The crisis and the quest

“What should I possibly have to tell you, oh venerable one? Perhaps that you're searching far too much? That in all that searching, you don't find the time for finding?” 

So, I have wondered about it many a times, is ‘quarter life crisis’ really a thing? I got thinking because I thought I was suffering from it. But then, come to think of it, what really is the point? We aren’t the only generation who has to make that transition from adolescence to adulthood, being in a job that isn’t exactly emancipating or a relationship that isn’t really what was visualized. People have done it before us, will do it after us and may are dealing with it right now as I badger my keyboard this very moment. So what was it then, love, work, the existential quest?

Love

Love had been found. Found and Lost. And found yet again.

But who could trust an ally so changeable? An ally who came not only masked in several visages of love and desire, passion and exuberance but also confused the lover with its numerous manifestations. It was a jealous seething one moment and a burning desire the next. A melancholy longing one instant and a devastating rage the next.


God was busy playing a hide and seek game alone that I had long given up. So, occasionally when we met, I did tell him that I was done but he thought I was bluffing and continued with the game. I had meant to ask him how He was doing, how his little ball of fire and ice was rolling, how the births and the deaths were lined up in his calendar etc etc. If only he would stop and listen and not keep running around like an unruly child playing in reckless abandon. If only.

And what of work? What of work indeed? The only work I seem to enjoy is playing with words. It gives me an orgasmic high that no numbers can match. Numbers are intoxicating too, for those who are good with them, just like a forlorn wife who is a mistress to someone else. There is passion and vigour but very sadly it goes unrecognized. And whose doing can it be, but of fate, the merciless brute that takes pleasure in the pain of its half dead prey as it devours it.

 Perhaps, I have the luxury to spin this thought into a web that entangles the one who weaves it. Do the poor have a quarter/mid life crisis too, I wonder? Do god, love, and other higher things escape them too? But they must be too busy worrying about food I suppose. And what do spoilt brats like me do? I do have everything that should render me happiness and contentment. After all, there is a longing, anticipation that perhaps there’s more. They keep feeling that there’s more and I have already picked my path and if I start again I would be so behind.

For all I know, it could be a misbegotten joke or some kind of poetic justice.

Perhaps what we yearn is some kind of compensation, comfort for what we put up with…

The curse of poverty...

Poverty is the biggest curse. We, in our much privileged lives do no realize this heartwrenching fact as its  not everyday that we come face to face with it. The claws go deep and when poverty strikes, the ripples do not leave untouched those who are around.

He was a sweet, well natured and extremely polite man in his sixties probably. Everyday, as I walked into my office, he would say a ‘Namaste madam’ with his four fingers touching his forehead. It was awkward for me, a man his age saluting me as if I was coming straight from the Indo-Pak border. I would politely say “Namaste Bhaiyaji’ and take my seat as he would bring me a glass of water. Overtime, we got used to the routine, and the salute was always accompanied by a smile. Small chitchats became a norm as he would keep my glass of water on my table. He would tell me with great nostalgia about his family who stayed in a different town because he could not afford to live with them here in a metro. Cities were expensive after all.  I kept wondering why he needed to work in this age in the first place. The answer would be uncomfortable to hear so I never really asked him the question.

I was not in the office when I got a call from one of my colleagues telling me that Bhaiyaji’s father had passed away and that he was weeping inconsolably. The worst part of the tragedy was that he did not even have enough money to buy a ticket so that he could bid adieu to his father for the last time. Everyone in the office decided to pool in whatever they could to help the poor man. It was a nice gesture but what of the loss? What of the curse?

The images would not leave me. Poor old man. Tattered slippers. No money. Dead father. I decided I needed to see him. I wasn’t sure what or how much help I could offer or what kind words of mine would be good enough for him but I just knew I had to see him before he left. I called one of my office friends and she thought the same thing. Just as we were about to enter the parking lot of the office, I thought I saw him. There was a small old man, slightly bent with age, holding a grey cloth bag, wearing a grey check shirt and walking slowly towards the exit gate. It was the same shirt he wore to work almost everyday. I honked as hard as I could and the guard came running to the gate. I yelled asking him to stop Bhaiyaji first and the guard ran back in the other direction. We started walking towards him and I was trying hard to gauge his expressions. There weren’t any.

