Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Independence Day?

[Part 4 of 7 writings on Kashmir]


The beauty of the Jhelum is enhanced today – it has been raining incessantly since last night, and the river looks swelled up a bit, with a renewed energy in its generally tardy flow. The mountains in the backdrop are barely visible – greyish white fluffy clouds, which almost seem to be touching the brownish green earth far ahead, allow only a silhouette of the peaks of those Himalayan Ranges to pass through them, more prominent visibility being granted only to the foothills. There is no rainbow, but the freshly washed houseboats and shikaras dotting the banks seem to radiate enough colours to the sky compensating for any apparent lack of them. The rains have been reduced to moderate showers, and the tiny droplets fall softly and clumsily, narrating the fact that the sky is tired by now, and this downpour isn't going to last much longer. There is no wind, but the smell of green, wet trees and chinars soaked overnight and standing lazily fills the air – it's everywhere, and a breeze isn't really needed to carry that smell around. The surroundings are characteristically quiet, and peace seems to be more than normal. Mentally, I classify this as a beautiful day.

I am taking a longer route to the Lal Chowk today. It's past 11 in the morning, and after watching Delhi's flag hoisting on Doordarshan and listening to the compressed versions of fake promises and thoroughly useless speeches from the two highest offices in India (one guy who is generally mute, reads out neat Hindi passages with no touch of inspiration from this important podium, the other guy who used to be the 'troubleshooter' in North Block until few days ago, reads out boring English passages in his own accent apparently from an electronic display besides the TV camera), I decide to rather get on with my more-or-less indifferent life. I walk by the river, through the Jhelum View Park, soaking in the beauty around on a lethargic day in my Kashmir trip, hoping to buy a cup of Kahwa in this weather as I reach the marketplace. With an open umbrella above my head, khaki coloured shorts, a plain t-shirt, hawai chappals, and a characteristically "North Indian" face (after all, Kashmir isn't North India), I probably look like a walking confusion between a localite and a tourist.

As I reach the Zero Bridge of Rajbagh, I observe the surroundings more carefully. There are no private vehicles crossing the bridge, but after every few minutes, a cavalcade of Flying Squads, Vajra Vaahans, J&K Police buses, Ambassador cars with red beacons and Jeeps with square openings on top and armed men looking out, crosses by. On both sides of the bridge, and onwards, there are numerous men in uniform toting guns – apparently automatics, which look like capable of firing multiple rounds on the slightest touch to their triggers. As I reach the marketplace around noon, I am greeted by deserted roads, closed shutters, and of course, no tricolors anywhere – what I was classifying as peace on a beautiful day, now seems like a mourning, and the whole valley in the rains seems to be crying at its fate in silence. This is the stark reality of Kashmir.

What went wrong with the land which inspired countless poets, writers, painters and artists for centuries? As I walk back to the hotel, and ask Abdul to cook paranthas and some curry, I wonder at the people who thought about firing a bullet in this paradise on earth. The very idea of driving tankers and carrying firearms amidst this beauty is violent, actually using them is probably as criminal as throwing acid on the pretty face of a 12 year old girl. It all might have started with the selective greed of certain men, transpiring into a collective suffering for the masses. To this day, the whole of Kashmir region is devoid of basic progress compared to the rest of the country. You wouldn't find modern cars, branded clothing, retail chains, extended electronics, comprehensive bookstores – people everywhere have aspirations and Kashmiris have them too, and they are denied. There are very few banks or ATMs outside of Srinagar, prepaid cellphones aren't allowed by law, and I'm surprised at the number of people who ask me what time it is when I walk on the roads – the people are basically poor, largely due to stymied trade which could develop markets and an economy.

The "Kashmir problem" is purely political, of course. And probably the solution is simple – let Kashmir be. I wonder if a referendum means anything either. People like Abdul, the guy who struggles with less than 20% occupancy of his hotel even in summer months, or the shikara owner, who hardly gets his ends to meet by manually navigating boats (it's real hardwork, I can tell you by experience) with dwindling traffic, or Irshad, the guy who climbs up and down the hills and doesn't understand education beyond "graduation" which he hopes to do someday, or Amarjeet, the 55 year old man who runs a 1-room shabby dhaba slightly away from the touristy area in Pahalgam and manages two meals a day with difficulty – I wonder if any of those people would care about their nationality, identity, faith, or anything beyond letting them be at peace.

Kashmir is an "issue" which select people wouldn't want to kill. And collectively, what we are doing to the mother nature in its most beautiful form can be described by the filthiest of words - gangrape.

Abdul tells me that the markets will open up in the evening by 4:30 - 5:00, and I decide to go back again, shop a bit, and spend a lazy evening by the lake. Buses will be operational again tomorrow, and people here will move on with their lives, thanking that the "Independence Day" is over.


[Addendum]

The markets didn't open up in the evening either, but the medical shops, sweet shops and restaurants opened – the latter, probably to cater to the Roza keepers. I ended up at Aadoo's, another restaurant in the recommendation list, and tried the Mirchi Qurma (I had Gushtaba on my mind, but the waiter suggested against it.)  Goes without saying, I ended up stuffing myself yet again, and couldn't resist the temptation to eat another phirni either. It's just so damn delicious!




Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Srinagar

[Part 3 of 7 writings on Kashmir]


It's a cloudy day in Srinagar, literally, the 'venerable city'. I have woken up quite late, and am ready to get out only by 10:30 AM. Weather forecasts tell me a 50% chance of rains until 2 PM, and I interpret it as one of the best days to walk around the city. Arming myself with the college day attire of a pair of jeans, bright coloured kurta, and a pair of hawai chappals, I set off on foot following the detailed map which I'd got from the TRC.

My first stop is for food. A concoction of hunger pangs, detailed descriptions of Kashmiri cuisine which I've been reading up on, and an unmistakable smell of spices I've been subjecting myself to over last two days, deserve an immediate consumption of a delectable brunch. I walk to the Mughal Darbar, a heavily recommended restaurant on the Residency Road in old city, and ask for a Rogan Josh with rice (being in Kashmir and not eating meat is like going for a movie without popcorn – don't ask any further disturbing questions.) The food is so much, and tastes so good, that I stuff myself up to the brim, with no space for dessert, and promise myself a serving of phirni for dinner.

Resisting the temptation of going back to the hotel and sleeping off for a while after eating that much, I prod along towards Lal Chowk. Apart from being a central marketplace, this city square has been the hallmark of political activities for a long time. One of the key events in the history of this place dates back to 1948, when an open referendum on the political fate of Kashmir was promised to the Kashmiri populace by Jawaharlal Nehru in an inspiring speech standing beside Sheikh Abdullah, a prominent leader in Kashmir who was a proponent of the region's self-rule, and who had led the agitation against Maharaja Hari Singh, the reigning monarch of Kashmir from 1925 till India's independence. The promised referendum never happened, and the valley forever remained a disputed land. Two years ago, the security forces banned hoisting of the tricolour at Lal Chowk to prevent needless provocation of the separatist and extremist elements in the area.

Political history kept aside, Lal Chowk and the nearby areas, including Maharaja Bajar, is a teeming marketplace. The labyrinthine alleys and even the wider roads are almost completely claimed by roadside vendors, and walking in this mass of humanity in itself is an experience. The streets are filled with sellers of small artefacts, toys, spices, clothes, jewellery etc. and the place has a typical Central Asian air to it.

I walk further along the river Vitasta, present day Jhelum, which flows through the city. A number of Hindu temples and Muslim shrines and mosques dot the banks of the river. Traditional Kashmiri mosques are known for their characteristic architecture – they do not have a dome made of stones, but are rather wooden, and have a pagoda-like shape with a steeple. This is particularly noticeable when I get to the Shah Hamdan Mosque, a little north of Lal Chowk.

