Thankfully, women have a day all to themselves while the rest are being enjoyed by the men,” winks Pammy, my buddy.
In saying so, Pammy is not endorsing the concept of International Women Day’s celebrated across the globe every year on March 8, media immortalising the superwomen who are successful, svelte and sirens even in their 40s.
Rather, my dear Pammy is nowhere close to those archetypal “super women”, bombs who are known for being making it big and bombastic in life. They are the ones who proudly declare to be the face of the fast-changing modern day India, signing mega-business deals at offices, to changing diapers of babies and shaking a leg at the wild evening parties.
Pammy is poles apart from them.
In fact, Pammy’s office routine begins and ends with an hour-long lecture on her “non-professionalism”, by her boss in office. The humiliation doesn't end there. Even at home, her five-year-old son Sunny doesn't miss to point out Pammy's failure in cutting the extra flab around her waistline, while most of his friends have mothers who look like models. Instead, Pammy cuts a sorry figure with her belly jutting out of her newly bought skinny jeans. Her ever-growing waistline has become a cause of embarrassment for both the son and husband. Both the men in her life don't have much to admire in her.
To add to the disaster, Pammy happens to be a miserable cook. "Now, what do we take solace from," they sigh in unison over Pammy’s repeated 'mistake' of over-cooking the rice and adding too little salt on her bland rajma curry.
“Where’s the spice and salt in life?” Pammy angrily asks, snubbing her son and husband who had long resigned to fate of having a wife who even after eight years of marriage haven’t learnt a bit of cooking.
“Eat whatever I cook. I too get tired after a day’s work. I am no superwoman,” adds Pammy.
“Then there seems to be no women’s day celebrations for you, as you are no superwoman. Mummy! Women's day is all about being extraordinary. Superwomen, who are smart, suave, feisty, intelligent and beautiful celebrates the day. Only extraordinary women are seen flaunting their womanhood on the day. And, sorry Momma, you have nothing great about you,” there goes Sunny again with his blunt and honest observation.
After Sunny’s thunderbolt, comes Pammy's quiet retort.
“Yes, dear son, women’s day is all about superwomen, extraordinary and feisty women winning awards at glitzy award nights for being business tycoons or sizzling item numbers. Aam aurat like us, never celebrate women’s day. We’re too ordinary to be celebrated or appreciated by others. And thank god, I am no superwoman, nor do I aspire to. I am happy being ordinary, very normal and often ignored,” she fakes a smile, realising pretty well how all her efforts to be 'super' have blown up in its face.
And, then comes the unbearable lull, and Pammy’s husband, looking for some breathing space, switches on the television, where a news anchor briefs about how the bold and the beautiful of Bangalore celebrated the women’s day. “Let’s salute the spirit of women on the 100th year of women’s day celebration across the globe.”
Monday, March 7, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Impressions of a year gone by...
Few words aptly define 2010 ---- scam, scams and more scams. Be it political scams, journalistic scams, telephonic scams, economic scams, onion scams, social scams, personal scams, lusty scams, emotional scams, idiotic scams...,after all, scams ruled the minds. More than hundreds of millions of Indians were washed, unwashed, dressed and undressed in the public over the four letter “revolutionary” word scam.
I will say my life, too, was no less a scam in 2010. I was jobless for almost half the year, after being rejected by more than half-a-dozen prospective employers. Finally, someone succumbed to my repeated begging, and I got that much-elusive appointment letter.
In the hindsight, when someone tells me that 2010 finally managed to get rid off the financial coup of 2008, I simply want to beat the blues out of the economists. What the F…? I struggled, literally begged, ran from one swanky office to another for a job? But, no employer even considered giving a cursory glance at my much-polished CV. Or, is it my lack-lustre work record? I am still in doubt. I thought when the economy is in its pink, it should accommodate all and sundry. If I am not one, than of course, I am one amongst the sundry. I deserve a job, so do millions of my unemployed brethrens.
