Beyond the Obvious

To a poet, everything in life means something. A dead grass is symbolic to a fallen fighter, after having weathered a war. A green grass is symbolic to a downtrodden class, oppressed under the feet of more powerful, nevertheless showing unbreakable spirit to revive at dawn. To a realist, a grass is a grass, dead or green. A realist sees life,with all it cruelties. A poet sees a beautiful life. I tried to be a poet all my life (to explain crudely, someone who could rhyme short sentences). But somewhere along, the realist in me took over.

 Being a religious illiterate, visits to temple for me was more of an excursion than anything else. I don't know if it pleased God, but it pleased my mother. There was this young guy whom I always saw on Saturdays at the temple. He never went inside, just stared on from where the stairs began. First time I saw him , he looked an average 20 something, probably staring at a pretty face. I too followed his line of sight, only to be disappointed. He was staring at the deity.

On subsequent visits, I couldn't help but notice him. He never went inside. He wasn't accompanying anyone. He didn't come to pray. Didn't look like a beggar either. He looked a man aloof from this world, probably an atheist, in some sort of competition with God. Or perhaps, was in some serious trouble, came for favour or forgiveness , but his ego didn't allow him to bow before anyone else( so what, if it was God himself). Or perhaps, he was a writer and staring at God filled him with positive energy and inspired great creativity. Perhaps I had overstretched my imagination on the last one. Whatever it was , this guy was not normal. Maybe someone betrayed him, he was expecting some payback.

I finally decided to  ask him. I was just hoping  he doesn't break down while narrating his sad story. Yes, his was definitely a sad story. I decided I would keep strong, give him the strength and support he needs. I was prepared to be the dumping box he so needed to relieve himself of sadness, that this cruel world had put him through. I would give him hope, God wanted me to play messiah to him. I needed to ask him. So I gathered all strength and approached him.

I looked him in eye.
 "Ka bhai, roj aise hi.  Kya hua?"
He looked around. I got a sinking feeling he wont answer me. I asked again.
"Batao batao, Kya dekhte rehte ho"?"
"Mauka dekhtein rehtein hain. Jeb kat te hain". ( " I am a pickpocket" )
The world suddenly came crashing down on me.
" Thulla ko bata dein?"
"Aap nahi bataeinge. Pata hai humko"

He slowly smiled and walked away. I never saw him again, not on Saturdays, or any other day. I still find it hard to believe what he said. Was he so disturbed that he committed suicide?  Unlikely. I probably need to take myself off. I hate to listen to it, but something inside tell me, "Dude, it was so obvious".  I was never meant to be a poet.

Life and its reasons are simpler than what it seems. Cheers.


PS : Originally written for http://campusdiaries.com/stories/beyond-obvious . Website by a friend. Do visit.

Growing Up: A Spiritual Suicide

The concept of 'growing up' has always fascinated me. As I apply it to myself; I am constitutionally mature enough to marry(21+), my elder sister still often refers to me as 'baby' and my mother still gives me instructions like ''chalti gadi mei se haanth bahar mat karna''.( Of course, the pompous 'me' thinks very high of myself ).  So how does it happen? We all age. Only few of us grow up. Growing up is a bit of an enigma. We never will know what it exactly is. As I see around, the schema of grown ups scares me. Responsibility  thrusted upon rather than taken up, fake camaraderie for selfish gains, compromises and sacrifices. In a sense, growing up requires one to give up on oneself, life turned into a show to please others. This sort of 'growing up' doesn't appeal, unfortunately practiced by most, the code of civility  excessively formalized.

Societies has rules for themselves. Individuals too ( if not, should have). Often, they might be in conflict, but the societal  rule prevails. Adhering to the societal rules by individuals is seen as more acceptable. The stigma of 'rebel' is a big deterrent.( Here I am talking about the real rebels, not the rockstar 'saada haq' types). When you are young, the rebel tag seems acceptable, as we grow up, somehow, the society gains the upper hand. My teacher in  school once said something that truly affected me ( she said that while defending complains against me) , ''We must accept people with their faults''. Accepting one's own weakness is tough. Our discomfort with our own faults makes us forego rules that we set for ourselves, embracing the rules society sets, so as to appear more acceptable, camouflaging our weakness. This phenomenon is sold to us as 'Growing up' and maturing. It actually is spiritual suicide.