From here, I take an auto-rickshaw to Hazratbal, around 15 Kms up north from Lal Chowk. Riding auto-rickshaws in Srinagar is no fun, as I discover. All rickshaws comply with a law which mandates 'doors' on both sides of the rear seat meant for passengers. The right door fully covers the entire open area, while the left one has around half of a feet opening at the top. Sitting in this space reminds me of those cyber-cafes popular 10 years ago with private computer cabins like this. Disappointed at the limited view of the old city roads and the Nagin Lake on our way, we reach the Dargah in another 30-40 minutes.


The Hazratbal shrine – also known as Madina-i-sani, or the second Madina, and dargah-i-sharif – is a tall white marble complex on the West of the Dal lake. It's one of the most sacred Muslim shrines of Kashmir, and is believed to contain a sacred hair of the Prophet Mohammad's beard. Hazratbal shrine originally had the traditional pagoda-shaped structure similar to other mosques, but the structure was dismantled in 1968 to build a marble mosque with a dome and a minaret similar to Madina's holy mosque. The shrine is flanked by the Kashmir University campus on the north and the NIT Srinagar campus on its south, providing a serene calm to the whole region – quieter than what is normally observed in Islamic mosques. I get inside the mosque with a handkerchief on the head (instructions on the gate ask you to cover your head), and after someone prompts me, carry my chappals in hand. It's probably the time for namaaz, and I'm asked to wait for 15 minutes by a security guard before I can get in (I am using the entrance made for men – women aren't allowed in this central part of the shrine, and have a separate entrance to a portion of the mosque on the other end). There is a small instruction pasted inside, asking non-Muslim visitors to walk around only in the galleries encircling the shrine, rather than cutting through the main shrine – quite a helpful tip for naive camera-toting tourists to prevent them from disturbing people praying in the center. The whole place has a divine serenity, and sitting inside the shrine is probably the spiritual equivalent of watching the Kashmir Valley itself.

After a few minutes of sitting inside and soaking-in the calmness, I walk out to the backside of the complex which opens up to the Dal lake. It is here that one realizes the enormity of this lake. The tourist-heavy portion of Dal's south tip near the Boulevard probably covers only a tiny fraction of the whole lake. The north and center portions of the lake are enormous in size, and from Hazratbal's Wuzu area in the back, one can see a beautiful view of the city and the mountains around the lake. A complete round of the lake is around 35 Kms in length, with some of the best views located in the northern portions.

From Hazratbal, I use another auto to go around Dal's northern ring, and witness those numerous waterways around the lake which earn the occasionally used name "Venice of the East" for Srinagar as well. One can see the locals carrying lotus plantations on small boats along these waterways, which are still safe from tourist encroachments.

My next stop is the Shalimar Bagh – a Mughal garden built in the early 17th century by Jahangir for his wife Nur Jahan. The garden stretches to more than half a kilometer in length and around 250 meters in breadth, and has an elaborate architecture split in four terraces. A central canal lined with polished stones runs through the middle of the garden, feeding water to each of the terraces in succession, finally going into the Dal. The black pavilion in the top terrace of the garden has the famous inscription by the Persian poet Jami –
"Gar Firdaus rōy-e zamin ast, hamin ast-o hamin ast-o hamin ast."
(If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.)

There are two more Mughal gardens in the city which I decide to give a pass – the Nishat Bagh designed by Noor Jahan's brother, and the Chashma Shahi built by Shah Jahan. All these gardens provide picturesque views of the Zabarwan Range or the Himalayan Range.

I decide to call off a day, and visit the TRC once again in the evening, trying to figure out a to-do for tomorrow. The lady disappoints me - "Tomorrow is 15th August, and the TRC, as well as all government buses will be non-operational. You can hire private vehicles to get out of the city, but I'll advise you to rather stay back in your hotel, and just visit the Dal lake on foot, if you want to get out." I immediately ask her about Gulmarg the following day, and she happily gets me advance tickets for a Gondola ride in Gulmarg for Thursday.

I have a free day tomorrow, and hence I decide to stuff myself with a second and last meal for the day. I walk to another recommended restaurant called De Linz on Residency Road, and try the Rista – another Kashmiri delicacy. The waiter asks me if I'm keeping the Roza – the restaurant is serving complimentary phirni to people who are fasting. Looking at my puppy-dog eyes buried in a disappointed face, he decides to offer me a free serving anyway, and another day in Kashmir ends on a sweet note.




Monday, August 13, 2012

Pahalgam

[Part 2 of 7 writings on Kashmir]


"Buses to anywhere at this time?" is the question I ask at the TRC at about 8:30 in the morning. "Gulmarg and Pahalgam, the one to Pahalgam about to leave" is the reply I get. The decision for the day is made.

Pahalgam is a small village in the Lidder Valley at the foothills of the Greater Himalayan Range. The 98 Km journey to Pahalgam from Srinagar looks rather interesting on a map. The bus takes you south on National Highway 1-A via Pampore and Awantipora, to Anantnag – which is almost the mid-point of the journey – and then up north again through a mountaineous terrain to Pahalgam. Further north into the Himalayas are the Amarnath Caves, for which Pahalgam also serves as the base camp. The road is heavy on traffic till you are on the National Highway upto Anantnag ("Nag", by the way, is the local name for various springs found in Kashmir. Vasaknag, located in the Kund Valley near the northern foothills of the Pir Panjal Range in Anantnag district itself is one of the most beautiful springs on my 'hopefully-to-be-covered' list).

As the bus turns left at Anantnag into the Himalayan terrain, there is a sudden change in the scenary around. The road becomes narrower and curvy with sharp bends, truck-heavy traffic gives way to small local buses and SUVs, the Himalayan Range comes into view, and the beautiful white stream of river Lidder flowing noisily on a rocky bed accompanies the road throughout the journey uphill. The air has a pleasant smell largely due to saffron plantations on a large chunk of land along the way, in addition to many other spices which are grown in the valley. The region is known for the production of world's best saffron, walnut, varieties of dry fruits, and apples.

After almost three and a half hours of journey, the bus reaches Pahalgam. The stream of Lidder has broadened into a small river with clear waters, and as I disembark the bus, the sheer might of the Himalayan panorama strikes me with awe. There is a breathtaking view of Kashmir Valley on the west side of the road, while the Himalayan Range lies on the east. Here, one can hire one of the numerous horses which take you further up the hills to Dabian and Baisaran. Lake Tulian – with its famous yellow coloured waters – lies almost at the top of the mountain, and can be explored by trekkers. These summer green, cloud capped Himalayan peaks are hammered with as much as 10 feet of snow during winter months, and Pahalgam then converts into a skiing destination with sledge-carts going up and down the hills.



I rent a horse named Veeru by its owners, and my guide is Irshad, a small and thin, but apparently strong young man living in a nearby village. The horse takes me up the hill, while Irshad walks by, navigating the animal. It takes a little while to adjust to a horse-ride – the tracks ahead made up of large boulders, swamps, water streams, trees, and inclines of as much as 75 degrees look non-negotiable even on foot, and the horse trodding on such narrow paths and steep inclines almost scares me. I wonder at the built of people like Irshad, who climb up and down these hills multiple times during the day. When we get to Dabian, Irshad shows me a better view of the Kashmir Valley and tells me about the local plantation consisting of walnuts, apples, and on further prodding, of cannabis – a plant whose resin is used to make charas. The production of charas flourishes secretively in the valley with the greasing of all relevant hands, and is an important cash crop.

