Monday, October 22, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Smpli 4 U
In the UK, the buzzword of the day is simplify. Classical Comics has> decided to turn Shakespeare's works into the quick text format.> Accompanying the text, there will be comic strips in case the reader> happens to be allergic to words, no matter how simple they are. These> quick text versions are targeted at primary school students and> teenagers.> A sample from quick text Shakespeare:> One of the most memorable lines from Henry V "once more unto the> breach, dear friends, once more" becomes "take a deep breath and> fight."> When Lady Macbeth goads her husband to murder, "Wouldst thou live a> coward in thine own esteem letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'> like the poor cat in the adage?> Quick text translates: Don't be afraid!>
If UK simplifies, can India be far behind? In the global village, we> must keep up with the best of them, musn't we? If the Americans are> stocking up on nukes, we try to be up to speed. Get a few ourselves.> Or sign a pact with them, grovel and genuflect, till they agree to> show us how to make the nukes ourselves. If the Russians are> stockpiling fighter crafts, we do too.>
Looks like a global simplification drive is about to kick in soon. The> drive may start with Shakespeare, but it will spread like a blazing> forest fire. Across the realms of poetry and prose and music. It will> invade dance and drama and opera. Why leave cinema alone? There is a> whole treasure trove of films rich with complications, layers of> meaning which must be made simple. For the viewer's convenience, they> will broken down into easily understood (consumed?) snippets. The> drive will bulldoze its way through our lives in a million terrible> ways. Imagination will be made redundant simply because there will be nothing left to imagine. Any piece of art or music or poetry that is
enigmatic will be reduced to its bare bones. Like taking a clock apart, and laying bare its innards, operation simplify will demystify the world mercilessly.
Getting back to the Bard. Simplifying him will give a whole generation of young students the chance to breathe easy. Erase a major worry from their list of troubles. No more time wasted on decoding Shakespeare. No grappling with the complexities of poetic language. No need to peel off layers of intricate metaphor in the pursuit of meaning. Similes? Oh, please. What a waste of space. Metaphor. What a bore! Alliteration. Duh! Delete them. Dump them. Strip language of complexity. Goodbye tiresome figures of speech. Hello quick text. Wlcome 2 our midst!
In the simplified world many books will be revised. Volumes of poetry will be cut down to size. Films you have watched over and over again will sport a new look. No novel will be longer than a few pages. No poem will wander through the badlands of subtle shifts of meaning and metaphor. All will be clear. And quick.
A few samples: Playing at a theatre near you. The new, simplified, quick-texted Citizen Kane
Scene 1: Guy walks in with sledge. He has a faraway, dreamy look on his face. Camera zooms into the letters engraved on sledge. Rosebud.
Scene 2: Guy looks into camera and says: As a child, I skied a lot. This sledge is part of my childhood.
Scene 3: Guy has risen to eminence. He is a man of power and position. Scene 4: Guy in his office. He dreams of his sledge
Scene 5, 6 and 7: Guy fights with several people including colleagues, business competitors, wife, mistresses
Scene 8: He is now overweight and all alone. He is surrounded by slowly falling snow
Scene 9: Guy holds on to sledge and looks into camera. He says: I used to ski a lot. Lonely people end up alone. Modern man is alienated. END CREDITS (All names are written in quick text for the viewer's convenience. For example, Orson Welles reads as O Wlls)
Say you are in the mood for reading. You pick up Arthur Miller's Death Of A Salesman, revised and simplified.
Act 1: Mother: I refuse to believe my son died in the war.
Act 2: Son: My brother joined the war. He died. Because of my father's crass capitalism. My father is an American salesman.
Act 3: Father: What have I done? I have killed my son. All the soldiers who died in the war are my sons. I should never have sold faulty parts to the army. Oh god. I am going to kill myself.
Act 4: Mother: My son died. My husband, I believe has shot and killed himself
Act 5: Son: My brother died. My mother cried
Epilogue: There is a war going on in Iraq. Many soldiers – American, Australian and British – have died. Many more will. Iraqi people are also said to have died. The American troops are trying hard to bring democracy to Iraq. The White House is proud of their efforts.
CURTAIN
Or you might turn to fiction. A classic, finally shorn of annoying complications. No philosophizing. No more wandering through the wilderness of agonizing moral questions. Simple, reader friendly. Like instant noodles, all it takes is a minute to get to the point.
Anna Karenina for example.
Chapter 1: Married woman looking for love.
Chapter 2: Love found, outside marriage
Chapter 3: Woman must pay a price for transgression
Chapter 4: Flings herself in front of a moving train. Dies.
> Or The English Patient
Chapter 1: A patient can't remember who he is. Could be an Englishman Chapter 2: Nurse falls in love with him Chapter 3: The world war is slowly ending. War has turned the world upside down. Patient tells nurse his tragic love story
Chapter 4: Nurse listens to tragic story
Chapter 5: Patient wants to die. Nurse injects morphine into his veins Chapter 6: Patient dies. Nurse is sad
In the new world of simplicity, emotions will be colour coded. Say, you are angry. Or sad. Or elated. When you are angry, you simply hold a red card. When sad, use a blue one. Happiness and a bright yellow card go together. In case you are mystified about this system, there is a simple explanation. By holding the cards aloft, you are avoiding complications. Dispelling mystery. People around you do not have to tax their perceptive faculties trying to figure out what mood you are in. The colour reveals all. In one stroke.
Many more such innovative practices will be in vogue in the simple new world. But let me not list them all here. Might get a bit too complicated for you, dear reader….
If UK simplifies, can India be far behind? In the global village, we> must keep up with the best of them, musn't we? If the Americans are> stocking up on nukes, we try to be up to speed. Get a few ourselves.> Or sign a pact with them, grovel and genuflect, till they agree to> show us how to make the nukes ourselves. If the Russians are> stockpiling fighter crafts, we do too.>
Looks like a global simplification drive is about to kick in soon. The> drive may start with Shakespeare, but it will spread like a blazing> forest fire. Across the realms of poetry and prose and music. It will> invade dance and drama and opera. Why leave cinema alone? There is a> whole treasure trove of films rich with complications, layers of> meaning which must be made simple. For the viewer's convenience, they> will broken down into easily understood (consumed?) snippets. The> drive will bulldoze its way through our lives in a million terrible> ways. Imagination will be made redundant simply because there will be nothing left to imagine. Any piece of art or music or poetry that is
enigmatic will be reduced to its bare bones. Like taking a clock apart, and laying bare its innards, operation simplify will demystify the world mercilessly.
Getting back to the Bard. Simplifying him will give a whole generation of young students the chance to breathe easy. Erase a major worry from their list of troubles. No more time wasted on decoding Shakespeare. No grappling with the complexities of poetic language. No need to peel off layers of intricate metaphor in the pursuit of meaning. Similes? Oh, please. What a waste of space. Metaphor. What a bore! Alliteration. Duh! Delete them. Dump them. Strip language of complexity. Goodbye tiresome figures of speech. Hello quick text. Wlcome 2 our midst!
In the simplified world many books will be revised. Volumes of poetry will be cut down to size. Films you have watched over and over again will sport a new look. No novel will be longer than a few pages. No poem will wander through the badlands of subtle shifts of meaning and metaphor. All will be clear. And quick.
A few samples: Playing at a theatre near you. The new, simplified, quick-texted Citizen Kane
Scene 1: Guy walks in with sledge. He has a faraway, dreamy look on his face. Camera zooms into the letters engraved on sledge. Rosebud.
Scene 2: Guy looks into camera and says: As a child, I skied a lot. This sledge is part of my childhood.
Scene 3: Guy has risen to eminence. He is a man of power and position. Scene 4: Guy in his office. He dreams of his sledge
Scene 5, 6 and 7: Guy fights with several people including colleagues, business competitors, wife, mistresses
Scene 8: He is now overweight and all alone. He is surrounded by slowly falling snow
Scene 9: Guy holds on to sledge and looks into camera. He says: I used to ski a lot. Lonely people end up alone. Modern man is alienated. END CREDITS (All names are written in quick text for the viewer's convenience. For example, Orson Welles reads as O Wlls)
Say you are in the mood for reading. You pick up Arthur Miller's Death Of A Salesman, revised and simplified.
Act 1: Mother: I refuse to believe my son died in the war.
Act 2: Son: My brother joined the war. He died. Because of my father's crass capitalism. My father is an American salesman.
Act 3: Father: What have I done? I have killed my son. All the soldiers who died in the war are my sons. I should never have sold faulty parts to the army. Oh god. I am going to kill myself.
Act 4: Mother: My son died. My husband, I believe has shot and killed himself
Act 5: Son: My brother died. My mother cried
Epilogue: There is a war going on in Iraq. Many soldiers – American, Australian and British – have died. Many more will. Iraqi people are also said to have died. The American troops are trying hard to bring democracy to Iraq. The White House is proud of their efforts.
CURTAIN
Or you might turn to fiction. A classic, finally shorn of annoying complications. No philosophizing. No more wandering through the wilderness of agonizing moral questions. Simple, reader friendly. Like instant noodles, all it takes is a minute to get to the point.
Anna Karenina for example.
Chapter 1: Married woman looking for love.
Chapter 2: Love found, outside marriage
Chapter 3: Woman must pay a price for transgression
Chapter 4: Flings herself in front of a moving train. Dies.
> Or The English Patient
Chapter 1: A patient can't remember who he is. Could be an Englishman Chapter 2: Nurse falls in love with him Chapter 3: The world war is slowly ending. War has turned the world upside down. Patient tells nurse his tragic love story
Chapter 4: Nurse listens to tragic story
Chapter 5: Patient wants to die. Nurse injects morphine into his veins Chapter 6: Patient dies. Nurse is sad
In the new world of simplicity, emotions will be colour coded. Say, you are angry. Or sad. Or elated. When you are angry, you simply hold a red card. When sad, use a blue one. Happiness and a bright yellow card go together. In case you are mystified about this system, there is a simple explanation. By holding the cards aloft, you are avoiding complications. Dispelling mystery. People around you do not have to tax their perceptive faculties trying to figure out what mood you are in. The colour reveals all. In one stroke.
Many more such innovative practices will be in vogue in the simple new world. But let me not list them all here. Might get a bit too complicated for you, dear reader….
Monday, September 17, 2007
Yesterday
Wisdom, we are told, lies in letting go. "But what if it is memory that makes us who we are? What if the past is the only place we can hope to find our future?"Surjeet Singh asks these questions in a tremulous voice. The farmer turned 80 last year. His frail frame looks delicate, but his reflexes are razor sharp, his witticisms are lucid, caustic. Singh lives in a small town on the outskirts of Jammu. Singh is well known in his neighbourhood. His claim to fame: he carries an Indian flag wherever he goes!