At a time, when finance ministry is shouting from the rooftop, that GDP(oh! Please explain that what does that mean), will touch the double-digit figure by 2011, and business houses wag its tails in celebration, I could not understand why an average Indian like me have to slog and slog for a job? Perhaps, this is another scam (or in the making), beyond the understanding of common mortals.
The second scam of my life in 2010 is something I don’t remember very well. Oh, yes, I can now recall it vaguely, my loss of memory. I have lost it, yes, lost my memory bank. I don’t regret that. It’s but natural to experience memory loss when age is catching up fast. In fact, I thank my stars, for the loss of memory. I can at least have the bliss of forgetting most of my unsavory experiences.
The last, but not the least, my third scam is a secret. A secret I don’t want to reveal. I, too, want the CBI to hunt and chase me and find my secret. With CBI, the media will also follow. I will get my 15-minutes of stardom. The nation will witness me in the breaking news section of TV channels and few anchors will definitely gurgle before screaming my 'tainted' name again and again. My niece will be delighted to see her aunt on the television, forgetting her favourite cartoon characters for few hours. I hope a few media houses have already started planning their stories, revolving around my secrets. And of course, an obituary of a common (wo)man.
I will say my life, too, was no less a scam in 2010. I was jobless for almost half the year, after being rejected by more than half-a-dozen prospective employers. Finally, someone succumbed to my repeated begging, and I got that much-elusive appointment letter.
In the hindsight, when someone tells me that 2010 finally managed to get rid off the financial coup of 2008, I simply want to beat the blues out of the economists. What the F…? I struggled, literally begged, ran from one swanky office to another for a job? But, no employer even considered giving a cursory glance at my much-polished CV. Or, is it my lack-lustre work record? I am still in doubt. I thought when the economy is in its pink, it should accommodate all and sundry. If I am not one, than of course, I am one amongst the sundry. I deserve a job, so do millions of my unemployed brethrens.
At a time, when finance ministry is shouting from the rooftop, that GDP(oh! Please explain that what does that mean), will touch the double-digit figure by 2011, and business houses wag its tails in celebration, I could not understand why an average Indian like me have to slog and slog for a job? Perhaps, this is another scam (or in the making), beyond the understanding of common mortals.
The second scam of my life in 2010 is something I don’t remember very well. Oh, yes, I can now recall it vaguely, my loss of memory. I have lost it, yes, lost my memory bank. I don’t regret that. It’s but natural to experience memory loss when age is catching up fast. In fact, I thank my stars, for the loss of memory. I can at least have the bliss of forgetting most of my unsavory experiences.
The last, but not the least, my third scam is a secret. A secret I don’t want to reveal. I, too, want the CBI to hunt and chase me and find my secret. With CBI, the media will also follow. I will get my 15-minutes of stardom. The nation will witness me in the breaking news section of TV channels and few anchors will definitely gurgle before screaming my 'tainted' name again and again. My niece will be delighted to see her aunt on the television, forgetting her favourite cartoon characters for few hours. I hope a few media houses have already started planning their stories, revolving around my secrets. And of course, an obituary of a common (wo)man.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Mountains, my only refuge
The air has almost lost its moisture --- dry and taut, a blanket of gloom across the city. The sky, too, seems to be in no mood to rain down relief. There is no sign of those proverbial pregnant clouds, dry days are sure to stay for long. The Met department has made no such predictions, but sometimes age-old intuitions, too, should be respected. And, I do that. Call me a fool, I don’t care. My mind, remains in a state of suspended animation most of the time. And it’s during such hours of life, I long to go back to the hills.
I have always been a child of the hills. I have grown up in the green, deep valleys of Arunachal, my umbilical cord still tied to the land. I’m sorry this city culture and comfort don’t suit me much. Interestingly, sometimes I feel I’m a threat to the city.
