Monday, 30 April 2007

I

I have been going crazy. No, I have been driving myself crazy. I talk in my head non-stop. Its been an affliction for as far back as I can remember. And with each passing statement and question it becomes harder to come up with answers. You see, one-sided conversations are really difficult because sometimes when the answer is 'not hidden deep inside you' it becomes a real hindrance to your peace of mind to keep asking the same questions over and over again. There are always crests and troughs. I have realised this about myself and with bitterness have accepted that I am not very good with the troughs. Troughs are of various kinds and i am extremely susceptible to the external ones as they almost immediately shake the fine balance of my inner being. I do not have the illusion of being a strong person because I am not...the stress shows, it spills off the sides and starts entering others lives. This I have always hated...it is unfair and extremely selfish to let the spill overflow onto anothers space. It reminds me how much more there is to learn about strength, peace, calm, wisdom and standing tall. It reminds me how much more I have to learn before I can even think about living up to the expectations of loved ones, before I can think of taking their weight and supporting them...before I can start feeling sorry for myself. Yes I do feel sorry for myself sometimes. I admit to extreme weakness and I wish I was not so self centered. I feel like simply giving up and allowing the nigging choking feeling at the back of my throat to take over. I feel like burrying my head in the pillow and crying for hours together. But for some reason I am scared of this feeling. I am scared of letting it take over. I am scared of the onslaught being so strong that I may not be able to stop. I am scared of then jus sitting there by that pillow and never being able to do all those things that I must. So I stop myself just in time and tell myself to get on with it...thats the way it should be right? But the constriction in the throat persists. Maybe it is just a cold I am not taking care of. Sometimes it amazes me how such little things can imbalance my zen. Like right now everything seems astray. I cant seem to think of a future, its like probing a mindless pit when I begin to think of my future prospects, a job, the loan, life and responsibility. Then the college work and domesticity of rents, money storage, etc. These things seem like minute peas in the sea of problems that people have. I agree they are minute peas and that my main worry is people. Peolple I care about. People I would do anything to stand by or atleast say I would (only time will tell) People I call my friends, my parents all theirs become mine. I hate it when I can do nothing to ease their worry, when I can do nothing to sooth their pain. It leaves me feeling helpless and more importantly useless. There the I comes in again. i don't know how everything becomes about the I. I apologise for it and I fight it. But since I care for them I naturally feel I must do something about it. It is futile. They don't understand and you don't understand; which hurts more because you excuse those that you love and push yourself harder to understand them. It is your failing if you don't. It is your failing that even after knowing them so well you can't understand, you can't calm tempests. I wish I could. Nothing else would matter. I wish I could change everything that has happened and hurt them and set it right. I wish I could just say the right words and make it all go away. I wish I could after all these years learn and know the right things to do to make it better. I wish I was more understanding. I wish I was more sympathetic. I wish I had a magic wand. Naah am a non dreamy realistic dry person...who am I trying to kid?? I wish they could see the love and support in my eyes. I wish I had such strength in me that they would not have to have such doubts, thoughts, dark desires and fears. I wish I could embalm them. I wish I was indifferent. I wish I wasn't so self-centered.

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Escapist. I have called myself that many times. It isn't without reason. No matter how awful a feeling or thing to happen. No matter how hurt or broken, I would always sleep off (literally) at the peak point of misery and somehow get up a little more positive, fresh, optimistic and I think a little numb and thick skinned the next day. I could never put the feeling into words but today quite by accident almost innocently like just for me I heard a friend put it in words. Tij while ranting about his miseries simply said, 'I looked into the mirror and thought i have two options; I can I either be sad or I can be happy. I chose to be happy.' I silently whispered the last line under my breath in chorus with him. It seems simple and mundane enough but its true. Just that off late I've been wondering how long till the answer might change. It scared me...the possibility that I might drown in self pity enough to not make the right choice always...that at some point I might want the pillow more than to stand up and love and support my loved ones. I wish I was indifferent. I wish I wasn't weakness itself. I wish I wasn't so self centered.