Further up the hill, we reach Baisaran, a flat portion of the mountain which the locals affectionately call "mini-Switzerland". There's hardly anything Swiss about the alpine trees and the carpet of grass around, but the place is pristine in its calm beauty. Small shops sell some eatables in this area developed as a park, and I spend some time lazing around and munching a plate of maggi served hot. On our journey downhill, I chat with Irshad further about the local occupation. I learn about certain nomadic tribes living on these hills, the locals with small businesses in various nearby markets, and the plantation owners. Irshad himself is the youngest of three sons of a tailor ("darzi master", as he calls him) who owns this horse. The locals use horses for their day-to-day chores as well as for hunting ("Rooz" is a cat-like animal with highly energetic meat, hunted on these hills), and during summers, they also serve as rides for tourists. Riding down the hills is scarier than the uphill ride – the almost vertical inclines give you a feeling that the horse is going to skid at any time. Irshad gives me a helpful tip – look at the mountains around, rather than looking down at the horse, and you won't be scared.

The sun is slowly coming down as we reach the base, and I note the letters "Welcome to the Heavenly Lidder Valley" on a signboard for tourists. The noise of the Lidder is more prominent now, and I take a power nap on the grass in a small park by the river, before getting on the bus back to Srinagar. The bus once again drives along the river, the white waters now show a reflection of the mountains in the orange light of the sun, and I again think of just how much beauty this place has, free to be absorbed.




Sunday, August 12, 2012

Knockin' on Heaven's Door

[Part 1 of 7 writings on Kashmir]


"Is this Kashmir?", the 4-year old girl animatedly exclaims to her mother in a heavy American accent, looking out of the window. The pilot had just announced a descent to Srinagar, and the plane is turning sharply through the clouds towards Sheikh ul Alam Airport. I smile at her from my aisle seat, craning my neck, and secretly hoping she would reduce her coverage of the window surface area so that I can also have an eyeful view of the magnificence I've only read about in poetry and essays. My mute wishes go unheard, as she follows up with "Are you serious?" even when her mom said "Yes sweetheart, it is!". The smile on the lips of her mother blatantly gives away the fact of the lady's local upbringing in the valley, even with her Michael Kors handbag and Tag Heur watch of her apparently foreign living. She looks amused, struck by a heavy nostalgia so much so that she must've stopped breathing for those few seconds. This is the point when I get a look outside, and in an instant second, thank myself for this solo-journey almost everyone had discouraged me about.

The town of Srinagar is at a relatively lower elevation, and is almost in the center of the Kashmir Valley lying between the Greater Himalayan Range on the East and the Pir Panjal Range on the West. This keeps the town fairly warm (at almost 25-30 degrees C) during these summer months. The summer capital of Jammu & Kashmir, at first encounter, appears to be a small, almost a typical touristy place, but doesn't really seem to be teeming with as many visitors as I was expecting. "The month of Ramzan isn't really a peak season here", a local explained to me, trying to hide the prevalent disappointment of the once-booming tourism industry which progressively declined with Kashmir's increased militarisation over the past several decades.

The driver of the taxi (taxis here are mostly SUVs – a car like Toyota Innova carries you around, unless you find cheaper modes of travel) I hired from the airport took me straight to the Boulevard – the prominent stretch around Dal Lake which is the center of all tourism activities in the region. The stretch is lined by numerous hotels, houseboat directions, souvenir shops, and restaurants with kitsch signboards, and I realize that this is not the kind of location I can afford when I don't know how long I have to stay. The taxi driver senses my expression, and offers me an advice without asking – "Ye tourist-area hai sir, mehenga milega sab kuchh" (this is a tourist-area, and everything will be expensive). He then takes me to the Rajbagh area, around 3 Kms. from the Boulevard, where I manage to find a cheap hotel which rents me a fairly clean room with a small table fan, a bathroom with hot water, and a TV which doesn't seem to have a working cable connection. With a bargained deal of INR 400/- a night, I am satisfied with this dwelling for next several days I might spend here.

Abdul Rahman, the caretaker of the property is a nice little fellow with that Pashtun kind of accent, just like most Kashmiris I have talked to so far. The local dialect is Kashmiri, which is a sweet, soft-spoken tongue and makes me wonder about the kind of music which might exist in these areas. Abdul shows me the slightly shorter way to get to the lake on foot, and after a few hours of afternoon nap, I set off for the Boulevard again. The government has setup a Tourist Reception Center, which is one of the best ways to get local information and buy tickets on government buses plying to various destinations. I wait at the Center for officials – they're out for the evening namaaz – and after a while, get hold of a man who seems well rehearsed in guiding tourists on everything touristy in and around Srinagar. He asks me "How many days you've got?" as the first question, based on which he could've decided my itinerary on my behalf. Seemingly disappointed at my non-definite answer, he tells me about all places I can visit, and advices me to use the buses, as I am traveling alone, and taxis will be simply exorbitant. I buy a local map from him, and get a sense of places within Srinagar, and destinations outside.



The sun is almost at level with the horizon, and casts a beautiful reflection of the orange sky into the lake below. I hire a shikara, at this golden hour between the day that was, and the night which shall slowly envelope the valley in silence. My boatman takes me on a ride through a series of houseboats decorated with bright lamps, the breathtakingly beautiful golden lake, the lotus plantations, and the lakeside markets. As the boat floats on the few inches of water visible above the strikingly viridian plantation throughout the lake below, the mind takes a break from soaking the beauty around and battles with contradictory emotions – freedom and loneliness, love and despair, excitement and fear, liberation and belonging-ness – the feeble happiness triumphs, and I start walking back towards my hotel.

It's past 8 PM, the town seems to have closed down all at once, and the only people visible are a few streetside vendors grilling sheekh-kababs. I spot a still open restaurant, and calm down my hunger with a delicious dhimpauk style nawabi biryani on the waiter's recommendation. Abdul spots me at the gate of the hotel, looks honestly relieved at once, and says "Where were you? I was worried if you lost your way or something. It isn't really dangerous out there, but I was feeling sorry I forgot to give you the address of this place when you were walking out." I ask him for a cup of tea, spend sometime chatting and sipping on the tea, get back to my room and decide to sleep after a bit of writing. I am glad I have to wake up with no timetable for tomorrow.




Saturday, February 11, 2012

On "mind, body, and soul" and related flimsiness


I feel pain. Of the kind which doesn't tell which part of the body it's coming from - but it hurts; cruelly, tediously, steadily marauding your brain to your heart to your soul. It's invisible, like a disease, or like nostalgia; it creeps into every iota of your existence, rendering you worthless, devoid of rationality, reasons, wisdom; occasionally showing its physical presence through moist eyes or choked throat which only the finest of people around can detect. It wriggles you inside out, exposing your self to yourself shamelessly when you are the most vulnerable, and you can witness your own spirit writhing around, tormented, wasted.

I feel agony. I try to shake myself out of this irrational slumber of the ego. I jerk every body part, in an attempt to wake them up, to let them feel some blood flow, to free each of these tangibles from the lost struggle against intangible, but more powerful randomness of brainwaves. I decide to stand up, and physical laws of nature almost slap me, reminding the absence of food / energy / sleep somewhere over last several hours. The pain still does not show up anywhere physically, it has managed to remain invisible somewhere, basking in the shiny embers of a burnt soul.