Tri-colour in hand, he attends weddings and birthdays. He takes it to funerals. He carries it when he visits friends or relatives who have fallen ill. Last year, when he received an invite from the chief minister's office to attend a ceremony in honour of freedom fighters, the flag went with him to the auditorium. Singh and the flag are inseparable. "Because the flag is not a piece of cloth you unfurl on Independence Day and promptly forget," he says. "It keeps the memory of many sacrifices alive. They need to be remembered. They made us what we are today."
Some write off Singh's gesture as eccentricity. Some blame it on old age and the onset of senility. But Singh ignores the jibes. He is determined to proclaim his allegiance to the past. He believes that complacent Indians are badly in need of this reminder. His gesture, he hopes, will wake up indifferent citizens to the value of the priceless gift of freedom they often take for granted. "This is an antidote for those who have forgotten the struggle for our liberty. Thousands of people paid with their lives to win our freedom. If we allow that memory to die, there is no hope for our future generations."
There are places too that live seeped in memory. Pickled in the brine of lives lived, wars fought, loves lost, in another time. They can shatter your belief in the absolute quality of time and space. They jolt you out of your certainty because they are rooted in real time and space, but they also seem to have a life in other times, other spaces. They are tied to the present, but they belong to the past. Latitudes and longitudes anchor them on the cartographer's map. But they have the miraculous ability to break free at will, to shape themselves with memory's chisel and carve an image which matches no map.
So completely tuned into the rhythm of other times, other lives, they are a surreal mix of past and present. The past is not buried in musty archives. It lingers in the air like an old, familiar tune. It lives and breathes, it is flesh and blood. It lies in wait and bumps into you like a familiar friend when you turn the corner on a walk across town.
When I drift along the cobbled streets of Pondicherry, the sea breeze hums a tune from the past. In the heart of the city, the tall white columns of the Aayi Mandapam whisper tales of a 16th century courtesan. This memorial, built in the Greco-Roman style was commissioned by Napoleon in honour of Aayi who razed her house to build a much- needed water reservoir for the city. The story goes that three hundred years after Aayi's death, Napoleon's army quenched its thirst with the supplies from the reservoir. Moved by her altruism, the megalomaniac general ordered his men to build the memorial.
Matters of state are conducted at the sprawling Place Du Government (now renamed Raj Nivas). Once a center of colonial power, this 8th century building houses the legislative assembly. Pondicherrians smile when they point at the building, relishing the irony.
A stroll down Goubert Avenue which winds down the seashore feels like a trip in a time machine. At a prominent spot next to the promenade stands the war memorial, an ode to the memory of French and Indian soldiers who fought in the First World War. A statue of Francois Dupleix, former French governor of Pondicherry looms large further down the road.
Churches built in the 17th and 18th century in a burst of French missionary zeal also line the city. The Sacred Heart Church, Church of the Immaculate Conception, Church of Notre Dame. Under their high ceilings, sunlight filters in through exquisite stained glass windows. Echoes from the past resound in the heart of their gothic splendour.
At Karaikal, you stumble across a well-maintained cemetery located next to Market Street. Intricately carved headstones mark the graves. They house the remains of 19th century French officials, landlords and ordinary citizens. Death hasn't dulled their memory. There is a steady stream of tourists to the cemetery through the day. The graveyard is a familiar landmark, etched deep on the template of the city's daily life.
Colonial mansions built as far back in the 16th century are sprinkled across the city. Ivory coloured walls and spacious verandas, gardens in bloom. Like set pieces from a fictional world, they stand mutely behind gates painted a bright, burning yellow.
"I bought this house five years ago," says Dr Saravanan who owns a 17th century French villa. Born into a middle class family in Pondicherry, he won a scholarship to complete his higher studies at a French university. Now he heads the psychiatry department at a hospital in Paris. The doctor gets to spend his yearly vacation in the comfort of his villa. At other times of the year, he rents it out to friends or relatives.
As I take a guided tour of the house along with him, he tells me he has had a long love-hate relationship with colonial houses. "As a child, I looked at these villas with a sense of wonder. They offered me a glimpse of a magical past. I couldn't stop making up stories about them…"
Adulthood dulled the fascination as the villas began to remind him of the atrocities of colonial rule. But he thinks of memory as a double-edged sword. "A house built during colonial rule can remind of you of the wretchedness of our people who were oppressed. But owning one also makes me feel that old equations no longer hold true. Power changes hands. History teaches us that no empire is invincible."
Only a fool would cling to the past at the cost of forgetting to live in the present. But wisdom lies in learning the lessons the past offers. Without them, we would be fated to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.
Tri-colour in hand, he attends weddings and birthdays. He takes it to funerals. He carries it when he visits friends or relatives who have fallen ill. Last year, when he received an invite from the chief minister's office to attend a ceremony in honour of freedom fighters, the flag went with him to the auditorium. Singh and the flag are inseparable. "Because the flag is not a piece of cloth you unfurl on Independence Day and promptly forget," he says. "It keeps the memory of many sacrifices alive. They need to be remembered. They made us what we are today."
Some write off Singh's gesture as eccentricity. Some blame it on old age and the onset of senility. But Singh ignores the jibes. He is determined to proclaim his allegiance to the past. He believes that complacent Indians are badly in need of this reminder. His gesture, he hopes, will wake up indifferent citizens to the value of the priceless gift of freedom they often take for granted. "This is an antidote for those who have forgotten the struggle for our liberty. Thousands of people paid with their lives to win our freedom. If we allow that memory to die, there is no hope for our future generations."
There are places too that live seeped in memory. Pickled in the brine of lives lived, wars fought, loves lost, in another time. They can shatter your belief in the absolute quality of time and space. They jolt you out of your certainty because they are rooted in real time and space, but they also seem to have a life in other times, other spaces. They are tied to the present, but they belong to the past. Latitudes and longitudes anchor them on the cartographer's map. But they have the miraculous ability to break free at will, to shape themselves with memory's chisel and carve an image which matches no map.
So completely tuned into the rhythm of other times, other lives, they are a surreal mix of past and present. The past is not buried in musty archives. It lingers in the air like an old, familiar tune. It lives and breathes, it is flesh and blood. It lies in wait and bumps into you like a familiar friend when you turn the corner on a walk across town.
When I drift along the cobbled streets of Pondicherry, the sea breeze hums a tune from the past. In the heart of the city, the tall white columns of the Aayi Mandapam whisper tales of a 16th century courtesan. This memorial, built in the Greco-Roman style was commissioned by Napoleon in honour of Aayi who razed her house to build a much- needed water reservoir for the city. The story goes that three hundred years after Aayi's death, Napoleon's army quenched its thirst with the supplies from the reservoir. Moved by her altruism, the megalomaniac general ordered his men to build the memorial.
Matters of state are conducted at the sprawling Place Du Government (now renamed Raj Nivas). Once a center of colonial power, this 8th century building houses the legislative assembly. Pondicherrians smile when they point at the building, relishing the irony.
A stroll down Goubert Avenue which winds down the seashore feels like a trip in a time machine. At a prominent spot next to the promenade stands the war memorial, an ode to the memory of French and Indian soldiers who fought in the First World War. A statue of Francois Dupleix, former French governor of Pondicherry looms large further down the road.
Churches built in the 17th and 18th century in a burst of French missionary zeal also line the city. The Sacred Heart Church, Church of the Immaculate Conception, Church of Notre Dame. Under their high ceilings, sunlight filters in through exquisite stained glass windows. Echoes from the past resound in the heart of their gothic splendour.
At Karaikal, you stumble across a well-maintained cemetery located next to Market Street. Intricately carved headstones mark the graves. They house the remains of 19th century French officials, landlords and ordinary citizens. Death hasn't dulled their memory. There is a steady stream of tourists to the cemetery through the day. The graveyard is a familiar landmark, etched deep on the template of the city's daily life.
Colonial mansions built as far back in the 16th century are sprinkled across the city. Ivory coloured walls and spacious verandas, gardens in bloom. Like set pieces from a fictional world, they stand mutely behind gates painted a bright, burning yellow.
"I bought this house five years ago," says Dr Saravanan who owns a 17th century French villa. Born into a middle class family in Pondicherry, he won a scholarship to complete his higher studies at a French university. Now he heads the psychiatry department at a hospital in Paris. The doctor gets to spend his yearly vacation in the comfort of his villa. At other times of the year, he rents it out to friends or relatives.
As I take a guided tour of the house along with him, he tells me he has had a long love-hate relationship with colonial houses. "As a child, I looked at these villas with a sense of wonder. They offered me a glimpse of a magical past. I couldn't stop making up stories about them…"
Adulthood dulled the fascination as the villas began to remind him of the atrocities of colonial rule. But he thinks of memory as a double-edged sword. "A house built during colonial rule can remind of you of the wretchedness of our people who were oppressed. But owning one also makes me feel that old equations no longer hold true. Power changes hands. History teaches us that no empire is invincible."
Only a fool would cling to the past at the cost of forgetting to live in the present. But wisdom lies in learning the lessons the past offers. Without them, we would be fated to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
JULEY!
JULEY!
Stuck in a traffic jam on the way to work. Bumper to bumper we clog the street. Driver ahead of me honks. So does the long line of drivers behind me. A shrill, jarring chorus. The sun burns a hole in the summer sky. We sweat and swear and keep up the cacophony. Theatre of chaos. Our early morning commute.
Later in the day under the blazing noon sun I trudge along to the railway reservation office. Every counter is packed, lines spill past the door into the courtyard. A lifetime or two will pass before I get to the indifferent clerk at the counter window.
Evening dishes out a sense of déjà vu. The sequel to the morning's traffic jam plays out when I drive home from work. We are stuck. As we were in the morning. A seething sea of humanity. Wishing with all its heart and tired soul that we could just move along.
And so it goes…
The summer sun shows no mercy. Mercury rising. The week drags on. Another day of dust storms and exhaust fumes. Another jam. I close my eyes against the day's scorching brightness. And wish I could get away from it all.
Remember the Queen number 'I Want it All?' Somebody should rework that one. For our time. Back in Queen's heyday, they wanted it all. And wanted it right then. In our time, we want to get away. And we want it now. In this summer of our discontent. Can't wait for another season. Can't look for another reason (Song writers please note)
Just as I am about to abandon all hope, I hear a friend is planning a trip to Ladakh. Land of lamas and legend. Magic wafting over the mountains. Sinuous streams, brilliant blue skies. Vast vistas of open space without a trace of the human race.Bye bye sun. Hello snow. Before you can say global warming, my bags are packed. And we are off, driving across the Leh-Manali road from Jammu.
