'WIT'ness me

'Wit' is now, arguably, the highest form of social currency. One memorable phrase, a sound byte,  is all we need for an impactful conversation. There seems to be a tremendous pressure to come up with 'punches'. Keep missing the opportunity for a 'wiseass' comment and you tether perilously close to being branded 'the Bore'.

Twitter seems to be at the forefront. With its character limit limiting any sort of meaningful discussion, it has become a place for masters to show off their buffoonery and for the apprentices to learn from it.

I remember reading a story back in school. The narrator in the story confesses mugging couplets of famous poets so that he can recite them at the opportune moment and earn himself some appreciation. As desperate as the narrator may sound; how I wish for those deep meaningful couplets, now endangered by puns that play with English sounding Hindi words.

I know. Trends come and go. And it is pointless to ponder. I know too, that my inability to come up with punches of my own is fast resigning this post into the classic sour grapes category. And yet I quixotically plea for everyone to reconsider this madness.

I would have not cared, had this cancer been localized only in group conversations. But this phenomenon has metastasized to every domain of my life. Almost all of my conversations are devoid of things that I treasure so much. Care, affection, sincerity;  all gone. All I see is humor and that forced restriction/alteration of a conversation eventually cheapening it into a 'punch' line.

They have even taken my beloved movies. Long has the time gone where the protagonist delivers a truly moving dialogue. The sort of a passionate dialogue which stirs something within you. A dialogue that makes you ponder.
All I get now is a religious adherence to the below sequence.
1) Hero looks into the camera (I know I am deviating but surely others too would find this blatant breach of the fourth wall a little annoying)
2) The music stops
3) Hero delivers the punch line
4) The background music goes nuts mirroring the orgasmic hysteria of the cinema watching audience.


 A well-meaning open debate is endangered too. No respect for differences in ideologies. No awareness for the everchanging flux of white and black that engulfs the prominent personalities of today.The nuances of figuring whether the person in question is indeed the right shade of gray. What I  get now is a solid unbreakable wall that guards and separates the  'Bhakts' 'AAPtards'and 'Sickulars' (Such pun, much wow).

And then there is burnout. With Twitter users thinking about the new pun, day in day out; with sarcasm being the symbol of anti-establishment in every tv series; there is only so much of new material that people can come up with. To drive an analogy think of the poor scriptwriters that have to write one episode per day nonstop for the Indian family comedy shows. The quality of wit in the posts is now reaching the quality of humor in 'Taarak Mehta ka Ulta Chashma'. ('Chalo Garbha Khele' followed by maniacal laughter.)

On my feed some time back, few people shared '10 reasons why you should not be friend with a northeast/gujju/stereotype person' template with the caption "Loved the sarcasm'. The template, for the lack of a better word, is saying exactly opposite of what is meant to be said. For e.g. 'they are all well mannered '  will be replaced by 'they are not well mannered'. How is this sarcasm? It looks like one of those exercises that we used to do as a kid.
 Q ) "Ramu aalsi hain"
A) "Ramu aalsi nahi hain"
and even there you would get only half a mark. Use antonyms, our teacher would have said
A) "Ramu mehnati hain"


But even if I leave everything aside what really hurts me is the lack of personality. There are snippets of good punches or witty lines that are being copy-pasted into every conversation, like codes. I remember getting a WhatsApp message from my girlfriend and I know she means well. But I can't shake up that feeling that I have seen it as a tweet, meme or something else.

Every new year I send a mail wishing new year greetings to my friends. And almost all of them write back saying how happy they were to receive it. And I know people enough to know that these replies are genuine and not a mere formality.The mails I send, are no literal masterpieces. They are just messages remembering the past and wishing a better future. The fact that they make the receivers so happy give me a bit of hope. The fact that their reply's too are devoid of puns slangs and popular phrases makes me believe that there is a way out too.

But then maybe there is nothing to worry about anyway. Maybe it is all just ramblings of a bored mind. maybe I am just getting a little old. By the way, did you notice the heading of the blog . Playing on the most memorable line of Mad max. Pretty witty , no?

Grand ma

My mom called me on 1st of January. Her usual effervescence conspicuously absent from her voice. 'Dadi is in ICU'.She said. Kidney failure.

Having ruled out Dialysis because of her advanced age, the doctors had given her at best; another month or two. Ma asked me to book a ticket in next 2-3 days.

'Meet her once while she is still in senses'

But I knew it won’t be that long. It is impossible to explain, but I knew. So I booked the flight on the same day. I landed in Ahmedabad at 8 PM. It would be another 6 hours of bus journey before I reach home. I called in my mom to let her know that I have got the bus. The sadness in my Mom’s “hello” was enough to convey the message. My grandmother was no more.

I took it way easier than anyone expected me to.Hell, I took it easier than I expected myself to.

No doubt her advanced age (She was 86) made it easier. That she died painlessly (Cardiac arrest); instead of the slow torturing death that kidney failure had in store; was a big consolation too. But that was not all.

I always pitied my grandmom. A product of her time; she married early and studied only till class 6. She came from a rich family and so did my grandfather. Though I always find it hard to believe; but it is hard to argue given the circumstances that she would have lived a luxurious life.

But I never saw that version of my grandmom. A lot changed by the time that young little 'married' kid turned into my 'Dadi'. My grandfather was suspended from his job. And my grandmom and my father have gone through the horrors of watching my granddad squander all his money on his many vices.

“Why did,’t “dadi” stop him.Or at the very least why didn’t she set apart some money for herself.”. I always asked my mother whenever she told the story of the squandered wealth.

And they were intriguing stories. Nothing less than a Shakespearean tragedy. A tragedy brought upon by one man’s vices and one woman’s lack of steel. The fact that people in the story were people I knew made it all the more fascinating.

My grandma was a very social person. She always greeted everyone with a smile and a dollop of blessings.I never saw her angry. Not even once. I guess all she wanted was peace. Never having the will to oppose, she would willingly agree if someone criticizes someone else in front of her. However , If that “someone else” came to know about it and confronted her, she would swear on a billion things and deny it all.  I am sure that if by wretched luck she was ever confronted by both the conflicting parties at the same time,  she would have found a way to deny everything and bless both of them. Lying came easy to her; avoiding confrontation even more so.

She may have been a simple minded person but she was resourceful too. Money being a constraining factor for most of her latter life , she devised ingenious ways of getting some of it on her own. She would sell gas cylinders at higher prices to people who did not have one. She did so by not using her quota of cylinders and by also buying it from other people at the subsidised price. I think everyone was in on the game but no one really minded.They might have been amused by her entrepreneurship skills too.

She also figured out a way to cash in on her blessings. She would bless people who did not have a kid and then would ask them to pay the money to the Ganesha idol sitting at her home, when they get the good news.The blessings were bound to be true in some of the cases, thereby making the “Ganesha” richer. Many do believe that the success rate was way too high for it to be a case of pure chance. Who knows, maybe she did have some magic in her after all.

