Fiction - Smoke Screen

He slid his hand into his pocket and lit up a smoke. Had it not been for the acrid smell that hit her all of a sudden, she would not have even noticed! This wasn’t one of his usual moments…she pondered. In the last three days he has only reached for a cigarette after meals. She had found his postprandial pangs unusual even when she saw him light up the very first time. That’s a strange habit! She had felt the urge to ask him about it then, but had held herself back. They had barely known each other and what if he took it wrong?

She stole a glance at him just to confirm that he was actually smoking, and quickly turned away…continuing to watch life outside as visible from the auto rickshaw in which they were travelling. Absorbing the sights and sounds that hit her consciousness, at some level she tried to identify the character of that place. Nothing that could set it apart! They could have been traveling through any other town and it would have still felt the same.

The image of him holding the cigarette elegantly between his fingers wafted before her eyes. Her gaze fixed at the buzzing activity that surrounded them, she wondered …there was something about him that was very unlike what she had imagined of a typical man. The way he moved his slender fingers, the manner in which he sat cross legged at the edge of the bed but most of all his sensibilities. Effeminate was not the right word to describe him. Perhaps a man in touch with his anima.

What was the trigger for that light?....she asked.

He looked at her bewildered not having a context to what she had been thinking.

That light…she suggested with her eyes….what was the trigger for that?

He mumbled a few indiscernible words before saying… Ummm. Just boredom…and drew in some more nicotine. She was not entirely convinced by his explanation but decided not to pursue the matter any further. Time moved at an unusual pace that evening. It was difficult to judge how many minutes had lapsed though the passage of time was evident by the fact that the auto rickshaw they were travelling in - had covered a certain distance.

Do you smoke?…he inquired of her.

This time she was cornered into silence not knowing what to say. A part of her wanted to reach for the cigarette in his hand and take a drag. Though the last time she had held one to her lips was seven years ago! What if she had forgotten how to smoke….lost the knack of holding it? What if she inhaled and her lungs rejected the fumes? Would that make her seem like a rookie? Though there was something so alluring about the very thought…of experiencing that heady rush…brought about partly by nicotine and partly the sheer act of bonding over a cig.

Why did you ask me that? She answered his question with another - still wondering to herself – had he not noticed in the three days they had spent together that she does not?

Ummm…nothing…he mumbled again - mumbling was the defense he used against confrontation.

She stared outside yet again….thinking whether the reality they would live and experience ahead could have turned out any different had she nonchalantly taken a fag.

He…wondered to himself…whether he did the right thing by resorting to the warmth of a cigarette to break the ice between them.

Rings of smoke filled the air…as she watched him from the corner of her eye – and made a mental note. Must practice smoking…to make the most of moments like these!

The Healer

He listens…compassionately
Reaches out
Touches people’s lives
A wandering nomad
He comforts
Those he finds around him
A sponge…
He absorbs negative energies from the universe
Offering in return
Strength and Solace

He listens…compassionately
And has forgotten how to speak

Reaches out…
Yet travels inwards

Touches people’s lives
But yearns to be touched

A wandering nomad
He comforts those he finds around him
Though is trying to find his way home

A sponge…
He absorbs negative energies from the universe
I wonder...whether he rids himself of those
And how he soaks in more

Offering in return… strength & solace
Though - what do you think keeps him from crumbling inside?

Memoirs of Surat

We land at the airport which is all of 3 luggage trolleys, 1 bus to ferry passengers between the tarmac and the terminal, 1 aircraft (which happens to be the only one that lands and takes off after 30 mins from that place, in the day) and about 50 or more people standing buy the fence watching the aircraft land ! I wonder where these people have come from and what they are doing there - bang in the middle of the day - since the airport is about 4 kms away from the city and at a place which feels like the 'middle of nowhere'. As far as I can gaze in any direction I only see vast empty stretches of land...growing weeds. Weeds that sway with the force of the wind that comes with the aircraft taking off or landing. Outside of that time, everything around that place is still and quiet! Something about this whole place and experience makes me feel I have alighted from a space ship and not an aircraft. Ladies and gentlemen...welcome to Surat ! It has been just about six months that the airport has been operational so its only fair to give them some time to settle down, though what beats me is that the departure lounge - with place for exactly 15 people to sit and little room for expansion from what one can see. How could someone miss something so obvious. Even as of today at anytime there could be more than 15 people at a time in the lounge and we're not even talking about scaling up for the future !

