Saturday, April 28, 2012
Home is where the heart is and the heart longs only for a home
Home is an idea, a desire, a dream, at times. I foolishly look for it everywhere. Once I ended up in a public lavatory thinking it to be my home. Actually, I dozed off on the Italian marble floor of the deserted public toilet for almost two hours. Perhaps, I was snoring hard. Alarmed by the unusual noise emanating from the wash room, the cleaner came to check in. Her initial reaction was a scream, finding a huge body lying almost unconscious on the floor. Her shock was enough to wake me up. I was bemused at my own state. I apologised, saying I was feeling giddy after a heavy lunch and took the afternoon siesta. The creases in her face turned into a faint smile, she wished me luck for my future adventures. I bade her goodbye. In those two hours, I slept for a million years.
That public lavatory is one of my many homes. I have built many homes, in many places, in many times, though mostly temporary arrangements. Finding a permanent solution is still an ambition to be arrived at. No, I don't dream of a beautiful cottage overlooking the snow-laden ranges of Himalayas, where I had spent bits and parts of my childhood, to be my home. Neither, do I attempt to turn a boat into a house to be ferried across the river Brahmaputra, when spring breeze would be at its modest best. No, nor, do I secretly aspire to own a three-bedroom flat, in a posh locality of Bangalore, my present abode. Then, what do I crave for? The answer is simple, a home.
In that simple basic aspiration of mine, many complex narrations lie hidden beneath. Deep they are, started when I was a toddler. I could not get enough time to reconcile to the fact that born in the family of a gypsy, a home can be, and often is under the blue sky. Holding hands of my parents, I grew up crossing hundreds of miles of Rajasthan desert with a thirsty throat, was once lost in a crowded street of Bombay (now, they call it Mumbai), had enjoyed mouthwatering Chinese noodles in a Calcutta (again, it has mutated into Kolkata) restaurant, had bathed naked in the icy water of the Ganges in the December chill, all of them have housed me, nurtured me, whispered me into my youth, now I am proudly glowing in my old age. The shimmering grey in my hair is a testimony to my present reality. The wrinkles are now taut and adamant whenever I smile in amusement.
By the time father built a home for us and settled down, as signalled by his cracked heels, I was pushed to move again, in search of the unknown. They say gypsies are not supposed to stay affixed in a land. Trees are the only rooted objects. That is why they are so quiet and sombre. An animated soul should literally fly. Taking a walk is a mild exercise. They should explore continents, rivers, mountains, deserts, and if possible sky, explore till their feet give away, and dirt-laden cracked heels cry in agony, "time to rest."
I often look at my cracked heels, and converse with them, "time to retire, right?"
The answer would be as always, "miles and miles away, before home is to be found." I would rebuke, "Bloody hell! I am tired. Permit me to end my journey."
All I would encounter was silence—a deafening silence. I can understand their annoyance at my repeated questioning.
Obsession, as they say, mostly sprouts from deprivation. As I find everyone and everybody owing and possessing a house of their own--even if it is raised on four bamboo poles and a flimsy piece of polythene sheet above the structure--I long to master a home. I wish to rule myself for a while. Somewhere I am tired of being too free, lost, and wandering aimlessly. And, it is in those intense moments of too much longing, that I want to surrender myself to the comforts of the four walls of a home. I do realise, I have, but no luxury of a home. But, I have many homes, what if I don't own them, possess them, master them, but I have lived in them, and they too have lived many lives with me. Now, don't ask, how could I be so sure? Arrey! They have all whispered to me, told me in those lazy hours of life, that in living a few hours of togetherness in silence is next only to a pilgrimage. The arithmetic of ownership is beyond the comprehension of even a genius. After all, I have always proudly flunked in my mathematics exam year after year in my school. So, going back to calculation would be another attempt of indulging in foolishness, and that too at a time, when I want to prove myself smarter in front of my mirror image, at least.
So, here I surrender my urge of owning and possessing. I am free again. Vagabonds for sure, if not anything else know how to keep themselves away from proprietary rights. It is absolutely hassle-free.
Perhaps, all these years, I have not looked beyond searching for a home. Perhaps, the temporary or insecure nature of my home was bothering me a lot. I was so much fixated with the idea of finding a permanent address, that I had forgotten to enjoy the many roofs and ceilings under whose shadow I was allowed to dream my weirdest of dreams, at times I had nightmares too.
In many homes I live, in many lives I live. I live in air, water, desert, sky and moon (not impossible, India's Chandranayan mission is after all a realisation to that aspiration). Next time, I won't dare to ponder over my homelessness state. After all, I claim to possess almost everything nature could ever offer me.
But, perhaps, I will ponder again, question lack of a secure environment, when I would be thrown out, or treated as an alien in someone's land (home), in sometime.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Sit-a-round and talk about how lame we really are
Today I met Sita in the crowded bus stop of Shivajinagar. She was not in her usual attire — saree --- and was wearing a burqa, almost concealing her true self behind the shade of black.
But, the glint in her eyes got her caught red-handed as for the first time I could recognise the real woman.
After all, it was the flash point, where the epic battle of Ramayana was fought. As soon as I recognized, immediately I went near her, and touched her feet in obeisance. She warned me not to. I stepped back.
“Don’t make it obvious. I am tired of human devotion without any cause,” she said.
Once again I was quick, and asked for her forgiveness. The gentle soul, as she has always been, smiled at me. I gauged she was no more angry. I smiled back and inched closer to her.
“Where are you headed for?” I asked.
“Wherever you want to take me, I am at your mercy.”
“Good”.
We boarded the 330, which was partially empty.
Once comfortably seated, she removed the veil from her face.
“Why are you hiding yourself?” I enquired.
“Scared?” I further probed.
“No, I am tired of being Sita.”
“Hmm..”
“But, you are a goddess, the wife of great lord Rama. You epitomise womanhood. You have set a benchmark for all women to be followed. You tell us that true womanhood lies in the ability to make supreme sacrifice for the sake and prestige of one’s husband and family.”
She flashed a sarcastic smile.
“Isn’t it tiring to be always obedient and submissive?” she questioned.
“When have I been allowed to express myself fully? My true potential does not lie in following someone else’s dictates. I could have offered more to myself, and women who look upon me as their idol. But, I was denied to do so often.”
I remained quiet. She was breathing fast, as if angry over her character sketch.
“So, you want more to add to your character graph?” I smiled.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Say suppose, you are my creator, tell me how would sketch my character?”
I paused for a while. My thoughts were veering to blasphemy.
“I don’t want to offend those who worship you,” I replied.
“So what? Tell me?”
“Feel free to express yourself. Give me a new look, a new lease of life,” she insisted.
“Then listen.”
“Had I been your creator, I would have made you fall in love with Ravana, the demon god. He loved you, and had the guts to abduct you, without fearing any consequences. In fact, he ruined himself for you. He had never harmed you, even when he kept you under captivity. When rumours were rife about your purity, your husband did not protect you. In order to save his power, he punished you to second exile at a time when you were expecting.”
“I would have made you stand against your husband and assert your rights, and probably would have orchestrated a divorce. I would have never made you sit on a pyre of fire as part of Agni Pariksha (fire ordeal) to prove your innocence. Once the seed of doubt engulfs the corridors of a marriage, nothing can save it. And, I find it ridiculous on the part of your husband to listen to his subjects’ demand, questioning your integrity. Probably, he was more in love with his power and position, and that is why never defended you.”
“Hope I have not hurt you by sketching you a rebel,” I apologised.
She was looking intently at me, her eyes sparkling bright.
“You’re right. This is perhaps my real self, which I too have ignored for long. That is why I was feeling so suffocated?”
“Now, I am relieved. In a way you have thrown light on my true self, hidden deep in the abyss of so-called tradition and culture.”
These were the last words said by Sita before she disembarked midway in the journey near HAL airport.
As the bus zoomed past the airport, where few Indian air force helicopters were conducting test drive, I also saw one burqa clad woman running amok on the runway.
(This is my answer to the question posed to me by a woman who wanted to know if I have read the Ramayana. She had the audacity to ask me “who is the hero (nayak) of Ramayana”? I don’t know, why she wanted to know that. Either she thought I am too modern (read atheist) to bother about religious texts like Ramayana, or an illiterate and have no clue what the great epic is all about. When I was confronted with the two questions, I was too shocked to reply. After due thought, I can say one thing very confidently, Ram was certainly not the hero of Ramayana. I would like to anoint either Sita or Ravana as the heroes of the epic.)
But, the glint in her eyes got her caught red-handed as for the first time I could recognise the real woman.
After all, it was the flash point, where the epic battle of Ramayana was fought. As soon as I recognized, immediately I went near her, and touched her feet in obeisance. She warned me not to. I stepped back.
“Don’t make it obvious. I am tired of human devotion without any cause,” she said.
