Haikus

Haikus are traditional Japanese poems arranged in three phrases consisting of 5,7 and 5 syllables each. Short yet powerful, they are in my opinion, one of the most expressive forms of poetry. The strength of a haiku lies in its ability to evoke with very few words a picture in the reader's mind. The more vivid the picture...and the more room there is for interpretation, the better the haiku! While Japanese haikus generally contain a reference to a particular season, modern day English ones often deviate from this rule.

This muse was inspired by Taruna's blog on the subject - so thank you to her! The ones below are arranged roughly in the order in which I like them. Read on and feel free to interpret!

1.
The entrances packed
Empty space in the middle -
Peak hour city bus.

2.
Speeding down the road,
Throbbing anger in my veins -
Deer in my headlights.

3.
Distant flash of red
hood, a silent scolding - you
should have held on, dear.

4.
Thin frost on spring buds -
Old man, young boy study each
other across years.

The Only Thing

There are some feelings that, the instant pen is put to paper, vanish like the soul of a dying man. And yet it is in our nature to strive unceasingly to express them. To what purpose, I do not know. Here's my latest, on one such feeling and I hope it conveys atleast a fraction of what it was meant to. As a clarification - the subject in this particular poem is unknown ;).

The Only Thing

The jingle of coins in my wallet
The crispness of a fresh shirt on my back
A plate to eat out of, a grand roof over my head
Of food, water and riches I had plenty yet strove for more
For hunger still gnawed and the throat remained parched
And nothing could fill me, quench my thirst or make me whole

The concern on the face of a close friend
The happiness of coming home to a pet
The pleasant chaos of the household, those journeys to faraway places
Of vibrant memories I suffered from no shortage yet searched for more
For the mind still felt empty as an overturned pot
And nothing could fill me, quench my thirst or make me whole

The tang of sea breeze on my lips
The happy tiredness from walking aimless miles
The fullness of a satisfying meal
Sights and sounds to last a lifetime I did witness yet thirsted for more
For the heart still cried like a baby for want of attention
And nothing could fill me, quench my thirst or make me whole

But the mind brims with happiness today
And the heart beats strong and true
For I found discarded, lost amongst all that I knew
The only thing that could never be fully known, never understood
The only thing that could fill me, quench my thirst and make me whole -
You.

Ilyich and the Clouds

The clouds flitted by over Ilyich’s head and he watched them drift lazily, travelling where the wind took them. The gnawing feeling in his belly had come back this morning after a long period of absence and he tried ignoring it, concentrating on the shapes the clouds above him made. It had rained in the morning and there were still some angry ones that showered droplets down him. Tired after a hard day’s work at digging the furrows, he decided to take a short break before heading home. Now a strapping young lad of fifteen, Ilyich had been working on his father’s farm since he was ten. This was far earlier than usual in the village and had raised many an eyebrow, but Ilyich proved his father right. An intelligent and observant boy he would do his chores completely and well. Having been brought up amongst them, Ilyich’s friends were the animals, the wind and the clouds. In his free time he would spend long hours walking in the woods and picking berries and mushrooms, or sitting in the barnyard watching the chickens feed. All in all, he was a boy who made his parents proud. If there was one failing Ilyich had, it was that he was in a sense, self-absorbed. He would never mingle with the other boys and girls in the village and despite their numerous attempts at getting him to join them he would turn a deaf ear to their pleas. He refused to rejoice in their happiness or console them in their sorrow. Ilyich was content with himself, his pastimes and his toys. Although for a long while, a few of them would still look expectantly as he walked up the road past their houses, or came into town to collect the weekly mail, soon most of the boys and girls in the village gave up on him considering him a strange lad best left alone. All this suited Ilyich just fine while he was still a child. As he turned thirteen however, he became aware of a gnawing feeling in his belly, a sense that something was missing. However, by this time, Ilyich had started getting quite busy on the farm helping out his old man and the feeling did not trouble him much, until today.

Now, as he lay on the grass still damp from the morning’s shower, his hands forming a pillow beneath his head, and the sunlight teasing his face between sporadic drizzle, Ilyich once again became aware of that feeling. At first he tried thinking of what was troubling him but his mind soon tired of the chase and wandered off into the past. He started thinking of his childhood and how quickly it had been spent. Of the partridge nest he had come across during one of his walks in the woods and the fury of the mother who sensed a threat to her little ones. Of the times he had spent, watching his mother feed the chicken and the way they fought over the grains falling from her hand. By and by, Ilyich became aware of something quite strange. He realized that every time he dwelled on a happy thought, a burdened cloud above him would shower down some droplets. And every time his mind was weighed down with a sad thought, like the time his pet parrot died, there would be a thin cloud that let the sun through, so it warmed his face. He noticed that this happened for most of his thoughts, and also that the happier his thoughts were, the heavier it rained! Though he enjoyed the feel of raindrops on his cheeks, at one point – when thinking of the time his parents got him a puppy for Christmas – there was such a heavy downpour that Ilyich decided enough was enough and got up to go home. As that heavy shower now showed no signs of abating, he decided to take a short cut through the woods. Walking along, he came across a clearing occupied by an old man, who on closer investigation, turned out to be the ‘Wise Old Man’ as he was popularly - and sometimes jocularly - known in the village. And he looked wise indeed, as he sat there in meditation, his eyes closed and his long white beard reaching down to his knees. Ilyich had heard rumours that he was more than a 100 years old, but looking at him one would have thought he was no older than 50. Though he had no reason to, something made Ilyich approach him, cautiously and on tip-toe, not wanting to wake him and half-fearing the consequences of doing so.