She committed the most innocent of dishonesty and I believe no grown man in his right mind would have grudged her that. However to a child with an abnormally extreme sense of right and wrong (me) these acts were abhorable.

And this is how I remembered my grandmom .Don't get me wrong.I loved her still. I was not a cold hearted bastard . And even if I were, I think her praises and blessings would still have passed through. I loved my grandma and I can say that without a trace of doubt. But it was a love mixed with pity and a faint whiff of disgust. It was a complicated potion and growing up my grasp of grey was never that strong.

Five days have passed since my grandmom died and all of us in the family have been extremely busy arranging all the rituals. So busy that none of us had the time to contemplate grief. Today a social gathering will take place which is to be followed by a meal. Tents are being set up to accommodate people. To be honest i think an arrangement of this sort is not required . It is after all  a weekday and I do not expect a lot of people to show up.

I am wrong. Lots of people come and then some more. People I have never seen before. And I can see that this is not the“let us go or it will look bad” crowd. They are genuinely sad. And I wonder how can a simple person like her have such an impact.

The time has now come for people to speak up . Everyone is talking about how kind she was. How she always greeted everyone with a smiling face. Some are recalling the days when they were going through a rough times and she consoled them saying it will be over soon . And lo and behold ! it did. My brother in law mentions that no one from my family has invited him to the household like my grandmother.

And it dawns on me . These people are not in awe of her because she had some divine powers which turned her blessing true. They knew her for what she was ; a simple person who had a smile for everyone. And they were in awe of her because that is indeed an extremely rare quality. Life had been hard on her. Some would say, and I will agree ; extremely hard. It would have been so easy to become bitter and blame everyone around. But she chose not to be bitter. She chose to be loving.

I have no doubt that she would have shed many a tears for her slipped away fortunes and there would have been times when she would have felt a strong sense of helplessness. She would have been angry too. She was supposed to be a rich spoiled princess. How did all of this happen.

But she never let it get to her .

She often said ; in a tone that was a mix of sadness , hope and serenity “sukh dukh kya hota hain . agar maano to sukh hain na maano to dukh hain”

She chose to be happy . And therein lies the greatness of my very simple grandma.

Why "Secret Santa book gift" is a bad idea

A lot of my friends have joined in the "Secret Santa book gift activity" on Facebook. Being a book lover myself  I thought I should write about the reasons why I think it is not such a good idea and propose an alternate way.

For those unaware, this is how "Secret Santa" works.

1. Person C joins in the event by commenting on Person B’s “book gift activity” message.
2. Person C is then asked to gift a book to another person (A) mentioned by person B. Think of it as a participation fee.
3. Person C then posts the “book gift activity” message and the trend continues.

OK now that the rules are clear let us look at with the help of the diagram.

L1----------------------------------A--------------------------------

L2-----A1----A2-----A3-----------------A4-----A5-----A6----------

L3---A11-A16---A21-A26-----A31-A36------A41-A46------A51-A56----A61-A66.

Based on the above info we know that the Level 3 will be giving the gifts to Level 1.Which really makes it exciting. Because the Level 1 guy is getting all of 36 books, while gifting just 1 book. (His participation fee). Since this is a chain everyone gets 36 books by gifting just one book. Amazing right?

Not quite so. Although it must be obvious but let me do the explaining nevertheless.

Assuming that books are not being created out of thin air, the number of books bought will be the same as the number of books gifted. So when you get 36 books it essentially means that 35 people taking part in it will not be getting a single book. Sound more like a lottery than a secret santa, right?

Only thing is; it is worse. While in a lottery the chances of winning the jackpot will be equal for everyone, here the chances are biased to your social popularity. The way to ensure that you get 36 books is by ensuring that there are atleast two levels below you. (And don’t kid yourself in thinking that everyone will be able to do it. As I have explained earlier for every one person getting the complete two levels, there will be 35 failing to do so.)

So the secret of getting more books to read is to be more socially active. A little ironic isn’t it? Also dare I say; a little “Amway” ish. The only difference (that too for worse)  is you are selling the scheme to your friends instead of acquaintance.

Now that I have explained the absurdity of it let me also dig into the language of the post.

“Want some books for Christmas? Join this lovely Secret Santa thread doing the rounds on Facebook. All you have to do is buy one book and send it to one person. In exchange, you'll receive lots more in return!

I just need six people of any age/location (within India) to participate in this book exchange. Comment below if interested, and I will privately message you how to go about it.

Let the fun begin!”

Notice the part that talks about buying a new book. Gifting a book would have been enough right?. And any true book lover will value a well-kept used book more than a new one. I do not want to turn this into a conspiracy theory blog but you must be getting the hint by now.

Another interesting point (proof?) is that books are not getting exchanged. Funny!

Let me break this down for you if you did not get the joke. You have, through a social network, created a group of 36 people who all love books. What would you want to do?

(a)   Exchange books among themselves

(b)  Create a contest where the most popular person gets to keep all the books.

Based on the trend clearly (b) is the answer. 

So here is what I propose. Instead of creating levels; Create a circle. Pass on the books to next guy/girl every month.  So by end of jan, a1 gives a book to a2, a2 gives a book to a3 and so on.Only rule; put forward the name of your nominated book initially and that book must not have been read by at least 50% of the remaining people in the circle.

                                                       

Abnormal man

Is it because he is unique; Gifted , special. Or is it simply his disgrace; his absolute failure at being normal. Everything hinges on this one question. Who then will provide the answer and more importantly when. And then comes an even more alarming concern; will he provide the answer.

Will he fumble presenting his answers to God; or will his God be answerable to whatever heavens that lie above Him.

(Sample paper: Questions may vary during the final examination)

Answer the following questions (objective types): Max time 5 minutes. No cutting allowed. Answers to be filled with permanent ink.

    

1.   Is Mr __ good or bad?
   
2.        Is Mr __ brave to follow a new path or a coward who ran away from minor challenges that the entire world faces so solemnly?
   
   
3. Is Mr__ strong-willed or a stubborn idiot?
   
   
4. Which emotion do you feel for Mr__? (you can pick more than one)

a)      pity

b)      proud

c)      disgust

d)      anger

e)      irrelevance

And the wait. Oh! The agony of an uncertain wait. And what use is any of this if the results are not in favor. Is the life worth living at all then? What if he keeps on trying only to be told at the fag end that he failed? What then? Hell, there cannot be a retest either. Can’t anyone even drop a bloody hint? The maddening excruciating numbing wait.

Lethargy lurks in. What’s the point? Just lie down. There is no goal. There is no meaning. There is no hurry. Be still, relax. Yet relaxed, he does not feel. He feels sad. Unexplained melancholy swirls around, devouring him slowly.

