Short Notes on Life - Memories

They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel - Carl W. Buechner

Everyone likes to be remembered. It is an assurance that one gets every now and then, that one might leave a mark on this earth, when its time to depart. Even infants that die at birth or embryos that get aborted tend to leave behind memories.

So many people come, and so many others go. Lives that touch, and get touched. Thoughts, deeds, words- spoken and unspoken. People born in different places; brought together for a certain period of time, by certain circumstances. Scattering again to get in touch with other folks.
Carrying with them memories: Impressions, Sounds, Visions, feelings.

A Brownian movement of humans. Although apparently not random.

Memories can straighten the ripples, and create a silken record. Or they can blow up minor skirmishes and obliterate the good times.
Some people try to consciously suppress memories. Others choose to live in them.

And the rest of us, live with them.

Grumpy Tales -2

Publicity Stunt

The auto driver grew impatient. Too many traffic signals. And serpentine line of vehicles.
Bullying, pleading, honking, and with other driving acrobatics he made it from the tail to the head.

He turned back , as though to see how the ‘cushtomer’ took all his manic maneuvers.
Sensing, that the “cushtomer” was on the edge of her seat, brows arched, he reassured, “If I don’t do this madam, I would be forced to wait in the next red signal also. What is life without risks? ”.

With that undebatable rhetoric and a sheepish grin, he resumed his cursing of the cussed signal, now having relaxed the “cushtomer” ’s nerves.

Just then, an ambulance sped forward, getting an unfair lead over the auto, blaring its siren , with its red lights blinking.

Our Aristotle of the Auto rushed out on the road, and ran around the ambulance, jumping up and down and trying to peer inside.

Taken aback by his bizarre behaviour, the hapless Cushtomer called out to him.

“Crooks madam, this (name of a big hospital chain) fellows. At every major signal, they just turn on those sinister red lights and blare their sirens. No patient inside. Why have they switched off the lights inside the ambulance, if they did have a patient inside? This is a cheap publicity stunt. The guys at the Government must catch them red handed and lock them up.
How will they do it? No they wont. They are the ones who get the free treatment from these big hospitals. The shameless cheats.”

The Cushtomer cared a damn for the signal, the big hospital cheats or the government.
Must get back home asap. To watch the citizen journalists scoop on CNN IBN.

People 10 : The Look-out.

A run down shack on a busy highway. A road in a constant spate of traffic.

Homes and residences, smoky images on black and white memories.

Flash forward: Office buildings, enterprises, bus stands, traffic signals, policemen, petrol bunks, politician’s statues, posters, billboards, big city lights. Accidents, ambulances, trauma care, lives lost, livelihood earned.

A dark shanty. Broken panes. Peeling paint. Moldy well. Littered lawn. Creaky gates.

He sits. Atop the compound wall. A small slab on the gate post. Legs crossed. Arms hugging his lanky body. Rocking himself back and forth. Beams from headlights, cast an eerie halo. A smile, running parallel to the lines on his face.

Is he a mad man? Why is he seated here? Who is he smiling at?

Is he the watch man of the shack? Why doesn’t he have a chair to sit on?

Why isn’t anyone else noticing him? Is he really there? Is it a Ghoul? Having a night out of the graves?

Fair Fare

She pulled her dupatta tightly over her head. The cold air from the A/C chute was biting.
Her mind kept racing back. She looked out of the window. Perspiring motorists. Blinding heat.

“Will this bus go to Tambaram?” the old lady had asked,folds of age flapping about her bones. “I will take the bus to my village from there”.

“Yes”, she had replied, her voice sounding strange.

“But you may not be able to afford fare, this is a special bus”, her glance spoke these unsaid words.

Was she understood? Did her look say the things that wouldn’t come out her mouth? She searched for the old lady in the bus. If only she had had more tact.

Why do they have to make the fare so high? She didn’t need this A/C bus. The office is air-conditioned anyway. Why did it have to be her? Why hadn’t the old woman asked someone else?

She felt caged inside the Volvo bus. It was not her fault that she could afford this bus. It wasn’t her fault either that the old lady couldn’t. She shuffled uneasily in the cushioned seat.

The lady next to her was absently fingering the Ipod dial. What a marvel, this device! And what a model! She thought of her own shuffle, which paled in comparison.
Wish she could afford this one.

