When subtleties of life are overpowered, it usually leaves a feeling of dejection.
At no point of time a writer’s voice is less challenged than the time when the mind is in introspection. A deep thinking may be, or be with an urge to come out with a dialogue between the soul and the self, deep within.
Usually the time frame is not something I worry about. There’s no deadline of thoughts, in deep thinking, if ever it was the prerogative of an idle mind. It can be months, years or even decades of soul-searching looking for that conscious reason to explore.
Is there an end to exploring the niceties of nature? Is there some conclusion in exploring the human mind?
There is this need to continue, and the sense of continuity brings forth a feeling of exploration … a sense of continuum. I am no writer, but my thoughts still flow in that direction.
A nice breeze sometimes forces itself into my living room. The curtains get ruffled, and the freshness of purity seeps in for a trivial moment.
My soul feels blessed, by nature, at least. For some tormented minds, blessing has a literal meaning … naturally, I feel it. To that end, the soothing breeze breathes continuity into my thoughts … albeit with some freshness.
I see compatriots get into print, some ideas half-cooked, others craving for attention. Writing nowadays has become a ‘profession’, I hated that word when it compelled me to a workplace with defined dictum of decency and scrutiny. A profession can’t always be the sanctity of work, these days the lure of the penny makes it attractive.
Only day before yesterday, I was breathing through some pages in one corner of the Crossword store. I fathomed through the ordeals of Anne Frank, some moments in Gandhi’s colossal work in My Experiments with Truth. They still seemed so real, the content so ideally merged with the continuum of thought.
Writers are not born, they are gifted with the art of expressing through written words.
May be.
On another aisle, contemporary creations desperately asking for a ‘peep out’. Mostly bloggers, some are not even a year or two old, writing their stories. The tantalizing, salacious, transparent real life stories of our times.
Over these years, I have developed a sense not to criticize any writing. All writing is normal, I feel, while some are productive.
If a Crossword can have the twain meet, why does the society deprive to think? I speak to myself … where has the soul in writing gone? Or is it very much there, hidden for people like me to find out. They play hide and seek, like those immortal pages from the holocaust days … straight from the pens of Anne Frank.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Two Bengali Women and the Volcano
Clouds were getting ominous from the Eyjafjallajokul volcano in Iceland.
I was watching the breaking news of a leading television channel. No wonder my mind was somewhere else. Unknown to many, two of my friends were caught unaware traveling from two opposite sides of this planet. European airspace was closed, and all flights traveling were cancelled.
Both were professional women, traveling alone … and coincidentally both originate from Bengal.
While Gopa was preparing to go to France for her project, Sreemati was coming back to India from Germany. She had spent a great time with her husband who has been stationed near Berlin for some time now. Sreemati is from my team, and had to join work. Gopa is a friend I have known for some years now, mostly through my literary pursuits.
What was unknown, however, was the fate of their immediate travel.
Interestingly, these beautiful souls were grounded for the same reason. I kept thinking … Intriguing yet such a queer coincidence, isn’t it?
Gopa’s project was getting painful at Kolkata with every passing day making her spend late nights at work. Her Project Manager in Bangalore was helpless, unable to control the increasing workload put on her. The client wanted her in France, at the earliest possible. Even the flight tickets were booked in advance so that she could escape this drudgery in her homeland.
She wanted peace of mind … working at onsite with her friendly clients.
Sreemati’s case was different. She was bored staying alone in Pune without her husband for six months. This happens naturally, having been married for just about a year. The longing took her to a trip of Germany, Greece and Spain … with her beloved. Fun times, romantic times … and finally, the need to come back home.
Little needs of life, the work … the longing to keep the so-called ‘flow of income’.
But a volcano came from nowhere to cancel their travel plans.
An upset Gopa called the travel desk frantically on the evening of Saturday. No response. An alternative was to take the number for the vendor company’s emergency desk that arranged foreign travel. These calls are exorbitantly charged, yet Gopa wanted to inform them about her cancelled flight and a further request to re-schedule the trip.
I knew Gopa was a brave woman, but facing the volcano, she appeared vulnerable.
She called me the next day, and was in no mood to understand that the actual travel can happen only after the airspace was cleared. After some talk, she appeared given up, unable to understand why it was only her that had to bear this. Her superiors in work were also silent, unable to really challenge the nature. A date for the trip appeared so difficult.
Next Wednesday Sreemati was to be in office. A mail from her lay in my mailbox on Thursday morning. She had her flights cancelled too … and that there was little that she can avail to come back. May be the next weekend, or even longer, she mentioned half-heartedly.