Outside the space station meant for 15, I see the road to the city dotted with grey grim looking buildings, most of them with cracks running through the facade in a criss cross pattern, interspersed by colourful bright new shiny structures...the now ubiquitous malls ! The contrast creates a jarring landscape of sorts. I have often see people pose in front of malls getting themselves clicked with cellphones and have wondered why. Perhaps malls have become tourist destinations of the present day. We spend our weekends not at the park or by the beach but at a mall. In new city, when i ask people for recommendation on which places to visit, 3 out of the 5 on the list are malls. Its a sad reflection of how times have changed.

Going further I happen to spot a hoarding, with a woman bending backwards on what looks like gigantic puri, with the tag line in gujrati that says 'har bite mein wellness'. The product in question - Trupti...a local brand of oil I guess. Though what is striking is how English words have infiltrated everyday lingo even in smaller cities. On an earlier trip to Lucknow, I came across women from a relatively lower socio-economic strata using words like coaching, diet, solid during the course of conversation

My last memory of Surat is walking into the house of the couple I am supposed to interview. A well spoken, seemingly well off couple, though living in a house that bears the same muddy grey look as what I found in the rest of the city. Something quite does not feel right ! At the end of my interview, we accidentally get talking about the floods in Surat a year ago. The lady of the house recounts her experience....of the water gushing into the house with just 2 hours of rain.....of not being able to save anything nor prepare for this situation....of running on the upper floor of her house with just a pressure cooker and a bag of potatoes from the kitchen...of living up there for 4 days eating just boiled potatoes cooked with newspaper as fuel. She points to the mark on the wall, the mark that runs throughout the house dividing each wall into two shades of grey...remains there as a reminder of how much water had collected in there. Silt that has settled itself into nooks and corners of the house and obstinately refuses to go! Her story interrupted by sudden burst of crackers and street celebrations as India defeats Pakistan and takes home the world cup. Next morning the newspaper headlines...Surat celebrates an early Garba !

Canvas 2

The only color I saw on the canvas was white
The lines I drew did not a picture make
And a silence filled up the empty spaces
The canvas lay still un-spoilt!

Amritsar Diary

The SUV town
The first thing that struck me in Amritsar was the contradictory worlds that co-exist in that one place. When saw a hip 20 something in her tight three quarter jeans greet someone who looked like a stereotypical punjabi middle aged village woman, with an anglicized 'sat sri akaal'. Outside the airport, one can't help but notice the sheer number of SUVs plying on the road. Even if you were less attentive to vehicular traffic the loud punjabi music barring from inside these fuel guzzling monsters would catch your attention. The shiny new Taveras & Boleros share their road space with dusty, run down cycle rickshaws, the bajaj scooter from yesteryears and sometimes even tractors !

Push v/s Pull
Once inside, the town follows a circular path. To go from any point in the town to any other, one has to cross a short over bridge, or so it seems! It is easy to separate the outsiders from the native crowd at this point. They'd be the ones who'd give the cycle rickshaw driver a breather as he trudges with his vehicle up the bridge, walking behind him and sometimes even offering to help with a nudge, while the local punjabi women sit firmly atop - unaffected by his plight. With a smug look across their face they stare at the un-informed traveler who has offered to walk.

Golden temple at midnight !
I am not sure whether this is the only temple in India that is open all 24 hours. It certainly is the only one I know of! The crowd inside even as late as 10 pm is unimaginable. One would have to see it to believe it. There were easily a few 1000 people in there and that was not a festive day crowd. Langar (free food at the Gurdwara) is served to anyone who walks in. One of the locals there tells us - in big cities there would be many people sleeping hungry but in Amritsar I doubt anyone would go to bed on an empty stomach. People eat and even sleep inside the temple. Sitting alongside the sarovar (the water body that surrounds the sanctum) and watching the golden hues that reflect on pitch dark ripples, with the sounds of the gurbani reverberating in the background is a truly elevating experience !

A D-shaped well
Jallianwala Bagh does not reflect the character of place which once made history! It is more like a public park that one would find in an average Indian city with huge signboards at the entrance forbidding people from plucking flowers! The only reminders of the massacre - is the narrow lane at the entrance that prevented people from running out and the Well at one corner of the bagh which people jumped into, to protect themselves. Strangely the well is D-shaped unlike any others that I have seen. Covered with a rusty mesh an all sides it is difficult to look too deep into its gaping mouth. Though when cheeks pressed firmly against the mesh when one peeps in - you see at the bottom some shallow green water with coins glistening from beneath. I wonder what makes people throw coins in water bodies - and it is not just an Indian trait.

