That Human Touch

what is it about a touch that creates such contradicting reactions within you. it either makes you feel loved and protected or it makes you feel vulnerable and unpleasant. i see some of my children, the really chintu ones...and i just can't help lifting them up in my arms and holding them close to me. but then everytime they see me they start crying because they want me to carry them and i at times don't have the time to do so. but that apart, what really makes a difference is the fact that although their mothers love them, those women do not either have the time or the energy to shower their babies with the love and affection that they crave for. i mean i can literally feel their tiny bodies relax completely when i carry them and walk down the long passage that leads to the gates. and it is so amazing ... there are times when i walk back the entire stretch and i find that they've fallen asleep. how they love it when they feel a touch of another human being. of a familiar human being. and how pure they are... so trusting. all it needs to get them to melt is that loving touch.
and aren't we all like that. no matter how old or young , a hug or a caress is all that it takes to fill us with a sense of contentment.
sigh!!!
:-)

i went to colaba causeway yesterday. we took a pitstop at this place called piccadilly. it's this lebanese/iranian restaurant that makes very tasty food and reminds you of that Planet Food serial where they featured Lebanon. such a pretty little place. and then we came out and all prettiness vanished. there was this really black, looming sky above us and the moon like a sickle blade waved menacingly. the sky was really incredibly black, i don't know how. not a single cloud to mar the blackening effect. extremely chilling. if it wasn't for the hustle bustle and the lights, the scene would have been quite scary. i mean imagine the gothic architecture of VT station and the municipal headquarters with all those gargoyles, with this sky and that sickle-shaped moon in the back-drop.

Tcha!!

:-/

When nightmares see the light of day

It was 3:15 pm. Five of us came out of the school and walked down to the circle. A police chowki touches it on the left. We heard shouts. A man was abusing a woman and thrashing her - right there, in the middle of the road, for everyone to see. He kept punching her on the face. The skin near her right eyebrow tore and she started bleeding profusely. He kicked her and then he punched her on the stomach. Then he walked away. She sat up slowly. With an effort. She was from the north-east and well past her middle age. She touched her wound. The blood flowed into her palm and trickled down on to the road. Suddenly he came back and kicked her on her face. His feet were stained with her blood. Then he crossed the road and walked away.
We were rooted and speechless. The nature of the violence was extremely clinical, sadistic, remorseless. Have you felt so nauseated that all you can see in front of you is a white sheet. And all you can feel is your head whirling. That's how i felt. He came back. We decided that if he touched her again we are going to bash him up. But he came back, held her head in his hands and wiped off the blood. I don't know what else he did because by then I had walked off.
All this in front of a police chowki - WHICH WAS LOCKED- and in broad daylight. Well, we are going to do about the police chowki being locked. But you might ask, what about the woman? Why won't we do anything for her? The answer to this is - we have tried to intervene in the past. But the women have lashed out at us and asked us to mind our own business. That was between them and their 'aadmis'. Despite this we took the decision to bash him if he hit her again.
EVERY SINGLE WOMAN that I have seen here has some or the other indication of violence on her body. At times it is self-inflicted too. I am confused about the way these women define a relationship. I mean they take utter crap from men whom they are eventually going to leave. It makes them so damn vulnerable. I know, i know - pot calling kettle black, blah, blah... but, hell!!!

You don't need to understand...

What i am trying to say...

these days i'm so charged and on high alert at work. i mean every milisecond of non-focus creates utter chaos. so at the end of some days when i log in to my blog page and stare blankly at the screen with millions of words hurricaning inside my brain i try to achieve some sense in all the entanglednesses. and then i resign myself to the fact that i neednt try to achieve sense. and hence i started by saying that you neednt try and make sense out of this either.

i contextualize the above sentiment with an art exhibition that i visited the other day at jehangir art gallery. six artists from a school in pune had showcased their work. one of them was untitled. the canvasses covered one entire wall of the room. the paintings looked like a satellite view or an aerial blueprint of a slum or a scrapyard. the colous used were as varied as a bright red to a soothing blue and a crisp violet. there were the dismal greys too. the strokes were forceful, they spoke of an energy and a volatility...i had a chat with the artist and i asked him what were his paintings all about. he said that his paintings had no message. they were pure abstracts and were done with a mind that was devoid of thoughts. he had the canvas, his paints and his brushes. his energy flowed from his body into the canvas and created the work that was being displayed. Hmmmnnn.... lofty, ain't it? but pretty simple too. i mean there are times when you want to be meaninglessly meaningful...

the other night (i was on a late shift) when i was walking to the station i passed a crowd of men. i threaded my way through them. it was like one of those ballets where the dancers weave in and out through their co-dancers like garlands. without touching them. yet the movements are so graceful. i sometimes wonder what it would feel like if i were to close my eyes and walk on the road. everything seemed to move in slow motion at that moment. even my thoughts.

