Rising with the Falls

The rocks, silent and stoic 

Not ruffled by water gushing all around
Creating a ruckus, making loud noise 

Water, rushing down joyfully

Falling on stones waiting mournfully

Flowing hurriedly to lands unknown

The Discovering

Flooded out, hemmed in from all sides
Health, wealth, and people helplessly standing by

No more, no more, I begged
For how long will this go on, I cried

I flaunted all that I had,
I surrendered, throwing up my hands

Power, fame, friends, all deserted me
Even my shadow played hide and seek

My fortunes waned and waxed like the moon
Joys and sorrows alternated, leaving me in a swoon

Like the tide rising high and hitting the trough
My moods swung up and down on a bough 

Fighting the shackles I tore ahead, 
Drifting rudderless, I felt a dread

Neither here, nor there, I was
And yet everywhere scattered my thoughts

The balance sheet of life showed
There was much longer to go

The good times, yes, but the bad times too?
Will this ever end, I ask you!

Frustrated, I refuse to engage
Watching life go by, like a play

Strange that things still happen
And there is no agony that maddens

Like floating in water I go with the flow
And feel the return of my inner glow

Guided as it were into new journeys
Finding nuggets that shine even without seeking

What I would have grabbed now comes freely
For the joy is in the journey, not in acquiring

With hurdles or free, the path for me is born
To enjoy the flowers along with the thorns

There are no shackles but in the mind
Freedom that waits for me to find

Knowing this, I am at peace
Doing what must be done, and not to please.

The Balcony

It is an open space, meant to be enjoyed
But strangely, it is often met with annoyance

Neglected and forgotten, considered a waste of space
Shut out or sealed, converted into an enclosed niche 

Sometimes no bigger than a box
Even large ones are just a hoax

Finding best use for hanging clothes to dry
Or to house pots and plants myriad

Too much sun, no sights that give pleasure
Mosquitos galore, or just no time for leisure

Excuses many, result just one
Empty space hanging, used by almost none

No promise of memories, no friends lounging
Balustrades, that no hands are holding

Taking up precious real estate, some complain
And even the ones who love it stay away

Oh there, someone relaxing with a book
Finding in the balcony, a cosy nook

A cup of tea, eyes filled with dreams
Distracted by clouds, fanned by gentle breeze

Pausing mid-run to stand and stare
In a space that is a worthy spare.

 

In Pursuit of Happiness

The toys in the shop
Beckoned me to them
Promising me worlds
Unseen at home

Tantrums aplenty
Heartburns even more
I sought happiness
In things with allure

Toys changed form
Replacing what had just gone
And yet there was something more
That seemed beyond my zone

With wheels on my feet
I ran helter-skelter
Gathering and amassing
The more, the better

And I sought for things
Better and better!
And yet I felt
No contentment ever

Why should I?
When I deserve the best
And for things choicest
Continued my quest

Never a pause
Never a thought
Eyes seeking
Not shutting even after I got

I pause and look back
I think in wonder
Did I really journey
On those paths yonder?

Holding them to me
I don't remember
Did they make me happy?
I ask and ponder

I close my eyes
Let my mind wander
Searching keenly
For an answer

And then I sink
Into a state of bliss
Joyful and fresh
Like the first kiss

Nothing, no thing
In silence golden
Just me and myself
To nothing beholden

I find my fount
Sweet and everlasting
A tap I tap
To quench my thirsting

Nectar flows through my veins
I reach my end and thank my gains
Knowing this, I fly free
In pure happiness and unbridled glee.

Pati, Patni aur Woh - My GPS Woes

The year was probably 2008/09, when GPS started becoming a part of the mobile phones. My husband, quick to embrace new technology, installed it immediately and we set out on a road trip. I think to Chettinad, with a stop-over at Trichy. If memory serves me right, we first went to Trichy, rested, and then headed for the Srirangam temple. I have a cousin who lives nearby, so we decided to visit her too.

We started from the hotel in Trichy with the GPS guiding us. We were on a perfectly good highway, doing good speed, when SHE - the GPS, that is - told us to take a right turn. We were baffled, but technology should be infallible, right? So a right we took, and went through narrow roads, hit several roadblocks, and then with many turns and twists, rejoined that same highway!

