King of his universe

He was the quintessential artist. Stubble on his chin, gold rimmed spectacles hardly doing anything to hide the sadness in his eyes, a flowing white shirt, inexpensive blue trousers (the kind that people rarely wear these days), and brown shoes that didn't match at all with the rest of his outfit. A bulging folder, no doubt full of his works, and pencils of various colors jutting out of his shirt pocket completed the rest of his getup.

His eyes were sad in a very inexplicable way. I don't know if sad eyes are something characteristic of artists, or was it merely lack or work, or both, or something else. Either way, he cut a lonely figure sitting beside Mr. Ronald McDonald on the bench outside McDonalds on that chilly November evening. It was a tragicomic contrast between them, Ronald smiling away for all the world to see, and the painter, (by now I'm sure that's what he was) portraying sadness on his own face.

I myself was seated opposite him on a compound wall, just a few metres away, waiting for a habitually late friend. From time to time, he would open his folder, take out a portrait of a face he'd drawn with those wonderfully colorful pencils of his, and gaze into it. People were constantly passing by, it being a Friday evening, and McDonalds being what it is in the suburbs, there was a steady flow of people in and out of the restaurant. People would stop for a second, stare with open admiration at his drawings, and pass by on their way.

That was when I started feeling sorry. Now who on earth these days gets face portraits done? Sitting still for minutes together, that too outside of McDonalds? People have cellphone cameras, digicams, and photo shooting has never been easier. Who'd pay 20-30 bucks to see their face in color pencil shading, when Picassa and Photoshop let you do the same thing for free? He seemed at that moment, a guy extremely misplaced in space and time. There was a touch of sadness rankling within me still, as my friend arrived and we went in.

Talking about a host of other things, I forgot about him after stepping inside. Around half an hour later, we emerged outside. He came to mind at once and I looked in the direction of the bench. Surprise surprise. A young married couple had seated their little kid of about six or seven on Ronald's lap. He was looking the other way, and they were forcing him to sit still. A surge of happiness went through me. He'd got someone to draw! Beyond the kid I could see him.

The folder was open in his lap, a few pages jutting out. He was busy at work, gold rimmed spectacles reflecting the bright lights of the building. There were color pencils tucked into the gaps between his fingers on his left hand, which he'd clenched into a fist, somehow managing to hold a clipboard, on which he was drawing. With the deftness of a master, he'd switch pencils between his right and left hand without opening the fist. The child stirred, and with the stern voice you'd associate with a teacher, he told him to stay still. And continued. As I passed him on my way out, my shadow fell on his clipboard momentarily, and he looked up. As our eyes met for an instant, I realized something.

Gone was the sadness. His brows were knitted in intense concentration, and the sadness was replaced by the impatience of a man interrupted in the middle of something he's really passionate about. He was the king of his universe at that moment. My shadow moved on, and his clipboard was bright again. And the artist was back at work, drawing faint shades of hair on the portrait.

I realized I was a lot lighter at heart as I went home.

New ones from Dubai (short story)

The cheap motel room in central Dubai was abuzz with activity that night. Bright lights adorned the entire setup, a few technicians ran around, a fat sweaty middle aged man with a balding scalp was shouting out orders to all and sundry. Wasim strutted into the room wearing only a long towel. With his rippling muscles, hairless chest and disconcerting smile, there was no mistaking him for what he was. "How much time boss?" he lazily drawled. "Just about done, just about done" the fat man repeated for what was like the fourth time in the night.

And in the middle of it all, sat Safina. Draped in only a bathrobe, she sat on a cheap couch beside the bed. Her eyes were closed. After getting fired from her job as a waitress a few days ago for messing up a big order, life had become very difficult for her. She'd managed to save some money, but all that seemed like a joke now considering she didn't even have a job. She thought about her life back home in India when her parents were alive. How carefree the days were back then. She shivered when she thought about the days ahead. Finding a job again, saving for her brother's college admission. At 18, Ali was at a hostel in Mumbai. She desperately needed money to get him into a college of his choice. He wasn't a bright student, but she had to do it somehow. For her parents' sake atleast. I'll do it somehow, she thought. Three years of battling it out in Dubai had taught her a lot of things. But nothing had prepared her for this.

She was shaken out of her reverie by the fat guy. "Come on girl, you can't keep the set waiting for too long. You've had your rest. Now it's showtime. Boys, are we ready?" She stood up uncertainly. Slivers of pain shot through her, and she grimaced. Just for tonight, she told herself. Wasim was beside her now, leeringly stroking her hair. Taking a deep breath, she prayed to God to forgive her for this sin. For Ali's sake. For Ali's sake. Once he graduates and takes up a proper job, all this will seem like a bad dream. I'll go back to my India, and never ever see the faces of these bastards again. God, please let this not hurt too much. "Action!" cried the fat guy. Swiftly, Wasim jerked off her bathrobe, and pushed her on to the bed. It was quite a while before he cried "cut!".