We give ourselves three days to make it to Leh. The drive is a roller coaster ride. The road is a revelation. Impossible curves and hairpin bends wind across the mountains. At some points, the road simply disappears into a stream, a heap of stones or solid blocks of ice.
"Why drive when you can fly?" asks a mystified friend. A road trip has its own charm." We voyagers explain to the philistine as the jeep scales another mountain and comes to a halt at Rohtang Pass.
I brush aside a stream of touts who offer me skates, snow car rides and a photo op with a couple of domesticated yaks. The place is crawling with honeymooners who grab all of the above offers with a vengeance. "Remember Kerouac's road trip, The Motorcycle Diaries?" May be literature and film will remind my cynical friend of the romance of road travel. "But what's left to discover in this globalised world? No more Shangri Las for you to stumble on," my friend insists. "Even if you did, everybody there probably drinks diet coke and watches Desperate Housewives!"
Our conversation ends abruptly when my cell phone signal fades away as we drive away from Rohtang. By evening we are at Manali. After an exhausted night's stop we hit the road again the next morning.
It's a long day's drive to Jespa, a few kilometers ahead of Keylong. Keylong is the district headquarters of Lahaul and Spiti. The road to Jespa twists and turns and offers us dizzying visions of nature's splendour.
The sky is a bright, burning blue. Mountains tower over the road; gurgling streams trail along the valley below it. Except for an occasional truck or jeep passing by, there are few traces of civilization here. The silence is not just an absence of noise. It embraces you like a faithful companion, inspiring introspection. Your thoughts are free to take flight on its wings. They meander on love, life, past, present, future….
Jespa boasts of a guest house nestled literally in the heart of the mountains. The view from my room is spectacular. Mountains loom like somber sentinels just a few yards away, a clear stream glistens in the moon's silver sheen. There is something humbling about such unadulterated beauty. I bend my head in reverence to whatever power has created this perfection.
The guest house is plunged in darkness courtesy a two-day long power failure. Candles bathe the rooms and narrow corridors in their mellow glow. My cell phone is silent. The receptionist warns me that signals will not be back till we get to Upshi the next evening. This is bad news. Much as I appreciate the blessing of solitude, I hate the thought of spending the next 24 hours without conversations with friends. A day without inane text messages about lamas and Ladakh from people who have been bombarding me with witticisms since I set out. 24 hours without nagging reminders from my parents about the dangers of driving on mountain roads. I realize how much I appreciate the human race, warts and all. The conveniences of civilization take on a new appeal now. I swear I will treat them with all due respect from now on!
Once we start our drive towards Leh the next day, the landscape becomes desolate. For hours, we don't see a single soul on the road. Mountains stand watch, tall and silent as the road winds ahead. We feel like explorers making our way through virgin territory. When I spot a small group of workers on the wayside, I grab my camera and click their pictures. "People," I shout in amazement. There is an inexplicable pleasure in seeing fellow humans after such desolation.
The wind howls like a wild animal as we roll up the windows. Wispy snow flakes float in the air. The mountains peaks are covered in snow, they glint, pure white against the sky. The mountains continue without end, some grey and ashen, some reddish brown. Then there are tall ranges of sand which look like stupas carved by the wind. Towards evening we spot a herd of yaks dotting a flat plain we drive by. A hostile herdsman watches us without blinking from the wayside. His tent, pitched in the heart of the plain, is a grey speck in its vastness.
As we near Leh, tall green poplars break the monotony of the mountains ranges. After being starved of greenery for so long, my eyes feast on the trees. Gompas (Buddhist monasteries) rest on tall hillocks across the landscape. Their walls are painted a deep maroon, prayer flags flutter from rooftops in the breeze. Leh city welcomes us with bright white chortens and shrines housing intricately decorated prayer wheels. A chorten is the Tibetan version of the Indian stupa. It guards all Ladakhi villages. In it rests the remains of holy men, prayer scrolls, offerings to gods. The mountains are a constant presence, they watch over Leh city from all directions.
In summer, the weather gods are kind to Ladakh. Poplars and willow trees are covered with emerald green leaves. Wild rose bushes burst into bloom. Delicate pink roses cling to their stalks. Ladakhis tend their gardens religiously. Flowers, which last only for a few months, are nurtured like children. In winter, the trees are stripped bare. Icy cold winds howl in the bleakness, the flowers fade away. The harsh weather and the rugged landscape put human endurance to a tough test.
Despite the daily battle for survival, Ladakhis are generally a friendly people. On the streets, you are greeted with a smile and a cheerful juley. Juley is an expansive word. It can mean hello, goodbye, thank you and welcome, depending on the context. When I got lost on the streets, I was greeted with the word and given patient directions. When I thanked my guides, they would respond with Juley (welcome)!
One morning, when I take a walk up the narrow, winding alleys of the old city in Leh, an elderly homeowner invites me to his home for a cup of tea. He tells me that houses in the old city were built as early as in the 16th century. But they fell into ruin over the years due to lack of maintenance. Tibetan Heritage Conservation Fund, a non-governmental organization is now working to restore these houses. Water supply and sewerage, two thorny issues which were driving residents of the old city are also being tackled by the NGO.
House owners are grateful for their efforts. Many of them had given up all hope of spending the autumn of their lives in their family homes. They have happily returned to the old city with their children and grandchildren.
During my week-long stay, I meet many others who are passionate about improving the life of their community. Padma Dolma, a young gynecologist at the only civil hospital in Leh, is a dynamo of energy. On a busy day, around 150 patients walk into her consulting room. Some of them are heavily pregnant women flown in from remote areas of Ladakh by army choppers. Many of her patients still place their faith in the power of aamchi (traditional) medicine. She has to tread the thin line between their faith and the rationale of modern medicine every day.
SECMOL, headed by Sonam Wangchuk, runs Leh's only alternate school. The campus is located 18 km away from the city. Students are involved in every aspect of its day-to- day functioning. The campus makes use of solar energy and spring water harvesting. Students help to maintain two greenhouses which grow vegetables through the summer and winter. Living and learning in an environment close to nature makes school an enjoyable experience for students, many of who belong to remote parts of the Land of High Mountain Passes.
Chewang Norphel, a retired civil engineer, has revolutionized the Ladakhi farmer's life. Growing up in Skarra, a tiny village on Leh's outskirts, Norphel believed water was a magical word. Norphel's family, like other farmers in the area, depended entirely on snow melts from natural glaciers to irrigate their fields. When Norphel joined the state rural development department, he heard desperate pleas for water from every Ladakhi village he visited. The sprightly 70-year-old evolved an innovative project. In 1987, he constructed the first 'artificial glacier' at Phoktse Pho.
Norphel's artifical glaciers trap and freeze water at the start of winter. Water from a stream or river is diverted along a large wall of rocks built at the foot of a mountain. This water is channeled through pipes to an area which is protected from the glare of the mountain sun. The water accumulates and as the temperature drops, it freezes to form sheets of ice. In summer, this ice melts at the start of the sowing season. The water is diverted to fields, freeing farmers from their bondage to natural glaciers.
I am amazed by the energy, passion and innovative skills of these individuals. On a daily basis, they find new ways to tackle the challenges nature poses to life in their rugged terrain.
On my last day in Leh, I visit a monastery snuggled next to the ancient Leh Palace. Prayer flags flutter in the chilly evening breeze as a Lama unlocks the doors of the shrine. The offering bowls have been filled, the lamps lit. A benign Buddha smiles.
"Would you like some tea?" The friendly Lama asks after I pay my respects at the shrine.
The tea is sweet and milky and an excellent antidote for the cold. After finishing my cup, I thank him and say goodbye.Always be happy," he says with a twinkle in his eyes. Maroon robes flutter lightly in the breeze. "And make others happy." .
Journeys take you to distant lands. You savour new tastes, watch spectacular sunsets, walk across unfamiliar alleyways under dazzling night skies littered with stars. If you are lucky, you get to discover places that are never marked on maps. Their winding roads guide you to the soul of a place, their hearts always beat in tune to the pulse of their people.
Maybe the magic of the unknown has lost its sheen in globalised times. But even in our homogenized global village, there are still some paths left which take us closer to the essence of things.
They leave us wiser. About others. About ourselves.
Stuck in a traffic jam on the way to work. Bumper to bumper we clog the street. Driver ahead of me honks. So does the long line of drivers behind me. A shrill, jarring chorus. The sun burns a hole in the summer sky. We sweat and swear and keep up the cacophony. Theatre of chaos. Our early morning commute.
Later in the day under the blazing noon sun I trudge along to the railway reservation office. Every counter is packed, lines spill past the door into the courtyard. A lifetime or two will pass before I get to the indifferent clerk at the counter window.
Evening dishes out a sense of déjà vu. The sequel to the morning's traffic jam plays out when I drive home from work. We are stuck. As we were in the morning. A seething sea of humanity. Wishing with all its heart and tired soul that we could just move along.
And so it goes…
The summer sun shows no mercy. Mercury rising. The week drags on. Another day of dust storms and exhaust fumes. Another jam. I close my eyes against the day's scorching brightness. And wish I could get away from it all.
Remember the Queen number 'I Want it All?' Somebody should rework that one. For our time. Back in Queen's heyday, they wanted it all. And wanted it right then. In our time, we want to get away. And we want it now. In this summer of our discontent. Can't wait for another season. Can't look for another reason (Song writers please note)
Just as I am about to abandon all hope, I hear a friend is planning a trip to Ladakh. Land of lamas and legend. Magic wafting over the mountains. Sinuous streams, brilliant blue skies. Vast vistas of open space without a trace of the human race.Bye bye sun. Hello snow. Before you can say global warming, my bags are packed. And we are off, driving across the Leh-Manali road from Jammu.
We give ourselves three days to make it to Leh. The drive is a roller coaster ride. The road is a revelation. Impossible curves and hairpin bends wind across the mountains. At some points, the road simply disappears into a stream, a heap of stones or solid blocks of ice.
"Why drive when you can fly?" asks a mystified friend. A road trip has its own charm." We voyagers explain to the philistine as the jeep scales another mountain and comes to a halt at Rohtang Pass.