It would have been another story if he would have chosen a pious path. That would have been a normal abnormality. His pains would have then become sacrifices. There is a well-defined path laid out for this abnormality. A positive results is almost a certainty no matter how screwed up his life would have been.But that he is not. He is as selfish as any normal person.

His abnormality rises from the fact that he keeps on questioning and cannot take “everyone does that” as an answer. Oh, there is a type there too. The Einstein type. Questioning everything, destined for greatness. Great, he is not and greatness is not his aspiration either.

Save for this abnormality he is perfectly normal. It’s an extremely tricky grey zone. There are no established case studies here. There is no way of knowing the result. What choice does he have then but to lose his grip on fear as he gets numbed by this uncertain wait?

He slips in the nadirs with darkness swallowing him quickly. And then comes this thought. This small thought that lights up everything. What if he questions the importance of result itself and refuse to take “everyone does that” for an answer. Can he really do that? Is he even allowed?

He does not know. But he follows it anyway. Maybe the thought will lift him up to new heights or maybe it will burst soon throwing him into even deeper darkness. But he is not waiting for that result anymore. For now, the abnormal man smiles.

Smile

Her smile albeit faint exposes

her disconnect from reality.

And yet she is no dreamer.
that distant faraway look clearly missing

Then who is she.

We share the same “now”

but her reality so different than mine.

Her faint smile proves that.

It annoys me a little at first

and then a lot more.

For a part of me knows why,

And the rest fights to unlearn

How I wished for her smile to be a brave front.

Oh! What poetry would it be?

The redness of her lips matching her bruises

A sunset; don’t we all love a sad smile.

Acceptable still, if she would be pretty

An unpolished gem among the coal mines

Her smile a celebration of her uniqueness,

But how ordinary her features are

How dare she be beautiful then, ju her smile.

Heat so strong that everything withers

Dry wind blows furiously, scorching all joy

Not a tree, let alone a roof

Her utensils shine like a sword, murderous.

Calm. How can it be?

I think of asking her but do not

She probably would not know 

Or maybe I fear her answer

I pass her by silently

Her smile etched in my memory

slowly contorting my face into a smile

1 thing you should start doing (Sorry I don't have a "gif")

There is a lot that is wrong with the articles currently circulated on social websites. Judging by the "likes" and "shares" they are pretty popular too. I will be honest. I don’t like them one bit. I think they are doing what Chetan Bhagat did to literature. They inspire new readers (the good part) and then they restrict them to that for their whole life (the horror part). And I failed to fathom why this happens. I understand no one starts with big profound literary works. I started with champak, balhans, Nancy Drew, Sydney Sheldon,  and then build my way gradually up.

And it's not just that way for people who start early. I have introduced novels to a lot of my friend (And I say it with a lot of pride) and I see them reading such big range of work now. Its generally small books initially; Animal Farm , To Kill a Mockingbird, O Henry's short stories, Premchandra 's short stories. But the guys who start with Chetan Bhagat, I don’t know what happens to them. All they could reach is "Anything for you Mam."

And I think I see the same pattern with Scoopwhoop or Storypick or other sites of the same sort. No one now seems to have the time to enjoy a good long article. No New Yorker, Der Spiegel or any random blog for that matter. And this really saddens me. But the article is not about that.

There are other things here that annoy me. The bulletisation for one." 10 things you should do (7th is awesome)". Does no one have the patience to read a paragraph anymore? And I think gifs are cool but that's what 9gag is for. I would like to keep them separate. It was probably funny the first two-three times but to make a template out of it just irritates me. The quality of language seems to be a clear outcome of the recklessness that comes with deadlines.

It is about something more important. Something that we as a society seem to be losing. If you have a bit of time at your hand just quickly go through the above paragraphs. Notice the number of times that I have used "I". I think it is irritating. I think the quality is not good...and so on .". Now go to any of these websites. Notice the number of "you" there. "10 things you should do", "10 things you should avoid", "Why you should marry a girl who travels". 

Welcome my friend to the world of diminished individuality. A world, where people don’t share experiences as "food for thought". They shovel advice down your throat. When an anchor says the "nation wants to know" he assumes that his question is the all important all knowing one. I don't like Chetan Bhagat novels and I like people who travel and I may even use that as some basis for selecting my friends. But that would be because I would opt for compatibility. But no fucking way in hell, have I the right to say that I am better than them. They could have other things. They may not like to travel much but just want to listen to music on weekends. Who am I to compare a sight of the flowing river with the melody of Beatles.

One may leave a high paying job and I would love to hear his/her experience but it would be absolutely foolish of him/her to say that nobody should pursue high paying jobs. This act of making us follow one path and one path only horrifies me. The news channels are the same. Gone are the days of debate. I remember my teachers telling me in school that a chance of debate reaching a conclusion is nigh impossible. The idea is to listen to both sides and take out the insights. Try telling that to the newsroom debates of today where the conclusion is fixed even before the debate begins.

This has now crept up in our day to day life as well. Very often I would take what I do as a standard template and try to force fit the life of people around me into it. There is a sense of security in it. There is ease in it too. Don't we all love if everybody will speak the same language as we do? But this needs to be checked against.

So ironically I will end it with a "Thou shall not " statement. Don't force your views on others. Present them as an option but leave the choice to others. That's all I ask.

Password Story

Password Story

After the 9/11 crisis, Microsoft faced an issue. To retrieve the passwords of people who died. It looks trivial and yes, inhumane too in front of the tragedy that had just occurred. Regardless, it was a serious problem. A lot of people were privy to information only known to them and their computer/mailbox. In the absence of the password it would all have been lost.

The brute force technique would have solved it eventually but would have taken a lot of time. To give an example let's assume that password is to be of 5 characters and all of them letters. The machine will start with applying aaaaa as a password and will try all combinations till zzzzz until the password is retrieved. That's 26^5 combinations. And in the real word the passwords are more than 5 letters , the length is also not fixed and special characters and uppercase letters are also involved. It is clearly a tough, very tough task.

So they have to look at the person's life for inputs. For e.g. , was he married? If yes, than could his marriage anniversary be a password. How did they combine this information with brute force exactly, I can only imagine. And this blog is definitely not going to cover that.

What I was interested in is how that little password; that is there only for security reasons; that has no impact or belonging to our life; could carry so much of "us" in it. Based on our need to remember it we award to it a print of our personality.

Of course it's not the same for everyone. The" security-ease of remembering" trade off creates a fascinating scene. The absolute pro-security ones will make up an absolute random password like 12sfgdv$%k and commit it to memory. The one that favours ease of remembrance will opt for birthday dates, wedding dates etc. It's the one in middle that fascinates me. Those who would like their password to be secure enough to be random to others but personal enough for them to remember. In the process of doing so they provide to it an imprint of their personality. The imprint could be well thought off or could be more subconscious.

There is this absolutely moving story of how a mother found out about his son's homosexuality only after his death. His password was" lambda1969". Lambda is the Greek word "I" sometimes referring to the gay liberation. The year 1969 referring to the year of stonewall riots.