No, I have no connection with any of the terrorist groups of Northeast India. The guns drive me crazy. After witnessing victims of bomb blasts on several occasions in Guwahati, I shudder even at the mere mention of it. At times, clarifications come handy as most of the Northeastern people are ‘suspects’. If you are a Northeastern, like the Kashmiris, you can be easily arrested under the monstrous Armed Forces Special Powers Act AFSPA. AFSPA is a special law and applies to not so special citizens of India.
I have reasons to say that I am a threat to any city, though a few genuine and some nonsensical. In spite of spending years of my life in various cities, I am yet to understand the psyche of motorists. They make me spend agonizing moments under the sun every time I have to cross the roads. As the busy world moves ahead of me, I wonder if I am the only one who has got all the time. During such moments, I jaywalk my way braving past the motorists, who scream and hurl abuses at me for violating traffic rules. That way, I am a threat to the city. Someday I could be the reason for an accident, I must confess.
They also call me an outsider, the self-claimed city dwellers. I don't speak their language. In fact, there isn’t a single language that I can speak properly. Not even my mother tongue. I suffer from learning disability. That way, I don't belong to any country, or city, or any one land. In a way, I have become a curious case of homelessness, a vagabond they call people like me. My crime is that I cannot speak any of the recognised languages properly. This is freaking. Now, I can choose to speak gibberish, hope nobody has a problem with that. I can actually write songs in gibberish. Don't worry, I won't make you listen to them. These are my secrets. Every individual has the right to carry secrets in their hearts -- secret bank accounts, secret defence deals, secret affairs … the list goes on. I, too, have a few secret engagements, and I don’t have any regrets about that.
Thankfully, my absence never raises questions by friends, relatives, colleagues… no one.
A self-acclaimed non-city dweller with a few secret engagements… This again makes me a criminal. But, I know the law won't follow me. It doesn’t have the time to follow petty criminals like me. So, for the time being, I, and all those of my ilk, can run amok and enjoy our freedom with those uninterrupted feet.
But then what about traffic jams? The cities are infamous for that. I stand almost 90 minutes on crowded buses to travel 14 kilometres. These days, I don't have a steady posture. My steps are always shaky, unconfirmed. Perhaps, that is why people give me those strange looks. Moreover, my features don’t go down well with the mainstream crowd. I bring inclusiveness to the unicoloured society. I threaten the system, which is known for knowing, loving and appreciating only established facts of life.
Threatening a peaceful, established society is a crime and I don't want to be privy to such crimes.
My crimes are many, but my skin has become too thick to get affected by accusing fingers. I am unabashedly uncivilised. But I, too, need to breathe, breathe easy and breathe my share of air. Where else, but the hills I can take refuge in.
I have always been a child of the hills. I have grown up in the green, deep valleys of Arunachal, my umbilical cord still tied to the land. I’m sorry this city culture and comfort don’t suit me much. Interestingly, sometimes I feel I’m a threat to the city.
No, I have no connection with any of the terrorist groups of Northeast India. The guns drive me crazy. After witnessing victims of bomb blasts on several occasions in Guwahati, I shudder even at the mere mention of it. At times, clarifications come handy as most of the Northeastern people are ‘suspects’. If you are a Northeastern, like the Kashmiris, you can be easily arrested under the monstrous Armed Forces Special Powers Act AFSPA. AFSPA is a special law and applies to not so special citizens of India.
I have reasons to say that I am a threat to any city, though a few genuine and some nonsensical. In spite of spending years of my life in various cities, I am yet to understand the psyche of motorists. They make me spend agonizing moments under the sun every time I have to cross the roads. As the busy world moves ahead of me, I wonder if I am the only one who has got all the time. During such moments, I jaywalk my way braving past the motorists, who scream and hurl abuses at me for violating traffic rules. That way, I am a threat to the city. Someday I could be the reason for an accident, I must confess.
