The Curious Pair

Something unusual happened last week. Well, at least it seemed unusual to me.

I was traveling back from work in a bus. Headphones popped in, I was reading a book, my bag resting on the empty seat next to me. The bus was characteristically less crowded as there was still an hour before the day ended for normal workers.

At the stop at India Gate a small group of people boarded the bus. Among them was a girl dressed in a black jacket with her hair tied in a ponytail. She seemed to be a little older than me. I reluctantly picked up my bag to make place for her. She zipped her jacket higher as the November wind was getting chillier in the evening. I noticed she was not alone. A man, little younger than my grandfather, with white hair and wrinkled face accompanied her. It was curious to see that he was dressed in denim pants and a denim cut sleeved jacket beneath which he wore a white t shirt. I smiled at the rarity of seeing a man his age standing so erect in a Delhi bus dressed in clothes generally supported by men half his age. I instantly took a liking to him and by extension, his companion. I have always liked old people who like to keep their youthful energy alive. Satisfied with my little survey of the crowd, I returned my attention to the mystery novel in my hand. I caught snippets of their conversations in between two songs on my phone. They seemed to be having a discussion in English. Well, that matched with my observation about the old man.

The next day the same pair boarded the same bus as me. We exchanged glances and I returned to my book.  I smiled noticing that they looked exactly as they had the day before, wearing the exact same clothes and the exact same expression. As Simon and Garfunkel crooned to the end of the song, I thought I heard the girl say 'Leonardo Da Vinci'. By this time I was losing interest in the predictable book. So, I turned down the volume of the music and tried to eavesdrop on their conversation for fun. They seemed to be discussing something about an acquaintance of theirs who had something to do with European Art. I must admit I could not follow the conversation for a good part. So I turned volume back up.

I took the next day off and returned to work the day after. On the way back, as it would happen, the same pair, same as ever, hopped on the bus and stood next to me. This time I stared at them with my mouth open. I am sure the girl recognized me too, but she simply turned away and they both resumed a discussion which the arrival of the bus had paused. If I was a person of a little more importance I would have thought this to be a murderous conspiracy against me. And if I were a little older and lonesome, I would have figured this to be a play of my imagination. As neither was the case, I turned my full attention to the conversation of these tangible beings standing next to me. This time the discussion revolved around world politics.

Then came the weekend. On Monday, I looked out of the bus's window at India Gate, expecting the man and the girl to be there. They weren't. Disappointed I continued with the book. For some reason, the two interested me deeply. There was nothing extraordinary about them. Yet, they amazed me. I wanted to know more about them. Who were they? How were they related? What did they do among all these government offices? Why those discussions? I scolded myself for wanting to be nosy.

Today was my last day at work. And I still found myself looking outside the window at India Gate, wondering where those two were. 

Hear Hear! We have a Year!

Five Hundred twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes, Five Hundred Twenty Five thousand moments so dear…

Five Hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes, and we have ourselves an entire year. Anxious with anticipation, second doubting every decision, I left home in pursuit of a dream I wasn't sure of. Today, it has been a year since then and life couldn't be better.

My first year in college brought with it a number of other “first”s. It all started with my first train ride (one year later I have lost count of them), then came the first time I danced in the rain (such was my ignorance that I failed to follow the post rain ritual to the end that I fell sick for 2 days). Also in the list are first time I ate malpuha (YUM!!) and my favorite so far, my first fall from riding a bicycle (Confession: I still can’t ride a bicycle…yes I know, shame on me). Oh and one more! First time I saw a band live in action.

Law school can be a very dull place to be in. One week into the semester and the campus already resembles a zombie refugee camp. Feet dragging, eyes drooping and (in some cases) mouth drooling, student zombies lumber to slog in the library. The non-student zombies enjoy 55 minutes of feasting on remnants of  80 brains from smarter days of pre-law education era. The nocturnal existence commences. Imagination and creativity quickly get lost somewhere in the black and white lines of rigid reason.