I start to walk. The sun hasn't set yet, and the air has a slight bit of warmth which could have been described as a gentle breeze with healing properties on mundane days. I walk straight on a road which initially didn't seem to go anywhere, the kind of road which gets half built for some anticipated future usage, but then gets abandoned and left clamoring for resurrection amidst the tramples of occasional passers-by; dejected, like people in a plague stricken town left to die with mute wishes and stoned hopes. I walk, and the pain becomes more prominent, probably getting fueled by the meanderings of a now hyperactive brain, and circulated with renewed ferocity alongside blood, pumped and thrusted involuntarily into every corner of the body by a battered heart.

Judging by the twilight, I think I've walked for an hour. The half-built road had ended into a mud track a while ago, and the chappals stained in dirt tell the story of the graveled track they've recently braved. The pain has started getting substituted with consciousness now - of this strange surrounding composed of shrubs, rocks and absence of humanity. I walk further, in an attempt to complete this quest over pain, to win my own consciousness back. I walk till I get to a railway track, and I feel fully aware of myself. It is getting dark now, and the air has developed a strange, unpleasant, almost repugnant chill. The heart is pumping faster, and after a long time I feel physical realities rather than the metaphysical randomness of past several hours.

I feel fear. Turning around, I start walking again - this time the gravels and the dirt are more prominent, the air isn't completely indifferent, and the reducing brightness outside is complementing the hightened sense of consciousness. As it grows darker, I get more scared. Each sound of a slithering reptile or screeching insect, each rustle of a dried leaf, each sight of flying bats, even the view of the stars in the open sky which could have been described with romantic adjectives on mundane days, instills and emboldens more fear. I start walking faster.

I feel ache. The feet, the back, the shoulders and the head are now suddenly real, and the pain so much visible in all of them. Things are seemingly rational again - I am 'comfortably' back to the physical world which had unceremoniously kicked me out to the realms of soul, the world described largely only on paper, the world which showed me all the agonies of existence and set me 'free'. I am walking faster, amidst fear, angst, ache and those returning torments of the soul.

The old pain is back with a vengeance as I step into my place again. Old thoughts are all back to once again claim my existence, walk all over rationality, and invade my conscience.

But in the last few hours, how successfully I manipulated my emotions through varying intensities of experience. How surreptitiously I do this everyday, at home or work, through experiences of much less intensity. How beautifully the whole of humanity exists amidst this paradox of manipulative reality and incessant pain.



Sunday, January 09, 2011

Jack & Jill went up the hill

Memoirs of skiing on the Ragged Mountains in the pristine town of Camden, Maine.


I had mugged up the term 'self-motivated', amongst others, during the CV making and interview days in college. Not that I ever was. I always believed that just like most of the things in life, with almost anything to do, there are people behind who push you into it. And once you are done, they morph into the "I-told-you-so" mode, the tone of the phrase adjusted based on the outcome of what you did.

The drive up to the hills in Camden was smooth; it had snowed less than an inch last night and the plowers had done a good job on US-1 to ensure I didn't have to bother much about not having an AWD car in this part of the country. Amidst some bollywood music in the background, during the entire drive, my thoughts candidly imagined myself - wearing my duck-feather jacket on a t-shirt on a thermal inner on a vest, and a jeans on a track-pant on a thermal inner on a Jockey brief - swooshing in a perfect wave on those white mountains and fields on both sides of the road, occasionally giving a slight push on this side with the two poles in my hand, turning on that side with a slight pressure on the left toe, wavering on the hills for miles at a stretch. I didn't think about any cheerleaders waiting for me with red and yellow flags at the bottom of the hill, god promise; after all, I thought, this was a private moment, when I wasn't going to do something like those city half-marathons where your entire purpose is to get your photograph clicked and published in the weekly office newsletter - this was where I was going to do something to 'unwind' myself, for the sole purpose of enjoying it - I was kind of self-motivated, yes.

This was the only part where I actually skied.

I pulled over in the parking lot of Camden Snow Bowl. Looking at the number of cars, I congratulated myself - today must be a really good-weather day to ski; and the flashy imaginations from the drive quickly replayed in my mind.

In this country, I have learnt to be comfortable with all sorts of people unloading all sorts of sophisticated-looking equipment at all possible places. Earlier I used to get nervous at the sight of guys unloading huge kite-board sails from those giant SUVs at a lake, or surf boarders near the beaches, or mountain bikers at various trails - I've now come to terms with myself on this part - don't think too much, they are 'professionals' - helps. People around here looked the same - the elegance with which the snow-boards and skis and boots and poles were being unloaded from 'trucks', I had to pass them off as 'professionals' - helped.


The white mountain in front of me was dotted with all colours - multitude of people in red and blue and green jackets could be seen swooshing down the hill just the way I had skied in my mind during the drive. Ah, the moment of glory, I am minutes away from that!

The cold wind slapped me on the face as soon as I stepped out of the car - it was still snowing mildly, and the head-band wasn't much help in braving the cold. I walked up closer to the hills and could see the human forms more clearly. Tiny kids, of size exactly equal to the length of my right leg, were gliding happily round and round on the snow in their duck-toe looking skis. I particularly noticed the kid in a pink jacket, she was cute, and she immediately reminded me of my first few days at swimming back in Bangalore. A kid her size had dived just before me in the 15-feet-depth side of the pool, smiled gay-ly at me, swam to the other side; and a few minutes later, I was throwing my arms and legs splashing the water and desperately gasping for breath at the same spot, till I was thrown a car tube by the instructor. Well, nevermind.

I signed up for the $50 'Beginners Special' - something which included lessons in the morning, after which you could ski on your own the whole day. I was handed over all the equipment, and excited enough, I started with putting on the boots. The ski boot is quite a remarkable invention - once you wear them, you can't bend your ankles anymore, it's like a plaster cast below your knees - probably made to ensure that in accidents, your toes, heels and everything down there don't move at all to get broken or cramped. It also means that you almost can't walk wearing them, you can't sit on the ground without your legs stretched (no squatting), and you can't stand up from the ground. Try the last part, stand up from the ground without bending your ankles. If you think it's easy, go take a walk. Literally, in those boots.

The first fall was uneventful. I came out wearing those boots and carrying my skis and poles, went slowly down the three steps that opened up at the base of the hill where snow had hardened to make a layer of ice, stepped on that ice, and slipped. It was tough to stand back up in those boots, and I managed by holding the railing and struggling my way up. I consoled myself, its fine, I just need to get a little further, cross the ice part, and then walk my way on the snow to the assembly point for group lessons. It wasn't as easy as I imagined, every time I tried to walk on the ice, it was like a Michael Jackson moon walk step, I was walking at the same spot, much slowly. The guy in the renting area looked at me, and said - don't worry, you'll make it. Duck-walk, crawl, sit and walk, do anything - people have done it!

With an air of confidence, I managed, crossed the ice, and then walked up slowly to the assembly area. The second fall came unexpectedly. This was the smallest of the hills with the minimum slope, and you could go up the hill holding a conveyor rope, and then ski down. Looking at everyone going up, and thinking that the lessons might be going on up there, I clicked my boots in the skis, followed someone to see how to catch the conveyor rope, went up the hill on my skis, and just when I released the rope at the top, fell sideways. The fall wasn't that bad, the getting up part was. The two skis were stuck to the my feet like cockroach antennae, and anything I did resembled those cockroaches hunting for food - the skis criss crossed, kept slipping, but there was no way to get up. I had to remove the skis from the boots, and then someone offered me help so that I could get back on my feet.