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Tomorrow will be another day. And for as long as I live there shall always be a tomorrow. I shall not be afraid untill nightfall and then I will think of tomorrow.
Posted by Pavitra :: 01:05 :: 0 comments

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---------------oOo---------------

Wednesday, 18 April 2007

I know not why

I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
Not for love,
Not for life
Not for glory, nor honour
Not for a moments fleeting meeting with my lover
Not for forgiveness, nor for pleasure
Not for the world,
Not for you, Nor I

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
I stopped never
For what I understood never
For what I was told never

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
I stood tall and strong
I loved with all my might
I learnt loyalty, I practised
But every night, I sit alone
With tears falling from my eyes

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
Now even though alone,
I refuse to bow down to betrayal
I refuse to learn to lie
I refuse to be scarred by the world cruel
I refuse to disbelieve in mankind’s soul
But every now and then,
I look around in quiet desperation
For eyes wiser, who’ll be my answer
And lead my spirit to restoration

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
Seeking, hoping, wishing,
In lonesome battle,
I still know not why

Posted by Pavitra :: 08:30 :: 9 comments

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---------------oOo---------------

Monday, 16 April 2007

I must

Blessed with human faculties
Doomed in surging memories
Linger I, b'ween the past and present
A tug of war at every crescent
An anthem stronger, moments slip
Connecting todays memory with yester
Stiffled in the nuances of understanding
A question in every answer
The space enlarges, vast and vague
A chance given at every turn
But to become a slow burn
A reminder of old choices, a mourn.
Never to question the vast vagueness
Only every action mine
Trudging to keep pace, to see, to stand by
Lines black and white I drew
Only murkier did the worldly gray grew
Never lost in the dark of the world
But to drown in tempests within
Of morals I obey, of principal I sketched
Never to question is loyalty worth dying for?
Is the word worth the guillotine?
Is love as divine as I proclaim?
Is it all worth my dime?
Or do I waste my time?

I must learn to let go

Posted by Pavitra :: 06:32 :: 2 comments

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---------------oOo---------------

Friday, 13 April 2007

Innocence Shattered

Her laughter was music to his ears. It warmed his heart and made him forget all things bad. They were walking down a lane in the countryside. The birds were chirping. The sun was shining, its golden rays bouncing off her soft blond hair. They walked hand in hand oblivious to the covert smiles that came their way. One couldn’t help but smile at the warm, tender way they looked and listened to each other attentively. They were arguing about which cottage looked the most beautiful, the kind of house they would live in, the number of children they would have, the number of dogs they would have. She loved dogs; in fact she loved all animals. He had never been fond of animals but her simple joy when she played with one of the furry four legged creatures had slowly infused into his heart and he had begun to pet dogs for a moment grimacing for show in front of her though secretly loving it. She looked at him honestly, openly laying her heart and her thoughts bare for him to see. He loved her open trust and protectively wrapped his arms around her while crossing the road inwardly promising himself that he would protect her from cynicism forever.

They sauntered on, Angela telling him stories that made her eyes dance gaily, while John was thinking your mine and life is beautiful. The couple got distracted because of a slight commotion up ahead. A group of men were arguing, discussing loudly. They were standing around something in a semi-circle. Angela began walking towards them to see what it was about and John followed close behind. They couldn’t see what the men were pointing at. She began skirting the group and reached the far side to have a look. There were two men inside the semi-circle. Both had small Budweiser’s in their hands, both were yelling at each other and looking at something on the ground. One of them began waving his arm agitatedly, exhibiting the small revolver in his hand.

‘What’s going on?’ Angela asked him.
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t look good. Let’s get out of here.’ John replied, while taking a hold of her hand.
‘Wait. Let’s see, what’s that…?’ She slipped her hand out of his grip and started walking ahead closer to the two men, into the semi-circle.
As they got closer, sounds of clanking, growling, a half bark caught their attention but the two men were still blocking from view what was on the ground.
And then she saw it. An Alsatian, its leg caught in a barb wire fence. The wire was completely entangled and wound around its right hind leg which was oozing blood. There was a small pool of blood around it. The dog was desperately trying to pull against the wire and with each pull it whimpered and took two steps back in agony. Each time that one of the men tried to take a step towards it, the dog snarled and bared its teeth. It looked ferocious with saliva dripping down the front of its face.

‘C’mon Mark do it’ yelled one man.
‘Maybe I should wait a bit more. The ungrateful mongrel…fed it for so long and it’s snarling at me now. Teach it a lesson.’ Replied Mark semi-drunk, but still holding the gun steadily aimed at the dog.
‘It’s gonna bite someone, look at it…so aggressive!’
‘It’s never been that way…unpredictable mongrels,’ said Mark beginning to take aim.