And yet I find myself congratulating myself on my decision. When a person who was accustomed to a life of self dictated discipline and solitude finds him/herself in the constant company of a hundred others with completely different ideas that govern their lives, s/he is bound to introspect in retrospect. This, more often than not, leads to rediscovery and ultimately development of the self. I am not saying this happened to me. I am not saying it didn't. All I know is that as each day passes I fall in love with me more and more. Yes, my self love has grown to a creepy extent. Credit goes to quite a few people here.

Academically too things have evolved. Last summer IPC was very conveniently assumed to mean 'Indian Police Commissioner'. And now, it refers to an ancient document consisting of 511 ways in which your life can legally be ruined. Law has more or less treated me well. Breaking the NCERT chant did take some effort but time is a patient teacher. Moreover, at the cost of my English skills, I seemed to have acquired a reasonable amount of curiosity (to the effect that I have started following news.) Although, even time and experience can't change some things. Since joining here, I have mooted 4 times. My opinion regarding it is still the same as it was before. (remember Hoot Shoot ? )

In short, things are interesting. My "usual consorts", "colleagues", "islands", or as I prefer, "friends" ensure that. The question of becoming a lifeless zombie does not even arise with them aroud. And how can it when north India meets south India in a room in west India which is occupied by east India? All you get from this mayhem is 5 unforgettable years, unaffected by whatever destiny holds in store at the other end.

After Lights Out

The sound of applause fills the hall. The crowd cheers in admiration of the performance, revering at the skill with which their hearts had been stirred, wondering about the world they had momentarily been transported to, reflecting on the twists and turns and rejoicing at the happy end. The cast assembles on the stage in a straight line and with a united jerk bends low in a graceful bow. The curtain slowly falls down upon their smiling faces. The people, pleased by the evening well spent, file out of the hall and within 15 minutes the place which had been roaring with sound for the past 90 minutes, becomes dead silent. The last sound that is heard here is that of the clicking off of the stage lights.

Backstage, the usual hustle-bustle can be observed. The two producers exchange delighted grins, satisfied with another full house’s collection. It has been a good start so far and if the sales continue at this rate this could turn out to be their highest selling show in a long time. They toast to celebrate.  One celebrates at the prospect of repaying the loan which he had taken for an unsuccessful endeavor.  The other celebrates the new luxurious watch that will earn him jealous looks tomorrow. Merrily, they walk to the parking lot.

Back in the green room, the cheerful spirit seeps in. However, the reason for the spark in the eyes of the male lead extends beyond tonight’s show which, by the way, was one of his best. Tonight, he was going to have dinner with his fiancé. Yes! She had finally said “yes” earlier that evening. No wonder his emotions came out so real on the stage. All he had to do was picture that moment in his eyes.

The female lead, on the other end of the room, sits in front of the mirror and gently wipes out the makeup from her face, conscious of its beauty and the effect it had on people around her. A few feet away stands the girl’s “mother” from the play. In the mirror she sees her past reflected. She wonders whether to laugh at life’s play or weep at its tricks. She settles, defeated, for wishing for a better future for the girl than what her own past had been. She hopes that the youthful fire that radiates from her skin does not get extinguished by the hands of those in this cold world who seek to sell her beloved treasure at the price that she alone bears, till a day comes when she is forced to question the true worth of it all.

The “loyal sidekick” rests on the couch. His eyes closed, head bent back to the wall, a passerby would think he is sleeping after the day’s work. The truth is, the man sits in anticipation. He awaits a call from the producers of the movie for which he had auditioned last week. This could be his big break. In his heart he has always known that his true destiny lies on the big screen. His left leg shakes in impatient nervousness.

The rest of the supporting cast, true to their roles, scurry in the background. Their presence, here too, significant only to the bringing out of the scene. Well at least, they get to have a presence. Where would they be without this? It is hard out there for an artist. 

