Till Then

I think (and I seem to be doing a lot of it these days) this blog needs to be abandoned. That really is quite a harsh word- "Abandoned". The associated feelings are definitely not quite as deep.

Its been a little under a year since I began blogging, and while Juley has been my best till date, I really enjoyed the time I had at Feeling Monsoon. But going over my recent posts on Smokerings, I realize that I am not really the kind of person this blog depicts. Fifty five posts later, I think increasingly my blog reads like that of an armchair activist (which I am not), a hardcore cribber (which again negative) and finally, at times, a lonely, lost, heartbroken individual (which is so not true). Writing the way I do lately doesn't make me happy as I did at Feeling Monsoon. And why else would I write if not to feel happy? I think I would be happier writing things that I feel good writing about. Being the person I think I am- genuinely.

So I am moving on; and my last post on this page is along those thoughts and similarly slightly dark.

Yesterday at the end of a cab ride, the driver, a boy of about 18 (funny how I refer to people that age as boys and girls now) pulled out the fare chart and pointed to a number, mumbling something incoherently. While we seemed to agree upon the amount payable I couldn’t quite agree to what he seemed to be saying. I offered what I felt was right, and he happily pocketed it. I was in a hurry and slightly irritable since I had to give him directions for a short and regular ride from my office to Bombay Central. I stepped out, but in spite of the immense hurry that I had been in, I couldn’t resist the temptation to ask him in Hindi where he was from:

T.O.: Kahan se ho bhaiyya?
C.D. (Cab Driver): Chembur
T.O.: Hindi nahin ataa? Kyun?
C.D.(giving a very sad look): Marathi…
(Drives away)

Life makes people move for a livelihood or marriage, or just change. I have moved all over the country- in search of work and an education. My sister has done so too. RV moved to Dubai for work and then to Jersey City, marriage. People move all the time, willingly unwillingly. Such is life. Thus far I have moved at will, and enjoyed each move, but each move comes at a certain personal loss. Loss of friends, of family, but for the likes of me for whom most change is welcome I think the benefits of the experience far outweighs the inconveniences.

However, even for me, every time I move into a new city, a new house or in the past a cubby-hole hostel room, and shut the door to the world outside, and as the reality sinks in I do feel a certain hollow, a churning of my insides, and let out a deep sigh, which is often where, thankfully, the emotional trouble ends and the activity of settling down takes over. I often wonder what is it that happens when people move against their will. How do they reconcile to it? The loss, the anguish, the physical effort, and sometimes, the guilt of it.

For instance this cabbie, who has clearly been driven to this city from his village, not speaking the language, with little money to buy things which can ease the pain of relocation. Without love or loved ones. I guess for them it is only hope, only the promise of a better tomorrow, or the feeling of having their back against the wall in a place they called home, a feeling of there being no other choice, which is there to distract from the pain of moving. In his case the general bewilderment would be stronger still, knowing that he is in a city inhabited by movers-on, and a city which was supposed to speak his mother tongue and yet:

The boy who brings him his tea in the morning calls him “Anna”
The people who sit in his cab call him “Boss”
Those who honk past irritably when he snakes his cab through the streets learning the routes call him “Oye Hero”
The women from the dance bars he picks in the early hours of dawn call him “Bhaiyya”
The room he rests his bones in at night is inhabited by people, like him, who don’t speak at all
The only people who speak his language are the cops looking for their bribe, and they call him “Shyane”- not quite the people you’d like to call your own

But then Bombay still welcomes all and sundry, gives them the wherewithal, for each in their own right. Where dog and cat eat in the same litter. Where the city almost always provides for your need, but never quite enough for greed. And where sometimes one person’s needs are forsaken for another’s greed. Yes, that happens too.

But that’s it… I am the happy sort and I don’t want to write about this stuff anymore. And I think to change the script of this page is just too much of an effort. It is unlikely that I will stop blogging altogether. So, full of hope I am starting afresh at the following address: http://smokeringsofmamind.blogspot.com/

Woody Allen (Annie Hal Opening Lines):

"There's an old joke. Uhm, two elderly women are at a Catskill Mountain resort. And one of 'em says: 'Boy, the food in this place is really terrible.' The other one says: 'Yeah, I know. And such small portions.' Well, that's essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly..."