My passwords were never this profound but now that I look at them closely they do reveal some things about me. Initially my passwords were names of famous English movies like "matrix" , "killbill" etc. I grew up in a small town where English was, and I dare say;  is, something that commands respect. The fact that I can understand English movies gave me something of a status. Also that they were much better than hindi movies, is a statement not many would argue on. So basically it was something that I liked and gave me a bit of status. No wonder they became my initial passwords.

My password up next, "confuse" or some variation of it pretty much defines my after school years. I had one focus in the later part of my school life; To get into an IIT. Once I was there I was not really sure if that was what I wanted to do . I felt like coming back but then I was not sure if I wanted to come back either. It is the confusion of choosing what to do that just stayed with me and crept its way to my password. In between there was time of homesickness where my password became my hometown itself. "Banswara". There was also a time; that I remember now with a fair amount of cringe, when a conversation with my Ex tested my patience to a hilt resulting in the password "fuckyouall". The fact that my password today is a far more positive word tells me that I probably came out of it all Okay (Fingers crossed)

So here is what I would want you guys to do. Think of your old or new passwords and think of the way it captures you and I would love to hear your story. I think it's a fascinating read into somebody (and I do know this is borderline voyeurism but I am what I am) and also I think it would be nice to create a story about it.

I really don’t know what I am looking for and probably it's too much to ask for anyway.

But I do believe there is a compelling urge in everyone to make their stories heard just like there is a compelling urge in me to hear those stories. Here is the link for you to send me the stories anonymously. There is an option of sharing your details too but needless to say they would be purely confidential.

Your password story . I must admit my reach to social media is fairly limited so do help me spread it around. If you know of someone who would be interested in sharing his password story , feel free to forward the link around.

Goa Supari

ये बात तब की हैं जब मैं स्कूल मैं पड़ा करता था. हाँ काफ़ी वक़्त हो चला हैं. इतना तो यक़ीनन ही के यहाँ वहा
बिखरे सच्चाई के फीके हिस्से "Nostalgia" के "Palette" से रंगसार हो जाए. बेहतरी भी इसी मैं हैं. असल कहानी तो नीरस ही होती हैं

पर उपर की कुछ एक पड़ते उकेरो, आड़े तेडे उभारो को सहला के समतल करो, हल्के हाथो से पिचके हुए कोनो को समतल करो , अपनी कल्पना के रंग उपर से छिद्को और जैसे वो "Cooking shows" मे कहते हैं ना , कहानी तैयार. देखने मे बेशक सच्चाई  से बिल्कुल ही अलग लगे पर परत दो परत नीचे से ही सच्चाई की नींव दिखने लग जाएँगी . फिर चाहे उसे "Fiction" कहो या "Fantasy" अंतत:कोई साधारण सा इंसान एक लगभग साधारण सी ज़िंदगी ही जी रहा होता हैं

अरे ये बात बात पे मुद्दे से भटकने की मेरी बड़ी ही पुरानी और बेकार आदत हैं. अब कहाँ  मैं कहानी सुनाने जा रहा था और कहाँ  कहानी की परिभाषा स्थापित करने लगा. तो हाँ बात मेरे स्कूल के वक़्त की हैं. मैं पाँचवी या छ्थी मे पड़ता हूँगा और घर से स्कूल बमुश्किल ३ किलो मीटर की दूरी पे होगा. तो बस मुहल्ले के सारे बच्चें  साथ ही पैदल स्कूल जाते थे और फिर साथ मैं ही वापिस. रास्ते मैं १ पान सिगरेट की दुकान पड़ती थी जिसे हम सब ललचाई नज़रो से देखा करते थे. नही नही सिगरेट  जैसी कोई खराब  आदत नही थी मुझे . मुझे तो यहा तक पान भी कोई ख़ास नही भाता था . पर "Chewing Gum" चबाने का बड़ा शौक था. यू स्वाद तो कुछ ख़ास उसका भी नही लगता था और जो थोड़ा बहुत होता भी था वो बस पहले १-२ मिनट मे ख़त्म हो जाता था. फिर तो बस लगता था की "Rubber" चबा रहे हो जैसे . पर फिर भी "Chewing Gum" चबाने का एक अपना ही टॅशन था . सारे बल्लेबाज़ टीवी पे "Chewing Gum" चबा के ही "Batting" करने आते थे. हमारे भी मुक़ाबले चलते थे के कौन कितनी देर तक एक ही "chewing gum" चबा सकता हैं . घंटो चबाते रहते थे चाहे जबड़ा ही क्यों ना दुखने लगे.

और कुछ समय से "Centre Fresh" के साथ "Cricket cards" भी मिलने लगे थे. इन "cards" की भी अपने आप मैं एक अलग ही कहानी थी. हवा मैं बात थी के जो पूरे के पूरे १०० कार्ड्स इकट्‍ठे कर लेंगा उसे एक "bat" मिलेंगा . और वो भी कोई ऐसा वैसा नही , SG का. बड़े बड़े खिलाड़ी खेला करते थे उससे पुनीत बता रहा था हज़ारो मैं कीमत होती हैं उसकी. खैर मैने "हवा मैं बात " जुमले का प्रयोग इसलिए किया क्योंकि हमारी तमाम कोशिशो के बावजूद हम सब मिलकर भी वो १०० कार्ड्स जुटा नही पाए और उस "SG Bat" की सच्चाई असत्यापित ही रह गयी.

मेरी कहानी उस पान की दुकान से ही चालू होती हैं एक दिन एक आदमी उस पान की दुकान के बाजू मैं आके बैठ गया. आदमी भी बस कहने को ही था. मैले कुचले कपड़े जो की यहा वहा से फटे हुए थे . पैबंड लगाने की कोशिश की गयी थी पर उनकी हालत देखले कह सकते थे की उस प्रयास को भी काफ़ी वक़्त गुज़र चुका था. बाल बिखरे हुए जिनमे धूल भरी हुई थी. और उपर से १ शब्द भी नही बोलता थे जैसे किसी ने ज़ुबान पे ताला मार दिया हो उसके.

मेरा गाँव एक छोटा सा शांत सा गाँव था. और अभी तक तो "news channels" ने अपनी सनसनीखेज़ खबरो का आक्रमण भी चालू नही किया था. ऐसी परिस्थितियो मैं उस पान की दुकान के बगल वाले पागल का  कौत्तहूल का विषय बनना स्वाभाविक ही था

तरह तरह के कयास लगाए  जाते और हर दो तीन  दीनो मैं १ पक्की खबर तो यक़ीनन ही आ जाती. 

"  अरे बड़ा होनहार था , वैष्णव देवी की यात्रा के लिए निकला था अपने परिवार के साथ. Bus accident मे दोनो माँ बाप चल बसे . अब या तो उनकी मौत का सदमा था या फिर इसके सिर पे लगी चोट तभी सी इसकी ऐसी हालत हो गयी हैं ", शर्मा जी ने ये पक्की कहानी सुनाई. 