‘Stop! Wait! He’s hurt! He wouldn’t bite otherwise!’ Before John could even react, Angela had dashed forward and was between men and dog.
‘You don’t know him lass. Go on your way!’ yelled Mark’s partner.
‘He just said the dog wasn’t like that. Can’t you see he’s in pain? You can’t just shoot him for nothing! He hasn’t bitten anybody yet has he?’
‘Yeah yet. So who’s gonna get him outta there for us to make sure? You huh lass?’ Both men laughed.
‘Angela. ANGELA! Come back here,’ yelled John.
She didn’t reply. She simply walked over to about a feet away from the dog and knelt down. John thought his breath had suspended. He couldn’t even speak for fear of alarming the dog, for fear of what might happen to her.

She sat there and softly began to talk to the dog.
‘Good boy. You’re the cutest dog aren’t you? You have beautiful eyes…,’ she kept on with sweet nothings in a monotone.
The Alsatian continued growling and eyed her with suspicion. Slowly she edged towards him. The dog warily kept snarling but it didn’t make any attempts to get at her as it had done with the men. She continued looking into its eyes and told the dog it would be alright. It was almost as if the animal understood. She kneeled her way diagonally behind him so the dog could still see her. She had never been so afraid. The Alsatian began to sense her slight hesitance, her nervousness. It moved a little restlessly and bared its teeth once more. She had noticed where the wire had begun to entangle and had mentally figured she had to tug just twice to unwind it. She reached forward and gave it a quick twisted tug in an anti clockwise direction and the wire came down two loops. A loud bark, a snarl and the dog had flipped around, its shackles up ready to bite her but she’d jumped back just in time.

‘That’s enough. Come back Angela,’ John said in a shaky voice.
Dog and woman stared at each other. She didn’t let her steady stare waver. Tears were falling down her cheeks as she recovered from her fallen position slowly so as to not alarm the dog again. She knelt down again and continued to talk softly to the dog. Sweet nothings. The dog was agitated now. It couldn’t understand whether to trust or not. The wound was bleeding profusely and it couldn’t stay standing. She knew just one more tug and it would be off. She creeped forward again on her fours and in another quick dash tugged the wire, the whole thing came off. The dog howled and charged as she made a quick retreat backwards on her hands and knees. It could run, it felt free. She was petrified and silent terror was written all across her face. Four paces ahead and it collapsed in front of her whimpering. As if in slow motion she moved towards it and stroked its head and the dog simply let her pet him. John took his first breath. He almost staggered to her and roughly hauled her up and hugged her. They began talking at once. He, shaking her and shouting at her at the top of his lungs, and her, telling the men through the tears in her eyes that they could take the dog to a vet and that would he wouldn’t bite anyone now.

The men stood still in shock and just kept standing there staring as the couple collected themselves and began to walk away as if in a daze. The entire experience was just beginning to sink in and she was feeling overwhelmed. The scene, the gun, the thought of it dying, the blood, the ferocity in its eyes, her fear, her stupidity, it all began to hit her in waves. She was just about to tell John that she was sorry but she was glad because it would not die. She was ok…it was ok. She opened her mouth to speak and a gunshot went off, loud and explosive in the silence of the afternoon. It all happened in a flash. She screamed and flipped around. The men stood over the dead Alsatian with smirks on their faces. She tried to run towards it, but John wouldn’t let her.
‘Let me go. LET ME GO.’ But he wouldn’t. She fought him with all her might, flaying her arms and feet at him but he was stronger. Wildly she tried to push him off and the men looked at them from the yard laughing. He slapped her. Her struggles stopped and she sat there limp, sprawled on the ground in his arms with tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t understand why they had done it. She asked him why repeatedly in a soft monotone as he dragged her to her feet and began walking her away. Few minutes passed and he just held her and told her to forget about it. She stopped her rhetoric. He tilted her face upwards to and he knew he had lost her, a very vital part of her. He couldn’t see that blind trust, faith and openness in her face. He could see nothing, only a closed blank expression. He couldn't read her eyes anymore. She wasn’t with him anymore. He had lost her to the world.

Labels: animals, compassion, fiction, heartbreak

Posted by Pavitra :: 04:13 :: 14 comments

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Tuesday, 10 April 2007

Blogging: The Why's

Why do I blog? Why do I pen down thoughts? Why do I assume there is much to be expressed? Why do I look at these thoughts in surprise like I’ve seen, thought them for the first time? Why am I addicted to this incessant posting?

I remember starting out. I remember resisting with all that I had. I just could not digest the idea of putting my thoughts down in a public forum for all to see. It did feel like standing naked in a room full of people (this is a borrowed line). In a way, it’s worse than standing naked in a room full of people. You can close your eyes and imagine that the people don’t exist. Even if you do acknowledge the fact that they do, their vision can only go skin deep. That in comparison thus, makes standing naked in a room full of people an easier task to me (lets not discuss it in isolation, that’s a different thing all together).