A Debate on Democracy

This post is in reference to the recent move by the Parliament overruling the Supreme Court and deciding to stop demolition of illegal structures in Delhi for a period of one year.

I was appalled to hear the Cabinet Minister for Urban Development declare on national TV that when a majority of people is found breaking the law then we must question the basis of that law itself- or something to that effect.

I found this statement particularly disconcerting for three reasons. First, who decides majority and in which reference set? What is the purpose of having elected representatives and a judiciary, if everything is to be decided on the basis of numbers? And finally what sort of a precedent is the Parliament setting by this step?

First who decides majority. I don’t think the traders in Delhi who have unscrupulously gone about defacing the city for decades are in any form of majority in the city- perhaps in certain pockets of Chandni Chowk (and I know what a nightmare it used to be), Moti Nagar and Punjabi Bagh. Just that the trading community in Delhi is all-powerful and have mega clout when it comes to all things important. Whoever has lived in the city (and I have for the first 17 odd years of my life) is witness to the rampant mockery and the scant respect that this particular community has shown for the law of the land in order to pursue their economic greed. Needless to say they have been helped along by an unbelievably corrupt state administration. However, at this point of this essay I am not going to debate the rights and the wrongs of the case. Simply put, to say that they are a majority and their interests cannot be compromised, even if they have been on the wrong side of the law for decades, is such a travesty of justice and of any sense of right and wrong. I mean if you want to determine majority, rely on census statistics. If you want to establish a vote bank, do as you please. Do not challenge our sensibilities.

Next, the issue of having an elected body of representatives. I feel that while every democracy functions through a body of elected representatives, and they are expected to legislate according to the will of the majority, it is a tacit understanding that such a body will possess a vision which will steer the country towards development and progress by exercising its powers even if it is against perceived short –term majority interests. It seems that’s no longer the case in the world’s most populous democracy. And if the majority argument is to be applied uniformly, then first you should pass a legislation overruling reservations, because as a principle, reservation is for minorities and if the subject is put to a national consensus a majority of the population would oppose it. On the other hand, if the reserved categories form a majority in this land, then they have no right to demand the same.

Finally, what sort of a precedent are the Executive and the Parliament setting by passing such a bill. Can we assume that going forward if a section of the population which considers themselves to be a majority can take to the streets and just demand whatever they want- right or wrong? Can numbers justify any wrong doing? Just because a wrong has been prevalent for long enough, it doesn’t make it right. And it gives no government any authority legitimize decades of wrong doing. If yes, why have the police, why the judiciary and why at all the Parliament? Just let people muster a majority, take to the streets, come and cry on national TV, and do as they please, and just be a bully. How different is it from the days in our schools when a big fat “lala” fucker would flex his muscles and come and warn the rest to stay away from that new hot chick on campus? And just because something wrong is going on for decades, why should the Parliament just legitimize it by a ruling? I mean if your justification is loss of livelihood for thousands, then for the same reason shouldn’t we just exist alongside slums, no road widening projects, no environmental laws etc. etc. Just do the wrong, but make sure you do it for long enough, and that you get enough people in the boat, and then make sure that when the law comes calling you have a sickly looking wife, mother and kids to put in front of a TV camera to make a livelihood case out of it. And oh yes, all this assumes that you are Mr. Moneybags to begin with.

I think I should add here that I am not against public demonstrations, and taking to the streets. Hey, I am a Bengali- its in my blood (Inquilab Zindabad!). But I do possess a deep sense of right and wrong. And this time I think the people are wrong in trying to arm-twist the government into passing such legislation.

Other disturbing things… Docs got bashed up on the streets of Bombay. What a pity. Sometimes I feel bad for these people. They have a thankless job- and they cannot even protest. But the way they have held fort in this entire campaign is worthy of praise. All the roads that lead to the lane on which I live have been blocked off indefinitely for repairs. All except one. And that is a one way in the wrong direction. I think our state administration sucks big time. And I think we should not be paying taxes, rather be paid by the government to live in this country. But to quote GNR- “Who gives a fuck about your problem anyway, T.O.?”