Meanwhile, Sreemati had booked a bus from Greece on her way to Serbia with the hope of getting some airline to take her home. The anxious husband wanted to accompany her, but she thought it could cost him undue leave at the client location. She took it alone. The bus trip was hectic, and the region unknown. What was being challenged was Sreemati’s determination to be back in India and join work, as early as possible.
When the Serbian police started to interrogate her, she was still hopeful. But those men were sure about the need to satisfy immigration laws. Sreemati wasn’t shy to face immigration, but she was restless to get aboard the airplane. The Serbian authorities denied her entry to their land, and promptly asked her to return to Germany.
As soon as the bus entered Berlin, she could feel a wet droplet near her eyes. It had come out, unknowingly, out of the whole chaos this volcano had created. She comforted herself as her husband hugged her as soon as she got off the bus, and promised to take her to the nearest flight reservation office in the afternoon.
Good luck appeared soon. The airlines industry started to face the wrath of depleted revenues. Already a week had passed, and there was almost zero traffic on air.
Partial airspace was opened up. There were some tickets available with major carriers, but with a hefty price tag. There was no way Sreemati could wait. She managed to get a flight to Mumbai.
Gopa also got a ticket. At least happy at last, even thanking for the little encouragement that I tried to give.
I wished Gopa ‘Bon Voyage’ … may be I could always say that to her. But this trip was vital.
The next Monday, I was surprised to see Sreemati beaming at me from her desk. On asking how could she finally manage to come back, her reply was
‘That’s a long story … will tell you some other day’.
She never told me the trauma that she went through, but I felt it in every little sentence that she spoke about her travel back to her homeland.
I was watching the breaking news of a leading television channel. No wonder my mind was somewhere else. Unknown to many, two of my friends were caught unaware traveling from two opposite sides of this planet. European airspace was closed, and all flights traveling were cancelled.
Both were professional women, traveling alone … and coincidentally both originate from Bengal.
While Gopa was preparing to go to France for her project, Sreemati was coming back to India from Germany. She had spent a great time with her husband who has been stationed near Berlin for some time now. Sreemati is from my team, and had to join work. Gopa is a friend I have known for some years now, mostly through my literary pursuits.
What was unknown, however, was the fate of their immediate travel.
Interestingly, these beautiful souls were grounded for the same reason. I kept thinking … Intriguing yet such a queer coincidence, isn’t it?
Gopa’s project was getting painful at Kolkata with every passing day making her spend late nights at work. Her Project Manager in Bangalore was helpless, unable to control the increasing workload put on her. The client wanted her in France, at the earliest possible. Even the flight tickets were booked in advance so that she could escape this drudgery in her homeland.
She wanted peace of mind … working at onsite with her friendly clients.
Sreemati’s case was different. She was bored staying alone in Pune without her husband for six months. This happens naturally, having been married for just about a year. The longing took her to a trip of Germany, Greece and Spain … with her beloved. Fun times, romantic times … and finally, the need to come back home.
Little needs of life, the work … the longing to keep the so-called ‘flow of income’.
But a volcano came from nowhere to cancel their travel plans.
An upset Gopa called the travel desk frantically on the evening of Saturday. No response. An alternative was to take the number for the vendor company’s emergency desk that arranged foreign travel. These calls are exorbitantly charged, yet Gopa wanted to inform them about her cancelled flight and a further request to re-schedule the trip.
I knew Gopa was a brave woman, but facing the volcano, she appeared vulnerable.
She called me the next day, and was in no mood to understand that the actual travel can happen only after the airspace was cleared. After some talk, she appeared given up, unable to understand why it was only her that had to bear this. Her superiors in work were also silent, unable to really challenge the nature. A date for the trip appeared so difficult.
Next Wednesday Sreemati was to be in office. A mail from her lay in my mailbox on Thursday morning. She had her flights cancelled too … and that there was little that she can avail to come back. May be the next weekend, or even longer, she mentioned half-heartedly.
Meanwhile, Sreemati had booked a bus from Greece on her way to Serbia with the hope of getting some airline to take her home. The anxious husband wanted to accompany her, but she thought it could cost him undue leave at the client location. She took it alone. The bus trip was hectic, and the region unknown. What was being challenged was Sreemati’s determination to be back in India and join work, as early as possible.
When the Serbian police started to interrogate her, she was still hopeful. But those men were sure about the need to satisfy immigration laws. Sreemati wasn’t shy to face immigration, but she was restless to get aboard the airplane. The Serbian authorities denied her entry to their land, and promptly asked her to return to Germany.