Marwari Dhaba
I had perceptions about Amritsar before visiting. I imagined a place with people having a strong gustatory orientation sipping thick lassi and eating tikkas at local dhabbas alongside the road. These are conspicuous by their absence. The only reflection of what might be people's food preferences here - is a sign board that announces - 'daily needs - kulcha and sweets'. We settle for a marwari dhaba for want of an alternative. Inside I see a predominantly south-Indian looking crowd. It is a disorienting feeling to be in the punjab heartland, at a marwari dhaba and see a south Indian populace! One look at the thaali and that explains it - for people visiting from the other end of the country a place that serves them rice, pickle, papad - would be a delight. Not to mention it is pure vegetarian ! The only thing missing was in their meal was the thair !

Desh Ka Brand

Pehle Desh ka namak...phir desh ki taakat (Parle G)...ab desh ka frooti !

I could tolerate Tata Namak saying it...Namak still had some historical symbolism associated with it - with Gandhi marching to Dandi, the humble salt was thrown into limelight. Then Parle G's hindustaan ki taakat was a bit of a stretch. At least the execution is not annoying. The Frooti ad really pressed all the wrong buttons!

The brand is a) fairly young to make that claim b) not even a staple, wholesome, rustic kind of product. Its a indulgent category and c) haven't we heard enough of desh ka yeh, desh ka woh

They could have at least saved the day with a better, more emotionally gripping execution...but no...they had to screw that up as well !

Hasn't enough been said and written already about our country brimming with diversity and contradictions? Very few things truly hold a pan Indian identity ! Given that, I wonder why brands try to become pan Indian and whether that really works for people?

What next...Desh ka Pepsi ?

Work-Life balance on the blog

Though it's a little late in the day to mention this...but what the heck !

I used to write about work related stuff on this blog earlier - but the few readers that i had here threatened to run away and in the interest of keeping the work-life balance (It's a different story that work has completely taken over life, blog and all else these days) on the blog - I decided to branch off into another one. Thus was born 'The Qualitative Research Blog'

So if you have come to this blog looking for stuff on market research, please go here

Thanks for dropping by.
Reshma

Lucknow 2 years hence...

Last week...work took me to Lucknow again after a gap of almost 2 years. As the flight descended on tarmac of the Amausi airport, I was reminded of my last visit. Not much has changed in 2 years...at least on the face of it. The small airport with its courteous staff still bears a deserted look for most part of the day.

Outside, the streets...dusty with the arid summer air. The retail revolution has spread its tentacles far and wide – we see visible signs of the arrival of hyper markets, in the conspicuous orange hoardings for Spencer’s that dot the arterial road which connects the twin cities of Lucknow and Kanpur.

This time around, talking to mothers about the aspirations they have for their kids, took me by surprise. They talked about the dreams they have for their daughters…about the daughter being considered an equal…not having to wait for her brother to finish eating before she was served…about the independence and freedom they have to move out and around in society…not just the opportunity to have a career but also the privilege to make the choice about what it should be. And as parents they no longer thought of putting their life savings only to fuel their son’s future as an heir to the family. Investment in a daughter’s education was as important – educating the girls in this generation is ensuring the upliftment of the next generation – this coming from women who belonged to the lower strata of society – was such a heartening thought.

I spent the rest of my day there with a smile - beaming across my face.

Perhaps in the years that have gone by another quiet revolution had started to take root in Lucknow.

Locked into contemplation

Its been more than 5 months since I last blogged. I owe this silence partly to the nomadic life I have been living since the past couple of years...and partly to the fact that I had started enjoying the silence....the feeling of quietly observing and experiencing without sensing an urge to express. I did not visit my blog page once in these last 5 months, gradually stopped looking at the site traffic and read blogs only occasionally. Blogging seems to be a consuming hobby...habit...whatever you call it. While you're at it...and the wheel is spinning....its difficult to stop...once it stops....it even more difficult to kick start it. Anyway...the silence would have continued - had today not happened.

