A Few of my Favorite Things…

It’s happy-happy time all over :-)
All is good and it makes me think of all things wonderful and brilliant that make me enjoy each day. So, in no particular order, here we go…

1. Dry leaves under my feet, the crunch as I step on them like music to my ears
2. Overcast skies, masses of black-gray clouds casting shadows as they race across the sky
3. Diamonds; glittering, dazzling, sparkling
4. Piping hot cups of coffee, specially in winters when I can see the threads of steam coming out from them and mingling with the chill air
5. Smell of rain
6. Bubble wraps; fighting over bubble wraps
7. Movies, any and all, irrespective of language, genre, old or new
8. Railway tracks, going on and on, appearing to merge in the distance
9. Sleeping in trains (I’ve never slept better that when I sleep in a moving train)
10. Going to new places and listening to their stories, battles that were fought there, kings and queens that ruled it, fires that destroyed it, the man who saved it…
11. Chocolate! Need I say more?
12. Theater, musical or otherwise; live music, live performance of any kind
13. Falling asleep on the couch on a lazy afternoon
14. Fresh snow, playing in it, squishing through it
15. Reading poetry, imagining what the poet must’ve thought to write so
16. Shoes, many many shoes. Many many
17. Hot spicy food; chaat that I could eat from the roadside vendors
18. Books; lazing and reading
19. Being married; the thought of spending every day with V for the rest of my life
20. Bubble baths and hot showers
21. Receiving letters the old fashioned way, by post
22. Mystery novels, being able to guess before the end who did it

I could go on for there is more but I’ll stop at that. And another day I will do a more people-centric list, things that some of them do that bring a warm glow all over.

Waiting and Watching

Have you ever been to an airport and just watched around you? I have and I love it. To me it has always seemed that a tiny cosmos is contained within the walls of a terminal building. Although both tell a plethora of stories, I prefer the arrival areas over the departure lounges, for they tell the ones with happy endings. Or mostly so at least.

The last few weeks have had me awaiting the arrival of sundry guests at Heathrow. And in spite of the London Tube’s best efforts I usually find myself at the airport rather earlier than required. So I just perch myself on one of the seats next to the arrival gates and lose myself in the humdrum of life…

Little children running to greet their father, coming probably from a business trip, the father craving for the tiny hands around his neck as he scoops them up and they plant a sloppy kiss on each of his cheeks.

Elderly parents searching the crowds for a glimpse of their daughter, returning perhaps from university for a holiday; the mother’s eyes brimming with tears of joy when she catches sight of the girl.

The new wife, eagerly awaiting her husband’s approach and meeting him half way, shyly embracing him, conveying the pain of separation and the joy of reunion together with just her glance; the husband gathering her in his arms, not wanting to let go.

The boyfriend and the girlfriend, hugging and kissing, oblivious to the chaos around, only seeing each other.

Two friends greeting their third pal with a high five, a slap on the back and the choicest of curse words all meant to convey only happiness.

The middle aged woman standing by her large suitcase, glancing at her watch every few seconds, disappointment written across her face as she waits for someone who should have been there long ago; frustration finally makes her wheel away her luggage as she makes her way out alone, for whoever it was didn’t seem to think it important enough to be here for her.

The brother with his family, there to receive the sister with hers, their children saying tentative hellos to each other, their spouses exchanging polite niceties while the brother and the sister are transported back to their childhood, meeting like they would have as a little boy and a little girl.

What are their stories? What are their little joys and sorrows? What drives them, what makes them tick? I wonder as I watch them and find myself getting lost in the lives of people I would never know, people I will never see again. Yet I feel drawn to them, because for that briefest of moments, I was privy to their innermost emotions. Aren’t airports just like the world, with life just happening all around?

dusting the years away…

When you clean to set up a new house, old memories invariably come forth.
In the packed boxes that you had tied up and forgotten, in the long forgotten clothes that someone mended for you years ago, in the pieces of paper scribbled with odd notes that you never knew existed and in the passport photos that you didn’t think were still around.
Cleaning is a difficult job. In more ways than one.

Police and Park Benches

The incident in Meerut that happened on the afternoon of 20th Dec has now snowballed into something much larger than what the handful of police officers involved could ever have dreamed. The media has picked it up as a story that would be close to the hearts of over half of the country’s population – the youth. And as trivial as the episode may seem amongst matters of the country, it is representative of India’s underlying moral fiber even after the last two decades of so called evolution and development of our economy and thereby society.