He was right in front of me now and I had called him back when he was leaving for his father’s funeral. What would I say to him? What would be good enough? I feebly attempted to offer some words of condolence but it looked vain. We offered him some monetary help and told him he could call us whenever he needed to. He bowed his head in gratitude and left quietly. My gaze followed him as he sauntered unhurriedly towards the exit gate. My eyes fell again on his tattered slippers. The curse.

Later, some colleagues told me that even though his father had passed away just a day earlier, Bhaiyaji came to work. Being a casual labour in the organization, he couldn’t afford to loose a day’s pay. Moreover, he had no money at all to be able to go see is father for the last time.  So I presume he must have come to work, said numerous salaams to a lot of people and sat quietly in a corner. They told me, it was a tea vendor who broke the news of his father’s death to a lady in the office. When the kind lady asked him, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. It was heartbreaking, not so much the death but what followed it.  It was the curse of poverty.

We keep saying that money can’t buy happiness, that its not in its very nature to generate joy, but isn’t the lack of money the root cause of all evil, the biggest of those evils being poverty?  We have never heard a really poor man saying that line, have we? Probably, it is indeed a form of pious snobbery to think money can’t buy happiness. All that spiritual banter about money doing horrid things to people and not being able to buy happiness etc etc, might be intellectually satisfying but it doesn’t bring respite to a hungry man.

I had a lot of questions today, to god, to society, to myself? How did we end up being so massively imbalanced in terms of what we have? How unfair is this charade where one man’s weekend movie and dinner is another man’s monthly income? I did not have any answers and it made me feel so impotent as I haven’t felt in ages. In a country like ours, seeing poignant images of poverty is not exactly a big deal. A maimed child, a blind man, a pregnant teenager, all thronging at my car window at a traffic signal is an ordinary everyday phenomenon. It sounds sinisterly pathetic as I read my last line but come to think of it, how many times do we think about it, let alone do something about it. I want solutions, we all do, and the best we can do is do our own bit. Charity can never be the answer. Something more dynamic will be required to change the equations. Perhaps we need something where each one of us is involved, fighting the odds and getting rid of this curse gradually and eventually.Maybe, someday i will find an answer, or someone will find an answer. We will have to keep looking for it though.

 For the first time today, I thanked god for not making me poor. 

Incredible India- A Sham Democracy!

“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high…

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit…

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.”- Tagore

‘Exotic’, ‘vibrant’, ‘enchanting’, ‘the World’s largest democracy’, ‘the next superpower’ as we love to call it, today, like many other times I am made to feel that we live in a sham democracy where all the emancipation is limited to make believe. For who here is free exactly? While we may pat our backs on freeing our minds from the colonial hangover, sixty five years hence, the minds are still very much  entrapped in the shackles of archaic ideals and so called ‘values’ that do more harm than good.

I mean seriously, what kind of society have we become? The form of governance in India is lauded tirelessly, but what about the quality of governance? We definitely and abidingly look great on papers but how efficient are we when it comes to delivering? Every year, we get up in the chilly January morning to witness the republic day parade. I, myself do it almost every year unfailingly even though I am a late riser and hate getting up early but it used to give me a false sense of pride in our nation. This year I question though, why rejoice this celebratory parade? What exactly are we celebrating?

Be it corruption, inefficiency, lawlessness or the sheer mindset of people that borders on being disgusting at times, is this where we want to live? Is this where we want to raise our children where we are not sure if they will come back home safely from school in the afternoon? Can we really call ourselves free if we are living under the constant fear of being bombed in a terrorist attack? Are we a developing country if people still vote for the candidates on the basis of their caste or religion as against to a better candidate? What kind of an incredible nation is it that doesn’t allow its women to step out after dark because it’s almost certain that she definitely will face some kind sexual assault on the way?

If in a democracy, the will of the people is supreme, then why does the government need to impose Section 144 of Indian Penal Code on a peaceful demonstration of solidarity for a gang rape victim? If in a democracy, people have the freedom of speech, why are angry slogans against butchers of humanity and demanding justice are welcomed with water cannons in the chilly Delhi winter? Why is a cartoonist who rightly depicted the sorry state of affairs in his cartoon pressed with sedition charges because he is certainly not the most serious violator when it comes to offence against the state? The credit for that will have to go our treasured political class which has very efficiently preserved all those archaic laws which were used by British Imperialists to smother, target and imprison the freedom fighters and revolutionaries during the British Raj.