Weary of the routine the crew rushes with its daily work. They are eager to finally go back home and get the night’s sleep. For them, it is always the same schedule. The costumes change, the venues change, the actors come and go, the shows sell or flop. For them, it is always the same. All this simply boils down to their salary cheque at the end of the month. They were not the profit earning producers. Theirs was not an art for display to the world. Whatever dreams their eyes might have once held had shimmered their way out to the light bulbs above the stage. 

Just like the audience, these people disperse in a while and return to their reality. After the lights out, not a living soul is to be seen in this magnificent hall. Not a sound disturbs whatever ghosts of art-lovers that may be occupying the rows of seats. Darkness creeps in every corner. But even that hides nothing more than what the lights reveal. 

The Hills Were Alive With The Sound Of Music

"You live in a plastic dream through a plastic card
But reality you don't disregard
You know that it's true
You got a plastic goal in a plastic life
Gotta search your soul gotta make it right
And here's what you do-do-do"


On this occasion of Miss Alanis Morissette's birthday, I dedicate these lyrics to all the big-time music producers out there.
There was once a time when the start of my day would be marked by the cock-a-doodle-doo of my ancient Boombox and I would fall asleep to the crooning of some late night shows on the radio. Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be reluctant to turn this same Boombox on thanks to the “music” that these radio stations play. Thrice, today itself, did I shut it off, disappointed by what I heard.

It is the age of evolution in music business. The trade off between real art and real money has made life very easy for artists and producers. Since creativity and artistic individuality have bowed their way off stage and EDM and associated Pop have danced their way in, getting a platinum selling song is a feat easily achievable. A basic rhythm, a rap artist speaking some clichéd words (usually about a drunk night), a hot-on-the-charts pop artist featuring in the chorus. Couple it with a hot controversial music video that has nothing to do with the song whatsoever, but includes excellent graphics that earn it a million views on youtube. There! You have yourself a smash hit! Now sit back and enjoy as you wipe off all the MTV awards next year. And don’t worry, the year after that, everybody will forget the song so you can start all over again and roll in money. So what if the lesser mortals, like me, find themselves incapable of distinguishing one song from the other? It’s not like we will miss out on some important message or lyrics that will inspire a major change in our lives.

If this technique fails, God forbid that day, then there is always Plan B. Get hold of Justin Beiber and Taylor Swift (The JaTS). Or some other teenage sensation that goes around singing timeless love song or another party anthem. The lyrics, and not to forget the accompanying video, will warm your heart with their pureness and innocence. Itne uch vichaar hain inke! Jai Ma Nicki Minaj!

Meanwhile, us mere mortals, are unable to escape this sound of modernity. These songs are like the chewing gum that gets stuck to the sole of your shoe. No matter how hard you try to shake it off, it follows you relentlessly till the time you give up and accept it as a part of your life.

We can only console ourselves with our old collections while sitting on our rocking chairs and reflecting on those songs which had lyrics with actual meaning, with actual melody, produced by actual instruments and vocals given by actual artists performed live in front of actual fans. However, it is most likely that we’ll fail. This is because, without the assistance of an eye-opening video or an elaborate dance routine on the stage, our minds drift away to become one with that of the artist seeing the world which they through their music wanted to show. And more often than not, by the end of the song, we’ll find ourselves smiling with our eyes closed at the memory of a moment when that song had managed to stir the perfect emotion in us in a situation in the distant past. The moment when that song became a part of our lives.

There are others. Those who refuse to bow down to what is believed to be popular demand. Those who refuse to sell out or play by the terms of the boss. Also there are those, who through their rap or even electronic music get stuck to the soul of the people. However, success (as it is usually recognized) evades them quite often. Only the exceptions make up the 10 ear friendly songs among the top 100.

Perhaps there will come a day when the uniformly plastic looking people listening to uniformly plastic music will do some soul searching and make good the wrong they did by supporting those who do what they do. There was a time when boy bands made music that defined generations, dance music gave us songs that till day make us groove, love songs gave us love stories that inspired us, and soulful music that made our eyes fill up with emotion. Perhaps there will come a day when music producers will be able to incorporate the essence and life of these in their products. Perhaps not.