Another reason why the idea of blogging did not settle easily with me was because of the digital medium. It felt oddly like a personal and an impersonal space at the same time. I mean for me the internet was mainly e-mails for personal interaction and you don’t really discuss existence via mails. And the only other time that you discuss life’s various queries is when you are in one of those rare and odd philosophical moods (with me these are often and yes I admit to lunacy) and a rather close friend happens to be in the vicinity and unfortunately has to bear the brunt of your bizarre questioning and reasoning (most would argue that I have none!).

So I started writing like it was a new art to me all together. In a way it was. I hadn’t written in ages. I mean I hadn’t written what I would like to write in ages. Between Journalism school and Journalism in real I had honestly forgotten how to put down my point of view down on paper. By my point of view I don’t mean just the two sides of the coin and the diplomatic in-between, but the various tangential thoughts and issues that I would have with a situation, circumstance or incident. Those tangents are your thoughts. And somewhere in the last three years I had stopped paying attention to them. I think I had forgotten to have them (mom would argue having them again was an extremely bad thing and brought me to the end of my glorious career as a journalist, but I honestly don’t think I had one looming ahead of me).

Now, when I did begin to blog, it was as if I didn’t have the vocabulary to write even half a sentence that could have the right import that I wanted to convey (I still don’t but am getting used to it now!!). It felt rustic. It felt like I shouldn’t even try for lack of talent. Mind you I did believe writing was a talent that could not be acquired. And then every time I’d finish a post and look at it in dissatisfaction the only thing that would give me a boost unto writing another would be the few kind encouraging comments that a friend or two would leave behind. This egged me on and I found the interaction fun. Since it was a new hobby and since after 21 years of existence I had discovered that I could think (even if like a 2+1=3 year old, it was a discovery nonetheless!), I kept at it with an eager gusto.

Now this whole commenting culture was a contradiction in itself (I love creating dilemmas for myself, like someone once said I think I feed off them). Two issues followed. One was that I began because of the encouraging comments, but then again it was like an invasion of privacy. You can’t really stem who you want to enter into this mindless haven that you are creating (well practically you can always screen who can leave a comment but the point is not about others reading the comments left behind but of you yourself reading them and knowing that this is out there for all to read, question, disregard and know it whats in your head). So, on the one hand I had a hang up about everybody reading and leaving comments but on the other hand I was almost feeding off the comments that people left. It oddly urges the writing spirit. I couldn’t decide what my problem was. But the constant writing and reading over time I think made my spirit brazen and I got over it. I still don’t have an answer to my dilemma but it no longer bothers me. Hah time the best friend of the fickle human mind!

The second issue is about ownership. I have never considered myself a possessive human being, at least not for something as lame and intangible as thoughts. See its one thing for you to write and for people to leave comments. But it’s entirely another ballgame if people begin to question your thoughts and force counter arguments on you. While having a verbal discussion it is different. In a way it disappears into space after it is over and we have had our arguments. But on paper it is ominous in a way. You can’t escape it. You can’t have random thoughts and confuse yourself and get away with your half arguments and let it drop. On paper it stares at you in your face. It is proof of what you think and you have to weigh what the other person’s point of view is and you have to admit and acknowledge where you have gone wrong and how there is room for the other individual’s point of view to exist. On paper, your mistakes in judgement, values, thoughts and even spellings are there for both you and the world to see and thus also makes it eminent for you to accept them. It makes you mad at times, it makes you defensive at times but it also makes you absolutely sure of what thoughts and values you would definitely defend no matter what.

So, there are two sides to this coin and there’s no escaping it. The mistakes and narrow world views that you have about various issues you learn to accept and swallow your pride. On the other hand many values and principles that you think are not wholly defined in your head but, when put on paper and questioned by others bring forth intense feelings of protectiveness which reinforce your value system and start making the little ‘me’s’ that would eventually define you.

I think the writing helps me sift and sieve. It helps in realising what things are important to me and what after having written seem frivolous and silly. I think I’m still grappling with letting myself go completely in my text. Its tough to share all of ‘you’ but the more that you write, the more you realise that the more of your real self you put in your writing the more impact the writing has, the better the writer you are. But, then I guess it also comes down to prioritising as to what you want. Do you want to be a great writer or is your privacy more important to you?