Once again I was quick, and asked for her forgiveness. The gentle soul, as she has always been, smiled at me. I gauged she was no more angry. I smiled back and inched closer to her.
“Where are you headed for?” I asked.
“Wherever you want to take me, I am at your mercy.”
“Good”.
We boarded the 330, which was partially empty.
Once comfortably seated, she removed the veil from her face.
“Why are you hiding yourself?” I enquired.
“Scared?” I further probed.
“No, I am tired of being Sita.”
“Hmm..”
“But, you are a goddess, the wife of great lord Rama. You epitomise womanhood. You have set a benchmark for all women to be followed. You tell us that true womanhood lies in the ability to make supreme sacrifice for the sake and prestige of one’s husband and family.”
She flashed a sarcastic smile.
“Isn’t it tiring to be always obedient and submissive?” she questioned.
“When have I been allowed to express myself fully? My true potential does not lie in following someone else’s dictates. I could have offered more to myself, and women who look upon me as their idol. But, I was denied to do so often.”
I remained quiet. She was breathing fast, as if angry over her character sketch.
“So, you want more to add to your character graph?” I smiled.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Say suppose, you are my creator, tell me how would sketch my character?”
I paused for a while. My thoughts were veering to blasphemy.
“I don’t want to offend those who worship you,” I replied.
“So what? Tell me?”
“Feel free to express yourself. Give me a new look, a new lease of life,” she insisted.
“Then listen.”
“Had I been your creator, I would have made you fall in love with Ravana, the demon god. He loved you, and had the guts to abduct you, without fearing any consequences. In fact, he ruined himself for you. He had never harmed you, even when he kept you under captivity. When rumours were rife about your purity, your husband did not protect you. In order to save his power, he punished you to second exile at a time when you were expecting.”
“I would have made you stand against your husband and assert your rights, and probably would have orchestrated a divorce. I would have never made you sit on a pyre of fire as part of Agni Pariksha (fire ordeal) to prove your innocence. Once the seed of doubt engulfs the corridors of a marriage, nothing can save it. And, I find it ridiculous on the part of your husband to listen to his subjects’ demand, questioning your integrity. Probably, he was more in love with his power and position, and that is why never defended you.”
“Hope I have not hurt you by sketching you a rebel,” I apologised.
She was looking intently at me, her eyes sparkling bright.
“You’re right. This is perhaps my real self, which I too have ignored for long. That is why I was feeling so suffocated?”
“Now, I am relieved. In a way you have thrown light on my true self, hidden deep in the abyss of so-called tradition and culture.”
These were the last words said by Sita before she disembarked midway in the journey near HAL airport.
As the bus zoomed past the airport, where few Indian air force helicopters were conducting test drive, I also saw one burqa clad woman running amok on the runway.
(This is my answer to the question posed to me by a woman who wanted to know if I have read the Ramayana. She had the audacity to ask me “who is the hero (nayak) of Ramayana”? I don’t know, why she wanted to know that. Either she thought I am too modern (read atheist) to bother about religious texts like Ramayana, or an illiterate and have no clue what the great epic is all about. When I was confronted with the two questions, I was too shocked to reply. After due thought, I can say one thing very confidently, Ram was certainly not the hero of Ramayana. I would like to anoint either Sita or Ravana as the heroes of the epic.)
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The loner and his follower
It was a rare sight. In fact, rarest of the rare I would like to call the entire episode, just like witnessing an eclipse as amateurs and professionals hail the celestial event with great bonhomie.
At a time when everything moves at a maddening pace and you find someone leisurely taking a stroll on the central business district of Bangalore, all you can do is to notice the phenomenon unveiling right in front of you.
I clearly remember the first time I saw him near ASC Centre and College in 2008. He was standing near the footpath, smoking a bidi, and his flowing grey mane caressed by the autumn breeze. He had a fixed smile, eyes looking somewhere at a distance, where probably we “normal” mortals can never reach. He was holding a jhola bag, his white T-shirt was almost brown as layers of dirt and grime accumulated in the passage of time. Completing his overall persona with his tattered jeans, he had that look from the rock-n-roll era of 80s.
I was pleasantly surprised, finding someone in busy Bangalore so lost in his own world. I thought he was a traveller who has accidentally stumbled on the city roads. I was sure he had set out for another destination, somewhere far, as far as the Thar Desert or Antarctica. He did not look like a native. The true inhabitants of a city are always cocksure souls. Their gait and posture always carry an aplomb. They can never be so unsteady and nervous.
Sitting in the bus, waiting for the traffic to get cleared, I was intently looking at him from the window. He had clearly noticed me. But, was smart enough to avoid me.
It did infuriate me. In a knee-jerk reaction, I decided to look at him more closely, trying to get that elusive eye-contact, to further our non-verbal conversation. In those few seconds, I succeeded. He looked back and smiled at me. I acknowledged his generosity as my bus moved ahead to the cacophony of city life. I tried to keep my gaze fixed at him till I lost sight of him.
Almost a week later, I saw him again. This time we met at the ever-crowded Majestic bus station. It was unexpected but I instantly recognised him. He was wearing the same clothes, but a brown cap resting on his head was an addition. He was sitting on a bench, sipping tea from a glass. As soon as I disembarked from the bus, I wanted to go near and greet him. But the crowd behind pushed me to a corner. By the time I could steady, he had already left the place. I searched for him for a while but I was in a hurry to catch another bus for another destination. So, I left but his sight haunted me throughout the day. I kept wondering, Who is this man?”No, no, he cannot be a traveller. Or else, by now, he would have left the city. Then, who’s he?
He looked so different. But still so common, almost maintaining his anonymity in the crowd. He had that look of a lunatic man who had probably run away from the asylum. Or, is he the urban monk, the legend of which I had read?
All he remained for me was an enigma, a bunch of unanswered queries. As time passed by, and cycle of season changed its moods, he too steadily faded out of my mind just like hundreds of unknown faces whom I encounter every day and immediately forget about them.
But there are coincidences and I do believe in them. Almost two years later, what I saw again proved me right once again. I saw him, standing right in front of me, as I was sifting through the pages of a biography of a successful business tycoon on an MG Road footpath stall.
“Don’t buy this. I bet you won’t enjoy the book,” he advised.
I could not agree with him more. But, to strike a conversation, I decided to disagree.
“He is one of India’s richest men, a rag-to-riches story. I am certain, it would be inspiring,” I replied.
“If you want to be rich, money-wise, then go ahead. I won’t stop you,” he smiled.
I looked at him. I was thinking how could he know what I was looking for? As if he had caught me lying to myself, trying to ape anyone and everyone to be accepted by the society at large.
“You should read what you enjoy the most. You don’t have to be somebody else. You’re beautiful in your own skin. Now, I have to go. Have a good-day.”
Once again he left me alone, as the crowd around swelled like a huge reptile devouring me into a deep dark pit. I was blind for a few seconds. Almost blind, I could see and locate nothing, but a vast road, somewhere in the unknown, waiting and telling me to embark on. I wanted to talk, ask so many questions to him. “Who are you? What do you do? Why are you so elusive?”
But, who could stop a wandering soul, the mild evening breeze crooned to me. “Let him go. In his journey lies the answers of life.”
If he belongs to abstraction of life, my reality too is nothing short than accepting the truth. I did not attempt to run after him (which I could have easily done). Rather I let him go. But I was sure he would come back, maybe after ages. Maybe then we would talk, strike a conversation when all my queries would be answered.
I returned to myself once again, trying not to think about him further. However, waves of thoughts kept hitting me, making me wet to the skin in the process.
“There are many pressing things to be addressed in life. Does a vagabond deserve so much of my attention and time?” I questioned.
My wandering mind did not comply with any of the profoundly popular logic or reasoning. I decided to let my mind take a walk where roads have no definite destinations. After all, it’s the journey that matters, destination is anyway guaranteed. What we encounter in a journey that matters. The surprises, difficulties, pain, hidden sorrow and joy, and ultimately the calmness that embraces you as you reach the destination you have been seeking so hard.
I wanted to enjoy the process of travelling for the time being. He did keep on frequenting my thoughts now and then. At times we would converse. Mostly, I would question him with my child-like curiosity, while he answered with lot of promises. His convincing answers would even make me belief in non-existent things. Though I know the thin line bordering the wall governing the realms of reality and dream, this time I decided to surrender myself to the unknown.
A state of hallucination always engulfed me and it never looked bad even when I did not meet him after that.
But, once in a while, he talks to me in his inimitable style. He sings to me, whispers incoherently, as always taking me by surprise.
“Your nomad is discovering new lands and places, and meeting lots of interesting people. I am sure you would have liked them too, like I am enjoying now. Do join me sometime. And yes, don’t be sad. I am here only, right beside you. The other day, when you saw the elderly man sitting in gay abandon in the empty bus bay, lost in his own thoughts, I was there too. I saw you, noticing the old man keenly. By now, I know you well. Your love for unnoticed and unattended things is quite profound. Perhaps that is why you have found me. Generally people don’t notice me, even when I stand right in front of them. You in a way discovered me in the midst of a crowd. Before I met you, I almost started believing that I have become non-existent, like the invisible man. You gave me visibility, and I am sure you too have re-discovered yourself once again through my prism.”
