Romance & silence

In an age of cacophony, it’s difficult to be silent. More so when it comes to love. With social media crowding our daily lives, if you love then you must scream your lungs out, put status messages on how much you love, miss him/ her, cling to each other in each and every photograph and above all like and comment on each other’s ‘tagged’ photos. If you are in love then must say it aloud.

Not many know or believe in the art of silence in romance. Even as I write this, I remember something written by Khalil Gibran. And I think, that’s the best expression of romance I can connect at this point of life.

It reads like this: One day you will ask me what’s more important— your life or mine. I will say mine. And you will walk away without realising you are my life. 

 

 

 

Fantasy

The heat, the newsroom, the wait for a story, the deadline can be oppressive. That’s the time when the mind wanders. And fantasy quietly replaces reality. Even on a temporary note. If my fantasy can be put into a list then here it goes like this
* A home in the hills. Wrapped in a black and red shawl and sipping Earl Grey tea in the morning and enjoying the thick mist

* Not waking up to routine but to my favourite songs and the songs automatically changing as per my thought (geeks, are you listening?)

* Travelling across India in AC I coupe with my man…that’s a fantasy I have been nurturing since I was a gawky teenager. On a humorous note, my affair with the Indian Railways remains constant even as the ‘fantasy man’ keeps changing… but then I feel love is contextual
* A degree from an Ivy League. I know, I have left the best years of my life far far behind. But it’s my fantasy to walk on the corridors of Harvard/Stanford/Columbia as a social sciences student. That will be the best gift for my father (wherever he is today that will make him really happy)

* Travelling to Paris, Cuba, Iran, Cambodia and Istanbul and spending six months in each place to absorb the nuances

*To do many more things using my hand like baking, pottery, bottle art, fabric painting, strumming a guitar

* Being in the same hilly neighbourhood with all my loved ones (mom, foster mom, sisters, soul sisters, soul-mate(s), old flame turned friend-philosopher-guide, nieces, nephews, people who have worked with me at my home) and still having a very strong sense of my own space and independence

* Working with kids and giving them a wonderful sense of joyful, creative life. In a way leaving a legacy in the true sense (like my father) of the term

* Going to Gomukh and seeing the origin of the River Ganges and spending quiet evenings on the banks of River Brahmaputra
* Not having a mobile phone (When I will have all my loved ones in the same neighbourhood, I won’t need the necessary evil of modern times called mobile phones)
Having enough money in my bank account so that I don’t have to work for a living
* I feel very strongly that I have healing powers. I have the ability to make people feel nice when the going is tough for them. My fantasy is to lessen pain in people’s lives.
* Travelling in the luxurious Palace On Wheels and also in the toy trains and then soaking in the contrast wonderfully and beautifully.
P S: I can sacrifice each and every thing in this fantasy list happily just to see my father alive once more and share some of my most intimate thoughts. I wanted him to read a narrative I wrote on identity. But then that thing called chance never gave us that joy of sharing  

I’ve the worst job….

So says a study. Journalists have the worst jobs because of the low pay, long working hours and high stress, says a new study. A newspaper journalist’s job is worse than that of a garbage collector, waiter/waitress, butcher, dishwater and the list goes on. I don’t want to add further because that might inspire me to do something fatal about myself.

I have been a journalist for last 18 years. I never joined the profession for the lure of money. Anyway, eighteen years ago, money was not ‘on your face’ object. India had then just started flirting with economic liberalisation. Even in a city like Delhi, one could manage with  little money (little even by the mid 1990s standard) and still occasionally shop at Dastkar and enjoy a Chinese meal at Golden Dragon or Osaka. The newsroom was a great place for learning, assimilation and having fun. It was simply addictive. One could never have enough of news.

I remember on December 31, 1999 when the whole world was partying to welcome the new millennium, I was in the newsroom happily making pages. The Kandahar hijackers had just released the passengers and I remember working all excitedly on the front page with a senior colleague. We were so absorbed in our ‘lowly paid’ work that not once we felt miserable about working on a night that smelt of cocktail. Even as the streets of Bangalore were full of revelers screaming with joy and happiness, we were raking our brains over the lead headline.  I am still very much addicted to news. I still feel like a child in the candy store when a news story is developing.

