Hugs

Who was the last person you hugged? and the one before that? How were the two actions different?

I sometimes wonder, how many different kinds of hugs are there in our lives.

There is this "all out hug" which can easily turn into a bone crushing experience, generally shared amongst guys in one of those super happy friendly moments.

Then there is that "barely a hug", which is more like an awkward pat on the back while standing in front of each other. Mostly happens, when you are not really sure how friendly are you supposed to be.

Then there is that "cuddle", which is what most children give their parents, and is often shared by brothers/sisters as well.

Then there is that "impossibly long embrace", mostly shared between spouses when meeting in public where they are actually reluctant to let each other go, but kinda have to ( I don't know how long into the relationship it continues). I am not even getting into whatever happens in private.

Then there is that "I am not hugging you hug", where it is just a way of telling the other person that I would rather stab you in 21 different places than hug you but I am still doing it just to maintain courtesy. Some couples do graduate to this one from the one above with time. Or may be most do.

Then there is that " Bum out face in crouch ", generally shared amongst between friends of different sexes, for obvious reasons, and in an attempt to avoid awkwardness is probably the most awkward one to look at, because it looks like both the people are using each other as sticks to help them stand, and are suffering from spinal disorder.

You got any additions to the list?...rite on...

THE BIG FAT RAT

I just learned that you Standing-on-two-legs-large-no-tails call me the Big Fat Rat. I am grateful for being called Big, as it implies a great respect in us beings, though it is difficult for me to understand why you would use big and fat in the same name as they mean almost the same thing, don’t they? May be it’s my lack of a proper education. You see, I never had a teacher, like those mad gatherings you have in places you call schools have for you. You know, I have always wanted to ask this. How come all of you wear the same Wrappings-that-are-so-tight when you go to these schools? I mean whenever we have any gatherings amongst us, we sharpen each our nails so differently, to show off our individuality you know, don’t you guys do it?


Anyways, I want to take some time to tell you things about me, and it would do you well to know since you always seem to be ignorant to any existence beyond your own. May be that’s why God took away your tails, because they would have stopped wagging or going up suddenly or doing anything because of your sheer lack of emotion for others. May be God should not have taught you to stand on two legs, that ways you would not have become so high, and may be then you would have noticed other beings, and have some emotion for them. You know, most of the others hate you because of the way you trample the little-six-legs-no-eyes-smell-followers. But I know something else. Not all of you are all that bad you know, especially those little-chubby-no-tails, may be because they are not so high like the others.


You know, like most of you no-tails, some of us also like to tell stories. May be there is something common in us after all. Today, I want to tell you a bit of my own story. The oldest memory of myself I have is one where I used to play around in our family grounds with my cousins, there were three of them. Sharp-tooth, who used to be especially naughty you know, long-legs, he was the fastest runner amongst us and always beat us at all our games, dark-hair, who used to be the eldest and always the gentle and the responsible, and they called me run-over, because I had a tendency to run-over things because I am so Big you know. Not the way you do, only things, not others. We used to play in these barren grounds for hours and hours, before some of you people came and made this vicious jungle out of our grounds. Everyone of our family went away then, looking for new grounds as you had robbed us of our home. But I stayed. May be because I was too lazy to go. It has been such a long time since then I don’t even remember why I really stayed you know. I don’t even know if all my family is alive anywhere or not. Do tell me if you see them anywhere, I would love to meet them you know.


But I like this place. This massive jungle that some of you only made. And there are so many of you around here all the time. Though, I don’t understand why you ever come here? With all your bags packed and ready, you come here and wait for hours, and then happily move out to the graveyard, where that massive-many-winged-noisy-fly awaits you all, which eats you all up and then flies away. I think there are many of those birds, though I admit I have always been too scared to find out for myself. I think all of you go to the graveyard in search of a passage to the other side, and there must exist one, because I have noticed some of you coming out from the graveyard, tired, looking for your bags, may be coming from the other side. Although I also think I once saw the massive-many-winged-noisy-fly vomiting some of you out through it’s tongue and then you came back. I don’t understand that. May be the noisy-fly doesn’t- like the taste of some of you no-tails. Talking of bags though, I don’t understand why so many of you He no-tails keep staring at those she no-tails who also always use those similar Wrappings-that-are-so-tight around them are always moving around the jungle, with their bas moving following them. Those bags weirdly behave as dogs you know, always following those she no-tails.