FEDEXD

Thank God It Was Sunday!!!

Thank God it was French Open men's finals...

Thank God Federer was in it and Nadal was not...PHHEWWWW!!!!

so a few of us Federer Fanatics decided that we ought to watch the match on a biiiig screen. cheer our favourite player because it was an important day for him. and we did just that.

The Sports Bar, Phoenix Mills.

The gear - blue jeans and a customized blood red t-shirt that had the RF logo and a quote on the back that goes - "In an age of specialists, you're either a hard court specialist, a clay court specialist or a grass court specialist. Or you're ROGER FEDERER.."

and us beautiful women flaunting it...like big time!!! it was a good match. He was perfection epitomized. He's back to his old lethal, precision-centric self. How i adore him!!! well...he broke the French jinx and now we can't wait for Wimbledon.

:-)))

PS: was about to put up a picture of the three of us who wore the t-shirt. but decided against it. for the benefit of all those people who belong to the fortunate few that havent seen me....yet! :p

A State of Philoso-deliriousness

Scintillating … that’s what it could be called.
At times I wonder whether I should pen down an anecdote or just randomly scribble whatever words appear behind my eyes. You know, in that space which we feel is somewhere in between our forehead and backhead. And there are many words floating there. Not just words but line chains and paragraphs and phrases…so many unconnectednesses and so little space…I love it when thoughts flip flop around me. You are at one point and suddenly something radically different and absolutely disconnected with the previous thought dances before you. And then I’m left wondering and wandering among these thought-mazes.
At times when I close my eyes I see a blueness around me. Blues of various hues. Transitioning from a light tint to an intenseness that has an aweing depth. Suddenly whites emerge out of these blues, swirling, twirling, ribboning. Thick bands entwining around the blues and creating a massive abstractedness that’s aesthetically marvelous and breath-taking. Maybe it’s an ocean. Maybe it’s a billowing blanket. Maybe it’s the sky and the clouds. Maybe it’s nothing.
At times I wonder why there is so much of happiness and cheer tinged with a deep sense of the greatest grief and worthlessness. When my children smile and laugh with an abandon that speaks of a freeness which you and I would absolutely envy; I am left stunned with the realization that this momentary freeness is just a façade and behind it lurks a bondage, an imprisonment that will follow them till they lay themselves down to rest forever.
When I was at the piano concert listening to Tchaikovsky, Schubert and Schumann being performed with an artistry that was magnifique, my eyes closed on their own and the sounds of music filled me with an immense sense of peace. It went tinkling like bells, and the feeling was akin to loving fingers caressing soft skin. So much power there is in purity! Power to transport you away to a space and a land where everything is sparkling and perfect. Where everyone is beautiful and there is no ugliness of any kind.

Welcome to Dreamland!

Why is sweet not smelling sweet? Why is it cloying the senses? Why does it make me want to cover my nose, in fact every pore of my body, so that the bad smelling sweetness does not enter me? But this is how it is every day. Every single day. As I walk down the street from work, cross the intersection, walk down another street and then get on to the main road. That sweetness follows me everywhere. And it stays with me when I am back home. It lingers on when I am trying to catch the truant sleep. It flows into my dreams, permeating into every second of it. Where does it come from then, you would ask me. It comes from the women’s bodies. I asked one day, why do they make themselves smell so sweet? Is it to hide the other odours? Is it to hide the smell that emanates from their exploited bodies and minds and souls, a smell which haunts them all day, all night even? There they stand on the street. In a line. Dressed up like mannequins. Human mannequins. Bright red gashes for mouths, mascaraed eye lashes, pinked up faces, sequined gowns (for God’s sake). Women just like me. But not ordinary like me. No way.