“One Tambaram, please”, someone asked the conductor. Her thoughts reeled back to the bus stop. Was the old woman still waiting for the bus? The heat outside was horrible. There was a slight jam. A poorer cousin of the Volvo was belching out excess passengers, who were hanging from all crevices.

Was the poor old thing being nailed by this human sledge-hammer? They should give free rides for the elderly. Especially the ones below the poverty line. She cursed the lawmakers of the land for their ineptitude.

She could have purchased the ticket for the old woman. Brainwaves like this occur only in retrospect.

She got up way ahead of her stop. Balancing in the standee-unfriendly bus drugged her hyper active conscience.

Getting out of the bus, she waited for a while to see if any other 21G would pass by. Nothing was visible as far as her line of sight could reach.

Her legs slowly joined the beat of the street. And she walked into yet another day at the office, her conscience lulled to sleep by the music of monotony.

People 9 : Rain and the Junction

Relentless downpour. A major junction. Clogging slurry of (auto) motives.
Rain lashes from the sides of the Auto rickshaw.
Everyone wants to reach there as soon as possible. Wherever their ‘there’ might be.

Chilly winds bite the bone. Radios tune in to the myriad frequencies. Some invisible DJ conjures a concoction of FM waves.
Rap interludes from the auto-drivers, fluent in their curses.


“Poi Tholailangalenda, evlo neram than manushan ingaye ninnu saavarthu” (Why cant you fellows get going, how long can a man die waiting here…)

An assorted spread of choice Chennai swear words follows.*

“Intha car kaara naainga nalla ulla okanthutu nagara matenranunga. Oru aathra avasaram na ingaye Samadhi aaga vendiyathuthan…” ( These dogs , sitting inside the car , high and dry, don’t move … Even if a man is in an emergency, he might as well dig his grave here..)**

“Yov, Poi tholayenya..” , (Hey, get going), directed at the fish-cart (tricycle) in front.

Dripping wet, he was religiously wrenching his torn lungi dry. A snugly fitting polythene carry bag formed his head gear. The boy ‘manning’ the fish-cart replied, “Iru pa, konja nerathula clear agidum” (Wait, It will get cleared in a while).

And the RJ babbled, “Mazhai na excite agathavangale iruka mudiyathunga…..” ( There can’t be anyone who is not excited by the rain… )






*: With all due respects to the passenger ‘madam’, of course.
**: Was born again, each time a ‘car-kaara’ dog tried to overtake the auto.

People 8 :Magnanimity

Rush hour traffic. Zillion diversions. Buses that don’t stop for everyone. Share Autos to the rescue. He waits for one. Shifts his weight to his good leg. A blue ID tag dangles, from his white collar.

They whiz past him. The traffic police shoo them away. He holds his knee for support.
One crowded Auto stops for an extra ten rupees. He hops on beside the driver. Three of them perched on a seat for one.

He is not a local. Smiles make up for the lapses in language. He wants to get down mid-way. Another busy junction. The traffic constable brandishes his lathi. The auto driver mumbles his complaint.

He gets down and extends a ten-rupee note. A fare in excess of the distance he has traveled, but which the auto driver considers fair for the trouble caused. A Khaki coat’s righteous claim over the white collar.

He thanks the auto driver and limps across the busy road.

Yet another busy junction. The auto driver jumps down and runs behind his client. The auto stands idle, blocking the milling vehicles. The driver helps him cross and presses a 5-rupee coin in his hand.

Smiles cover up the lapses in language.

People 7

Hay in the Subway.

Moist Highway. Drying Sun. Milling morning vehicles. Sub-terrain Pedestrian pathway. Choc-a-bloc with arms laden with lunch boxes and scurrying legs. Away from the prying rays of the sun. Still Sequestered with little pools of inky black water.

An abandoned heap of hay. Soggy and damp. Condemned to decay.

A body slumped against it. Wrapped in rags, that could have once been pink or orange, or brown or may be even white. A lifeless head hanging down. A messy tuft of silver and grey.

Was he dead? Was she dead? Will they dispose it? Is he/she dying? Is he sleeping? Drunk? Did she shelter here from the nightly lashes of rain? Hungry? Will the sun breathe life into yet another life-form?

