Maximum City

I’ve long toyed with the idea of writing about Mumbai and life here, but have been putting it off for no apparent reason. It’s probably just the sheer magnitude of the task. After all, how can one capture the madness, the spirit, the pure essence of this city in a few hundred words? Movie after movie has been made about Mumbai glorifying it, berating it, romanticizing it, personifying it, but they all seem to be dealing with disconnected, disparate aspects – the rains, the trains, slums, poverty or the crowds. Not one of them has captured the city in its entirety. I’ve been here for over a year now, but I still haven’t come to terms with this city. Each time I think I have Mumbai all figured out, it throws up something that completely catches me unawares and I discover a whole new side of Mumbai, not always pleasant. When I was new to the city, someone told me that one can only love or hate this city, that there’s no in between. Black or white, no shades of grey. But even after a year here, I’m sitting on the fence unable to make up my mind.


Do I love this absolutely mental city? Yes, at times - When an absolute stranger on the packed local train flashes a smile despite being elbowed from all directions, when people queue up at the bus stop in an orderly manner despite the horrendous peak hour rush, when I go jogging on marine drive and the sun peeks from behind the Trident, when I’m sitting on the broad pavement and watch the grey waters crash onto the rocks below me at Nariman point, when the first rains hit the city with a vengeance in June, when I spend a sunny Sunday morning just walking alone along the broad wide roads of Fort, when I saunter around the meandering old roads named after long bygone Parsis in Colaba with a camera in hand, when I see kids running to school in oversized raincoats, when I stand on the footboard of that rare empty train and feel the wind in my face, whenever I visit Café Madras and the guy behind the counter flashes me a familiar smile, when I step out on the streets alone at 2 AM and still feel absolutely safe, when the auto and cab drivers take pains to give me exact change even if it’s just a rupee, when I see people going through the same routine for years on end to earn an honest living… Yes, this city does bring a smile to my face.


Do I hate Mumbai? Oh yes. It drives me mad that I cannot find a moment’s peace here – a minute without all the honking and din, that I just HAVE TO leave my house not a moment later than 8:02 to catch the 8:12 local so that I can get to office in one piece, that it invariably rains nay, pours non-stop every weekend in the monsoon causing all weekend plans to go kaput, that there’s no place outside my home where I can be completely alone whenever I want to, that I’m still to find my “happy place” here, that I cannot find time to do anything apart from work and home on weekdays, that I have to put my life on the line every time I attempt to board the general compartment of a local at peak hours, that everything is a fight here, a challenge that one must face every day and every moment, that we have to live in houses that are more like matchboxes… ok shoeboxes and proudly call them “home”, that a few potted plants on one’s balcony are labelled “gardens”, that ten trees lining a road is considered a “green locality”, that a substantial amount of one’s income has to go on rent, that mountains of garbage lying on the side of the road is considered normal, that taking 2 hours to cross 12 km to get back home is “acceptable”… Ufff.


Despite all this, do I defend Mumbai? Yes, and vociferously especially whenever someone compares it with Delhi. After all, how can Delhi with its corrupt politicians, snooty uber rich people (no offence to friends staying in Delhi), spoilt brats and its “oh-so-perfect” roads even come close to honest, hardworking, matter-of-fact Mumbai? I agree Mumbai comes nowhere close to Bangalore on any aspect, but its miles above Delhi.


But does life at Mumbai sadden me? Yes, enormously. It pains me to see the colossal rich-poor divide in this city… it probably compares to no other city in the world and is just getting worse by the day. This is a city where models sporting Louis Vuittons and stilettos, super rich business honchos in their expensive suits and movie stars in their BMWs and their Mercs whizz past millions of people living on footpaths on less than a dollar a day without a second glance. It distresses me that people spend thousands of rupees to buy clothes they don’t need, but cannot spare a rupee to an old homeless lady, that hundreds of people die on the locals every year but nothing has been done to make the trains safer, that Mumbai’s famed “resilience” is actually sheer apathy, that the infrastructure is crumbling and living standards dropping by the minute, that thousands of children have no childhood but have to earn just to be able to eat. It’s depressing to see a little girl of about six squeezing her body through a six inch ring to earn a few rupees, a little boy of five selling odds and ends on the local train and an aged blind beggar singing so that people who have eyes and can see but are blind in every other way can take notice of him. It almost kills me.