(If anyone of you ever comes across the wanderer described in the above post do inform me. I am desperately looking for him.)
At a time when everything moves at a maddening pace and you find someone leisurely taking a stroll on the central business district of Bangalore, all you can do is to notice the phenomenon unveiling right in front of you.
I clearly remember the first time I saw him near ASC Centre and College in 2008. He was standing near the footpath, smoking a bidi, and his flowing grey mane caressed by the autumn breeze. He had a fixed smile, eyes looking somewhere at a distance, where probably we “normal” mortals can never reach. He was holding a jhola bag, his white T-shirt was almost brown as layers of dirt and grime accumulated in the passage of time. Completing his overall persona with his tattered jeans, he had that look from the rock-n-roll era of 80s.
I was pleasantly surprised, finding someone in busy Bangalore so lost in his own world. I thought he was a traveller who has accidentally stumbled on the city roads. I was sure he had set out for another destination, somewhere far, as far as the Thar Desert or Antarctica. He did not look like a native. The true inhabitants of a city are always cocksure souls. Their gait and posture always carry an aplomb. They can never be so unsteady and nervous.
Sitting in the bus, waiting for the traffic to get cleared, I was intently looking at him from the window. He had clearly noticed me. But, was smart enough to avoid me.
It did infuriate me. In a knee-jerk reaction, I decided to look at him more closely, trying to get that elusive eye-contact, to further our non-verbal conversation. In those few seconds, I succeeded. He looked back and smiled at me. I acknowledged his generosity as my bus moved ahead to the cacophony of city life. I tried to keep my gaze fixed at him till I lost sight of him.
Almost a week later, I saw him again. This time we met at the ever-crowded Majestic bus station. It was unexpected but I instantly recognised him. He was wearing the same clothes, but a brown cap resting on his head was an addition. He was sitting on a bench, sipping tea from a glass. As soon as I disembarked from the bus, I wanted to go near and greet him. But the crowd behind pushed me to a corner. By the time I could steady, he had already left the place. I searched for him for a while but I was in a hurry to catch another bus for another destination. So, I left but his sight haunted me throughout the day. I kept wondering, Who is this man?”No, no, he cannot be a traveller. Or else, by now, he would have left the city. Then, who’s he?
He looked so different. But still so common, almost maintaining his anonymity in the crowd. He had that look of a lunatic man who had probably run away from the asylum. Or, is he the urban monk, the legend of which I had read?
All he remained for me was an enigma, a bunch of unanswered queries. As time passed by, and cycle of season changed its moods, he too steadily faded out of my mind just like hundreds of unknown faces whom I encounter every day and immediately forget about them.
But there are coincidences and I do believe in them. Almost two years later, what I saw again proved me right once again. I saw him, standing right in front of me, as I was sifting through the pages of a biography of a successful business tycoon on an MG Road footpath stall.
“Don’t buy this. I bet you won’t enjoy the book,” he advised.
I could not agree with him more. But, to strike a conversation, I decided to disagree.
“He is one of India’s richest men, a rag-to-riches story. I am certain, it would be inspiring,” I replied.
“If you want to be rich, money-wise, then go ahead. I won’t stop you,” he smiled.
I looked at him. I was thinking how could he know what I was looking for? As if he had caught me lying to myself, trying to ape anyone and everyone to be accepted by the society at large.
“You should read what you enjoy the most. You don’t have to be somebody else. You’re beautiful in your own skin. Now, I have to go. Have a good-day.”
Once again he left me alone, as the crowd around swelled like a huge reptile devouring me into a deep dark pit. I was blind for a few seconds. Almost blind, I could see and locate nothing, but a vast road, somewhere in the unknown, waiting and telling me to embark on. I wanted to talk, ask so many questions to him. “Who are you? What do you do? Why are you so elusive?”
But, who could stop a wandering soul, the mild evening breeze crooned to me. “Let him go. In his journey lies the answers of life.”
If he belongs to abstraction of life, my reality too is nothing short than accepting the truth. I did not attempt to run after him (which I could have easily done). Rather I let him go. But I was sure he would come back, maybe after ages. Maybe then we would talk, strike a conversation when all my queries would be answered.
I returned to myself once again, trying not to think about him further. However, waves of thoughts kept hitting me, making me wet to the skin in the process.
“There are many pressing things to be addressed in life. Does a vagabond deserve so much of my attention and time?” I questioned.
My wandering mind did not comply with any of the profoundly popular logic or reasoning. I decided to let my mind take a walk where roads have no definite destinations. After all, it’s the journey that matters, destination is anyway guaranteed. What we encounter in a journey that matters. The surprises, difficulties, pain, hidden sorrow and joy, and ultimately the calmness that embraces you as you reach the destination you have been seeking so hard.
I wanted to enjoy the process of travelling for the time being. He did keep on frequenting my thoughts now and then. At times we would converse. Mostly, I would question him with my child-like curiosity, while he answered with lot of promises. His convincing answers would even make me belief in non-existent things. Though I know the thin line bordering the wall governing the realms of reality and dream, this time I decided to surrender myself to the unknown.
A state of hallucination always engulfed me and it never looked bad even when I did not meet him after that.
But, once in a while, he talks to me in his inimitable style. He sings to me, whispers incoherently, as always taking me by surprise.
“Your nomad is discovering new lands and places, and meeting lots of interesting people. I am sure you would have liked them too, like I am enjoying now. Do join me sometime. And yes, don’t be sad. I am here only, right beside you. The other day, when you saw the elderly man sitting in gay abandon in the empty bus bay, lost in his own thoughts, I was there too. I saw you, noticing the old man keenly. By now, I know you well. Your love for unnoticed and unattended things is quite profound. Perhaps that is why you have found me. Generally people don’t notice me, even when I stand right in front of them. You in a way discovered me in the midst of a crowd. Before I met you, I almost started believing that I have become non-existent, like the invisible man. You gave me visibility, and I am sure you too have re-discovered yourself once again through my prism.”
(If anyone of you ever comes across the wanderer described in the above post do inform me. I am desperately looking for him.)
Musings of a lonely traveller
It was unlikely that I would have embarked on a journey that I had not planned for in my wildest of dreams. But, you’ve been adamant. You wanted me to travel across the space -- alone and lost. You planned and packed everything for me, and bade me goodbye, saying that it was my journey and you cannot accompany me.
Deep inside, I wanted a company, the horror of travelling alone and touching upon unknown destinations in the midst of strangers are experiences I would love to forget. So, I wanted you to be with me. I wanted you to be my travel mate with whom I would have shared silences of mysterious distances. Distances as experiences suggest are mostly long, tedious and bereft of any familiarity.
Once in a while when you’re intoxicated with the idea of adventure, it is fine to be alone and travelling. The sense of adventure touches the crescendo, and your gregarious self becomes unabashedly shameless. It does not even bother before interrupting love-struck couple engaged in deep conversation of hearts to show them the ugliest pair of high heels you have bought from a flea market during your last vacation stint.
Of course, such efforts do manage to hold two seconds of glances laden with astonishment from strangers. But losing meaning to absurdity should be avoided at times. One should not stoop so low that your innocent act of attracting attention is construed as stepping into someone else’s privacy. That is actually bad, I would say, really bad.
That is when you realise that travelling alone, that too often, subconsciously affect your psychological bearing, which in turn turns you into a neurotic, to be mocked and ridiculed by unknown faces with whom you try your best to build a rapport. Such attempts do not work often. After all, most of the times, your co-passengers have partners to share the jig-jaw puzzle ride of a journey.
After a while, all you do is end up praising even the most moribund of landscape, dry and barren, as the most natural and rustic beauty you have ever come across. Such is the fate of loneliness that you don’t even think twice before blurting out the dumbest of comments not often associated with normal human behaviour. Insanity? Yes, insanity of unparalleled match that builds and grows every day in your mind and heart when all you have for companionship is loneliness.
I detest that perversion of loneliness. I don’t express my opinion often in regard to people like us who are abandoned in the embrace of loneliness. That is why in a bus jostling for space is often so silent that even human groans are perceived as usual playful acts staged by your stomach after a heavy meal? That is why perhaps, pain and its nemesis called happiness are measured in equal contempt. We all have become so immune to emotional outbursts that silence is what we encounter in every destination.
Otherwise, how could it be possible that even after travelling together for hundreds of miles two strangers leave each other as unknown faces at the end of the journey?
However, if you consider the same situation in a slightly different way there lies another beauty. Isn’t it good that after travelling together for several hours in the same train compartment, surreptitiously sharing glances, even if not sharing mundane details like your respective destinations, you both leave each other without ever expecting to meet again in another journey, to cover another distances?