As soon as the bus entered Berlin, she could feel a wet droplet near her eyes. It had come out, unknowingly, out of the whole chaos this volcano had created. She comforted herself as her husband hugged her as soon as she got off the bus, and promised to take her to the nearest flight reservation office in the afternoon.
Good luck appeared soon. The airlines industry started to face the wrath of depleted revenues. Already a week had passed, and there was almost zero traffic on air.
Partial airspace was opened up. There were some tickets available with major carriers, but with a hefty price tag. There was no way Sreemati could wait. She managed to get a flight to Mumbai.
Gopa also got a ticket. At least happy at last, even thanking for the little encouragement that I tried to give.
I wished Gopa ‘Bon Voyage’ … may be I could always say that to her. But this trip was vital.
The next Monday, I was surprised to see Sreemati beaming at me from her desk. On asking how could she finally manage to come back, her reply was
‘That’s a long story … will tell you some other day’.
She never told me the trauma that she went through, but I felt it in every little sentence that she spoke about her travel back to her homeland.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Solitude or Love Intoxicating
My house was slowly getting set. The sofa-set had finally arrived, so did a new dining table shining with a glass top. The bedroom was complete with a bed and the cupboard. Well, that was almost … what more could be a requirement for the decent living? Still the house felt empty, may be it wanted a few living soul to live in or it was just for her.
She had wanted to come but got stuck with work.
Poor me! I sometimes feel that way. She could have had work some other day, why did this have to happen to my dear weekend?
The setup for a new house couldn’t do a trick. How could they be the constant companion for a lonely man on a dry weekend? There was a shower the last evening, after around two months or more. Roads were wet. I had gone for an office outing the day before … to a resort on NH4, a day filled with fun, activities and so much more.
She had come too, how couldn’t she? And that’s where she promised to visit me during the weekend. She wanted to talk …
But she did not turn up. Though she called a few times from work, appearing disappointed for not being able to turn up. Still I have this habit of not trusting feminine assurances, they appear too decorative, a bit fashionable at times.
During the afternoon my folks called me at Parihar Chowk. A session with drinks and dinner was indeed inviting. I decided to take the invite.
Smell of vodka came back to me after months, haunting amidst the smell of the wet sand on the chowk. Water from the rains hadn’t seeped too much into the sand. The session appeared entertaining, yet the discussions were mostly on friends, family and frugal matters of life. These days even guys have become smart, they don’t open their minds up with drinks.
I had to finally take a bus back to my home. They wanted to drop me at home, I refused. This mind wanted some time to relax on my way back.
When I reached Hadapsar, the time by my watch was around fifteen minutes past midnight. I could have also taken a rickshaw. One such rickshaw was parked just opposite to this pub at Parihar Chowk. In this city, an auto-rickshaw is less an ‘auto’ more a rickshaw.
Reminded me of a German colleague my father met who wanted to buy a cycle rickshaw for his family back in Berlin … just so that he could have an entire family with less pollution.
I never saw a reason for this German thought! Guess China had rickshaws even before independent India had them. Why couldn’t he buy these pedal-wheeled vehicles from China? My reasoning had critical political overtones from the early seventies. Cold war across the borders, Berlin was more than a companion to the Soviets, so were the Chinese.
This bus had another drunken person as a passenger. He spoke his language, I spoke mine. The conductor asked for the ticket. A ticket is so universal, so is the money. Where does the language come in between? I got one without a hitch, but the other passenger kept questioning the fare. The conductor appeared to give up after a while, he had to appear sober.
Forty five minutes past midnight, the medical college of the armed forces was the only building that had lights on. The classes may have concluded hours back. I kept looking for my stop … for now there were only two more people inside the bus - the driver and the conductor.
The drunken passenger had got down somewhere, I wasn’t attentive then.
My stop came, and the conductor indicated me to get down. Not that I would have preferred staying back, but he thought it was his duty to help a man who seemed indifferent.
From the stop to my apartment, it’s a walk of seven minutes. May be the vodka had started the trick! I tried to keep a count on my watch. There were a few people on the road. A lady sped with her face covered riding a scooty, the mini version of the scooter. It looked as if her deadline to be at home had passed. In India, women must be on time … it’s the prerogative of men to stay away for long. She did notice me, I was briskly walking though. May be her scooty got a feeling of the Indian woman rushing back.
Are scootys in this part of the world feminine too? Even she rode one. May be she was back at home by now. I decided to call her, talking the walk back from the bus stop.
‘lemme know when u r bck’ was the small message appearing on the screen of my cell phone. She may have typed it a while back. It was I who missed it at the pub. Now I should let her know. She may have already retired to bed, after a tired day at work.