The next fall was sensational. I clicked my boots back in the skis, and they started gliding slowly down the hill. It seemed fun for a few seconds, but before I could fully comprehend it as a moment of glory, the daunting realization came looming on me that I'm sliding down, and there is no way I can stop. I sat, tried to dig my fingers into the snow like the final scene of Matrix, the speed reduced slightly, and I ended up at the base of the hill with a full-body-roll in the final seconds. A girl in her teens asked me - "Are you ok? You need help?" Wish she was hot. I told her that I can't stand back up with those boots, she offered her hand, I tried to get up, couldn't, and finally managed to get up only by supporting myself using a wooden bench nearby.

The next few falls were under the able guidance of my instructor, Barb, a middle aged plump woman, who somehow knew from the very beginning that I am going to be her career-worst student. The first time I fell in her presence was when she taught me how to stop myself while gliding down by making an inverted V by moving my toes inwards and stretching the legs. While attempting that bravely, my legs were stretched almost to the extent of those stretching exercises in your kiddish martial-art classes, and I could feel that my body was about to be torn apart into two halves like Mahabharata's Jarasandh vadh. Before that could happen, destiny decided to have mercy on me, and I just toppled over in the snow, on my face. The cute kid in the pink swooshed around me on her skis, in a perfect round.

Next one was slightly dramatic. I didn't actually fall, but was gliding down the hill with the same speed as my very first attempt, fully out of control, and Barb shouted 'stop, stop' at the top of her voice. Another instructor who was taking lessons for another group down the hill grabbed my hand, and this time, I didn't fall! "Nice grab!" he said, and I smiled at my few seconds of skiing success.

She actually had to shout 'stop, stop' two more times, to the conveyor operator. The first time was when I was gliding up the hill clutching the rope, my skis decided not to be friends anymore and part ways. They switched from being parallel to each other to a 20 degree angle, and before I had a chance to set them straight, I found myself thrown to one side, and the cockroach antennae saying hello to Barb. The second time was when Barb was skiing exactly a feet away from me, just so that I am prevented from further misfortunes, and leading me to a purple post slightly down the hill. I was thinking on my feet, but somehow my feet decided to do more thinking than me, and as Barb explained later, my right foot had more pressure than the left even when I was going to the right side down the hill. This led to an almost 180 degree of turn towards the left, away from Barb, and I started gliding straight towards the conveyor rope, hit it on my face, tripped over, rolled on the grass on the other side of the rope, and landed up on my ass. The feeling wasn't as great as Tom Hanks getting shot in his buttocks in Forrest Gump - he at least had loads of ice-creams offered later.

After multiple such adventurous ups and downs on the hill they used to call 'Mitey Might', I was sweating and panting with every muscle of my body demanding justice. Barb realised, and exuded a sympathetic sigh, just like different people had exuded the words 'awww', 'are you ok', 'need help', 'oh crap' etc every time I met them down the hill, not on my feet. The pink kid was still swooshing up and down, the smile broadened a bit. I told Barb that I'm tired, and I'll rather return in the afternoon after lunch. She said I just needed some practice, till my feet 'get a feel of it and start thinking on their own', and I will definitely get better - and she sooo did not sound like office HRs. I packed up, managed to limp back to the rental shop, returned the rental equipment, and drove straight up to the harbour for a well-deserved lobster.

The snow-capped mountains on either side looked just as beautiful without any images of me swooshing up and down. This time I thought of taking pictures, rather than skiing on them.


Wednesday, November 18, 2009

काश ये खिड़की बस थोड़ी और खुल पाती


वो रौशनदान जिससे बाहरी बरसात से छनकर
आता उजाला छुपकर झाँक रहा है
वो शीशा जिसे भिगोकर अलसाया
भूरा बादल बस ऐसे ही ताक रहा है
काश बस थोड़ा और बड़ा होता

वो ड्योढ़ी जिसमें पहाड़ों से आई
गीली हवा घूमकर शोर कर रही है
वो दरवाज़े की दरार जिससे आती बूँदें
जमी धूल को एक ओर कर रही हैं
काश बस थोड़ी और बड़ी होती

वो खिड़की जो अपनी चौखट बार बार
चूमकर बयार का होना जता रही है
वो अटारी जिसपर बने घोसले के तिनकों को
पानी की फ़ुहार बस छू कर बढ़ी जा रही है
काश बस थोड़ी और बड़ी होती

आत्मविश्वास की वो पूँजी जो मशीनों के
कलपुर्ज़ों के बीच से कभी कभी आवाज़ लगाती है
वो इच्छाशक्ति जो अब भी दरवाज़े के उस पार
और खिड़कियों के पीछे से अचानक सर उठाती है
काश बस थोड़ी और बड़ी होती




Monday, August 17, 2009

Driving in the rains

Cluck-squeesh-cluck-squeesh-cluck-squeesh

The wipers are desperately fighting the incessant droplets banging on my windshield. The excitement of the commuters leaving early from work seems to be compounded by this heavy downpour gracing their return journey – as if the skies are celebrating their little joys of saving a few hours on a Monday. The road ahead, barely visible, is glittering with red and yellow lights from all directions.

Legs are busy negotiating the three levers below and mind is busy reviewing the changes being filmed like a flashback. The helmet visors which needed frequent wiping with the palms a few months ago have been replaced by this windshield. The hands which expertly maneuvered the handlebars and steered their way through crowds are impatiently waiting on the bulky wheel – the grip a little lose by sweat or moisture. The heart had reasons then – reasons which reason didn't understand – to remove the helmet, to feel the wet winds gushing on the face, to feel the prickling droplets beating against the skin, to twist the throttle. The heart has reasons now – reasons which are seemingly reasonable – to press those tiny buttons which close the windows, to cut the wet winds coming inside, to decelerate the pace.

Cluck-squeesh-cluck-squeesh-cluck-squeesh

The sound of the wipers is more distinct now – pronouncing their existence – the existence of an anti-force, trying to erase tiny signs of life from a distant glass surface. The windows have just sealed the doors with a thud – almost insulating the honks, the engine roars, and the noise of waters splashing everywhere. The leather shoes, the formal clothes, and probably even the laptop carry-case are thankful that they aren't getting spoilt – those non-living creatures glimmering with the thought that they won. And life lost it. Its still beating against the numerous windshields, window panes and jammed roads.


Saturday, May 30, 2009

Some other day: A snapshot from 'K'

NOTE: All characters and events are purely fictional.

It's 03:30 AM. Nibbling on lose strands of NC's (Night Canteen) special maggi, the mind wanders over the persisting dominant thought - 'Shall I call her?'.

It had rained yesterday, the last few days of retreating monsoon giving respite from those incessant days of heavy downpour usually associated with the God's Own Country. Last night's showers have bathed the hilltop in perfect viridian. The wind feels chilly against the body - probably the Backwaters T-Shirt is a little too thin to brave the cold, and jackets are never in fashion at kampus. Eyesight wanders towards the oblivion, soaking the NC-view of the carpet of lush green grass meticulously laid over the amphitheatre - shining like crystals in those white floodlights. The hilltop is covered with the usual dense white fog. The auditorium and the classroom blocks are faintly visible, braving against the natural limits imposed by aimlessly wandering clouds over the hill. Moon glistens right above the north tower, it's still a few days before it'd be a full moon again.


'She might be asleep' - thoughts continue. A bird just flew from the canteen's railing, landing on a parapet alongside the tiled, covered walkways below. 'Was it a nightingale?', colourful feathers of a few rare species are always a feast for the eyes.

