Reality bites

Accepting Reality is like eating bitter gourd.

Its too big and cumbersome to swallow whole.

Either you chew it and swallow it down in spite of it's bitterness.

Or you spit it out and choose to live the life of make-believe.

Or (and this is a most common recourse), you simple ignore it and go on living in your shell.

Luck is a meandering feather

Sitting in the bus. Reading a book. I don't notice it. Not until, floating leisurely, it appears right there in front of me. 

Its so small. A brilliant shade of pure white. Its a feather. A very small one. Never seen a feather so small. Smaller than the protruding tip of my finger nail. Its floating around right in front of me, riding the wind that's flowing through the moving bus. 

It moves towards me, then gets sucked back towards the window, then it swirls around uncertainly until the wind pushes it nearer to me again. The book forgotten, I trace its quirky, leisurely and uncertain movements. Will it get sucked out of the window? Or will it zoom into the bus right past me? 

Finally it approaches me tentatively, like a shy damsel. Its been moving this way and that, as if it's uncertain whether I am safe enough to approach. Finally, ever so slowly, it settles down on my sleeve. 

For the longest time I keep staring at it. So white, so beautiful. Its every fiber accentuated in the bright morning light. I suddenly have this irresistible impulse to touch it, to feel it, to hold it on my finger tip. To put into my pocket, safe from the wind outside - to possess it and make it my own, this little miracle of nature. 

So I move my hand, finger stretched. And as I am about to touch it, it lifts up. At first, almost reluctantly... It lazily swirls around on the eddies of the wind currents. And then is quickly swept away from me. I try to follow its erratic path, but its already lost, merged into the various colours that surround me. 

It's gone. Just like that.
 
As I mourn the loss, I can't help but reflect: Isn't Lady Luck just like that feather? So beautiful, so pure, she visits us and sits on our shoulders, as we bask in her glory. We are mostly unaware of her presence. And when we do get aware of her, and as soon as we try to possess her, she will leave us to find another unsuspecting fool to bestow her blessings upon... Just like the little beautiful feather...

Reflections about Life in a Metro City - on New Year's Eve

The Helpless

I failed to notice his affliction mostly because he had his head tucked down between his folded arms, over the backpack resting on his lap. That, and the fact that I was too preoccupied trying to secure a seat for me and my wife.

It was 31st Dec. New years eve. Late in the evening. We were out on our way to Marine Drive... We had caught a fast train from Andheri. My wife accompanied me into the Gents Compartment. Usually the local trains are too crowded and so my wife, like so many daily lady commuters, prefers the safety and solitude (from us Martians) of the Ladies compartment. So we are both unused to having her travel with me in the Gents section. But the desire to spend the last few moments of this special first year of our marriage in each others company was too strong.

As we got into the gents compartment, my first priority was to secure a seat for both of us so as to spend the better half of the next hour comfortably together. I spied a vacant slot and rushed in before someone beat us to it. That's when I saw him first...

Mumbai local trains have 3 seater seats on either side of a central longitudinal aisle. Each 3 seater can accommodate 3 commuters comfortably; 4 with a little adjustment. Usually, during peak hours, it does occupy 4 people with the last one having to adjust on half a vacant seat... The spot that I had zeroed in was the 3rd and the 4th seat. Seat 1, the window seat was occupied. The guy in question occupied what amounted to half of the 2nd seat and half of the 3rd - with space to spare on either side - but not enough for anyone to sit... Like I said, he had his head tucked down as if he was dozing. I asked him to please shift a little so that we could have the 3rd and 4th seats. My wife said that we could move inward where there were single vacant spots on opposite seats. But by that time the guy, with somewhat reluctance, had shuffled inward vacating the seat for us. I quickly sat down, then moved inward snug against the guy in order to make room for my better half. She sat down besides me somewhat reluctantly.

After a while she whispered to me - 'can we move to the back of the compartment?' 
I asked - 'why?' 
'The guy has chicken pox', she said, pointing to the guy besides me. 
Without looking at him, we both got up and moved to the back of the compartment. As we sat on opposite seats, I looked back at the guy and sure enough, he sported the telltale brown spots on his face. In my haste I had failed to notice them. My wife being a doctor had been quick to recognize them for what they were.

