Is Nothing Sacred Anymore?

One of my most surprising choices of music, even to me, has always been Meatloaf. Things happen. People, books, movies, music happen to enter your life suddenly without a warning and they hang on for the rest of your life. Meatloaf has been one such band. One night, in my first year, as I sat in a room in Bhag, trying to type in something for the Press Club, I wondered, who on Mother Earth was this band. The Floyd era in my life was yet to start. I still was a part of the rustic ruffians whose only understanding of Floyd was to head bang with “We don’t need no education.” But I digress.

As I grew up (not apparent to most people), I must admit and somewhere around 2005 I guess, I realized that getting old is biological. Growing up was not. And I tried to stop the degeneration. And I began to consider few things sacred, sometimes to the point of creating an idiosyncrasy out of each one of them. Calcutta was one of them. I have always felt a little lost when it comes to Calcutta. I am the prodigal son, the deserter. I left Cal for what seemed better opportunities and have never been able to come back. It seems unlikely that I will be back anytime soon.

And so as Cal goes to the polls with the results fated to be historic one way or the other, I find myself in a dilemma. I won’t be voting in this election. But the 85% of my electorate will as they decide their fate and a part of future history. When I was in college, dad ensured I voted in most elections. Luckily the timings aided his efforts. But this is the third I will miss after the Parliamentary elections and the last assembly.

As I moved around Calcutta trying to feel the pulse of the city before the much awaited elections, I noticed things that have changed over the years. The bookshop where I used to buy most of my books from is now a gift shop. Clearly the bongs don’t gift as many books as they used to. The street food vendors I had grown up with change slowly every time I visit my usual haunts. The changes in Pilani were at the blink of an eye, the changes in Calcutta were more subtle. And it made me ask again, “Is nothing sacred anymore?”

But then something happened. The memories came flooding in, the good and the not go good. But however different they were, they kept on reminding me of a life that was innocent and beautiful.

Memories – they are sacred and they help you keep the faith. Always.

And That’s When I Realized – Part II

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5. South Africa remains inspired by Gandhi in the vision of her Madiba; that’s what the common people call Nelson Mandela. And perhaps that’s why as the rest of Africa burns in their struggle, South Africa remains peaceful. And that’s because people like Rev. Desmond Tutu believed that he had the responsibility to forgive. Every guide in South Africa talks about the moment when Madiba came out of his prison and they knew that he would one day be the President. And that’s where I feel proud to have the man with a stick as the Father of My Nation.

And that’s when I realized, violence can never replace non violence.

6. We went on the biggest culinary journey I have ever taken, more experimentative than any I have ever done before with food. It started with Nandos and the peri peri sauce. The signature spice burst in my mouth was like multiple instruments creating an orchestra at high crescendo and I had ordered just the medium spicy. For the first time I was crying in front of my boss and he had nothing to do with it!!! We went across tasting the lobsters and prawns and the occasional vegetable dish, all through figuring out which side of the Atlantic the fish came from. The Langoustine remains the best prawn I have ever had. One day, the Bongs of the World would count The Codfather as their ultimate culinary destination. And then one night we searched for home food and landed in Jewel of India. It was definitely not the best Indian Food in the World but then after a week of staying away from home, it tasted heavenly.

And that’s when I realized, the taste of home is beyond any in the world.

7. We travelled like crazy in the only free time we had before we had to board the flight and we went ahead to view the most important spots of the country. The choice was between Nature and History and my city bred eyes have always picked nature without a second though when faced with this dilemma.  Table Mountain spread out an entire city beneath us, cradled between the mountain and the sea. The clouds did not descend on us but what we saw was worth it by itself. The sunset at Camp’s Bay, the Cape of Good Hope, the legend of the Flying Dutchman and the Chapman’s Drive, all of them took our breath away. I worked on my framing of my pictures and realized that slowly my own style had developed over the years. I have three distinct takes – portraits, which need a good camera and thus I need to wait for a good one; nature – I think I am getting better at it when there is no human interference and album – the pictures you want to show people back home. Now in the album art I know exactly how and where to focus on people, what should be the subject and how the background should look like and it was nice to go back to theory of photography once again. And all with a Point and Shoot. Good at least I have shutter speed and aperture to play with.

 And that’s when I realized, I never bought a digital SLR not just because I missed my old analog cameras but because deep down I knew a digital lens can never replicate what my eyes can see and hold in wonder.

The Last Wolevrine

He ran along the prairies confident and fearless. The world was his playground, the air his friend, the pine cones his playmates.

The moon looked down upon him and smiled. They were friends too. When on full moon nights, she rose with all her grandeur, even he would stop tearing apart the carcass of a deer and look up to greet her. When she was covered with her own demons, he bared his fangs and leapt at them and they slowly gave way and vanished.

Yet they always came back.