They also call me an outsider, the self-claimed city dwellers. I don't speak their language. In fact, there isn’t a single language that I can speak properly. Not even my mother tongue. I suffer from learning disability. That way, I don't belong to any country, or city, or any one land. In a way, I have become a curious case of homelessness, a vagabond they call people like me. My crime is that I cannot speak any of the recognised languages properly. This is freaking. Now, I can choose to speak gibberish, hope nobody has a problem with that. I can actually write songs in gibberish. Don't worry, I won't make you listen to them. These are my secrets. Every individual has the right to carry secrets in their hearts -- secret bank accounts, secret defence deals, secret affairs … the list goes on. I, too, have a few secret engagements, and I don’t have any regrets about that.
Thankfully, my absence never raises questions by friends, relatives, colleagues… no one.
A self-acclaimed non-city dweller with a few secret engagements… This again makes me a criminal. But, I know the law won't follow me. It doesn’t have the time to follow petty criminals like me. So, for the time being, I, and all those of my ilk, can run amok and enjoy our freedom with those uninterrupted feet.
But then what about traffic jams? The cities are infamous for that. I stand almost 90 minutes on crowded buses to travel 14 kilometres. These days, I don't have a steady posture. My steps are always shaky, unconfirmed. Perhaps, that is why people give me those strange looks. Moreover, my features don’t go down well with the mainstream crowd. I bring inclusiveness to the unicoloured society. I threaten the system, which is known for knowing, loving and appreciating only established facts of life.
Threatening a peaceful, established society is a crime and I don't want to be privy to such crimes.
My crimes are many, but my skin has become too thick to get affected by accusing fingers. I am unabashedly uncivilised. But I, too, need to breathe, breathe easy and breathe my share of air. Where else, but the hills I can take refuge in.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Much blood has spilled down the Brahmaputra
The emperor of France and one of the greatest military commanders in history, Napoleon Bonaparte used to call himself son of the revolution.
In a direct rip-off of the legend’s famous self-given title, I and my friend Pammy call ourselves “daughters of revolution”.
But sorry, we don’t share an iota of Napoleon’s military exploits and conquests.
Neither do we ever, even in our wildest dreams, imagine ourselves to live a life or to die a death for which people would remember us forever.
On the contrary, we both are happy in our anonymity.
However, it’s something else for which we feel like that -- our birth --precisely the fateful year of 1979 when both of us were born.
Those were turbulent times, when our birthplace Assam was undergoing unimaginable social and political changes, a time when the entire population -- the old and young, rich and poor, intelligent and not-so-intelligent -- yearned for change.
“You know what, History books might describe Assam Agitation (1979-1985) as a movement against the illegal migrants from the neighbouring country of Bangladesh, but if you probe deeper, it was the time when the greater Assamese society came out openly against the establishment and wanted freedom from all ills,” Pammy spat out.
“Why the hell are you talking about Assam Agitation,” I almost shouted to stop her from again getting into the same debate.
“Can we change history, that too sitting in a far-off place like Bangalore.”
My curt response may have silenced Pammy, but the agony was quite palpable.
The pain of going through hell as silent spectators when the revolution was at its peak was evident in her eyes. Of course, we both were pretty young that time to understand the futility of the revolution.
Pammy, born to Sikh parents originally from Punjab, but her umbilical cord still seems tied to Assam. I -- the so-called indigenous Assamese -- never get so emotional on any issue relating to Assam and rest of northeast as Pammy does.
“We are the daughters of revolution. Perhaps that is why we’re so angry,” Pammy sighs vaguely as smoke from my cigarette rose slowly into the ceiling.
“Perhaps the failure of revolution still burns in our hearts. We cannot cry out loud, nor speak out loud to the outside world,” I too nodded in agreement.
So much blood has been spilled, so many homes burnt down ... still left with nothing in the end. In fact, all that the revolution did was to leave us with a bad taste in mouth, bitterness in heart and tears in the eyes.
“Where is the end to this dark tunnel? When will we get our peace?” Pammy said looking at me, searching for an answer.
I had nothing to say to console her.