Did I tell you about the foolishness of some of those no-tails who keep tying cords around your bags so I cannot reach into your bags and find some foods amidst all the garbage you throw in there. They don’t know that although sharp-tooth was my cousin, my teeth are sharp enough for their stupid cords anyway. I always laugh at them when I take some of your food away. Sorry, but I have got to feed myself no.
What I never understood was, when all of you are sitting in the jungle waiting for your turn to come to the graveyard, why are you always so happy. I mean you are going to the graveyard after all. May be you are happy to see so many no-tails together.


The other day, there were these no-tails who were here all night, and made so much noise I couldn’t sleep at all. There was this guy who smelled so bad even I couldn’t go near him, and he was all tipsy, falling here and there. May be he was sick. May be he was going to die soon so he was going to the graveyard. May be the noisy-fly would also get sick by eating him. Then there was a set of he and she no-tails who held on to each other’s front legs all the time. You know, I think I have seen some of no-tails do that before as well. There were those two very old she-no-tails who kept walking to and fro all night. I think I heard them say they were doing it to not sleep. I don’t understand why they would not want to sleep? But they were very slow walkers, like they were sleeping while walking anyway. I could easily take 6 rounds of the area by the time they took one. Weirdly, they never went outside my part of the jungle till morning. May be they knew this is the only safe part, where the noisy-fly can’t even see you. That is why I always stay within the lines of this part, which I have come to call as my part. There was also this old he no-tail who had so much of that drink that comes out of that hole on that tube coming out of the red tree that is at so many places in the jungle. You no-tails sure can drink a lot I learned that day. There was a group of 4, no 5 no-tails who were clustered around each other. May be they were a family. I miss my family a lot. There was this huge tall he no-tail sitting in one corner. I think he was reading a book. He sat all alone or a while. After a while, a she no-tail also came there and sat next to him. They didn’t talk for a long time. I don’t understand why when so many of you are here you don’t talk amongst each other. That is what you are supposed to do in gatherings no? Anyway, after a while those two no-tails in the corner started talking to each other. Though every time one of them was not looking, the other would smile as though they had just won some big game. I didn’t understand that.


Alas, there were so many of you here that day but I couldn’t find any food. I was hungry. I suddenly saw the family of no-tails eating something. I rushed towards the food because I was so hungry. They all jumped. And as you no-tails always do on seeing me, dropped the food. Good for me no, though I don’t understand why you are scared of me, when you are so huge yourself.


I was very happy after that. One, because I got good food. Two, because all you no-tails here that day finally started talking amongst each other. It’s so good to see a gathering like this where every one talks. I wish there were others like me I could gather around. I think all of you were talking about me. Some of you were laughing. I don’t understand how you can be scared of me one minute and laugh another. Though it’s good to see you laugh. We cousins used to laugh a lot too. There was this she no-tail who started running after me with a stick in her hand. Her wrappings were so tight; she couldn’t even come close to me. But it was fun to make her run. After that all of you started laughing even more. I was very happy to see you laughing. I tried to come and see may be if I can talk to you, but you started jumping every time I came close. So I sat in the corner and saw all of talking. And whenever you would go quiet, I would come again so that you some of jumped again. And then all of you would talk again. Some of you tried to chase me, but run-over is too fast for any no-tail on this land. I watched you no-tails for a long time that night. Till you all went away one by one to the graveyard, which made me sad. After that I slept. I was at least happy that I had managed to get all of you to talk in the gathering. You should always talk.


I thought about saying all this today because I was reminded of that day as the he no-tail who was reading a book that day in the corner is back today. The she no-tail is not with him anymore. May be the noisy-fly ate her, or may be she got to the other side. I hope she did. He has also brought something some of you no-tails who have too many Wrappings around them often bring to the jungle. It looks like a book but it shows TV on it. You no-tails have amazing things you know. You know there was SRK on that TV today, and he was looking so good. Why are you wondering how I know SRK. Common, everybody knows SRK.


By the way, since you no-tails are scared of me, let it be known, that just before the land of the noisy-fly, the graveyard, lies another forsaken land, of one Run-over, the one you refer to as The Big Fat Rat. You all no-tails are always welcome to the jungle of this hairy-tail, given that you bring food for the mighty owner. I like sweets. I thought you should know that.