Now, I view technology with suspicion - that is, beyond a point, I don't like this reliance on it. And, since I tend to be good with routes, I love to rely on my own direction sense. Even if I get lost, that's perfectly fine. I have just discovered something new and I feel good about it, in fact! But, to be deceived by technology! No sir!!!

Of course, in today's world where stopping to ask for directions is next to impossible, I also have to succumb and, once in a while, I allow HER to guide me. But if I have an inkling of the destination and the route, I love baffling her by constantly taking alternate routes and hearing the frustrated 'ding' as SHE adjusts to my idiosyncrasies. If I am alone, I even laugh to myself evilly as I challenge the GPS to guess what I would do next.

Oh, she has her revenge too. She will tell me I have reached my destination some few meters away, leaving me lost and driving around in circles. Suddenly she will stop telling me the directions, and since I don't have a stand to view the maps, the rights and lefts can be confusing. Wait, was it this turn, or the next, or have I missed it?

And, 200 meters, 500 meters! I mean, am I driving with a measuring tape!!! Tell me third right or fourth left. What's this with, 'Turn left in 800 meters'? Now I am in panic mode and sometimes I don't even hear the number (my family knows I freeze where numbers are involved) and may just randomly turn somewhere - and blame HER for it!

So, it's an uncomfortable trio whenever I travel with my husband. I sit tight-lipped when SHE takes us through routes that seem longer to me. "Your usual route must be crowded," my hubby reasons with me. 'Hah!' is all I tell myself, skeptical about the GPS's ability to process the information that we have in our head and upset at his undying loyalty to HER. 

And then I will launch on a tirade, "SHE led me through some narrow bylanes and difficult terrain." 

"You and she have that uneasy relationship," he will respond sagely, as if SHE has a problem because I am the wife!!!

But even with him, SHE often acts up and he thinks it's because of me. "Otherwise, she always takes me through the right route. Only when you are there," he will say grinning.

I had a demo of it today. On our trip from Chennai to Hassan, we were on a familiar route when she suddenly diverted us and soon we were driving through villages with absolutely no traffic but slow going due to the narrow, curving roads. "Can you check on your phone to make sure we are not lost?" my hubby asked. There, see? He also knows SHE is unreliable. And right enough, though there was a 7-minute slower path, she had diverted us to Gudiyattam for no rhyme or reason.

The unnecessary detour,
 taking away from a perfectly straight path
to venturing into village areas

But, soon, I was thrilled to see we were traversing through hillside with Kaundinya Elephant Sanctuary on one side. This was also not a much-used road but well-laid and through hills and forests. Though we didn't sight anything, we did learn that this was the only elephant sanctuary in Andhra!

Anyway, we continued, and somewhere we hit the highway. All seemed to be going smoothly when
again SHE made us take a left - somewhere 20 minutes from our destination. We did, and yet again entered deserted village areas. I have to grudgingly admit that I was enjoying the views, but my hubby thought SHE was trying to make him dump me in some God forsaken place so that she could have him to HERself. 

Of course, he was also admiring a car for its pickup, driven by a lady, and SHE may have felt jealous. 

Ten minutes later, lesson having been imparted and ensuring that we had lost sight of that car, we were back on the same highway and reached our destination without further ado.

But the trip just reinforced my view that the GPS is not to be trusted completely and has an agenda of HER own!

Picking up the Pieces

"Yaay!" Sudip pumped his fist in the air and jumped, thrilled with the goal he had scored. His team mates rushed to him and he opened his arms for the celebratory hug. He was still floating and gloating when he entered his house. His father was on the divan in the drawing room. He cursorily looked up at his son and then went back to tuning his tanpura. The silence carried loads of disapproval and Sudip felt it hitting him and sucking out all the jubilation he felt at his defining goal of the day.

Anger surged, matching his father's intense disapprobation, and he stormed into the house. Even in victory, he felt defeat. He could never do anything that his father would look on favorably at. Except one thing, and that didn't inspire him. Why couldn't the old man get that!