I lit up another cigarette, leaving a trail of rings floating in the air. As she got up to leave the room, I realized I succeeded in blowing smoke rings but failed to answer the queries of a tormented soul, a distraught daughter of revolution.
In a direct rip-off of the legend’s famous self-given title, I and my friend Pammy call ourselves “daughters of revolution”.
But sorry, we don’t share an iota of Napoleon’s military exploits and conquests.
Neither do we ever, even in our wildest dreams, imagine ourselves to live a life or to die a death for which people would remember us forever.
On the contrary, we both are happy in our anonymity.
However, it’s something else for which we feel like that -- our birth --precisely the fateful year of 1979 when both of us were born.
Those were turbulent times, when our birthplace Assam was undergoing unimaginable social and political changes, a time when the entire population -- the old and young, rich and poor, intelligent and not-so-intelligent -- yearned for change.
“You know what, History books might describe Assam Agitation (1979-1985) as a movement against the illegal migrants from the neighbouring country of Bangladesh, but if you probe deeper, it was the time when the greater Assamese society came out openly against the establishment and wanted freedom from all ills,” Pammy spat out.
“Why the hell are you talking about Assam Agitation,” I almost shouted to stop her from again getting into the same debate.
“Can we change history, that too sitting in a far-off place like Bangalore.”
My curt response may have silenced Pammy, but the agony was quite palpable.
The pain of going through hell as silent spectators when the revolution was at its peak was evident in her eyes. Of course, we both were pretty young that time to understand the futility of the revolution.
Pammy, born to Sikh parents originally from Punjab, but her umbilical cord still seems tied to Assam. I -- the so-called indigenous Assamese -- never get so emotional on any issue relating to Assam and rest of northeast as Pammy does.
“We are the daughters of revolution. Perhaps that is why we’re so angry,” Pammy sighs vaguely as smoke from my cigarette rose slowly into the ceiling.
“Perhaps the failure of revolution still burns in our hearts. We cannot cry out loud, nor speak out loud to the outside world,” I too nodded in agreement.
So much blood has been spilled, so many homes burnt down ... still left with nothing in the end. In fact, all that the revolution did was to leave us with a bad taste in mouth, bitterness in heart and tears in the eyes.
“Where is the end to this dark tunnel? When will we get our peace?” Pammy said looking at me, searching for an answer.
I had nothing to say to console her.
I lit up another cigarette, leaving a trail of rings floating in the air. As she got up to leave the room, I realized I succeeded in blowing smoke rings but failed to answer the queries of a tormented soul, a distraught daughter of revolution.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Prayers.....
My friend Pammy, a great orator and waitress in one of Bangalore’s posh eateries, was asked by her friends to say a few words on a subject everyone's been talking about — peace. The request came in the wake of a verdict on a long-drawn religious battle. In fact, it was the restaurant’s manager. Considering the fact that he is often very sarcastic about "Pammy talking too much", the request seemed to be more special.
Pammy has the gift of gab and in her two-year-long stint in the eatery, she has managed to attract a size able number of fan following, which she sometimes flaunts about too. I am also one of her many fans. She not only serves hot-piping coffee to the stream of dedicated clientele of the eatery, but often ends up giving her views
on red-hot issues.
Pammy’s husband calls her a lunatic, and Pammy has the grace to accept it as a compliment. She feels that she is better read than her husband, who only knows how to code and decode software language.
"Why the hell do you have to kill people with your irrational talk? Can’t you keep your mouth shut for a second?" are the usual words her husband would grumble.
But, Pammy is Pammy. Nobody can stop her.
But that day was different. Instead of grabbing hold of the opportunity offered by her manager, she refused to speak on the issue.
That left everyone disappointed. Some of her fans were hurt, while some others were surprised.
“It’s time to talk about peace. In peace lies our future. I find her refusal very prudish,” whispered one of her fans.
Pammy did not reveal the reason behind her refusal. She kept everyone guessing.
