A Road Mate

I see her everyday on my way to work. We cross each others way at the vegetable vendor’s cart. So in a sense she is my ‘time-check’ also. If I happen to meet her at a point before the vegetable vendor’s then I am late, I’ll probably miss the bus. If I meet her at a point after crossing the vegetable vendor’s then probably I am before time and will have to await the bus. It is only now when I sit back and write about it that I wonder, well it can even be vice-versa, me being on time and she being early or late. But maybe I have never had that kind of right confidence about myself. So then I quicken or slacken my pace depending on where we meet.
There are thousands of faces I cross everyday and maybe the same ones considering I walk the same routine path more or less at the same timing and the others would be doing a similar thing, but her face remains in my memory. I can close my eyes and see her face in my mind. She wears a bored and exhausted look for having been woken up from sleep. Maybe she does not like to get up early. She slouches with the burden of the bag she carries on one shoulder. Maybe she is not happy with whatever classes she is taking early morning. She seems lost in thought and unaware of the world around. Maybe she is making a mental list of the million to-do things for the day. She drags her feet with an effort and has ear phones plugged always. Maybe she hates walking and loves to shut the world out with music. She stops and makes her pick of vegetables by pointing only never uttering a word. The vendor also seems to have gotten used to her techniques. Maybe she is a very confident person who can make others work by her rules and then she simply moves on. This has been happening for the past 18 days since I have taken up a new job and need to walk all the way to the bus station. It’s the same everyday with the only change in the color and pattern of the clothes we wear. In spite of this I try to take a close look at her, without letting her know. There is something intriguing about this young lady who seems to have taken the world in her stride and still cares a damn about it. She probably does not belong here. Her self-worth seems creditable; there is no trace of being a snob or being egoistic.
Wow! I have made quite a few conclusions about her without even having exchanged so much as a smile. I am no face reader or any aura specialist, wonder then what is it that makes me not only look at her but also think about her and the sense of mystery she holds. I don’t know if some day we will cross this barrier of being strangers and talk to each other having the ‘common path we cross’ as a starting point. And will she read this write-up some day and burst out laughing saying, not a word of what I concluded is true or will she start wondering if I have been spying on her since I have so much information about her? That will happen the day it does, till then maybe I’ll have to rest my case and ensure that curiosity does not kill the cat!

Big City! Small City! Identity?

The thought started troubling me when I was walking to the bus station to take a bus to office. It even surprised me that such thoughts continue to brew in my mind, considering that I have already resigned my self to routine existence and acceptance of the fact that this is life and one has to continue existing. Getting back to my thought, ‘Where do I belong?’ No, I am not venturing into the arena of unanswered secrets of life, like who am I? What is my purpose in life and what shall I be when I die? My question is a very direct one as to where exactly do I belong? In the identity crisis of the small city big city syndrome, I find that I fall on neither side of the fence and nor am I walking the thin line.
Maybe a retrospect would help. So I go back to the story of my life. I was born in a middle class, well to do family, with tradition as its foundation and education its aim. Maybe there is a conflict in the making already. On one hand our family was well to do, so that we could afford the basic necessities and comforts of life and at the same time it was tagged as ‘middle class’ because luxuries of life did not come easy. Grounded in tradition we followed all the customs and rituals of the religion and at the same time, holding education high, my parents educated me to the highest levels that I desired to learn in spite of all odds hoping to broaden my horizons. Only now the breadth seems to be a complete misfit.
Every belief I had, all my ethics and principles, all code of conduct has undergone the test of challenge and I find myself today with little that I firmly believe in or find solace in. Things like ‘this is the norm of the family’ faded soon after I left home to venture into the big world of universities and corporate business. But I have never been able to pick the ‘big city lifestyle’ and ‘corporate culture’ either. The result is I am all high and dry with nothing to call my own. Neither am I surrounded by cool guyz and gals who party every night, nor am I able to walk the streets with my head down and eyes lowered. Agreed I am probably making a black and white distinction between the small city public and the big city junta, but then, how many grey outcasts like me do we have anyway? Probably I have answered my own question, and the answer is people make an effort to fit in. Either they pack their bags and get on to the ‘settled life’ bandwagon or they transform themselves into a new being all together from accent to aura. It is the grey-ing ones that are lost into the wilderness. Is it not ironic that I want to hold my ground and not change, not fit in even though it translates into losing my identity in the wilderness?