His mother was in the bedroom, getting ready for work. "There is breakfast on the table. How did the match go?" she asked.

He threw the bag down and plonked himself heavily on the bed. "We won! I scored the winning goal."

She smiled warmly and touched his head briefly. "Take a bath. You could have told your father that you had a match instead of letting him believe you were going to join him in sadhana?" she asked gently.

He grimaced. "Does he ever hear anything I say?" Sudip complained. "How many years now since I said I have no interest in classical!"

His mother sighed. "Can't you practice for his sake?"

Sudip got up and, taking his bag, he said, "I am not a good singer, ma, I never will be. And he knows that. Why flog a dead horse?" he said and walked out of the room. He felt his heart sinking, as it always did whenever the talk of his singing came up. Mercifully, such days had dwindled. When he was younger, it was every day, every hour. Nowadays, it was only once in a while. He should have been happy. But he dreaded and resented and awaited it. 

He felt empty as he showered and sat down for breakfast. Though his father was pottering about, he did not join Sudip. They rarely stayed in the same room ever, barely shared a word unless it was avoidable, and definitely slipped into silence after any conversation about music. Why did his father even bring it up? As if after having given his son the long rope, he still expected Sudip to willingly follow him.

Knowing his father would be hungry, he quickly finished breakfast and went up to his room. He was past crying about this wall between them, but he did wonder sometimes how it had come to this. His father and he had shared such a beautiful relationship. All his memories of his childhood were of his father more than his mother. His father was a career musician, coming from a rich lineage and much appreciated and sought after. His taans and thumris were talk of the town. He had also successfully launched several of his disciples into a music career. Though the world of musicians was more difficult today, many still were passionate about music and balanced their financial needs with an alternative career.

But where Sudip was concerned, his father had met an unbreakable wall. It was not that Sudip couldn't sing. He could hold a note and sing to beat. But he found no interest in exploring beyond. Slowly, this mismatch between musical interests and Sudip's increasing inclination towards sports drove a wedge and here they were - barely on talking terms. Occasionally his father would ask Sudip to do some sadhana in the hope that the gap was enough to make him long for it. But Sudip found no spark of interest and avoided such encounters.  

His four years of staying in the hostel to pursue an engineering degree had been a blessing. He had tried hard to find a job anywhere but in his hometown of Delhi. When he got placed in a company in Bangalore, he was relieved and thrilled. "So far away?" his mother had asked. "Just 2 hours as the plane flies," he had replied playfully. His father had asked him nothing.

He was going to leave in a fortnight. He desperately wanted to do something to bridge the gap, but if music was that only bridge, he will have to watch what was left of their relationship crumble and fall. This time, he really did feel like tearing up.

He moved to Bangalore, he grew in his job. He decided to pursue MBA to accelerate his growth and applied abroad after 2 years. Faring well there too, he joined a prestigious consultancy firm and felt proud that he had become a globe-trotter. He managed his conversations with his father from long-distance far better than he had been able to when at home. As he grew older, his family expanded and his parents aged, he felt a strange sense of responsibility towards them. But his attempts to keep them with him in the US failed. Though his mother had retired and father too was barely able to teach or perform due to a persistent cough, they found the life in the US too constricting. They returned to Delhi and preferred its burning summers and severe winters, meeting friends and relatives at whim.

For Sudip, football too had fallen by the wayside. He neither had the time, nor the health. As for music? He listened, mostly to Western pop, some classical, but mostly Bollywood. Only in the safety of his car, when driving long distances alone, he played Hindustani. He listened to his father's CDs. As he neared 40, in retrospection, he wondered if it was fear - fear of rejection, of mediocrity, of not meeting expectations - that had made him averse to singing. In the car, he felt safe to try his voice. He couldn't do the taans, of course, bit he could sing still. Maybe, he had thrown some good opportunity away, he thought with mild regret. But as he cruised through the broad freeways, he couldn't really say he had anything to complain about his current life either. 

However, his mind slowly churned questions - about what life would have been like had he but had the courage, if he had chosen a different path. And inevitably the only answer, what will be will be....