Those who love music and not just songs, will find their refuge in the strings of some stranger whose heart is filled with sounds that pierce another impassive heart into action, even though their stomachs might remain empty. And maybe the voice of a solitary reaper in their heart they'll bear, till the time it is heard everywhere,

Breathtaking Delhi – quite literally?

Never in my dreams would I have thought that the city to which I belong would be of any significance to me, let alone it being the defining component in people’s opinions of me. Yet I spent one whole semester in a potpourri of cultures, hearing the same sentences over and over again. “Are you from Delhi? You don’t look like it. ” Ab main sar par tag laga ke ghoomun kya ‘Made in Delhi’? Anyway these were the nice observations I heard about my relation with the city. Well, that is how I like to see it anyway. One other was “When I was first introduced to you I never thought we’d ever speak again, you know with you being from Delhi and all.” I certainly did not know. But the one that took me by surprise the most was “People in Delhi are crooks, criminals, immoral, arrogant, spoilt, narcissistic, selfish …” and you get the general idea. On further inspection I discovered that it was not an individual opinion. In fact, a large part of the Hostel population agreed and moreover added adjectives to the above list. If I was offended by the earlier remarks, it was nothing as compared to what I felt after this inspection. A cannon of insults on their cities (all based on real facts…well mostly at least) almost fired from my mouth, when I caught myself just in time. I did not want to get into this blame game. Wasn’t I raised to believe that your city, looks, language and other such ascribed identities were indeed kind of pointless to begin with? Didn’t education dictate that these identities and their corresponding stereotypes hold no place in today’s cosmopolitan world? For the fear of getting into a fruitless argument (a fear that was coupled with the fear of the numbers against me) I dropped the point.

Then came the fateful December of 2012. The national capital was left scarred forever, its history blackened while its future appeared bleak. The Delhi gang rape pierced the heart of every Indian. Eyes filled with despair, fists clenched with fury, people took to the streets. However, this did not stop other similar incidents to find their place in the morning headlines. Nevertheless the struggle for justice and the fight for a safer future for women continue even today.

As expected the bitter accusations returned in an increased vigor, supported by this fresh fuel. Now all Delhites became inhuman rapists. Silence aur education gaye ghaas charne! I’ve had enough!

Sure Delhi has had its huge share of wide ranging crimes. Agreed that it is not safe for girls to walk alone on streets in broad daylight. What you forget though is that it is only one section of the people that cause this mayhem, a phenomenon which is prevalent everywhere. A few a**h**** that deserve to be publically whip lashed carry out their revolting actions in every place but in different ways. They are the parasites that having once infected the land, try to suck out all hope and humanity.

But if you start to consider every single person who has had the misfortune to have had perhaps shared the same metro, bus, restaurant etc with these people, no wait, these fungi, to be like them, then sorry to say you need a brain scan. Trust me, it would do you and the rest of the world loads of good.

If instead of wasting your limited faculties on looking for new demeaning adjectives for Delhi in the dictionary, you had spent some time reflecting objectively on the matter you would have noticed that the issue is not about a particular region at all! It is about the ENTIRE SOCIETY. In the ENTIRE COUNTRY. In fact, the ENTIRE WORLD. Some general knowledge would tell you that some parts of the country have low sex ratio; others have gender inequalities in educational levels. Some parts of the world dictate women on what to wear; others may judge them on the color of their hair.
And these can be changed only by the people, the society and most importantly the “rational, educated and tolerant” youth. But sensing that some of these reign holders are suffering from pitiable narrow-mindedness, I am left in gloom.

Regionalism is stupid. Finding refuge in blaming is stupider. I do not seek to defend Delhi by speaking of its past glories or by pointing out the follies of others. That would make me the stupidest. Delhi may be overcrowded, "breathtakingly" polluted and unsafe, but no one suffers it more than the people who experience it. Yet we hold our heads high in face of cruel scrutiny by fellow Indians, simply because Delhi is home.