Chaos

I lie on the bed of thoughts,
I think, think, think.
The soft pillow deadens darkness,
In wilderness I blink.

A glass breaks, it shatters peace,
The pain seeps deep, deep, deep.
I drink from the bleeding edges,
An echo of insanity weeps.

-Monica

The Anonymous Death

I dreamt of a death last night,
The deceased was unknown to me,
They said the name was “Heart”,
A tragic murder it seemed to be.

Faith and Trust the kith and kin,
Had already passed away,
Bereft in this commercial world,
Heart had no reason to stay.

Those who looked on in amusement,
Had a fancy story to relate,
Of how sincerely Heart went about,
Surrendering willingly to fate.

It seems first emotions were slashed,
With the sharp razor of practicality,
Then methodically care and kindness were strangled,
As Heart drained itself of humanity.

With the last struggle of helplessness,
Love flowed out of every cell,
Pain trickled down the eyes,
As Heart rang the death knell.

“Heart was a good ol’ chap”, they said,
Very different from the rest,
So instead of suffering in perpetual misery,
This suicide for Heart was best.

All paid their last respects,
And in life quickly moved on,
The museum fought for the final rights,
Of a relic that to the world would remain unknown!

-Monica

Some things are meant to be…

I rushed to the platform,
The leaving train I could see,
Crumpled in the unreserved bogie now,
I mutter, some things are meant to be!

Unknown, we chatted years ago,
From different parts of the country,
Today we vow to be partners in togetherness,
It’s a blessing some things are meant to be!

The unexplained phobia debilitates,
The fear never sets me free,
I succumb every time in panic
Give in, some things are meant to be!

As strangers we sang together,
To pass time on the long journey,
Now we are inseparable friends,
I smile, some things are meant to be!

I may not believe in destiny,
And fate may be a stranger to me,
Yet when unexplained things happen,
I say, some things are meant to be!

I wonder why I am writing this,
When blind beliefs make me uneasy,
May be creativity has its lessons to teach,
I accept, some things are meant to be!

-Monica

Unknown Fear

I do not know how this started; neither do I have any memory of when it happened first. My body goes numb, hot and cold flashes, reeling head, nausea and then a black-out. And before I reach the black-out stage, my ritual fumbling with the phone and incessant trials to call the nearest person available for help. It cannot be a neighbor, it cannot be a colleague. It has to be someone who understands, who knows and who sympathizes. If not a dear soul it can only be someone who would help for the sake of money.

I switched off the TV, for once I had watched a light-headed comedy instead of my usual favorites that make you search your soul and question your existence. I realized humor is not all that bad, especially if you are living a lonely existence. The brainless anecdotes can lift your spirits more than thought-provoking instances which only add to the pain of nostalgia. With my mind already in an argumentative mode, my face still reflecting shades of smiles and my body moving robotically towards the kitchen for yet another lonely dinner date, I switched on the lights. Call it sixth sense or my usual alert self, my eyes quickly scanned the walls. One look and my world collapsed. With every movement I screamed and shouted, rooted to the ground I lost my mental balance.