Yet despite all this, something about Mumbai binds everyone together. It’s a melting pot, a smorgasbord if you may, that offers something for everyone. “One for all and all for one” they say. Everything comes to a grinding halt when Sachin scores a century, when another bomb explodes, when the millions of Ganeshas are taken to the sea for immersion, when the roads flood and both prince and pauper have to swim back home… and then life goes back to normal - the machine starts running again after a brief pause.


Is this city for me? I don’t know… I think not. Will I ever be able to make up my mind about Mumbai? Nope. I don’t see myself getting off this fence any time soon.

The beautiful game...

I'm writing this note just a few hours before the big match, the WC finals. India and Srilanka, Ramayana v2.0 - who would've thought! The behemoths, Australia and South Africa lie fallen like warriors with broken swords along the long, winding path to the glorious cup. The excitement and impatience on the street below is palpable! The honking is a tad louder, the walking a step faster, the smiles on the faces of Mumbaikars are a few millimetres wider. On the trains too, the talk is about cricket and cricket alone according to a friend of mine who's on his way to the stadium. For the last week, 90% of all the posts on my facebook wall have been about cricket! Post match analysis, Sachin's 100th ton, speculations about match fixing, Sachin's 100th ton, articles by former cricketers, Sachin's 100th ton, vintage videos of India's wins, Sachin's 100th ton are doing the rounds on any portal that's connected to the cloud. I think the question "Will he, won't he" has been posed more times in the last few days than all the women in the world, through all the ages have pondered plucking at rose petals. And if cricket has not been on the front page of all the leading dailies everyday for the last 40 days, then I'll give up watching the sport! National news, inflation worries, terror threats, GDP growth and its woes, everything lies forgotten for cricket. Sab chalta hai Bhai, it's cricket after all. And this crazy nation goes impossibly berserk when our men in Blue are on the field.

My association with this game goes as far as I can remember. Having an athletic father who worshipped the game, having played it at district level and a grandmother whose razor sharp memory could hold statistics and numbers better than databases, ensured that I received copious doses of the beauty of cricket right from the age of 6 or 7. I saw cricket transition from the classy whites with a red ball to a splash a colours (92 was it?) played with a white ball and I was hooked. So much so that, plumb in front of the wicket, silly mid on, silly point, cover drive, long off, yorker were a significant part of my early english vocabulary. I loved the cracking sound that was made when the wooden willow hitting the ball for a boundary, the slight knick of the bat before a caught behind and the sound of the crowds roaring on television. I read about the history of the game in the school kid's version of Wisden, spent hours neatly cutting out colour pictures of favourite cricketers from the newspapers and tacking them over a cricket scrap book and read anything I could lay my hands upon about Steve Waugh, Shaun Pollock, Hansie Cronje, Anil Kumble and the new kid on the block - Sachin Tendulkar.

Over the years, several days were spent in front of a rickety old television with my father and sometimes a few of his friends, my grandmother, my sister and I at the edge of our seats, cheering for Team India, cussing them for dropped catches and misfields, screaming "what a beauty" at every classy ball at the top of our voices and celebrating every success with loud screaming, jumping and dancing. My mother, not so much an ardent fan of India mainly because of the insanity it invoked in the rest of her mad household, would hover in the background reminding us when wickets fell that "cricket is the ultimate winner" only to be met by blank stares from all us devastated souls. As the years progressed, my love for the game just increased. From 1996, where India crashed out to Srilanka in the semis (and for which we are seeking revenge today!) to the infamous 1999 world cup where I was smitten by the beautiful English cricket grounds with even more beautiful names (Oval, Old Trafford, Lord's, Edgebaston, Trent Bridge), I watched every series whether India played in it or not. Rahul Dravid with his fresh, sharp look, his heartwarming smile and "by the rule book" batting was my newest crush. Having always hated Australia for no reason whatsoever, I cried unstoppably during the Semi Finals of the 1999 World Cup when South Africa crashed out when Father Time stood still, turned around and threw his hands up at Allan Donald. The match fixing scandals that rocked the cricketing world soon after followed by Hansie Cronje plane crash rocked my world and I hoped that the game would come out clean again. The Indian final crash to Australia in the 2003 World Cup was the hilt where I spent the day watching the match and then stayed up all night in a blend of severe depression over India's loss, fear that I would flunk my Chemistry final exam the next day and palpitations that I may sleep through the paper! Which sadist keeps an examination the day after the world cup finals?!

