The worth of a smile

He was early today. It was just one of those days when the universe decides to play nice. As he stood waiting for his train, he pondered over the sheer number of people just like him. The peak hour rush was a miasma of sounds, smells and sights. A giant juggernaut set into motion taking all—the agitated and impatient, the languid and the laggard —from one existence to another.

And the smell! Wasn’t it strange that all stations (even bus stations for that matter) seemed to have a similar rancid and heavy odour? Was that the collective smell of humanity? You would think that the tedium of travel over the years would have made you immune, but no, at each stop, every day, you can feel it hit your nose. And each day you think it is worse than before.

Inside the train, it doesn’t really matter. When plastered to another human being, you can only accept what the Fates have drawn for you – rotten or pleasant.

Bracing himself for another push and shove episode, he looked on at the other men (and a few brave (?) women) mirroring him. “We look like warriors bracing themselves for the clarion call,” he thought.

As the train drew in, there wasn’t that usual clash of exiting and entering people. Luck seemed to like him a lot today. Not only was the compartment less crowded, he got to stand by the door, breathing in fresh air. Once he settled in, he looked around and spotted her.  “A butterfly in a jar. A butterfly in a male jar. A butterfly in a jar of moths. Much better!” he thought and smiled. Their eyes met over the crowd and she gave him that polite half-smile accorded to strangers you’ve being forced to acknowledge. His heart sank a bit, decorum asking him to look away. He peeked, whenever he could, taking in her slender fingers grasping the handrail so firmly that the bones of her hand and wrist stood out. And most importantly, no ring. Her hair was tied up more for functionality than fashion, and every time the sun hit it, they took on a brownish hue, just like the eyes. The lines on her palm formed a distinct ‘M’ and the wrist was bereft of any jewellery other than a black thread. He wished he could see the rest of her; he only caught glimpses of her red buttoned to the top shirt.

At the next stop, she moved closer to him, close enough for him to smell orange blossoms. He thanked God and then thanked him some more when a bigger crowd surged in, jostling them into each other, her front to his side, her one hand jammed between the side panel and his back. He wished the hand would stay there but alas! She swiftly pulled her hand back and moved apart.

They stood like this for the next two stops, both slightly more conscious, and it would be safe to say, each wondering who was more embarrassed. Making her way to the door, she looked back and smiled, this time with warmth.

And like that she was gone.

Her smile lingered with him as he reached his station. It stayed put as he sat in the cab wondering the 'what ifs' of an interrupted romance. And it died just as quickly, for when he reached for his wallet, he realized he had been picked clean. 

The sentinel on the roof

Every year when I visit home, I see him pacing the terrace. And every time, without fail, I wonder, “How did he get up there?”

Over the last many years he’s been a fixture on that terrace — precariously balanced on the ledge to us, Lord of the Terrace to him. From his vantage point, he looks down on people, observing vigilantly. Any time of the day or night, you look out and you’ll find him there, staring out facing the front gate. Does he not sleep, not eat and most importantly, does he not tire? It’s unnatural and fascinating. When you walk through the gates, a short, sharp bark greets you. Bad enough, you know he’s looming over you, threateningly poised to jump, but that bark startles you no matter how ready you are. There’s nothing ferocious about him—just a common bred pariah but his eccentricity makes him famous, almost like a landmark—“I’m just across the house where the dog walks on the parapet.”

I asked the family if he ever stepped down. It was a mystery to them, much like his sudden appearance and his strange affinity for the ledge. Neither rain nor renovation managed to move him.

On my last night at home, I found him still standing there—poised and haughty like Mufasa from The Lion King. If he had a mane, the likeness would be complete.

(Not a very clear pic but you get the idea.)

Unwanted Alienation

My heart gives a slight lurch. Are we going to break off like this? Is this the end we always dreaded?

I quit. I’m leaving. I’m moving on. It’s time.

So simple, yet so impactful. Did we ever imagine how these words would affect us?

We would be friends, right? We do still have that connection, right? Million questions of a beleaguered mind. Staying in touch has never been as easy (so clichéd) but the gap that physical distance brings is slowly exposed. It puts up invisible barriers—real and imagined. From a message today to postponing a call tomorrow, suddenly it’s been month and more.

Is this the way thick as thieves go adrift?

If history holds true, we are doomed.