There lies the thread of linking strangers. They are generous people, and set each other free from any bond. So, at times, I feel more strongly for strangers, as they don’t force upon me any session of questions and answers.
In my latest journey, which is your gift to me, I decided not to try hard to befriend any stranger whom I am mostly likely to stumble upon. I, for sure, would meet many people. But, I am adamant and to be the most stoic of strangers during the entire journey. I am going to give a tough competition to other stony strangers whom I am going to meet on my way.
Even if the elderly gentleman holding a newspaper, sitting next to me in the bus expresses his disgust in regard to latest “porngate” scandal rocking Bangalore, all I would do is give him a cold blank look. That would obviously silence him till he covers his entire journey. Or, it might happen that from next time onwards whenever he boards a bus, he would maintain complete silence, as a mark of respect to his co-passengers.
After all, city buses are meant to cover the annoying hours of life in Bangalore. They are no social clubs to befriend people. So, such pervasive silence thickening the red, blue and brown (or is it something else)-coated walls of buses is a well-established rule.
I am saying this with hell lot of confidence, which only a veteran like me of many bus journeys across the length and breadth of the city could ever possess. But then exceptions do happen, and I too have been blessed with befriending men, women and children, when they have opened their hearts to me, and shared those secrets which they perhaps cannot share with their loved ones. After all, they knew that I am just another co-passenger like several other thousands of them whom they had encountered in a bus, guaranteeing them not to meet again.
It is just that I carry secrets of a few strangers whose names I had never bothered to ask.
That is why I love big bursting cities, the anonymity they give you. Even the ice-layered Himalayan ranges from childhood memories had shared their names and addresses with me. They often used to visit me in my courtyard and my mother was always generous enough to offer them chai and biscuits. When you are a resident of a valley surrounded by mountain cliffs, all you have for friends are the mountains.
In small towns of India, a stranger is only a prisoner, kept secluded behind the walls of a mini jail, manned by the lone policeman, whose son is again a friend.
Deep inside, I wanted a company, the horror of travelling alone and touching upon unknown destinations in the midst of strangers are experiences I would love to forget. So, I wanted you to be with me. I wanted you to be my travel mate with whom I would have shared silences of mysterious distances. Distances as experiences suggest are mostly long, tedious and bereft of any familiarity.
Once in a while when you’re intoxicated with the idea of adventure, it is fine to be alone and travelling. The sense of adventure touches the crescendo, and your gregarious self becomes unabashedly shameless. It does not even bother before interrupting love-struck couple engaged in deep conversation of hearts to show them the ugliest pair of high heels you have bought from a flea market during your last vacation stint.
Of course, such efforts do manage to hold two seconds of glances laden with astonishment from strangers. But losing meaning to absurdity should be avoided at times. One should not stoop so low that your innocent act of attracting attention is construed as stepping into someone else’s privacy. That is actually bad, I would say, really bad.
That is when you realise that travelling alone, that too often, subconsciously affect your psychological bearing, which in turn turns you into a neurotic, to be mocked and ridiculed by unknown faces with whom you try your best to build a rapport. Such attempts do not work often. After all, most of the times, your co-passengers have partners to share the jig-jaw puzzle ride of a journey.
After a while, all you do is end up praising even the most moribund of landscape, dry and barren, as the most natural and rustic beauty you have ever come across. Such is the fate of loneliness that you don’t even think twice before blurting out the dumbest of comments not often associated with normal human behaviour. Insanity? Yes, insanity of unparalleled match that builds and grows every day in your mind and heart when all you have for companionship is loneliness.
I detest that perversion of loneliness. I don’t express my opinion often in regard to people like us who are abandoned in the embrace of loneliness. That is why in a bus jostling for space is often so silent that even human groans are perceived as usual playful acts staged by your stomach after a heavy meal? That is why perhaps, pain and its nemesis called happiness are measured in equal contempt. We all have become so immune to emotional outbursts that silence is what we encounter in every destination.
Otherwise, how could it be possible that even after travelling together for hundreds of miles two strangers leave each other as unknown faces at the end of the journey?
However, if you consider the same situation in a slightly different way there lies another beauty. Isn’t it good that after travelling together for several hours in the same train compartment, surreptitiously sharing glances, even if not sharing mundane details like your respective destinations, you both leave each other without ever expecting to meet again in another journey, to cover another distances?
There lies the thread of linking strangers. They are generous people, and set each other free from any bond. So, at times, I feel more strongly for strangers, as they don’t force upon me any session of questions and answers.
In my latest journey, which is your gift to me, I decided not to try hard to befriend any stranger whom I am mostly likely to stumble upon. I, for sure, would meet many people. But, I am adamant and to be the most stoic of strangers during the entire journey. I am going to give a tough competition to other stony strangers whom I am going to meet on my way.
Even if the elderly gentleman holding a newspaper, sitting next to me in the bus expresses his disgust in regard to latest “porngate” scandal rocking Bangalore, all I would do is give him a cold blank look. That would obviously silence him till he covers his entire journey. Or, it might happen that from next time onwards whenever he boards a bus, he would maintain complete silence, as a mark of respect to his co-passengers.
After all, city buses are meant to cover the annoying hours of life in Bangalore. They are no social clubs to befriend people. So, such pervasive silence thickening the red, blue and brown (or is it something else)-coated walls of buses is a well-established rule.
I am saying this with hell lot of confidence, which only a veteran like me of many bus journeys across the length and breadth of the city could ever possess. But then exceptions do happen, and I too have been blessed with befriending men, women and children, when they have opened their hearts to me, and shared those secrets which they perhaps cannot share with their loved ones. After all, they knew that I am just another co-passenger like several other thousands of them whom they had encountered in a bus, guaranteeing them not to meet again.
It is just that I carry secrets of a few strangers whose names I had never bothered to ask.
That is why I love big bursting cities, the anonymity they give you. Even the ice-layered Himalayan ranges from childhood memories had shared their names and addresses with me. They often used to visit me in my courtyard and my mother was always generous enough to offer them chai and biscuits. When you are a resident of a valley surrounded by mountain cliffs, all you have for friends are the mountains.
In small towns of India, a stranger is only a prisoner, kept secluded behind the walls of a mini jail, manned by the lone policeman, whose son is again a friend.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
When Happy Prince visits a violence ravaged land
Even in his wildest dreams, Oscar Wilde would have never imagined that Happy Prince and his close confidant little Swallow (two of Wilde’s most adorable characters) from his famous short story “The Happy Prince” would one day land up in Manipur, a trouble torn geo-political structure in India.
But, they did, the two do-gooders, when they came for a pilgrimage on Earth, they decided to visit a place which has been ignored the most, even when it suffers the most.
As they entered Imphal, the state capital of Manipur, all they saw was Indian armed forces lining on the road, as long as it gets. The long queue of jawans in fatigues and bandanaas, created a hallucination like feeling for the visitors. They are spread everywhere. As if trees of a particular height are being planted all over the place, holding their rifles with great pride.
But what Happy Prince and little Swallow missed the most is the hurly-burly of civilian population, which generally provides the first impression of a place.
“Where are the people?” whispered little Swallow.
Cabbie Suresh, a local Manipuri youth, who was ferrying the visitors from Imphal airport to a hotel, smiled at the question raised right in front of him.
“This is Manipur. A bandh is on, and a blockade at national highways. How could you expect people on road? Everything is closed here. Since you are special, our state guests, so we are moving on the road without any restrictions,” Sunil answered.
Swallow got more curious.
“Is the situation that bad? I know, Manipur is a violence affected area, killings and counter-killings among militant groups and army is a general trend, but never thought life would be missing in Imphal. It is a sad sight,” softly muttered little Swallow.
The desolate roads and closed shutters of shops dotted across Imphal created an eerie feeling. Happy Prince moaned within, and closed his eyes, as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Sunil tried to console his bereaving guests.
“Please, don’t cry! I know it is difficult for a sensitive person like you to experience such a situation. But truth is always harsh, and we Manipuris (as people of Manipur are commonly addressed as) are living a painful existence. Life is difficult here, and we have accepted it,” Suresh elaborated.
In order to calm down the situation, and make his guests comfortable, Suresh turned on the local Manipuri FM radio channel. A sweet female voice crooned love notes, expressing her desire to be in the arms of her man, whom she did not meet for few years.
“This is a beautiful voice. What is she singing about?” asked Swallow.
“This is a love song, a woman longing to get re-united with her lover. Now, you must be thinking, love in Manipur? Is it practical? But, then love has always defied all norms, so does Manipuri people. In spite of everything, we Manipuris have not forgotten to fall in love, and experience the most beautiful thing in nature,” Suresh smiled.
Suresh further cheered his visiting friends.
“Get yourself ready for the evening, I will take you to a party,” Suresh announced.