University and MBA came and my love for the game dwindled. My dad being an ardent Sampras fan had already given me a substitute - Tennis, to fall back upon, and Federer with his ballet-like grace and his classy forehand caught my eye and grabbed a significant portion of my mindshare. Interest for cricket picked up only during the World Cup 2007 (and crashed after India's disastrous early exit), India Pakistan matches and the occasional interesting tri-nation series. Twenty-20 never really sparked my old fire for the game and IPL (and my hatred for it and the fact that it's just not cricket!) is a topic for a future post! However, before this world cup, something just sparked my interest again. I don't know if it was just the fact that the Cup was being played in the sub-continent, or that India had a good chance this time of lifting the trophy again, but my old fire is raging again. I resolved to watch atleast one match at the ground, and when I did, the insanity and passion that the game once invoked in me was reborn! I screamed, shouted, cursed, laughed, jumped, sang and cheered like I used to 15 years ago and all I can say now is that this love is here to stay! I don't know what magic is there about this game that brings a nation of 1.2 billion people to a grinding halt and unites them like nothing else! After all, as a friend puts it, "It's a game where 13 blokes play with a piece of wood and a ball to a random set of rules, but something about the game makes it so endearing."

So here's to an old love that's come back in full force, a life-long alliance with the game, to good sportsmanship and the true spirit of cricket! I don't care who wins the game today as long as it's India! :D

A year flies by, yet memories live on...

I still can't believe a year's gone by since that memorable spring day in a sleepy town called Ahmedabad when 280 black cloaked, bright eyed youngsters took the short walk up the stage to collect a piece of parchment that would "brand them for life"! I wonder what emotions might've effervesced in the majestic grass covered quadrangle enclosed by the massive red brick walls that day. Pride, joy, happiness, relief, ambition, hope... if those walls could talk, I'm sure they would be bursting to sing out too. And Louis Kahn, wherever in heaven or hell will sure be proud to have been a part of the making of this wonderful place that was my home for two years and will forever hold a special place in my heart.

As I stepped off the dias, I could think of only one person, the promise that I had made and kept, and the dream that I would continue to strive towards. While walking down the aisle holding the coveted parchment in hand, my eyes sought out my mother and there she was in the distance, her eyes sparkling with tears of pride, shining out like a single daffodil in a field of heather. Wordlessly, I handed over the degree to her and hugged her. The victory was as much hers and dad's as mine. The journey from being a fresh, naive engineer out of college to a strong and more mature "manager" ready to take on the world was a long, winding and hard trail. This was the befitting end - too short maybe, but heart warming. Two years spent there flashed before my eyes as I went around taking pictures with all my family members who had come there to celebrate my success and my dear friends who were setting out on their own paths in life... Words failed me once again. Time seemed to have stopped and yet seemed to be flying... Probably, the best lessons learnt in those grey cement and red brick classrooms were not of Accounting, Finance, Strategy or Marketing, but of those in life - dealing with different kinds of people, learning when to step forward and take a challenge and when to back off, knowing the right time to strike the iron, doing things and more importantly, getting things done...

I have cursed and loved this place in equal measure, but as I left I could feel only one thing - nostalgia. I called this place a torture chamber, a concentration camp, a boiler room, a prison and every other synonym possible during all those sleepless nights in the first year spent feverishly completing assignments, while getting "cold-called" when dozing off in class, after seeing a quiz notice on a totally random subject at 1.30 PM outside the mess and while getting screwed up grades in subjects where I felt like a champ. However, the same brick walls felt like heaven when I lay down on the wet grass all alone, in the wee hours of the morning at the LKP gazing at the stars and feeling the serenity of the place. Time would stand still at those moments and sigh...

