the artist might get interested to attend the party inside his/her head. 
What do you do then? Do you drag the artist out of the party to water your romantic roses or do you let the partner enjoy the party so that the next masterpiece can take birth?
Being in a relationship with an artist is a sure step towards attaining maturity.

Artists tend to have bottled up emotions.
Imagine that a family member of an artist dies. A month later, you -the partner- ask about the loss. The artist might open up about it for hours and hours but after all those hours, the shared feelings might still only sum up to half of the artist's suppressed emotions. 
An artist is always required to keep his/her artistic well filled with locked up emotions to fetch from in times of need. 
A family member's loss to tune in to sadness. A little kid's kiss to tune in to joy. A close friend's betrayal to tune in to anger. 
So, a "What do you feel?" or a "Do you want to share something?" might not always yield satisfying results. 
And again, a difficult choice would have to be made - Would you want one half of the emotions shared with you and the other half shared with the world through art? Or would you want all the emotions shared with you?
The decision would mark the difference between familial bliss and artistic greatness.
Hence an artist's partner needs to understand that their relationship not only needs to take care of love but also of the art. 

Thinking about all these, it actually makes sense that most artists end up falling in love with fellow artists.
Love for love and art for art.

****

After reading through the paragraphs typed above, I realized two things:

• My understanding of an artist is limited to a small circle of artistic friends and many of the above mentioned points can fail with relation to other artists
• I have ended up typing a piece which has a severe risk of being misinterpreted as a self proclamation of pros and cons 

I thought for sometime about throwing in an explanation.
But then, why spoil the sport?!
An artist matters only as long as what he does not say stays more interesting than what he says.

****

Post-publish edit:

One of my friends sent me a lengthy mail after reading this post, elaborating her thoughts on it. There were many appreciative statements, a testimony to her good nature. But there were also statements that affected me greatly.
"I have not come across a single person who has him/her completely disconnected from art. I wonder if you have! We can probably categorize it as people very close to art/ people not so very close. I doubt even if that makes sense.
I agree on everything you have tried to figure about artists.. 'Artists' as per the general definition. But I can never acknowledge the existence of non-artists.. At least until I come across somebody like that for myself personally!"

Her thoughts have not yet let me free.

"Could a person, other than an artist, have come up with such a thought?" I ask myself. The response is negative. 

I wait for another lengthy mail from my friend in response. 

The lonely sawaari!

His face wore a calm smile. A smile of contentment. 

"He must have gotten a passenger wanting to go to a pretty faraway place", I thought to myself. I then noticed that the back seat of the auto rickshaw was empty. 

I looked again at the driver. The calm smile still rested on his face.

Observing his smile unconsciously gave birth to one of my own. And then a strange thought appeared.

What if the driver was an introvert?!

I got interested.

If he was an introverted driver, which would he prefer - a lonely ride that gladdened his heart or a shared journey with a stranger that gladdened his stomach?!

Would he be more delighted if a single passenger boarded his auto rickshaw than he would be with a couple or a family?! 

Would he set the volume of the speakers in his auto rickshaw to the lowest in order to avoid attention in traffic?!

How willing would he be to honk his horn?!

Would he prefer the corner spot in an auto stand?! Would he even prefer being a part of an auto stand?!

How difficult would it be for him to ask a pedestrian if he/she wanted a ride?!

Would he even like his auto rickshaw being a bright yellow shade?!

I looked at the driver again. I wanted to board his auto rickshaw and have a hearty conversation. But I could not.

The introvert in me did not allow it.

But having typed this post now, I think - Should I blame the introvert for having missed a great conversation with an interesting man or should I thank the introvert for having been the cause of these words?!

I strangely feel that the auto rickshaw driver would hold an answer.

The hero a nation needs..

Last week, one of my friends was speaking to me about the current political scenario in India. I, not being a person who actively follows politics, was unable to contribute anything significantly to his thoughts. And hence I did that thing which I love doing the most in a conversation - I listened.

There were many new things I learned that evening from my friend. But one thing that lingered on my mind long after the conversation ended was my friend's mention of the growing dissatisfaction among Indians over various national affairs. He had ended the topic saying, "India badly needs an uniting factor.. An extremely positive one!"  

I let my mind work upon that remark of my friend's and in my most idle moment, it threw out an answer.
Sachin Tendulkar.
I couldn't help smiling.

I imagined how things would change if Sachin returned to International cricket. 
I, for one, would start following cricket again. Also, I felt that the collective mood of the nation would be uplifted. 
Like it had happened with the audience walking out of an M.G.R. movie. Like it happens with an audience walking out of a Rajinikanth movie. 
We do not walk into a Rajini movie expecting an artwork that leaves our hearts heavy and our minds intellectualized. We walk into a Rajini movie expecting to be consoled that good will always triumph over evil in this world governed by chaos. We walk into a Rajini movie just to be made aware that despite all the Panama Papers, despite all the Zika viruses, despite all the incredible advertisements being telecasted on Tamil television channels in relation to the 2016 Tamil Nadu Assembly elections, Rajini exists. We walk into a Rajini movie simply because we do not have an alternative to prove us the existence of God. 
All the above could be said of a Sachin's innings as well.
This is not to say that a Virat Kohli or a M.S.Dhoni cannot unite the nation. But there always exists a difference between superheroes and demigods. There always exists a difference between a cheer for a hero's victory and a tear for a hero's victory. 

I continued imagining how things would change if Sachin returned to International cricket.
I also realized that my imagination could escape its expiry only till it remained inside my head. Interestingly, at the same moment of the realization, something else hit me.
Sachin: A Billion Dreams.
I couldn't help smiling.
If the little great man could bring together a nation with just one of his straight drives, why couldn't the same or even something more be achieved with a collection of his innings accompanied by A.R.Rahman's score?!
I stopped my thought process and watched the teaser for the nth time. 
I met my friend the next day and told him, "The uniting factor India needs is right around the corner".

A drop of life

I was travelling with my brother to my office the other day. Ahead of us, honking its way slowly through the traffic, was moving a water tanker. Water was dripping from a pipe hanging at its rear end. The dripping water had left a squiggly trail of the water tanker's path. "Possibly the worst escape vehicle after committing a crime!" I thought to myself. 
Some time later, as I was filling a cup of water in the pantry at my office, I remembered a story I had heard from my brother a week ago.
It had been about a young African girl of fifteen. She had belonged to a region of Africa where water is so scarce that bath is a luxury and thirst is a crime. The daily supply of water in the girl's home had been one bucketful, which the girl had had to fetch from a small water reservoir situated a-two-hour-long-walk away from her home. One day, the girl who had left her home in the morning to fetch water had not returned. By evening, the girl's family had set out in search of her and at some distance from the water reservoir, they had found her body hanging from a tree. After bringing the girl's body down from the tree, her family had also found something else a few hundred meters from the tree. It had been the girl's broken bucket.
After I remembered the story, I could not bring about myself to drink the cup of water I had filled. I kept staring at it for some time thinking about the water tanker I had seen in the morning. I could hear the water drops dripping from the pipe at the tanker's rear end. 
I then slowly lifted the cup of water to my mouth and drank water from it. As the cup turned empty, tears rolled down my cheeks.