The Middle Path

We were driving back from NH 22. Weather gods had been kind through the day, even though, a little disappointment lurched at the back of mind as the job at hand was not accomplished. It was usual chatter about the general decay around us, that we middle class love to indulge in. When my eyes saw, a man dressed in a neat white dhoti and yellow kurta, holding a white umbrella, collapse like a pack of cards on the road right before our eyes. I had never before seen a man collapse just like that. Our car was heading in the opposite direction.
For a few seconds we were quiet. Music became more pronounced in the car. We drove in shadowlands. We knew something should be done about the man. He needed help. We were also conscious of a few commitments awaiting us. Our humanity was knocking at the doors, callousness was responding. So, feebly we discussed, and came to a conclusion that we should report the matter to the traffic police on duty at the next traffic lights.
We did our bit. The traffic policeman was reluctant to move out in rains. “ The man must be drunk,” he dismissed. As though, drunks are justified to die an undignified death on road. At our insistence, he dialed some number on his walkie-talkie.
We returned. We had done our bit without checking out if the man received some help. Our conscience was flickering like those Chinese lights we put up on Diwali for decoration.
A newspaper I was associated with followed the practice of never printing unpleasant pictures of death and decay on the front page. Their philosophy was reflective of our mind set. We don’t want to deal with unpleasantness.
We compromise, we find the middle way. We like to play safe.

Flickr/on the road to heaven/ eSThER

Rhetoric on greed

At this juncture I can’t help thinking of a film I was shown by my nephew who worked for an investment bank in Wall Street. At twenty six he was able to afford an apartment in Manhattan. Yet, he claimed, he lived a dog’s life.
Now when I think of this Oliver Stone film, titled, Wall Street, that brought Oscar glory to Michael Douglas, I feel the metaphors used in the film are apt for the present scenario. The infamous Gordon Gekko, played with finesse by Douglas, a suave, manipulative, ruthless dealer who believes greed is God, personifies a financial culture that refuses to look beyond immediate gains, earned by paying any cost. Values have no place in this market. An investment culture where everything is fair as long as it books profits for the smart few.
Against Gekko’s first world charming world, that can afford more than anyone can consume under the sun, including disposable blondes, is a young ambitious man named Bud Fox ( played by Charlie Sheen) who exemplifies the third world dreams to ape Gekko’s world of surplus capital. Gekko is Bud’s idol, he can go any lengths to get into Gekko’s shoes. Gekko fans Bud’s dreams and youthful energy to expand his financial empire, which has no place for human values and bonds. Bud goes to the length of humiliating his own father, a man who has a vision and tries to protect worker’s rights in a takeover situation that Gekko is trying to manipulate by using Bud’s vulnerability.
Though, Bud too believes in Gekko’s philosophy that “ greed clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of evolutionary spirit, greed is right, greed works” and climbs the social ladder by insider dealings done at reckless speed , he gets in return what greed can offer, a luxurious life and Gekko’s ex girl friend, a blonde. Yet, in a classic manner, towards the end, he repents for his eroded values. Ironically, he is able to beat Gekko in his game by his very rules. By deceit. Bud is a creation of Gekko. He remains a shadow of Gekko, even though he attempts to crawl out of it.
Wonder, how long will Dalal Street take to crawl out of Wall Street shadows ?
After all, greed is also universal.