As he came closer however, the old man opened his eyes, looked at him fully and said “Come on young man, don’t be afraid. Tell me – what is troubling you?” Whether it was the reassuring melody of the man’s voice or the deep, deep look in his eyes, we will not know, but Ilyich responded “O Wise Father, for I know you are wise indeed – I observed a strange thing today that’s been troubling me no end. I was lying in the farm – after finishing my work, of course – and noticed that the clouds above me behaved according to my thoughts – that they rained on me when my thoughts were happy, but were light and thin when my thoughts were sad and heavy. Could you please tell me what this means?” The wise man smiled gently and replied “Son, it is quite simple. You have made friends of the wind and the clouds. They are but souls and hearts like us and were following the basic principle that all things follow. When a burdened cloud sensed that your heart was light, it shed some of its load on you, secure in the knowledge that you would not be troubled by it. On the other hand, when your heart was heavy and clouded, a light cloud would spread even thinner, that you received the sunlight and felt more at peace. It is the same, with the other boys and girls in the village whom you have until now shunned. Go, mingle with them, share your joys and sorrows, and you will feel complete. And so saying, the old wise man closed his eyes and was lost once again in deep thoughts about heaven knows what. Ilyich went on his way, a curious lightness in his heart as he determined to follow the wise old man's advice.

Sure enough, on doing so the gnawing in his belly vanished and Ilyich was no longer considered a stranger in his own town. Many years later however, as he flitted from friend to friend in his pursuit of happiness, he realised that occasionally, he missed the clouds and the wind. He felt, though vaguely, another kind of longing creeping into him, this time in his heart. A longing to be free...free of the relentless cycle of give and take. And mixed in with this feeling was a small twinge of regret that he had come across that wise old man...

Deja Vu - Another (very) Short Story

Well...here's one more that I penned a month or so ago, to keep the blog alive while we wait for my esteemed blog-mate to come back from his sabbatical! ;) Hope you like it :)

Statutory warning: This story I must admit, is a bit weird and is, thankfully, not autobiographical!

Click. Ker-pluk. Matt awoke with a start as his door gently swung open and shut. He stared at it for a second, trying to ignore the frisson of fear running down his spine. The laptop’s screen was blank. Which of course meant he’d been dozing for more than 10 minutes, which in turn meant he needed another coffee. He jiggled the mouse and was faintly surprised and irritated to find the screen come alive with his Facebook page. “Guess I’m not the first guy to fall asleep while ‘Facebooking’,” he thought while refreshing the page to see if any of his 200 odd friends had decided to drop him a line. The clock showed 7.15pm and Southampton had seen its sunset two hours ago. A feeble halogen lamp half-heartedly threw some light on the lone car parked outside. It was a quiet night, like most other nights were in this busy month of January. The only sound he could make out was the distant but unceasing rumble of cars on the M-27, punctuated by an occasional thump as a neighbour moved about. The page had refreshed and, to his gratification indicated a couple of messages in his inbox. He opened it and caught up on the three-way conversation between him, his flat-mate Justine and their friend Lisa.

Justine- today at 5.46pm- “Hey Lisa, wie gehts?! I am planning to make some Soufflé this evening…want to come home, say 7pm?
Reply x Delete

Lisa- today at 5.57pm- “Ich bin gut, und du? Ah, Soufflé the original French way sounds very nice! I was planning to make some Zwiebelkuchen…maybe I bring it over and we can eat together?
Matt do you want to join us, it will be great fun?”
Reply x Delete


Matt sat back and stared out the window. On the one hand, he felt inclined to take up the invitation, confident that he wouldn’t be able to do much studying anyway this evening. On the other, it was a cold night and an entire day spent at home had made him extremely lethargic and a bit anti-social. Nothing seemed more tempting to him at the moment than a cup of hot chocolate, a blanket and a novel...

