Un-protect

Winter is just about setting in. Shows up sometimes, around late evenings and early mornings. Arms fold by themselves, the quilt becomes more important than the jogging track. And you know she's playing hide and seek with you.

But serious winter is still distant. And it surprises me to see people covering themselves with mufflers and shawls and jackets, freshly pulled out from the box bed.

Point is, why must you be so cautious? Why must the fear of catching a chill overpower the experience of cold breeze seeping through your skin, into your blood? The ‘what will happen tomorrow’ is consuming your energy; the ‘what must be felt now’ is taking a beating.

We are perpetually shielding ourselves against all things possible - hurt, love, relationships, failure, you name it. We build unseen walls, stronger the walls of the world put together. We form miles and cities, we create immeasurable distances. The fear of pain takes over the pleasure of experience . Words are measured, not spoken. Situations are weighed, not lived.

Come let’s sack the guards on duty. Let’s make a big hole in the wall. Let's not be shy if once bitten. Let’s drop the inhibitions completely. Let’s not duck with fear.

Winter is not here yet, let's throw away the jersey.

Divided

Between the two books you are reading at the moment
Between five of your closest friends
Between time for self and self-inflicted obligation of taking time for others
Between social and anti-social
Between the discomfort of saying no and the pleasure of saying yes
Between a glass that's half empty and one that's half full
Between morals you have grown up with and the world you have grown up in
Between a voice that says ‘give in to the moment’ and one that screams ‘pull back right now’

Between the ear that responds to a classical note and the head that bangs to hard rock
Between fear and a caustic tongue that gives two hoots
Between keeping a planned distance and then the irrepressible attraction that spills water on the entire effort
Between this side of the wall and the other side of it
Between what you are and what they think
Between heat of the moment and next morning regrets
Between city street lights and greenish black mountain side evenings
Between a quest for the eternal and a lifetime-like short moment


Between love and lust
Between desire and detachment
Between ideal and the real world
Between the good girl and the bad girl
Between home and the nomad life
Between Marquez and Wodehouse
Between a mystery and an open book


Between two parties happening at the same time
Between three people pursuing you at the same time
Between four people talking to you at the same time


Between a few unanswered questions
Between roads that lead to overwhelming discoveries and the ones that lead to your office, from the same route, same time

Between what is and what could have been

Hiccups

Shoelaces will open in the middle of a passionate run.
Ink will run out when thoughts are flowing.
Good ol’ disc will stop playing after a few warnings.
Zipper of the old companion travel bag will get stuck before every journey.
A perfectly timed, heart tuggingly candid moment will not be captured because you put your finger on the lens.
Lights will go off during the climax of a good film.
The hot sun, not heavy rain, will follow the drizzle.
Green bangles will jam around the swell of your hand.
Heady conversations will be interrupted by ill-timed phone calls.
The first matchstick will invariably not light the cigarette.


Relax! Hiccups will happen.

Short-term joys

As everyone complains of monotony, I would like to break in by arguing that of course there are things one can look forward to. I don’t mean long term, and am not referring to big goals, pleasant surprises or dreams that take at least a few grey hair to get realised. I am also not talking about the job offer on its way, or the car in the offing. Nor am I hinting at the one interesting person everybody hopes to meet at some point or the other. What I am arriving at are possibilities one can look forward to each day. Every hour.

Even in the deepest shade of blue days, there are a few things that bring joy to me. To begin with, the first cup of oversweet tea I often complain about but suffer from withdrawal symptoms when the machine crashes down. I also look forward to receiving mails which in the first go reassure that people remember me. The second thought that I am nothing but a name in the forward message list doesn’t really dampen my spirit. I look forward to plugging my earphones in and listening to something pleasant. In deep contrast to the bickering that otherwise raids my ears. I really look forward to fifteen minutes or so of reading the book I religiously carry to work. To biscuits that come with tea during meetings. I look forward to the moody Delhi weather, and to standing at the huge window overlooking the flyover when it suddenly rains. I look forward to new faces and old friends. And most of all, to writing with my fountain pen.