Joy Ride

A crowded metro bus. A family of gypsies. A mother, a father and a bunch of kids, of all ages. The adults carrying an infant each, balancing all their bags and wares.

A bus ride. Window seat. Sitting on par with others. What excitement ! Chitter chatter. Peals of laughter. The eldest is the noisiest. The others are too young to realize this unbridled joy. The mother watches them with sedate eyes. Her infant tugging her pleated skirt, that clashed with the rags wrapped around her.

The father holds on to his little one, like a beast of burden. The merry of his oldest stirs in him a vehemence, uncalled for. He swings around, and thrashes the lad.

Striken face. Bawls of shock, and bawls of pain.

Did the noise disturb his reverie? Was he embarrassed in front of the ‘saaamys’ and ‘ammas’ ? Was he afraid that some saamy or amma would scold him? What if the conductor pushed them out of the bus?

Or was he afraid of letting his son taste a joy that may not always be his ?

People 6:Mommy Dear

A high profile outlet of a well-known chain of jeweler’s stores. A young couple. Romance is in the air. The husband holds up many a necklace to see which suits his lovely wife the best. An adamant toddler, all of two years and a half, may be. Refusing to get down from her vantage perch, viz her mother’s hip.

Pink turns red, when the little one intrudes into the adult’s bliss. The mother struggles to balance both her burdens, small and big. The neglected husband stomps off. A bored child, slides off her hip. The sales persons watch the melee. The haggard mother is left confused and dazed.

Not even once did the husband offer to mind the child. Newly flaunted Gender Equality bowing down to stereotypes ingrained from childhood.

And the sales persons watched.
A high profile outlet. Professional service. Sans the personal touch.

People 5

The Fallen Lord of the Bridge

Nightly Prowls of the straying Southwesterly winds. Showers that moisten a dry metropolis. Every street that is some street, every gully that is some gully sequestered with miniature ponds of brown, green and gray. Tyre trenches cut patterns in the soft earth. Twin puddles of emerald. Bright verdant new leaves of spring seeking kinship with the shy hidden moss. A bridge of hardened cement. Work abandoned in the rain.

A man in brown shirt and blue lungi. Sleeves rolled up. Lungi drawn in carelessly between his legs. The Lord of the bridge. A head of tousled lifeless hair, bent down. Loss and weariness screaming out his drooping shoulders.

Is he broke? What ails him? Did an elusive sweetheart shatter his heart? Has a dear one left him to face the world alone ? Did he lose a job? Was it aching bones? Was he a criminal on the run, catching his breath? Was it guilt that weighed him down? Was he shutting out hungry faces back home? Had he bowed down in resingnation to a cruel fate? Was he contemplating something deeper? Perhaps the futile search for the meaning of life?
..............Or was it hangover from the night’s toddy?

In the eyes of a Stranger....

Came across this article while browsing through Wikitravel. Written in 2005 by a foreigner touring Chennai and India, on his first impressions.

Felt nice reading it.

Some excerpts:

"Chennai has a population of over six million, although when out and about and caught in the crowds I often feel that the total population of India just happens to be on the street I am on. No matter how many times I walk through the city, I am still fascinated by what I see. I recently took a walk through the crowded Triplicane area of the city at dusk and became part of the neon-hazed vibrancy. A cacophony of vehicles horns mingled with voices, overrun by the haunting call to prayers from the city’s largest mosque."

I have my own memories of evening walks in Triplicane, where I spent a significant portion of my summer vacations (My granny's place). Despite the summer heat, evenings in this sea-side locality were of intense activity. Home to a majority of the city's muslims, it also houses an ancient Vaishnavaite temple. My relatives still live on a street which has a temple at one end and a mosque at the other. The temple end has a Hindu name, and the Mosque end a Muslim one. Even during the Ganesh Chathurthi riots in the '90s this street was by and large peaceful, the residents living in blissful harmony for generations.