He was jerked back to wakefulness by the chatter of voices and the clang of a vessel being dropped. He got up from his desk and peered through a crack in his door into the kitchen. Through the closed glass door of the kitchen he could just make out Justine breaking some eggs. He kept watching from where he was, for some reason not wanting to intrude upon the scene. A few seconds later Lisa came into view, holding a knife in her left hand and a peeled onion in her right. She put the onion down on the counter and said something to Justine. Matt strained his ears but couldn’t catch the words. It must have been quite funny though, for the next instant both of them broke into laughter while gesturing at the knife. Justine reached into a shelf and pulled out another knife. They then started sparring playfully, grinning all the time as Matt continued watching, inexplicably entranced. The knives met with a ringing sound as both of them tried imitating moves they’d seen on countless late-night action movies. Lisa feinted to her right and then brought her knife in sharply across to Justin’s right cheek. Matt shivered slightly, not just because he was scared of knives, especially when they came anywhere within 5 inches of his face, but mainly because of Justine’s reaction- she was laughing, enjoying every minute of it, every thrust and parry! With a kind of nervousness inexorably creeping upon him he watched as she tried maneouvering herself so she could get a go at Lisa’s neck. And this was when things started to get bizarre. The change was in fact so subtle and smooth that for a few seconds Matt did not realize that something had gone horribly awry. As he continued standing there, a mute but deeply affected spectator to the charade that was being played out in the kitchen, it dawned on him. Right before his eyes the two girls had morphed- from two normal people having a good time to two angry, menacing beasts intent upon one thing only- first blood. Ten feet in front of him they stood, their grins frozen, turned into angry grimaces, the laughter gone from their eyes, replaced by the cold glazed look of killers. Petrified and rooted to the spot, Matt watched wordlessly as the knives came ever closer to their marks, wielded no longer by two normal, college-going girls but by some bizarre caricatures that seemed to have leapt out of the pages of a cheap comic strip. He opened his mouth to scream as they started grappling with each other but all that came out was a squeak. In a flash, the two girls turned towards the door. They spied him through the glass and as he watched horrified, they walked or rather marched towards him in unison, the grins still plastered on their faces. Lisa opened the kitchen door and said. “Matt do you want to join us, it will be great fun?” Stunned, Matt backed up as he heard Justine’s rejoinder- “We can force Matt to join us though it looks like he doesn’t really want to…” Suddenly, out of nowhere, he found his voice and screamed and screamed again as they advanced towards him, their knives raised….

Click. Ker-pluk. Matt awoke with a start as his door gently swung open and shut. He stared at it for a second trying to ignore the frisson of fear running down his spine. The laptop screen was blank. Which meant he had been dozing for more than 10 minutes… No…no…this couldn’t be right! Matt usually revelled in the sense of deja-vu, in the sense of re-living something that felt so real yet had never happened. It was one of those quirks of the human body, one of its occasional faults that only served to highlight the wonder that it actually was. But not this way…

He jiggled his mouse and found himself staring at his Facebook page. The clock showed 7.15pm. A thin line of sweat formed on his brow. He looked outside the window, onto the parking lot, its single halogen lamp half-heartedly throwing light on the car parked under it. The chill ran down his spine again as he reloaded the page. “Inbox (3)” said the top bar. Thank goodness…there was a new message! The déjà vu was over! He permitted himself a cynical smile. He must have dozed off after reading that message and then had that horrible dream. Staring outside vacantly at the shadows cast by a lone sycamore he decided he had probably watched one too many of those Tarantino productions. He was jerked back to wakefulness by the chatter of voices and the clang of a vessel being dropped. It was only then that it dawned on Matt that something was indeed very, very wrong. Suddenly uncertain that he had rid himself of his ’experience,’ he opened his Inbox and read the conversation that was going on between him, Lisa and Justine.

Justine- today at 5.46pm- “Hey Lisa, wie gehts?! I am planning to make some Soufflé this evening…want to come home, say 7pm?
Reply x Delete

Lisa- today at 5.57pm- “Ich bin gut, und du? Ah, Soufflé the original French way sounds very nice! I was planning to make some Zwiebelkuchen…maybe I bring it over and we can eat together?
Matt do you want to join us, it will be great fun?”
Reply x Delete

Justine- today at 6.03pm- “Hey cool, that’s fine! 7pm at my place…and we can force Matt to join us though it looks like he doesn’t really want to :P
Reply x Delete


The room suddenly became stuffy and suffocating. He sat there, staring at the words in front of him, feeling a leaden weight press down on him…Getting up, he peered into the kitchen through the crack in his door, knowing what he was going to see and yet irresistibly drawn forward like a moth is drawn to a flame. From where he was he could just make out Justine breaking some eggs. A few seconds later, Lisa came into view, holding a knife in her left hand, a peeled onion in her right. She set the onion down on the counter and said something to Justine. This time Matt should have been prepared, but he still couldn’t hear what was said. It must have been quite funny though, for the next instant both of them broke into laughter while gesturing at the knife. Justine reached into a shelf and pulled out another knife…

This time Matt didn’t wait. He screamed out loud sending his fear echoing down the narrow corridor.

Click. Ker-pluk. Matt awoke with a start as his door gently swung open and shut…

Terminal- A (very) Short Story

This is what happens when one waits the night out at Heathrow Airport, with sleep being denied to him by that mysterious inner energy that refuses to oblige when one really needs it.

Statutory Warning: Sorry to disappoint but this story is NOT autobiographical. Hope you like it anyway ;)

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are at Terminal 5. This is Terminal 5- Heathrow.” Matt awoke with a start and swore under his breath. The ride from Southampton had been too short. That blissful state of sleep hadn’t got a chance to develop fully yet. Nor had that foggy but promising dream about a silver Lotus, or for that matter, the crick in his neck. He got out, dragged his bags out of the luggage hold and stood there as the coach drove off, taking in the sight of one of the world’s busiest airports, usually teeming with activity, now asleep. Sleep-deprived as he was, Matt felt faintly jealous of this giant mother-ship that usually spewed forth people out one end and aircraft out the other, but was currently dreaming its own dreams. He walked across bleary-eyed to the lifts and found his way ultimately to Departures on Level 5.