Another aspect blogging threw up for me was discretion. Trust me I have never been the master of discretion (hell if you ask my friends they'd tell you I probably don't know that the word exists!). I either say what I think or don't say it at all. Blogging has kind of opened up this new window of expression. It feels out of charactor to mince words, or say what you want to in not so direct a manner so as to camouflage it and leave it in between the lines for others to find or miss entirely. But it is highly exciting and in a way solves the problem of feeling exposed and vulnerable (Again why one should feel vulnerable if ones thoughts are out in the open is an issue for another post). But this again does not answer the above question and does leave you dissatisfied (at this point if you feel the purpose of this post is to thoroughly confuse you, I apologise sincerely).

I was told that I’ll change a lot by blogging and that it’ll make a difference to who I am. I don’t know if it has but oddly it gave me a lot of things…a sense of possession, a little of my lost faith back, a little confidence, a great deal of joy, some tremendous venting, new friends who I respect for their talent, a penseive (trust me I need it!), a place am no longer afraid to go…that urges me to fly, and a little bit of pride.

I thank all those who have taken the time out to read my loony posts.

I’ll be forever grateful to DQ for immense patience and perseverance shown. It wasn’t necessary and it still made a whole world of a difference to me. But then again DQ doesn’t always ‘do things out of necessity unlike some people’.

Love you Farishta for reading, writing, and praising my feeble attempts in spite of being the artist of finery yourself.

PS- My next post should be about promising myself to stop being such an annoying sentimentalist!!

Posted by Pavitra :: 04:38 :: 3 comments

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---------------oOo---------------

Wednesday, 4 April 2007

blue engraving

I play with the feather tip
the hand moves of its own accord
across the page,
the ink weaves its course
it flows with graceful fluidity
and with each stroke a new story unfolds
thoughts disconnected spray on the white
in beautiful blue engraving
contemplations luminous come to life.

Just random strings of words
I grope to make full sentences
not a single strand whole
but but with memories manyfold
Across time they travel
only to be beaten by the ink blue
and put down on this page long due.
Of past victories and future failures
of trials of blazing glory and damning defeats

for every swift stroke of the feather
a new understanding blooms
the blue shimmers enlightenment
as penned words endow wisdom
carvings random they soothe
many a tempests of despair
it flows out amorphous
like a river trailing down a mountain side
like magic the calm flows
from finger tips to temple.

In glorious surrender embraces an artist
the exaltation infused into his veins
from the feather tip that words rains
watching the world a blue
from a window isolate
lost in the hues of colours he weaves
forgotten is the world, only his thoughts he seives.
he lives within my story
I watch him smile at me through the window on my white
With ink blue I create his world, his life
In beautiful blue engraving
contemplations luminous come to life

Posted by Pavitra :: 13:49 :: 6 comments

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---------------oOo--------------- The Indian Stall

Day One

'Hi uncle, I'll have a Kit-kat please.'
'45 pence'
'Here you go'
'Thanks. Have a good day'.

Day Five

'Hi uncle, one Kit-Kat please.'
'45 pence'
'Here, I have the exact change,' I said with a smile.
'Thanks. Have a good day,' he replied with a polite smile.

Day Fifteen

'Kit-Kat Uncle!'
'Same time always. Have fun!'
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Next Month, Day One

'Uncle how’s aunty? The shifting must be tiring you both out.'
'Oh aunty is exhausted. What to do...have to do everything by ourselves here,' while passing the kit-kat to me.
'I know it must be crazy. No domestic help. How do you manage? Would you like any help?' I asked simply while doling out the change.
'Nahi bachche. Enjoy the kit-kat!'

Day Fifteen

'Uncle you have me addicted! I can’t walk past your stall without buying a Kit-kat anymore', I exclaimed, already giving him the money.
'Well it makes you stop and say hi!'
'I hope aunty is well now. At least the shifting is done so she will be able to get some rest.'
'Yes. She's come down with a viral. So I stay here all day. The stall needs to be manned', he said all but smiling.
'Hope she gets well soon. Let me know if you need help with anything.'
'Haan bachche. Enjoy the Kit-kat!
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Month Three, Day Five

‘You don’t want the Kit-Kat today?’ He shouted across the platform.
‘My train is here. I don’t have change.’
‘That’s okay. Give it to me tomorrow, he ran up to me and shoved it into my hands.
‘Uhh. Are you sure? Umm Thank you,’ I stuttered while getting into the train.