“What? Party?” Swallow questioned.
“Yes, I will take you to Manipur Sangai Festival, a yearly ritual underway at Hafta Kangjeibung, Palace compound. The 10-day-long festival showcases everything beautiful about Manipur. Be it art, culture, indigenous sports, eco and adventure sports, to scenic natural beauty of our land, everything is at display in the carnival,” said Suresh, as he took his permission to leave, promising to treat them in the evening.
Evening came as another surprise for Happy Prince and Swallow. As always, Happy Prince was quiet, expressing himself only when he felt the most. Swallow took the lead in inter-mingling with everyone he met, opining on issues and concerns of the state, making large numbers of friends on his way.
On a complete contrary note, as whatever Happy Prince and Swallow had witnessed at their arrival in Imphal, festival in the evening was choc-o-bloc with people.
“Entire Manipur has descended here. They don’t get such as an opportunity every day, so making most of it,” explained Suresh, as he guided the duo through the festival venue.
Seeing people, from all age groups—beautiful women in their traditional fineries, men holding their little ones in laps, to youngsters in latest fashionable clothes, everything looked normal now. A smile spread across the face of Happy Prince. He smiled for the first time, after he reached Imphal.
“This is beautiful, life at its spirited best. I love this. God bless Manipur,” Happy Prince muttered his prayer.
But, Swallow was concerned.
“What if there is a bomb planted here? With such huge turnout, the place could be a prospective target for anti-social elements,” said Swallow.
“Yes, yes, why not? But risk is our constant companion. We play hide-seek with risk. Sometimes we win, sometimes risk,” agreed Suresh.
In fact, on last day of the festival (November 30), a bomb went off just near the entrance of festival venue. Thankfully, it was during morning hours, and public presence was very negligible, helping in restricting death toll.
However, a rickshaw-puller who was hired by a little-known militant group to carry the bomb inside the festival venue was killed in the incident.
Next morning, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to take a stroll on the roads of Imphal, to understand the valley better.
Again similar situation greeted them. Deserted streets, closed shops, and few vehicles plying on roads, were enough to give the impression of situation at ground. Human presence was almost negligible, all that was there was army marching on the road.
“Is this a war zone?” Swallow wondered.
“I guess, worse than that. No war, but still fear of a war is lingering on. Fear is a silent killer. It can make anyone go insane,” Happy Prince regretted.
On their way near Kangla Fort-- the seat of erstwhile Manipuri King and former home to the Assam Rifles—they met a child, carrying a bottle of milk in his hand.
Happy Prince and Swallow greeted the kid.
“How are you, little one?” asked Swallow.
“I am fine. Thank you.”
“What are you doing here,” asked Happy Prince.
“I have been to my Uncle’s place to get some milk for my little brother. Milk is very expensive. Everything is very expensive here. My mother cannot afford to buy milk for us. My brother is sick, I want him to drink some milk,” said the boy, holding the bottle close to his chest.
They learnt during their stay in Imphal that due to regular blockades everything in Manipur is beyond the reach of commoners. When in rest of India, a gas cylinder costs around Rs. 450, in Manipur during 120 days of blockade the price went up to Rs 2000. The difference between the “mainstream” India and tiny state in the Indo-Myanmar border is huge.
Forget about its precarious geographical location, or the distance that separates it from rest of India, problems of Manipur is a reflection of neglect being meted to the state and its people since ages.
“What happened sweetheart? Your father?” questioned Happy Prince.
“My father is dead. He was mistaken as a militant, and was shot dead by the army. My mother has no job. She stitches clothes for people, whenever she gets an order. Money is always a problem for us,” boy said, as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Happy Prince started searching himself all over, if any thin leaves of fine gold are still left in his body. But, unfortunately, all his body was dull and grey, bereft of all previous possessions.
He had nothing to give to the boy. So, saddened was Happy Prince, he almost cursed himself.
All he could afford to do was took the boy in his lap and kissed him on his cheeks. The boy bade goodbye, and marched his way towards his home.
As they continued their walk, they came across famous Ima Keithel or Women’s Market, where few brave women entrepreneurs were doing brisk business.
The beauty of the Ima Keithel is that thousands of mothers “Imas” run the place.
At one corner of the huge market, an old mother with her handloom products was eagerly looking for buyers, to purchase her products.
“Good to see you. How are you?” greeted Swallow.
“I am fine. But, you’ve come at a wrong time. The Market is almost empty, except for few of us, opening our shops. Had you been here on any of these normal days, which actually is a rarity these days, you could have witnessed a sight of great amusement. Women here trade and bargain their way out with customers, selling vegetables to handloom and handicraft products,” smiled the mother.
Swallow asked the mother about her views regarding complete lawlessness and almost missing administration in the state.
“What to tell you son? We’re a cursed lot. Our problems are never ending. The 120-day long blockade might have been removed now, but then another blockade will be imposed. Bandhs as you have seen is a daily affair. So, we at times also ignore it, and brave our way to open our shops,” she introspected.
Happy Prince and Swallow then decided to meet someone special, whom they admire a lot. The Iron lady of Manipur, Irom Sharmila Chanu, about whom the angels of heaven also talk in great reverence, is nothing sort of an idol for both of them. The civil rights activist from Manipur who has been on an indefinite fast since November 2000 is demanding repeal of the draconian Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958 (AFSPA).
As a resident of Imphal, Irom has seen the dance of violence in her state from close quarters. But that day on November 2, 2000 when ten innocent people were mowed down by security forces in Malom, a village near Imphal, Irom could not bear it further.
She told her mother that she had to embark on her non-violent protest, to get Manipur rid from the curse of AFSPA.
Within three days of her fast, Irom was arrested by the police and charged with an "attempt to commit suicide". Since then, Irom Sharmila has been regularly released and re-arrested every year.
She has been lodged at the security ward of Jawaharlal Nehru Hospital in Imphal, where she is being forced-fed through her nose. The security around Irom was too tight, and all their effort to have a glimpse of their idol proved futile. As Happy Prince and Swallow decided to leave the premises of the Hospital, a young man came running towards them and handed them a letter, saying it was sent by Irom.
When the letter was opened, a poem was found tucked between the crumbled piece of paper.
We have lost our paradise/tell the gods of your heaven/to come visit us someday/every day we are dying/ Music has fallen silent on Lai-Haraoba too/ Shiroy Lily does not flower anymore in Shiroy Kashang Mountain/My land is left with only orphans and widows/No body walks on the road anymore/Dogs are scared to even bark/do tell your gods not to create another Manipur on Earth/for human life comes cheap here/falling prey to guns of army every day.
However, nobody signed the poem, so they were not sure whether it was written by Irom (who is also a prolific poet) or someone else. But, truth was spoken in those few lines, and was enough to make Happy Prince cry again.
On the second day of their Manipur trip, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to visit Churachandpur, around 65 kilometer from Imphal. On their way, as they passed through the hilly terrain of Manipur, they came across beautiful hills and dales, with wild flowers waving their path in a sunny November morning.
Once in Churachandpur, the streets got crowded and congested. Small time vendors sitting in various corners of the street with their fares, is a common sight in the town. Right from hot chillies, to dry fish, to trendy clothes smuggled from border of Myanmar, in Churachanpur, shopping is something to indulge into.
But inside the dark alleys of crowded Churachandpur, Happy Prince and Swallow did not expected something as shocking as they got to witness first hand. Boys and girls, as young as 15 years old, were found injecting drugs, smoking cigarettes and becoming part of prostitution and drug peddling, to keep their supply of drug flowing.
Proximity to Myanmar border ensures easy and quick flow of drugs into Manipur. Users are multiplying with time, but who cares, in a place where guns and drugs are the only solace to provide some relief to the complexities of Manipur.
Simon, a former drug user came face to face with Happy Prince and Swallow. Simon realised the two are new to the place and somewhat lost. He joined the two, and walked along with them.
“So, what do you want to see? You won’t get anything here. But, yes free flow of drugs and booze. I was part of the web, but thankfully, has left my previous life,” said the lanky chap, as he handed over his half smoked cigarette to Happy Prince, thinking it would provide some relief to the visitor, after they witnessed dark secrets of Manipur.
Taking his first puff, Happy Prince looked at Simon, and smiled back.
“Would you go back to drugs again?”
“No. Here reality is much more intoxicating then drugs could ever provide you. I am part of this unpalatable secret, and I am not going to run away anywhere,” Simon replied.
Then and there itself, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to tour across northeast India, and its neighbouring countries, to understand the alienated geographical crevices dotting the world map. Perhaps the journey has already started, and we don’t know where they are now.
(Those who have not read the beautiful story The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde, here is the link http://fiction.eserver.org/short/happy_prince.html. The poem in the text is not written by Irom, I wrote it, as part of the blog. I don’t even know whether it could be considered as a poem or not. But, never mind. And, I am not sure whether Happy Prince and Swallow ever visited Manipur. But yes, all the incidents and episodes, in regard to Manipur mentioned in the blog are true.)