It was lovely. Rows upon rows of empty check-in counters stood on the far side, their signs lit up, casting reflections on the tiled floor. “British Airways is proud to welcome the world to our home in 2012” read a bright bill-board. Metal beams arched upward gracefully, curved above the counters and disappeared out of sight behind them, giving the place a deliciously mysterious feel. A handful of people, most of them asleep, sat or lay on seats along the concourse. A solitary employee walked back and forth at the far end mopping the tiled floor till it shined. It was 3.30 in the morning on the 29th of December 2008. Leaning over the parapet, Matt could just make out people stretched out on rows of seats, using their luggage as head and foot-rests, looking for all the world like toys discarded by a distracted kid. He smiled to himself. It was a quaint sight, but at the same time, strange- like looking at a famous movie-star without her make-up. He walked over to an empty row of seats and made himself comfortable- spread his bags out, stretched out his legs and waited for sleep to come, while staring at a blue flickering dot on a giant and otherwise black display board opposite. This time however, he was refused his sleep. He kept staring at the dot as if mesmerized, but soon his thoughts began to stray and within a couple of minutes, Matt had left Heathrow, had left London and had traveled quite far away.

He was, to be precise, in the dimly lit restaurant of the Bath YMCA. It was late evening on the last Friday of September. Most of the hostel’s octogenarian guests had retired for the night. This was where it had all started, the inexorable unraveling of his life- of their life together. In his defence, he was distracted while getting the coffee, trying to pin down a theory on why a horde of seventy- year- old’s would descend on a hostel in Bath in autumn, approach the only youngsters they could find and then proceed to declaim that they had lived in Bath for their entire lives and were taking a break from ‘Home!’ Whether the theory was finally formulated or not is debatable, but what did happen was that he forgot about Kate’s sensitivity to sugar. It was a small incident on the face of it, but now, in that silent empty terminal, with the luxury of three month’s hindsight and considerable time for reflection, Matt knew that that was what had started the ‘Break-Up.’ He should have remembered- that much was certain. But whether that would have changed anything or whether it was simply the proverbial last straw, something just waiting to happen was anyone’s guess. They hadn’t fought at the hostel, though the signs were there of a crack in the foundation. Back home in Southampton, Kate lost her temper when they found on arrival that he’d forgotten to clear the garbage before they left. Kate believed God was in the details. Matt believed neither in God nor in details. One thing led to another and they had had a row that only worsened when Matt’s flatmate Lisa stuck her head in to find out what was wrong. Kate accused Matt of being absent-minded, lazy and selfish. He on the other hand, while insisting that he clearly remembered clearing the bins, suddenly felt tired of the whole thing- this fight, their relationship, his studies, his life…He had shouted back, saying he found her not only selfish, but nit-picky, extremely demanding, irritable and- this came out without his realizing it- tiring. That clinched it and before Matt could say ‘I Didn’t Mean That’, the slamming of the doors was ringing in his ears, along with Kate’s last words to him- “I can’t talk to you anymore, and luckily, I don’t want to!”

It had been three months since and not a word from Kate. He had got caught up in life and drowned himself in his work hoping to push the entire mess into the smallest possible corner of his mind. Now it was all coming back in the belly of this silent monster that yearned for the hustle and bustle of human activity. Anything that is created for a purpose looks and feels desolate when that purpose is not served. An airport is meant to serve people. The only thing that made it look lovely in Matt’s eyes, at 3.30 in the morning was the confidence that in a few hours, that display board would be alive with colours- flight information, inane advertisements, statutory announcements. Those counters would have queues in front of them and the sound of heels and rolling strolleys and conversation would fill the now silent building. But again, wasn’t a human being himself a creation? And wasn’t the one sensible, ostensible purpose of his life to love? To share the gift that Life was with someone? How else would one prevent that feeling of desolation from creeping in? No…this was not right. He missed her, despite all her faults…or was it because of them? “I have to talk to her” he told himself and suddenly he felt a chill down his spine. Last week, his flatmate Lisa, who was still in touch with her had told him that Kate was planning to leave around New Year for Sweden on an exchange program for a year. For days he had been trying to get himself to talk to her but the moment he picked up the phone, his hands would quiver. Something told him that they were meant for each other, that that last fight was definitely not their final. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her, couldn’t trust himself over the phone or screw up the courage to meet her face to face. And now, it might already be too late…

All of a sudden, Matt felt cold. The sound of a coach pulling out reached him from afar, across the ghostly silence. The terminal seemed cold, empty….soulless. Matt longed desperately for some company, for a comforting hand, a comforting voice. As if mocking him, the display board sprang to life with a sign that said “Nokia- Connecting People.” I could do with some of that, he thought wryly. He glanced around, noticing the girl standing under the billboard, her hair lit up by the blue and white advertisement. He looked at her once again, idly wondering if she didn’t wear heels, else he’d have heard her come up and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “It can’t be…I don’t believe it!”

He walked up to her in a daze, not trusting himself, feeling that the whole thing was highly surreal. She looked up, hearing him approach and dropped her bag, startled.

“Matt! Oh my God! What….what are you doing here?!”

“Kate! I… I never thought I’ll see you again and now" ...