He received news of his mother's serious illness and rushed with his wife and 10-year-old son. His mother set eyes on him and then closed them forever. Baba took it stoically but Sudip sensed his helplessness. He knew his father was lost and craved to be there for him. He had abandoned his father once before, not anymore, he thought. 

"Come with me to the US," he begged. 

"What will I do there?" Came the inevitable reply. 

Sighing, Sudip went outside and saw his 10-year-old son playing football in the yard. "Let me show you," he said enthusiastically, glad his son liked sports. As dusk set and the two entered the house, the sound of the tanpura filled the house. 

And then, he heard his father start a taan. Despite the age, it rang clear and true. Sudip stood mesmerized, admitting finally that he could never have reached such zenith. 

"Is that grandpa?" His son whispered. Sudip nodded. 

His son slowly went to his grandfather's room and stood outside, still and as if charmed. When his grandfather finished, he asked, "Can I sing like you, grandpa?"

There was pin drop silence. Slowly Sudip watched his father place the tanpura in its place and turn towards his grandson. He opened his arms and the young boy ran and hugged the old man. His father looked up at him but Sudip's eyes were blurred by tears. 

That night, his father said, "Book my tickets. I will also come to the US."

Sudip closed his eyes and nodded, relieved and happy.

With his father at home, life seemed to take a different turn. In the evenings, his young son diligently sat for lessons and showed great promise. His father's health seemed to improve as he enthusiastically guided his young ward into the world of Hindustani music. 

But it was when Sudip too joined sometimes and picked up from where he had stopped decades ago that his father seemed to come alive and pull out gems that he seemed to have reserved for his son. 

Sudip felt his heartstrings loosen up and a new joy pervade his being. Was it the music or the reviving bond with his father, he could not say. But he felt everything was right with the world now. 

The Invisible and Anonymous

She was overwhelmed by the oncoming traffic that just wouldn't stop. It had been a quiet road till sometime back, with very little traffic. Though close to a main junction, it was rarely used. She lived in a slum, right across the hospital on this road. She had joined the hospital a decade ago, when her son was just 2 years old. She had never dreamed of working, but a drunkard of a husband who cared little about feeding his wife and child compelled her to seek ways of keeping her child and herself alive. How long could she depend on kindly neighbours?

But, having been brought up in a village, she was hesitant--ignorant, in fact--of ways of the city. A metro such as this. Luckily, a woman next door worked in the hospital and casually mentioned a job opening. To sweep and mop the floors. She was shocked at the lowly job she would be expected to do, but a steady income was not to be frowned upon. She went with the woman and got the job. 

In the 10 years, she had crossed the road every day and it was mostly a breeze. It was a quiet nook in an otherwise bustling city, with woods on either side and no houses.

Ever since the metro rail work on the main road, traffic had been diverted to this road and she dreaded the ever-flowing traffic of large and small vehicles. Once, one bike rider almost rode on her foot. Another time, a car turned fast into the lane just as she was about to cross! But the worst was when the bus knocked her down. It was a gentle nudge, really, but she almost came under the wheel! 

Since then, she trembled as she stood waiting to cross. She would catch someone trying to cross from her side to the other and tag along with them to safety.

Today, there was no one in sight. But luckily, a young, chirpy boy came with two flags in hand -- green and red. She had not seen him here before. There were other road marshals assigned to that crossing and they helped her cross safely to the other side every time. But she was nonexistent for them - 

Just a face among a million faces
Just another woman with no name 

Abba's lyrics would have been the right fit for the situation had she but known about it. She would know what they meant. Not just here, even in the hospital, even amongst patients who came often, she was invisible. Just the woman who swept and mopped. They wouldn't know her if she came with a cup of tea, or even a stethoscope, with the right dress on, of course! Not in the janitor uniform! Her uniform was her identity, not her face.

She felt her heart grow heavy when she noticed the new marshal wave the red flag. Even he was a nonentity for the drivers roaring past. They would know the flag, but not him. So when she had crossed, she turned back to look at his face. She was amused to see him bow to the paused vehicles and then wave the green flag with a flourish to let them go. As if thanking them for respecting him.