The recent and tragic death of the gang rape victim angered us all. The nation mourned as though she was their own daughter, sister or friend. The mounting public outrage is causing increasing pressure on the government to strengthen the law, but is really a change in the offing? Perhaps, the intensified public pressure and a strong case against the six accused, will hopefully mete out the harshest punishment to them, but will the state of affairs also change after that? We need to ask the government about what will happen to those MPs and MLAs who themselves have charges of sexual offenses against them. Will they be tried and punished or at least kicked out from heir respective parties in the meantime? I am sure even if some charges are found to be false later on, we will not be missing out a lot from our great pool of political talent. I am sure we will manage just fine. We need stronger laws and stricter measures against offences, sexual or otherwise  available for the taxpayer who gives his blood and sweat in hope of a decent and safe infrastructure for him and his family.

As the age old adage goes, the people get the ruler that they deserve. We all are responsible for electing rapists, criminals and murderers as our representatives because after all they are where they are after a ‘fair’ democratic process. We all our responsible for accepting the indolent justice system, which even if it brings us justice, its mostly very very late. We have lived too long and too much with the ‘chalta hai’ attitude.

Let us try make a change this time, because someone’s child lost her life. She lost her life not only because of inhuman acts of a few merciless animals but also because the system was inadequate. She lost her life because our democracy is mostly hypocrisy. Let us not forget her death like many others that we have forgotten already. Let us make it into a catalyst that drives us to uproot this national lethargy and incompetence that has lead us to this mess of a democracy. Let us make a better and real democracy for ourselves.

'

Ask me if I am asking for it

I liked to be out of the house in the evening. The glittering multicolored lights of my metropolitan city coupled with the cool breeze and a careless chattering with my friend used to give me a false sense of being out and about. Not having to worry about the pocket money or public transport anymore I felt I was so independent.

And then I got a wakeup call.

A girl, very close to my age and who knows, she might have been like me in so many ways got raped in a moving bus as it  grazed the poshest of localities of our very esteemed national capital. These six murderers of humanity not only slaughtered her honor repeatedly and brutally but physically damaged her in ways that will be unimaginable to a sane mind. The girl is in coma and we don’t know if she will live or not, but even if she does, I doubt that the physical and mental trauma caused to her will let her lead a normal life.

I can’t stop thinking about her. It had happened before too. It will continue to happen again. It feels as if it’s only a matter of chance and time that one day it will happen to me, my friend or my sister. And the fact that I am so helpless against it makes a shiver run down my spine. It’s a little heartening to see that India stands united against such heinous atrocity committed on a girl who must have been someone’s daughter, sister and friend. The mass protests at the front doors of our symbol of freedom, the Raisina Hills and the subsequent attempt of the authorities to curb and regulate the protests leaves us with a certain sense of reassurance that perhaps the time has come. Perhaps, the people have awakened from their self imposed slumber where it went without saying that the girls venturing out after dark were risking too much and were to be blamed themselves if something untoward were to happen.

"What were you wearing?"

"How long was your skirt?"

"Were your jeans too skinny?"

"How tight was the top that you were wearing?"

"Did you say something?"

"Where you laughing too loudly?"

It makes me think, what am I supposed to do? Maybe I should apologize if my clothes or overtly pleased demeanor makes someone feel like a rapist.  Maybe, I should not step out of my house alone because obviously, I might get raped. But the chattering and giggling with my friend on the streets might make some men want to molest us, or just ‘harmlessly’ eve- tease us if we are lucky. Maybe, I should not step out of my house without some male company just like the medieval times. But the rapists on prowl would not hesitate in attacking my innocent brother or friend after spotting a girl on the loose. Perhaps, they would beat him up, kill him and then rape me. Maybe, I should not step out of the house at all. If Gods are with me, perhaps I will come across no rapist who will be audacious enough to break into my house and then rape me. Yes, I can sure live in that hope.

Our Society very enthusiastically teaches its women not to get raped rather than teaching the men not to rape. When I see all this anger, and I have a considerable share of it, towards the police or the government for not being vigilant enough, not being able to convict enough or not having laws that are strict enough, it brings me to the ultimate question- will the rapes stop from happening if there is more vigilance, conviction and laws? The answer is quite sinister.

Because it still remains unanswered as to who will vigil the psyche that has absolutely no qualms about seeing women as objects belonging to the bed and the kitchen? Who will convict the mind that has been fed from its cradle that women are inferior beings? What laws will prevent one from the having an urge to strip and tear apart every girl who might be laughing too loudly wearing a red lipstick?