But in post-liberalised India, the newsroom has changed. Now a journalist is just a journalist sans any passion. Very few are compassionate. Very few have a perspective on anything whether it’s cricket, relationship or cinema. I am not even talking about politics. Recently I asked a young reporter ‘Who’s India’s home minister?” He just gave me a blank stare as if I was asking about nuclear physics.

And even before young journalists can file an interview with a B Town celebrity or a cricketer, they post their pictures with the celebrity on Facebook to grab some likes and “you are so lucky…” kind of comments.

To be a good journalist, one has to be compassionate, non-judgemental.  But then in today’s globalised world, compassion is a rare commodity. Today newsrooms are full of men and women having no substance, intensity or passion. There’s nobody to look up to. There are no towering personalities to inspire you, to push you to excel beyond your capability.

I don’t think my job is the worst job just because it has low pay, long working hours and stress. It was a job which was never associated with a great pay packet. It was a job which was never meant to be easy. It was always meant to be tough, stressful. But it was a job which had dignity. Now the changing newsroom does tell a different tale. .

Mysteries of life

I fail to understand why it works this way but it definitely does…. my friends also agree with me…

* On working days I feel like sleeping till twelve O’ clock and on my weekly off days I am up at 6.30 am and reading newspapers

* The day when I am in a mood to throw my mobile phone into the Bay of Bengal, the same day I get calls asking me “Tame kaun” (who are you)

* When I don’t need the scissor, stapler or any important paper,  it’s right there on my table. But when I need it desperately, I just can’t find it. It just magically vanishes into thin air to reappear once again mysteriously after hours of CBI like raids in my house

* When I go to a restaurant, the food served on the next table always looks much more delicious than mine.

* When I am in a hurry, the red lights on the road conspire against me. When I am not in a hurry, the green lights welcome me

* When my sister and me go for sari shopping, we choose our saris after much consultation, observation and analysis. But when we reach home, we always feel we should have bought that green/purple sari (which we dismissed as ordinary in the shop)

* I hate kaju katri but every Diwali I get lots of packets of kaju katri as gifts

* There are some days (rare though in a newspaper office) when I feel “Oh, we have all matter in place. It will be an easy edition and will be released much before the deadline.” Needless to say, something or other crops up and the edition gets delayed beyond imagination.

I fail to fathom these mysteries but I guess that’s why life is exciting.

People

I feel lighter by 10 kgs (even though my weighing scale will tell a different tale). It’s all because I have stopped taking people seriously.

Most people are stuck on the first step of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution.They will be there till they die. Most of them are average in IQ and below average in EQ. That’s precisely why they are jealous, possessive, insecure, non-generous and ungrateful. No number of Jimmy Choo, Tag Heuer, Prada and Hermes in the wardrobe can be of any genuine help in these cases. You just can’t buy class—either you have it in you or you don’t have it.

Most people are 24X7 happy because they don’t have the courage to delve deep within. They are happy being in the harbour because the deep ocean called life scares them, baffles them and puzzles them. They neither have the intensity nor the courage to wade through the water. No wonder then, happiness is now a massive industry with swanky malls and uber cool lifestyle stores putting up neon-lit banners pronouncing “Happiness sale —upto 70 per cent.”

Anything and everything is ‘timepass’ for these people. So no matter how much they pester you for advice (free) or suggestions on everything right from food, travel destinations, hair color  to serious issues like relationship/ job, they will in the end do what they want to (nothing really wrong in doing so). The wise person in me now stays away from giving any advice/suggestion/ information to people (unless I am emotionally close to the person). Anyway, I have neither time nor inclination to give competition to justdial.com or  Psychology Today.

Most people don’t think that you have to mean what you say. Words are just like loose canons for them. Commitment is just a figment of imagination. So, they put up FB staus updates on the brutal Delhi gang-rape case and shed copious tears in the virtual world on December 31 morning and party hard in the evening as if there’s no tomorrow.  The New Year Eve party must happen. Life is just a hyphen without that.