She couldn't get him out of her mind. She was glad to see him there the next evening - surprised that she remembered him. She wouldn't have recognized any of the other men holding the flags earlier. His cheerful demeanour and the bow before he flagged the waiting vehicles off endeared her to him. She started observing him for a few minutes before going on her way. He looked youthful but was older, she realised.

One day, she was returning from work and had some chocolates in hand. She was taking it for her son when she saw her favourite marshal waving the vehicles to stop with a flourish. She was about to cross but paused mid-stride. She held back. After he had bowed and shown the green flag, she went up to him and extended her hand with the chocolate in it.

"Here, have one," she said. He took one and saluted her with his inimitable smile. "How do you manage to remain smiling all the time?" she asked in Tamil. He blinked but continued to smile. "Don't know Tamil?" she asked slowly, shaking her head. He nodded. "Where from?" "Assam," he replied. She mimed his actions and clapped. "Nice," she said. He nodded and turned his attention to the traffic again.

She started stopping by every time she saw him there. In fact, now she even knew his timings. In their own broken way, they managed to communicate. He had a family back in Assam and farming lands and he worked here to supplement his income. She told him about her son and promised to bring him along one day. She brought him knick-knacks that she got at the hospital and he always made sure she had a safe crossing.

It was a friendship she cherished close to her heart. There was nothing to tell anyone, and yet, from morning till night, she thought of him. Meeting him was her brightest point of the day.

"Who is that man?" her husband growled at her one evening.

"Which man?" she tried to sound casual but her heart fluttered.

"Don't act, you are not good at it. I know you meet that man every day... That Hindi fellow who works at the signal..."

"I don't meet him, I see him. He is there and I cross that signal every day," she patiently corrected him though she knew he was right. 

"Useless buggers. They don't have jobs in there own cities and have to come all the way to down South to find work... And then they betray us," he muttered angrily.

She paused for a moment before replying, "They come all the way here to work, and we go all the way to the nearest bar."

He pounced on her, grabbed her hair and flung her across the room. She slid against the wall crying as he stormed out shouting, "Becoming too smart, are we? Is that man putting words into your head?"

When he returned late at night, he was drunk and gloating. "Let me see what ideas he plants in your head now," he slurred.

Fear clutched her stomach. She wondered what he meant and wanted to rush to the signal to find out if the man was ok. But he slept in fits and starts, addressing her with incoherent words. Next morning, she couldn't hold herself any longer. She ran to the signal a little earlier the next morning and couldn't find him there. She asked the man who was manning the signal but he didn't know anything. It wasn't unusual, not finding her friend, but in the light of her husband's comments, she felt something wasn't right. Thoughtfully, she walked to the hospital and picked up her broom and mop.

She saw him lying in the general ward, bruised and bandaged. She ran up to him. "What happened?" she asked in Hindi. He opened his eyes and smiled at her painfully. He shrugged but that effort hurt him too. "One man, suddenly dragged me into the woods and beat me up."

She felt her anger rising but she looked at him calmly and said, "God will take care of him... Anyone with you?"

He shook his head.  "I will take care of you," she said. Not only because he needed help, but she was duty-bound now, she owed it to him.

That evening, she lit the lamp in front of the deity and prayed, "Not for me, but for that innocent man, I beseech you... Don't let me down." When her son returned from school, she told him, "I am going to go to the temple festival. I want you to come with me." He made a face, but seeing her stern expression, he agreed. She dressed carefully after making dinner and serving her son and herself. She kept food aside for her husband. She told all her neighbours her plan to go to the temple. One or two ladies wanted to come along too and she welcomed them warmly.

She came back in and waited. Her husband came drunk as usual. He flopped on the floor, the mattress she had spread as usual for him. She and her son stepped out. She told him to wait and went back in. "I have kept your food in that vessel there," she said and gently pushed the lamp close to the mattress. She watched the flickering flame and prayed, "Amba, it is up to you now." 

When she returned the next morning, her son pointed out the crowd in front of her house. One woman came running. "Your husband! Oh poor man! God is merciful. He must not have known. We didn't even hear him scream, just saw the smoke. But by then... it was too late."

Her eyes welled over and tears flowed down her cheeks. "God is merciful," she whispered and let out a wail before running inside.