Those countless coffees, late nights reading case materials while knowing that I wouldn't remember a thing the next morning, the long discussions at the CT eating maggi and drinking "chai", those countless movie sessions, nights spent playing card games, frisbee evenings, case discussions, forming competition teams and giving up just a few days before the submission, the "WAC runs", the countless treats (many a time, for no reason), the birthday parties, CCCFs, Section tempo shouts, dorm dunking nights... they're all just memories now. Memories that remain fresh in my mind a year since that wonderful day, memories that will always hold a special place in my heart, memories that may fade but will always remain in a small corner of my mind, to materialize on some days like dusty old and yellowed childhood photographs...

These memories may jade over time, but I know that the friendships I have forged during those two years will remain with me for a life time and only get stronger. Irrespective of the forum through or frequency with which we choose to remain in touch - be it random twice-a-year calls made on birthdays, facebook updates, regular gtalk chats, once-in-a-while meet ups, weekly or daily calls, I know these are friends I can bank on to get me out of a sticky situation, to pull me through in times of need, to give me fundae when I need them and when I don't, to join me in all my successes, to stand in 5 hour long queues in the hot sun to get cricket match tickets for me, to provide shelter to me after randomly turning up at their door and to take my calls at 3 AM in the morning.

Guys, it's been a year since that unforgettable day, but the journey will only get better. Here's to friendship, love and luck. And always remember - not one of us is "just a brick in the wall"

Life...

What is life really?

- Is it a bed of roses? Or a bed of nails? Or is it something where the “roses have thorns” argument holds?

- Is it a struggle? Or is it a celebration?

- Is it a bunch of little things that manifest themselves over time? Or huge things, that with time, become memories one would chuckle and laugh about?

- Is it emotion that defines it? Or is it reason? Or is it passion that grabs it with a vice-like grip?

- Is it defined by acting on the spur of the moment? Or by long deliberation?

- Is it about getting totally involved with everything one does – laughing out loud and crying one’s eyes out? Or is it about being able to see everything from a bird’s eye and never wading through the turbid waters?

- Is it about loving someone with all one’s heart that one would be willing to give up one’s very life for them? Or is it about compartmentalizing?

- Is it about expressing oneself and letting everything out? Or is about closeting everything, digging out the skeletons in the cupboard and burying them deep in the murky marshes of one’s mind?

- Should the innocent and naïve heart be allowed to rule one’s thoughts? Or is it the more pragmatic and insensitive brain that should be allowed to take over?

- Is it about living the happiness and smiling through the tears?

- Is it what we become in life that should define us? Or the people we have turned out to be? Or a combination of both?

- Is life black? Or is it white? Or is it just a chequered landscape in multiple hues of gray on whose squares stand tall the ghosts of the past like pieces on a stone chess board? Do these hues change with time?

- Is life determined by one’s choices? Or is there something inexplicable that governs it all? Or is it the hand that Chance doles out, that makes or breaks the deal?

- Is life easy? Or is it complicated? Or is it one’s mind which makes it the way it is?

- Is it about clinging on and blowing into the glowing embers to rekindle the flame? Or is it about letting go and blowing out the candle yourself?

- Is it about cursing the rain and trying to stay dry under the futile cover of an umbrella blowing in the wind? Or is it about letting the rain soak your very soul and bringing a huge smile on your face while making you catch a cold in a matter of minutes?

- Is it about momentary pleasures and long term pain? Or momentary pain and long term pleasure? Or momentary pleasure and pain?

- Is life about the gentle musings of beauty and wonder? Or is it about aggression, passion and achievement? Is it about the green and the blue? Or the red and the black?

- Is it about the moments that tug at our heartstrings and make us cry? Or is it about the countless memories of pleasure and pain that make us sigh? Is it about the withering roses in the dry rosebed? Or is it about the tender rosebud peaking out from beneath the sepals?

