A small dream...

Suddenly, one fine day I decided that I would become a cricketer! Where did that idea come from? I wasn’t extraordinarily passionate about the game—I would play with friends in the evenings for an hour, a little more during weekends. I was approaching 25. You can say it’s an age where the best cricketers are peaking. Certainly not an age where you start dreaming of a career in the game and kick-start your vehicle. To play at the international level, you gotta start young, in your teenage years, and gradually play at various levels and climb up. There’s a luck factor, a natural talent factor. I believed that I had the second one. Maybe there are exceptions where someone is a late-bloomer. I wanted to be that late-bloomer. Wanted to be that hero who walks into a losing game and turns it around 180 degrees.

And I wanted to play at the international level! Audacious dream. The one thing I had in plenty was Time. Studies were done with. I had stubbornly refused to get into the career ladder. Days and weeks and months lay stretched before me. Also, there was a parallel dream of becoming a short-story writer and making money out of my creative pursuits. A cricketer who’s also a wonderful writer! Imagine Sachin Tendulkar and Khushwant Singh rolled into one. Sexy combination. Maybe it was the testosterone that was driving all these dreams, because there were plenty of lithe girls in my day dreams, showering admiration, and me ignoring them and walking like a saintly hero. And yeah, the spiritual pursuits had also begun, so add in a dash of Osho over there. Sachin-Osho-Khushwanth. Unbeatable combination.

I borrowed a wad of cash from Mom and got a cricket kit. Dressed up in the gear. Mom and Dad had a hearty laughter that day, looking me all decked up and raring to go, but they didn’t object. (Wonder how I’ll react if my kid declares this Sachin-osho-khushwanth ambition at age 25). Maybe they had given up hopes. So off I went and joined a cricket club in a nearby play-ground. Practiced diligently for 2 hours every morning for the next 6 months. To hasten up my progress, I even joined another club for my evening practice and sweated it out for a month.

The enthusiasm lasted roughly for a year. Of course, there was progress. Lots of scars. Self-doubts. And before I dropped the ‘sachin’ part from the Sachin-osho-khushwanth ambition, I got to briefly live my heroics for a day. A club match against a stronger team, and we had almost lost the match. I was sent in as the tenth man. There was nothing to lose and I just went ballistic, hitting continuous sixers and boundaries for a brief 10 minutes before we lost the match. I was applauded, and a small news item appeared in a corner of the next day newspaper announcing my name against my fighting-in-the-death score. Mom saved that paper-cutting for quite a while, promptly announcing to visiting relatives that her son’s name had appeared in the papers.

I wonder how passionate I was about that dream in the brief time during which it visited me. Would I have succeeded if I had pursued it? If not at the international level, I might have played at the club levels, the Indian Premier league or State levels. I might have made good cash and retired by now, probably employed in a bank or railways under the sports quota, hardly working, just representing them in charity matches. A nice little time-line, with various possible outcomes.

Or maybe, the dream came with an expiry date of one year. And blazed intensely before returning back to the skies.

From a distant shore...

An uncle visited us from my native village. Thin, wiry, beaten flat by life—but he’s a survivor. Not just that, he has a wicked sense of humour, a sort of dark humour which shines through unexpectedly. ‘Throw him in a desert and he’ll thrive there,’ says Mom, which is apt for him, although I’d say, ‘throw anyone in a desert and they’ll thrive’ because humans are designed for resilience which comes to the fore in the toughest situations even in unlikely candidates.

 I spent some time with him, chatting him up on the usual affairs, enquiring about the impending marriage of his second son, etc., and soon he left before urging me to come visit the village more often. ‘Come at least once a year,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how long we’ll all be alive.’ That was kinda enough to make me sentimental for a while but all along I was moving from the past to the present then back to the past, reminiscing on many events surrounding him. It was as if he had pushed a button, a trigger inside me, unleashing many obscure memories which were lying dormant from ages.

I was probably my son’s age when, on the way to school I would stop at this uncle’s shop and he would pass me a ten rupee note. Ten rupees!!! In the early 80s (probably 1982), it was like a bloody 100 or 200 rupees and I honestly didn’t know what to do with that kind of treasure except eat a delicious masala dosa in a hotel, then save up the rest for more delicacies later on. This guy was that generous, not just in handing over a 10 rupee note every single day to a 8 year-old kid, but in every other way, with many others around him. But then, there were roller-costers that awaited him.