But, they did, the two do-gooders, when they came for a pilgrimage on Earth, they decided to visit a place which has been ignored the most, even when it suffers the most.
As they entered Imphal, the state capital of Manipur, all they saw was Indian armed forces lining on the road, as long as it gets. The long queue of jawans in fatigues and bandanaas, created a hallucination like feeling for the visitors. They are spread everywhere. As if trees of a particular height are being planted all over the place, holding their rifles with great pride.
But what Happy Prince and little Swallow missed the most is the hurly-burly of civilian population, which generally provides the first impression of a place.
“Where are the people?” whispered little Swallow.
Cabbie Suresh, a local Manipuri youth, who was ferrying the visitors from Imphal airport to a hotel, smiled at the question raised right in front of him.
“This is Manipur. A bandh is on, and a blockade at national highways. How could you expect people on road? Everything is closed here. Since you are special, our state guests, so we are moving on the road without any restrictions,” Sunil answered.
Swallow got more curious.
“Is the situation that bad? I know, Manipur is a violence affected area, killings and counter-killings among militant groups and army is a general trend, but never thought life would be missing in Imphal. It is a sad sight,” softly muttered little Swallow.
The desolate roads and closed shutters of shops dotted across Imphal created an eerie feeling. Happy Prince moaned within, and closed his eyes, as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Sunil tried to console his bereaving guests.
“Please, don’t cry! I know it is difficult for a sensitive person like you to experience such a situation. But truth is always harsh, and we Manipuris (as people of Manipur are commonly addressed as) are living a painful existence. Life is difficult here, and we have accepted it,” Suresh elaborated.
In order to calm down the situation, and make his guests comfortable, Suresh turned on the local Manipuri FM radio channel. A sweet female voice crooned love notes, expressing her desire to be in the arms of her man, whom she did not meet for few years.
“This is a beautiful voice. What is she singing about?” asked Swallow.
“This is a love song, a woman longing to get re-united with her lover. Now, you must be thinking, love in Manipur? Is it practical? But, then love has always defied all norms, so does Manipuri people. In spite of everything, we Manipuris have not forgotten to fall in love, and experience the most beautiful thing in nature,” Suresh smiled.
Suresh further cheered his visiting friends.
“Get yourself ready for the evening, I will take you to a party,” Suresh announced.
“What? Party?” Swallow questioned.
“Yes, I will take you to Manipur Sangai Festival, a yearly ritual underway at Hafta Kangjeibung, Palace compound. The 10-day-long festival showcases everything beautiful about Manipur. Be it art, culture, indigenous sports, eco and adventure sports, to scenic natural beauty of our land, everything is at display in the carnival,” said Suresh, as he took his permission to leave, promising to treat them in the evening.
Evening came as another surprise for Happy Prince and Swallow. As always, Happy Prince was quiet, expressing himself only when he felt the most. Swallow took the lead in inter-mingling with everyone he met, opining on issues and concerns of the state, making large numbers of friends on his way.
On a complete contrary note, as whatever Happy Prince and Swallow had witnessed at their arrival in Imphal, festival in the evening was choc-o-bloc with people.
“Entire Manipur has descended here. They don’t get such as an opportunity every day, so making most of it,” explained Suresh, as he guided the duo through the festival venue.
Seeing people, from all age groups—beautiful women in their traditional fineries, men holding their little ones in laps, to youngsters in latest fashionable clothes, everything looked normal now. A smile spread across the face of Happy Prince. He smiled for the first time, after he reached Imphal.
“This is beautiful, life at its spirited best. I love this. God bless Manipur,” Happy Prince muttered his prayer.
But, Swallow was concerned.
“What if there is a bomb planted here? With such huge turnout, the place could be a prospective target for anti-social elements,” said Swallow.
“Yes, yes, why not? But risk is our constant companion. We play hide-seek with risk. Sometimes we win, sometimes risk,” agreed Suresh.
In fact, on last day of the festival (November 30), a bomb went off just near the entrance of festival venue. Thankfully, it was during morning hours, and public presence was very negligible, helping in restricting death toll.
However, a rickshaw-puller who was hired by a little-known militant group to carry the bomb inside the festival venue was killed in the incident.
Next morning, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to take a stroll on the roads of Imphal, to understand the valley better.
Again similar situation greeted them. Deserted streets, closed shops, and few vehicles plying on roads, were enough to give the impression of situation at ground. Human presence was almost negligible, all that was there was army marching on the road.
“Is this a war zone?” Swallow wondered.
“I guess, worse than that. No war, but still fear of a war is lingering on. Fear is a silent killer. It can make anyone go insane,” Happy Prince regretted.
On their way near Kangla Fort-- the seat of erstwhile Manipuri King and former home to the Assam Rifles—they met a child, carrying a bottle of milk in his hand.
Happy Prince and Swallow greeted the kid.
“How are you, little one?” asked Swallow.
“I am fine. Thank you.”
“What are you doing here,” asked Happy Prince.
“I have been to my Uncle’s place to get some milk for my little brother. Milk is very expensive. Everything is very expensive here. My mother cannot afford to buy milk for us. My brother is sick, I want him to drink some milk,” said the boy, holding the bottle close to his chest.
They learnt during their stay in Imphal that due to regular blockades everything in Manipur is beyond the reach of commoners. When in rest of India, a gas cylinder costs around Rs. 450, in Manipur during 120 days of blockade the price went up to Rs 2000. The difference between the “mainstream” India and tiny state in the Indo-Myanmar border is huge.
Forget about its precarious geographical location, or the distance that separates it from rest of India, problems of Manipur is a reflection of neglect being meted to the state and its people since ages.
“What happened sweetheart? Your father?” questioned Happy Prince.
“My father is dead. He was mistaken as a militant, and was shot dead by the army. My mother has no job. She stitches clothes for people, whenever she gets an order. Money is always a problem for us,” boy said, as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Happy Prince started searching himself all over, if any thin leaves of fine gold are still left in his body. But, unfortunately, all his body was dull and grey, bereft of all previous possessions.
He had nothing to give to the boy. So, saddened was Happy Prince, he almost cursed himself.
All he could afford to do was took the boy in his lap and kissed him on his cheeks. The boy bade goodbye, and marched his way towards his home.
As they continued their walk, they came across famous Ima Keithel or Women’s Market, where few brave women entrepreneurs were doing brisk business.
The beauty of the Ima Keithel is that thousands of mothers “Imas” run the place.
At one corner of the huge market, an old mother with her handloom products was eagerly looking for buyers, to purchase her products.
“Good to see you. How are you?” greeted Swallow.
“I am fine. But, you’ve come at a wrong time. The Market is almost empty, except for few of us, opening our shops. Had you been here on any of these normal days, which actually is a rarity these days, you could have witnessed a sight of great amusement. Women here trade and bargain their way out with customers, selling vegetables to handloom and handicraft products,” smiled the mother.
Swallow asked the mother about her views regarding complete lawlessness and almost missing administration in the state.
“What to tell you son? We’re a cursed lot. Our problems are never ending. The 120-day long blockade might have been removed now, but then another blockade will be imposed. Bandhs as you have seen is a daily affair. So, we at times also ignore it, and brave our way to open our shops,” she introspected.
Happy Prince and Swallow then decided to meet someone special, whom they admire a lot. The Iron lady of Manipur, Irom Sharmila Chanu, about whom the angels of heaven also talk in great reverence, is nothing sort of an idol for both of them. The civil rights activist from Manipur who has been on an indefinite fast since November 2000 is demanding repeal of the draconian Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958 (AFSPA).
As a resident of Imphal, Irom has seen the dance of violence in her state from close quarters. But that day on November 2, 2000 when ten innocent people were mowed down by security forces in Malom, a village near Imphal, Irom could not bear it further.
She told her mother that she had to embark on her non-violent protest, to get Manipur rid from the curse of AFSPA.
Within three days of her fast, Irom was arrested by the police and charged with an "attempt to commit suicide". Since then, Irom Sharmila has been regularly released and re-arrested every year.
She has been lodged at the security ward of Jawaharlal Nehru Hospital in Imphal, where she is being forced-fed through her nose. The security around Irom was too tight, and all their effort to have a glimpse of their idol proved futile. As Happy Prince and Swallow decided to leave the premises of the Hospital, a young man came running towards them and handed them a letter, saying it was sent by Irom.
When the letter was opened, a poem was found tucked between the crumbled piece of paper.
We have lost our paradise/tell the gods of your heaven/to come visit us someday/every day we are dying/ Music has fallen silent on Lai-Haraoba too/ Shiroy Lily does not flower anymore in Shiroy Kashang Mountain/My land is left with only orphans and widows/No body walks on the road anymore/Dogs are scared to even bark/do tell your gods not to create another Manipur on Earth/for human life comes cheap here/falling prey to guns of army every day.