- Is it about letting your hair blow in the wind and getting the dust in your eyes? Or is it about staying warm, snug and dust free inside?

- Are we masters of our destiny? Or is there a sadistic master up there pulling at the strings and ridiculing us while we tread, fall and err?

- Is life non-existent without pain? Is pain the underlying base of the dish that life is?

- Is life just determined by time and space? Or is there something else too?

- Does time heal all wounds or does it wound all heals?

- Is life ruled by randomness, a Brownian phenomenon? Or is there an underlying pattern that lies obscured to all human perception?

- Is life a mission with a purpose? Or is it just one long meaningless pursuit?

- Do our deeds live on? Or do we just crumble to dust in our tombs and blend in with the same dust that would become new life?

- Is it dancing like the wind, singing like a lark, flying like an eagle and hunting like a cheetah? Or is it going about a mundane existence like the ant or the honeybee?

- Is life music? Or is it dance? Is it even an art where colors express themselves and have an identity? Or is it a meticulous science determined by equations, precise, but also having an element of error – the delta?

- Is it about blending in or standing out? Is life like a dazzling array of colors that mix together and presume a whole new identity to paint a rainbow together? Or is it like a sculpture etched in stone, stoic and stable for all eternity?

- Is life love? Or is love, life?

- Is life or love about rainbows and butterflies and violins playing amidst the rustle of leaves and the gusty wind? Or is it about compromise and settling for something?

What really is life? I yearn for an answer…

The Song of the Spheres

Dont you think we all are connected? I mean, by us I dont just mean people. I mean all of Creation. The dense green trees, the chirping birds, the wispy clouds, the tall and lofty mountains... 

I think we are. 

Else how could one explain the feeling one gets while one is alone on the beach? If you listen carefully, you feel like the sea is whispering something to you... memories of a time long gone by... like images flashing across the sky that is one's mind... thoughts long forgotten come tumbling by... 

While sitting in a meadow, just reading a book or doing nothing, one feels a sense of calm, of utmost peace that is not felt while sitting on a comfortable couch with not a worry in the world. The top of a mountain, by a gushing stream, lying on the grass in a garden, smelling the flowers, listening to the wind, getting soaked in the rain... one feels this connection, a sense of discovery... one feels closer to himself... It's as though somewhere somewhere wants to talk to you... is trying to reach you... At these moments sometimes, you feel your name being whispered. You look around and find no one. Is someone or something really trying to say something? Are we hearing but just not listening? Or have we got lost in this mundane world to an extent that we just have forgotten the language?

Wordsworth in one of his poems said "To her fair works did Nature link, the human soul that through me ran...". Yes, I kinda believe this too. There must be a link... I guess man is moving too fast to realize this... Else, how is it that birds and animals always know something is wrong before an earthquake but man doesn't? How is it that there seems to be such harmony with a well established food cycle in animals while there is only utter chaos wherever man is involved? 

Man must learn to slow down.. In his pursuit for power and glory, he must not forget that he is just nothing but a small insignificant, infinitesimally small speck in the grand order of things... Just one amongst millions of other species in a small blue planet called the Earth in one of the many solar systems in a little galaxy called the Milky Way, lost in the corner of just one of the infinite number of Universes there are... 

Yes, man must slow down and listen to the Song of the Spheres. Let there be Peace. 

Ode to my Dearest Friend...

I wake up in cold sweat... yet again for the third time this week. I reach out to take a sip of water, but somehow water seems to have lost the ability to quench my thirst. My head is spinning and little balls of light seem to be popping all over in the otherwise pitch darkness of my room. I lie down back again and stare up at the ceiling... I can see her in my mind’s eye so clearly... spread all over the canvas that is the ceiling. I sigh... I miss her a lot. My heart pines for her company. A glimpse of her, just the sound of her voice... anything! I shake my head to clear my thoughts but I somehow just can’t get her out of my head. It’s as though she’s calling out to me, reminding me of the times we’ve spent together. I reach out for another sip of water though I know it’s going to be of no use. My throat is parched and I know exactly what is going to quench my thirst. Oh God. For another glimpse. A few moments with her sometime soon...

