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.

Those days

I often think about the days when I was in school. Flashes of brilliantly clear images sometimes over power my mind, and then I am lost to the world for a while, thinking about days gone by.

My earliest memory of school is me sitting somewhere in the corner of a class room in lower kindergarten listening to the teacher call out names from her register. For some inexplicable reason, she used to ask a girl called Preeti to sign somewhere. I used to then fervently hope and pray that my turn never came, because, I hadn't the faintest idea how to wield a pen, least of all, affix my signature at a desired location on paper. It was many days later that I found out that the girl's name was Sai Preeti, which my nasal sounding teacher had pronounced 'sign'.

I remember frantically announcing at home once, that I needed money for a 'Tinders Match Box'. Although I did not know what it was, I had been convinced by my teacher that failure to cough up at school would have disastrous consequences, such as being made to kneel down the whole day. No amount of questioning or coercing by my exasperated parents could decipher what that cryptic phrase meant. It was later discovered that I was to take part in the School Sports Day's 'Toddlers March Past' and the matter was successfully resolved.

I was also the owner of a fiery temper, which albeit slow to rise, was explosive in nature. In the fifth standard, during morning assembly, a fellow classmate called Aravind, rather unwisely tried to insert his little finger into my right ear. I dont know why, but at that moment I was blinded by rage and remember lunging wildly at his face, restrained by several classmates. He clapped his hand to his mouth,spat out a bloodied front tooth and staggered off somewhere. I then found myself standing in front of the class teacher. Staring at me with barely concealed amazement, she tried her best to put her thoughts into words with an extremely inadequate "Why did you break Aravind's tooth?" I just stood there without answering, beacuse I realized that whatever I did say at that point, would almost certainly, be the wrong answer.

There were teachers who loved me and teachers who loathed the very sight of me. One particular English teacher unashamedly favoured me over every other student, solely because I was a fellow Malayalee. In her eyes, I could do no wrong, and this notion was extended to grading in tests, selection of the class leader and the greatest schoolteacher-extended honour, being the chosen one to carry the class work books to the staff room. At about the same time, there was a Hindi teacher who used every opportunity she had to beat me to within an inch of my life. I once forgot to bring my Hindi Workbook to school three days in a row. I still have nightmares about those three days.

There were many strange creatures who inhabited my world at that time. There was a boy who at the tender age of seven assured me that if i didn't believe in Jesus Christ I would go straight to hell. A classmate whose pastime of choice was to 'crack' the knuckles of other people's fingers. A fellow who refused to eat with me whenever I brought non vegetarian food in my luch box. A chap who insisted that the only other country in the world was France and every other country was a part of that (apparently) great nation. There were science teachers who refused to teach sex and evolution because it went against their religious principles. There was a history teacher ( I am not joking) who said the Prophet Muhammad's flight,'Hijra' was the name of the airline he flew in. A physics teacher who in eleventh standard warned me against talking to girls as it was a bad habit. A mathematics teacher who exclaimed when I was contemplating joining the commerce group 'Commerce! I thought you were good in studies!'


I do miss school very much. I miss the carefree innocence of our youth. I miss the fact that the worst thing which could happen in class was being made to go out. I miss the long corridors, the western classical music played at morning assembly, the tree tops outside the windows, the much awaited games periods, the excitement of new school bags and contents of lunch boxes, the science and history text books, winning prizes, field trips and friendly teachers. School was fun.

Somewhere I belong

This is a post about me. About something that has been rankling for sometime. Apologies to my readers (both of you), if the mood of this essay is not conformant with my previous pieces(both of them).

I belong to a Malayalee family, which, like millions of other families left Kerala in search of a new life elsewhere. My parents came to Chennai in the eighties,found their respective jobs and have remained in the city ever since. As a result, my sister and me have been brought up in a cross-cultural environment encompassing two states and four languages. I speak a combination of English and Malayalam at home. I spoke a combination of English and Tamil at school. I answered Hindi(my second language at school) answer papers in a combination of all three languages(which is probably why my Hindi teachers were not at their most polite best while in conversation with me).

The outcome of this has been that I cannot, in all honesty, confidently say that I feel completely accepted by any of the above mentioned groups. My Tamil classmates although extremely friendly, know that somewhere, deep down I am a 'Mallu'. Any true-blue Malayalees who I chance upon, regard me suspiciously because of my fluent Tamil. In college, I have been called 'Peter' ( a slightly derogatory Chennai term used to describe an English speaking person).When a Malayalee introduces me to another Malayalee he always does so with a disclaimer - "This is Ashwat, he is a Malayalee, but has lived in Chennai all his life." The other Malayalee immediately starts talking to me in English, assuming that there is no way in hell a person who has lived in Chennai all his life can ever speak passable Malayalam.

Another disturbing aspect is the pride of position given to the colour of your skin. Disregarding the fact that all Indians are coloured varying shades of brown, we have a tendency to slot people into 'black', 'white' and for some obscure reason 'wheatish'. I, and some friends, have been called 'Vellakara'(white man) owing to a combination of our English skills and fair skin. When a friend of mine retaliated by calling the person who had given him this sobriquet a 'Karuppukaara'(black man), he was accused of being derogatory and insulting.
Funnily, several North Indians labour under the delusion that anybody who is fair skinned is from the North. Many of them come and address me in Hindi confident that I would reply in their language.

It is therefore no surprise that most of my closest friends are people who primariy speak English as well. This is often percieved as being elitist or snobbish. I beg to differ; although I speak good English, I belong to this country and perhaps have a greater understanding of its diversity than the people who stick to their vernacular.

So am I a true global citizen or do I belong nowhere? I prefer to believe the former.

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.