The Big Fat Rat.
Address: The jungle of the noisy fly.

P.S. I just learned you people call this place "airport", whatever that means.

MELANCHOLIA

A collision leads to a transfer of momentum. My physics teacher must have said that a thousand times. I understood him the other day, sitting on a railway platform in a small village, the eternal backdrop of the recently glorified Indian nation. I was sitting there because I was scared to stay in this village till late in the night. It turns out; there are still places in this country where we have separate food joints for Hindus and Muslims. You see I am a Hindu, who was sporting a French beard, which somehow signified to the locals that I am a Muslim. I was scared what collision might happen in the neighborhood because of the confusion. I was scared because the scorn in the voice of the shopkeeper who had just stopped me a while ago when I was entering a food joint was so palpable, I could feel it almost as real as the clothes I was wearing. While getting into the restaurant, he had stopped me to shout, “ tumhe hindu restaurant jaana hai ya muslim.” Confused, I looked up and saw the name of the restaurant: “Maa Tarini Hindu Hotel.” That is when, fearing the transfer of momentum which may create a chaos if a collision happened on this account, I rushed to the railway station.

I was sitting on the station, waiting for my train, trying to get my thoughts away from my fears. A fast nonstop passenger was due to pass through track number three, before my train came on it, the village where I had just had my enlightening experience being too insignificant for the train to stop there. Another fast moving train, a “maal gaadi” filled to the brim of the coal rushed on to the platform on track number 4. Its speed was so great that it looked like a mad beast on a mission, roaring through the station. At the same time, the nonstop passenger rushed onto track number three. The collision between the air in the platform and the onrushing trains was so great, that I felt the platform itself shaking, the vibrations of air from one train to another moving my whole being. I am overwhelmed by the transfer of momentum that must have happened in that insignificant yet palpable air to make me feel what I was feeling. I looked at the people around me. Each one of us for those few instants at least had the same feelings, irrespective of our backgrounds, religions, occupations, economic status, we all felt shaken. And then we all lapsed into our own beings once again. The sole beggar at this time on the station, looking with a longing towards a group of people, half wasting their food, in an attempt to jump at it at the same time. Friends, having fun I guessed. The hawker readying his basket of local made delicacies, for the oncoming train, in hope to try and get into the sleeper or ac compartments, where at least some may buy his product, and he may go home with more than those very delicacies with him. The railway policeman, uninterested in whatever was happening around him, probably worried about some issues of his personal life. The “stallwala” fellow, beaming with a sense of pride, probably because he had managed to secure a stall on the station that was probably the singular biggest achievement by anyone in his family line. A procession of people, with a groom with his bride at the head, both of them oblivious to everything but each other. A smart man, wearing a tie, working with a calculator and a sheet of paper, hoping his boss won’t call before he finishes the report. Life for each one of us had taken different collisions, and thus momentum had taken each to it’s different course.

May be I was remembering my physics teacher too much that day.

For those few instants that those trains were passing in opposite directions on my two sides, I had many other souvenirs from the past coming before me. In each window of that passenger train, I could see someone or the other of my friends, from whom I was so far away. On the coal bearing beast’s sides, I saw memories of our family gatherings. I used to love being with my friends. On one window, I saw a picture of seven men, with their feet over a stone, assuming a mock oath. The fateful stone of bachelorhood we guys had called it. Ironically, it was the stone exactly in front of the girl’s hostel in college. On the next window, I see a huge group, playing cards on the roof of the library they had somehow managed to surmount. The pantry car passed, and on it’s windows was painted the DLP Canteen. I could almost smell the maggi and the aloo pyaz paranathas. On the other side, on the coal bearing steel, I saw a kite shaped like a rooster, soaring all alone, like a king in the sky, its string being passed amongst us brothers and our sister, on our rooftop. A party in our city’s “revolving restaurant”. The broken shards of the tube-light, which had suffered the misfortune of being in the way of our cricket ball. There were many more pictures, although how so many of them managed to come upon in those few instants is a credit to the pace at which the human brain can function. All that is so distant now. Somewhere a momentum shift had happened, taking everything so far away. I hope another shift happens soon, taking me back closer. I really hope so.