"I watched boys play cricket in the back streets and children flying kites from rooftops. I looked at the intricately drawn kolams on the floor, drawn by women at the entrances to homes, and watched both young and old stop to offer a prayer at a streetside shrine. Someone asked “Which country?” as he passed by. In response to my answer, he smiled, gave a head wobble and continued on his way, content in the knowledge he had “met” a foreign visitor. "

The Kite flying was something the little kids in the house used to look forward every evening. Trying to cut the thread (termed "deal") of the other kites, deftly manouevering your own for a narrow escape from a sly neighbor; it was a colorful fete, that made me a sky-watcher for life. (Being the youngest cousin, I was usually left to watch the skies, holding the "maanja" thread reel).

Praying at a street side shrine is a very frequent practice amongst chennai-ites. People walking on a crowded street, suddenly stop in front of a Ganesh enshrined on a building wall, stalling the human traffic behind them, jerk their slippers free, and start veneratively slapping their cheeks. Though not a stranger to the scene, I have always found this practice rib-tickling much to the chagrin of the elders in the family.

"I ate like a king in an up-market restaurant and minutes later passed a street dweller eating rice and sambar (spicy gravy) from a banana leaf while squatting on the pavement."

The innumerable "Kai-yenthi" (literally translated means 'hand-held') bhavans, the mobile street side shops that feed the millions under and slightly over the poverty line, (sometimes, others too) are fascinating to watch. The brisk business they do in the limited space and infrastructure that the push-cart shall permit leaves one amused. Though they do mess up the environment around them, they have been a boon for many a famished stomach.

I liked the article not only because, it brought back some memories of my hometown. It gave a valuble insight into something that I have been feeling towards my adopted city as well. (as a quote from Pico Iyer)

"we start out by laughing at what we regard as the follies of another culture. Then we move towards bewilderment as we begin to leave parts of our own culture behind. Eventually, we end up somewhere completely different from where we set out. Hopefully, that new state of mind is better than the place we left behind and is much closer to the culture we find ourselves in. "

When I first came to Bangalore, I was so overwraught with home-sickness and was frequently prone to comparing it with my home-town. Though any outsider would prefer Bangalore's climate to Chennai's, I was busy convincing myself that I would never like this place.
But, when found myself telling people 'how this is like- in- bangalore', and 'how this is not like- in -bangalore', every single day of my recent three week stay in Chennai, I realised how much I had grown to relate myself with my surrogate city, and how much I missed it. Its was not just the roads, the climate and the culture. I had even started to cherish the general hospitality with which Bangaloreans had treated me , a stranger. Although, I have had my share of mishaps, they evened out in the end.

Maybe, as the author of the article says "Incongruity is the essence of modern India....You can’t change India, India changes you.” Perhaps, this is the case with anyone trying to blend in an new society.

People 4 : Unwind

A Rickety Truck. The Cargo – Human. Migratory workers. Crossing borders. Packed like sardines.
A woman past her prime, eyes abalze with the fire within. Standing steady as the vehicle coughs and splutters in the traffic. Inches from her feet, playful youngsters chitter away, perched precariously on a ledge. One lad turns with a sudden jerk.

His gaze falls upon the plush air-bus of an IT company. He scans every single passenger, reclined in varying degrees - dozing, fretting, and relaxing after a ‘tiring’ day. His face contorts. As his eyes meet mine, in the last seat, I search for my feet, fleeing from an inexplicable guilt.

His jolly companion taps him on the shoulder, realising his friend’s silence. The contortion breaks into a loud laugh. He points out to each one of his ‘specimens’. Fun and merry continues. Unwinding, after a ‘tiring’ day.

People 3: Small Wonders

It’s my life.

The lady of the house bathes under a half laid pipe. Clothes on. Her husband watches guard. The sky, their roof. The morning sun fingers the scaffolding. Rubble pierces their hardened soles/souls. ‘Hurry up’ yells the fore-man. The day’s work waits. Hunching herself into a human ‘U’ she rushes into the shack. Her youngest wails.
Others idle around, sunken eyes and sunken bellies.

The bus of the corporate they are building to grow, whizzes by. A shirtless little man jumps up. His eyes light up with excitement. Up and down, up and down. He does a little jig of joy. Milk white teeth flash. A new day has begun.

Motion.

A national highway. The lifeline of the soft city. Chocablock with vehicles. Thick grey smoke clouds the atmosphere. And the minds stuck (in the traffic). Some lose patience. Some lose interest. Some others lose lives. The national highway. A life-line of the soft city. Chocked.