I prefer

Letters dipped in affection as opposed to hurriedly sent emails. Tapes as opposed to ipods. Markets as opposed to malls. Greeting cards that are slipped in through the door. Fifty year old photo studios with framed photos of people posing awkwardly. Swinging by a tree hung tyre as opposed to screaming in a roller coaster. The canvas as opposed to the computer screen. Scrapbooks that double up as photo albums as opposed to pale yellow folders on desktops carrying something referred to as ‘pics’. Some change to put in a piggy bank made from powder box scrap as opposed to peanuts transferred directly to the bank account. Affection as opposed to acrimony. Books off the pavement with pages that have gracefully turned yellow as opposed to freshly stacked bestsellers in a newly constructed bookstore. Thinking on the register as opposed to thinking on the computer. Gum as opposed to glue stick. Long white envelopes as opposed to the sort made of handmade paper with rural motifs, found only in pseudo arty shops. Wind blown hair not brushed for eighteen days at a stretch. Playing knots and crosses on the last page of a notebook. Colourful glass bangles. Dark rum. Fountain pen. Cycle. Spectacles as opposed to contact lenses. Thumbs up in a bottle as opposed to Diet Coke in a can. Old jeans. Old Sneakers. Old table lamps. Anything old. Tea as opposed to coffee. Verandahs as opposed to driveways. Wrist watches as opposed to mobile phone clocks. Newspaper as opposed to e news. Spontaneous trips as opposed to appointments in leather planners. Manual as opposed to automatic. Old black and white movies as opposed to black and white movies now coloured. Dried leaves in books as opposed to food bills in books. Park as opposed to the gymnasium.

A life of discomfort

It’s perfectly alright to lie. But be uncomfortable if you do. Cheat, but never find peace with yourself after you have cheated. Steal like you have never stolen before, with the fear that someone is intently watching you. Each time you wrong someone, let sleep elude you. Feel guilty. Be restless. Carry the burden of discomfort with you. Give the deceit you indulged in, a sea of importance. Till you battle yourself after a deed deemed bad, you will remain alive. A few scratches here and there, alive nonetheless.

Ideally

I would like someone to pay me for my intense urge to return to the mountains every second Saturday. And for actually making it once in every two months. I want a hike for managing to unwind with a not so popular but a very fine author every third evening. Shouldn't I get a bonus for being able to go for a morning run five out of seven days? And I deserve a double promotion for spending time with family, soaking up music on weekends. I ought to get a salary for writing this blog, elaborating one word thoughts into huge paragraphs. Someone could also pat me for swirling and singing in the monsoon while the world keeps distance from the rain. I should get a huge increment for going to the movies alone. And for choosing to go on foot to faraway places where most prefer to get transported. I should also get paid for making small talk with strangers in buses, trains and on a particularly happy day, anywhere. I do deserve a mention for not suffering from the Monday mourning syndrome. And an award for cycling in the duststorm. Maybe a letter of appreciation for sitting by the road to sip hot tea on simmering June afternoons.

Take pride, because it’s not less than a talent to do things beyond the cocoon of cramped workstations. Go ahead, build a life beyond this life and the rewards will come. One way or the other.

Loosen up.

Sacrifice the window seat. Listen to somebody else’s kind of music through a long journey. Fight sleep for someone’s idle babble. Stay still when somebody sleeps on your shoulder. Follow, don’t lead. Wait for the next bus to come. Lend. Give away the last sip of water. Let someone buy their lunch first. Have the poor guy keep the change. Deign to acknowledge a junior’s presence. Take photographs, don't fight for space in them. Let your contemporary have the attention all evening. Make place for others during the morning run. Go out with even those who don’t make great company. Pay the bill. Get someone else to give the directions. Let the one next to you sleep for half an hour more. Part with your Marquez.