However, nobody signed the poem, so they were not sure whether it was written by Irom (who is also a prolific poet) or someone else. But, truth was spoken in those few lines, and was enough to make Happy Prince cry again.
On the second day of their Manipur trip, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to visit Churachandpur, around 65 kilometer from Imphal. On their way, as they passed through the hilly terrain of Manipur, they came across beautiful hills and dales, with wild flowers waving their path in a sunny November morning.
Once in Churachandpur, the streets got crowded and congested. Small time vendors sitting in various corners of the street with their fares, is a common sight in the town. Right from hot chillies, to dry fish, to trendy clothes smuggled from border of Myanmar, in Churachanpur, shopping is something to indulge into.
But inside the dark alleys of crowded Churachandpur, Happy Prince and Swallow did not expected something as shocking as they got to witness first hand. Boys and girls, as young as 15 years old, were found injecting drugs, smoking cigarettes and becoming part of prostitution and drug peddling, to keep their supply of drug flowing.
Proximity to Myanmar border ensures easy and quick flow of drugs into Manipur. Users are multiplying with time, but who cares, in a place where guns and drugs are the only solace to provide some relief to the complexities of Manipur.
Simon, a former drug user came face to face with Happy Prince and Swallow. Simon realised the two are new to the place and somewhat lost. He joined the two, and walked along with them.
“So, what do you want to see? You won’t get anything here. But, yes free flow of drugs and booze. I was part of the web, but thankfully, has left my previous life,” said the lanky chap, as he handed over his half smoked cigarette to Happy Prince, thinking it would provide some relief to the visitor, after they witnessed dark secrets of Manipur.
Taking his first puff, Happy Prince looked at Simon, and smiled back.
“Would you go back to drugs again?”
“No. Here reality is much more intoxicating then drugs could ever provide you. I am part of this unpalatable secret, and I am not going to run away anywhere,” Simon replied.
Then and there itself, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to tour across northeast India, and its neighbouring countries, to understand the alienated geographical crevices dotting the world map. Perhaps the journey has already started, and we don’t know where they are now.
(Those who have not read the beautiful story The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde, here is the link http://fiction.eserver.org/short/happy_prince.html. The poem in the text is not written by Irom, I wrote it, as part of the blog. I don’t even know whether it could be considered as a poem or not. But, never mind. And, I am not sure whether Happy Prince and Swallow ever visited Manipur. But yes, all the incidents and episodes, in regard to Manipur mentioned in the blog are true.)
Monday, November 7, 2011
Springing up a surprise protest
The street was long, unwinding, pitch dark, blinding its way ahead. But in unison they were seen marching their way forward, as if light within was too illuminating to demand electricity from the perennially power starved Bangalore Electricity Supply Company (BESCOM) Limited.
No, they did not stumble upon potholes, spotted everywhere in Bangalore. No, breaking of bones by police baton was also reported. It was a free flow of human chain. One after another-- men, women, and children--followed each other, to a greater glory. To everyone’s surprise, that day the SUVs and BMWs patiently waited for the never ending caravan to proceed ahead of them.
Ubiquitous pedestrians took the form of a collective giant. The Frankenstein crowd surged every nook and cranny of the city. It was looking monstrous, but, the monster did not whip fear factor, rather provoked unexplainable sensuality, asking everyone to take part in the feast of human bravery and dignity, when oppression became unbearable.
That day, all hell broke loose for arm chair intellectuals and analysts. They failed to comprehend the sudden adrenalin rush amongst the otherwise calm citizens of Bangalore. Even at ground zero, observers were astonished and amazed by turn of event.
The reporter from the local Kannada news channel could not believe her eyes. At 12am in the midnight, the human chain, spread almost across Bangalore, matching each other's footsteps in a choreographed fashion. Few were found holding each other hands, others too ecstatic to bother for any human touch. Some hummed in incoherent tunes, clapping their hands against all forces, chanting a new anthem. The protest anthem was two liners “free 99% from clutches of 1%; free the humanity from all practiced oppressions…”
When repeated again and again, it formed a song. The freedom song, Bangalore was unconsciously waiting for long. This is how the protest movement in Bangalore started.
Like all other protest/rebel/reclaiming…movement springing from Arab to America, Bangalore also found its road to freedom.
Again nobody knew who and how it was started. Many tried their guessing prowess to come to a logical conclusion. In India’s tech hub the movement germinated from a social networking site? But, no concrete evidence certified the movement to any individual, or group. As if all wanted it to happen, they all wanted to scream out aloud, for suffering heaped on them since ages.
The high decibel protest chord, created cracks in the walls of Vidhana Soudha. The legislators were found running hither and thither, nearing to comical conclusion, when many accidentally tripped on their own lungis/dhotis, leaving themselves naked in the process.
In search of safety havens, the much protected VVIPs ended up in cells. Gowdas, and Yeddyurappas were seen locking themselves up in jails meant for hardcore criminals in their hurried bid to save themselves from public wrath. Who knows, the angry mob might had indulged in orgy of violence, turning the roads blood red?
The glassy corporate towers too succumbed to the pressure, it quickly fell into crumbles. The rebels walked over the high secured zones of power, once denied to commoners. All of a sudden powerful were stripped off their power. Defying prescribed norms, without the robe of power covering them, they too looked akin like malnourished children dying everyday in far off corners of Karnataka. After all, donning shinny polyester tuxedos does not make anyone immortal. Death will come to all of us one day. Be a king or pauper, as mound of earth bury the body within, insects crawl over pounds of flesh to bite off the vanity, life looks in a listless motion. It mocks at us, mocks the false pride with which one group inflict tyranny on another. Calling of life takes a simpler note, come join me, death is life ahead.
The protesters on Bangalore roads were said to have conquered the fear of death. Thus they had all left their homes and families which took them ages to nurture. But, when death evokes no fear, god too has to come out of the temples to join genuine demands.
That night god of protest smiled on Bangalore too. Long live the movement!
(Disclaimer: This is how I would like to see Bangalore protest taking off. Don’t worry my dear brothers and sisters! The entire episode is just a figment of imagination. You all are safe in your cocoon to continue with your daily lives. But, you never know, someone somewhere in your own city might be planning for the coup, and maybe, you too will decide to break all rules guarding your ordered life, to be part of the protest.)
No, they did not stumble upon potholes, spotted everywhere in Bangalore. No, breaking of bones by police baton was also reported. It was a free flow of human chain. One after another-- men, women, and children--followed each other, to a greater glory. To everyone’s surprise, that day the SUVs and BMWs patiently waited for the never ending caravan to proceed ahead of them.
Ubiquitous pedestrians took the form of a collective giant. The Frankenstein crowd surged every nook and cranny of the city. It was looking monstrous, but, the monster did not whip fear factor, rather provoked unexplainable sensuality, asking everyone to take part in the feast of human bravery and dignity, when oppression became unbearable.
That day, all hell broke loose for arm chair intellectuals and analysts. They failed to comprehend the sudden adrenalin rush amongst the otherwise calm citizens of Bangalore. Even at ground zero, observers were astonished and amazed by turn of event.
The reporter from the local Kannada news channel could not believe her eyes. At 12am in the midnight, the human chain, spread almost across Bangalore, matching each other's footsteps in a choreographed fashion. Few were found holding each other hands, others too ecstatic to bother for any human touch. Some hummed in incoherent tunes, clapping their hands against all forces, chanting a new anthem. The protest anthem was two liners “free 99% from clutches of 1%; free the humanity from all practiced oppressions…”
When repeated again and again, it formed a song. The freedom song, Bangalore was unconsciously waiting for long. This is how the protest movement in Bangalore started.
Like all other protest/rebel/reclaiming…movement springing from Arab to America, Bangalore also found its road to freedom.
Again nobody knew who and how it was started. Many tried their guessing prowess to come to a logical conclusion. In India’s tech hub the movement germinated from a social networking site? But, no concrete evidence certified the movement to any individual, or group. As if all wanted it to happen, they all wanted to scream out aloud, for suffering heaped on them since ages.
The high decibel protest chord, created cracks in the walls of Vidhana Soudha. The legislators were found running hither and thither, nearing to comical conclusion, when many accidentally tripped on their own lungis/dhotis, leaving themselves naked in the process.
In search of safety havens, the much protected VVIPs ended up in cells. Gowdas, and Yeddyurappas were seen locking themselves up in jails meant for hardcore criminals in their hurried bid to save themselves from public wrath. Who knows, the angry mob might had indulged in orgy of violence, turning the roads blood red?