The moon was moody to say the least. She hid on occasions behind her veil of clouds and as he grew older he realized that the moon was selfish too. They were born just a few hours apart. He knew he was born during the day when the gold disc was high in the sky and then as he played with his siblings, the gold disc dipped behind the mountains and the moon was born. Since then he had taken care of her. She was his responsibility.

Then one day they came. Hairless apes riding on Monsters, tearing down tree after tree. Trees that were older than the mountain itself were uprooted and thrown away. The green faded from the valley. The mountain shook and there were gaping holes left in his side. The mighty hills were pierced and though it did not bleed, everyone but the apes could hear it cry.

The moon too was covered in a strange new mist. It was not the fog of the pine cones in winter. It was dark, smelling of the black water that one could not drink and he growled and growled and it did not go away. Then one day, he attacked one of the apes. Easier than the ones on trees, they only had a piece of branch that lit a spark with a deafening sound and threw a stone. They never could hit him with the stone. He was too fast for it. He killed and killed till the monsters stopped barking and the mountains were still.

But he had misjudged the apes. One day as he slept, he felt something pierce his body and then all went dark.

They pulled him towards the burning stake. He tugged at his chains and realized that they were unbreakable.

He looked at the moon for one last time and howled in an ecstatic delirium. The apes crossed their hearts.

The mountains died with the last wolverine and legends say a new star was born beside the moon.

(The piece is loosely based on movies, folk tales, news reports and my own reality. Sometimes the dividing lines between myth, legends and realities merge.)

Light and Darkness

He was born of light. That’s the first remembrance he had of the world around him. Bright light that was stunning, yet soft to the eye. Light which some said came from a thousand splendid suns and yet never burnt anything it touched. Light that dispelled all evil around it and filled ones heart with hope.

His heart rejoiced. The world beneath was full of possibilities and as he descended down the rainbow, he saw his work cut out. He was born of light; born to remove darkness; born to remove all the muck that had settled in on the world. He was born for greatness. And yet, he knew that he did not crave for it. Neither did it matter to him if the resounding roar of applause would be absent. He did it for Light.

He worked through the filth of mediocrity knowing at every step that his task was cut out in the future. The light reminded him of sabres slicing through ignorance.

And he never noticed the webs slowly ensnaring his legs.

After years of practice, he was ready, to fly, to reach for the heavens above and transcend into a new reality, taking everything around him to the Promised Land.

As he neared the end of his training, he noticed the black threads for the first time. The webs had gotten stronger but not stronger than his will. He was after all, born of the light. They could wait. He had to become the best first.

Then one day as he readied to fly away, a searing pain ripped his body apart. The chains were unbreakable. He pulled and pulled, but slowly the darkness crawled towards him, the light began to dim. He heard the combined gasps of people around, the ones who had waited for deliverance and the ones who he had failed. He sank, lower and lower, till the last speck of light was blotted out.

Epilogue: He woke up bathed in neon lights. The thousand suns had given way. The glasses were tinted with multiple colours. He looked around. There were so many like him, a room full of people with tinted glasses, accepting the neon hallucination for reality. They all felt familiar. He looked at himself and did not recognize the face he saw. There was an unspeakable void within him and his past was lost forever.

What he did not know that they were all once born of light. And they all had failed.

The Long Walk Back

I met him the first day of the IIMB interaction. I thought he was one of the nicer guys. I invaded his computer the night after I gave my AuMale interview to leech Scrubs off his FTP and I thought he was a fantastic guy. Then he egged me on to continue in marketing and joined SNDU a year before me. And I thought, he was a super guy. Then he joined my team and it was like a breath of fresh air and I thought he was an awesome guy.

And then, as we were in Colombo, he got me to the Premadasa for a World Cup Semi Final – My first. And he proved that he was a super rock star. Actually I always knew it. Few people have this kind of a passion for anything. The Coke Tag of Eat Cricket, Sleep Cricket comes true with him. Thanks crazy follower of Little Master. The Manoos should be proud of you.

Anyway, while we were sitting at an awesome place watching the match I suddenly noticed that the walk back to the pavilion was really long and in the TV screen we never get to understand what goes on as one walks back after losing his wicket or as they call it – take the long walk back. It’s beautifully tragic in some ways. A lot of people walk the last walk back. They know they will never be on the 22 yards again and that realization suddenly makes you wonder about the transient nature of the world around us.

The atmosphere was electric. I think the greatest gift a sportsperson gets is to stand in front of a full stadium and hear the National Anthem of the country. It does not matter if the crowd is supporting or opposing you. Both have their charms and can give you the goose bumps beyond imagination.

The drums, the beer, the hairdos, the last ball of Murali on home soil and a wicket. You could not have asked for more. As he says there is always a compelling historical fact somewhere. The Sri Lankan Team has never lost a WC semi final in South Asia that my family has watched on the ground :)

The next day was the Mother of All Matches. India Pakistan in a World Cup Semi final. And interestingly I watched it with the super awesome guy mentioned above (SAG), the super excited boss, the Amaze-ing Lady and a friend from Pakistan (FFP). And as much as I would have liked to be a nice person and be neutral about the match, I don’t think I handled it too well.