The tack-tack of a pair of high-heeled shoes echoed across the terminal. A woman in a business suit walked up to a counter, half-smiling to herself as she noticed a young couple talking to each other suddenly drop their luggage and embrace like there was no tomorrow. The chatter of conversation floated to her ears as a group of foreign tourists entered the building, laughing at a private joke, enjoying a few precious moments of genuine happiness. The terminal was coming back to life. Dazed but happy, Matt moved toward the BA check-in counter after having seen off Kate smiling to himself as a thought struck him. This is a place where people embark on a journey or come back to resume one. Why in the world is it called a terminal?!

Why...?

The mood is grim and I bet there are hundreds of people blogging right now about this very issue...but after all this blog is about satisfying a need for self-expression so here I am, at it again!

"I hope this is your number Sid. Anyway, I've reached home safe." This message worked its way to me, all the way from Mumbai 7000km away with the help of technology Mankind had not dreamed of a few centuries back. To tell me that a friend was safe from men shooting at others. Staring out the window this November morning I felt my mood being reflected in the sight that met my eyes- bare trees against an overcast autumn sky. One question, one thought kept running through my mind like a stuck tape-recorder. Why...WHY? Why in the world would a teenager want to pick up a gun and murder, in cold blood, complete strangers who'd done nothing except impinge on his line of sight?! On the surface I seem to know the answer or answers, rather; religious fanaticism, brain-washing, a misplaced belief in a greater good, simple blood-lust and the temporary feeling of invincibility or, most frightening of all, a firm belief in emphatic promises of a blessed after-life- promises made in arrogance, accepted in faith. But as is most often the case with such a simple question, the more answers you have, the farther you are from the truth.

One of the beliefs I hold on to as tight as I can is that every human being is good. After all, like is often said, every single person is born with a clean slate. Like dust gathering on a shelf that is just out of reach, however, we allow that innate goodness to be smothered under the smoke of a false sense of oppression and need for justice. And when we do climb a stool and look at that topmost shelf its dismal state surprises, even shocks us. A twinge of conscience, one clean sweep with a mop and the shelf is forgotten once again. "We shall not let them go unpunished" is by no means a solution. As rifles end lives in one corner of the world, in another corner normal everyday citizens rush to stores so they can purchase weapons for 'self-defence' before the next president clamps down on the purchase of fire-arms. There was a man who once who said that an eye for an eye would make the whole world blind. Believing that every one of us can find that goodness within, time and again he came perilously close to losing his life trying to stop complete strangers from strangling each other. But more importantly, every time he broke his fast it was a signal that he had succeeded in his endeavour- to reach beyond that crust of superiority, hatred, animosity and anger in a person and touch the living, beating human heart within. Yes, cliched though it may sound, I am talking about Mahatma Gandhi. He came unlooked for, was felled by the evil he tried to root out and is now sorely missed. A very disturbing notion crossed my mind recently, showing how badly we needed a few more souls like his...

I wonder- in the by-and-large lawful Western world, just how much of the peace they enjoy comes out of a genuine human desire for peace, rather than out of a fear of swift, severe reprisal! It is a scary day indeed when peace becomes a commodity bought with military currency. It is a scary day indeed when one rushes to buy a gun, "because who knows how many the guy next door's got!" I hope and pray with all my heart that that day hasn't come yet. That we get on that stool and clean the shelf before it collapses under the weight of the dirt it's accumulated.

The question repeats itself...why?

P.S.

Well-this blog isn't dead...yet! It may be going downhill, but who knows what's round the next dale!

You may call me P.S. I'm betting that the first thought that springs to your mind is a foolscap sheet of paper, once upon a time blank, its virginity now destroyed but its beauty enhanced. I do not apologise for that. I am an egoistic guy and I make no apologies for that either(sorry if I sound a bit like Ayn Rand there). I am proud, very proud, of the effect I produce on this dead-wood dance floor. I love the sound of my voice. Scratchy though it may seem to some, to me it is the gentlest, most soothing melody I have heard. I haven't finished. I am a dancer of the most exquisite skill. The convolutions I describe are leagues above the capability of the most talented ballerina. There is one disclaimer though that you ought to be aware of- talented as I am on the small scale I have no say on the overall effect of my gyrations on the floor. So if the afore-mentioned effect is not pleasing to the eye, don't blame me! I have told him time and time again to enrol in hand-writing classes ...but does he listen?

Who am I? Ahem, well, I introduce myself as... Aw, come on, don't stop! Atleast let the music stop...flowing! Sigh...

Yours till I'm put back on,

P.S.
----

(A tribute to a fountain pen on paper)

Wat Nadenken (Some Reflections)...