A sub-urban school. All of two rooms. And a neem tree. Routine deaf to the road gasping outside its gates.

Bell rings. Freedom.

Four nimble feet. Pushing the wind on the divider. A tight chase. Movement in the middle of stagnation. Giggles. Pursuer and the pursued. Taste of free air.

The traffic stopped. So did everything else.

Note:

I was listening to Bon Jovi’s “It’s my life” when I saw the exhilarated little fella. I couldn’t think of anything more apt for a title.

People 2: Gourmet Glimpses

Perfection

It was a soup stall. “Pasumai Thamizh Soup Nilayam”. (Translated as “Lush (could also mean evergreen/refreshing) Tamil Soup Stall). All of four shiny stainless steel pots and a burning fire. The radio in the bus blares. The health ministry ‘s awareness broadcast. “ Insist on clean utensils and covered food”.
A man in spotless white behind the 30-inch frame . There are no customers. But he is busy. He places one pot on the fire. Opens the lid just enough to insert the ladle. Stirs. Deliberate circular movements. Removes it off the fire, with a towel whose whiteness would put a swan to shame. His hands move at rigid right angles. Robot-like.
Puts up a new pot to heat. Bends down to inspect the surroundings of his stall. Clears a little dust here and there. Pushes a scrap paper aside.

Is this perfection? Or a novel method to tide through the lean periods of trade?. Is it his first day at work? Who is he trying to impress? Am I getting impressed? Would I prefer his soup to the one at Subway? How long will he be able to do it? Wont he get bored soon?

Satisfied with the ambience, he gets back to his kitchen. A few yards away, a potential customer relieves himself of his fluid waste.

***************

Mastery

A dingy market corner. A rotting wooden box. Upturned. Spreading behind it is a huge figure. Squatting on the ground. Dark and hideous. Perspires in gallons. A fiery fire on the pump stove. With sweaty palms, he pulls and pushes. The dough is putty in his hands. Magic pours out his fingers into the bubbling oil. Hot jilebis. Orange spirals of sheer delight. A motley clientele waits. Mouth watering. He pushes aside his messy curls. The flesh of his dark bulging arms reverberating with the effort.

The jilebis look tempting. My mother can never make such good looking ones. Such craft. In such a setting. Perhaps the sweat and the grime adds to the appeal.
Yewww… how disgusting can I get!

***************




Acknowledgement:

The last one about the jilebis is second hand. Was related to me by my mother. But the closing commentary is solely mine. The reaction of course, was hers.

People 1: Pavement Pictures.

Gaze

She sat on the pavement. It was a busy Monday morning. Rush hour traffic. There was a school behind her. The children rode their bicycles on the platform to avoid the menacing vehicles. Some losing balance and perilously wobbling about. She sat there.
With her little cloth bag. Her worldly possessions. Her gaze unflinching. She stared at the world around, and beyond. Horns honked. Irate commuters traded tempers.
Silver in her locks, face wizened. Clocks seemed to have stopped long ago. She sat there. Timeless. Dead and Alive.

Was she once a little girl? Red ribbons and blue skirts. Hopping and skipping in some dry southern village. Care-free and happy. Was she once a dainty maiden? Dreams in her eyes and a future in her hand. Was she ever a loving mother and wife? Raising little ones and running a home. She sat there. Why was she there and then?

The signal turned green. She sat there. I moved on.

**************
Beats

A triangular isle. A lone inhabitant. Deluge of yellow headlights all around. Whirring whirlpools of gold. He was ecstatic. Dum! Dum! Dum! He beat the plastic bottle to time a cosmic rhythm. Soot and black camouflaged his contours. A sepia smile adorned his euphoria.

An undisputed King reigning from the fringe, reclining on a throne of dirty gunny sacks. Watching the teaming drones burn themselves out. Watching with detachment. With amusement. Beating his bottles to express something beyond grasp, or to kill his ennui.

Was he a mystic? A nomadic mendicant of the myths. Was he a madman? Gone bonkers. What is madness? Who is mad?

The indicator flashed. I turned, his cadence lingering.

***************

Acknowledgement:

This was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend on street photography. His passion for it was infectious. Not that I started watching people after that, but just that I thought it would mean more to me, if I captured those sights and insights in some manner.