"बहुत प्यार करता था अपनी बीवी से. और बीवी थी भी इतनी खूबसूरत की जो देखे बस देखता रह जाए. जानने वालो ने बहुत समझाया की अपनी बीवी को इतनी आज़ादी मत दो . घर की इज़्ज़त घर की दीवारो  मे  ही शोभा देती हैं. पर ये तो प्यार मे पागल था . एक ना सुनी किसी की . फिर तो बस जो होना था वही हुआ. भाग गयी एक दिन वो .उस दिन जो टूटा ये तो फिर ना उबर सका" मिश्रा जी ने पुर विश्वास के साथ ये पक्की खबर बताई 

"बीवी का खून कर दिया दहेज के लिए. जब पोलीस को पता चल गया तो बचने के लिए पागल होने का नाटक चालू कर दिया " राजेश भैय्या ने अपनी "conspiracy theory" दी. राजेश भैय्या की पड़ाई तो पूरी हो चुकी थी पर नौकरी की तलाश अभी भी ज़ारी थी . अपना खाली वक़्त वो जासूसी किताबें पद के निकाला करते थे.

ऐसे बहुत सी कहानिया रोज़ आती रहती थी. उस वक़्त ध्यान नही दिया पर एक बात गौर करने वाली थी . लगभग सारी कहानिया  ही अपनो से बिछर्ने  की थी. किसी ने भी ये नही कहा की उसकी नौकरी नही लगी या "exam"  मे  फेल हो गया . कही ना कही सब जानते थे की इन मामूली बातों से किसी को सदमा नही लगता . हस्यापद बात ये हैं की हम अपनी पूरी ज़िंदगी इन गैर ज़रूरी बातो मे इस कदर उलझे रहते हैं की ज़रूरी बातें यानी  अपनो के लिए वक़्त ही नही निकाल पाते . कहा था ना मैने मुद्दे से भटकने की बड़ी ही बेकार आदत हैं मेरी.

खैर बहुत सी ऐसी पक्की खबरो के बाद लोगों का ध्यान भटकने लग गया . लोग अब बोर होने लगे थे. विषय निस्संदेह रोचक था पर दिक्कत ये थी की कहानी का मुख्य पात्र कुछ भी नही बोलता था. अब कब तक कोई और उसके शब्द ईजाद करता रहे . तो कहानी स्थिर हो गयी और वो पान की दुकान के बगल वाला पागल हमारी रोज़ की ज़िंदगी का एक भूला सा पहलू बन गया .

और फिर एक दिन अचानक ही वो बोला . नही नही कोई दार्शनिक वचन नही कहे उसने बस दो शब्द कहे . "गोआ सुपारी"

महेश अंकल हमेशा ही उसके पास कुछ खाने का समान रख दिया करते थे. आज तो वो बहुत ही अच्छी स्थिति मे हैं पर बचपन मे काफ़ी ग़रीबी देखी थी उनने. शायद इसलिए ही उस पागल से एक जुड़ाव महसूस करते थे . उनके बचपन की कोई याद ताज़ा हो जाती थी शायद . 

एक दिन उन्होने खाने के बजाय  कुछ रुपये रख दिए. पहले भी कुछ लोगो ने रुपये रखे थे पर उस पागल ने कभी ध्यान नही दिया . अब पागल का दिमाग़ कौन ही समझे पर वो लगातार बिना आँखें झपकाए रुपयों को देखता रहा.  और फिर ठीक वैसे ही महेश अंकल को. ये कार्यकर्म कुछ देर तक जारी रहा .महेश अंकल भी ना जाने क्यों स्तब्ध से खड़े रहे .

और फिर पागल ने पान की दुकान पे इशारा किया और कहाँ "गोआ सुपारी". इस एक वाकये ने इस नीरस होती कहानी को फिर से रोचक बना दिया . निश्चय ही किसी भी कहानीकार ने इस कहानी मैं गोआ सुपारी के प्रवेश का अनुमान नही  लगाया होगा . और अब तो कयास लगाना भी मुश्किल था. अब भाई बिछ्राव मौत यहा तक कत्ल तक भी सब ठीक था पर इन सबमे गोआ सुपारी कहाँ से बिठाए . 

मेरे गाँव को कम ना समझे आप. हार किसी ने नही मानी. प्रयास अभी भी जारी थे. पर उन कहानियों मे अब वो "conviction" नही था. वो पागल एक  अंबूझ पहेली बन गया था और अंबूझी पहेली किसे अच्छी नही लगती 

तो अब उस पागल को गोआ सुपारी खिलाने के लिए भीड़ इकट्ठा होने लगी . जैसे वो कोई पागल ना हो कोई भगवान की मूर्ति हो और लोग गोआ सुपारी नही प्रसाद चड़ा रहे हो . खैर पहले  कुछ दिन जैसी भीड़ तो बाद मैं नही दिखी पर कुछ लोग बराबर वहा जाते रहे . आश्चर्यजनक रूप से मेरे माता पिता भी उन लोगो मे से थे. आश्चर्यजनक इसलिए क्योंकि दोनो ही ज़्यादा सामाजिक नही थे . ना मंदिर जाते थे ना किसी कोँमिटी का हिस्सा थे. पर लगभग रोज़ ही शाम को हम गाड़ी से जाते और पापा उस को एक गोआ सुपारी खरीद के दे देते . और वो पागल हँसने लगता. बाद मे पता चला की ये ज़िद मा की थी. 

ज़िद क्यों थी ये भी कभी समझ नही आया. हर बार मा रुआंसी हो जाती थी वहा पे . बस यही कहती थी की उसकी आँखों मे कितनी पीड़ा हैं कितनी वेदना हैं . और मुझे लगता था की मा के स्क्रू ढीले हो गये हैं . क्योंकि  मुझे तो बस १ हंसता हुआ पागल दिखी देता था जो गोआ सुपारी खाता था. हंसते हुए कोई दुखी कैसे हो सकता हैं . और अगर मान भी लूँ की वो दुखी हैं तो क्यों ही कोई उसे देखना चाहेंगा. बड़े लोगों की बड़ी बड़ी बातें 

कुछ वक़्त तक ये सिलसिला चलता रहा . फिर १ दिन उस पागल का वहाँ बैठना बंद हो गया . पूछताछ की तो पता चला की वो उस पान की दुकान से चोरी करने लगा था इसलिए उस दुकान वाले ने उसे मार मार के भगा दिया . आदत जो पद गयी थी उसे खाने की. उसके बाद वो पागल कहाँ गया किसी को नही पता. लोगों ने भी थोड़े दिन ढूँढा उसे और उससे भी ज़्यादा कुछ दिन और वो लोगों की चर्चा का हिस्सा बना रहा पर फिर आँखों से ओझल कहानी कितने ही समय लोगो का ध्यान खींच पाती . धीरे धीरे हर कोई उस पागल को भूल गया. मैं भी कोई अपवाद नही था