He almost tapped on the door of death, and returned safe. I remember Mom carrying me one night, waiting by the roadside outside our house for Dad, and suddenly start wailing aloud looking at me, wailing for her brother who was almost on the verge of death. I distinctly remember my acute embarrassment and bewilderment at her outpouring of grief, not knowing what to do, how to respond or what to say. Why should elders cry their hearts out in front of kids who’re unused to such intense emotions, was a question that remains fresh even today. When I look back at anything traumatic in my childhood, one of the incidents that stands out is this—the grief and helplessness of elders. Strange that this harmless gesture leaves such a mark in ones psyche!

What’s really remarkable in this whole back and forth episode involving my uncle is that, a whole set of memories and impressions have started to come alive. And all these memories belong to a small place—a rented house in a locality on the southern outskirts of Bangalore city. We lived in that house for around 5 years. We grew up there before hitting pre-adolescence. There were friends, neighbours, an owner, his wife who died of jaundice leaving behind a small daughter, his second wife who ill-treated the girl, her stories of Mandya, her affair and dalliance with a relative who would drop by when the husband wasn't around. Then there was Venu. His parents and their orthodoxy. His first son-in-law who was a sleazy flirt, whom we suspected was eyeing our maid, the very maid who saved me from getting kidnapped once, and who was giving out lusty feelers towards him. There was Abraham and his television, and how we would go to their house to watch movie songs, and how they made us sit on the floor while they sat on the chairs. Another friend who got bitten by our dog. My school. The friends and bitter sweet memories over there. The rains, flooded streets, the sweat. The utter humiliation and happiness. Ganesha festival and deepawali. Standing in long queues in ration shops. Preparing delicacies on the eve of festivals. Sitting on a compound wall and singing ‘Akleshi Makleshi’. Fracturing an arm and then going with Mom at night to her colleague's place-- a house with a lot of young girls, and then to a hospital and having my arm in a sling for months. Then realizing, years later, that Mom's colleague ran a prostitution ring with those girls. The fights with local bullies and the trauma. Hearing sacred words like 'amman', 'akkan' for the first time. Dad and his anger. Calling sister as 'bewarsi' and getting thoroughly washed by Mom.

Like a million colours exploding, it’s a riot of memories, a sort of flood-gates opened rush of events, people, their lives and their imprint on me. That place—it exists no more. But it continues to live as a piece of vibrant past, as if it has an eternal existence in a parallel universe, and the life over there continues unabated even now. 

And it seeks an expression-- as a memoir, a novel, or a series of non-fiction write-ups.

This one....

I think this is extremely deep. There's this person and he makes you feel that you are one of the most important people in his life. When he talks to you its like there's nothing else for him other than you. You are his total priority. Your life, your decisions, the direction you're headed in--he has a concern for everything. The love between you and him is absolutely pure. And the funny thing is...you are not the only one who feels so...each and everyone of your friends, elders and kids around also share the same feeling. Everyone feels as if they are most important in his life. They love and adore him as much as he does for them.

How did he manage it? There's nobody I know who's capable of this.

Most of my memories of him are extremely pleasant and beautiful. Some memories are saddening. Every occasion spent with him, there would be an anecdote, a story, something to chew on. Once we were sitting, waiting for the tea which was stewing in the kitchen and he said, 'Only once...I lost faith in the Rishis...and I wept loudly, in utter helplessness and fear.' And he narrated what happened...and it was a poignant incident. Every detail of what he said then comes up from memory in my moments of despair and anguish. And they give strength--that story of total helplessness lends strength. The memory of his pain and subsequent triumph gives you hope and courage.

Difficult to believe that its been three years since his departure. Wondering how it would be if he had still been there...or better, if he had still been the same person that we knew long ago. With his powerful, compassionate, loving physical presence, how would've we been? How would that timeline look like?

Wish I could connect more with him...then...and now.

Once upon a blog

  ...it's the tenth year of my blogging. I'd almost forgotten that there's this tiny corner on the internet where I used to regularly take a 'walk in the drizzle', scribbling down thoughts as they occured, and also penned an occasional thought-out piece. And in the process, made a bunch of friends across the globe, some of whom I still follow elsewhere(ash, nick, val, jen). Can't believe the march of time.

Yea...I'm guilty of abandoning my lovely blog home, and spending extra time in the more vibrant(?) and more visited fb apartment. I meet more people on FB, get to socialize(??) more over there, receive instant feedback and can get into easy conversations---my pride gets a beautiful massage over there than in my shy blog palace. Add a bit of natural laziness...the home accumulates cobwebs and dust.

But think of the pre-facebook years--blogs were the place where the online socializing happened, at least for me. Not just recording life as it happened....but also checking out a wide variety of other blog homes regularly. Commenting back and forth, sometimes furiously. Writing memes and tagging friends. Picking up a idea from another blog and writing an elaborate post on it. Checkout the blogroll to see the latest update on our favorite blogs(much like the fb notifications). In short, blogs were the social media before twitter/fb.(They still are, for many).