I brush aside a stream of touts who offer me skates, snow car rides and a photo op with a couple of domesticated yaks. The place is crawling with honeymooners who grab all of the above offers with a vengeance. "Remember Kerouac's road trip, The Motorcycle Diaries?" May be literature and film will remind my cynical friend of the romance of road travel. "But what's left to discover in this globalised world? No more Shangri Las for you to stumble on," my friend insists. "Even if you did, everybody there probably drinks diet coke and watches Desperate Housewives!"
Our conversation ends abruptly when my cell phone signal fades away as we drive away from Rohtang. By evening we are at Manali. After an exhausted night's stop we hit the road again the next morning.
It's a long day's drive to Jespa, a few kilometers ahead of Keylong. Keylong is the district headquarters of Lahaul and Spiti. The road to Jespa twists and turns and offers us dizzying visions of nature's splendour.
The sky is a bright, burning blue. Mountains tower over the road; gurgling streams trail along the valley below it. Except for an occasional truck or jeep passing by, there are few traces of civilization here. The silence is not just an absence of noise. It embraces you like a faithful companion, inspiring introspection. Your thoughts are free to take flight on its wings. They meander on love, life, past, present, future….
Jespa boasts of a guest house nestled literally in the heart of the mountains. The view from my room is spectacular. Mountains loom like somber sentinels just a few yards away, a clear stream glistens in the moon's silver sheen. There is something humbling about such unadulterated beauty. I bend my head in reverence to whatever power has created this perfection.
The guest house is plunged in darkness courtesy a two-day long power failure. Candles bathe the rooms and narrow corridors in their mellow glow. My cell phone is silent. The receptionist warns me that signals will not be back till we get to Upshi the next evening. This is bad news. Much as I appreciate the blessing of solitude, I hate the thought of spending the next 24 hours without conversations with friends. A day without inane text messages about lamas and Ladakh from people who have been bombarding me with witticisms since I set out. 24 hours without nagging reminders from my parents about the dangers of driving on mountain roads. I realize how much I appreciate the human race, warts and all. The conveniences of civilization take on a new appeal now. I swear I will treat them with all due respect from now on!
Once we start our drive towards Leh the next day, the landscape becomes desolate. For hours, we don't see a single soul on the road. Mountains stand watch, tall and silent as the road winds ahead. We feel like explorers making our way through virgin territory. When I spot a small group of workers on the wayside, I grab my camera and click their pictures. "People," I shout in amazement. There is an inexplicable pleasure in seeing fellow humans after such desolation.
The wind howls like a wild animal as we roll up the windows. Wispy snow flakes float in the air. The mountains peaks are covered in snow, they glint, pure white against the sky. The mountains continue without end, some grey and ashen, some reddish brown. Then there are tall ranges of sand which look like stupas carved by the wind. Towards evening we spot a herd of yaks dotting a flat plain we drive by. A hostile herdsman watches us without blinking from the wayside. His tent, pitched in the heart of the plain, is a grey speck in its vastness.
As we near Leh, tall green poplars break the monotony of the mountains ranges. After being starved of greenery for so long, my eyes feast on the trees. Gompas (Buddhist monasteries) rest on tall hillocks across the landscape. Their walls are painted a deep maroon, prayer flags flutter from rooftops in the breeze. Leh city welcomes us with bright white chortens and shrines housing intricately decorated prayer wheels. A chorten is the Tibetan version of the Indian stupa. It guards all Ladakhi villages. In it rests the remains of holy men, prayer scrolls, offerings to gods. The mountains are a constant presence, they watch over Leh city from all directions.
In summer, the weather gods are kind to Ladakh. Poplars and willow trees are covered with emerald green leaves. Wild rose bushes burst into bloom. Delicate pink roses cling to their stalks. Ladakhis tend their gardens religiously. Flowers, which last only for a few months, are nurtured like children. In winter, the trees are stripped bare. Icy cold winds howl in the bleakness, the flowers fade away. The harsh weather and the rugged landscape put human endurance to a tough test.
Despite the daily battle for survival, Ladakhis are generally a friendly people. On the streets, you are greeted with a smile and a cheerful juley. Juley is an expansive word. It can mean hello, goodbye, thank you and welcome, depending on the context. When I got lost on the streets, I was greeted with the word and given patient directions. When I thanked my guides, they would respond with Juley (welcome)!
One morning, when I take a walk up the narrow, winding alleys of the old city in Leh, an elderly homeowner invites me to his home for a cup of tea. He tells me that houses in the old city were built as early as in the 16th century. But they fell into ruin over the years due to lack of maintenance. Tibetan Heritage Conservation Fund, a non-governmental organization is now working to restore these houses. Water supply and sewerage, two thorny issues which were driving residents of the old city are also being tackled by the NGO.
House owners are grateful for their efforts. Many of them had given up all hope of spending the autumn of their lives in their family homes. They have happily returned to the old city with their children and grandchildren.
During my week-long stay, I meet many others who are passionate about improving the life of their community. Padma Dolma, a young gynecologist at the only civil hospital in Leh, is a dynamo of energy. On a busy day, around 150 patients walk into her consulting room. Some of them are heavily pregnant women flown in from remote areas of Ladakh by army choppers. Many of her patients still place their faith in the power of aamchi (traditional) medicine. She has to tread the thin line between their faith and the rationale of modern medicine every day.
SECMOL, headed by Sonam Wangchuk, runs Leh's only alternate school. The campus is located 18 km away from the city. Students are involved in every aspect of its day-to- day functioning. The campus makes use of solar energy and spring water harvesting. Students help to maintain two greenhouses which grow vegetables through the summer and winter. Living and learning in an environment close to nature makes school an enjoyable experience for students, many of who belong to remote parts of the Land of High Mountain Passes.
Chewang Norphel, a retired civil engineer, has revolutionized the Ladakhi farmer's life. Growing up in Skarra, a tiny village on Leh's outskirts, Norphel believed water was a magical word. Norphel's family, like other farmers in the area, depended entirely on snow melts from natural glaciers to irrigate their fields. When Norphel joined the state rural development department, he heard desperate pleas for water from every Ladakhi village he visited. The sprightly 70-year-old evolved an innovative project. In 1987, he constructed the first 'artificial glacier' at Phoktse Pho.
Norphel's artifical glaciers trap and freeze water at the start of winter. Water from a stream or river is diverted along a large wall of rocks built at the foot of a mountain. This water is channeled through pipes to an area which is protected from the glare of the mountain sun. The water accumulates and as the temperature drops, it freezes to form sheets of ice. In summer, this ice melts at the start of the sowing season. The water is diverted to fields, freeing farmers from their bondage to natural glaciers.
I am amazed by the energy, passion and innovative skills of these individuals. On a daily basis, they find new ways to tackle the challenges nature poses to life in their rugged terrain.
On my last day in Leh, I visit a monastery snuggled next to the ancient Leh Palace. Prayer flags flutter in the chilly evening breeze as a Lama unlocks the doors of the shrine. The offering bowls have been filled, the lamps lit. A benign Buddha smiles.
"Would you like some tea?" The friendly Lama asks after I pay my respects at the shrine.
The tea is sweet and milky and an excellent antidote for the cold. After finishing my cup, I thank him and say goodbye.Always be happy," he says with a twinkle in his eyes. Maroon robes flutter lightly in the breeze. "And make others happy." .
Journeys take you to distant lands. You savour new tastes, watch spectacular sunsets, walk across unfamiliar alleyways under dazzling night skies littered with stars. If you are lucky, you get to discover places that are never marked on maps. Their winding roads guide you to the soul of a place, their hearts always beat in tune to the pulse of their people.
Maybe the magic of the unknown has lost its sheen in globalised times. But even in our homogenized global village, there are still some paths left which take us closer to the essence of things.
They leave us wiser. About others. About ourselves.
The greatest love story ever told
What will he wear tonight? He turns his wardrobe upside down. None of his clothes seem good enough for this special occasion. This night like no other… He has to be dressed right for it. Nothing but the best will do. He picks his beige shirt and lays it out on the bed. His movements are carefully calibrated. They have the grandeur of a man dressing for an emperor's coronation or a saint's canonization. He wavers between his blue shirt and the beige one for many agonizing moments. Beige looks good on him. This, he has learnt from first hand experience. Every time he wears beige to office, female colleagues shower him with compliments. He has calculated – based on empirical data – that he always gets an invite (or more) to office parties and weekend getaways on days he dresses in beige. Blue, on the other hand, isn't much good in moving him up the social ladder. It lags behind on the popularity charts.
Blue used to be his favourite colour. It reminds him of the ocean, of summer skies and school holidays he spent with his parents at quaint hill stations and sea side resorts. On the first day of their holiday, he would take off for a swim as soon as they had unpacked their suitcases. Bobbing up and down on the turquoise waters, he would watch fluffy clouds scurrying across bright blue skies. Drowning in the blue he forgot the monotony of school, meals that tasted like sawdust, served three times a day with clockwork precision. He inhaled the cool sea breeze as the waves rocked his body to their rhythm. Blue skies, blue seas, the promise of freedom, eternity...
He picks the beige shirt. His personal likes and dislikes are of no consequence. Its what the world thinks that counts. You have no choice in these matters. You wear what the world approves of. You say what the world wants to hear. You dress in the right clothes, you are in. You say the right words, doors that matter open magically before you. Everything – your wardrobe, your address, the car you drive, the cell phone you flaunt, the airline you fly – is passed through the scanner. One wrong choice, one uncool brand and you are a social pariah the next day. It's a tough game, so you play by the rules. Do whatever it takes to make your way in. And keep your place in the inner circle.
He finds a maroon silk tie to go with the shirt. A dash of colour to pep up the sedate beige. He wears the shirt, feels the freshly starched linen brush against his skin. Tie knotted neatly, he takes a peek at the mirror. He scrutinizes his reflection from every possible angle, tilts his face a bit to let the light accentuate his sharp cheekbones. His shirt is a snug fit, his trousers are ironed to perfection. Satisfied with the dress rehearsal, he heads for the shower. The imported marble floor gleams white, he steps into the shower cabinet and directs a jet of warm water on to his body. The bathroom made a massive dent in his pocket when he was setting up house. The budget the architect drew up for the bathroom could have fed a small country for a decade. The fat grand total at the bottom of the page set off his asthma and kept him hooked to his inhaler for about 15 minutes.
Jabbing the air with his manicured hands, the architect explained why what could be seen as an extravagance was in fact a basic necessity. "If your bathroom doesn't make a style statement," he cleared his throat. "I have to be frank…its all in the loo now. This is the space designed to impress your business associates, your clients. Your social circle's going to drool over it. You are going to love it" It didn't take much persuasion for him to cave in and give the go ahead.