Looking for you.

Someone came looking for you.

Because you are the signing authority for monthly vouchers. You are a roll number. You meet deadlines. You are seat number twenty-eight. You are the guy to contact if anybody needs to borrow a pen, a pad, a pencil. You are a mobile number in the phone book. You always have cigarettes on you. You are a designation on the visiting card. You are the guy with a good music collection who doesn’t mind sharing. You deliver work. You are the girl who sits in the extreme left corner of the office, just next to the coffee machine. You are the sort who will drop people home. You are the second last name on the appraisal list. You are a back up for work. You are the new joinee. You have the dictionary in your drawer. You have contacts.

When was the last time someone came looking for you, just like that?

Excess baggage

Your train leaves the railway station on a limpid, blue afternoon. Quite the opposite of your state of mind. You sit by the window staring outside, bearing wind in your eyes, asking yourself only one question – will the thoughts you long to leave behind, ever leave your side? The train paces up. More questions now. Why don’t the thoughts slip by as briskly as the town you are leaving? Like life outside the bars of your train window, why can’t everything just go blur? The train comes to a gradual halt. Oh hell! What you desperately wanted to leave behind has travelled faster than you. As you step down, your thoughts are waiting to grab you, in the form of the early morning sun, a certain shade of blue someone is wearing, or the smell of musk - all unforgettable associations. You wanted to leave your baggage? Unfortunately, the only thing that got left behind was the railway station.

Joys of forgetting

There was once a time when I religiously remembered all dates. Birth dates, anniversary dates, date of joining work, the date when I left for my first lone trip, break-up and patch-up dates. And many such dates of days that I held in high importance. And then, life got busy. Work took over. And I started to forget. Slowly, each of them began to fade from my memory. Initially guilty, I have finally come to what I feel is a mature conclusion. It’s perfectly alright to not remember dates. Because all they call for is compelled celebration. I, on the other hand, prefer to celebrate moments now. Instances. And thankfully, no moment is time bound, date or day bound. Like tiny fragments, they live in various little corners of my mind, jump out anytime and bring me to an honest smile whenever they like. What’s interesting is that anything can spark them off. Rain, fragrance, or a walk through a certain lane at a certain hour of the day. Like free spirits, my best moments return as memories at whim. Dates? They should just sit pretty on annual calendars.

And the show goes on.

Unrequited. Less of a word, more of a philosophy. The idea of incomplete is in fact very appealing. An unfinished conversation, a question that was repeatedly asked but for some reason never got answered, a message that has not been reciprocated, and a glance that awaits another. A trickle of rain leaves behind hope that maybe next time the sky will pour its heart out. Letters at least keep you waiting for the postman. Something will come. Or may be not. What you certainly gain is uncertainty. And that remains. Why seek complete? It means the end.

I was wrong.

And I thought I would never lie. And I thought I would always hope. And I thought I was very patient. And I thought I would never compromise. And I thought I would only make friends. And I thought I would always be on time. And I thought I would let go. And I thought I would never repeat myself. And I also thought nothing would replace my old note pad and fountain pen.

Then.

Looking back always has more romance than looking forward. That’s why none of my conversations are complete without anecdotes of my childhood. Of the downhill run to school with many kilos of bag, a burden I never felt. Of plucking wild flowers on my way back and lovingly leaving them to dry in my notebook. Of the fact that I had dry red cheeks. Of my home knit sweater often getting stuck in bushes that ran parallel to narrow trails. Of my many narrow escapes with nature. Of roaming around aimlessly for hours, with leaves, flowers, pebbles for company. Of being free.

The other way round.

Winter is thick with memories of incidents that never took place. It reminds me of moments I have never known. Amid avenues with trees that wilt and welcome, I have relived what I have not lived. In the whiff of cardamom I have wistfully smiled. And in the first hint of fog and untimely rain, bouts of nostalgia have overcome me. Will experience now follow the memory?