May

In May I may find what I'm looking for.
Or at least find out what it is I'm meant to be
finding.

In May I may finally bite the bullet,
and take off on a run
just for the fun of it.

In May I may finally give in
to my better judgement,
and leave the broken pieces behind
for the wind to pick up.

In May I may get the call I've been waiting for.

In May I may be spontaneous,
and renew my old frienship with impulse.

In May I may stop kidding myself,
take off my rose-tinted glasses and squint
at the blindingly obvious.

In May I may wake in one city
and go to sleep in another.

All these things may happen in May.
But even if they don't,
at least it will soon be June.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow all this will be forgotten.

In the morning your moaning will mean nothing
Your pregnant proclamations will be no more than a whisper, echoing
in the space between your feet and the sheets before finally
being driven out by sound of the alarm, unforgivingly sounding the death-
knell on your silent movie fantasy that you mistook
for the real thing.

Tomorrow all this will be forgotten.
And you will lie blinking in the sun with the night's shadows
slowly retreating up the wall and wonder
how just a few hours earlier you thought this moment would last
forever.

Obamamania

"Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream." — Presidential candidate George W. Bush, Oct. 18, 2000

"We have been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." — Presidential candidate Barack Obama, Jan 8, 2008

I don't know much about the Democratic party's ideology and whether or not Senator Obama, if elected, will be good or bad for India (most Indians seem to think he'll be bad). But he is easily the most compelling candidate, and personally I would like to see him win for just one (admittedly superficial) reason- the sheer quality of his speeches. Right from his keynote address at the Democratic National Convention in 2004, he's been delivering one killer after another; a recent one inspired this music video which had close to 4 million views at last count. If hits were votes, I'm guessing he'll win. There's also an excellent article in Vanity Fair that tells Obama's remarkable story.

Whatever happens in the next 6 months, one thing is certain- with lines like the one above, he's a refreshing change from the Current Occupant, whose brave attempts at profundity might have inspired the likes of Jay Leno and David Letterman, but not too many others. And there are no music videos of him either. I checked.

Meet Jeet Thayil

I recently chanced upon one of Jeet Thayil's poems and subsequently managed to get a copy of his first collection titled English. It is a brilliant and lyrical set of poems, written in a refreshingly simple style. These are two of my personal favourites.

September 10, 2001

How much harder it is to speak
when I have spent the whole day silent.
I would like to stop someone,
leave my room in the evening
and stop someone, a man without hope,
or a woman bent double, as if she were
searching the sidewalk for gems
caught in the cracks, and I would tell her
that each of us walks with the same
impossible burden, knowing
that only the stars will last --
she will listen to me, hear what I say
and go on her way, bent over as before,
never looking up at the approaching sky.

How to Be a Leaf

Hold your breath until
you are God's green thoughts.
Stop eating,

air will suffice for food.
Water is another matter:
the skin absorbs moisture,

eyes adjust,
limbs grow inward.
Conjugate patience.

Worship women and trees.

Taare Zameen Par

I have always been somewhat suspicious of Aamir Khan; he's struck me as being too suave and media-savvy, and somehow obssessed with his image as a 'serious' artist. There's no doubt that he is both intelligent and articulate, a rare combination in Bollywood. But the way he's put those to use as a public figure has often been perplexing. While shunning the Indian Filmfare awards (because he believed they didn't operate on merit) he openly courted the Oscar for Lagaan, spending considerable time and money on the publicity campaign. In 2006 he was all over the news for sympathising with the Narmada Bachao Andolan; his involvement in the politically-sensitive protest movement eventually turned his god-awful Fanaa into a hit. More recently, he is alleged to have turned down an offer from Madame Tussauds to have him immortalised in wax, saying "it's not important to me, so i'm not interested"- or something to that effect.