The face reflected in the window seemed to stare right at me, boring into my skull and reading my innermost thoughts. The distortion of the face by passing stations flowing through it did not reduce the intensity of its inquisitive gaze. Shadows cast by the flickering lights in the train and the occasional filtered city light from outside played games with the face giving it more life and form than it actually had. The face looked Indian. I kept staring at it wondering amusedly if the person it belonged to saw my reflection the same way, if he was thinking the same thoughts…

When I first landed in Norway on my cross-European course, I had some presupposed notions on life in Europe. A year in the continent has taught me something though. While some of those suppositions have been validated and others completely refuted, what’s most striking is the completely new perspective I got on India…and my Indian-ness. Read on to find out some of the allegories/ideas/questions the statement “I’m an Indian” gives rise to :)

The Crowds
Depending on which part of Europe you’re in the first image that pops into some one’s mind when he hears India varies. Norway is, well, slightly under-crowded. After all, with a population of 4 million the country’s got less people than Chennai has. Mention India to a Norwegian therefore, and watch him go into a trance as if watching a horror movie…picturing a sea of people, moving in all directions, all talking simultaneously, most of them even brushing against him all the time!! “Brrr…,” he shivers, lets out a sigh and drinks two beers in complete silence. Then comes the reaction. “It must be quite crowded, no?” “Yup,” I say, with a proud smirk on my face. In fact, one of my Norwegian friends visited Delhi airport en-route to Nepal and he still recounts his experience with a glazed look in his eyes. “Chaos, complete chaos! That’s what it was! Do you people actually handle planes there?!” “Yup,” says I, with a twitch of my lips.

The Heat
Once the topic of crowds is discussed thread-bare – which usually takes two hours – we naturally turn to the weather as it’s raining outside. Here all the Europeans stand united. While some of them can understand a crowded city what none of them can comprehend is 40 degrees Celsius at 95% humidity for weeks on end. “The Bible does not mention Hell as being on Earth!” “How many clothes can a guy remove? I go out in my shorts at 20 degrees!” Here though, I cannot smirk my usual smirk. Much to my consternation I find myself sweating on a walk at 20 degrees. The question arises – am I still a true Chennaiite? Scary, very scary.

These were the only comments I could get out of the Norwegians for they are a very shy people and have this wonderful principle (called Janteloven) that simply put, keeps them from talking to others.

Spiritualism
The Netherlands however, is a different story altogether. The Dutch, apart from being tall and perfectionist are a very amiable lot. While I love talking about my country, city and beliefs, sometimes this can be a mite frustrating. “Siddharth? Like the famous Siddhartha who invented Buddhism?” – Guys, come on Buddhism is NOT a technology… “So, are you enlightened? Can you levitate like those fellows with beards who sit in the mountains? Oh, but you said you were from the southern part of India…you don’t have mountains.” Mr. Smirk takes a walk. I indignantly refute allegations that South India does not have fellows with beards. Absence of snow does not imply absence of spiritualism.

Being Vegetarian
Talk of spiritualism naturally leads to religious investigations. For predominantly Christian Europe and Islamic-Christian Holland in particular, to be a vegetarian you either need to be mad or a Hindu. I patiently explain that Hinduism isn’t the only religion in India and even most Hindus are non-vegetarian. Then I go and make the mistake of saying that no strict Hindu would touch beef. I also, maybe willingly, make the mistake of saying we believe in reincarnation. It is here that the conversation reaches its climax. I have three people shouting at me at the same time like I’d just pick-pocketed someone. “So if a Hindu eats a cow, is he born as a beetle or a pig in his next life?” “Can you eat a cow that is not killed but is already dead – I heard they do it in Nepal” – Seriously, give me a break – why in the world would I eat a cow that died probably of lung infection?! “You eat cheese? But doesn’t that also come from cow?” – Explanation: "Cow" is not the same as "From cow." After two more hours of elaborate explanations of the concepts of cows, karma and reincarnation and how these topics are inextricably linked with our lives on earth I’m left in peace…until the word "movie" slips out of my all-too-active mouth.

Bollywood
One topic no Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi can get away from is that of Bollywood. I mention my country to my course-mates only to see two of them break into an impromptu aerobics lesson with palms upraised. “Ah, I know that ugly guy, some Shan or Rukhan or something. And and and…that girl…Aishrai…oh, everybody knows them man.” – Nice. The two people I don’t like are the international faces of Bollywood. Of course, I then have to firmly deny that I know dancing, especially Bollywood style. You-tube to the rescue…

There's a lot more, regarding politics, corruption, poverty (some believe the whole country is in rags) and the fact that I'm most often late for an appointment... but I feel I’ve bored you enough. One question though, that’s very clichéd but is still put to me an umpteen number of times – “How do you say Cheers in Indian, Sid?”

More on the other side sometime later…till then, tot ziens, vanakkam.

Blogger's Block

Thoughts flash in and out. Some are rejected, some are stored, some referred to a higher compartment for approval. The hands itch to open Word, the fingers itch to traverse the keyboard. A brilliant spark is caught and examined. And thrown away. It shall remain just a spark. Brevity, they say is wit. Too much brevity, though and what we’ve got is not wit but Blogger’s Block. Why not? Genius begets gigantic goof-ups, mediocrity results in mediocre mishaps. If a genuine writer can have a block, why not a blogger? Downscale a writer’s block and what have you got? A very randomly mixed, preheated mixture of thoughts floating around in a soup made up of the need to write. Such are the times when readability is thrown to the winds. When Honesty rules one half of a kingdom, the other half ruled by Desire. You are now a visitor to the land in between – a land that exists due to these two halves, a land that exhibits neither of their qualities. The time is past midnight – that time of the night when most geniuses get their inspirations, when most bloggers, the insatiable desire to write. I knew it from the beginning. Knew the dangers of starting a blogspot. Meaningful articles followed by inspired ones followed by meaningless ones. The usual path, traversed by a person who fancies himself a writer, who discovers the difference between wanting to write and being able to. The result – a post from a blogger suffering his equivalent of what robs a columnist of his weekly trip to the movies. It’s a strange, dangerous, addictive thing, this blogging.