Back in Mumbai, it was raining at night. Ali shook the rain out of his hair as he reached his friend's house in Bandra. "Man, this rain.." he muttered, as he plopped down on the couch. Four of his friends were there. Cigarette smoke hung about the place. Alcohol was pungent in the air. "Say Ali, how're you going to tell your sister that you got debarred for low attendance? I mean...you'll be pushed back a year now right? And won't this affect your college programmes?"
Ali shrugged. "What she doesn't know can't hurt her. Anyway, I don't even have to tell her that. She'll start crying in no time." Saying thus, he took a puff of the cigarette. "Hey what about the porn?" Subash enquired. "Patience my man", Ali said..." I've told Husain to look out for it. He's got some new ones from Dubai it seems".

The real India

So I read in a newspaper today that a man in a remote district of Tamil Nadu married a bitch yesterday. Big deal, you must be thinking. A lot of people do that right? Well think again. He married a real four legged bitch. And the article goes on to say what a grand wedding it was, and all his village was present at the ceremony it seems, complete with a grand feast at the end. Disgusted? I am.

The article goes on to say how the man Selva had in his youth, killed two dogs, and in an act of intrepid stupidity, hung their carcasses from a tree. Within a year, he suffered from partial paralysis and lost his hearing too. Plagued by health problems incessantly, it was a mighty sad life that Selva led. Until an astrologer came with the perfect antidote for all this...to cleanse himself of the sin, marry a dog. Selva agreed wholeheartedly, and hence all this.

The wedding, apparently was presided over by all town elders. They draped the bitch in a silk saree and Selva took an oath to keep his better half happy. This act was covered by NDTV, Mumbai Mirror, and all leading southern newschannels and papers. It is with great satire that this article was reported in the Mumbai Mirror. Somewhere, something is missing. Shouldn't people be disgusted and appalled by all this? Who are these 'town elders'? Does nobody in that village have common sense? Are we supposed to sit back in our couches at night and laugh at this spectacle on TV? Or is it supposed to be our morning quota of newspaper humor?

Who needs serious help here? That guy Selva? Or the prescient astrologer? Or the entire village which was a party to all this? Definitely the media too, which, in a frenzy to report, has left its own morality and brains behind a long time ago. If you threw your head back and laughed at this, you need help too.

It is unimaginable, the amount of ignorance, illiteracy and poverty in a region which would lead to something like this actually happening.

So on the one hand, we have Yuvraj Singh getting a crore for hitting six sixes in an over, we have prominent ministers proclaiming modest assets worth tens of lakhs, we have Mukesh Ambani as the richest person in the world, we have Sunita Williams lecturing in IITB about how to dream big, and we have movies like Om Shanti Om made with a budget of crores.

And on the other hand, we have a poor illiterate man marrying a dog because he thinks his health will improve. And we have a woman in Raipur killed, because people suspected she was a witch.

Which is the real India? Is our version of modern India as fake as movie stunt glass made of candy?

Maybe some things in life can't be understood. For better or worse, our country and the people within fall in that category. Anyway, best compliments to Selva and his bride on behalf of the entire country.

Succumbing

(The plaintive song of a person who tries to improve the world, but gets pulled down into the muck anyway)

And I have a billion dreams with me,
The world I will change, just wait and see.

The blind shall all see, the lame shall all walk
The deaf shall hear, and the maimed shall talk.

The poor will eat to their hearts fill everyday,
And without bitterness their prayers they shall say

Poor children will go to their schools and study,
The malnutioned will become able and sturdy

No home shall be dark, no fireplace shall be cold,
Warmth in every house, body, heart and soul.

No rest for me until I shall do all these,
Saying thus, I set out on the road to my dreams.

But life plays games with me, strange games
My naivete it destroys, humbles and shames

And all the blackness in the world I fight
But its a lonely struggle, and deepens night

No more I can see in front of me, darkness is so
I can't even find my goals within me anymore

And I join the rest of the world, laughing,
At my own misfortunes, and of those surrounding,

Blind to my dreams, that lie still somewhere
In a nook of my soul, but I am oh so unaware

And a billion dreams I had with me,
But the world finally got the better of me.

OH Dravid!

This one is for the cricket enthusiasts. As for those who happen to chance upon this piece, if you don't follow the vagaries of the men in blue, you are going to get turned off. Please continue at your own discretion.
They say fate plays strange games. But I thought Rahul Dravid was above all that somehow. He came across as a smart man, one of the smartest you will ever meet. The kind who doesn't talk much, always knows what he's doing, and somehow manages to stay on the right side of trouble and controversies, even in this crazed age of media espionage and voyeurism.
It is still amazing how his name was always absent in the ugly coach versus seniors spat that led to Greg Chappell resigning a few months ago. It is amazing how he never put a foot wrong throughout his illustrious career, first as a batsman, then as a wicketkeeper, and as a captain.
The world cup debacle somehow seemed to affect him more than the others. Then on, he was always criticised for not being aggressive enough. Some called him 'that 70s captain'. Though he never reacted openly to all this, it was a shock when he gave up captaincy last month, citing that he wasn't enjoying the job and that he wanted to focus on his batting.
That was just a month ago. Now, he's out of the tour for Pakistan for non performance in 5 games. A month ago, he was taking all the major calls on selections, and now his head has been set rolling by those hungry for 'youth and aggression'.
It is somehow strange that a man like Dravid could make such a big blunder. Dravid the calculated guy who let his bat do all the balltalk. Agreed he didn't perform. But it is somehow disappointing when the same barometer is not used to judge someone like Sachin Tendulkar, whom the nation forgives only too easily.
I had posted blogs on Dravid and Ganguly two months ago, saying that their careers are always intertwined with each other. Now, Ganguly is in the team, and Dravid is out.
It's back to the drawing board for Dravid. I'm guessing he'll come back strongly. He's not the wall for nothing.