I am a believer in absolute freedom. My idea of life is probably radical, and I have no intention of propagating it, simply because it may not be correct. Yes, at my age ,  I can live it my way, but the very thought of surrendering my philosophy for something more acceptable is scary. I would definitely age, and would want to grow up and mature, but as I want to be, not as the world wants me to be. Perhaps, that would not be possible. In that case, I would rather never grow up, and have my mother give those cute little instructions all my life :).

 Cheers.

Misplaced Joy? Maybe Not!

I was coming off a long break. Coma of sorts; no life , just alive. A bad broken marriage, alcohol addiction, minor health breakdown, long and painful rehabilitation thereafter. Anyways, my bad days are behind me. I am a happy man again,  at least, trying to be. I wanted to escape out to a new place. So I applied at a few places, finally got selected for this job in this backward state small town.
This is the first time I have come to a place so remote. This town is fresh, well off and well equipped. My flat was next to my colleagues'. His wife was very welcoming. She served me breakfast and tea at her flat.
"Aye Ravan jee, suniye...... isko aap apna hi ghar samjhiyee......kuch bhi chahiye hoga, humko boliyegaa, samjhe gaye naa".
She was comforting, laughing along as if she had known me for ages. She was talkative, asked me a lot of questions.
" Aur parivar- mehraaru kab laa rahein hain". She asked. I smiled.
"Nahi hai". I replied
"Arre haan!! ye bataye the ki talaaq ho chuka hai". She said.
That was innocently rude.It got a bit uneasy. She looked sad as she said it. It looked genuine. I soon settled among them. Everyone around called her ''bhabhi". She was such a sweetheart, very nice and caring . I too started calling her "bhabhi". I was settling well in this new town, new life, new house.
Next morning, I left for office early, so couldn't have my breakfast. I punched my attendance, saw around the office, nobody was there. I went out to have my breakfast. A roadside tea stall was very close by. A boy, about 10,  was serving there. I sat there for a few minutes. He came to me.
"Kya loge sahab?"
"Dosa laa do". He went to the other customers. He looked playful, was agile, artificially well-mannered in asking customers. I observed him. He came back to serve me.
"Naam kya hai?". I asked
" Buddhhun".
"School jaate ho?"
"Haan, dopahar mein khaawe laa jaatein hain"
"Ghar mein aur kaun kaun hai?"
"Maa hai. Kuch kaam nahi karti. Deen bhar taari pikar par jaati hai"
"Aur pitaji?"
"Arre oo to nahi hai. khoob daaru pee liya tha uske baad dam chal gaya ghume laa.. wahiniye paneeye mein palat gayaa.". He laughed while saying the last words. It was funny to him. He went on to serve others.
I left the stall feeling hollow. I couldn't understand what it was. I had thought I would try to explain him the importance of going to school. I decided against, he wouldn't understand. Its unfair to expect him to understand, he doesn't know when he will get to eat next, will he even get to eat next,  maybe it was a crime to give him hope, a hope for a better life. Maybe he just didn't want a better life, his own was too good for him, laughing playing around. What sort of man laughs while telling perhaps the most tragic event of his life. Insensitive, insane, irresponsible. Too harsh , he was just a kid. His story was sad, he was poor, it made me feel sorry for him. But he wasn't asking for it, he wasn't using his sad life as an excuse. He was fighting it out.  I felt strange, I just couldn't decide what I felt for him.
As I walked back, I took a glance at him. He was busy, didnt seem to care. Maybe his was indeed a better life. He could laugh through his sorrows, if at all he felt them. I had made myself feel terrible over a broken marriage, which was bad anyway. When comparing his sufferings to mine, I just thought,  was I even suffering? Surely it wasn't worth it. I decided to be happy. For the kid, he was enjoying himself.  For myself, I had a life to live.



PS: This happens to be my 25th post. Took me 3 and a half years. Despite not being naturally gifted as a writer, I am glad I have continued for so long. Some of the best compliments I have received have been from unknown people ( mostly surprised at the disconnection between my age and content). One such is attached below (not the only one though, excuse me for self-patting).

I thank everyone, who has ever had patience to go through my scriblings. I value it. It feels nice. Cheers.