आज उस गाँव से काफ़ी दूर निकल आया हूँ. मुंबई बेहद बड़ा शहर हैं पर पता नही क्यों उस छोते से गाँव के ख़ालीपन को ये इतना बड़ा शहर भर नही पा रहा. सतह पे सब ठीक हैं . ठीक ठाक  सी नौकरी हैं कहने को बहुत सारे दोस्त भी हैं जिनके साथ इधर उधर घूमने भी जाते रहता हूँ . कई बार बस लगता हैं की भागते रहना ज़रूरी हैं वरना वो ख़ालीपन निगल लेगा . और  बस भागता रहता हूँ. क्या मैं खुश हूँ ? मुझे पता नही . मैं दुखी तो नही ही हूँ . खुशी की परिभाषा वैसे भी क्या हैं.जो मानो तो खुशी जो ना मानो तो गम . पर बस किसी भी पार्टी मैं , किसी भी ट्रिप पे, ऑफीस के जोक्स पे किसी की ग़लतियो पे, आजकल जब भी हंस रहा होता हूँ उस पागल का चेहरा आँखों के सामने आ जाता हैं. और उसकी आँखों की पीड़ा अब बड़ी साफ साफ दिखाई देती है.

Place to hide

I never 'meet' in meetings
I just hear the hollow sounds
When jargon leaves me tongue tied
How i wish for a place to hide

I wake up and think

of the day ahead and sigh

I will march on taking it all in stride

But how i wish for a place to hide

When my friends come over

We talk share jokes we smile

Yet with no reason on my side

I do long for a place to hide

True, no man is an island

but nor is he a local train

i do not regret this ride

But how i wish for a place to hide

So many do's and don't in this world
guffaws replaced with repressed smiles
while all etiquette I do abide
But how i wish for a place to hide

When you trust somebody

You give them the power to strike

While i try to let that one comment slide

How i wish for a place to hide

The world is tough and hardly fair

Failure are hard and too many to bear

As i soothe my hurt pride

How i wish for a place to hide

We are so quick to judge , compartmentalize

Will i ever be understood

or my legacy be a stereotype

someone who wished for a place to hide

नज़रिया

मुझे डिसेंबर का महीना बहुत ही अच्छा लगता हैं. वो रातो की कँपकपि खड़ी कर देनी वाली गुस्सेल गरजती हवा और वो सुबह की प्यारी प्यारी गर्माहट से भरी माँ जैसी धूप. हाँ कभी कभी रातो को हवा कुछ ज़्यादा ही नाराज़ हो जाती हैं . पैर जम के बर्फ की सिल्ली से हो जाते हैं. कितनी ही कोशिश कर लो नींद आए नही आती. पर इसका तोड़ भी बड़ा मज़ेदार होता हैं   माँ गोद मे सर रख सरसो के तेल की मालिश कर देती हैं और सारी सर्दी दूर भाग जाती हैं. और जब माँ थकी हुई होती हैं तब तो चाँदी हो जाती हैं . पापा की बॉटल से २-३ घूँट मारने मिल जाते हैं और पूरे शरीर मैं गर्मी दौड़ने लग जाती हैं. क्या जम के नींद आती हैं की पूछो मत.

बस शाम साली बहुत छोटी होती हैं . टॉस जीत जाओ तब तक तो ठीक हैं वरना तो बॅटिंग आती ही नही हैं. किशोर का क्या गंदा कटा अभी . खुद का बैट हैं तो बहुत ही भाव खाता हैं कमीना . ५ दिन से लगातार जिस टीम मैं था वो टॉस हार गयी अब अपने बैट का जो उखाड़ना हैं उखाड़ ले. बॅटिंग आई ही नही साले की.

पर डिसेंबर का सबसे अच्छा वक़्त तो शाम ढलने के बाद आता हैं . जब शादी होती हैं और खाने को मिलता हैं . पापा मुझे भी साथ ले जाते हैं .बड़ी मुश्किल से रोकता हूँ खुद को लोगो का खाना ख़त्म होंने तक .और गुलाब जामुन तो मैं पहले ही दबा लेता हूँ , खाना परोसते वक़्त जब किसी का ध्यान नही होता . ठंड मैं गरम गरम गुलाब जामुन खाने का जो मज़ा हैं क्या ही कहूँ और फिर भरे पेट जो नींद आती हैं ना बता नही सकता

पर अगर कोई एक चीज़ जो मुझे सबसे अच्छी लगती हैं तो वो हैं बारात.ये महँगे महँगे कपड़े पहन के आते हैं. कितना खर्चा करते हैं. और कितने खुश होते हैं सब . नाचते भी ऐसे हैं जैसे सिनेमा मे हीरो हीरोइन नाचते हैं.  और बस नाचते रहते हैं . रुकते ही नही . खाने की भी कोई जल्दी नही . उनके लिए तो रोज़ की बात होती हैं ना. मैं भी रोड पे खूब ज़ोर ज़ोर से नाचता हूँ जब बैंड वाले गाना बजाते हैं. बारात वाले लोग भी मुझे देख के हंसते रहते हैं .

कितना अच्छा होता होगा ना अमीर होना . कितने अच्छे दिखते हैं सब. और कोई परवाह ही नही हैं. ना खाने की चिंता . ना बीमार होने की चिंता . दे मोटे मोटे कोट पहन के आते हैं . ग़ुस्सेल सर्दी तो इनको छू भी नही सकती . बड़ा हो के मैं भी अमीर बनूंगा . और फिर ऐसे ही बारात मैं जाऊँगा. खुश, अच्छे अच्छे कपड़ो मैं. बिना किसी चिंता के बिल्कुल तरीके से नाचते हुए . १ दिन ज़रूर.


Its 5 AM in the morning. I am dazed, still in sleep. Waiting for my flight. Now why am i here? Oh! because i need to attend a friend's wedding.Why i ask myself. Why do i torture myself so. But i know the answer. I do it because it  is expected. And my life is but a painful loop of me trying to live up to people's expectations. More often than not i fail and then i feel miserable. When i do live up, well there is no joy in doing something that i never wanted to do .

Flight is delayed by an hour. Maybe i should catch up on some sleep now.Could hardly sleep the last night. Packing up those repugnant sophisticated suits and "traditional" wears . Welcome to the world of "adults gone nuts, fancy dress competitions" . And then the discussion on gifts.Our pathetic attempts at choosing something personal for someone we hardly know personally, atleast not anymore. No surprise then that  we agreed on gift vouchers.

i reach in the morning. My parents were delighted to see me. So was i . I wish i could just stay for this short stay with them. But i have a mission to accomplish . I eat the tastiest food that exists in unworthy extreme quick bites. No time to savor the taste, to breathe in the aromas. I bathe, slip into my costume. The marriage man is ready to face the challenges of this world.

i meet the groom. I am greeted well. I know the look by now. The look of relief. He was not sure i would come. He needed atleast 50% of the 50-50 cases to convert in his  favour. Else he will look like a lonely guy who did not have close friends who come from far away places. He may have good friends who stay here. But they dont count . They dont have to buy the flight tickets. I was one of those 50-50 cases. But i came. Marriage Man saves the day again.