If there's one thing I admire him for, however, it is for his ability to take on serious issues and package it to a mainstream Indian audience. Films with a social message are all well and good, but any kind of difference can only be made by altering public opinion, and filling up the cinema hall is not a bad way to start. He did it with Rang De Basanti, a film in which he was not the lone 'hero', but which nevertheless revolved around him and rode on his 'star with a conscience' status. And now, with his first film as director, he's done it again with Taare Zameen Par. The performance of the child actor is nothing short of brilliant, but a film on a topic such as this would normally be doomed to a few special screenings on the NGO circuit and a condescending 'special' award or two. Instead, it's one of the biggest hits of the year.

And he's clearly passionate. Although part of an ensemble cast in Rang De, Aamir was its most visible spokesperson; he toured extensively with the film across college campuses even as students, at the height of the frenzy, were tearing up American visas and pledging new-found allegiance to a suddenly-cool India. Now with Taare, Aamir has been busy organising screenings for high-profile ministers and such-like, propelling him to near-saint status. Sure, the cynics will say it's all a gimmick and every once in a while we will have to listen to some self-righteous spiel about his own sense of importance, but if the film ends up creating even a miniscule amount of awareness of -and difference to- our treatment of children and the abysmal state of our educational system, it would be a small price to pay.

For Mum and Dad

I write because of Aesop's fables and Panchantra and Ladybird books. Because of nursery rhymes and bed-time stories. Because of Chicken Little and Thomas the Tank Engine and Postman Pat (and his black-and-white-cat). Because of the subscriptions you took out to Tinkle and Champak and the small lending library down the hill -from where I got copies of the Hardy Boys Case Files with laminated covers which I took with me wherever I went, just to impress my friends. Because of all the Tintin and Asterix books that you bought me at exhorbitant prices. Because of Jemima Puddle-Duck and The Wind in the Willows and even the Archie comics that I would pester you for at all the railway stations when we travelled for the summer. Because of all the quiz books and yearbooks and rotating cardboard cut-outs that you brought back from different places, most of which lay in my room gathering dust. All this is why I write.

Every story is merely a re-collection, a re-telling, a re-creation. But in the end, it will always be just a long-winded substitute for two small words- Thank You.

Weekly Update

Movies-I-can't-believe-I-haven't seen before-this-week: Fargo, Citizen Kane, Unforgiven.

Unforgiven, in particular, was surprisingly moving. I've never been a big fan of westerns; I'd always assumed (rather naively, I'm sure) that once you'd seen one, you'd seen them all. All guns, horses, and whiskey, that sorta thing. And the occasional train robbery. But Unforgiven, at its core, is a profoundly subtle movie. Sure, there's plenty of gore, but Clint Eastwood's performance is all about restraint, battling the demons within, rather than the baddies without. And some of the shots of him and Morgan Freeman riding through the not-so-wild west is sheer poetry. Who knew?

Song-on-constant-loop: Things have changed, Bob Dylan

Unexpectedly-transcendental-moment: Listening to Lucky Ali's O Sanam while smoking a shisha

I'm trying to make this somewhat of a regular feature (this weekly round-up thing, not the shisha). Not that every week is going to be terribly exciting, but still. And if it sounds too boring, I'll just make it up. I'm good at that sort of thing.

Mobile Mayhem

If there's one thing worse than having a mobile phone that resolutely refuses to work, it's having to speak to Customer Care to try and fix it. Which is what I did yesterday. If for some inexplicable reason you have not had to go through this yourself, this is roughly how it goes:

*If you'd like to report a problem, press 1*
*If you'd like to speak to an Associate about a specific problem, press 2*
*If you've pressed 2 before listening to options 3 and 4, press 5*
*If you think that options 1 and 2 sound exactly the same, press 6*
*If you'd like to take a minute to break your own knees in frustration, press 7*

After all this, if by some miracle you do actually get to speak to a real person (real being a largely relative term), you will most likely spend the next fifteen minutes listening to the most sincere sounding bollocks that you start to have genuine fears for your own sanity. *If you'd like to place this call on hold and connect to our suicide hotline, press 8*

The future's shite. And nothing rhymes with Orange.

Ali G in Wales

Wales isn't the most famous place in the world, so here's a very informative video for all those who'd like to know more. Who needs Lonely Planet when Ali G is in da house?