When…

Random thoughts that resulted in a poem promptly penned down are herewith attached...
Comments and criticism appreciated - as always! :)

When the revving of a bike
Makes you yearn for that wind on your face
When the greening trees against a grey sky
Remind you of the view from your high terrace
When a ride in an intercity train brings back
Memories of all that noise, dust and those rust-brown tracks
When a foreign tongue starts sounding like a known dialect
And strange faces do familiar memories resurrect…

When the waves themselves seem to break
With a message from distant shores, hidden in a poem,
When an esoteric dish with some masala, does a familiar delicacy make
When Roman architecture brings to mind an Indo-Saracenic dome…
Then my friend, realize - and make no mistake -
That you must delay no more for sanity’s sake -
‘Tis time to pack your bags and Go Home.

One of His masterpieces...

First of all, Thanks to Him who put them up there. Second thanks to my "Northern Lights friend," simply, for sharing it with me. And third, thanks to Jiann Chyuan who unknowingly inspired me to write about something that deserves to be described.

It was a cold, clear night - In Norway the nights are mostly cold and the clearer they are, the colder they are - and we were both feeling a little bored and energetic -a perfect combination for going out for a walk...and so we did. We set off, on our usual trek route behind our flats in Steinan, up the narrow ice-covered trail to the power plant. It was a weekday and was therefore relatively quiet. With only the occasional rustle of a light breeze through the corn fields and the inky star-spangled canvass above we climbed up to the plant, planning to go on afterwards to our usual look-out post atop the hill. It was a lovely night and we were entranced, as we usually are, by the special beauty of this place that says so much, so simply, so silently. Nowhere else would I have dared to walk through a forest at 12 at night - but here...here it was different. Our only companions were the bushes and the trees and they did not seem to resent our intrusion too much! As we kept walking, we noticed, but chose to ignore for a while, a strange greyish-green cloud that had mysteriously appeared above us. When we reached the plant, however, we turned around and looked up...and were transfixed.

Imagine a dragon...a dragon of green that leaps across the sky, looking for all the world like a rainbow, that suddenly ducks and turns and tries to catch its own tail...all these maneouvres executed with a grace that defied the imagination. Imagine two more dragons like that appearing out of nowhere...chasing each other across the black canvass, appearing to flow from one brilliant star cluster to another and then just as mysteriously disappearing, only to reappear a few seconds later from the other direction as if having forgotten to visit a star! Yes...we were witnessing a masterpiece...created by an artist whose imagination knows no bounds and whose canvass is the very sky itself - the Aurora Borealis, commonly known as the Northern Lights.

We stood there, completely oblivious to the crick in our necks...and in those couple of minutes, I felt I could reach out and touch that dragon's head, thank it for having put on this show for me. As soon as we perceived a break in this phenomenal exhibition we hurried on to our look-out post and were just in time to catch the sight of a rainbow of green arching across the black fjord, across the town that in itself looked like the sky turned upside down, above our heads, and into the hills beyond. I tried to imagine what the first Vikings would have felt...knowing as they did, absolutely nothing about ions or any of the details that created these supernatural fireworks...and I am sure this indescribably beautiful work of art contributed, atleast partly, to their decision to settle down here in such inhospitable climes!

A Windswept Piece of Land

Readers of this blog - if such a class of people does exist - You're lucky! :-D

Here's my latest, a write-up on my trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland. A statutory warning: some descriptions may be quite graphic, though in this case, I could not help that!

Read on...

A Windswept Piece of Land

The bus was jam-packed, filled with tourists of all imaginable colours, sizes and shapes, chattering away merrily as they rode the three kilometres to this remote piece of land in the very heart of Europe…a piece of land with innumerable stories to tell.

“Here we are, please form groups of six or seven and follow your tour guides. The tour will last approximately half an hour. This place is a historic heritage site. We request you to please therefore, observe the rules posted. Photography is not permitted inside the cabins. The bus will leave from here in 45 minutes, so, at 16:00 hrs. Make sure you are not…..”

By this time, all conversation had died down and though the well trained guide finished her speech, she had lost her audience – lost it to that white ice-covered, windy piece of land and its frost laden pine trees that shouted out, for anyone who would care to listen, one of the most compelling tales ever told.

We trooped in through the main gates, not at all prepared for what we would experience. I felt a shiver run down my spine and a lead ball settle in my stomach at the sight of those tracks. Three sets of rail tracks led straight from the entrance right through the fenced-off area to where the chambers had once stood – the biggest of World War II, the gas chambers of Auschwitz-Birkenau, the world’s largest concentration camp.

The pictures came unbidden playing like a movie reel inside the head, with the slightly hushed voice of the guide providing a cruelly graphic narrative as past atrocities came alive and the very sanctity of the human mind was called into question. I saw the prisoners being bundled out of the coal-carts, bewildered and confused, clutching their possessions as they looked around for their promised accommodation. Nothing would have met their eyes but the two bleak buildings, meant for them, built by their predecessors. More than half of the prisoners were then marched into a huge hall where they were asked to undress, leave their belongings and step into a shower room for “desanitisation.” Little did they know that those innocent looking shower heads were designed not for water, but for lethal gas that in the space of a few breaths took their very lives away - a punishment for having been born into a certain community.