Thankfully my phone dangles round my neck 24/7. “Amit, come…now…I need help. Its here, I am sick…what do I do? Want to go home now. I am leaving for the station. Please take me away please…” I did not need to explain further. My choking, gasping, nervous voice full of tremors was enough for him to sense the urgency and even before I finished talking he was on his way to my rescue. I would have applauded myself, were I in the state, for my foresight. I know myself or shall I say my weaknesses so well, that Amit and a couple of close friends always have a spare key to my house. For a moment, a million questions darted through my mind and then it all went blank. Amit was almost carrying me out of the kitchen in my half dazed state. I tried to speak but words seem to be alien. Only tears flowed in abundance. Amit made me lie down in the outer room and got me a glass of water while I just lay there, stone-faced with only tears for emotion. He went into the kitchen and closed the door. The rest is history or more appropriately history repeating itself. I was shaken out of my stupor with a soft voice saying “Mainee relax! It is over.” I wanted to but just could not respond. Amit shook me and the touch made me shriek in horror. It took hours of cajoling, a long drive, a call from my brother, and finally a steaming hot cup of black coffee to bring me back to my normal self. But I refused to enter the house again. Needless to say this was the third time I shifted houses.

I have tried but nothing works. I cannot even laugh at myself and I am too tired of crying. Medical help has only turned me into an addict. Strained relations, house-shifting hassles, endless tips to watchmen and maids, money blown on useless precautionary measures and an eternal fear have been my share for numerous years now.

The only time I smile in this context is when I read Amit’s testimonial, “A lizard's kindness-Startled into blindness.”

-Monica

My Human Creator

The glory of your presence beautifies time;
It makes life worth living.
With you I grow, through you I know,
The art of life called living.

You make me cry, you make me weep,
You make my heart bleed deep.
But in the illusion of tears,
Your smile is a reflection of revival.

When I am wounded, I am weary,
And a dead stone I am-
You instill life back into me,
And become my Human Creator.

I call you in times of joy,
On you I depend when sorrow grips,
When life becomes a trial,
You make me try life.

When I lose my identity and become a tiny drop, in the sea of time,
You introduce me to myself.

For all you are,
For all I am,
I am glad our ways crossed.

-Monica

Night Roosters

The sun has set yet again and the roosters of the night have set their game.
The dripping droplets break the dark silence;
The inner chaos then tries violence.

Laughter and mirth arouse lonliness,
The pain of solitude is the soul's penance.

Rise, lay and close hope's eyes,
Supress the stiffled inner voice.
The next dawn is inevitable-
Will there never be a choice?

-Monica

Sleepless, senseless, timeless - yet ticking!