My first day on campus at NITK was when I saw her. My mother and I had arrived a day early and after having spent the entire morning setting up the room, we were left with nothing to do in the evening. We decided to take a walk and after crossing NH17, we continued along the sandy road, and that’s when I saw her. Aah.. I still remember that first sight as if it were yesterday. Pristine, sparkling, perfect. Decked in golden orange like a blushing bride, she was there – vast and infinite, stretching up to horizon – the Arabian Sea. I shook off my slippers and ran across the sand feeling like a bird. The very first day and I had found my favourite place on campus. Little did I realize that it was also the beginning of a wonderful lifetime friendship - absolutely pure and delightful.  

The very next morning I was back for a glimpse of her again. The moment I stepped on the sand, a totally different feeling engulfed me. I felt liberated, light, like a bird being released from a cage after a long long time! I looked at the water – all green and gold. She looked so fresh, like she had dressed up to greet me. Now that I think of it, I guess she had... as was the case every morning after that. I smiled and walked towards the edge of the water and she withdrew. Like a little girl who responds to a stranger with a shy smile but withdraws immediately as he approaches her. I tried again and she withdrew again. I gave up. The tide was too low. I sat down on the wet sand and looked around me. Not a soul for at least a mile on either side. It was such a wonderful feeling. I felt at peace. I closed my eyes and the very next moment, I was surrounded by water. Before I could even realise what was happening I was totally wet and when I opened my tingling eyes and spat out the sand and salty water, she was running away again. Giggling like a little girl, a little girl who had accepted me as her friend. And so it began... a wonderful beginning to a wonderful friendship.

Every morning, within 15 minutes of getting up I had to be at the beach. I just HAD to see her everyday else I would be restless for the rest of the day. And every morning she greeted me like she did the very first day – like a little girl clapping her hands in glee when her father comes home after a long day at work, so eager to sit him down and show him all her drawings. And on all those happy mornings, she would either be dressed in green sparkling with the gold the rising sun showered on her or in a wonderful blue hue – the beauty of which can only be experienced, not described. On those happy mornings, she would laugh out loud several times, splashing on the rocks, playing “catch me if you can” with the scurrying crabs. And then we would talk. I told her everything about myself. I know it may sound funny, but I actually did. And when I did, she listened. She would stop her fun and frolic and listen. And she would tell me all about herself. Stories so vast and magnificent that they cannot be penned. Stories of dolphins frolicking in the sun, of shoals of fishes, corals and treasures buried deep inside her – secrets from the depth of the ocean. I was fascinated by each one of them. Sometimes when I visited her at night after dinner and lay down on the sand listening to the waves, we both would look up at the twinkling stars and she would tell me of stories from up above – of angels and elves, flowers, the sun and the moon. I felt like a little child at those times.

In the second year, when the jogging bug had bitten me, she had a ball. Every morning, between fits of laughter, she would watch my desperate attempts to run on the sand for more than half a minute. The moment I gave up and stopped, she would burst out laughing. At times, I would get irritated and chuck a stone at her but she would duck and start laughing again. Even louder than before and that would set me laughing. At other times, her laughter would spur me on to run some more and when I did, she would stop laughing and give me a proud smile.

Not always was she so bubbly and cheery as she was on most mornings. There were times when I understood that she was in a bad mood the moment I saw her. On all those days, she was dressed in gray. A cold steely gray. She would ignore me at times and I let her be. Sometimes, I would ignore her longer on purpose until she herself came to talk to me. And when I would leave after the talk, I always noticed that her mood was invariably lighter. She would seem so much more cheerful. I still remember a particularly gray morning she was in a terrible mood. The waves were crashing down on the rocks with the intensity of a sharp sword. Strong enough to break them down. She seemed like a child throwing a terrible tantrum when she did not get what she wanted. She was furious that day and managed to make me feel pretty gray too. When I visited her again that evening to check out how she was doing, she was back to normal and looked particularly beautiful. Decked in pure gold, she rushed out to greet me as if to apologize for her behaviour that morning.