I meet my friends. They are decent fellows , a bit too narcissistic but now a days who is not .The questions start getting uncomfortable after some times though. What is your salary? Why did you not study further?
You would have been much better off. The fellows aren't looking that decent now.

Thankfully the procession begins now. The guy in the weirdest costume sits on the horse , highly uncomfortable. And we surround him from each side lest he might run away. A band sings out the item numbers in the worst way possible. As if its possible to debase the song any further. They try never the less.

The circus begins. I am surrounded by people who dance spontaneously on the vulgar tunes with smiles on their face. The choreographers have been working for weeks to attain this spontaneity. The smiles are coupled with side glances checking other's moves. Estimating their ranking in the social order. Its a function of the moves, their looks and price of the costume. So some ambiguity do creep in but more or less people realize where they stand. The ones finding themselves on lower rungs take a back step , shake their heads a bit in rhythm (in rhythm of the item number sung by the band) and pretend to be relaxing and having a great time while silently nursing their bruised egos.

Soon the procession will be over and it will be feast time. There will be far too many dishes for any of us to imagine going through. I have been told the exact count is 112  which is kind of a take on the traditional 56 bhog. They could have gone with the actual 56 instead of the 2x function but ofcourse 56 would have been too less.

Generally two dishes are made at my home. Three is a rare event but i love when three dishes are made. But if its four i get confused and loose interest. Never really wanted more dishes than that. Infact never would have wished more dishes on people i mildly hate. I miss the food at home. Mom would not have made anything as she thinks i am enjoying the feast. And ofcourse i could not have asked mom to make something as that is simply not the expected thing to do. Once the display of dance moves end i will have to begin my search for my two dishes from the stack of 112. (2 *56)

I am feeling tired by the thought of it. My eyes wander across the side of the road. And i see this kid. Wearing a baniyan and a pant in the chill of December. The pant is wore out at the bottom. A smile passes on  my face. "How many times do i have to tell you to fold the jeans at bottom if its long", I could never do that. The intricate art of creating a fold in a material as thick as jeans. Hell i cant fold papers in my craft classes. I could not figure out how to tie the shoe laces either. I look at my shoes now. They are still untied. For the first time in the day i fell good about something. Something unknown , unidentified. A smile choose to stay on my face this time. Not the "i am good , everything is good" smile but the " Everything is not over yet. I am yet to die" smile.

I look at the kid with a new found interest . Interest fueled in parts by my contempt of the present and in parts by my nostalgia for the past.And this kid with a worn out pant and a baniyan in the chill of december had a large smile across his face. The type of smile that reaches the eyes. He was dancing joyfully without a care. The choreographers may shook their head in dismay but that was the most wonderful dance that i had seen in a long long time. I looked at people on my end;the perfect dance moves with not a hair out of place nor a speck of dust on the boot; and at that moment i wanted nothing more than to be that kid from outside

One step at a time

My alarm rings. My survival sense kicks in and i shut it off with incredible speed. It is a habit now.

The real world is so frightening. I  strongly question my  need of waking up .I don’t wake up from nightmares. I wake up into them.

My feet are ice cold and my legs are shaking badly.

 Its summer in Mumbai.

I sleep for another half an hour. Hoping the things will change by the time i wake up again.

The next half hour passes excruciatingly slowly but when it does it seems to have been all too quick. 

Nothing seems to have changed.

I take long breaths. One breath at a time. There is nothing else in this world that matters, just the next breath. Just one breath at a time. This gives me a semblance of strength. I manage to pull myself out of my bed.

But as soon as i do the reality starts overpowering me again. I hyperventilate.

I start consoling myself. Break down the day into hours, hours into minutes,  i say . A minute passes by, I survive it. Nothing happens to me. I wait for another minute to pass me by. Another , and another and another. If i can survive five i can survive the next thousand too.

 I go to the washbasin. I see a hideous person in front of me. I try to be brave. I try to greet him with a smile. My cheeks froze. I cannot smile.

I open my mouth. I begin to brush my teeth.
 1-2-3-4  Pause
1-2-3-4 Pause
I change the direction I go to gums . I am back at front teeth.

As i brush my teeth i feel calm. I feel like a warrior bravely fighting away ages of filth. Slowly and steadily.
One step at a time.
Just One step at a time.

I take a bath. I pour a mug over me. The warmth comforts me. I pour another mug and i realise that i cannot stop the process. For my mind knows what will happen when this ends. The world outside is now licking its lips waiting for me to come out. I keep on pouring mugs. One after another until the hot water runs out.

Its time now. I say my prayers.

I kick start my bike. A SUV passes close to me and sprays dirt over me. I am too disinterested to notice how bad my shirt looks and too tired to argue either. I keep on riding my bike. I am close to my office now.

As i reach the last turn a wild idea hits me. What if i just don’t take this turn. What if i just keep on riding . I have enough money in the bank to last for a long time. I certainly do not need this job to survive. I can just leave this world away. Run away to some unknown place. Away from the people, away from the expectation, away from the judgement, away from sympathy, away from the pain in their eyes over the disappointment that i have been.

It brings a smile on my face that leaves me sadder than before. Because i know that nothing like that is going to happen. Because i know that in the next three seconds i will be taking that turn.

I have now reached the building. There is no turning back now.

I feel pain in my chest. Could it be heart attack? How should i feel about my death?  Should i be sad about it or should i simply be relieved that its all over. I cannot decide so i just give up thinking about it.

It’s time to start the daily ritual now. I go into by brain and start shredding ever snippet of me. Step by step until not a modicum of me remains. Tearing oneself from oneself is a very painful operation. Something within me wants to scream madly. I barely manage to muffle the sounds.

I feel a flood of emotions rushing through me.
I am in pain.
I am angry.
I am in disbelief.
I am hurt.

I am exhausted. But the results are almost instantaneous. My identity, my thoughts are all gone now. Only a sense of numbness remains.  

 I reach my desk now and there is nothing to fear. I greet the dullness and mediocrity with  awe and inspiration. Everything is good as long as the numbness in my brain remains.

Its far from permanent. My thoughts my identity will definitely grow back. But everything will be fine.

 I just need to weed myself from my life.

 I just need to kill myself daily.

One day at a time.
One day at a time.