Ever experienced traveling in an ‘all-senses-blocked’ state on a three hour train journey? I did. And this time, for once, the root cause is not the all encompassing melancholic aura of within and without that keeps me company 24/7. Take a generous measure of early morning wake up blues (anything in the time machine that reflects between 2 am and 9 am is wee hours of dawn for a perpetual insomniac), add a large tablespoon of sinusitis to it, squeeze a dash of migraine and sprinkle it with unlimited amounts of anti-all pain overnight sedatives whose only side effect and maybe effect too, is sleep like a log or act like a zombie. Ready to serve is the rare ‘benumbed high’ for the physical, mental, emotional, spiritual and all other beings that exist in one’s self.
The never-ending arguments with mom, dad’s never heeded words of wisdom, the stinking toilets left un-flushed by a bee line of never-mattered relations, the never diminishing pile of dishes and leftovers and the never fading rancid hangover after a never-required family gathering (where everyone except all those who matter most in the family eat, drink, enjoy and comment) forms the perfect backdrop. In the forefront we have the word’s worthy trees, mountains, hills and valleys and the not-to-mention worthy drainage pipes, dilapidated hutments, non-functional signal posts, powerless power houses, heaps of garbage and an endless list, which, thanks to my benumbed state I cannot recollect. We in the train seem to be running to catch up on time and they outside seem to compete by moving back into timelessness. In this tussle of on time performance vs. eternal timelessness, words take shape like a warning knell, “Monica, there is so much more to explore beyond abyss. Try diving even deeper sometime”, suggests a worthy writer friend (for anyone who calims to be a reader his works on http://ankurkr.blogspot.com/ are a must read!), whose words truly matter. Let me try. Enviously I look up to a co-passenger regurgitating ‘OM’ with every breath. Before I can meditate upon the benefits, his half open eyes, squinting to read ‘Abu Salem’s 7 day custody’ news report and half-closed soothingly enjoying every bulging shape of the female anatomy, catch my quick attention making me look down in disgust. The TC passes by like the seconds hand of an ancient clock, seldom noticed. In this over-full reservation compartment which has no striking features that distinguish it from the general bogie, our friend the TC, knows just who to ask for a reservation and earn his butter, considering the government already provides the bread. I marvel at the uncanny wisdom that makes him sense ‘right’ (pun intended). While our merry man moves on to pounce on his next target, the train halts triumphantly having achieved its half-target. The station demands attention. For once I am glad that there are no expectant eyes awaiting my arrival and no plastic smiles awaiting my departure. The unceasing ranting of the food seller is an open challenge to the chanting of the one possessed by the devil’s enemy. Amidst the chaos, my rumbling tummy if not my sound proof ears reflexively responds to the music in Sunderlal’s cutlet-omlette breakfast call. I bet the sight or even the sound of mouth-watering food can stimulate a deadened spirit. Suddenly everyone seems to lose interest in everything. Newspapers, page 3 discussions, anatomy, physiology, whining kids, cell phones, pack of cards, cat fights and dog watches all take a back seat as the food plate rules. Idli, wada-pav, bhajia and gathiya seem to devour all attention. While everyone is lost in the thought for food, the tunes of metal (copper coins against aluminium bowls) strike chord, just that, “aulad valon and garibon ki suno” fail to melt anyone to tears. Some consider the begging bowl deserving the remains on their plate and of their pocket while others raise an eye brow over the deserving character in question. Suddenly, like the dull anti-climax of a thriller post intermission, the post meal journey too is lulled by sleep. The inside window activities cease and the outside window scenes dissolve into nothingness as my heavily laden eyelids bow down in obeisance to Hypnos.
The continuous buzzing of alarms, ringing of cell phones and monotony of this is Dadar station on Central Railway brings me back to a slow consciousness. It the craving for a cup of black coffee that makes me drag myself to the door. Being thrown on the platform, luggage et al is a mere deja vous. It is the tucking at my sleeve, the urgency in the feet surrounding me and the ever-duplicating queue at the ticket counter that forces me back into action. This city never sleeps. It is time to say Good Morning or maybe Good god, morning?

-Monica

The other side of the gate...

“Excuse me madam…hello..” It took me a moment to realize someone was calling me. It was the same old question, the direction to SDF IV or V or whatever. SDF stands for Standard Development Factory. Replace the Standard with Software and it makes perfect sense. What are these but factories that churn out tons of codes each day with the mechanical Cntrl X-Cntrl V from apna Google zindabad! I wonder sometimes, if open source is as much a boon as we deem it to be, considering the “full stop to thinking” danger it entails? Given today’s scenario, data entry operators should make better software developers than computer science grads. But before I take off on a trip to how and why of everything, I had to answer the expectant-soon-turning-to-irritant-eyes, staring me in the face.
“Which company?”
“Xyntel!”
I raised an eye brow and recollected, “Oh! It is the one next to Yntel or maybe Zyntel, whatever, just a 5 min walk, turn left and you should see the place.”
The eyes seemed unconvinced.
“Come for an interview?”, I pried.
Nod.
“All the best.”
A meek thanks with a sorry attempt at smiling was the reply I got. No qualms. I know what the first interview means. Nervousness, expectations, pride, desperation, hopes – the list is endless; the moment has a mix of more emotions than the most flavored mixed vegetable dish at the road-side dhaba. Few years down the line, all these emotions boil down to 8 hours routine, time sheets, status reports, con calls – the list is endless again; only this time even the taste of the bland soup at the most exquisite restaurant in town overshadows it. I sneered. I could see one more ingredient on its way, ready to blend with the tasteless soup of routine corporate life. Am I the only one who sees the individual fading in India Shining?
I remember I had a million thoughts on the first day, as I eagerly awaited my gate pass to enter the then seemingly celestial SEZ. My thoughts seemed to run as if vying to win a marathon. Fingers crossed, I wished to be a part of the prestigious world on the other side of the gate. The challenge seemed even more adventurous as I was an Art graduate going to be interviewed by the brainy whiz kids – the software engineers and management gurus who are God’s choicest blessings to middle-class parents, who fall short of only selling themselves to buy the most coveted degrees available in rising India! Little did I know then, that answering these whiz kids is easier than clicking the Next-Next-Finish buttons on an installation wizard. I waited with a warrior’s spirit ready to take on the conquest. I wish I knew then, one step in and I would be another rat in the quest of my turbid cheese.
On that day, it felt jubilant to scramble out from the claws of security, but today, like most snobs I throw the permanent gate-pass and ID card in the security’s face, forgetting the fact that it is one of the measures to ensure my own security. That day I walked out thrilled and beaming with confidence holding an offer letter which spelt victory of Art over Technology. Today I walk out listless, exhausted with desperation carrying the burden of technology, the laptop. The appraisal letters have killed the joy of the offer letter, the monotony has suppressed creativity, and the handful stars have buried the solid ground underneath. The only thing that remains unchanged between then and now is, I still yearn to be on the other side of the gate, albeit, without a gate pass.