Sitting there, the word Melancholia came to my mind. A state of sadness, that’s how my friend had described it. The state that was this city, the states that were our different lives, the state that was the distance between me and my close ones. Melancholia. I doubt my physics teacher even knew this word, though I am sure he must have felt it. Each one of us has. Such is Life.

Weird thoughts - continued

Ever wondered what were you like when you were a kid??..

Were you the hunk/babe in your class?.. were you the bully....were you the nerd...were you the nobody.....were you the guy everybody picked on??...were you the teacher's favorite?...were you the school head types???...

are you the same guy now...do u even know the guy that was there...
do u know his friends???...did he have any friends...?...what do his friends think of him now??

have u changed?..why...or why not...?...did u always want to be the guy u are now?...or the guy you sometime ago were...or something else completely...

and if so...why did u end up here??

Ever wondered, why some people change with time, and some others don't. And what side of the line are you on?.

Things to do when you are all alone in a far away town where nobody knows you:

Thing to do No. 1: Window shopping, and if that doesn't help enough, look admiringly at the most expensive product available, ask the store manager to give you all possible schemes on it, and then tell him you will come back to get it once you get your salary.

Thing to do No.2: Go back to the store manager, tell him you got your salary, but you don't like the product anymore.

Thing to do No.3: Go to a famous restaurant, order a coffee. Sit at the table in front of the door. Stare at everybody who comes in. Most people will look away.

Thing to do NO.4: Read as many books as you can. Then sell them. Because you will need money to buy more.

Thing to do No.5: Get an internet connection. At-least you can abuse, insult, crib to, blast off your friends.

Thing to do No.6: Try to download movies on your stupid connection, then crib to anybody who will listen that the speed is too god-damn slow.

Thing to do No.7: Write weird boring posts on your blog.

Thing to do No.8: Force your friends to read them.

Thing to do No.9: Curse everything and everybody you can think about. Blame it on them that you are in such misery.

Thing to do No.10: Chat, on the phone, on the internet.

Thing to do No.11: Go to INOX. Watch back to back movies. Crib that they were sad. Find out that everybody knows that they are sad.

Thing to do No.12: Go to work on your beard.

Thing to do No.13: Watch weird movie on star movies. Watch them again when they show repeat telecasts.

Thing to do No.14: Watch Roadies. Watch Splitsvilla. Watch their repeats. Crib aloud that these are the worst things you ever saw. Then watch fast and gorgeous and take back your words. This is definitely worse.

Thing to do No.15: Jot down a list of weird things to do.Make others read it.


P.s. If u did read this, probably you are in a situation very similar to mine, so please go ahead and add on...

The fables of the one legged rider - Rich or poor

It's 2:00 p.m. The sun is blazing in full glory, hell bent on burning right through the small clutter of clouds, which were trying to shield the people, for just a little while. Soon the sun got the better of them, and battered, tired men, sweating profusely in the heat, started to head back for their homes.

It's a small corner of an important business street, in a small industrial town, where hoards of men and women come every morning, with a sens of purpose, looking up to the day's business. Today was no different. In the midst of the numerous shops, big ones, grand ones, some small ones, and some so small, the owners fight a war every morning just to get in them, were these men, winding the first shifts to their work, hoping for some respite from the heat. A tall, bald man, walks out of an exclusive showroom, more than just grand, recently opened with the paint still fresh, the first of its kind in the city. As he moves out, a BMW X3, probably the only one in the city comes and stops right in front him. The rich man, wearing a blue linen shirt and branded cotton trousers, black, sits in, and the mean machine wheels off.

Our dear rider has just been dropped off at the corner by his fat friend on a Bajaj Chetak. As his friend, rattles off on his not so mean machine, he looks around, at the aghast faces of men around him. The monsoon is late this year, and the water is dripping from the men's faces instead, though how much of it is courtesy the sun or the worries, resulting from bad business in the present times. To make matters worse, a little fellow called AILA, has just paid the neighbourhood a visit recently, and is responsible for all the battered poles, for Shahrukhan's face rotting in the mud (it was supposed to be up on a hoarding advertising some phone, though people don't seem to mind it's fate that much), for the fallen trees, and possibly for a few of the sweat drops.