Shame he didn't 'do-a-knee' like this on India.

Spit Back Club

Knowing I'd spent most of my life in Pune (for those who don't know where this, please refer to earlier post about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie), a friend of mine recently forwarded me this link. Quite thoughtful of him, I thought. But I could offer up nothing in my defense, except point out that spitting in public places was not merely confined to Pune as the article suggested, but was a national phenomenon, which wasn't really much of a defense at all.

Funnily enough, it seems this spitting business has been in the news a lot lately; this morning I came across this piece- this time out of Delhi. According to the article:

"The last time the government looked into the matter was December 12, 2006, when it started the campaign 'Stop Spitting at Tourist Sites'. The Tourism Ministry has since put aside Rs 50 million for it to increase civic sense among the burgeoning urban population."

50 million?! Now i'm not sure about the legitimacy of this claim (for starters, in India we count money in crores, not millions), but this sure does sound like a heck of a lot of money. And if most of this money is going into lame campaigns like 'Stop Spitting at Tourist Sites (pretty please)' then I for one am not surprised that the results are 'far from tangible'. No, desperate times call for desperate measures, which is why something like the Spit Back Club would be far more effective. It may have been too radical before, but perhaps, post-Rang De Basanti, its time has come. Below is the rough un-edited draft of the charter. There might be a glimmer of hope yet. Sigh.

I have long been perplexed by the countless instances of careless spitting from buses, cars, and even people just walking past. It bothered me, this disgusting and despicable habit, this blatant disregard for others. I often wondered whether these same people would do this in their homes, or even in their yards. I think not. Their own homes were spotless, every last thing in place, a shrine for the Gods. And yet, the minute they were on the streets, they were spitting everywhere. The world was their spittoon.

I laughed at the feeble attempts to curb the problem. Images of gods were being placed in the corners of stairs in movie theatres, hospitals, and hotels. To me, that smacked of desperation. As if they didn't already have their hands full with people praying for Sachin to score a century, for rains, for one honest politician, the gods were now being called upon to stop people spitting in public. There they were. One in every corner. It frustrated me that men had given up trying to do something about it, and were now shamelessly relying on divine intervention.

It was out of this frustration that the idea of the Spit Back Club took shape. The Spit Back Club will be a movement with one and only one aim: to stop people spitting. We will do this in exactly the way the name suggests. We will Spit Back. Systematically, and without malice, we will spit back on anyone seen spitting in public. By riding up to rickshaws, reaching up to buses, stopping on the street, we will fight spit with spit. And by the sheer strength of numbers, we will prevail.

The Spit Back Club will not be a group of anarchist youth, staying just above the law, trying to be cool. Instead, we will be a group of serious individuals, activists even, committed to making a difference by educating people. By making people think twice. We will spit only when spit on. We will not advertise on TV, we will not distribute pamphlets; we will not take out spots on the radio. We will not be aligned to any political party, or subscribe to any political or religious ideology. We will operate solely by word of mouth. And with our mouths.

Without saying a word.

We will not stop until every person in this country either refrains from spitting, or joins the Club. And when this is achieved, we will disband. The spitting will stop, and the club that will only be known as SBC will cease to exist.

Let the spitting begin.

For You-Know-Who

Go on, do what you've got to do. You've got your dreams I've got mine too. Be strong, get off at the next stop. Don't worry about a thing. Keep taking it easy. This time it's not personal. The universe will help you now. To find a place you can breathe. And do what you've got to do. Keep taking it easy. Keep taking it easy. Come on. I'll let you borrow my four leaf clover. Come on. Take it with you, you can pass it on. Come on. You know I'm not the kind to say that it's over. We'll be rubbing shoulders once again in the sun. Come on. Take your dreams, where nobody can find them. Come on. You know I won't be happy till you've won. So come on. Come on over, borrow my clover. Is there anything left that you haven't done? Go on, do what you've got to do. You've got your dreams I've got mine too. Be strong, get off at the next stop. Don't worry about a thing. Keep taking it easy.

