Bombay

“Mumbai Meri Jaan” is the strain of thought reverberating across the length and breadth of the nation. It is not the first time any place has been so badly held siege. History is rife with twin/triple bomb blasts, people dying, limbs missing sometimes entire bodies, families ruined and all that. Recession seems so minor at how the financial capital has been hit on the spine. No place is safe, there is a method in the madness, high-end places to train terminuses nothing was spared. The disturbing picture on the front page of today’s TOI is frightful. Aggressive terror out on the streets, Hemant Karkare fell victim to the bullets of cowards despite warning and there was no forward support as such for the radical officer.

There are chain mails of outburst, sympathy, anger and disillusionment. The youth is so motivated with the Jaagore campaign to vote and be the change. With infrastructure comes the luxury of the will/desire/expression to do something for the nation. They want a system overhaul. You and I know it is not as easy as it seems. Voting is not impacting as much as we are led to believe. You want martial law, you want dictatorship, and you want a system clean-up. All good and noble thoughts but why do things get dormant in peaceful times? Fed on Bollywood and jingoism, we want to exterminate militancy but we have bottlenecks like human rights, international law and the jazz. If it was as simple as cleaning your house, it is cleaning your house. Some people don’t like to clean their house everyday, some do it half-heartedly and some do it maniacally. Trusting our senses and holding each other hostage with fear, being careful and frantic calls and prayers have taken the flavour away from life. Imprisoned in our crabby ecosystems with earning quick bucks or more and wanting to be seen in good light, being stand-offish and indifferent, we are fast turning into a race of pseudos. A renaissance seems to take birth and die only in the mind for that 15secs of fame.

The Dear Departed

A sad Monday it was, days die and also, near and dear ones. Memories come flooding of a good friend who we lost to the waters of the Barapani while washing the clothes of someone he lost 2 days ago. It was a ritual to let go of the past and the departed only for him to become a ritual too for his loved ones.

Another tragic news, someone lost her mother. There is a sense of numbness in me too. Death is so terrifying. For all the karmic talk and the abstract that we indulge in, about the eternity of the soul and the forever-ness that we proclaim for/to people we love is so diminishing. However much I hate to believe that birthdays get you older it scares me as much, one more year closer to the inevitable.

People say it is maya, it is fondness and the used-to feeling that we weep/cry at the loss of a loved one. Don’t know what to say. They say, life goes on, does it? They say, you must move on, should I? You only become a picture on the wall, a page in someone’s diary. Darn, I hate to be melancholic but it is true you are there in someone’s tears when you are remembered when that candle is lit or when flowers are laid.

No smiles.

Children's day

Many years ago, papa wrote something on this day.I will post it very soon. It was supposed to be an entry at a competition in memory of the late statesman.
In my faint recollection, today,Nov 14 in school used to be the neatest uniform with white socks, no books and that duckback,no tiffins,maybe just a water-bottle.
School is in its festoon best, classrooms flowing with streamers and balloons, the best family-family music blaring from the PA system. Teachers are running from one changing room to another. Today is their day to 'make' us happy and make amends. They sang, they danced, they made us laugh and also, cry.
Lots of food greeted us, the grand lunch and the snacks we saved to carry home to mama and papa,I remember Maggi came to school and we were thrilled to get that free RED fork and also, embarrassing moments when out of sheer excitement, Maggi spilled. I tell you, that Maggi tasted so different from what we have today and Maggi was signature then. To get Maggi for lunch in a casserole or even cold Maggi was a status symbol.
The General Proficiency Prize, the Attendance and Neatness awards. It was such a pride to walk up to the dais, to wait for the school photographer to take that click with the headmistress shaking hands, a touch on the head, a peck on the forehead and cheeks and most importantly, your parents and siblings watching and clapping.
The class party, our contribution used to be 5 rupees per head and we used to get chips and frooti, the rest, Miss sponsored. Along with that, we wanted the most good looking sir in school to sing and dance in our party and not go to the boys' party.
We always got goodies from parents that morning and extra pocket money to flaunt that extra bar of dairy milk and hot chips. Sharing and showing off were part of the game and the fun, to be touching Miss when we danced was such a good feeling. When she came and sat with us, we literally went agog with happiness, can't forget that lingering spell of perfume, that gorgeous lipstick and that nice hair and shoes. Our aim in life was to become like her, same to same.

Happy children's day! In two weeks were the annual exams...

Perspective

Life on either side is not easy.
Some sainted, some pilloried, some crucified
All at the altar of angst and anger.

Killing two birds with one stone is idiomatic,
Killing one is idiotic.
Killing yourself is normal,
Killing loved ones is suicide in the name of tragedy
Or vice versa.
Killing the other is, well, regular.

Tragedy is the remixed comedy.
My fears, someone’s strength,
My tears make someone laugh,
My glee is someone’s sorrow.

The hunter is the new hunted,
The hunted, the rotten carcass
It’s a proletarian chaos,
We die unsung deaths
After eventful lives.

Staged

Those nimble feet, those slender arms

With a breathing bundle cosily wrapped in the waist

It does not matter who stretches that begging hand

With a fake grimace on a sweat-soiled face.

The headlights flash, the horns blow impatiently

ID cards tugged flash carelessly

I-pods deafened ears, radio and MP3

Dusty footwear and grazed feet.

The payal does a peek-a-boo

The jasmine bravely looks her freshest until now

Perfumes drowned in the pollution,

One waits for the signal to go green.

The geek in the front seat watches re-runs of some household American sitcom

Sigh! We are so wannabe Americans in thought, action and attitude

Even though, we claim we are desi

And all we do is mind other’s business.

The tramp forgot to beg, the driver forgot to watch the signal

The geek forgot to laugh quietly on ear/head phones

One forgot to mind their business

Humanity forgot to see, they just stare.

The clock struck eight and the signal goes green.

The beggar moves on, the laughs stopped

No life lost, no limb broken

Only limbo crashed, some animation on a thinkpad.

Smiles