As he looks on, the BMW passes him, and he admires the exquisite looks. Just as it turns round the bend, a cycle-rikshaw puller comes around from the other end, wearing a torn vest, probably used by someone else and then gifted to him, and a chequered "dhoti", probably one of his few prized possessions. He is done waiting for travellers at the corner, and has now decided to call it a day and moves away from the stand, riding his life support – the rickshaw. He is off to his small shanty, at the other end of the street, that is if it is still standing, after the meeting the little fellow called AILA (if you haven't realised yet, this little fellow is a cyclone that just hit some parts of our country).

Its 2:05, and the shutters on all our shops are down, and the corner suddenly seems deserted to the rider. Most of the corner that is, except that little section, where lies the only veg. restaurant-cum-dhaba-cum-sweets-corner-cum-ice cream corner-cum a lot more on the street. There is only one word that explains this place, "adda".

The rider walks in, looking for his usual table, which has become part of the semblance of reality that he has created for himself in these places, far off from his home. There are three men sitting on the table, with one space vacant for him. For those of you who do not understand, in these kinds of places, one never occupies the entire table, but just one seat, so that a complete stranger may well, and often does, sit beside you at lunch. Believe it or not, many friendships start at such tables, and last a lifetime.

On first look, the table looks like a set of misfits in this place. The first man sitting on the table is an executive from one of the leading banks in the country, or so the card attached to his imported belt says. The second man is wearing an orange collared shirt. The collar is open, probably strategically, to show off a heavy gold chain, thick enough for a dog's collar. Right across him is a man dressed in formals, and by the manner he always agrees to what the fat orange shirt says, the rider guesses that he must be the assistant. The fourth on the table is our rider.

Activity is at its peak, with more people than the place can take, looking expectedly towards the kitchen, hoping to see their order come out. The four men, alas, are still waiting for their turn to place their orders, let alone have them served. Looking at their glasses of cold water, a respite that has helped them relax, all four men are lost in their thoughts.

The power goes out. It is a completely regular feature ever since the advent of that very little fellow we talked about and the people are so used to it by now, that almost nobody reacts.
That is, except the orange shirt. Looking at the fan, as though it might just start running, scared of the look from him, he remarks ,"kya bekkar jagah hai, generator bhi nahi hai".

That is just a start, to his unending brickbats. They must be a regular feature, because the assitant mutely agrees, without offering any explanations or remarks. The other two men, are not that aware, and thus explain to him, that since some electrical work is on, the generator can't be switched on.

Then ensues an unending list of problems with this place. Most of the good dishes are not available, the menu is too small, there is no attention to "customer service” and so on and on and on and on. By now, the other two have also realized the story, and are silent, looking forward to the food they have just ordered. The orange shirt hasn't though, because he is still busy commenting. The rider wonders why the orange shirt didn't go to a five-star if he wanted so much of customer service, and if he is here, why can he let everybody eat in peace.

Amongst these thoughts, the rider sees the old waiter at the place, the one he has come to recognize too, bringing his order, the rider smiles. The orange shirt suddenly starts shouting an order at the old waiter, and manages to offend quite a few people on his way. Once the old man brings the order, he shouts again, and sends half of it back, because he is not in the mood for it anymore, and orders something else, about which he complains later, that he was not told by the old man that half a dish can also be ordered at this place, though it would only have taken the reading skills of a second grader to read the same on the board right in front of him, but then, may be that was too lowly for him, and may be the assistant should have done it, the lesser - mortal who only knows how to agree, and it is his fault after all. To his credit, the old man shows the orange shirt the board, which does seem to amuse the rider and the banker, though the assistant refuses to look up.

When the old man, finally moves away with the empty plates of the four men, the orange shirt comments " kya fakeer aadmi rakhe hue hain?", loud enough for the old man to hear. At this, the rider has had enough, gives him a look which couldn't mean much else than anger, and would have been easy to decipher even for the extremely dumb orange shirt.

He then walks too the old man, hands him is bill, holds him and tells him, " Dada, aap gareeb sahi, par fakeer wo hai, Dil ka fakeer".
With a smile from the old man, the rider rides back on to the road, questioning, which ones of us are really rich, and which ones really poor?

The fables of the one legged rider - Style

It is early hours if the morning, with a slight mist in the air. It is the month of january in a north Indian city, and those of us who have witnessed it, this was no time to be outside the warmth of one's bed.