And what happens to the air after dusk settles in. After the sun decides that he’s had enough and he spews liquid fire, burning the horizon. (Have you ever seen the sunset when the sky’s on fire…??? This is a song by Kenny Rogers called Evening Star). Where was I? Yes…when dusk settles in, something in the air suddenly changes. You can feel it. You walk down that street in the morning then do the same in the evening. And the metamorphosis will startle you. The most insensitive of senses would sense it. There is a crowd all around you, its rush hour, but strangely no one’s ever in a hurry over here.  The crowd moves slowly, it’s a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Moving slowly, biding their time. Time. Can you believe it? They are not rushing and pushing each other. Time is actually on their side out here. Is this Bombay or is it a parallel space chunked out from the body of the city and placed aside? A place which we would shy from. A place that has a place of its own, cut off from everything and everyone, yet very much a part of everything and everyone. Very much a part of what everyone finds dirty, taboo, disgusting, cheap, horrendous, frightening, diseased…

“Welcome to Dreamland,” says the cabbie to a firang looking person. 

That Night

I am a man who was known in the circles as one of those grim, grouchy sorts who would brood and mope; who would think twice before smiling and then finally decide not to smile and who always had the look of a thundercloud, an anomaly that did not bode well for his already dark appearance. Women found me intriguing because I was one of those ‘unsoughtables’. I wonder how I managed to ward off those wily, debauched, conspiratory advances made by females of all shapes, sizes, ages, colours, accents and intentions. I then proceed to marvel at the fact that in face of such perils my good sense prevailed and I escaped unscathed. But then that was to be expected of me. I was after all an intellectual, a well-read professor, a seasoned traveler and an authority on several disciplines. Reader, I perceive that you are smirking. You may also harbor the notion that I am a self-glorifying, arrogant bigot. But believe me, I am not what you think I am. This is a mere pose. A façade. An armour that protects me from all evils. You still smirk disbelievingly. Hmmn…let’s see if what I am about to recount can alter your reaction.

My expansive knowledge on several branches of science won me invitations to innumerable gatherings, be it academic or social. One such purely academic gathering took me several miles away from home. Hence it entailed an overnight travel coupled with at least a week away from familiarity. Such transitions tend to bring with them a feeling of impending doom. You may think that this is a rather weak foundation to build my fear upon. But imagine, reader, traveling all those miles in the dark, where mists rise like funeral shrouds and trees devoid of leaves resemble shadowy shapes, half human half corpse-like, empty branches stand stiffly like outstretched, paralyzed limbs, and gaping black holes on tree trunks seem like open mouths screaming noiselessly. This noiselessness is scarier than the loudest of all screams. The unknown unseen brings with it a deeply penetrating, raw fear because it gives the mind the liberty to conjure up all kinds of unwantedness  and leave you at its mercy. And yes, I too am a man who has his share of momentary weaknesses. But I am also a man of science. A man who harbours rational thoughts and is a skeptic when it comes to certain unexplainable occurrences that do not have any scientific premise to unravel their explanations.

Several of us were traveling together and an animated discussion ensued regarding the house towards which we were headed. Apparently there was a strange series of events that unfolded in that property just the day before.

“I am ready to lay a wager that it was a ghost,” she remarked with a wicked glance at me.

I stared at her with a deliberate, blank look. She was beautiful, dark, like me. Her lips never smiled completely. And that lazy half smile with the sharp, darting looks from those smoky black eyes would definitely have felled a lesser man. I continued to gaze at her without saying a word. She stared right back at me unblinkingly. A mistimed query from a colleague compelled me to look away. Her triumphant smile literally had me boxing the questioner’s ears. I consoled myself with the knowledge that there would definitely be a next time.

We reached the house. House? It was a mansion.  And there it stood with the black sky and the moon like a backdrop prop of an unfinished drama. Wispy clouds hung about the turrets like torn silks and the moon gazed sadly at us. She seemed to sigh heavily and her breath swirled around her like a grey veil. No lights welcomed us. No human being was in sight. The sombre air seemed to spear the chill from the atmosphere into our souls and we huddled deeper in our coats. She stood close to me and I could feel her tremble. (Reader, I am a tall man and I tend to look down ‘on’ people. Figuratively speaking). And I looked down ‘on’ her. She was afraid. All the bravado had vanished. I decided to let go off my customary resistance. I put an arm around her shoulders, gathering her close to me. I knew that this gesture of mine gave her comfort.