Today, seemed like just any other day. I spent the day working and pottering around the house doing chores. A friend dropped by in the evening, we spent a few hours chatting and she left. I stepped out to see her off, checked whether I had my house keys before stepping out...checked again and slammed the door close. Returned after 2 mins to find that the key would not open the door. Several attempts later it still would not open. I asked a neighbour to check whether they could open it. They tried...we were still outside the locked door. I decided to call the security guard who mentioned that under such circumstances - the plumber in the building usually climbs over from the balcony in the adjacent flat to enter the locked flat. So while the security guard went down to fetch the plumber, I sat and sipped mango juice at my neighbour's house. Thoughts buzzing in my mind...why did i have this nagging feeling this would happen...I decided to walk out without my phone...i checked whether i had my keys...i did...then why is the door not opening...it felt like a quirk of fate....I gulped whatever was left of the mango juice and decided to go down and look for the plumber who was going to climb over the balcony.

Couldn't find the plumber. He was absconding. How could he not be there... I asked the security guard to go trace him. Meanwhile another security guard stepped forward and volunteered to try his luck with the key. His attempt failed. He said he would try to climb in from the neighbour's balcony if he considered it safe. I prodded him to go have a look. Before I knew it the man was doing a balancing act on 4 inches of space - 10 floors above ground level with no support below. I watched him as he inched ahead one step at a time. In a matter of minutes he had jumped into the balcony of my house and opened the jammed lock ! I thanked him and he left.

I stood in the balcony staring at the narrow ledge he had walked on. I wondered what would have happened had something gone wrong, would i have forgiven myself for allowing him to take the risk? I also, wondered what motivates people like him to risk their life to help someone...to go beyond their call of duty....and why i so easily 'expected' a plumber or a security guard to take that risk so that i could enter my apartment. Would I have risked my life - to help someone in need? maybe not ! Why then, did his life seem less important to my eyes...

Fiction - Ek Churchgate – Ek Mantralaya

Come 1 pm and Maharishi Karve Marg, an otherwise a quiet…tree lined street between Kalbadevi and VT, would come alive with the giggles and chatter of a junior year students making their way home. Unlike their senior counterparts, for them the end of lecture sessions meant the end of the day in college. The beeline of two and threes that formed at the college gate would split into two directions - close to the junction where many roads met. One path would take some of these college kids into the sub-urban middle class homes of andheri, borivali and beyond. The other led to finer homes and more fortunate lives at colaba & cuff parade. These two worlds co-existed within the college campus though seldom converged.

Amidst the swarm walked Nidhi and Ruhi - two forgettable characters all of 5 feet and 6 inches. Actually Nidhi was a tad taller yet people often confused their names. Forgettable since they were neither stunningly beautiful nor exceedingly quirky. One of the two criteria was a serious requirement if one wanted to get noticed in college – an ambition that neither of them harboured. They were content just being their normal selves. The two of them were amongst 8 others who occupied the last two benches on the extreme left of the large classroom. Farthest from the professor and closest to the window from where one could peek at the senior year classrooms. Nidhi would often sit facing the window…sketching. The gothic architecture of those buildings looked good even when captured on paper by an amateur artist. Ruhi, sitting beside her would steal a glance out of the window when the professor turned her back – to catch a glimpse of the senior year boys walking in and out of their classrooms. It was a rule – each day two of eight girls took upon themselves the task of jotting down lecture notes leaving the rest to doodle, play naughts and crosses and of course enjoy the view from the window. All this meant that the xerox wallahs at kalbadevi were a happy lot.

Though Nidhi and Ruhi had known each other for less than a year, people often mistook them to be childhood friends if not dizygotic twins. Its was not enough that they were always found hanging around together, thanks to the common first alphabet in their last names - their roll numbers followed one another too - 156 and 157. What was unbelievable was that they often ended up getting the same marks on tests although Nidhi’s handwriting was perfect – small, circular and evenly spaced. Though Ruhi's resembled what would appear on paper if baby rats ran across the page and left their droppings all over. At least that should have accounted for some difference in the way the professor evaluated their answer sheets. The professor always asked before handing over their exam sheets to them...'did you two copy again' - they would bother utter 'no maam' while at the same time looking at each other in shock.

Outside of the arches and foyers that symbolized life at St. Xavier's College, the world that Nidhi and Ruhi belonged to, sat at two ends on the continuum of bi-polar opposites. If one peaked into life from Nidhi's end of the continuum one would find a suburban, lower middle class Hindu home, a mother who worked at a government office to afford education for her children. Pocket allowance of 75 rupees a week, 50 of which were spent on bus fare alone leaving the rest for an occasional cup of coffee at the canteen or a rarer splurge on unbranded clothes at fashion street. On the other hand Ruhi's world comprised a large Muslim family of 6 & their 2 servants - housed in an even larger house which stood on one of the most expensive pieces of real estate that Bombay city had to offer. A 360 degree view from the balcony of that palatial house would throw back glimpses of high rises in Bombay's business district, the old university and high court buildings across the oval maidan, the white dome of the sachivaalaya and dalal street in the distance. They occupied the entire 4^th floor!