-Monica

A walk home?

The walk seemed long at the end of yet another weary day, what with having to manage each step amidst a conglomeration of unwanted entities. These unwanted entities encompassed almost everything: mass of individuals wrongly called humans (the adjective has exactly the contradictory connotations), vehicular waste, environmental waste, industrial waste, animal waste, human waste and above all the waste of civic sense. I know the last word of the previous sentence does not pose even a remote semblance to the vocabulary of our so called metro crowd, not to mention those privileged with the garb of being underprivileged. Now before this write-up seems to sound like a waste of words under the garb of creativity, let me tell you straight it is just another day in the life of a routine individual, caught in the web of or maybe ebb of time. I say ebb because as each day progresses, I seem to decline, to disintegrate, to degenerate…I do not know how many more D’s can be added here. I wonder if it is true that life has a fair share of everything for everyone. Probably all these D’s are simply my fair share as I did not get any of them in academic or professional life. So here is life pouring all it’s D’s on me with every D competing to make its presence felt and ensure that existence becomes as D-full, I mean, dreadful as possible. But amongst all, the D that continually rules the roost is DISTURBANCE. While it is partially true that time heals most wounds, ‘cos we get used to the majority of them anyways, this healer seems like a work shirker in my case, considering the fact that it does not even seem to heal the small number of wounds it is supposed to. It seems like I am just getting used to all of them to the extent that pain and no pain simply are the same. The senses have just gone numb, even if, to quote Dickinson, “I feel a funeral in my brain” (originality was always a thing of the past).
The fact that my mind is now a replica of the conglomeration of unwanted entities I was talking about earlier is merely an understatement. This time the unwanted entities are thoughts on decisions taken and not taken, relationships, responsibilities, career, family, marriage, friends and somewhere down the list MYSELF. This time the last word of the previous sentence does not pose even a remote semblance to my own vocabulary. No wonder then, every time I want to talk about myself the only line that comes to my mind is (this time it is from a poem I have written), “…Too late I realize, I am in search of myself, my own self I have lost/ In the waves of time’s stillness a pain echoes back and tells me from myself I am bereft.” So while the waste of the street rouses a stench letting the contents of my bowels reflexively find a way to my mouth, so also, the waste in the mind rouses a repulsive desperation bringing the deep rooted “I” within my yearning soul involuntarily into conscious thought. The D’s give way to the W’s – Who am I? Why am I? Where am I? What am I? When will I find the answers? Even before the yearnings of the soul scramble to a position available in my priority of thoughts list, I push them away to a convenience called “later”, completely forgetting I am no Scarlet O’Hara. Now? Well more practical W’s are already staring me in the face. What am I going to do next? The vicious circle of job-relocation-marriage forms the perfect Bermuda triangle which by no means is equilateral. But then this has about a couple of months to climb up the priority chart in my thoughts. Even before I can think of moving this triangle to ‘later’, a line of questions march to and fro in my mind with each one vying for the topmost position on mission priority. What do I have to take home from market? Any bills pending? What’s cooking for dinner?
My Yoga instructor says if you feel stressed, close your eyes, take a deep breath and meditate on yourself. I want to do just that, but hold on, my cell phone is already buzzing. I am hoping against hope that it’s not my manager asking for a status report, which demands me getting back to office - it’s worse. Why do these financial companies not understand that I am scared of credit cards and I will not take one even if they pay me to keep it? So from philosophy to practicality to mundane chores to credit card refusals, I am in the back to square one position with innumerable questions, for each of which, I have the perfect answer that simply raises the next important question. Wow now that’s quite a phrase – answerable questions leading to questionable answers. Am I going insane? Is a 20-min walk home driving me crazy?
In this continuous race of feet, of wheels, of thoughts – I want to stop. Even if I want to, the world does not. I am swept away into the crowd of reality, there is so place to even fall. I want to fall today because it may bruise me and I do want to feel the pain, at least it will let me regain myself. This moving forward scares me because it demands marching on without knowing where am I going. “…the longer the walk, the darker the alley...” My mind thuds – Stop. Stop. Stop. I reach home. I turn the key and I already see myself cooking, cleaning, calling – preparing for tomorrow at the loss of today. I wonder, how many doors I shut, every time I turn a key?