Jugaad

He sat on his throne of leather and steel, a figure to be revered, adored and loved. Ornate displays, trophies and games of the pampered of society marked his chamber. And like the wealthy, he never failed to display his largesse—donations, charities, grand gestures and lots of gifts, even if most of them were fancy knickknacks he fell out of love with.

His kingdom was large; its goodness well known, its skill unparalleled, and its people happy. In the early days of his reign, he toured the kingdom, met the people, encouraged and rewarded good work—he was a gardener who tended to his flowers lovingly. He even held regular darbars and threw open his palace gates for festivities.

This carried on for a few years—a blissful and satisfied king and his kingdom. Everything seemed fine, but the truth, the people’s truth is made up of everyday realities, of their hardships and their turmoil.  The kingdom was failing—its values disintegrating, its economy fragile and its people discontent.

There was no doubt that the king was a great leader but like all people in power, it consumed him. He worked towards entrenching himself rather than working for the benefit of the people. He got complacent, resting on his past glories, assured of his subjects’ loyalty.

But the people were painfully aware of their difficult lives and were agitated by this change. What should they make of a leader who was becoming increasingly ineffective? When they asked him, he had no answers. He shrugged his shoulders, looked at his ministers, who also solemnly nodded their heads in agreement. When the questions got more persistent, he got more defensive. “You have to work harder”. “Change things, find your motivation”. “If you can’t, then leave”, he thundered.

One fine day, a group of travellers came to visit the kingdom. They had heard all about the glories of this wonderful place and wanted to experience it. When faced with the reality of the present, they were disappointed but they also saw this as an opportunity to bring in their learnings from other kingdoms.

The first thing they told the king was to reduce expenditure and reshuffle his cabinet. And, how did the king go about it? He went all out—banned any kind of celebration, reduced the number of community meal centres, imposed more fines on trivial offences and sold off anything or anyone he didn’t think necessary.

To the king, the plan seemed to have worked, but the people? Oh! How they suffered the fancies of a crazy master. The complaints increased, the king fumed. “Do you think you’ve been the only one to suffer? Look at me! I’ve had to cut down my retinue from 250 to 200! And I am surrounded by idiots. But do I complain?”

The people were aghast. Couldn’t the king see how his new advisors were ruining the kingdom? Couldn’t he see that they were alienating his loyal ones? Rumours flew all around—of disappearances, of deceit, of murderous plots, of debts. Who could be trusted?

Eventually, leaving this rotting state was the only sensible option.  All the experienced artisans, farmers, builders, blacksmiths began leaving one by one. And when they did, their underlings were suddenly forced to yield results. Their king had commanded, so they did. Their half-baked knowledge coupled with inexperience only produced weak work, which could not hold up to the magnificence of the greats. But did the king notice? No. “Talent is everywhere,” he said. “And I have the gift to spot talent”. But do you, O great king, remember the last time you used this gift?

In this spluttering state of affairs, deserted by even his loyal ministers, the king floundered. And found cheap replacements. When that didn’t work, he used guile and sweet promises, to keep the economy running.

It hurt the people to leave behind something they had all toiled and sweated over. But the kingdom was a shadow of itself, now ruled by a pompous buffoon who had forgotten he was king. Compromises had hollowed out its splendour; it was now the kingdom of improvised solutions.

Song of Time

I heard that song today—the one that takes me to that place where you belonged to me, even if it was for a brief while.

And it never fails to make me smile. Its slow, lilting tune transports me to the time when my eyes sought your face all the time and beamed when it found you. Its lyrics remind me of your naughtiness and impish ways that made me laugh with joy and sometimes cry in consternation.

It was my song for you.

It makes me want to hear your song for me. 

If I could change that moment

It would be when I took those stairs instead of waiting for you, my sister

When I dashed last minute into the train and almost cost my brother his life

When I had all those ice popsicles and lost the chance of hosting that grand finale at school

When a simple ‘yes’ would have saved me a lifetime of ‘what ifs’

When I should have dropped out of that course that didn’t add any value to my skills

When I should have gone for that picnic with all of you

…

When I first decided that I was not worth it.

Thoughts to belling the cat

Sometimes I feel I should just go over to the elephant and ask, “You like me, don’t you?”

At least that way I’ll know I’m not crazy.

I swear I’m going crazy. More than the ‘do you or don’t you’ poser of a lifetime, it’s my Pavlovian response to you that is cause for much worry. Cues to you assault me day in and out.