I always marvelled at her ability to be so cheerful and childish at times, at other times so grown up. She always seemed like different people to me – a little girl with her toys, laughing and playing with her best friend, a younger sister – a friend and confidant, an older sister – a patient listener who always gave great advice, a mother who always understood my moods and somehow always managed to get the smile back on my face...

Though I felt she was like a little girl most of the time, she would sometimes exhibit the wisdom of Queen Sheba. When I became particularly interested in Philosophy in my third year at college, she gave me answers to so many of my dilemmas and would pose so many more. On mornings when I wasn’t feeling so chatty she displayed the tenderness of a grandmother. I would just lie down on the sand and she lapped against my feet quietly – just to let me know that she was there if I felt like talking. At times when I was feeling down, she understood immediately and would sing for me - a song more enchanting than a pied piper’s song, a voice more beautiful than that of a nightingale and before I knew it, I would be smiling again. She never failed to cheer me up. Not even once. Her ability to switch roles totally amazed me. She would spend the entire morning listening to me and advising me when I felt down, but within minutes after she felt I was feeling ok, she would turn all childlike again, splashing me with water and running away laughing. Truly marvellous.

Well, Time and Tide wait for none they say. Tide I say definitely waited for me, like she did every morning to greet me with all the innocence of a child. Time unfortunately wasn’t so considerate and there I was with just two months left in college. They were a blur. Goodbyes to good friends, normal friends, “hi – bye” friends... the list was endless. A week before I left, I was with her in the evening. She seemed to be feeling down. I felt pretty gray too. NITK had been a part of my life for four years – the best years of my life till now and it wasn’t easy to say goodbye. I hadn’t shed a single tear till then though my friends had been crying buckets for weeks. I felt sad yes, but I hadn’t cried. I just sat there gazing at her. And then before I even realized, the tears were flowing. I looked at her. It felt like she was crying too. Weeping... My heart still aches thinking of those first tears. After that, the tears never stopped. And I always cried when I was with her. She was so much a part of me now that leaving her behind would be like leaving a part of me forever. She had helped me grow stronger, helped me build my confidence and character, had taught me the power of thought, had made me ponder over life’s eternal questions, taught me the joy of wonder, of beauty that is so abundant in nature, of joy that life is filled with but is somehow overlooked by everyone, given me answers when I wanted them, nurtured and cared for me whenever I needed someone to look after me... She taught me to appreciate little things in life, reach out to people and make them feel better, the way she did to me. She had been my mentor, a caring teacher and I had never realized that till then. She had been with me through ups and downs, highs and lows... she had always been there.

On my last day, I sat down with her again. She looked like a bride once again. Someone who was wedded and was leaving her mother’s place to go to her husband’s. Exceptionally beautiful and very sad. A bride who knew the future held beautiful promises but still did not want to leave her mother behind. The only difference was that it was I who was leaving. I felt terrible, crushed. I didn’t want to go. I walked down to the edge of the water. The tears on my cheeks were glistening in the moonlight and the salty water running down my cheeks splashed into the salty water beneath. We had connected again, albeit in tears. I bent down and touched the water, told her I would miss her and reassured her I would be back again. She returned a smile – a sad one. I knew how much she would miss me and I knew how much I would miss her. I turned around and walked across the sand. Before I left the beach, I glanced back at her again. She seemed to be pointing upwards. I looked up and saw the most spectacular thing I’ve seen in all my life. The stars seemed to be spelling out “I will miss you” very clearly. I rubbed my eyes and looked once again but everything seemed normal. The great Orion with his broad belt stared down at me. I didn’t know what to make of it. I turned to her to see a broad smile and a quick wink and I knew that what I saw was true. She would miss me... a lot...  and I would miss her too.