He got down at Grant Road. Was he heading to some new year celebration, I wondered, that too in this condition? While it looked like he was well on the path to recovery, chicken pox can still be contagious in that stage. But I had noticed him carrying a ragged backpack, the kind that many Mumbaikars prefer while commuting daily to office and back. His clothed were sweaty and wrinkled from a full day's hard work. And he sported the resigned and tired look of a work-weary employee, who, after an arduous day's struggle, was looking forward to a simple meal and a restful sleep.  So my guess is that he was on his way home, back from work.

By all rights, he should have been home resting and recuperating, not out and about spreading the contagion. And it is my guess that he would have stayed home if he could. But many a times, we are hardbound by circumstance - destined to do fate's (or boss's?) bidding, sometimes against our will - irrespective of whether we are fit enough to do it or not. More so when we live in a cut throat overpopulated city like Mumbai where the only law that prevails is the survival of the (economically) fittest. As we hurtled through the last few hours of the year that would be no more, riding on the train that is the bloodline of Mumbai, I visualized the City as a giant machinery - churning out economic progress - powered by the sweat, blood, dreams and aspirations of millions who crash and burn daily here - lighting up its skies like new year eve's fireworks.

The Lonely

New Year's fireworks... That was what we were busy ogling at when the old man first drew my attention...

We had reached Marine Drive only to find it crammed full of people - like ants inside an ant hill... Forget about sitting, there was no place even to stand. People were sitting, standing, milling around, hollering, having the time of their lives... How were we to find a modicum of solitude in this pandemonium? And yet, as we stood around looking at the sparkling fireworks and the beautiful phantom blobs of floating lanterns over the dark sea, the noise and the commotion all got tuned out. It was just the two of us, engrossed in the fireworks, wrapped in our own virtual cocoon, oblivious to all other similar cocoons around us.

As we stood there on the ledge and watched the celestial spectacle, I felt someone tug urgently at the bottle of water that I was holding in my hand. I had bought it at a Railway stall and it was half empty. I looked down at the guy sitting on the ledge besides where we were standing. He had now stopped pulling at the bottle and was looking at it hungrily. The light was too dim and at first I thought it must be a beggar or, even worse, some drunkard... But then the guy looked up and our eyes met. 

He was an old man, frail, with white tufts of hair on a balding head. He wore spectacles and well worn old clothes that would never pass as the latest and the best in fashion, but looked decent enough. For a while I looked into his eyes - there was request there, and dignity enough to not let that request turn into pleading. I offered him the bottle. He uncorked it and gulped down a healthy portion of the water. He must have been really very thirsty. While he drank to his fill I looked around for whoever was accompanying him. Apparently he was alone. He handed me back the bottle with thankful eyes. Not a word passed between us. And yet as I retreated back into our own cocoon, I couldn't help but think about the lonely old man and wonder what he was doing alone out so late on a night like this... 

Another paradox in this City of Paradoxes: Here we were trying hard to find some solitude. And here was this old man, surrounded by so many people, and yet utterly lonely... It is only in cities like Mumbai that one can be so alone even when among so many people... Some people pine for solitude here. While loneliness is thrust upon some...

On the unique relation between Onions and Humans

Day: Sunday. Time: Afternoon. Place: the Kitchen

Me and my better half are busy cooking. To be more precise: she is cooking food. I am cooking her brains.

She is cutting onions. Making fine long slim slices. She is crying. And me too.

That's when I make an observation: कान्द्याचा आणि मनुष्याचा किती गहन हा संबंध पहा. कांदा कापतो तेव्हा मनुष्य रडतो (Strange is the relation between onions and humans. When we cut them, we cry...)

And to this, she says: आणि कधी कधी कांदा विकत घेतो तेव्हा पण... (And sometimes (we cry) when we buy them too...)
(Referring to the occasional spike in onion prices)