The plate is empty by now - a few noodle strands spilled on the granite table giving away the contents of what was just gobbled up. A decision on whether or not to have a fresh cup of coffee is pending. 'Shall I try sending an SMS?' - the easterly breeze rustling past the ears suddenly seems to be slightly wet, it might be raining somewhere far away. A dog starts barking below the NC indicating human movements. A quick glance in the dials shows 04:00 AM - even the steel of the watch feels cold against the skin. "Hey!!" - the loud sound is more like a belch than a note produced by a human throat. More noises follow, and a group of human figures toppling over each other is visible towards the stair case. 'It isn't weekend yet, nor was it someone's birthday last night as far as I can recall' - a sudden thought flashes across - 'what makes them drunk? Must be those hostel L fellas'.

"You want maggi?" - one of the voices is really addressing me, coarse and sheepish, as if the syllables were smelling somehow. "Naah, I just had. I was about to leave, have a morning class guys. See ya!" - the pending decision on the instant coffee automatically happens in an instant as I get up and leave.

'It really isn't a bad idea to send text, I won't get a reply if she's asleep, what's the harm?' - the thoughts persist as the stairs seem to disappear behind the floaters, one at a time - as if it's the earth moving backwards, not the human body descending above it. Legs involuntary proceed towards the crossroads, sleep doesn't seem to be anywhere close to the eyelids yet. The cellphone rings, coarsely, disturbing the tranquility of space, as if messing up with the smooth flow of time itself, 'Why don't these cellphone companies close their business hours for at least a few hours in the night and leave us at peace?'

"Hey, we are meeting up in L. That sponsorship issue. We need to finish it tonight. I would be off on a biking trip over the weekend to Alleppey tomorrow with hostel guys. Come over now.", a fellow Council member explains. "I was about to sleep...". "Baah! Just come over." From the NC to L is a long descent, must've been at least a hundred steps - stairs do not disappear by themselves this time and every step seems to require effort. The large room of the double occupancy hostel is already hosting the other five from the Council and the air-conditioner seems to be working overtime to keep away the smoke of puffs being passed on from one hand to another. Mind is preoccupied with other thoughts, eyes are wandering outside the window losing themselves somewhere in the valley, and the watch is being anxiously peeped at after every passing minute. It's 05:15 AM, and a conclusion seems to have been reached. A decision to grab a quick cup of coffee is taken in an instant and the body suddenly finds itself absently running up the stairs in a crowd of six.

A lazy cuppa seems refreshing - resembling raising a toast to the first rays of the morning sun. People move away one by one. 'It's really late now to call or message her' - once again the thoughts return. Sleep is still far-fetched and a morning stroll in the fresh dawn pops up next on the unplanned agenda. A longer route, covering the entire walkway encircling the hill is chosen to return to the crossroads before proceeding to the hostel room. A few steps ahead, just before the library building, the breathtaking landscape on the right becomes visible. The valley seems to be rising up to meet the human form, partially lost. Clouds are hung in the sky below, like fluffy cotton, interspersed with patches of green - those partially visible spreads of rare flora down the hill. The first rays of the sun impart a unique diaspora of colours in the sky - vibrant shades of cobalt, white, orchid, crimson and viridian competing against each other before they'd vanish into a nearly yellow monotone a few hours hence. The floating mountains are visible as well - that rare sight of a few Western Ghats hills rising above the clouds resembling solid masses floating in the sky - indicating that it might remain a clear day today.

Dew sparkles on the parapets along the sides, and wind seems to be hitting from all directions as soon as the Harvard Steps are reached. Thinking Point stands tall in a distance, leaves of trees above it over laden with water and moisture. The moment seems perfect - 'Wish I could take a walk down the hill, if only I had called or smsed her then itself'. A guard would hoist the national flag below the Harvard Steps in a few minutes, precisely when the hands show 06:00.

There are people waiting below the NC. Bike engines would be fired in a few minutes when they'd zoom off for the morning's basketball practice. It's fairly bright by now and lights in the NC are being turned off, one by one, excusing themselves to let the nature itself take charge for the long day ahead. The guard outside the hostel gate is packing up - it's time for a change of shifts. There are loud gunshots booming out of the woofers in the second room - someone is still busy killing someone else over LAN's Counter Strike. Psychedelic trance is heard from one of the rooms, doors are open, lights are put on, and the occupant is lying on the floor - 'Must've been with the L guys in that party' - logic concludes. A pair of hurried footsteps descend from the stairs - a short, slightly overbuilt figure in running shoes approaches with a loud "Hi" and retreats with the same quick velocity towards the gate, the grin suggesting that he is probably lucky going out for the biggest health discoveries ever by mankind - a morning jog. Middle floor is calm, thankfully, as the eyelids are getting heavier now.

The table clock displays around quarter to six. The day's class schedule is hastily scanned on the laptop - all classes in the first half, one in the evening - not a great Friday by any measures. 'She didn't have the first class, I could've called her at 03:30 itself, she wouldn't have slept by then' - the excel sheet for the other section's schedule provides the thoughtful conclusion with a heavy sigh. The inbox is spawned with Course Coordinators' reminders about readings and cases for the day's lectures, spams of lost pen-drives and external hard discs with promised five-star treats for obligors, winners of last night's 'Hollywood Special' Atharva quiz, some disgruntled soul's advice on how bikes should be parked in the parking area so that they do not disturb others etc etc. IP spams are full of invitations to join AOE, reminders of servers set up for CS, notifications of radios starting up, requests for hot videos, 'first-cut' pictures of a couple caught on camera sipping coffee at 2 AM in the NC, hoaxes of surprise quiz the next day etc etc. It's time to crash on the bed, with a half-hearted determination of attending the first lecture - personal stats are in doldrums and missing lectures could cost dear with grade drops.

There is a loud banging on the door. Amidst overflowing hatred for the visitor, personal cursings are mutely passed to the half-asleep brain regarding why everyday it is being forgotten that the door has to be left open before sleeping. "Give me the calci, fast, I've a quiz" - the visitor announces, speaking loudly, hastily as if he's about to miss an olympic medal. The table clock displays 09:05. The class is in ten minutes - 'Didn't the alarm go off, the thing was set for 08:45 itself!' - mute cursings to the cellphone follow.

The gallery outside the classroom is abuzz with people teeming in from both the doors visible just a few meters ahead, amidst heavy breathing caused by a jog up the stairs to ensure a timely entry. By the time the handle-knob of the door is reached and pushed in, a silence has already wrapped the classroom interiors and the door's slightest noise seems to be intrusive. The professor standing in the teaching well glances at the unkempt intruder in slippers, crumpled pajamas and T-shirt, almost at the same time as all other chairs in the class rotate to face this reality. The glance of the professor shifts to the huge round clock in the back - 09:18, it proclaims. Few other eyes turn to the clock too, as if replicating whatever is done in the teaching well below is a natural act, almost involuntary. The glance shifts from the clock to the intruder, and back to the papers on the teaching dias, suggesting that the moment is over. An air of indifference from all parties for the next split second announces the silent verdict - late entry is forgiven.

Emptiness of the stomach is belittled in front of the emptiness of mind about sourcing strategies of some Canadian garment manufacturer - after all, the case being discussed was never even looked at due to a 'busy' night. The class seems to be running till eternity, and every question thrown at students by the professor draws my involuntary response - the act of looking down with zero eye contact, even stooping a bit, scribbling random notes on paper, keeping the body perfectly still to ensure no creeks from the chair or any sound from the friction of slippers against the floors - nothing which can attract the slightest attention and re-direct the questioning towards this direction. The huge round clock seems to be running slow - probably because of its sheer size and weight, even the batteries aren't able to generate the required rate of rotation in the seconds hand. Eyelids droop sporadically, but a third row seat brutally snatches away the luxury of momentary rests.