Fresh from the shower, he wears the clothes he has meticulously laid out on the king size bed (Italian, imported, naturally). The house is quiet. The maid and the cook have left, the driver is on leave, down with the flu. He punches the sleek black remote control, sets the temperature for the air conditioner in the bed room. He leaves it on. The room must be cooled just right when he gets back. No point sweating it out. He walks past the giant LCD television screen in the living room, heads towards the front door. Burglar alarm set (state of the art, made in Germany, thank you very much), he steps out of the house. The car 's (Infiniti G 35 Sedan) idling in the garage, but it's just a couple of blocks and he decides he'll walk it for a change."
He finds a maroon silk tie to go with the shirt. A dash of colour to pep up the sedate beige. He wears the shirt, feels the freshly starched linen brush against his skin. Tie knotted neatly, he takes a peek at the mirror. He scrutinizes his reflection from every possible angle, tilts his face a bit to let the light accentuate his sharp cheekbones. His shirt is a snug fit, his trousers are ironed to perfection. Satisfied with the dress rehearsal, he heads for the shower.
The imported marble floor gleams white, he steps into the shower cabinet and directs a jet of warm water on to his body. The bathroom made a massive dent in his pocket when he was setting up house. The budget the architect drew up for the bathroom could have fed a small country for a decade. The fat grand total at the bottom of the page set off his asthma and kept him hooked to his inhaler for about 15 minutes.
Jabbing the air with his manicured hands, the architect explained why what could be seen as extravagance was in fact a basic necessity. "If your bathroom doesn't make a style statement," he cleared his throat. "I have to be frank…its all in the loo now. This is the space designed to impress your business associates, your clients. Your social circle's going to drool over it. You are going to love it"
It didn't take much persuasion for him to cave in and give the go ahead.
Fresh from the shower, he wears the clothes he has meticulously laid out on the king size bed (Italian, imported, naturally). The house is quiet. The maid and the cook have left, the driver is on leave, down with the flu.
He punches the sleek black remote control, sets the temperature for the air conditioner in the bed room. He leaves it on. The room must be cooled just right when he gets back. No point sweating it out. He walks past the giant LCD television screen in the living room, heads towards the front door. Burglar alarm set (state of the art, made in Germany, thank you very much), he steps out of the house. The car 's (Infiniti G 35 Sedan) idling in the garage, but it's just a couple of blocks and he decides he'll walk it for a change.
In the night sky, stars glint like shards of glass. A perfectly rounded full moon glides from behind a cloud. He doesn't waste his time admiring the moon and its extravagant beauty, he needs to get to his destination as fast as he can. Out of breath, his excited heart pounding like a drum, he turns the corner and walks into the neon lit brilliance of fifth avenue.
There is a huge crowd outside the tall glass windows of the store. Everybody is dressed for the occasion. Some have remembered to bring placards which welcome the new phone to the universe in bright, bold letters. He could have brought one too, but wearing his heart on his sleeve was never his style. He merges with the crowd and like devotees awaiting the messiah, they begin their vigil. Tomorrow, when the glass doors of the store slide open at daybreak, the new phone will be theirs. He will become one of the chosen few to own this mind blowing, sophisticated gadget. One wave of his credit card and the sleek phone will rest in the palm of his eager hand. To have and to hold. Till death or defunct batteries do us part. He wills his heart to be still. This night too must pass…
(PS: In June 2007, after months of hype, Apple released the iPhone in 164 retail stores across the United States. The gadget is a cell phone, iPod media player and wireless web device. Crowds reportedly held all night vigils outside stores in anticipation of the day the phone went on sale. Ripples of excitement permeated to all corners of the globe. The internet went berserk with bloggers who couldn't stop raving about the new gadget. They affectionately nicknamed it the 'Jesus phone' in view of the fact that it appears to be a miracle. Eager customers world wide are said to be waiting breathlessly for the company to release the phone in their countries. )
Blue used to be his favourite colour. It reminds him of the ocean, of summer skies and school holidays he spent with his parents at quaint hill stations and sea side resorts. On the first day of their holiday, he would take off for a swim as soon as they had unpacked their suitcases. Bobbing up and down on the turquoise waters, he would watch fluffy clouds scurrying across bright blue skies. Drowning in the blue he forgot the monotony of school, meals that tasted like sawdust, served three times a day with clockwork precision. He inhaled the cool sea breeze as the waves rocked his body to their rhythm. Blue skies, blue seas, the promise of freedom, eternity...
He picks the beige shirt. His personal likes and dislikes are of no consequence. Its what the world thinks that counts. You have no choice in these matters. You wear what the world approves of. You say what the world wants to hear. You dress in the right clothes, you are in. You say the right words, doors that matter open magically before you. Everything – your wardrobe, your address, the car you drive, the cell phone you flaunt, the airline you fly – is passed through the scanner. One wrong choice, one uncool brand and you are a social pariah the next day. It's a tough game, so you play by the rules. Do whatever it takes to make your way in. And keep your place in the inner circle.
He finds a maroon silk tie to go with the shirt. A dash of colour to pep up the sedate beige. He wears the shirt, feels the freshly starched linen brush against his skin. Tie knotted neatly, he takes a peek at the mirror. He scrutinizes his reflection from every possible angle, tilts his face a bit to let the light accentuate his sharp cheekbones. His shirt is a snug fit, his trousers are ironed to perfection. Satisfied with the dress rehearsal, he heads for the shower. The imported marble floor gleams white, he steps into the shower cabinet and directs a jet of warm water on to his body. The bathroom made a massive dent in his pocket when he was setting up house. The budget the architect drew up for the bathroom could have fed a small country for a decade. The fat grand total at the bottom of the page set off his asthma and kept him hooked to his inhaler for about 15 minutes.
Jabbing the air with his manicured hands, the architect explained why what could be seen as an extravagance was in fact a basic necessity. "If your bathroom doesn't make a style statement," he cleared his throat. "I have to be frank…its all in the loo now. This is the space designed to impress your business associates, your clients. Your social circle's going to drool over it. You are going to love it" It didn't take much persuasion for him to cave in and give the go ahead.
Fresh from the shower, he wears the clothes he has meticulously laid out on the king size bed (Italian, imported, naturally). The house is quiet. The maid and the cook have left, the driver is on leave, down with the flu. He punches the sleek black remote control, sets the temperature for the air conditioner in the bed room. He leaves it on. The room must be cooled just right when he gets back. No point sweating it out. He walks past the giant LCD television screen in the living room, heads towards the front door. Burglar alarm set (state of the art, made in Germany, thank you very much), he steps out of the house. The car 's (Infiniti G 35 Sedan) idling in the garage, but it's just a couple of blocks and he decides he'll walk it for a change."
He finds a maroon silk tie to go with the shirt. A dash of colour to pep up the sedate beige. He wears the shirt, feels the freshly starched linen brush against his skin. Tie knotted neatly, he takes a peek at the mirror. He scrutinizes his reflection from every possible angle, tilts his face a bit to let the light accentuate his sharp cheekbones. His shirt is a snug fit, his trousers are ironed to perfection. Satisfied with the dress rehearsal, he heads for the shower.
The imported marble floor gleams white, he steps into the shower cabinet and directs a jet of warm water on to his body. The bathroom made a massive dent in his pocket when he was setting up house. The budget the architect drew up for the bathroom could have fed a small country for a decade. The fat grand total at the bottom of the page set off his asthma and kept him hooked to his inhaler for about 15 minutes.
Jabbing the air with his manicured hands, the architect explained why what could be seen as extravagance was in fact a basic necessity. "If your bathroom doesn't make a style statement," he cleared his throat. "I have to be frank…its all in the loo now. This is the space designed to impress your business associates, your clients. Your social circle's going to drool over it. You are going to love it"
It didn't take much persuasion for him to cave in and give the go ahead.
Fresh from the shower, he wears the clothes he has meticulously laid out on the king size bed (Italian, imported, naturally). The house is quiet. The maid and the cook have left, the driver is on leave, down with the flu.
He punches the sleek black remote control, sets the temperature for the air conditioner in the bed room. He leaves it on. The room must be cooled just right when he gets back. No point sweating it out. He walks past the giant LCD television screen in the living room, heads towards the front door. Burglar alarm set (state of the art, made in Germany, thank you very much), he steps out of the house. The car 's (Infiniti G 35 Sedan) idling in the garage, but it's just a couple of blocks and he decides he'll walk it for a change.
In the night sky, stars glint like shards of glass. A perfectly rounded full moon glides from behind a cloud. He doesn't waste his time admiring the moon and its extravagant beauty, he needs to get to his destination as fast as he can. Out of breath, his excited heart pounding like a drum, he turns the corner and walks into the neon lit brilliance of fifth avenue.
There is a huge crowd outside the tall glass windows of the store. Everybody is dressed for the occasion. Some have remembered to bring placards which welcome the new phone to the universe in bright, bold letters. He could have brought one too, but wearing his heart on his sleeve was never his style. He merges with the crowd and like devotees awaiting the messiah, they begin their vigil. Tomorrow, when the glass doors of the store slide open at daybreak, the new phone will be theirs. He will become one of the chosen few to own this mind blowing, sophisticated gadget. One wave of his credit card and the sleek phone will rest in the palm of his eager hand. To have and to hold. Till death or defunct batteries do us part. He wills his heart to be still. This night too must pass…
(PS: In June 2007, after months of hype, Apple released the iPhone in 164 retail stores across the United States. The gadget is a cell phone, iPod media player and wireless web device. Crowds reportedly held all night vigils outside stores in anticipation of the day the phone went on sale. Ripples of excitement permeated to all corners of the globe. The internet went berserk with bloggers who couldn't stop raving about the new gadget. They affectionately nicknamed it the 'Jesus phone' in view of the fact that it appears to be a miracle. Eager customers world wide are said to be waiting breathlessly for the company to release the phone in their countries. )
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
YOUR GOD, MY GOD
Faith. It moves people in mysterious ways.
A surrendered Kashmiri militant says he crossed over the border in his 20s, driven by his faith. Faith, like a drug in his veins, penetrating bone and marrow and heart. While his gods wept, the twenty-two-year-old took aim. The gun became his confidante, his prayer wheel, his rosary.
He remembers the first man he killed, the blood on his chest, the last breath ebbing out of his crumpled body. He taught himself to not feel the pain of the dying. To numb his ears to their cries. He believed the blood he spilt was a votive offering to a greater cause. A sacrifice at its exalted altar.