I was amazed. It was like being back in India, where you strike a certain rapport with the canteen guy or the colony ice-cream vendor. The same trust. The same rustic Indian PR system. I kept thinking of the words hammered into my head by Dad ever since I was five, “Never take anything from strangers.” It made me wary of Uncle. I returned the money the same evening, but the Kit-kat buying continued and so did the daily dose of chitchat
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Month Three, Day Twenty

'What’s wrong with you?' S said in exasperation while spreading the bed-sheet.
'He asked for help. No actually I offered. I've been talking to him for over two months now. He's a nice guy.'
'Ok. First of all there's no such thing as a nice guy. Second of all he's someone who owns a stall at a railway station. Even though you speak to him, he is a stranger. I mean how old are you??’
'I know S. But he is nice and they really don't know many people. And it is tough setting up the house single-handedly. And he’s an Indian.’
‘He’s been living in this freaking country for thirteen years! Don’t tell me he knows no one else! And so what if he’s an Indian? Most Indians are sleaze balls! I think your being extremely stupid! And you keep talking to these strangers, you ask for trouble.’

That hurt. It was true. But, it was below the belt.

‘Fine. Have it your way. I’m going to help them (by this time I was righteously stubborn and it wasn’t about helping him). I can see a nice person when I meet one.’

Month Three, Day 21

S and I follow Uncle off the sidewalk on Wembley Street silently. A cold war had been declared (among girls it means a lot of ignoring and making dirty faces).

A very usual Brit house on Park drive. He led us to the side of the house and we followed him up a narrow flight of stairs. It looked very much like an old house in Coimbatore or some place in a smaller South Indian town from this vintage point; like a small, flat white box. He opened the wooden door, held it ajar and motioned for us to walk in. We both did and then he walked in after us and banged the door closed. The light was shut out with the banging of the door. In that one moment I could tell for a fact that we were both scared to death! Alright I could only tell then that I got shit scared and that I was thinking S was right after all, but she later confessed to having had palpitations as well. Before either of us could give in to our fear and yell at the top of our lungs he switched on the lights and opened this other door beside the front door but perpendicular to it in such a way that had the front door been open this could not have been opened.

Phew the flood of relief that always follows with logical reasoning rushed in. We smiled our first smiles of the day at each other. Mine quickly turned to triumphant and we continued the cold war. A mad afternoon of bending and picking up couches and sofas together, arranging them around the room, opening out wall to wall rugs (trust me they are extremely heavy), setting up side tables and cabinets, manoeuvring a cot from the living room into the bedroom (this one turned the cold war into a bloodbath of yells and shouts in frustration) and sweating in London ensued! Pure labour, heavy breathing, hot flushes and broken backs, we sighed unanimously. It had been exhausting. It had been harrowing. It had been just slightly fun (S would not admit to more even later). It had been therapy. Yes, therapy. It’s weird how you can bond over just working hard physically. The joint effort, the joint exertion and then sitting in silence in the room of labour creates a certain kind of camaraderie. He gave us a box of chocolates while we were leaving. All the way back S kept grumbling about how the box had been a saving grace and that the reason he got us to do it was because he didn’t want to pay anyone to do it. S was right of course. Logically I had to agree with her of course. We had wasted our time and energy for nothing of course. But I couldn’t say that to her of course! No it wasn’t because of the cold war or because I was being egoistic (which I was of course) but because I know S and I know she was glad we had done it and because I was glad as well.
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Don’t get me wrong. I can’t call uncle my friend. I still only talk to him for a few minutes a day, just a few polite questions back and forth. But it feels good to say hello to him at the station. I can’t explain it. He isn’t a part of my life but in a way he is. When I leave London, he might be one of the first things/experiences/people that I might forget about the place. But what the entire circumstance taught us I guess I’ll take with me. I can’t quite put a finger on what it was exactly. Just a few disconnected thoughts. He is an Indian. ‘Enjoy the Kit-kat’. ‘Never take anything from strangers’. ‘Don’t close your heart and mind to getting to know strangers. You might miss some nice people.’ Some extremely nice, genuine kind acts can take you aback at railway platforms. Life is not all good. But then again, life is not all bad. Maybe someday I'll have the words to describe the feeling.
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For all those waiting to give me a lecture, don’t worry I’ve given myself several. It happens rarely. I don’t regret it. I promise I won’t make talking to people on buses, trains a habit.
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Thanks S. You don’t know it, but I wouldn’t have gone if you hadn’t come that day.

Posted by Pavitra :: 08:24 :: 7 comments

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