And among other things this weekend I had plenty of time to think about what’s happening and what’s not in my life. Basically, I realized that there is too little to ponder and 48 hours is too long a time for it. Most people my age have wives, a few children. Housing problems, fights with spouses, hospital bills, weekend shopping lists, cars to fix. I have no wife to appease, no known kids, been living in the same house for 4 years and don’t intend to move unless thrown out, a recently attested near perfect health (Thank God for that!). I do no shopping though I did try this time around, my car just rots downstairs- just a calm peaceful quiet existence- a slient bubble floating 0n a sea of noise. That’s it.

Alive and Kicking

we spoke.
i was inebriated
you were well...
the usual pleasantries
the mindless banter
the usual cribs
about not writing
not calling. Not whatever
(Friday Night Nothings)

except...
Your interview was
The beginning of a meaning
In your new life- and of
Utmost Importance

and another revelation
however, mild
that you now read
THIS BLOG
the word was just "Yep"
but I am sure I felt
your moist fingertips caress
my face, and stoke
smokerings of my mind

And now when I post anything which has even an oblique reference to you, I am reminded of a song from my childhood-

“Bhalo Achhi, Bhalo Theko; Aaakasher Thikanaye Chhiti lekho”

Translated from Bengali-

(No, I know what happened when I tried being babelfish last time around.)


Just.

For you:

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But be, as you have been, my happiness... Randall Jarell (1914-1965)
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Those Were the Days my Friend…

I was at dinner with a client last evening when I spotted Bush. She was in the middle of an animated discussion, which she seemed to carry on single-handedly, leaving little room for other to participate in. Her hands seemed to have a will of their own, and regularly moved up to push her unruly hair back. Some things never change. Not even over a period of 15 years.

I walked across, the hug, the warmth, that smile, that look in her eyes. It was a giveaway. I walked back. There were no promises of meeting soon, no exchange of numbers. We always had those. In fact we hardly spoke. “Bush…”, I said softly. “T.O (or my real name)”, she exclaimed. Not even the civil exchange of introductions. It attaches a certain importance to a person, when you display such feelings, but refuse to share his identity with others on your table. For the rest of the evening, I kept looking at her from time to time, catching her glance and a warm smile, every now and then.

Circa 1991- New Delhi. Bush, PG, Dingo, Sing Sing, Poorvi and me- used to hang out together in school and outside. I was dating PG, but (as I sat listening to inane quasi-business chat) I realized that surprisingly, it seemed to be the least significant memory I have of those years. That year the six of us had landed in the same section in our school, and somehow drifted towards each other. Around the same time, most of us had, to the annoyance of the nerd herd, emerged from relative academic obscurity. And we weren’t even academically inclined. While every toher one in the top ten in the class knew exactly what they wanted to study after school (in those days it was either engineering or medicine) and where they wanted to do it, our foresight extended only to plans for the next weekend. And what weekends we had. Once she took it PG didn’t budge from her rank, Dingo not far behind, Bush and me, emerged every now and then as and when we felt like. Poorvi could make boys pee with her looks, while Sing Sing had half the school’s pubescent women lusting after him. We did all the school things together, and then some out of it too.

We shared:
Homework, class notes
The Backbenches; lunch-boxes
(Which were never eaten during the lunch break)
Running away from school, bunking classes
Front row movies at Priya

Five shows of JJWS at Uphaar

(before it went up in flames)
Cracking tests- even cogging
Excursions, long cycling trips
Diwali Melas, Holi Colours

Window-shopping at CP, Def Col, South Ex
Limited pocket money
Pizzas and Hot Chocolate Fudge at Nirula’s
Lazing by the pool at DSOI

(Choking over) The first puff of a cigarette

(Actually PG and Bush didn't -

all they did was shake their heads in disbelief)

The first Beer. Over Biryani at Dingo's

And other teen things that were in vogue those year

Cut to the present. Sports Bar, Lower Parel, Bombay. 2006.

Smoke rings form and dissolve. Much like the memories from those days. I know that Bush and I have lived in the same city for the last three years or so. So does she. We have each others’ numbers, but never get in touch. We always meet by chance, in bars, shopping malls and theatres. I guess there is a tacit attempt to keep them just that. Chance encounters. I guess our current lives are so irreversibly altered, that there is little point in doing things otherwise. That is one thing about childhood memories- they seem so rare and precious that you want to remember them just that way and not let the complications of your adult life distort them in any fashion.