However, at the dead of night, she sent me an SMS.
“Ishwar Allah 'Terror' naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan,” read the text.
I smiled and went off to sleep, chanting the same words, but this time
with more respect.
“Ishwar Allah tero naam, Sabko sanmati de Bhagwan...”
Pammy has the gift of gab and in her two-year-long stint in the eatery, she has managed to attract a size able number of fan following, which she sometimes flaunts about too. I am also one of her many fans. She not only serves hot-piping coffee to the stream of dedicated clientele of the eatery, but often ends up giving her views
on red-hot issues.
Pammy’s husband calls her a lunatic, and Pammy has the grace to accept it as a compliment. She feels that she is better read than her husband, who only knows how to code and decode software language.
"Why the hell do you have to kill people with your irrational talk? Can’t you keep your mouth shut for a second?" are the usual words her husband would grumble.
But, Pammy is Pammy. Nobody can stop her.
But that day was different. Instead of grabbing hold of the opportunity offered by her manager, she refused to speak on the issue.
That left everyone disappointed. Some of her fans were hurt, while some others were surprised.
“It’s time to talk about peace. In peace lies our future. I find her refusal very prudish,” whispered one of her fans.
Pammy did not reveal the reason behind her refusal. She kept everyone guessing.
However, at the dead of night, she sent me an SMS.
“Ishwar Allah 'Terror' naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan,” read the text.
I smiled and went off to sleep, chanting the same words, but this time
with more respect.
“Ishwar Allah tero naam, Sabko sanmati de Bhagwan...”
Friday, May 7, 2010
Life's escapades..
I am infamous among my close-knit circle of friends for running away from my troubles, which invariably causes lot of pain (ouch! both mental, psychological and at times heartbreak). I hate discussing issues at hand. I feel after seeing and experiencing series of never ending troubles, that time “would surely deal with it.”
But, my buddies feel that there is nothing called “time healing” therapy. It’s us and only “us”, who need to deal with the “situation”, before the situation turns out of control, kinda ugly.
And I, as always, “ulta dimaagwala” (as my friends call me mad), calmly look at them and say in a prophetic manner, “shouting and screaming would do no good”.
“Already the harm has been inflicted, the bruises are open, what use it would be.”
They’re, after all my friends, stubborn like me, won’t budge an inch from their stand.
After “fireworks” of arguments would end, I would head away to an unknown destination, most often on a bus. I have no privilege of learning the skill of cycling or riding a two-wheeler.
So, I am always at the mercy of public buses, which are always overcrowded, and always with little space for my huge self, takes me every time, where I never thought journey is destined to be.
This time, quite recently, I went to Bangalore’s Hebbal flyover, took a bus from Marathahalli and zoomed past the Outer Ring road.
"Ticket," asks the ticket-collector.
"Where is the bus going?," I ask.
Surprised at my declaration, the ticket collector in his broken hindi says, "Aap ko pata nahi to bus me kyon charte ho? (If you don't know your destination, why did you board the bus)"
To stop further embarrassment of stares and glances from co-passengers, I immediately ask the fare for the last destination of the bus.
"Hebbal, Rs 35," says the ticket collector.
The concrete facade, the struggling greenery and few dying lakes, make quite a view. I was lost in my thought, my own self, and tried to find answers to the troubles of life.
I am of course, no lord Buddha, having the guts to leave home and family in search for answers of “life”. I just make mini-escapades, I am a coward, as my friends say and I too agree silently.
In my escapades, I try to see the life outside the confines of my “secure space”. Life on roads has always intrigued me. I always want to enter the shanties, just protected by sheets of plastics, half naked children running around and mothers washing their woes and utensils over a bucket of water. In those times, I call myself, “luckiest child of god”.
Moreover, I find myself “lucky”, when I meet people like the “brave lady” at Hebbal. Such chance encounters, re-confirms that life is to live, not to run away from it.