Gun cradled on his shoulder, he travelled from village to village under cover of the night. Hid in orchards, camped in jungles. Ate what he could lay his hands on, his reflexes agile, his nerves on edge, always on the run like a hunted animal. "It wasn't faith in my god or religion that made me sound the first war cry," he says. "It was the mad rush of youth, blind to consequences…"
This he says in retrospect, his weather-beaten face pressed against the cold iron bars of his prison cell. He surrendered five years after the bloodbath began. The stench of gunpowder clogging his nostrils, the gun on his shoulder growing heavier with each passing day. He saw the bodies piling up. But the situation on the ground had nose-dived into utter despair. He had mistaken the gun for a miracle, a magic wand he could wave and turn things around in the blink of an eye. Even if it was too late, he saw the path of the gun for what it was: a curse, a disease, a perversion of faith. He regretted his mistake.
Diving deep into the pool of that regret, he surfaced with the true tenets of his faith. "I put my faith in the might of the gun. Not the power of peace and tolerance that my faith preaches. I thought I was a believer but I was just a fanatic."
Misplaced faith that drives you to the edge. Turns you from a living, breathing being into robotic killer. Makes you strap a bomb on to your body and walk into a crowded market place. One push of a button, one flick of your finger, lives blown to smithereens. A suicide bomber programmed to dream of a perfect afterlife, a place in paradise, by those who pervert the very foundation of faith.
********
Faith that saves you from the deepest abyss.
A Tibetan monk in Dharamsala, string of prayer beads in hand, maroon and yellow robes fluttering in the wind like a prayer. He takes a deep breath and breaks into a calm, knowing smile when he speaks of faith.
"Faith is …" he gestures at the hills covered with tall pines, the clear blue summer sky, the prayer flags dancing in the evening breeze. "Like air, water. It comes naturally to me. Like breathing."
To the Tibetan people scattered across the world, uprooted from their homeland, faith is the beacon that lights up the long night. A kind, benign, forgiving faith. Praying for peace and hope for all sentient beings.
For the exile, faith is the home where the heart is.
*********
Faith in a cause, even when the odds are stacked sky high. People brought together by nothing but the strength of their belief, inspired to take up impossible fights. One man and his faith in non-violence taking on the might of an arrogant empire. One nation's faith in freedom forcing the sun to set on an empire whose armies bullied the entire globe.
Faith moving mountains, birthing history at midnight.
Faith in the power of the powerless. Moving people to fight for dying lakes and rivers, tribals robbed of forests, miners left to rot in the bowels of the earth, farmers bulldozed into parting with their land. Win or lose, faith keeps you on an even keel. It's the fuel that feeds the fire and keeps it burning, even on nights when your tired eyes droop, and victory like a shimmering dream, seems way out of your reach.
********
Then there are those who twist faith into shapes that suit their convenience. Misuse it like a terrible weapon of mass destruction.
"God asked me to send my army to Iraq," famously declared the American president. As cluster bombs rain on Iraq and corpses pile up, Jesus weeps…
Closer home, the saffron brigade sets fire to theatres which screen films they think can upset Hindu gods. Rip apart canvases which portray Lakshmi or Saraswati through an artist's eye.
"My way or the highway" says the cowboy brigade that runs the free world.
"Our way or the highway" screeches the saffron brigade.
Taliban hordes smash centuries-old Bamiyan Budhhas in the name of faith. The Buddha smiles as their axes take wild swings at the statues.
*******
For those who have said goodbye to the binds of organized religion, faith is a constant search. We seek, we find, we falter.
A friend woke me up this morning. The shrill ring of the cell phone rudely penetrated the mist of sleep. I cursed him generously in the grey light of dawn for destroying my well-earned rest.
"It's five in the morning for us mortals. Call me after… say…eight?"
"No I need to talk," his voice sounded odd, eerily disjointed.
"Ok…talk."
"Do you think there is a god?"
My patience levels are at an all-time low before sunrise. "Whose number did you dial? Nietzsche?"
But sarcasm simply bounced off the seeker. He carried on.
"I am serious. What the hell is one supposed to believe in these days? The world is going to pieces. Iraq , Iran, Kashmir, the north east, Israel, Palestine…"
"So there is war everywhere. There have been wars since ever. There's no hope for us except to believe in the possibility of peace."
Silence for a long second. Then his reply.
"Keep the faith? That's such a romantic idea."
Scoff. Scoff. At the voice of reason he dragged out of bed!
"Ok, so what do you suggest? Let's all turn into insomniacs, nihilists. Stay up all night believing in nothing?"
"No. I mean, I don't know. That's why I called. If I knew, would I call?"
"Brilliant deduction, my dear Watson," I muttered.
"If there is a god, how can he or she not intervene? Stop all this madness. Set it right?"
"May be we are supposed to do it ourselves. Since we started the fire. Our job to put it out?"
"No divine intervention? No miracles? Then how the hell are we supposed to believe at all?"
The sun is spreading like a blob of white paint on the horizon. Back-lit clouds glow in its splendor.
"Faith is a mystery. Nobody can explain it. Not me, of all people." I rest my case.
"So you don't believe in god?"
"What is this? The Spanish inquisition?"
My friend is a bloodhound in human form. I suspect he was trained at his mother's knee to track answers down.
"Do you?"
"Oh…there are days I do. And then there are days…"
"So what do you believe in? I mean, no matter what day it is."
"Possibilities I guess…" A sunbeam streamed in through the living room window, motes of dust caught in its way, did a jig or two.
"The promise of tomorrow. That no matter how dark the night, there is always the hope of a new day."
The sun slowly grew into a shiny, sparkling, golden globe. The sky was bright and clean, gleaming like a freshly polished floor.
A new day at our feet, unraveling before us like a grand red carpet.
A new dawn, a new dream.
Amen.
A surrendered Kashmiri militant says he crossed over the border in his 20s, driven by his faith. Faith, like a drug in his veins, penetrating bone and marrow and heart. While his gods wept, the twenty-two-year-old took aim. The gun became his confidante, his prayer wheel, his rosary.
He remembers the first man he killed, the blood on his chest, the last breath ebbing out of his crumpled body. He taught himself to not feel the pain of the dying. To numb his ears to their cries. He believed the blood he spilt was a votive offering to a greater cause. A sacrifice at its exalted altar.
Gun cradled on his shoulder, he travelled from village to village under cover of the night. Hid in orchards, camped in jungles. Ate what he could lay his hands on, his reflexes agile, his nerves on edge, always on the run like a hunted animal. "It wasn't faith in my god or religion that made me sound the first war cry," he says. "It was the mad rush of youth, blind to consequences…"
This he says in retrospect, his weather-beaten face pressed against the cold iron bars of his prison cell. He surrendered five years after the bloodbath began. The stench of gunpowder clogging his nostrils, the gun on his shoulder growing heavier with each passing day. He saw the bodies piling up. But the situation on the ground had nose-dived into utter despair. He had mistaken the gun for a miracle, a magic wand he could wave and turn things around in the blink of an eye. Even if it was too late, he saw the path of the gun for what it was: a curse, a disease, a perversion of faith. He regretted his mistake.
Diving deep into the pool of that regret, he surfaced with the true tenets of his faith. "I put my faith in the might of the gun. Not the power of peace and tolerance that my faith preaches. I thought I was a believer but I was just a fanatic."
Misplaced faith that drives you to the edge. Turns you from a living, breathing being into robotic killer. Makes you strap a bomb on to your body and walk into a crowded market place. One push of a button, one flick of your finger, lives blown to smithereens. A suicide bomber programmed to dream of a perfect afterlife, a place in paradise, by those who pervert the very foundation of faith.
********
Faith that saves you from the deepest abyss.
A Tibetan monk in Dharamsala, string of prayer beads in hand, maroon and yellow robes fluttering in the wind like a prayer. He takes a deep breath and breaks into a calm, knowing smile when he speaks of faith.
"Faith is …" he gestures at the hills covered with tall pines, the clear blue summer sky, the prayer flags dancing in the evening breeze. "Like air, water. It comes naturally to me. Like breathing."
To the Tibetan people scattered across the world, uprooted from their homeland, faith is the beacon that lights up the long night. A kind, benign, forgiving faith. Praying for peace and hope for all sentient beings.
For the exile, faith is the home where the heart is.
*********
Faith in a cause, even when the odds are stacked sky high. People brought together by nothing but the strength of their belief, inspired to take up impossible fights. One man and his faith in non-violence taking on the might of an arrogant empire. One nation's faith in freedom forcing the sun to set on an empire whose armies bullied the entire globe.
Faith moving mountains, birthing history at midnight.
Faith in the power of the powerless. Moving people to fight for dying lakes and rivers, tribals robbed of forests, miners left to rot in the bowels of the earth, farmers bulldozed into parting with their land. Win or lose, faith keeps you on an even keel. It's the fuel that feeds the fire and keeps it burning, even on nights when your tired eyes droop, and victory like a shimmering dream, seems way out of your reach.
********
Then there are those who twist faith into shapes that suit their convenience. Misuse it like a terrible weapon of mass destruction.
"God asked me to send my army to Iraq," famously declared the American president. As cluster bombs rain on Iraq and corpses pile up, Jesus weeps…
Closer home, the saffron brigade sets fire to theatres which screen films they think can upset Hindu gods. Rip apart canvases which portray Lakshmi or Saraswati through an artist's eye.
"My way or the highway" says the cowboy brigade that runs the free world.
"Our way or the highway" screeches the saffron brigade.
Taliban hordes smash centuries-old Bamiyan Budhhas in the name of faith. The Buddha smiles as their axes take wild swings at the statues.
*******
For those who have said goodbye to the binds of organized religion, faith is a constant search. We seek, we find, we falter.
A friend woke me up this morning. The shrill ring of the cell phone rudely penetrated the mist of sleep. I cursed him generously in the grey light of dawn for destroying my well-earned rest.
"It's five in the morning for us mortals. Call me after… say…eight?"
"No I need to talk," his voice sounded odd, eerily disjointed.
"Ok…talk."
"Do you think there is a god?"
My patience levels are at an all-time low before sunrise. "Whose number did you dial? Nietzsche?"
But sarcasm simply bounced off the seeker. He carried on.
"I am serious. What the hell is one supposed to believe in these days? The world is going to pieces. Iraq , Iran, Kashmir, the north east, Israel, Palestine…"
"So there is war everywhere. There have been wars since ever. There's no hope for us except to believe in the possibility of peace."
Silence for a long second. Then his reply.
"Keep the faith? That's such a romantic idea."