I think we as a nation are all in favor of laws that will prevent, atleast deter some men from committing such monstrous acts that fails all imagination but also, we need to mend the fractured psyche that allows such gruesomeness to occur. We, as a nation need to respect its women because time and again, we have failed at it miserably despite the various glorification  And ladies, when your son tells you about his various harmless escapades with girls, please think twice before labeling them “loose” and considering your dear son some kind of Greek God because chances are, your adorable son is no better himself. And girls, please stop blaming your boyfriend/husband’s aggression on the butter chicken, and  take a reality check when he touches you without your consent. We need to change the mindset.

We need a change and  we need it now.

Because every time I wear a skirt, I am definitely not “Asking for it”!

Dear Insomnia,

“There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.

There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,committed or endured or suspected; there are worse thingsthan not being able to sleep for thinking about them.It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking inand stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.” 

I think I have insomnia.

I comfort myself with a false sense of superiority that I fancy having over those who are sleeping. For those who get a sound sleep, the night is too short, they can always sleep a little more. For me though, its as good as a decade. So much can be done. I read somewhere that an insomniac brain is like a conspiracy theorist that believes too much in its own paranoiac importance as though if it were to blink, then doze, the world might be overrun by some encroaching calamity, which its obsessive musings are somehow fending off. Come to think of it, it’s a disturbing thought. For me though, I am not so much as disturbed as I m restless, as though there’s a race against time and I am falling behind. I don’t know what I am reaching for but I want to keep running... towards…from…oblivious...

I just want to keep running.

“He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.” ― Ernest Hemingway, A Clean Well Lighted Place

Its just one of those days when you are left wondering if its one of those lives...

The Prodigy of Faith

 “I grant we are apt, prone, and ready, to forsake God; but is God ready to forsake us? Our minds are changeable; is His so likewise?” – John Updike

Today, as I sat locked in my car in the parking lot of my building for 15 mins, it struck me that perhaps God has forsaken me finally. We have always shared a love hate relationship, even though we were not equals. I was arrogant, sarcastic, cynical, bitter, impostor and HE? Well, he was the God of course! We were like a divorced couple, me and god, who had started out as friends, fell in love, got married, fell out of love and got divorced amicably. And occasionally when we bumped into each other at a common friend’s, we shared a casual hello and talked about the weather. But then, he was someone who knew my deepest, darkest secret. He knew me for the person I was and one that I had become. In some strange pitiable kind of way, I could still bank on him. Why then, did he decide that he will disappear in the oblivion one fine day because it sure felt like he had done that?

He had been with me every time I was at the crossroads, identifying my lesser gods, being torn between faith and doubt. And today, I was in doubt and he was nowhere to be found. The fifteen minutes had begun to seem like fifteen years. The prospect of getting out of the car and walking into my home seemed such a difficult task that I preferred keeping myself locked in the iron box which wouldn’t let my crying out. Because people ask questions, they are always doubting, sometimes even hoping that something is wrong. It was only him that I needed right now and since he wasn’t there, it was rather a comfort being alone. Déjà vu’. Just like the old days.

Earlier in the day when I was driving, I almost wished that the truck would hit me. But that would make matters worse. No one would end up any happier, besides the car would be gone. So I gave the truck idea a miss. What could I do then?

The resemblance was getting uncanny and a very disturbing pattern was emerging in my life where I always ended up being let down and letting down where I expected the least. I fancied myself being a good daughter, a decent lover and a dedicated hard worker, besides my million flaws. And yet, it hadn’t quite worked out for me. I had never been the articulate kind, and had a made a habit of blaming all my emotional inadequacies on that. But today, I got thinking, was it just that? My friends and I used to laugh about my ‘romantically challenged’ status. Was it that funny though? My family had over the years, developed all kinds of private jokes about my being aloof all the time. Was it so hysterical after all?  All the patterns in my life had one thing in common- me.

 I wish I could find God. I had so many unanswered questions.

I was a self obsessed nerd –snazzy hybrid who slept in a double bed, was a cleanliness freak, who snacked in the wee hours of the morning, collected quotations and didn’t leave the house without kohl even when she was very upset. I was weird in so many ways. And yet I always felt that I deserved some respite. If only, he was here today…

 And now, it seems like such a loser thing to write things like these as if the world cares, but do I care?