An instant later we heard a loud, melancholic cry. It sounded like a child crying out in agony and it echoed into the night. We stood still rooted to the ground. A sudden movement and a black cat rocketing out of a nearby bush had us literally down on our knees thanking God for small mercies. We decided that enough was enough and trudged towards the gates of the mansion. It seemed like a cue because suddenly the doors opened and a herd of people (servants all of them) poured out. Lights came on miraculously. Everywhere was chatter, action and commotion. I felt strange. Surely they knew that we would be reaching at this hour. Why weren’t they ready for us? Why were we made to wait? And why did their smiles seem forced? Maybe I was reading too much. But I kept adjusting the collar of my shirt and twisting my neck, because I felt extremely uncomfortable. Not with my attire, mind you, but with the scene that was being enacted in front of me. I was shown into my room by one of the butlers. A man whose formal demeanour was stiffer than my starched collar. He wouldn’t even look at me, but every move of his bespoke centuries of impeccability.

The feeling of unease was still inside me when I laid myself down on the bed. The room was richly furnished and spotlessly clean. Flawless as far as the externalities were concerned. But there was something embedded within the atmosphere of the room. Something cold and eerie. I closed my eyes and was just surrendering myself to sleep when I felt a cold whiff of air upon my cheek. As though someone had exhaled after swallowing a lump of ice. My eyes opened and I saw her. She was white. Unnaturally white. My first instinct was to demand an explanation. But I realized that she was floating in air like one of those curtains that are suspended from frames, billowing bodylessly.

“Will you?” she implored. Her beautiful face underwent an agonized distortion. And she vanished.

This was not real. There has to be some logical explanation for this. A floating woman cannot find her way inside my room and pose an enigmatic question like that. No. I refuse to believe this. But when ‘this’ occurred twice during the two ensuing nights, I felt that some step ought to be taken.

On the fourth night I waited for her. I would have been the happiest man on earth if she hadn’t come. But then I was one of those men who were neither happy nor lucky. There she stood, her silks and veils flowing sinuously around her. Her gaze imploring, her face agonized.

I sat up and asked her, “What do you want?”

She turned and disappeared inside the wall as though it never existed. Well, I had to use the door and I did. I saw her in the dimly-lit corridor. It was heavily carpeted with gleaming wood and grim faces imprisoned in frames glared down at us. I felt cold as I followed her. What was I doing? What was I thinking? She seemed to know her way well and she took me through labyrinthine passages. I was thankful for the cache of candles and matchsticks lying comfortably inside the pocket of my greatcoat. I felt  a sudden sharp wind almost cut into my face. We were outside. I could see a little garden with shrubs in full bloom. The perfumes suffocated me. Roses, lavender, forget-me-nots and what nots. And then she stopped. Her gaze seemed to be transfixed at one particular spot on the ground. It was a newly made flower bed with a neat little border. She pointed at it. Something that belonged to her was obviously buried there. I looked around and found a shovel. I dug and I dug. The effort made me sweat, despite the cold night and the chilling enterprise. And what I unearthed still strikes terror in my heart and makes me break into cold sweat. It was a body. Her body. She had been stabbed. The shovel fell from my hands. I turned to look at her. Her eyes were red. They seemed to have filled with blood. And it over flowed like tears. Incrimsoned.

I am ashamed to confess but I chose this moment to faint and they found me lying there the next morning. My strong physical disposition brought me out of the feverish condition in no time. And I awoke to heated discussions on the murder, by stabbing, of the lady who owned the house. Her husband the culprit, who hankered after her property which was worth millions, tried to cover up his crime by burying her in the garden. But her restless soul clamouring for justice had triumphed in the end. I am relieved to say (albeit shamelessly) that the rest of my time passed uneventfully.

Can you imagine then, reader, what I went through and what I still go through (at times)? A skeptic man of science was singled out by the ghost of a murdered woman and made to unearth a ghastly secret. It almost reduced me to the level of those mediumistic individuals who commune with spirits from the other world. I was confounded and the only way I could save face was to transform myself into a brooding bigot.

But she saw through this. And today we are married. Happily married if I may be allowed to add. It remains though that we have confined ourselves to the crowded cities and never laid a foot in another mansion.