Scoff. Scoff. At the voice of reason he dragged out of bed!
"Ok, so what do you suggest? Let's all turn into insomniacs, nihilists. Stay up all night believing in nothing?"
"No. I mean, I don't know. That's why I called. If I knew, would I call?"
"Brilliant deduction, my dear Watson," I muttered.
"If there is a god, how can he or she not intervene? Stop all this madness. Set it right?"
"May be we are supposed to do it ourselves. Since we started the fire. Our job to put it out?"
"No divine intervention? No miracles? Then how the hell are we supposed to believe at all?"
The sun is spreading like a blob of white paint on the horizon. Back-lit clouds glow in its splendor.
"Faith is a mystery. Nobody can explain it. Not me, of all people." I rest my case.
"So you don't believe in god?"
"What is this? The Spanish inquisition?"
My friend is a bloodhound in human form. I suspect he was trained at his mother's knee to track answers down.
"Do you?"
"Oh…there are days I do. And then there are days…"
"So what do you believe in? I mean, no matter what day it is."
"Possibilities I guess…" A sunbeam streamed in through the living room window, motes of dust caught in its way, did a jig or two.
"The promise of tomorrow. That no matter how dark the night, there is always the hope of a new day."
The sun slowly grew into a shiny, sparkling, golden globe. The sky was bright and clean, gleaming like a freshly polished floor.
A new day at our feet, unraveling before us like a grand red carpet.
A new dawn, a new dream.
Amen.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
One More Life
MAY 2007
One more life
I am not an apologist for gunmen, serial killers or mass murderers. Not a fan of annoying television shows which dissect the killer’s psyche after he mows down innocent people. Anchors with patently fake earnestness quiz mental health professionals. A cliché fest. “Sir, do you think the movies he watched drove him to shoot people?” “Could a rock band have influenced his behavior?” “Was he nursing a broken heart, a stubbed toe?” “Did his mother love him enough?” Crazy is what crazy does, guys. So take these damn shows off air, will you? As Chris Rock once famously said while hosting an Academy Awards event: “we can’t call them crazy anymore…whatever happened to crazy?”
That being said, I have a tale to tell.
A real life story. It sounded stranger than fiction when I heard it from a man who sat hunched on a chair in an impersonal cop’s office. Truth, they say, can set you free. The jury is still out on that. But truth can turn out to be stranger than most things imagination can invent.
The man’s story had a beginning, a middle, and an end. But the end was begging for a new beginning. In real life, this is a fairly common problem. Ends tend to be a messy business. No such thing as a clean cut, a bloodless incision. You can live through an experience and move on. But when you walk into a new scenario, ghosts of the last episode of your life trail after you. Ends, like shrapnel, are embedded in you.
There a chosen few who can carry off perfect ends. Writers for example. Or film makers. You create the perfect end for your cast of characters... And then they lived happily ever. Untouched by memory or regret. End of story. Or they melted into a splendid, dizzying, digital sunset as violins serenaded them on dolby stereo. Fade out, end credits. All is well. That ends.
But in a real life story, the lines are blurred. I met a man in Kashmir a week ago. A place so complicated you can be forgiven if you think you walked into a fictional set-up. The air thick with intrigue like a dark John le Carre novel. Plenty of violent twists and turns like a Forsythe plot. Official versions and unofficial versions. Official body counts and the real deal. The truth, invented, interpreted and recycled. By the army, the police, the paramilitary forces. By mainstream politicians, militant outfits, spies, informers. By people who are caught in the crossfire. By people who engineer the cross fire. By vested interests. By innocent bystanders. By those who have nothing left to lose. Their lives, written off as collateral damage as old power games spin completely out of control.
The man’s story begins in 1983. He was 15 then. He woke up to an ordinary day in Kashmir. The day, like any other, would see several bloody encounters between security forces and militants. The body count rising by evening. The breeze smells of bloody ends. Explosions of pent up rage. The sound of strident war cries.
He was 15. He left home for school in the morning. His green satchel slung over his shoulder. In it, school books, a pen his father gifted him on his birthday, the lunch his mother had cooked in the eerie grey light of dawn.
The man before me speaks in a flat voice drained of emotion. As if he is speaking of a third person. Reliving the story of another life, not this. Another’s story, not his.
“I left home and didn’t go to school.” He says, fidgeting in his chair, throwing a wary glance at the cop in the room. I have taken special permission from the cops to interview this ex-militant who surrendered to the authorities two years ago. They agreed, on the condition that a cop would stay in the room during our conversation.
“I teamed up with a guide who took me across the border,” he says. He is a man of 35 now. A thin wisp of a man, browbeaten by life. When he gestures, I notice the nervous tremor of his hands.
“I saw a gun for the first time. I was trained to use it. Aim and fire.” He looks at the cop. .
“Tell her more. Did you kill anyone when they let you out of the camps?” asks the cop with a lopsided grin.
“No sir. No. We lived in the jungle next to a village after we came back. I shot some people, wounded them. Never killed anyone sir.”
He lapses into silence. The cop clears his throat.
“Why did you join the militants? You were just a school boy.” I ask.
“Most of the boys from my village were leaving. We were curious. We wanted to find out what was happening out there.”
He gropes for words. “It was like a typhoon. A wave of violence. We were swept away. When you are that young, you don’t think of consequences.”
He makes a fist and stabs at the air. An empty gesture of emphasis. “I had no idea what I was getting into. It was a wrong decision, but it took me a few years to realize that.”
He raises his voice and flings a question at no one in particular. “Who doesn’t make mistakes? But don’t I deserve a second chance now that I have given up the gun?”
Life after his surrender has been hell. His wife is a nervous wreck. They receive threatening phone calls, letters, midnight knocks on their door. The message is always the same: prepare to die. Militant groups see him as a traitor, a turn coat who deserves the worst. His two-year-old daughter and wife have moved from their village to the city, hoping to find safety here. He works as a daily wage labourer at a construction sight. He reports regularly to the local police station to keep them informed of his whereabouts.
“The cops don’t trust me. The militants threaten me and my family. We could be bumped off anytime.” He looks up and makes eye contact. “All I want is a peaceful life. A second chance.”
Does he deserve one?
Who decides?
One more life
I am not an apologist for gunmen, serial killers or mass murderers. Not a fan of annoying television shows which dissect the killer’s psyche after he mows down innocent people. Anchors with patently fake earnestness quiz mental health professionals. A cliché fest. “Sir, do you think the movies he watched drove him to shoot people?” “Could a rock band have influenced his behavior?” “Was he nursing a broken heart, a stubbed toe?” “Did his mother love him enough?” Crazy is what crazy does, guys. So take these damn shows off air, will you? As Chris Rock once famously said while hosting an Academy Awards event: “we can’t call them crazy anymore…whatever happened to crazy?”
That being said, I have a tale to tell.
A real life story. It sounded stranger than fiction when I heard it from a man who sat hunched on a chair in an impersonal cop’s office. Truth, they say, can set you free. The jury is still out on that. But truth can turn out to be stranger than most things imagination can invent.
The man’s story had a beginning, a middle, and an end. But the end was begging for a new beginning. In real life, this is a fairly common problem. Ends tend to be a messy business. No such thing as a clean cut, a bloodless incision. You can live through an experience and move on. But when you walk into a new scenario, ghosts of the last episode of your life trail after you. Ends, like shrapnel, are embedded in you.
There a chosen few who can carry off perfect ends. Writers for example. Or film makers. You create the perfect end for your cast of characters... And then they lived happily ever. Untouched by memory or regret. End of story. Or they melted into a splendid, dizzying, digital sunset as violins serenaded them on dolby stereo. Fade out, end credits. All is well. That ends.
But in a real life story, the lines are blurred. I met a man in Kashmir a week ago. A place so complicated you can be forgiven if you think you walked into a fictional set-up. The air thick with intrigue like a dark John le Carre novel. Plenty of violent twists and turns like a Forsythe plot. Official versions and unofficial versions. Official body counts and the real deal. The truth, invented, interpreted and recycled. By the army, the police, the paramilitary forces. By mainstream politicians, militant outfits, spies, informers. By people who are caught in the crossfire. By people who engineer the cross fire. By vested interests. By innocent bystanders. By those who have nothing left to lose. Their lives, written off as collateral damage as old power games spin completely out of control.
The man’s story begins in 1983. He was 15 then. He woke up to an ordinary day in Kashmir. The day, like any other, would see several bloody encounters between security forces and militants. The body count rising by evening. The breeze smells of bloody ends. Explosions of pent up rage. The sound of strident war cries.
He was 15. He left home for school in the morning. His green satchel slung over his shoulder. In it, school books, a pen his father gifted him on his birthday, the lunch his mother had cooked in the eerie grey light of dawn.
The man before me speaks in a flat voice drained of emotion. As if he is speaking of a third person. Reliving the story of another life, not this. Another’s story, not his.
“I left home and didn’t go to school.” He says, fidgeting in his chair, throwing a wary glance at the cop in the room. I have taken special permission from the cops to interview this ex-militant who surrendered to the authorities two years ago. They agreed, on the condition that a cop would stay in the room during our conversation.
“I teamed up with a guide who took me across the border,” he says. He is a man of 35 now. A thin wisp of a man, browbeaten by life. When he gestures, I notice the nervous tremor of his hands.
“I saw a gun for the first time. I was trained to use it. Aim and fire.” He looks at the cop. .
“Tell her more. Did you kill anyone when they let you out of the camps?” asks the cop with a lopsided grin.
“No sir. No. We lived in the jungle next to a village after we came back. I shot some people, wounded them. Never killed anyone sir.”
He lapses into silence. The cop clears his throat.
“Why did you join the militants? You were just a school boy.” I ask.
“Most of the boys from my village were leaving. We were curious. We wanted to find out what was happening out there.”
He gropes for words. “It was like a typhoon. A wave of violence. We were swept away. When you are that young, you don’t think of consequences.”
He makes a fist and stabs at the air. An empty gesture of emphasis. “I had no idea what I was getting into. It was a wrong decision, but it took me a few years to realize that.”
He raises his voice and flings a question at no one in particular. “Who doesn’t make mistakes? But don’t I deserve a second chance now that I have given up the gun?”
Life after his surrender has been hell. His wife is a nervous wreck. They receive threatening phone calls, letters, midnight knocks on their door. The message is always the same: prepare to die. Militant groups see him as a traitor, a turn coat who deserves the worst. His two-year-old daughter and wife have moved from their village to the city, hoping to find safety here. He works as a daily wage labourer at a construction sight. He reports regularly to the local police station to keep them informed of his whereabouts.