If Facebook is the casual 'hi' on the way to the park, Blogs are the leisurely conversations on the park benches. FB is the pulpit for expressing opinions whereas the blog is my autobiography, a sketch and record of the past ten years of my life--the events, the view-point changes, the stories told and 'not-told'. Posts I read again to reminisce on an event long forgotten. Wondering at times why I wrote this, or why I didn't write that. Follow the comment link to another blog to see where they are in the stream of life.

Then it occurs...does it all matter? What you write, don't write, express, comment, argue, fight, put aside so much time and energy scribbling....does it matter, to anyone or yourself? As someone noted...'My writings and art -- paper boats in the raging river of time'. Will the world be poorer if I don't scribble my life down? Or do I add anything of value with my carefully crafted reflections on the events of my life?

Not just what we create, but we ourselves are paper boats in the raging river of time! So while being tossed by the rapid currents, if I have taken a while to make some small boats and set them afloat, enjoying their brief dance, I guess it's worth it---if not for anyone else, at least for myself. Guess I need to create more such blog boats and set them sail, just for the sheer pleasure of watching them skirt the currents.

Nalini Teacher...

 His name is Shakir. Mir Shakir Ali Khan! He stands first in the class, in every test, every exam. Totally studious. Gentle. Softspoken. Toast of the class. Pet of the teachers. Everyone wants to be his best friend. He's a bit weak, physically. Emotionally too. His dad has passed away and even a small reminder of that fact is enough to drive him to tears. A gentle 10 year old kid.

 Then there's this girl. Sumathi, if I correctly remember. She sits in the last bench along with a few other rowdy girls. A bit plump. Fair. Slightly loud mouthed. Good in sports, good in fights. Kinda opposite to shakir in every way.

One evening someone whispers a secret and we wait for the classes to get over, unable to control our glee. Then we hurry to the last bench, to the place where Sumathi sits and look under the wooden seat. There it is! A small pencil scrawl on the rough wood. 'Shakir, I love you'.

 Whoa! Its an absolute scandal and we are over the moon, gossipping, discussing, analysing, guffawing a lot amidst all this. Suddenly we spot her, Nalini teacher! We run to her almost screaming 'teacher, teacher, teacher'.....'Sumathi has written something under her desk'.... Nalini teacher has a slight smile. 'Teacher teacher, she has written, 'Shakir, I love you', and the small group starts laughing. She has an understanding smile as she says, 'Ok, I'll look into it, now you all go home'.

 The next day is judgement day and we want justice to be done! See sumathi punished for daring to cast her eye on our boy. Love!! At this age!! We wait for Nalini teacher and once she enters the class, our group is around her. She has an amused look observing our excitement. 'Nothing is there,' she says. 'No teacher,' we are horrified. Someone runs to the last bench and peers under the seat. The love signature is gone, neatly erased!!! 'But teacher,' I protest, 'it was there, I saw it with my own eyes. 'Shakir, I love you'. And it was sumathi's handwriting. She only wrote it and now she has erased it.'

 Nalini teacher just waves us off, gently. 'Its ok, you must have seen something else. I'll look into it. Now get back to your seats,' she says. We return in disappointment, our small adventure fizzling out before taking off. The whole class seems to have got wind of the issue but its soon forgotten. There are a thousand other things in the world of 10 year old kids.

What keeps this small memory fresh is the way Nalini teacher handled it. Not punishing the 'offender'. Not admonishing the 'adventurers'. Just understanding the curiosity, excitement and inquisitiveness of kids on the threshold of adolscence and being gentle about it. There were other teachers and pt masters who would have taken the same situation and created a huge mess out if it. But she was different.

 She taught social studies, just for less than a year before she was transferred out. But how the class loved her! How carefree we were when she was around. There's one lovely incident where, with any other teacher, I would have been skinned alive and scarred for life. A small assignment which we had to do at home, and I had faithfully flunked it. Nalini teacher picked me up and asked, 'Have you done the assignment?'. 'Yes, teacher,' I say, full of confidence. 'Ok, open your book and read it'. I open my homework book, and my hands begin to shiver. I open an empty page, and start saying something ....totally from memory. My voice is shaking and is on the verge of choking, fearing that I'll be found out. 'MN, stop for a while,' she says. 'Are you really reading from your homework book?'. 'Yes teacher,' (bloody guts!). 'Are you sure,' she has a smile, 'because, I feel that you are reciting from memory and not from the book'. I should have shut up and admitted, but being the reckless guy i was I stand my ground. 'No teacher, it is here in the book, see if you want', I hold the book towards her, covering the empty pages. She looks at me for a few moments. 'It's ok, sit down,' she says, before she moves to another student.