"You! Yes you, yellow T-shirt." Dozens of eyes shoot in this direction heralded with the creek of almost all chairs in the classroom, everyone naturally replicating the act being carried out in the teaching well - the professor looking in this direction. A quick glance through the corners of the eye at the huge round clock shows 10:24 - 'Had it been running at its normal speed, probably it would have been six minutes ahead, ending the class' - a mute, cursing mind thoughtfully observes. "I've been observing you since the beginning of this class. Get out, wash your face and come back. You are spending your time sleeping in this lecture." Standing up quickly, stout and erect amidst numerous watchful eyes turned in this direction to witness the 'action' live, legs start moving cautiously towards the gate. The heart is rejoicing with joy - 'Baah! It was just because of drooping eyes. At least questions relating to the classroom discussion were spared!'

Human bodies rush towards the mess, stomping the amphitheatre grass - almost dried up by now under the warm, September sun - in a pursuit to grab plates before the closing time of 10:30, right when the class ends. After flickering through the non-edible remains of morning breakfast, the decision to grab a pack of fruit juice from the NC is taken to ensure reduced hunger pangs and droopings during the next lecture. The day is hotter by now, and beads of sweat on the temples and a slight prickliness here and there act as reminders of a bath overdue for days.

Mental faculties do not seem very supportive of the idea of attending the next lecture, but a cautious warning from a calculative brain about past history thrusts the decision of physical presence. People are yet to return with half-eaten, jelly coated toasts in their hands and the classroom gallery, in its wait for living beings, seems to be basking in some strange pleasure probably known only to non-living objects. Winds from the valley seem to join this invisible celebration of static existence of concrete, hissing against the gallery like an open tunnel, flapping a poster or two on the notice boards to keep themselves in wide view of the gaping bricks, observant windows and onlooking glass doors. Something is fresh about the day, the sun shying away behind the clouds reassures.

And the reason reveals itself, slowly, almost notoriously. Tall, slender, immaculate - the precision of approach probably magnified with the sleek, dark black, velvety gown covering a tender body sculpted to the most serene perfection of curves, volumes and bends. Air seems to be frozen into dried ice and the legs seem to be almost cutting across them - neatly, swiftly. The sprinklers suddenly seem to be overworking, rotating with probably double their normal speed, ensuring that the path is flushed into a carpet of lush green - grass blades competing against each other to get martyred below the small, elusive tip of the heels. The winds, idling away all this while, playing with worthless pieces of paper stuck on the notice boards, suddenly seem to change directions - shyly moving past the ears, barely managing to lift up a strand of hair or two, ensuring that the perfectly straight and smooth tousles do not move anywhere close to an entanglement within themselves. Sunlight, playing hide and seek behind the clouds, occasionally dares to show itself up on the small round earrings, dangling as if drunk, moving up and down with every measured step taken forward. A small, rectangular, metallic pendant seems to bask in the glory of its fortunes to lie carelessly on the supple skin between the halter neckline strips.

Time seems to have stopped, and so does everything else around, with the only exception of the approaching magnificence in front. People running towards the classroom, including those from the other section, seem to be frozen in space. Visibility seems to be impaired, with only a clear conical view in front with her at the fulcrum, and dissolving green all around. Sprinklers obey the sanctity of the new physical axioms suddenly wrapping the earth, turning their heads and water jets away just when they are to be crossed, ensuring that the waters do not dare touch anything else except the heels.

The stillness of time and space defies all laws of land, including the absence of any realizations of unacceptable personal grooming with unclean pajamas and T-shirt and an unshaven face, and the absence of any urgency to rush inside the classroom when the professor is already in. A quick smack on the head combined with a sharp, discrete, campus adjective spouted in the ears about the immediate requirement to get inside the glass doors suddenly disturbs the prevailing calm. Noises are back, visibility is restored, and tranquility is shattered. A distant hope, however, toys in the heart - probably there was a faint acknowledging smile visible on those coral lips for a fraction of second just before the 'moment' snapped, and probably it was in response to the smile at this end. Probably.

The next seventy five minutes of physical presence inside the hesitant classroom are an interplay of esoteric thoughts - mental musings of the possibilities which the seemingly apparent faint smile presented, reminiscences of the last few months at college and the numerous occasions of longing stares at her interspersed in them, remembrance of the lost opportunity of forming inter-section groups in one particular course last term, and the immediate possibility of a quick glance once again as soon as this class ends. Amidst resigned gapings at the slow, huge round clock already crossing the position where the hands meet at noon, the thoughts change into haste, frustration, anger and pray - in that order. It's 12:08, when destiny finally obliges, albeit, not completely - the other section has already dispersed with no lectures to follow. The opportunity is lost, and the good world has become bad again.

Lack of concentration is evident in the absent-minded flipping of slides to be presented during the next lecture due in a few minutes - someone just reminded about my absence in last night's group-meeting in which the presentation was made by other group members, and the group's unanimous decision to allocate the task of presenting to the absentee. The T-shirt seems sticking to the back with sweat, and the air inside the classroom seems sultrier. Tinted glasses of the classroom offer a disguised view of the outside - an emerald sky spread over a turquoise campus - as if it's one of those clear spring days.

Was it the presentations which ended early, or was it the huge round clock which somehow moved faster in order to make-up for its day's sins, the class ends at 01:22. The queue in the mess is still short, with a few plump seniors overfilling the plates with salad, probably in vain hopes to lose a few extra pounds by remaining on fibres. The group from L which was stumbling in the NC last night is visible at a corner - dirty shorts and Tees and uncombed hairs signaling that their mornings haven't happened more than a few minutes ago. A small bunch, all dressed up in messaged Tees, denims and shoes, some of them even sporting goggles inside the mess, is glued to the TV - the chatter box irritatingly filling the mess premises with loud cheers of a football game happening in some unknown location in a faraway land.

'She might have finished her lunch at 01:00 itself, she didn't have a class' - an uncomfortable realization blazes past amidst silent nibblings of a cold chapati. People have started pouring in now, the mess suddenly transforming itself into something of a busy marketplace in India. Amidst the incessant chatter of curious faces trying to figure out the names of dishes cooked by largely failed chefs and the hastened scuttles of 'conscious' souls trying to handpick measured calories and fats from the nearly monotonous colour of overcooked items, the mess staffs are roaming around hurriedly refilling empty containers. After a few more minutes of silent observation of this vibrant display of life in its full form submitting to one of the most basic of human needs, a quick nap in the comfort of the room is involuntarily given a higher preference over already waning thoughts of a bath.

The last, 03:15 class for the day seems to start and finish probably at the same time. Events like a mild scolding for not reading the case, standing absent-mindedly at a side when the project group is making a presentation in front of the class, stealing a power nap without being caught etc are wrapped in a package of hopeful thoughts about the immediate weekend, making time fly faster and the huge round clock saner.

'It's still an hour to go before sunset. How about asking her out for a drive to the beach?' - the hopeful part of the brain tries to argue with the rest of it, as it marvels at the novel idea generated immediately after the class dispersed at 04:30. Moving towards the NC with the rest of the crowd, a few light gushes of slightly cold breeze bring back the hopes of a cold, comfortable night which appeared remote a few hours ago under the ember sky. The head appears heavy again, probably registering its discomfort with some part of the head itself, caused by a busy past week. Alternating thoughts of a seemingly boring weekend, few unfinished individual assignments and hectic schedule for the next week occupy the mind, while the steaming paratha overloaded with extra greasy dollups of butter seem to keep the hands and the mouth busy. Vague hope of a remote encounter permits luxuriously slow intake of the NC delicacy and a long aimless chatter with curious creatures.