The glassy corporate towers too succumbed to the pressure, it quickly fell into crumbles. The rebels walked over the high secured zones of power, once denied to commoners. All of a sudden powerful were stripped off their power. Defying prescribed norms, without the robe of power covering them, they too looked akin like malnourished children dying everyday in far off corners of Karnataka. After all, donning shinny polyester tuxedos does not make anyone immortal. Death will come to all of us one day. Be a king or pauper, as mound of earth bury the body within, insects crawl over pounds of flesh to bite off the vanity, life looks in a listless motion. It mocks at us, mocks the false pride with which one group inflict tyranny on another. Calling of life takes a simpler note, come join me, death is life ahead.
The protesters on Bangalore roads were said to have conquered the fear of death. Thus they had all left their homes and families which took them ages to nurture. But, when death evokes no fear, god too has to come out of the temples to join genuine demands.
That night god of protest smiled on Bangalore too. Long live the movement!
(Disclaimer: This is how I would like to see Bangalore protest taking off. Don’t worry my dear brothers and sisters! The entire episode is just a figment of imagination. You all are safe in your cocoon to continue with your daily lives. But, you never know, someone somewhere in your own city might be planning for the coup, and maybe, you too will decide to break all rules guarding your ordered life, to be part of the protest.)
Friday, October 7, 2011
Being Homeless
Ever wondered how does it feel to be homeless? No, no…not in that existential sense of the term, where NRIs (Non-Resident Indians) lament being miles and miles away from their matra bhumi. The coinage actually should be fatherland. I am saying this with malice, lot of malice, as feminism is just an “ism” left in the hands of a few intellectuals to be practiced, according to their convenience. After all, masculinity is the order of the day. But, then again I love men.
When I take up the subject of homeless, I am talking about it in the real sense of the term. Being homeless, without a roof over your head in a big city like Bangalore, that too when you are a relatively new entrant, without any family or friend to bail you out of the crisis. And, yes, here you are a typical middle-class Indian woman, who generally thinks haazar times before checking into a hotel room alone, and, of course, with little money in hand. Then, it is no good.
Moreover, you cannot join the squatters on the narrow alleys of Brigade Road at night. You can find quite a sizable number of them, especially after 11pm, when the traffic wraps up its day in a narrowing tizzy. They are in all age groups, children, breastfeeding mothers, middle-aged lepers and in what not deformities, shaking your mental inertia sarcastically. The best thing is that in spite of their countless inabilities, they are open-hearted, generous and courteous, even welcoming a complete stranger into their fold. Guests matter a lot to them too.
But then, fear, that chilling maddening fear, what if they eat my fleshy body in moments of desperate hunger? After all, they are all hungry and naked souls.
The breastfeeding mother sitting in the corner of a pavement told me to be careful at night on Brigade Road. She confessed that her infant, too ,has stopped trusting her. In spite of his repeated attempts to find warm milk in her young breasts, all he tastes is disappointment, evident as he looks helplessly at his mother. Mild dose of blood can be always seen oozing out of her breasts, as the baby accidentally bites her flesh in the hope of food, but unfortunately his hunger gets aggravated.
The boy smirks at the taste of blood. He demands for milk, which his mother cannot afford. Throughout the day, she keeps her blouse unbuttoned in the hope that her infant finds some food in her. Thus her deep brown pair of breasts is always at the mercy of public viewing, scrutiny and at times squeezing too. A mother’s small, firm breasts hardly understand the meaning of any purdah system, Indian women since ages have followed without ever questioning it.
The chilling December wind slowly coagulates the blood, circling around her nipples due to non-stop suckling. It looks as if the nipples are wearing red rings chiseled out of blood around it. The little one looked nervous. He stared at me with his big rotund eyes, shining bright within the structure of his dust- washed face. He looked older than his self, much older. He who refuses to get down from the lap of his mother knows that poverty denies you the milk of your life too. A primitive right of having mother’s milk, as old as human existence goes.
Even after encountering such horror, I still could not muster up the courage to go back home, just 10 kms apart, which I left only in the morning, never to go back. Leaving your home can never be easy. It was not easy for me as well. But, when you pack your suitcase, and the rest of the inmates at your home make your existence look meaningless, you march ahead, to fill some sense into your senses, and find out what deeper meaning life holds for you.
So, you decide to sit on the pavement, next to a huge mall, mulling what tomorrow’s newspaper headlines would scream about. Dazzling with stars, the vast sky suddenly transforms into the figure of a roof over your head. Under the huge, unending roof, you feel a sense of pride for owning so much in a world, where you have been denied almost everything. Perhaps, this is the same sense of pride beggars and the homeless of Brigade Road flashes at you. They are the owner of the night sky. Tonight I share some space with them. I am honoured.
Morning takes it own time to wake up, before it becomes all bright and sunny. Suddenly, all that you saw and encountered the night before disappears. You find yourself cuddled in the bed with your loved one in your home. Doorbell rings the arrival of the newspaper. It carries the same old front page stories --- business merger of an IT giant with a well-known European behemoth, a Kannada starlet gets engaged, and prices of vegetables soaring.
The briefcase reads, bodies of a woman in her early 20s and an infant were found in the middle of Brigade Road by the police on late Monday night. The body of the baby boy was found next to the woman suspected to be his mother. Injury marks were found on the woman’s body and the baby’s mouth was smeared with blood. Both the bodies were taken to Bowring Hospital for further medical investigation. Police are awaiting the postmortem report to find the truth behind the deaths.
When I take up the subject of homeless, I am talking about it in the real sense of the term. Being homeless, without a roof over your head in a big city like Bangalore, that too when you are a relatively new entrant, without any family or friend to bail you out of the crisis. And, yes, here you are a typical middle-class Indian woman, who generally thinks haazar times before checking into a hotel room alone, and, of course, with little money in hand. Then, it is no good.
Moreover, you cannot join the squatters on the narrow alleys of Brigade Road at night. You can find quite a sizable number of them, especially after 11pm, when the traffic wraps up its day in a narrowing tizzy. They are in all age groups, children, breastfeeding mothers, middle-aged lepers and in what not deformities, shaking your mental inertia sarcastically. The best thing is that in spite of their countless inabilities, they are open-hearted, generous and courteous, even welcoming a complete stranger into their fold. Guests matter a lot to them too.
But then, fear, that chilling maddening fear, what if they eat my fleshy body in moments of desperate hunger? After all, they are all hungry and naked souls.
The breastfeeding mother sitting in the corner of a pavement told me to be careful at night on Brigade Road. She confessed that her infant, too ,has stopped trusting her. In spite of his repeated attempts to find warm milk in her young breasts, all he tastes is disappointment, evident as he looks helplessly at his mother. Mild dose of blood can be always seen oozing out of her breasts, as the baby accidentally bites her flesh in the hope of food, but unfortunately his hunger gets aggravated.
The boy smirks at the taste of blood. He demands for milk, which his mother cannot afford. Throughout the day, she keeps her blouse unbuttoned in the hope that her infant finds some food in her. Thus her deep brown pair of breasts is always at the mercy of public viewing, scrutiny and at times squeezing too. A mother’s small, firm breasts hardly understand the meaning of any purdah system, Indian women since ages have followed without ever questioning it.
The chilling December wind slowly coagulates the blood, circling around her nipples due to non-stop suckling. It looks as if the nipples are wearing red rings chiseled out of blood around it. The little one looked nervous. He stared at me with his big rotund eyes, shining bright within the structure of his dust- washed face. He looked older than his self, much older. He who refuses to get down from the lap of his mother knows that poverty denies you the milk of your life too. A primitive right of having mother’s milk, as old as human existence goes.
Even after encountering such horror, I still could not muster up the courage to go back home, just 10 kms apart, which I left only in the morning, never to go back. Leaving your home can never be easy. It was not easy for me as well. But, when you pack your suitcase, and the rest of the inmates at your home make your existence look meaningless, you march ahead, to fill some sense into your senses, and find out what deeper meaning life holds for you.
So, you decide to sit on the pavement, next to a huge mall, mulling what tomorrow’s newspaper headlines would scream about. Dazzling with stars, the vast sky suddenly transforms into the figure of a roof over your head. Under the huge, unending roof, you feel a sense of pride for owning so much in a world, where you have been denied almost everything. Perhaps, this is the same sense of pride beggars and the homeless of Brigade Road flashes at you. They are the owner of the night sky. Tonight I share some space with them. I am honoured.
Morning takes it own time to wake up, before it becomes all bright and sunny. Suddenly, all that you saw and encountered the night before disappears. You find yourself cuddled in the bed with your loved one in your home. Doorbell rings the arrival of the newspaper. It carries the same old front page stories --- business merger of an IT giant with a well-known European behemoth, a Kannada starlet gets engaged, and prices of vegetables soaring.
The briefcase reads, bodies of a woman in her early 20s and an infant were found in the middle of Brigade Road by the police on late Monday night. The body of the baby boy was found next to the woman suspected to be his mother. Injury marks were found on the woman’s body and the baby’s mouth was smeared with blood. Both the bodies were taken to Bowring Hospital for further medical investigation. Police are awaiting the postmortem report to find the truth behind the deaths.
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