The whole class knows that I've made an ass of myself, and Nalini teacher saved me from further embarrassment. Did I dare do that mistake again? Hell no! Did I learn a lesson for my lifetime? Absolutely. It looked like any other incident then, but when I look back now, I sit back in wonderment at the way she took care of my budding self-esteem and ensured that I wasn't traumatised--just with a small gesture. And such gestures were a part of her daily interactions with everyone in the class, in other classes.

 When she left, there was probably nobody who didn't bid her farewell with a heavy heart. 'Write down something about me on a piece of paper', she told us on the last day. 'Anything...good or bad, what you liked in me, what you didn't like, whatever. And don't write your name, so that I'll not come to know who it is if you have written something bad about me.' We all faithfully scrawled our anguish and sorrow at having to see her go away, expressing our love and admiration for this gentle lady.

There have been many teachers since, but this lady....she remains in memory as one of the first persons I came across who had this very sublime, very unique and rare quality---'to influence and inspire others just by her presence, nothing else'. Somewhat similar to Him.

The Three Mothers

(Couldn’t help translating this small piece from the book, ‘Mahanagara’ by Jogi. Call it a tribute to Motherhood or Womanhood, but for me, it’s nothing but lovely crispy writing, the kind I love to read and write myself)

That boy wasn't into studies but would watch his friends go to the ashrams, learn Vedas from the sages, and he too wanted to learn it all. So he goes to Gautama Rishi’s ashram. Gautama asks for his ‘gothra’. Not knowing his lineage, the boy comes back to his mother and asks ‘What’s my gothra?’

His mother says, ‘See, I was working as a maid in many houses and got pregnant in that period. So I don’t know exactly who your father is. Tell this to your guru.’

He goes and tells this to Gautama. While the other disciples laugh at him and taunt, the Guru appreciates his truthfulness and his mother’s frankness and names him as ‘Satya-kama’---a lover of truth. ‘You’re the son of Jaabaala, so you’re ‘Jaabaali’,’ he says. A Rishi is thus born in the name of his mother.

The nurturing mother, Jaabaala. She teaches her son to be truthful, and win over the World through this truthfulness. He becomes known by his mother’s name and she in turn, becomes famous through him. She is the one who nurtures.

Then, the second mother, Kunthi. She becomes a mother before marriage. And sets her son sail in the Ganges, fearing the Truth! Her son, Karna, becomes a benevolent giver. And places a higher value on his friendship than on the love towards his mother. The baby floating down the Ganges is picked up by a charioteer, and now grown up, Karna realises the truth of his birth. That truth doesn’t trouble him, nor does it make him pity his own condition. He doesn’t crave for his mother. Thus, she becomes the mother who makes her son transcend her necessity, who sets her child free from her bondage. If Karna had stayed with his mother he too would perhaps have lusted for power? But away from her, he never craved anything at anytime. He learnt to give not receive. He stayed with Duryodhana but never became like him. Such a life, he received from his Mother. Kunthi abandoned him and nurtured his greatness.

Jaabala is the Mother who nurtured and Kunthi is the Mother who abandoned. The third Mother is the one who destroys. The Mother of the Universe who also becomes the one who butchers mercilessly. A demon asks a boon that nobody but his mother should kill him. He’s sure that a mother will never kill. With that boon he unleashes havoc and suffering. Lord Krishna tries to kill him but fails. Then his wife, Satyabhaama, who’s born from an amsha of the Mother Goddess kills the demon. That Demon was Narakasura. When his troubles cross limits, the mother of the Universe arrives in some form to swallow him. To destroy is also a part of the Mother’s responsibility. Nurture, Abandon, Destroy—she knows all.
....
These three mothers, their strange stories—filled with pride, fortitude and fearlessness...and our puranas have various dimensions of this mother-son bonding. Just as you have a mother who killed her son, we also see a son who killed his mother. He is Parashurama. On the orders of his father, he cuts his mother down. Then when his pleased father confers a boon, he asks for the revival of his mother. He gives birth to his mother again. Now, is he a son to his mother, or is he a mother who birthed her again?

In the land of chaos...

I am standing in a familiar place--a place with a sense of mild terror and impending chaos. This place, I know well enough because it used to be a constant reality for years together, almost a decade ago. I would think that this place has no exit, every door leading out would somehow lead back in, and I was resigned to staying here forever.