A lonely auto-rickshaw, the only means of communication that available at this hour, was moving briskly along a clean, smooth and deserted road. One side of the road was the state university, silent and huge. On the other side were the houses of people who could easily be classified in the upper strata of the city, with multiple sedans standing in the open parkings that people prefer in these regions. The houses themselves were nothing short of princely bungalows.

The rickshaw driver, after taking a few extremely sharp turns, that apart from scaring the wits out of the passenger, also managed to amaze him at his own competence, though he knew he would not have dared any such thing if the roads were not deserted; he reached the lane the passenger had asked him to move to, and with a few further directions from the passenger, they reached their destination.

The rider, handing the driver his promised Rs. 40, got his luggage down with amazement in his eyes. He was expecting a locked gate, instead he found his entire family coming out, ready to leave for somewhere he definately didnt know. His first reaction was of shock, and worry, because it was quite uncharacterstic of everybody to be up together so early, but a close look at their merry faces had told him that nothing was wrong, but then, where were the headed?

He soon find out, that he happend to drop back home, at one of the Holy days, and everyone was headed to the nearby temple. Not to much of a relegious person, the rider weighed whether to go along or not, and finally decided too, just to be with everybody.

With continous chit - chat on the way, the rider moved inside the temple feeling it was a little too close to their place. All of them entered the magnanimous campus, most with their hands folded.

A special prayer had been organized by the Pujari Ji, and there were quite a few people present to attend it. Not being a very relegious person himself, with a much greater belief in science, which automatically contrasted with relegion, the rider soon lost interest in the prayer. The fact that he didnt understand much of it for it being in sanskrit might have added to hi disinterest. He started off with his favorite activity of observing others.

The group consisted of all kinds of people, of different backgrounds, age groups etc.
There was a mother holding a small baby in her lap, sitting in her corner. The baby seemed to be awake but peaceful, the mother smiling. A small lean kid, was moving around the campus, lost in his own merriness, and could not have cared less. There were old men and women, in their sixties and seventies, mostly retired, with grey hair, and lost in memories. Then there were not so old people, working men, women, housewifes, incharge of their households, all dressed smartly. There were also a few younsters, like our rider, some a little disinterested, others greatly devout. This was as vivid an assortment of people as any.

While the "pujari ji"'s prayers were about to come to an end, a few regulars at the temple went about distributing a few musical instruments, a "dholak" etc. A typical indian instrument, two metal plates tied together with a string which gave a distinct ding on striking upon each other, was in such abundance that within minutes, almost everyone had one.

By the time the prayers were over, the man siting with the dholak started playing it, and singing a popular hymn which was known to everybody in the country. Moments later, he was joined by a couple of ding sounds. Soon, a few other joined the chorus of the hymn. Withing minutes, everyone was in on it.

The rider, could beleive the effect the symphony was having on him. Although he didn't have any intentions to, he couldn't stop himslef from joining in with one of those instruments.

The rider thought to himslef, once the hymn was over, that what amazing effect it had had on everyone around. The baby was smiling wildly in his mother's lap, the kid was also looking at the deitie's idol, inspired it seemed. All the other grown ups, which the rider felt included him, were so relieved of all their worries, problems, issues, everything, by merely being able to come together in such a fashion.

With the proceedings over, he started walking back towards outside, amazed. He suddenly remembered that he was limping, the limp being much more pronounced than in later years, as the wound was still quite fresh. It is then that he realized, that astonishingly, he hadn't even remebered his pain during the hymn.

He wondered at the power it had possesed, turned back, looked straight towards the idols, and said in his mind," Kuch bhi kaho boss, maan gaye, Style to hai aap me!"

And with this new definition of style in his mind, along with his family, he rode on!!

The fables of the one legged rider - Choice

The rider, is sitting in a local train, moving from one suburb to another, of the fastest city in this country, our financial capital as they call it, our dear Mumbai.

The crowd is so immense that the rider can see little more than the sweaty shirts of the two people standing in front of him and the train's roof.

His station is about to arrive, and he manages to reach the passageway between the two doors, getting to hear some not so pleasent words on his way, because of having acccidentaly pushed so many people, not that it was possible to reach there without doing so anyway.

Without worrying about the pleasentries, and happy that the tough part was over, he stood, waiting for the push to come.