-Monica

Another Last Sigh

How oft I look at the grey sky,
And breathe the hope of a last sigh.
For the many undone things,
That give imagination wings;
On a high flight, I wander into my past-
Wondering how long, these dark shadows will cast?
Innumerable questions with answers that ask more;
The setting evening darkness-es to the inward journey lure!
The mind wanders farther as the lasting strength dies;
The pain deepens further as the frozen heart cries;
And then it all stops and every sense just blocks;
With every key I turn I secure many locks.

-Monica

Lonely Self

A lonely evening with a coffee mug in hand,
A heart full of memories and times distant chant.
Come back the past recalls and move on the future reckons,
The mist of the evening and the mushy lyrics of the favorite ol’ song.
I walk back a million miles in search of what I lost,
Was it a thing, a feeling or just the unheard melody of the heart?
The longer the walk the darker the alley,
Until the present blurs out and the future fades away and the past melts too…
What have I lost? Who am I looking for?
My shadow seems to be a cast away and the mirror reflects blank.
Too late I realize, I am in search of myself, my own self I have lost
In the waves of time’s stillness a pain echoes back and tells me from myself I am bereft.

Death - My eternal beloved

Death is now my beloved- it courts me everyday;
It makes its eternal presence felt each time in a different way!

I meet the death of innocence,
In the eyes of the beggar with a naked suckling;
I meet the death of honesty,
When the under table bribe is a routine thing.

The death of humility does not hesitate to stare blank in my face,
With indulgent hypocrites everywhere who never forget to say grace
The death of ethics and principles is the bold unstated fact
Whether its work or home or play it happens in every act

There is also the death of beauty, which kills itself in plastic smiles
Death of love, death of mercy, death of humanity…a new death every mile

When death is all pervading it hardly makes me shy
To hear the painful bellowing of the little child cry
I walk by with a hardened heart that has long forgotten to beat
Leaving the bleeding lil’ one to the care of the street

Isn’t that what a beloved does, trouble and torture the heart
Till all that pain and agony seems to be life’s natural part
Thus in a million ways I am courted by my faithful beloved death
Until I find I am already dead even before I take the next deep breath!

-Monica