Cricket and I have been strange companions ever since that Chemistry Class in Class 9 when our teacher caught hold of me on one of those not so rare occasions when I missed an organic chemistry twister and said, “if Sachin scores a century what’s it with you?” Since then I think I have always put cricket on the backseat if there was something more important. So on the day of the Mother Match, I was actually talking to Sri Lankan kids about their food habits, aspirations, choices and I don’t think I missed the game too much while I was at it.

But then I arrived just after God of Cricket lost his wicket and all hell broke loose from there. SAG and I rocked the entire Cinnamon Lakeside with our constant cheering and just could not be the nice neutral people. It was an India Pak Semi final. Poor FFP- he was outnumbered 2 to 1.

And then the three of us returned back to our rooms. Finally, watching a match which had so much more cricket than politics in it; we had fun all the way. The Long Walk Back takes a new meaning altogether.

But now, it’s time for blood, sweat and blue. The final hurdle is yet to be crossed.

And That’s When I Realized

It’s said Eve came from Africa. And that’s why perhaps the Africans believe that “nothing is too heavy to take back to your Mother.” So while I can claim to be from a place that held the cradle of civilization, I think Africa in all its raw grandeur can always claim to be the cradle of humanity itself. It’s where the boy Tarzan had been told, “Tarzan! You have to be humble if you want to live in the jungle.”

My closest friends know what South Africa meant to me many moons back and thus it seemed apt that this was the place where I learnt some of the most important messages of my life. Some were just plain vanilla good; some disturbing; some even raising more questions than solving.

1. And while I sit at the 19^th Floor of the Westin overlooking the harbour waterfront, where the giant Ferris Wheel still is lit up, waiting for the network finally to connect me to the rest of the world, I want to write.

And that’s when I realized, how important this blog has been to me to let out my inner self even when friends were not around. I have never remembered birthdays. Neither did I for this blog. But a few days back it did complete its four years and that deserves a standing ovation.

2. This was the first trip where I went around spending money left, right and centre. While I was coming to Cape Town, everyone under the sun warned me that it was an expensive place and it turned out just that. Everyone warned me to stay safe, in more ways than one, and probably it was not as bad. Yes, the main markets seemed to shut down pretty much by 6 and the grandeur of the evening bazaar of Istanbul was missing. But the markets showcased the beauty of the raw African talent and their art. Wares came from every nook and corner of Africa, each figurine representative of the tribe they were made by. I think that scared me a bit. I was no longer a backpacker running behind a truck to take me to Jhajjhar and it made sense to play safe.

And that’s when I realized, I behaved like a spoilt rich kid who was a sissy and the nomad was dying.

3. Green market square was a unique place to window shop. As soon as I entered it, I remembered all the horror stories you read as a kid about African dolls coming alive in the middle of the night. The graphics were different than whatever I have ever seen. If I were more conversed with art I could have said what they were, but to me it seemed more like extremely well done stick graphics; as if nothing much has changed since the days the Maori danced their spears and told their grandchildren of the lion they had tamed. And how sad they were that the King had gone on to become another star in the sky. In that market, I met shopkeepers who weren’t the best of them all. And in some faces, it showed desperation to close a deal. The value chain was perhaps as bad as it is for an onion farmer in India. The same artefacts were selling at double the cost 10 kms away at the waterfront. Perhaps this sale would mean buying there dinner for the night. And there she told me, “you are talking about 10 Rands and the coffee you will have tonight will cost you more.”

And that’s when I realized, the fight for survival is the greatest fight for all.

4. One night after a great dinner at Camp’s bay where I for the first time touched the waters of the Atlantic, we hailed a taxi to come back. The gentleman was twice my size and for some reason we did feel scared. But then we got talking and he was the most inquisitive man I have ever met. He had questions on India, on religions, marriages and everything else possible in a 20 minute drive. In fact, I wish in the future I get only such people working with me; an undying desire for knowledge.

And that’s when I realized, stereotypes are ingrained in our first impressions.

(to be continued)

It’s Time for Africa

So finally the wheels turned and after three years, I finally am in Africa, the most mysterious of all continents, perhaps even more than Asia can ever be. Romantics have written pages after pages on the Far East and the Indian sub continent, but very few places in the world have captured human imagination in the way Africa has done. The mystical Shamans, the lure of the diamonds, the vast bushlands and stories of man’s triumph over nature and in the process its slow but inevitable destruction.

SNDU being a good employer has kept us in a nice hotel and as I entered the room I saw the Table Mountains on my left and the harbour on the right and nestled in the cosy warmth of the land in between lay the beautiful city of Cape Town.

And somewhere close by lies Robben Island.

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.