And come it sure did, as it always does in a local, where you never have to get down, the crowd makes you do it for you.

Amidst the thousands of people rushing out of the station, the rider, a small notebook in hand, started moving towards an automobile plant nearby that he had been visiting for a few days .

Inside the plant, he went about finishing his work, as this was his last day here, and he was ready with most part of the report he had to submit a few days later.
In the last hour or so, with his work done, he was sitting on the floor , in a small clearing on the plant floor, amidst the loud din that goes on because of the machinery, so that no one can talk to another human, even if they wanted to because there was no chance anyone would hear him. He was looking at all the workers, going at their tasks, faithfully, without fail, again and again and again, for as long as he could remember.

At the same time, he thought of the fishermen, who go to catch fish, day after day, casting the same nets, in the seas around, enduring all the waste we throw in near the costs. The women who sold these fish, sitting all day in that uncomparable smell., the janitor, who cleans our office floors everyday, taking all the dust in his nostrils, doing the same thing..again again again, taking the tiring local to their jobs, with less free space than a fly would need to pee in, again again...forever.

The rider had once heard someone say, that with time, these people get used to it all, and actually started liking it. Well, that someone hadn't been to any of these places more than once for sure, so the rider thought.

Listening to the din, the rider wondered, there was no way anybody could ever like this, or even get used to it. That much he had realized working in the plants for the limited period he had. Then why do these people keep on going at it??

The answer came to him when he saw a worker's son sleeping in a corner. These men had made their choice, the choice to have a family to go back to, to try and provide or them, and "live" whatever semblance of life they could manage. And these jobs, were the best opportunity they got.

And in this huge country of ours, many dont even get that, and so these men are happy they got atleast this!

The rider just then got a call from his boss, that its time to go.

Wondering that was it really a choise these people got, and what of those who were worse off, he "rode" out of the plant.

Weird Thoughts - Continued

Weird thought about a bookmark
I had just finished a book called Wheels, while on my way back from work, and was wondering where to put the bookmark "in" now.

I kept it aside for use in my next book, and it is then that I wondered, what would it be like, to be a bookmark.
To be in touch with so many books, for such long periods, and then part, the moment the reader is done with the book.

I believe every book would leave a certain kind of mark on it, a small scratch, a little fold, an ink mark where water had spilled on the book with the book mark in it.

How would the bookmark feel, while looking back at all it's marks it had collected over the years.
And then I wondered, isn't a book mark a lot like us??..

We meet so many people - our books, have relationships, become friends, create memories - our marks, and then move on in life, without knowing when we will come across the same books again.

Or may be a bookmark is like a philanderer, who has small - term relationships, with many women (or men at times, if you know what I mean), and then moves on, with no marks, no guilt, no feeling whatsoever. And may be someday, the reader would forget it, inside a book, and that would be the philanderer's marriage, and it will stay there forever if that book was never retrieved.

But such a bookmark, would always look anew, since it would have no marks from the books in the past.

Ans somehow, I have never seen a used bookmark, which looks anew. The marks are always there.



Weird Thought about Buses and Bathrooms

What is common between buses and bathrooms, apart from the facts that they both start with a "B", and that in both places, people are often present, sitting in a relaxed manner, and some are known to fall asleep in both places.

I figured it is the fact that I keep getting all of these weird ideas in these places only.

But you know, it might have to do with the fact that my head is idle at both these times, since one doesnt use it much while sitting alone in a bus, or well you know, at the other place :)

The fables of the one legged rider!! - The Rider

A maroon rickety mini-bus, a S- shaped crack running across it's windshield, merging into yellow coloured lettering at its top, in a local dialect, unreadable to an outsider, meanders to a stop on a road which would make our normal road bumps feel like a chocolate does to a woman.
A tall man, dark, heavy, climbs down, along with a few other locals, carrying a black backpack. The man walks with a slight limp in his right leg, noticeable to none but a highly trained eye.

In this little remote village, where most people make their living out of coal mining, life is just as it always is on any Thursday morning. A train loaded with coal is moving at a snail's pace alongside the bus stand, and a few skimpily clad children are running along it, seemingly enjoying their routine game. To the man's right is a "thadi", an assembly of a few bamboo poles, a mesh of unused fodder supported over a rickety structure of discoloured bricks. Two men, in yellowish vests that originally would have been white and dhoti are having a reddish drink in a small plastic cup. The drink incidentally is a mix of tea leaves, salt, sugar and hot water, and only those who have tried it will be able to tell you that it is worth every penny of the 2 Bucks it costs, and much more.