“The cops don’t trust me. The militants threaten me and my family. We could be bumped off anytime.” He looks up and makes eye contact. “All I want is a peaceful life. A second chance.”
Does he deserve one?
Who decides?
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Traveller's Tales
APRIL 2007, TRAVELLER'S TALES
Cities linger. Like lovers, their shadows trail after you. Long afterthe goodbye.Scraps of their memory cling to you. The first glimpse of a city'swinding lanes, cobbled streets, arching freeways. Minarets, turrets,castles and crumbling forts. Sepia-tints. Bright lights. Chrome and steel towers dazzle the skies in our odes to modernity.
Cities have no patience with etiquette. Like lovers, their memoriessurprise you. Any time, any place.
There are snapshots of each city wired into your brain. A jumble of images: the taste and touch of a city, its smells, the coda of its sunsets, the glint of its night lights. Ages after you wave goodbye,they will flash across your mind. Catch you unawares on a greyevening, a bright summer morning. On days you can't summon the will to live. On days you explode with energy and believe you can take overthe world. They simply turn up. Without preamble. Without a plot.
A memory of a walk in a centuries-old market in Istanbul where youstumbled on unexpected treasures. An antique lamp from a forgottenfairytale, beckoning you from a store at its noisy center. A long,rambling conversation with the owner, his face so furrowed you could swear he is an alchemist who owns the elixir of immortality.
A meal at a street side café on a sun-dappled Brooklyn street. An artist sits next to you and sketches the scene, as you bite into aslice of luscious honeyed cinnamon toast, the café comes to life on his canvas, bright yellow chairs, crimson coffee mugs, people huddled over tables, their movements slow and languorous, basking in the beginning of a new day. His brush traces the street, it moves in deft strokes, conjuring up fluffy white clouds, a benign Spring sky,beneath it, a tiny yellow café blooms like a flower, a lazy street unwinds.
Cities you lived in and will never forget. Streets as familiar as the lines on the palm of your hand. Their museums, parks, churches and cemeteries, bridges and freeways and music halls. Steak houses, strip clubs, ghettos, inner cities. You could find your way across them, blindfolded, on the darkest of nights. Cities whose geography you have made your own; like a lover's body, such intimate knowledge, a vein here, a mole there, a scar from an old wound etched deep into the skin.
Cities you visited and long to get lost in again. Stuck in your head like a tune. A jazz note you are free to improvise. Cities that seduce you. Surrender to the black magic of their bright lights. Their manic hearts pulse all day, all night. Cities that never sleep. Or stop to weep. Live in the moment. Let it be.
Cities that play your muse. Like perfect lovers, inspiring you to create prose and poetry, art and music.
Cities you remember and fight to forget.
Cities so close but so far away.
A recent visit to Kagul, a small town where I was born. This is a town in transition, fast morphing into a city. New malls, multiplexes. Flashy cars zipping across once sluggish streets. But I discover that if you stand still and listen, shut out the static and listen, you can still hear the song of the sea, the old lament, the soothing lullaby that rocked me to sleep, the primal roar that woke me up with a shudder on stormy childhood nights.
I wander the lanes of the old city which is tucked away behind the veneer of the flashy new town. People greet me in polite tones reserved for tourists, a reminder that natives who leave by choice need not expect to be taken back into the tribe. The landmarks of my childhood wink conspiratorially at me. The stately silver church by the water tank glints in the sunshine, the hands of the old clock opposite the railway station go tick tock tick tock.
In this city, I was a child. This city was my world. I remember early morning walks by the sea, clinging to my grandfather's arm. The gulls circling overhead, fishermen pushing their boats across the glistening sand, humming a happy tune, praying for a good catch. I chatter louder than the gulls, safe in the knowledge that my grandfather is anexcellent listener.
Trips to the city's only posh bookstore with my aunt. The store is about a half hour ride from home. We plan each expedition gleefully, it is my welcome break from the drudgery of school and homework andendless evening tutorial sessions. The owner of the bookstore, unlike most adults, talks to children, not at them. We discuss authors and new releases like old friends. I pick up Phantom and Mandrake comics, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist, a book of Shakespeare's plays. My aunt is a fledgling lawyer trying to find a foothold in the legal jungle. Her senior lawyer pays her a nominal monthly salary. But I fill my shopping bag with books, oblivion towards your budget being one of the exclusive privileges of childhood!
After years, I am back in this city for a wedding. A young cousin isdecked up as a bride, as her make-up thickens, her face transforms erily into that of a stranger's. As the auspicious hour of the edding ceremony draws near, the bride's family is bundled into cars nd driven to the venue. As we drive past endless rows of shopping alls and jewelry stores, the eternal question pops up in my head.
Can you go home again? Yes, you can.
But make sure you have confirmed return tickets before you set out. More survival tips. If you want to hang on to semblance of sanity, get out of town before the family ghosts come to haunt you. Before the matchmakers make a beeline for you. Keep it short and sweet. A brief trip down memory lane is all your system can take.
........................................................................................................
The past is a city you lived in once. Its lanes so familiar like the lines on the palm of your hand. In its maze you lose yourself. A city so close, yet so far away.
The future is a city that haunts your dreams. A tune stuck in your head. A jazz note you are free to improvise. The black magic of its bright lights hard to resist. Its manic heart, pulsing, all day, all night.
Here and now, in this fleeting, fragile present, so many cities left to see. With new stories to tell, they wait. Patiently.
IRIS
Cities linger. Like lovers, their shadows trail after you. Long afterthe goodbye.Scraps of their memory cling to you. The first glimpse of a city'swinding lanes, cobbled streets, arching freeways. Minarets, turrets,castles and crumbling forts. Sepia-tints. Bright lights. Chrome and steel towers dazzle the skies in our odes to modernity.
Cities have no patience with etiquette. Like lovers, their memoriessurprise you. Any time, any place.
There are snapshots of each city wired into your brain. A jumble of images: the taste and touch of a city, its smells, the coda of its sunsets, the glint of its night lights. Ages after you wave goodbye,they will flash across your mind. Catch you unawares on a greyevening, a bright summer morning. On days you can't summon the will to live. On days you explode with energy and believe you can take overthe world. They simply turn up. Without preamble. Without a plot.
A memory of a walk in a centuries-old market in Istanbul where youstumbled on unexpected treasures. An antique lamp from a forgottenfairytale, beckoning you from a store at its noisy center. A long,rambling conversation with the owner, his face so furrowed you could swear he is an alchemist who owns the elixir of immortality.
A meal at a street side café on a sun-dappled Brooklyn street. An artist sits next to you and sketches the scene, as you bite into aslice of luscious honeyed cinnamon toast, the café comes to life on his canvas, bright yellow chairs, crimson coffee mugs, people huddled over tables, their movements slow and languorous, basking in the beginning of a new day. His brush traces the street, it moves in deft strokes, conjuring up fluffy white clouds, a benign Spring sky,beneath it, a tiny yellow café blooms like a flower, a lazy street unwinds.
Cities you lived in and will never forget. Streets as familiar as the lines on the palm of your hand. Their museums, parks, churches and cemeteries, bridges and freeways and music halls. Steak houses, strip clubs, ghettos, inner cities. You could find your way across them, blindfolded, on the darkest of nights. Cities whose geography you have made your own; like a lover's body, such intimate knowledge, a vein here, a mole there, a scar from an old wound etched deep into the skin.
Cities you visited and long to get lost in again. Stuck in your head like a tune. A jazz note you are free to improvise. Cities that seduce you. Surrender to the black magic of their bright lights. Their manic hearts pulse all day, all night. Cities that never sleep. Or stop to weep. Live in the moment. Let it be.
Cities that play your muse. Like perfect lovers, inspiring you to create prose and poetry, art and music.
Cities you remember and fight to forget.
Cities so close but so far away.
A recent visit to Kagul, a small town where I was born. This is a town in transition, fast morphing into a city. New malls, multiplexes. Flashy cars zipping across once sluggish streets. But I discover that if you stand still and listen, shut out the static and listen, you can still hear the song of the sea, the old lament, the soothing lullaby that rocked me to sleep, the primal roar that woke me up with a shudder on stormy childhood nights.
I wander the lanes of the old city which is tucked away behind the veneer of the flashy new town. People greet me in polite tones reserved for tourists, a reminder that natives who leave by choice need not expect to be taken back into the tribe. The landmarks of my childhood wink conspiratorially at me. The stately silver church by the water tank glints in the sunshine, the hands of the old clock opposite the railway station go tick tock tick tock.
In this city, I was a child. This city was my world. I remember early morning walks by the sea, clinging to my grandfather's arm. The gulls circling overhead, fishermen pushing their boats across the glistening sand, humming a happy tune, praying for a good catch. I chatter louder than the gulls, safe in the knowledge that my grandfather is anexcellent listener.
Trips to the city's only posh bookstore with my aunt. The store is about a half hour ride from home. We plan each expedition gleefully, it is my welcome break from the drudgery of school and homework andendless evening tutorial sessions. The owner of the bookstore, unlike most adults, talks to children, not at them. We discuss authors and new releases like old friends. I pick up Phantom and Mandrake comics, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist, a book of Shakespeare's plays. My aunt is a fledgling lawyer trying to find a foothold in the legal jungle. Her senior lawyer pays her a nominal monthly salary. But I fill my shopping bag with books, oblivion towards your budget being one of the exclusive privileges of childhood!
After years, I am back in this city for a wedding. A young cousin isdecked up as a bride, as her make-up thickens, her face transforms erily into that of a stranger's. As the auspicious hour of the edding ceremony draws near, the bride's family is bundled into cars nd driven to the venue. As we drive past endless rows of shopping alls and jewelry stores, the eternal question pops up in my head.
Can you go home again? Yes, you can.
But make sure you have confirmed return tickets before you set out. More survival tips. If you want to hang on to semblance of sanity, get out of town before the family ghosts come to haunt you. Before the matchmakers make a beeline for you. Keep it short and sweet. A brief trip down memory lane is all your system can take.
........................................................................................................
The past is a city you lived in once. Its lanes so familiar like the lines on the palm of your hand. In its maze you lose yourself. A city so close, yet so far away.
The future is a city that haunts your dreams. A tune stuck in your head. A jazz note you are free to improvise. The black magic of its bright lights hard to resist. Its manic heart, pulsing, all day, all night.
Here and now, in this fleeting, fragile present, so many cities left to see. With new stories to tell, they wait. Patiently.
IRIS
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