The facts are simple – one winter afternoon the Meerut police decided to ‘raid’ Gandhi Park, which is the town’s biggest public park, and indiscriminately rounded up young couples sitting together. They then ruthlessly slapped around the boys and girls to allegedly drive home the point that it was improper for them to be sitting with each other in the park. To avoid the risk of being grossly misunderstood, I will clarify at the very onset that I do not consider myself qualified in any way to pronounce judgment on whether or not it is morally correct for young couples to hang out together on park benches. But I also don’t consider anyone else to be qualified to do it either. And that includes the state’s law enforcement agencies.

I take great pride in being an Indian. And I am not at all of the view that the Indian culture has become dusty and aged and needs radical change. My problem is with the fact that what we call our ‘Indian culture’ is grossly misinterpreted and misused to justify or perform many acts which have nothing whatsoever to do with the country’s culture in the first place. Whether or not I choose to sit and chat with a male friend in a public place does not and never will define my country’s culture!

I don’t have a problem if my father tells me not to go out with boys my age – that’s a family situation, rooted in familial values, to be solved by the family within the family. But I do have a problem when institutions of the state get into my house and start meddling into my business when they have no right or entitlement to do so. I have no idea what those young girls and boys were doing that afternoon in the park with each other. And honestly – I don’t care. But the images shown on TV of policewomen thrashing them around disturb me deeply and make me question not the moral maxims of Indian society but the competence of the Indian lawmakers.

For the last 15 years we have stood atop every rooftop and yelled to the world that India is on a whirlwind path to development, growth and progress. But a sizeable GDP growth rate, swelling foreign investments or increased share in the world market are not the sole indicators of advancement. What occurred in Meerut is a harsh reminder of how much needs to be altered before we can stake claim to that title of ‘development’.

Our Gods of Flesh

The week gone past was a big week in more ways than one. The BPO industry was shaken by the question of safety and security of employees, Shiv Sena saw the end of an era and the Indian squad walked all over the Lankans even as Ganguly was disgracefully ousted. However the news item that seemed to have taken center stage amongst all this was the return of Amitabh Bachchan from hospital after a grueling 20 day battle with illness.

In the past 20 days I have heard it said more than often that the Indian media has gone berserk with the coverage of AB’s illness. And in the midst of wondering if that indeed was the case, I would often find myself also wondering if there was any change in Mr. Bachchan’s condition. None of us who hold ourselves above such mass-hysteria generating matters would admit it, even to ourselves, but I am certain most of us did have that fleeting moment of concern and apprehension when we heard about Mr. Bachchan’s hospitalization. Probably not because we looked at him as our hero or god as was spouted by the multitude of TV channels. No - we deem ourselves to have been educated out of such tripe. But the passing anxiety was simply because he is who he is – Amitabh Bachchan.

By the time I was old enough to differentiate between the hero and the villain in cinema, Mr. Bachchan was well past his first innings in Bollywood. So I did not grow up idolizing him. Intermittently I watched some old movies of his and I liked them. But I never got the opportunity to experience the rage that he was in the 70’s and 80’s. And when he made his comeback in the new millennium and I witnessed the emotions he managed to generate in the Indian public, I was amazed yet delighted. For at the end of the day he is an entertainer – and he is good at his work. Well deserved success is a heady feeling not just for the receiver but also for those able to appreciate him. He redefined the Indian hero. And the proverbial man on the street latched on to him as his own returning champion.

Amitabh Bachchan is human. He has had his failings – professionally and personally. He has dealt with them as any human would do. He has succeeded at times, and at other times he didn’t quite manage to. And yet he is no longer just an actor in India. He is now an institution. He is an icon of heroism and courage to the millions of people who fight their own little battles every single day of their lives. He brings them hope. He gives them the strength to dream. He lets them see in him what is possible. So understandably it was difficult for so many people to see their hero suddenly collapse and teeter at the edge of life. For they are human too.

These icons of our age, or of any age for that matter, are social requisites in more ways than one. They are crafted and made by us for ourselves. We create them because we need them. Because even the most staunchly religious amongst us need at times a god of flesh and blood to look up to and say to ourselves – as long as he is there, tomorrow might be a better day. And that’s the reason Amitabh Bachchan is not only an entertainer – he is an era. And we have a right to know when he is suffering. So that we can pray to keep our faiths intact.