10 months it has been since I saw her. 10 whole months. I’ve come to a place where probably many would die to belong to, but somehow, everything’s not complete. I miss my dearest friend. Her gushing giggles, her loud laughs, her quiet cackle, her calm reassurance, her warmth, her love... I really miss her. I promise myself, I’ll be seeing her soon. Very soon. And I’m waiting for the first glimpse once again, when I can smell the salt in the air and feel the sand in my hair, when I can see her beautiful golden self, feel the heat of the sand, smell the fragrance of the ocean, the gaze of her blue eyes, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her embrace... I’m longing for the moment I would be see my little girl running towards me with all her drawings of the day, eager to show me everything. Dearest friend, I’m longing for the day I’ll be with you again... the day when I can feel like a child once again. I promise you... I’ll be there soon! I will!

Happier times ... the beach from atop the lighthouse... NITK beach - the best in the world!

A Silent Death...

Today was one of those days… those days when one does not feel like doing anything and sits around idly… thinking about the mountain of tasks left to be done but not taking the effort to move a limb and do them! I was idly skimming through a 3 days old paper when an article caught my attention. It was called Rangoli Days. Interesting, I thought and I read on.

The writer of this article describes how she heard the Rangoli seller shouting out her wares on the street one day and how it brought back fond memories of two decades ago when Rangolis were ubiquitous. In her own words, she says, “those were the times when the lady of the house would wash the front yard, pick up her bowl of Rangoli powder, bend double and with deft fingers, dab dots and dashes into an interesting motif. Then the bowl would be tucked away into a corner, usually on a window sill, and she would vanish indoors to complete her other chores. The Rangoli was a sign of welcome, and indication that the house was ready for a brand new day.” She goes on to describe how she and her friends would skip around the designs carefully on their way to school and back and how, on festival days, the Rangolis were a lot bigger and more colorful with the sprinkling of petals and flowers for the festive effect.

This article pulled a few chords in my own heart and I reminisced about the time when I was about five. There are some events in one’s life which, however insignificant they are, one never forgets. They stick in our minds. Memories of everyday, insignificant events. Insignificant memories, but priceless, when one feels nostalgic and reflects on the past to remember the good old days. My Rangoli memories were some of them. I was always amazed by how my Grandma would draw huge, beautiful patterns outside the threshold every morning. Perfect to the minutest detail with not a line, nay, not even a dot out of place. Regal peacocks, burning diyas, flowers, beautiful ladies holding lamps… each pattern had its own story to tell. She would allow me to dot the plot once in a while, gently correcting my grip and teaching me the right way to hold the powder in my fingers to get thin and straight lines. I still remember my first pattern - one with lamps and a flower in the middle. The lines were awry and the dots were out of place but my grandma applauded me and gave me one of her special laddoos as a reward. And gazing at my creation, I experienced a joy I’d never experienced before. I’m sure Rembrandt or Picasso wouldn’t have been happier after their first painting!

Then there was the time when the neighbor aunty got a permanent Rangoli pattern painted on her threshold. When my grandma saw this she marched to her house and demanded:

“Why Savithri? Why did you get a Rangoli painted??! Your Rangolis were always so good!”

Savithri aunty said “I know Kamala, but I’m not getting any younger you see. It’s getting really difficult for me to get up so early in the morning every day. And my daughter in law does not have time in the mornings for a Rangoli.

“Well, that’s really sad! But that’s not going to happen in my place! I’ll never get a pattern painted outside my threshold however old and blind I become!” retorted my grandma.

To this day, the first thing that welcomes me when I go back home from college is the beautiful pattern on our threshold complete with fragrant incense sticks sticking out of the mud in the tulsi pot. I always smile at this and look around. I see either bare thresholds or painted patterns at the neighbors’ doors. Or even a car and a two wheeler parked in the place which rightfully belongs to the Rangoli!

It’s really sad actually. Globalisation and modernization are doing a lot of good things – double incomes, lots of other facilities… but they are also eating into our lives. Into the time which was usually reserved for things which truly matter. Things like eating dinner together as a family, or taking a walk together or decorating the our homes on festive occasions. Why, even celebrating festivals has become perfunctory now…

And simple traditions like drawing a Rangoli… well, they just seem to be dying a silent death…