The ground crunched under our shoes as we walked around, as we started realizing how lucky we were, simply, to be alive. The wind picked up, howling through the rows of low brick-cabins in the adjacent complex, leaving our hands and feet benumbed by the piercing cold, our minds benumbed by a horrific past relived. Cameras clicked away mechanically as the more sturdy of us filed the moment away in digital memories. We entered the huts where the prisoners were kept…and this part of the story was no better.

Each brick in these huts was put in place by the prisoners themselves. Each hut housing around 600 to 800, the prisoners found themselves sharing a single 2ft by 6ft bed with 6 others. A single row of toilets ran across the middle, serving all 800 and the walls and the floors, till today, bear the stains of innumerable struggles as a million incarcerated souls fought over basic needs that we now consider our birth-rights. Our tour guide then presented to us an irony so grim it was an effort to even imagine it;
The most coveted job in the camp was the cleaning of those choked, overflowing toilets. The soldiers in charge of picking prisoners for execution would reportedly not go anywhere near these people filthy as they were and thus this was the only job that offered a guarantee against execution. The full horror of the situation hit us like a sledgehammer and our stomachs churned at the thought of what the world had allowed to happen.

We walked out in a daze, by now too nauseated by what we had seen to absorb anything else. The guide, seasoned as she was, had a quaver in her voice as she pointed out the tower over the entrance from where soldiers would snipe at unsuspecting prisoners…for sport. What’s more, these prisoners were made to work in driving winds and snow and sub-zero temperatures wearing a single shirt and trousers, 12 hours a day, with nothing to go back to-no warm home, no family, no soft bed-nothing but a cold, dank hell-hole of a cabin.

As we left those fences behind, whatever else we may have felt in our lives, on this day we felt lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky to be living in a time of relative peace and comfort, to be able to take for granted what some people had to fight with their lives for – lucky beyond measure. And whatever else we may come across in Life, whatever else we may forget…we must not and can not forget this.

On Pedestrianism and Kerala

Due to the mysterious absence of my fellow blog-mate and my not-so-mysterious lethargy...this blog has been dumped by the roadside for a while. I'm therefore attempting to redeem it, with an article I wrote ages ago, which is, hopefully, still relevant today. Here goes...and please let me know if the situation has changed, for the better or the worse. :)

Chennai, it is said, has given the world two famous dance-forms. One of them is Bharatanatyam, the other Pedestrianism. And Bharathanatyam is by far the more esoteric of the two. Any thing, man or beast that spends more than half an hour on Chennai’s roads finds itself performing a most complex tap dance that would put the world’s best flamenco artists to shame. Undecided cyclists, people in a hurry, autorickshaws on the prey, well-aimed projectiles of spit and the vagaries of the road itself all form part of a list of obstacles that meet a normal living being who erred in one thing before setting out – trusting its own two… or four legs, as the case may be. For all that, however, just as a hunter thrills in the excitement of the chase, just as a warrior is exhilarated by blood-lust, so does the average chennaiite love to “walk.”

Till he visits small, unassuming, quiet, green, deadly Kerala. Every hunter, every warrior and every Pedestrian (yes, it is spelt with a capital P) has his limit. For the Pedestrian it is Kerala. It is in Kerala that the fine line between an art-form and a suicide attempt is crossed. It is here that the Pedestrian meets, or rather, comes in contact with his match. Uncontrolled, they roam the streets at will tearing limbs and hearts asunder without the slightest respect for the laws that form the bulwark of a society. These monsters that do not even merit a mention in the tourist guides under the heading “Dangerous Creatures and Life Hazards” are but the ubiquitous Buses of Kerala. Yes, this too shall be spelt with a capital B. One accords his opponents the merit they deserve.

They bear down upon you without a toot and by the time you’ve recovered sufficiently enough to realize that you are Providence’s favourite child, the next one is upon you. Providence is a mighty fickle parent. When posed this problem, one Pedestrian survivor remarked pithily, “You learn to live with it.” And so one learns to live life on the edge, with the Devil on the one hand and the Deep Sea on the other – no kidding – Kerala’s got a long coast. Worse off are the poor folks who still cling on to the interiors… getting caught between the Devil and a barbed wire fence isn’t exactly my idea of a peaceful evening stroll.

That however, is only till you get into the Bus…if you can survive that long. Once in, the ride of your life awaits you. Never was a roller-coaster ride obtained cheaper. Never was the transition from victim to murder-accomplice so smooth. Small wonder then, that almost all the famous martial art forms originated here – martial arts are mostly about reflexes and balance…right? With a National Highway the width of my corridor with plants butting in on either side, it isn’t surprising that the Bus assumes right of way…on a single lane road.

“What about Lane Discipline?” the cry goes around ¬– one does not get a meaningful phrase by putting together two non-existent ones.

“Give us a plus-point!” begs the adamant cry – you get to see Kerala as you would never have seen otherwise.

To sum up - if questioned about it, one could say, “Life in Kerala is like Life in slow-motion - It’s beautiful. Death however, travels pretty fast.”