On a small platform ahead, in front of closed shops, a small kid, wearing unkept clothes, his nose running is toying his way with a cycle tyre and a stick, as many have and will after him, on Indian streets. The shops are closed, because in this part of the world, holidays happen on Thursdays and not Sundays. Our man from the bus, manages a small conversation with the kid. not understanding his language, to ask if there was any place around where he can sit for a while.

Once the tall fellow has found a seat, he opens his backpack and takes out something mysterious to all others around. For a while, he sits and fiddles with the mysterious thing, tapping its fingers at it as though by doing so, suddenly that little mysterious thing will respond, and in some ways, it does.
He seems like he is just about done tapping when he looks up and realizes that everybody who was doing anything around him is surrounding him, and it takes him a while to realize that the reason is his mysterious possession.
Amidst all this ruckus, one of the yellow vested men, having a glum look on his face, manages to utter for words; " Ye laptop hai kya?"
The man agrees, and lets him have a look at it, which results in a grin on his face, and a queue behind him.

By the time the people around have lost interest in the mysterious "thing", another man arrives, carrying a backpack, dressed in formals quite like the tall fellow. They greet each other, and decide it's almost time to move on to work. But before moving on, the new guy stops for a smoke and the tall fellow looks on, at a weird murky off white drink being served in one of the many "thadi"s around. He tried his luck on insistence by the locals, finds out it has run out, as the drink is nothing to his taste, and the locals, for them it is a part of routine breakfast, share a laugh about it all.

Over the next two days, the two men finish their work in the region, which incidentally is also the home town of the second guy.

At the end of the second day, the tall fellow is standing at the bus stand again, with a book in his hand, reading. A school kid asks him if he is an English teacher. He shakes his head negatively, but secretly wonders that may be, just may be, he would be, someday!

The rickety bus arrives, and people start running towards it. The "thadiwallas", who have become his friends by now, usher him to run too, and he runs, with his backpack and book, or rather manages to run, trying his best to hide the limp. Miraculously, he also manages to get in the bus ahead of everyone else, which seems to have been the purpose of all the running as there are limited seats and only one bus that goes out to the city.

He waves his hand to all his new friends, and the bus starts meandering again, alongside the coal train. Minutes later, the ticket collector arrives, and acknowledges, as by now, he also is friends with the stranger. After a little banter, he moves on, collecting his money. One old man, frail, wheatish, greyed hair, lines on the forehead is sitting in one corner of the bus. When the collector signals for money, he hands out 11 Rs., upon seeing which, the conductor asks for another 2. What ensues is a tussle, which is almost as routine in these parts of the world as waking up in the morning. The old man keeps arguing that the fare is only 11, while the ticket collectors arguments are just ugly rants, conveying he won't settle for it.

The tall fellow has been looking up from his book and observing the two. At one point, he figures he could just give the collector the 2 Rs. and end it there and then. But the moment he is about to do it, he realizes that this would hurt the old man more than it will help him. To him, it is just not about 2 Rs.; it is about justice, fairness and above all pride, of having earned that money, working, even at this age, pushing his frail self. And it is this pride that is upheld when he fights with the collector. When the Collector moves on, the old man and our tall fellow, look at each other, and the tall fellow, nods, trying to communicate that he understands why the old man did what he just did. Though languages are many, communication can always find many ways. The old man smiles back.

The tall fellow, sitting in his corner, wonders, what all one gains in one's lifetime, relationships, experiences, these little smiles, those friends at the bus stand he may never see again, the people in the queue, the yellow-vested fellow whose reputation in the village would have grown, because he knew what the mysterious "thing" was and a lot more, and how quickly does all that get left behind. He wonders, if this is what life is all about.

This tall fellow is our rider.
Riders, there are many, of cars and trains, and the others. But there are few, who travel in buses, wander in markets, amongst people, observing them. These are the ones that find a place in fables, because though they ride no machine, these men ride on time, which takes them to newer and stranger places, amongst still stranger beings, such as all of us are.

The rider descends from the bus, in a busy market street, and rides on!!