"Sea Queen?", the voice at the other end of the cellphone excitedly announces. "Who else going?", goes the reply combined with a swift, discrete glance at the watch - 06:20, the hands obediently project their glass wrapped realities. "Entire mid, get your bike. NC, 15 mins." - the decision is presumed at the other end.

The bike starts with a stutter, engine roaring to life, burning fuel rapidly to quickly proclaim its hot supremacy over most of the metallic parts below, till now wrapped with cold dew and raindrops. The sun has already given way to bright orange streaks interspersed with sienna lining the oblivion, retiring itself from a hectic hide-and-seek game the whole day, and promising a lazy return for a Saturday morning. The tires jerk forward with a screech, in a quick farewell to the crushed grass and mud below. The drive itself is as new as ever, the drizzle assisting the glide of the accelerator wire, and the winds helping the hairs align themselves to the blaze of the metal below - straight, swift, on target.

Drops of alcohol, left after a few gulps, seem sweet against the throat. The evening sea, visible from the corner table of the open-roof area of the restaurant, is wrapped with the usual tranquility caused by the weight of wishes and curses and dreams and opinions of numerous people who took a walk on the sands earlier during the day. The waves seem to carry the weird demands, mute ambitions, hesitant confessions and silenced truths to a better place, an infinite miles away, visible only as a silver line at the far end - somewhere to a world where they can be weighed, balanced out, and distributed equally amongst all living things inhabiting the small planet. The sound of the waves seem to produce interference beats against the ear when mixed with the moist breeze, reverberating with the thoughts of the overworking brain recently lubricated by ethanol. Mental rehearsals repeat themselves - of exact statements which would be uttered when that call would be made, of exact time and venue from where the bike would be started, of exact route which would be taken, of exact potholes which would be avoided, of exact food which would be ordered, of exact discussions that would be initiated. Mental commitments are made to place that call, some other day.




Tuesday, March 31, 2009

On the purpose of existence

Better late than never. Finally had a chance to go through The Fountainhead, the masterpiece from probably one of the most analysed authors of all times, Ayn Rand. The gyst of the book, as far as my limited mental faculties allowed me to understand, were represented in the following piece of conversation between the book's two central characters. Given my negative literary standing, I can't dare to analyse or interpret it. Reproducing the original text:



"I've looked at him – at what's left of him – and it's helped me to understand. He's paying the price and wondering for what sin and telling himself that he's been too selfish. In what act or thought of his has there ever been a self? What was his aim in life? Greatness – in other people's eyes. Fame, admiration, envy – all that which comes from others. Others dictated his convictions, which he did not hold, but he was satisfied that others believed he held them. Others were his motive power and his prime concern. He didn't want to be great, but to be thought great. He didn't want to build, but to be admired as a builder. He borrowed from others in order to make an impression on others. There's your actual selflessness. It's his ego he's betrayed and given up. But everybody calls him selfish."

"That's the pattern most people follow."

"Yes! And isn't that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he's honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he's great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make money. Now I don't see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is only a means to some end. If a man wants it for a personal purpose – to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury – he's completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They're second-handers. Look at our so-called cultural endeavors. A lecturer who spouts some borrowed rehash of nothing at all that means nothing at all to him – and the people who listen and don't give a damn, but sit there in order to tell their friends that they have attended a lecture by a famous name. All second-handers."

"If I were Ellsworth Toohey, I'd say: aren't you making out a case against selfishness? Aren't they all acting on a selfish motive – to be noticed, liked, admired?"

"– by others. At the price of their own self-respect. In the realm of greatest importance – the realm of values, of judgment, of spirit, of thought – they place others above self, in the exact manner which altruism demands. A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn't need it."

"I think Toohey understands that. That's what helps him spread his vicious nonsense. Just weakness and cowardice. It's so easy to run to others. It's so hard to stand on one's own record. You can fake virtue for an audience. You can't fake it in your own eyes. Your ego is the strictest judge. They run from it. They spend their lives running. It's easier to donate a few thousand to charity and think oneself noble than to base self-respect on personal standards of personal achievement. It's simple to seek substitutes for competence – such easy substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for competence."

"That, precisely, is the deadliness of second-handers. They have no concern for facts, ideas, work. They're concerned only with people. They don't ask: 'Is this true?' They ask: 'Is this what others think is true?' Not to judge, but to repeat. Not to do, but to give the impression of doing. Not creation, but show. Not ability, but friendship. Not merit, but pull. What would happen to the world without those who do, think, work, produce? Those are the egotists. You don't think through another's brain and you don't work through another's hands. When you suspend your faculty of independent judgment, you suspend consciousness. To stop consciousness is to stop life. Second-handers have no sense of reality. Their reality is not within them, but somewhere in that space which divides one human body from another. Not an entity, but a relation – anchored to nothing. That's the emptiness I couldn't understand in people. That's what stopped me whenever I faced a committee. Men without an ego. Opinion without a rational process. Motion without brakes or motor. Power without responsibility. The second-hander acts, but the source of his actions is scattered in every other living person. It's everywhere and nowhere and you can't reason with him. He's not open to reason. you can't speak to him – he can't hear. You're tried by an empty bench. A blind mass running amuck, to crush you without sense of purpose. Steve Mallory couldn't define the monster, but he knew. That's the drooling beast he fears. The second-hander."

"I think your second-handers understand this, try as they might not to admit it to themselves. Notice how they'll accept anything except a man who stands alone. They recognize him at once. By instinct. There's a special, insidious kind of hatred for him. They forgive criminals. They admire dictators. Crime and violence are a tie. A form of mutual dependence. They need ties. They've got to force their miserable little personalities on every single person they meet. The independent man kills them – because they don't exist within him and that's the only form of existence they know. Notice the malignant kind of resentment against any idea that propounds independence. Notice the malice toward an independent man. Look back at your own life, Howard, and at the people you've met. They know. They're afraid. You're a reproach."

"That's because some sense of dignity always remains in them. They're still human beings. But they've been taught to seek themselves in others. Yet no man can achieve the kind of absolute humility that would need no self-esteem in any form. He wouldn't survive. So after centuries of being pounded with the doctrine that altruism is the ultimate ideal, men have accepted it in the only way it could be accepted. By seeking self-esteem through others. By living second-hand. And it has opened the way for every kind of horror. It has become the dreadful form of selfishness which a truly selfish man couldn't have conceived. And now, to cure a world perishing from selflessness, we're asked to destroy the self. Listen to what is being preached today. Look at everyone around us. You've wondered why they suffer, why they seek happiness and never find it. If any man stopped and asked himself whether he's ever held a truly personal desire, he'd find the answer. He'd see that all his wishes, his efforts, his dreams, his ambitions are motivated by other men. He's not really struggling even for material wealth, but for the second-hander's delusion – prestige. A stamp of approval, not his own. He can't find no joy in the struggle and no joy when he has succeeded. He can't say about a single thing: 'This is what I wanted because I wanted it, not because it made my neighbors gape at me.' Then he wonders why he's unhappy. Every form of happiness is private. Our greatest moments are personal, self motivated, not to be touched. The things which are sacred or precious to us are the things we withdraw from promiscuous sharing. But now we are taught to throw everything within us into public light and common pawing. To seek joy in meeting halls. We haven't even got a word for the quality I mean – for the self-sufficiency of man's spirit. It's difficult to call it selfishness or egotism, the words have been perverted, they've come to mean Peter Keating. Gail, I think the only cardinal evil on earth is that of placing your prime concern within other men. I've always demanded a certain quality in the people I liked. I've always recognized it at once – and it's the only quality I respect in men. I chose my friends by that. Now I know what it is. A self-sufficient ego. Nothing else matters."