Won't come back home this time

(I have a thing for writing about soldiers. Somehow its more fascinating each time. This is another tribute to them)


It gets late, and off go the city lights,
So do the laughter, and the fights,
Ten thousand homes, all getting ready,
For bed time, nightdresses and stories,
A cosy little world, it thunders outside,
Dina shakes in her bed, little eyes wide,
Momma will daddy get wet? Will he be fine?
Does he have a bed and does he sleep on time?

Daddy's at the border, rifle in hand,
Shivering in his boots, but at his stand,
There's tension over the mile, bombs erupting,
Momma knows that, still, she keeps smiling,
And says daddy's a super man, he takes his rest,
And when they need him the most, he gives his best.
Dina says her prayers, and closes her eyes,
Momma kisses her forehead, and puts off the lights.

Meanwhile, daddy is in battle now, the bombs are closer
And the gunshouts louder, and now one on his shoulder.
He is bleeding now, and he falls to the ground with a slump,
A bullet in his body, throbbing, a fatal mettalic lump,
And daddy knows he's seen the last of Dina and his wife
And he's trembling now, just trying to hold on to his life,
As it slips away, he prays 'God let Dina grow up right',
And a few minutes later, daddy passes away, into the night.

Momma gets the news when Dina is at school,
She closes her eyes, and the world begins to whirl,
And she knows she can't tell Dina, some things can't be told,
You can't say daddy's gone forever to a four year old,
And so at night, the world watches TV at the end of the day,
About movies, cricket, ministers, and whats 'hot' today,
Dina is in bed, thinking her superman daddy is doing just fine,
And in the darkness, momma cries the night away,
For she knows daddy won't be back home this time.

All the warmth in the world

It rained like hell that day. As if life isn't hell enough for me already, he thought. They were a group of 7, sitting inside the canteen. Piping hot tea and boisterous laughter flowed freely amongst the students, who were enjoying a half an hour break between lectures that rainy Wednesday morning. Sushant, who usually was the major proponent of these canteen visits, however, had left his glass of tea untouched that day. He was staring outside the giant windows, watching the white sheets of rain lash the green trees and marshy meadows outside. Occasionaly, a gust of wind would bend the slim trees so much that they would seem like giving away. Now and then, stray raindrops carried by the wind would find their way in to the canteen and fall on these people, bringing squeals of delight from them. The skies remained dark and gray as if they had an infinite reservoir of rain. It's beautiful outside, he remarked with a tinge of sadness tangible in his heart.

His mother had practically disowned him. After many fights with her, they had reached the flashpoint. She had told him coldly that he was an embarrassment to her, and wasn't a son anymore. And hadn't spoken to him since. Now he had never felt more miserable in his life. He didn't even have a home to go to now. It's not a home anymore, he thought. Just a place to eat and sleep. A stranger in his own house, he thought. He wasn't part of that conversation in the canteen, he was practically lost. He wondered if it was possible to live without a family in the same house as them. Guess that's what I'm gonna have to do now, he thought. Just be alone in the house. I'll be a complete man,amd excel in my studies, and get a good career going. Sushant thought. Just that I won't have a family. But will I be happy? Ofcourse you will ...one part of him said. The other simply said...but who taught you to even spell the word 'happy'?

Just then, his mobile phone rang. It was his mother calling. Hurriedly, he hushed all his friends into silence, and picked up the call, with his blood pounding in his ears. "Hello Sushant, I heard its raining a lot there, please take care and don't get wet, come back home soon or the cold will get to you". Sushant could barely get himself to talk the next few words..."Mom. don't worry I'll come back soon." "Yeah, hurry or train service will break down, I'll make something for you at home so don't eat at college"."Mom...I love you...I'll never break your heart again".

A touch of hesitation at the other end, and Sushant heard "Love you too Sushant". And the line went dead. He realized he had tears in his eyes. I'm still a son! He grabbed his glass of tea. It was still hot. He sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth seep into him. "You're practically glowing...who was it on the phone?" his friend asked.

"The person who taught me to spell 'happy'...I'm going home guys...you guys sit for more lectures if you want" he said, and started homeward. It was cold outside, and he didn't even have an umbrella. But it didn't matter. He had all the warmth in the world waiting for him at home.

p.s : I know this sounds a bit weird, but this is something that's very close to my heart right now.