Like most others, they would walk the distance from the college gate to the traffic crossing together where they would split and continue their journey back to their divergent lives. Ruhi would look for a bus / cab outside Metro Cinema while Nidhi made her way to Marine Lines station passing by Irani coffee houses atop which stood old wooden buildings waiting to crumble.
On some days Ruhi would impulsively ask Nidhi to join her and Nidhi would agree. Waiting at the bus-stop they'd chat endlessly about the respective men in their lives - a senior year boy that Nidhi liked and Ruhi's childhood crush. The conversations about ‘will he - wont he’ would be interrupted by the regular arrivals of the dusty red BEST buses. You know I am meeting him at a family dinner this...Come, come, come that’s our bus. Ruhi was perhaps one of those few people who could say two completely unconnected things in the same breath. Once inside, on the cue of the tick tick sound made by the ticket conductor's instrument, Ruhi would open her wallet while trying to hold on to Nidhi to keep her balance and give a handful of coins to the conductor - too lazy to count the exact amount needed. Ek churchgate...ek mantralaya she said and continuing her conversation about her dinner that evening while the conductor gave them disgruntled looks and handed over their tickets and the remaining change. Sometimes they'd add up the digits on the serial number of the bus tickets till they arrived at a 2 digit number - which would then be checked for which alphabet it stood for...'S' who do i know whose name starts with 'S' who is thinking of me? At other times they'd indulge in mindless giggle as the bus took sharp turns near Flora Fountain and Churchgate with the two trying to balance themselves. That short, less than 5 minute, bus journey meant some more happy times together and that Nidhi did not have to walk in the scorching afternoon sun to the railway station. Even that extra bus ride costing 1.50 paise was a luxury considering her meagre pocket money. In the two years that they spent together in college Ruhi treated Nidhi to many more. Bus rides, movie tickets, pizza and unlimited cups of Nescafe from the dispenser at the canteen. For every 25 or so cups of coffee Ruhi bought for the both of them, Nidhi would buy two and sometimes when Ruhi was short of money she'd ask Nidhi for a buck or ten. But no one kept accounts and there was never a sense of discomfort about this. Not the first time Ruhi said 'ek churchgate - ek mantralaya' and not today…15 years hence.

Thank you arpana for the picture

Differentiating between the event & the outcome

I heard about the first sport's event that my 3 year old niece participated in, recently. I was curious to know her reactions and feelings post the event. I was told that she actually did not connect the prize she won to the race! She thought she's getting a gift!

I instinctively smiled as I read that, then paused and reflected. There was a lesson there in what she did, for me.

As I look at things as an adult - an 'event' and its 'outcome' are inseparable in my mind. We are taught as children through the method of reward and punishment to repeat good behaviour and keep away from naughty deeds. The act getting linked to the reward probably sets in a cycle in motion. As we grow older we learn to predict the pay-offs associated with events, and our focus of attention is divided as much on the effort to make the event possible as it is on the pay-off, if not more. Focusing on the pay-off in turn breeds a sense of competition, a feeling of expectation and a preoccupation with the 'self'.

Breaking out of the expectation of a pay-off is a truly liberating experience. It is probably what an artist or a sportsman would feel, lost in the depths of his performance or game where the outside world and its rules cease to matter. The thought in itself exudes beauty, the feeling worth striving for!

In my effort to strive for this feeling of bliss and unlearn some of the behaviour that comes in the way, I will remember this - there are no prizes, just gifts and gifts can come my way any time and in any shape! Enjoying an experience is in itself the gift.

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On a related note - while writing this post I pondered over the word 'adulterate' - To make impure by adding extraneous, improper, or inferior ingredients. It reminded me about how we as grown-ups sometimes impose our world view on children and in doing so sometimes 'adult-erate' their thinking.

One

Where do I begin
To separate what is yours
And what is mine

The breath and beat
that keep me alive
do i call them yours
or mine?

The thoughts, feelings
could i create them
without you?
Then those are not
solely mine too

Like lovers
Parted - in time
Each day, each minute
Each life that goes by
Without you
Is a burden
My soul bears

If You and I
Are destined
To be one - in time
Then what should I call yours?
And what should I call mine?

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P. S - This thought has evolved in time. Part 1 - Relinquish, Part 2 - The sun and his twin