The morale of the story is:  Life’s much simpler and lighter if you just don’t take them seriously.

Rishtey

It’s 9.30am. I am on my way to office. My mobile rings. I pick up the call. The voice is one of my favourite person’s. I don’t know why but we still talk a lot about tea especially when we talk in the  morning (‘Had tea’/ Still having my tea’/Remember the tea you bought for me from Cottage Emporium/ You haven’t made tea for me for a long time). May be it’s the hangover from our university days where our universe circled around endless cups of tea.

After tea, our conversation moved to the aggression of news channels while reporting the recent Pakistan-India soldiers’ brutal killing. We talk about compassion, empathy and the future of our nation state.

And then I ask him, “Can you spare Rs 3000/3500′ for buying me something?” Well, he has no choice but to listen to me. “Oh sure, what do you want?” I told him, “I want a salwar kameez from Delhi.” And then in the same breath, I added, “Listen, you know my taste na. Don’t buy those Muslim kind of clothes. No zari fari. Something subtle and classy.” He replied back coolly, “Na, don’t worry. When I go to the shop I will tell them, “Bhaiya, please show me some Hindu clothes.” I laughed and told him, “Better if you can tell him, Hindu by birth but Buddhist by thought and action.”

There’s a point why I am writing this blog. He’s a Musilm and we have known each other for long long years (I feel scared to go back on Time Machine). In between us, we have seen India gone through the horrors of Babri Masjid demolition, Mumbai riots, bomb blasts in Delhi, 2002 Gujarat riots, 26/11 Mumbai attack and Batla House encounter. Our relationship has gone through many ups and downs. But the innate sense of friendship between us has always been triumphant in the end.

There have been never a moment of discomfort in our relationship when large parts of India were/are riding high on anti-Muslim emotions. We are no torch-bearers of secularism in this country. I love my share of spiritual thoughts in the form of reading a bit of Osho or Jiddu Krishnamurthy. Once in a while I chant a little too. I don’t think he has ever prayed like a devout Muslim.

We have kept the humor alive all these years.  We have kept our faith in the fabric of an intimate human bond. Not succumbing to man-made differences. Though once in a while, we do indulge in stereotypes during conversations as it happened today morning. But that’s the beauty of our rishta. I hope, it stays that way. InshAllah.

(Forgive me, If I sound a little Bollywoodish in the end).         

I must let him go…

My friend says, “Deepika, let him go. Don’t cling to him.” It’s true that  I have been clinging to my father since he passed away on January 3, 2011. It has been two years but I just can’t let him go. I know where I am not going right.

Not a single day passes when I don’t long for him. Very very Intensely. The word ‘pining’ has taken over my existence. I still can’t go into his room without feeling the numbing pain of a sharp knife cutting through my heart. I don’t enjoy now going back to Bhubaneswar as my home now reminds me of what I don’t have. Rather than what I have.

But then as my friend says, “I must let him go.” It’s time to liberate him from the cycle of life, death and attachment. Till he rests in peace, I can’t. It’s vice versa too, I feel. I need to be liberated from this cycle of attachment.

I also understand that by clinging to him in desperation, I am not being able to enjoy all the wonderful memories of growing up under his love, care and guidance. I went to Delhi thrice in the last two years in search of rediscovering the magical memories I had of my father. Memories of us enjoying delicious Chinese meals at Golden Dragon. Memories of us doing endless shopping at Sarojini Nagar Market. Memories of us enjoying endless cups of tea at Orissa Bhawan where he used to stay during his visits to Delhi. But I just couldn’t remember anything. I feel as if my mind has become a blank slate.

It’s true that suffering, illness and pain takes over happiness and pleasant memories. The power of pain is overwhelming.

But  at the same time, I realise that it’s time to let him go. Till that happens, I can’t revel in happy memories. Now that all I can afford is memories, why not cherish and revel in them.

Post Script: “At the temple, there is a poem called “Loss”, carved into the stone. It has three words…but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read “Loss”… Only feel it.”