“You are lucky to be educated and confident,” says the woman, whom I met near Hebbal flyover, five minutes after disembarking from the bus. She is any other ordinary woman, she is poor, never in newspapers, but I salute her from my heart for being brave, for being a winner in life.
A woman, who was thrown out of her home by her husband, after inflicting unimaginable violence, a woman who with cut marks and bruises on her face (courtesy her husband), decided to live her life.
“I wanted to live. After all, I have no right to kill myself. Only god can do that. So, to survive, I turned into sex work. I am a sex worker, don’t call me prostitute. Sex work too is a profession, like any other. I am no thug or thief,” she smiles, as I look directly into her eyes, trying to conceal my shock on her confident declaration.
“I am a street sex worker. This is my regular place, where I wait for my clients. A client is on his way. He’ll soon be here. What are you doing here? The evening has already descended,” she queries.
I wanted to tell her, I was trying to run away from life's trials and tribulations, but here I meet people, who have defeated all odds. One of them is you.
Instead, I smiled back and ran after the bus going back to Marathahalli, where I stay.
But, my buddies feel that there is nothing called “time healing” therapy. It’s us and only “us”, who need to deal with the “situation”, before the situation turns out of control, kinda ugly.
And I, as always, “ulta dimaagwala” (as my friends call me mad), calmly look at them and say in a prophetic manner, “shouting and screaming would do no good”.
“Already the harm has been inflicted, the bruises are open, what use it would be.”
They’re, after all my friends, stubborn like me, won’t budge an inch from their stand.
After “fireworks” of arguments would end, I would head away to an unknown destination, most often on a bus. I have no privilege of learning the skill of cycling or riding a two-wheeler.
So, I am always at the mercy of public buses, which are always overcrowded, and always with little space for my huge self, takes me every time, where I never thought journey is destined to be.
This time, quite recently, I went to Bangalore’s Hebbal flyover, took a bus from Marathahalli and zoomed past the Outer Ring road.
"Ticket," asks the ticket-collector.
"Where is the bus going?," I ask.
Surprised at my declaration, the ticket collector in his broken hindi says, "Aap ko pata nahi to bus me kyon charte ho? (If you don't know your destination, why did you board the bus)"
To stop further embarrassment of stares and glances from co-passengers, I immediately ask the fare for the last destination of the bus.
"Hebbal, Rs 35," says the ticket collector.
The concrete facade, the struggling greenery and few dying lakes, make quite a view. I was lost in my thought, my own self, and tried to find answers to the troubles of life.
I am of course, no lord Buddha, having the guts to leave home and family in search for answers of “life”. I just make mini-escapades, I am a coward, as my friends say and I too agree silently.
In my escapades, I try to see the life outside the confines of my “secure space”. Life on roads has always intrigued me. I always want to enter the shanties, just protected by sheets of plastics, half naked children running around and mothers washing their woes and utensils over a bucket of water. In those times, I call myself, “luckiest child of god”.
Moreover, I find myself “lucky”, when I meet people like the “brave lady” at Hebbal. Such chance encounters, re-confirms that life is to live, not to run away from it.
“You are lucky to be educated and confident,” says the woman, whom I met near Hebbal flyover, five minutes after disembarking from the bus. She is any other ordinary woman, she is poor, never in newspapers, but I salute her from my heart for being brave, for being a winner in life.
A woman, who was thrown out of her home by her husband, after inflicting unimaginable violence, a woman who with cut marks and bruises on her face (courtesy her husband), decided to live her life.
“I wanted to live. After all, I have no right to kill myself. Only god can do that. So, to survive, I turned into sex work. I am a sex worker, don’t call me prostitute. Sex work too is a profession, like any other. I am no thug or thief,” she smiles, as I look directly into her eyes, trying to conceal my shock on her confident declaration.
“I am a street sex worker. This is my regular place, where I wait for my clients. A client is on his way. He’ll soon be here. What are you doing here? The evening has already descended,” she queries.