Interestingly, the call lasted an hour or even more. We talked, just like two children who are lost in their worlds but can’t get to play with themselves. This fanatic world of work, where we honour our ‘professional obligations’ by the clock, or may be these odd ‘commitments’ to be with the team for the occasional session or two by the bottle. A work life gets so boring at times.
She had known by that time that I was drunk. My words were incoherent. The vodka had finally played the trick. I wanted to speak less, but she understood.
‘You know’ she said, ‘if I could be with you tonight, it would be even more intoxicating’. I was thrilled for a moment, may be, since the very thought of her with me was so filled with love.
And love is indeed intoxicating, more than the vodka.
She had wanted to come but got stuck with work.
Poor me! I sometimes feel that way. She could have had work some other day, why did this have to happen to my dear weekend?
The setup for a new house couldn’t do a trick. How could they be the constant companion for a lonely man on a dry weekend? There was a shower the last evening, after around two months or more. Roads were wet. I had gone for an office outing the day before … to a resort on NH4, a day filled with fun, activities and so much more.
She had come too, how couldn’t she? And that’s where she promised to visit me during the weekend. She wanted to talk …
But she did not turn up. Though she called a few times from work, appearing disappointed for not being able to turn up. Still I have this habit of not trusting feminine assurances, they appear too decorative, a bit fashionable at times.
During the afternoon my folks called me at Parihar Chowk. A session with drinks and dinner was indeed inviting. I decided to take the invite.
Smell of vodka came back to me after months, haunting amidst the smell of the wet sand on the chowk. Water from the rains hadn’t seeped too much into the sand. The session appeared entertaining, yet the discussions were mostly on friends, family and frugal matters of life. These days even guys have become smart, they don’t open their minds up with drinks.
I had to finally take a bus back to my home. They wanted to drop me at home, I refused. This mind wanted some time to relax on my way back.
When I reached Hadapsar, the time by my watch was around fifteen minutes past midnight. I could have also taken a rickshaw. One such rickshaw was parked just opposite to this pub at Parihar Chowk. In this city, an auto-rickshaw is less an ‘auto’ more a rickshaw.
Reminded me of a German colleague my father met who wanted to buy a cycle rickshaw for his family back in Berlin … just so that he could have an entire family with less pollution.
I never saw a reason for this German thought! Guess China had rickshaws even before independent India had them. Why couldn’t he buy these pedal-wheeled vehicles from China? My reasoning had critical political overtones from the early seventies. Cold war across the borders, Berlin was more than a companion to the Soviets, so were the Chinese.
This bus had another drunken person as a passenger. He spoke his language, I spoke mine. The conductor asked for the ticket. A ticket is so universal, so is the money. Where does the language come in between? I got one without a hitch, but the other passenger kept questioning the fare. The conductor appeared to give up after a while, he had to appear sober.
Forty five minutes past midnight, the medical college of the armed forces was the only building that had lights on. The classes may have concluded hours back. I kept looking for my stop … for now there were only two more people inside the bus - the driver and the conductor.
The drunken passenger had got down somewhere, I wasn’t attentive then.
My stop came, and the conductor indicated me to get down. Not that I would have preferred staying back, but he thought it was his duty to help a man who seemed indifferent.
From the stop to my apartment, it’s a walk of seven minutes. May be the vodka had started the trick! I tried to keep a count on my watch. There were a few people on the road. A lady sped with her face covered riding a scooty, the mini version of the scooter. It looked as if her deadline to be at home had passed. In India, women must be on time … it’s the prerogative of men to stay away for long. She did notice me, I was briskly walking though. May be her scooty got a feeling of the Indian woman rushing back.
Are scootys in this part of the world feminine too? Even she rode one. May be she was back at home by now. I decided to call her, talking the walk back from the bus stop.
‘lemme know when u r bck’ was the small message appearing on the screen of my cell phone. She may have typed it a while back. It was I who missed it at the pub. Now I should let her know. She may have already retired to bed, after a tired day at work.
Interestingly, the call lasted an hour or even more. We talked, just like two children who are lost in their worlds but can’t get to play with themselves. This fanatic world of work, where we honour our ‘professional obligations’ by the clock, or may be these odd ‘commitments’ to be with the team for the occasional session or two by the bottle. A work life gets so boring at times.
She had known by that time that I was drunk. My words were incoherent. The vodka had finally played the trick. I wanted to speak less, but she understood.
‘You know’ she said, ‘if I could be with you tonight, it would be even more intoxicating’. I was thrilled for a moment, may be, since the very thought of her with me was so filled with love.
And love is indeed intoxicating, more than the vodka.
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