But every time we bump into each other, I realize what a wonderful person she is and how little she has changed over the years. Part of it is because we meet like Thirteen-year olds and part as Seventeen.

And ah, she almost never fails to mention, that when we first knew each other, I was shorter than her. And wore knickers to school.

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Lalala lah lala, lalala lah lala

Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.

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In "D" Company

I think my parents are the only people I know who:

- Chastise their 29 and 31 year wards olds in public
- Travel by train as a rule
- Don’t use an air-conditioner (Eeeesh!!!)
- Don’t drop their kid (note the use of the word) to the airport
- Don’t pack three bags of goodies for their little boy when he leaves home
- Whose deep understanding of the English language excludes the expression “Generation Gap”

The consequence of the above is that when at that home I just sulk in silence.

Needless to say, I had been home to Delhi this Sunday. It was green, sunless and sweaty. My niece, all of 5 months (62cms and 4.95 kgs) had to be fed her first morsel of solid food. And as per regulations, the act had to be performed by yours truly. Delhi was hot beyond words, and I was made wear too many clothes (Maa: No shorts!!! Get out of that immediately. Me: Hey… I am 29- can’t drop my shorts in front of women. Maa: Yes, but you can still be spanked in public). In spite of whatever my parents think, I’ve executed my share of family duties for the fiscal year 2006-07.

The mere thought of having to act responsibly through all of Sunday was enough to make Friday and Saturday three pub nights. Unfortunately, everything seemed to shut early on Saturday, and so we hit upon my wonderfully stocked cellar. We sat up all night (I figured long back that at home, I am a bottomless pit when it comes to drinking). I spent most of the night waking up the neighbors, dancing, "singing and cursing– loudly and badly", lusting and then much, much later, marriage counseling! Once high, I am The Authority on almost anything. At some point of time, I even recall lecturing a certain lady on the virtues of paid sex vis-à-vis loveless sex. Wow!

Nu and Viper moved back to HK this weekend. M moves to US of A on the next. That is a disturbing sign. Everyone I know seems to be running away from this place. The Shack also seems all run down and out of sorts. I am really peeved.

But on the brighter side I now have “D” Company

What can I write about a person who dozes off every time I speak to her?

Most of our conversations are carried out late at night (post 11PM). The reason for that is not because she is the only one awake at that hour (ironically, I am told so is Ms. P, but not another word about her today), but because till recently our chats would be quite enjoyable, ending with the customary “Good Night”. Now they end with “zzzz.” Anyway!

D has been a real find. I had heard of her through a common friend couple of years back, and then met a her a few of months ago, over a lunch or something, to discover that all this while she had been tucked away in a cubicle, a floor below mine. Last few weeks or so, somehow (one never knows how) encounters became frequent, and I realized that I find her nice to great at most times. She has her moods, but then who doesn’t?

But it seems she doesn’t speak to single Bengali men when her Mom is around. Wonder why.

I am so tempted to write about the latest Mandal –related events. The scenes of students protesting at India Gate bring back memories (from my own “youth”, and not from Rang De Basanti). But I shall only say this:

Heard on TV some female Bong sociologist, wearing this condescending smile and a nine-yard sari and heavy lipstick, support the move citing that OBCs need reservation as most entrance exams are held in English. China and Russia (we are down to comparing ourselves with a defaulting nation) can manage in their mother tongue, why can’t we. Yes, sure Madam. Lets have CAT, JEE and the many PMTs in the 15 national languages and budget 1-year for the process. Next lets have the curriculum in those institutes in 15 languages, and since these people, by now, have no incentive to learn English anyway, why not have all companies where they are employed work in those multiple languages. Needless to say that there will be a backlash from those proficient in the dialects only, but they that later. One needs something to keep politicians busy. But before we do that, can you please name all the bones of the vertebral column in Bengali? If people cannot be taught English in 12 years of schooling, they can hardly grasp Anatomy, Biochemistry and Physiology in the first 18 months of MBBS. Like I have always maintained – reservation is a bad excuse for poor governance.