I wanted to tell her, I was trying to run away from life's trials and tribulations, but here I meet people, who have defeated all odds. One of them is you.
Instead, I smiled back and ran after the bus going back to Marathahalli, where I stay.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Rain of memories
When it rains, it surely evokes unexplainable emotions. Perhaps that is where the beauty of rain lies. I guess I realized it pretty early in life, as a five-year-old, while growing up in Arunachal Pradesh.
There when it pours, which often is the case, it pours really hard.
Last evening when it rained in Bangalore, accompanied by strong gusts of wind, after a hot sultry day, I could not stop myself. I quickly opened the door to my balcony and got soaked to the bone.
I felt a sense of relief. It was nothing short of divine empowerment. Again, hard to explain how those big droplets washed away days of weariness.
I didn’t dance like the neighbourhood kid, but quietly felt blessed, silently thanked the “unknown” forces. For, it rained when it mattered most.
But contrary to this sudden gush of emotion, there were times when I used to curse the rain, especially because of the cities where I stayed – all vulnerable to artificial flooding even after a few hours of mild downpour. That is when a curse would just slip out of my mouth.
“Oh! Don’t you realize the drains are clogged by poly bags strewn all over? Please rains, come some other time. Or else the water, few metres away from the verandah of my house will enter the sitting room,” I would cry, looking heavenwards.
Sometimes, rain (god) has been kind, but most often not, making our tough city life even tougher.
Notwithstanding the ugliness left behind, I also remember once I shrieked a curse to the sky for days of relentless rain in Arunachal Pradesh. However, flooding wasn’t my cause of worry since no rains can inundate the hills. It was the despondency that would descend upon every soul as the wet clothes refuse to dry in the unending companionship of rainfall. And most importantly mother wouldn’t let us go out to play.
After an incessant monologue of rain when the sun would peep from behind the hills illuminating the early morning sky, children used to be the happiest lot.
It’s true rain evokes several emotions, from innocent smiles to raising a disgusted eyebrow. Human emotions have many shades just like the colours of a rainbow left behind by a downpour.
Today, I am again looking upwards, not to shriek a curse to the sky but to search for traces of rain on the floating clouds of an early evening.
There when it pours, which often is the case, it pours really hard.
Last evening when it rained in Bangalore, accompanied by strong gusts of wind, after a hot sultry day, I could not stop myself. I quickly opened the door to my balcony and got soaked to the bone.
I felt a sense of relief. It was nothing short of divine empowerment. Again, hard to explain how those big droplets washed away days of weariness.
I didn’t dance like the neighbourhood kid, but quietly felt blessed, silently thanked the “unknown” forces. For, it rained when it mattered most.
But contrary to this sudden gush of emotion, there were times when I used to curse the rain, especially because of the cities where I stayed – all vulnerable to artificial flooding even after a few hours of mild downpour. That is when a curse would just slip out of my mouth.
“Oh! Don’t you realize the drains are clogged by poly bags strewn all over? Please rains, come some other time. Or else the water, few metres away from the verandah of my house will enter the sitting room,” I would cry, looking heavenwards.
Sometimes, rain (god) has been kind, but most often not, making our tough city life even tougher.
Notwithstanding the ugliness left behind, I also remember once I shrieked a curse to the sky for days of relentless rain in Arunachal Pradesh. However, flooding wasn’t my cause of worry since no rains can inundate the hills. It was the despondency that would descend upon every soul as the wet clothes refuse to dry in the unending companionship of rainfall. And most importantly mother wouldn’t let us go out to play.
After an incessant monologue of rain when the sun would peep from behind the hills illuminating the early morning sky, children used to be the happiest lot.
It’s true rain evokes several emotions, from innocent smiles to raising a disgusted eyebrow. Human emotions have many shades just like the colours of a rainbow left behind by a downpour.
Today, I am again looking upwards, not to shriek a curse to the sky but to search for traces of rain on the floating clouds of an early evening.
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