Fireworks

Look at yourself in the mirror. Sans judging. Look at the fluid motion with which the maid rolls the chapatis. An inconspicuous flick with the corner of her sari, wiping the sweat off her brow. Thinking of her child, wondering what he/she might be thinking at that very moment. Mother walking across the hall. A picture frame catches the edge of her eye. Memories triggered. Maybe it was too hot when that picture was taken. You're standing mute, watching. You see a curtain flutter on a chance breeze. Reminds you of your grandmother's house. A crow sits on the window sill. Hungry. You remember being woken up late in the morning by a raucous crow. A cloth being embroidered with no apparent pattern. Memories, glimpses, emotions, thoughts, hopes, dreams being woven in the cloth, some recognisable and some not. A cloth, or an allegory for life itself? No rights or wrongs. Just threads of varied colours, thickness and weaves in different patterns. Look around you. All the things you've collected. That bag. That camera. The bangles that sparkled much in the shop. The used bus ticket. The concert ticket stub. What would you try if you knew you couldn't fail? Its a hot afternoon. Sitting silently under the fan. Just being. What is to be done in life? Education, degrees .. to what end? To help myself? others? Maybe accomplish both at the same time. hmm, clever. Why does the maid sit on the floor and eat, and I on the table? Is this me writing my life, or me writing somebody else's life? Or is the question irrelevant and the reader and writer, one? Love. Maybe you've experienced it, maybe you haven't. Heard much about it. Dimly aware that there must be something profound about it? There is. No driving directions though. A sea gull plunges into the calm blue ocean in search of a fish. Imagine a day without speech. Your father stroking your hair as you drift off to sleep. All the world's a stage and some are too afraid to laugh. A dark night sky. Dark as dark can be. Not even the moon. The fuzzy milky way now comes into focus. A comet's bright streak appears across the heavens.

City Life

The plane cruised effortlessly through the endless sky. It was that magical time after sunset, where the concepts of day and night held little meaning and creation was at the cusp of expression. A dense, brilliant orange glow just above the ocean rapidly transformed through shades of yellow and green, into the limitless blue that enveloped all of existence. Meanwhile nameless cities tucked away in the folds of mountains and clouds drifted by, vanishing in the blink of the eye. Soon, we touch down and the madness of city life is upon us, once again. City life hides away from us much that is subtle. The profound sunset that had demanded our attention but a few minutes ago, fades into a distant memory (It will revisit in a moment of unexpected reverie). In the meanwhile, we live in a light bulb. A light bulb whose bright, burning filament veils all that is mysterious and romantic.

Words

I recently came across this beautiful speech delivered by one Subroto Bagchi to the graduating batch of IIM Bangalore in 2006.

I have been thinking these last few day about just such speeches. Say, it so happens that one day society takes note of you. Takes note because your work has made a tangible difference to the lives of those people who might not even be known to you. And so you find yourself in front of a graduating batch of bright, excited students, raring to enter the real world. You narrate experiences that shaped the course of your life. In all likelihood, they will be full of insights you gained during your childhood and college years, not in an advanced class on micro-economics or nano-photonics at whatever post graduate college you went to. Some might remember your speech. Some might not. Some may forward it to their friends. One person's insights become another's anecdotes. Till one day, somebody has an epiphany of their own; that their insights have similar roots as the ones narrated in the many "Interesting fwds" that came their way!

Just what is it, that transforms words of inspiration into inspiring words?

Post-madness

After unarguably the most dramatic terrorist event in India's history, people in India, Pakistan and the world over are trying to make sense of what just happened. I mention these three geographical entities separately, because each has their own official stance on the matter, that not surprisingly, differs from each other's. In the initial shock of the event, all three voices speak in near unity; horror, sorrow and solidarity. No sooner has the shock subsided does each one return to their official stance, which has more to do with posing for the gallery than building peace, at the same time furiously working out mechanisms to deal with such terror if and when an encore presents itself. Harder questions that deal with trying to understand the root causes of extremism are brushed under the carpet. In such times, fear, both real and manufactured, make people more willing to give up a part of their individual liberties. It is a trap that the Indian people can very easily fall into when faced with the new found bravado that the government is displaying. Yes, it is a display. The Indian and Pakistani governments are talking to each other through the media, which makes it into a collection of monologues, rather than a dialogue. In rhetoric of this nature, the first casualty is hope. The hope for stable and lasting peace. The Indian establishment is posturing with an excessive use of quotation marks. India will take up strongly with our "neighbours" that the use of their territory for launching attacks on us will not be tolerated and that there would be a "cost" if "suitable" measures are not taken by them. The media, ever ready to ponce on sensational material, is not to be left behind. Any "evidence" the government presents is lapped up all to willingly and judgements implicating the same "neighbour" are passed instantaneously. With a chilling soundtrack softly playing in the background, I might add. Fear, manufactured. The official Pakistani government line so far has been fairly restrained and should be appreciated. Its media, leaves much to be desired, however. From what I have seen so far, people floating conspiracy theories about the attack being conducted by Indian authorities themselves are given liberal airtime. Of course, I must admit that in the last few days, I've followed the Indian media in a lot more detail than Pakistan's. I do not know the extent of the Pakistani connection in this whole episode. I only "know" what the media puts in front of me, but I'm not willing to suspend my critical faculty on account of the enormity of the tragedy. But one thing I do realise is that if the two governments are serious about trying to remove extremism from their societies, trials and monologues through the media must come to an end.

And no, the US need not play baby sitter. Or big brother.

Define and refine

The vanity of it all.
Sharply defined likes and dislikes.
Refined over time, apparently.
Decide.
Your complicated ideas,
or the infinitely complex person?