Joy of reading

Whenever i read a story a sense of tranquility dawns on me. I often spend my weekends sprawled on my couch holding the novel above me with both my hands.And more often than not my face will succumb to a soft trace of smile.A smile which is not dictated by the turn of events in the novel. Ofcourse, When Jeeves come up with a crisp meticulous response to a  haphazardly told problem of Wooster, the smile undoubtedly widens. But it is still there when Scout Finch talks of her fear and fascination of 'Boo' Radley.

A part of it could be because of the escape that the story provides from reality. As long as the story is going on  the past present or the future of real world ceases to have any impact on me. But then, this is true for all things that we refer as " break". Whether watching a movie, a tv series or playing a video game. They all suspend reality for a brief time.But while i often feel a sense of emptiness once a series ends, a sense of fulfillment follows an ending of a story. The joy of reading a story has clearly more to it than the mere suspension of the reality.

For an introvert like me the best part is probably  knowing so many non intrusive people. They share with me their happiness their sorrows their entire life. And most of them are like me too.Neither good nor really bad people. And then they only connect to me  through the path of the story. They will not disturb my sense of peace. They will not be the one jumping on me when i  long for the bliss of  absolute silence.They are the rarest of the rare friends. Friends who can sit besides you for hours without having any need for a conversation.

But once again i cannot help but notice the similarities across other mediums. A movie or a TV series both  introduces characters who can be shut on and off based on convenience.And yet there is a difference. Firstly the pace of a novel or a TV series do not allow scope for much character development. Movies or TV series talks of events happening to characters whereas a novel talks of characters going through events. The people inside the story are of more  importance than the story itself. That also explains why habitual readers have such distaste for the recent trend of Chetan Bhagat type books. Born and brought up on a diet of rich layered characters they cannot ignore the  emptiness created by the half sketched one dimensional characters.No matter how easy the language be or how interesting  be the events.

This could also explain why i feel a sense of fulfillment as opposed to emptiness while finishing a novel.When a tv series movie or a video game ends it just crashes me back to reality with nothing else. A novel though interweaves my life with the lives of so many people; imaginary as they may be. The story ends but the people within it do not.

But there is more to it. The connect that i feel with the characters can not just simply be explained by the sheer literary genius that goes behind building them. They seem so close because a part of me lies with them too. A novel will always have a breathing space for characters. There will always be traits that the author simple cannot define however hard he may try. And this breathing space , this chink , this anomaly makes for the most endearing part of it. Because this breathing space is the part where the characters become mine more than the author's. I do the breathing. I assign them traits. I install a part of me or someone i know of in the character.

The author may write the sentence that 'he' speaks. But it is I who decides the pause' he' takes-the pause i take- to begin it. The author may say that 'he' does not look up when 'he' is walking but it is I who decides the "why" for 'him'. And so  they do not just remain some people that i once read about. They become a bit of me. When they share their life me i too inadvertently share a part of me too.

And this is why i love reading a story.

The warrior of Light

Darkness mesmerizes me. This absolute annihilation of light. The great equalizer. Nothing to see, nothing to discriminate against. Nothing to demarcate, nothing to distinguish. You are a part of darkness and yet you are yourself. The darkness accepts you, it engulfs you and not for a minute does it ask you to change.

The place where i go to work is full of light. “A well lit office is a good office”, they say. They have even invaded the integrity o the ceiling. The thick strong ceiling is now but a hollow self of itself with artificial lights piercing right through it. The walls of my office are also brightly coloured. The light swoons on me from above and tackle me from the sides. They tell me, about experiments that relate the illumination of a room to the productivity of the office, with bright smiles on their face. There shining teeth reflecting the bright lights further.

Does it not feel like a deer caught in the headlights, I ask. There is a pause. The smile on their faces fades a bit. But they catch up quickly for nothing bright should ever fade. They compliment me on my wit and smile their glowing radiant smile. Some even laugh trying to make up for the lost sunshine.

There is no wit involved. I am too overwhelmed by light to be left with any. I look at their faces and horror consumes me. Can they not see how gruesome the look. This very light accentuating every expression of cruelty they try to hide beneath the garb of a smile. How come anyone else not sees it? I keep my head down. They say I am an introvert. That i need to change as it affects the team bond. I mumble about promising to try. I still cannot look up.

I come back to my place. I take a bath. It’s a very humid city that I live in. I watch all the dust and damp washing off me as the stream of water hits me. But a patch of light remains, at the back of my neck. I try to rinse it off. It would not go easily. It has been drilled deep by the artificial lights of the hollow ceiling. I try harder. The patch remains. My neck burns. I put my towel over it. The warmth around the sting is soothing. I feel better.

My flatmates come. I ask them not to turn on the light. They don’t. They are friends. They understand. We talk; the words flow the way they can only flow in darkness. With no big brother watching your expressions; with no “know-it-all” analyzing your body language; the words are paramount now. The flow of it; the clarity of it all. We laugh a bit too. They should hear me now.

After few months

Its another routine day in office. The faces still look horrifying but the familiarity has taken the edge off it. I dare now to study them closely. The smiles never leave their clean shaved faces. In some unexplainable way they all look eerily similar too. I began to have feeling that they are all a part of a group. Light has invited them in. My horror partially gives way to envy.

Someone takes a snap of me and put it on “facebook”. Its taken in really strong light. It gets a lot of “Likes” and “Comments”. I look at the pick. It does not resemble me in any way. I have a realization. Light may not ignore your peculiarities but it sure can hide them. Hide them in daylight; I think. I find the line funny. I chuckle.

A girl I know “comments” on the pic. She is hot by all conventional means.

Fair: check

Slim: check

Big Boobs: Check

It would be some fun looking at everyone’s face when they see me with her. I come home. I shave. I even applied the “fairness cream for men” that I bought on my way home. I feel “light”.

At night I open my laptop. There is some office work. My boss would be really happy if he finds the work completed first thing in the morning. Probably pat me on the back. I think of it. I smile. My flatmates come. I ask them not to turn off the lights as I have work to do. They understand. They are friends.

After  few years…

The faces in my office now dissolve around me. They re-merge and become one ever smiling face. The light they radiate is blinding. I can see clearly now. (I don’t chuckle. Nor do I find that funny.) Sun pales in front of it. A light so bright, a light so beautiful that it  could only be divine.

Tears flow incessantly from my eyes. All my logics, all my rationale that seems so important before seems so insignificant now. Divinity can not be accessed through a path of logic or reason. Divinity demands faith. Divinity deserves trust

.

As I lay down on my knees the purpose of my; until now purposeless; life is clear. I am a warrior of light now. Light may not have accepted me yet but it will. I believe in it, I trust in that. From now a light brighter than mine is a deity to me. Darkness is a demon that deserves to be annihilated.

As I lay there kneeling I wipe the tears from my face. These were the last tears I ever shed. From now on I will be constantly smiling radiating lights through my shining teeth. The light engulfs me now. That patch in my neck has now encompassed my entire being. I scream as it stings me all over again but that is a trivial price to pay.

 As the light fills my soul I for the very first time feel alive.