Then there’s the lack of will power or any sort of decorum. You turn me into a puddle. And that is embarrassing on so many levels.

Then I realize, “Who am I kidding here?” You are the sifu. Houdini could learn a trick or two from you. When have I ever received a straight answer?

All I'd get from you is, "Is this a trick question?"

When blinds slip

I just felt sorry for you.

No crueler words could have been so easily spoke. It was worse than I’m sorry. It tarnished everything. Like the crawl up your skin when you see an army of ants and worms swarming over a dead corpse.

I was so thirsty that I soaked myself in everything you offered.

The care that you so lovingly bestowed was kindness wrapped with concern. You knew my favourites, so you simply ensured that I would feel their comfort.  

You once told me I deserve the best that life can give, and it would happen; that someone would work hard to make it happen. And I believed that I had found that in you.

 Everything that we had was a figment of my imagination. 

Facing Facts

My eyes were glazed over with excitement but I was not ready. So I did, what I do best, I swept it aside.

Because feigning ignorance was so much easier than actually having to face the truth. That the lifelong wish, the secret longing that is manifesting itself with all its reality and honesty is so much more frightful in actuality.

Did I consider all the consequences to what I wanted? Did I seriously give it a thought beyond wanting it? Did I even think I had it in me, to accept this? Well, there is now, staring me in the face with the same fervour that I sought it out with, yet, I’ve gone clammy quiet. I’m numb, I’m shaking; my mind racing but not as fast as my heart. Think back. I worked so hard for this, prayed for it to everything I hold dear—all the saints, even stooping so low as to bribing the Gods. I remember every lucky charm I held on to so passionately with eyes closed. Me trying to barter my way through should be a reminder to the adage ‘be careful what you wish for’.

And today, I complain.

Slow Burn

Slow burn

That’s how it feels.

Jealousy.

It surges instantly. A flush of anger in the face, the slight clenching of the jaw.

Eyes that rake you. Strip you naked.

Raw, animal instinct.

In a blink so much and yet so easily gone.

A downcast look of disappointment, a head turned away, biting of the lips to curb… it that guilt, pain or longing?

And you look again. Reading their faces for a truth, your truth. Was I transparent? Did they see it? Recognition. Acknowledgement. Hope. Fear. Faint flush of hot and cold simultaneously. Am I ready?

A pause.

And the truth is laid bare, waiting to be picked up and worn.

Instead, we pull the shutter. Tight. Pretense is more fun. Let unsaid things remain unsaid. The cowardly way out.

It has no name. Not liking, not love, not even lust.

Of Knowing

What is the nature of epiphanies? It is definitely not a thunderbolt strike out of nowhere. It is there in the consciousness, building up slowly, gaining momentum, and when all that you know meets all that is now before you, an epiphany happens. It’s a clarifying moment when facts meet and match perception.

Like when you have always wondered about a relationship that seemed precious yet bothered you as pretentious but you could never pinpoint anything. Of course there was the care, the concern, the love, the admiration and the perceived 'specialness' but you were not convinced that it was yours exclusively.  Then, one day, you see it happen before you. Some other people, but mirroring your situation, and you know it instantly. You’ve had your epiphany.

Today, I've had my moment of clarity. Of knowing that I could resist. You. Even if it was temporary.

Reading and Writing

I’ve always been a reader. My friends identify me as a reader. I have tons of books—I’m proud of my collection and every time I buy a new one, I’m pleased with myself. The only problem is, I haven’t read any book for a long, long time. 2013 saw me read three books. Three books! Not only is this appalling, it is downright shameful not to mention worrying. I’m now worried whether I have lost the knack of reading. Is that even possible? Can a person’s reading skills get rusted?

This is not something I can afford. I am a reader dammit! (J, this is a nod to you-know-who).

And I know what’s to be blamed for this abysmal performance in the reading department — TV series. There’s too many of them! Keeping a tab on Hindi and English shows can be quite the task. I have a Post-it on my wall to help me keep tab of what serial runs when. I kid you not!

Having decided to be a better reader, I am already one book down. Actually three, if you consider historical romances as reading. (I read those too, so what?) And I’ve moved onto my next reads as well—Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg and The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. So far, so good.

Plus, I have my writing to get back to. I have been negligent of that as well.

So, Gods of Reading and Writing, inspire me and give me the strength to stay committed. (But Banshee has just started, and Hannibal and Game of Thrones will begin in April. Sigh! I am doomed.)