Each one has a Taliban

They all looked alike. De sexed is the right word. I could not differentiate for a while that there were girls too among what I thought to be a group of boys. My eyes took note of a few swollen breasts. I asked in shock, “ Are there girls too in the group?”
“ Yes,” came a flat reply. The woman who answered my query too had hid her hair under a white turban. She had a tuft of hair on her chin. In a cosmetic age, I was impressed by her courage to be herself. But, she had reached an age when genders could not be disguised. They become apparent by expanding pelvis and breasts. Girls and boys close to puberty can look so much alike, I learnt for the first time. They had tied their hair under a turban in similar fashion, their dress too was neutral to their gender. They wore genderless appearance.
I had many more things to learn that day.
I was invited by a prestigious residential school to help their teachers and students hone creative skills in writing.
After what seemed like a very impressive tour of the facilities, that included smart classes, language laboratory, an impressive library, computer lab, and a counseling room, I was left to interact with students of class twelfth. I began an informal chat about creative people and how they bring harmony and peace to life. I realized, the class had only girls. When I thought I was beginning to strike a rapport, one of the girls stood up to say what I said was all hoax. “ You cannot understand how we live, all this creativity is for free birds like you, not for us, we are jailed. We are not allowed to keep a mirror, we are forced to go for paath (chanting) at four every day, I hate God if he causes such torture, I hate my parents for leaving me in this torture cell, and I hate all teachers! ”
I was aghast, yet, impressed by her defiance. She had a lot that was begging to be expressed.
Once she removed the lid, others made me see a lot more. I was aware of my limitation as an outsider, yet I tried to lessen their pain by narrating tales of horror of living under supervision of nuns during my years of growing up. I talked of long hours of commuting for students in a metro, of many more compromises that we make in life ( I just did by concealing the name of the institution), when teachers and nuns are not there to force things down our gullet.
Yet, I was painfully aware of the fact that a girl blossoms into youth only once in her life span and she wants to feel beautiful during those years. She wants to look beautiful and would like to see it reflected in other pair of eyes. The same goes for boys. Youth wants expression in a youthful parlance, no amount of paath can substitute this need.
Why do boarding schools follow a regimen to prepare for a way of life that is never going to be of any use? Getting up at three to take bath will not be of any use to those thousand students the boarding has, it will only make them hate life and God. It will hamper germination of true spirituality. Their hatred for authority will find resonance in many other relationships. What will be their reference point beyond religion to face a complex life ahead? Why do all communities create their Talibans, why do all Talibans open their madarsas?
I felt helpless. Creativity can be used for sublimating mind, it lacks power of a bomb disposal squad.

Picture/flickr/Turban/ Arriving at the horizon

Friends of a fence

Fences have bad connotations. Almost all North Indians associate fencing with barbed wire on Indo Pak border. Across globe, people have been waging wars to remove fences. Although, on private properties, we love to maintain our fences with passion.
I too am against borders and fences, and I too have a fence around my little garden. I too protect my fence and privacy, rather fiercely.
This year something strange happened to my fence. Strangers began stopping by, more and more of them were tempted to cross the fence. The creeper on my fence blossomed into thousands of tiny white flowers that filled air with sweet aroma.
Some enquired about the name of the creeper, some asked where did I get it from and what did I do to make it blossom like that!!
The truth is, when I brought the creepers, I didn’t know they will blossom. Creepers are creepers. And, I do not know the name of their scent.
I just know this fence brings more friends. More people become aware of beauty around them. Even those, who dislike me, love my fence. It brings a smile on their face.

What an idea sirji !

Chimpu- Have you been reading Amar Chitra Katha?

Me – No, not lately, I used to, many years back. I’m too mature for that stuff

Chimpu- I want to update my knowledge on ACK.

Me- Why ?

C- I can get great idea to write a novel that may get me a Booker the third time

Me- Oh really, but how ?

C- Before that, I must also find ACK kind of comics from some other continents to give it an air of global connection, to impress people with my sweeping global knowledge.

Me- I don’t understand where is it leading?

C- Haven’t you read the Enchantress of Florence?

Me- Yes I did

C- And you call me Chimpu, couldn’t you make out the source of that book ?

Me- No no no that book is research based

C- Yes, when Sirji creates a Bhanumati ka pitara , it is called research, if a Chimpu like me writes the same stuff it will be called plagiarizing comics stuff!

Me- No, no, I think you far too simplify the thing

C- Thing, or the book ? Its not about simplification, its about being simplistic!

Me- No, no, this is blasphemy, I mean the book, it is written by one of the most widely respected authors of our times.

C- But it is a phattu tale, the kind two penny worth of kissago used to narrate night after night for phattu audiences, a piecemeal tale

Me- You mean he plagiarized your story?

C- No, why can’t you educated guys look beyond what you are told to see by others, don’t you have confidence in what you feel?

Me- I don’t want to displease you, who knows, you may become a best seller tomorrow! You may be right Chimpu! I have to keep everyone pleased, I can’t contradict big time critics, I have to live in the same waters… you know…
And then, the book does have some profound thoughts, moments…

C- A Chimpu knows better!