Yes, I had a wise and benign old man's guidance back then. But that never mitigated the anxiety even one bit. What took me out of that place of hopeless suffocation still remains a mystery. Maybe I'm banking on that mystery to bail me out this time round as well.

Sometimes you think you're all too powerful and in total control of the events and happenings in your life. And at times you feel, you don't have the strength to even move an inch, turn a finger or lift an eyelid. You could be right, but you could also be totally wrong both the times. When you think everything's in perfect control, something starts sliding down somewhere and your house of cards collapses. And when you think nothing's working, things start moving on their own. Rationality is a mess. I saw it happening twice when I was searching for a job--and something more than a job through the job-search.

I struggled for nearly 2 years, trying to break through one interview after another but in vain. I was in close proximity of clinching the deal but nope, something would crash. Then when I least expected it, there was a call, I walk in, get asked the right questions for which I have the perfect, confident answers, and in 2  hours I'm out, with a lovely offer letter in hand! Deliciously magical.

Giving up the struggle against invisible forces, I wait for the magic to strike again. I know it's a fantasy, but when the mystery arrives, I want to catch its tail and follow it...and see where it came from and where it returns to.

like....moving through a portal

 Suddenly I realise that, at the moment, I'm moving from one phase to another. I could've missed this realisation.

 And you look deeper and know that there are phases all over your life. Something ends. Something begins. It could be career changes. A shift from one house to another, one city to another. Moving out of school, out of college. Changing jobs. Ending friendships. Forging bonds. Building and starting something new.

 It's easy to feel sad and nostalgic for what you're leaving behind but I think one can say goodbye with immense gratitude and happiness. Give thanks for all the nourishment, growth, love, joy and lessons that the phase gave you. And let go before you move on to the new. Without bitterness or heaviness. Without emotional entanglements.

A new lesson learnt. Move through, without melancholy, with great Joy.

Let the River be...

 'I'm sorry eeshu....I scolded you the other day'

  'It's ok, dad. Forget it.'

 'No....I shouldn't have gotten angry at you. I feel bad.'

 'Then dad...Let's do one thing...let's sit in a time-travel ship, go back to that day, and make corrections there. Ok?'

This small glimpse...

I'm zooming back home on my two-wheeler...and the evening sky overhead is full of ripe clouds, threatening to burst any moment. Four in the evening and it looks like seven...a few drops begin to putter down. I'm dead tired and exhausted, wanting to reach home and collapse...and not get drenched without my rain-coat nor wait out somewhere if it starts raining. I look up at the clouds and send a silent request... 'Pls hold on for ten mins if you can, I'll reach home, pls'. And revv up the accelerator.

The drizzle begins slowly but I zoom through and soon enough I reach home. The moment I get in and park my two-wheeler, the skies open up and the torrents of water come gushing down!!! A lovely blast of rains for the next hour...thick sheets of water from the skies to the Earth. And there's only one thought in me....that small desperate prayer sent up....and the dark heavy pregnant clouds sprinkling a few drops for a while...and then bursting once I reach home!!! Coincidence????? My heart screams....'No! damn it...you were heard! They waited out for you!' And for the rest of the evening, I'm smiling in gleeful excitement, pushing back all rationalizations.

The next day I'm ambling in the morning park. The Sun is yet to rise and the whole place is one lovely green paradise, fresh from last nights rains. I turn a pathway and walk towards a cluster of trees. One tree stands spreading out its wonderful shade across a wide area...and I just look up at the branches....and a lovely breeze blows and the whole tree sways, its leaves murmuring. As if its saying 'hello, good morning!'. I walk ahead and there's another tree...and as I near it, the breeze comes again, and that tree too sways its leaves. Now, I'm curious....and I turn a pathway and walk to another tall tree which is a silent spectator. No shaking, no breeze and I smile up at the lovely giant. And suddenly the leaves begin to murmur and start swaying as a breeze blows in!!!

 I can't describe the bursts of joy I've been experiencing since this small conversation happened with Mother Nature...my very first to and fro! It's as if a small window has opened on my wall and I'm looking out into an entirely new world...a fascinating enchanting world, nothing like what I've seen and known until now. All of a sudden I'm a kid on the beach who has been struggling with the sand castle for a long time...and in an instant, the castle stands out perfect and I gaze at it, all dirty and soiled, beaming with pride at this very small accomplishment.

Yes...i know, all of this could be a beautiful coincidence. And if it ain't a coincidence ...and there's an other worldly explanation, these two experiences are pretty simple--not Earth Shattering! Nothing compared to the gigantic experiences and awakenings of many other lovely Souls. Yet....

....the unabashed joy and glee that's still inside me since this happened....these are my pointers. To what...I don't know. It's just beautiful.