Damon Gough, a.k.a Badly Drawn Boy, Four Leaf Clover

Lessons in Humility: Fabrice Santoro and Roger Federer

A lot of the sporting action over the last few weeks has been taking place Down Under. The cricket may have grabbed the headlines what with the 'Monkeygate' scandal and other absurd antics, but the hard courts of Melbourne had their own share of stories. First up was Fabrice Santoro, who had this to say after being thrashed 6-1, 6-2, 6-0 by Federer:

"Everything looks easy to him, he has always time to play. He's never in a rush or anything. When he's coming to the net, there is no space to pass him."

And, soon after that, the clincher:
"I'd love to play him once again. Because it's so beautiful, what he's doing."

The lack of ego was what was so refreshing. Here was a 35-year-old man who'd just been given one of the most comprehensive beatings of his career and yet there was none of the "wasn't on my best form today" or "her squeaking shoes distracted me" (Daniela Hantuchova earnestly explaining why she had lost to Ana Ivanovic). No, this was just simple acknowledgment that he had been beaten fair and square by a player whose abilities he could never hope to match and that was that. Good night everybody and let's get on with our lives now, shall we?

Federer was equally gracious, both in victory and then, subsequently, in defeat. After scraping through in his match with Janko Tipsarevic, the defending champion had this to say:
"What a great battle. Fair play, he's a nice guy- pity somebody has to win, wish we could have draws sometimes."

And then, after losing to Serb wunderkid Djokovic:
"I've won, many, many times when I didn't expect myself to win. So tonight's one of those nights where you're a little bit disappointed."

And finally, just like Santoro, the clincher:
"I've created a monster, so I know I need to always win every tournament, but semis is still, you know, pretty good."

Ah, terrible burden, this genius thing.

Blast from the Past: Interview with Saurav Ganguly, India Captain

The year is 2002. The Prince is still King of all he surveys and the dramatic fall from grace has not yet begun. With the 2003 World Cup in South Africa just a few months away, I managed to have a chat with the man affectionately known as Saurav Da. Below is the complete transcript.

AJ: Saurav, your thoughts on the match today.
SG: Yeah, it's been a good outing, i thought under the conditions the batsmen and bowlers did a good job, some of the youngsters showed a lot of promise, and we're happy with the way things are shaping up.

AJ: But you lost by 200 runs.
SG: Yeah, i mean you've got to take the positives out of each game, we're a young side, we've been a young side for about 10 years now, and consistently under-performing while still being adored and worshipped by a million fans is no mean feat. I mean, this is the kind of thing that Houdini would be proud of.

AJ: How’s it looking for the future?
SG: Well, like i said, some of the young boys are shaping up really well now, and as long as the seniors keep showing up and collecting their match fees and the endorsements keep coming in, things are looking good for Indian Cricket.

AJ: And the World Cup?
SG: Oh that, yeah...i mean, we look at each World Cup as practice for the next one, and from that perspective we're looking forward to 2007. it will be a good opportunity to blood some more youngsters who will then hit form by 2025. By then most of the seniors would have served their respective terms as Chairman of the BCCI and i will serve in the capacity of 'Technical Consultant to Left-handed Batsmen with Fundamental Weaknesses in Technique'. It shoud be a good challenge.

AJ: What were the reasons for today's poor performance?
SG: Like i said, i don't think it was a poor performance at all; we put up good fight under difficult conditions. The stadium facilities were inadequate, we were not provided practice pitches, the actual pitch was poor, our hotel rooms were inordinately small, and we were up against a team who've got some momentum going for them in the last few months. Given all that, i think the boys came up with a really good performance and i am proud of them.

AJ: But this was Mumbai and you were playing Kenya.
SG: That is irrelevant.

AJ: Earlier this season, you had a run-in with Glenn McGrath; can you tell us what happened?
SG: Well, it's very disappointing that things actually got to that point, Glenn is normally a professional but on that occasion he kept bowling short into the rib cage and would then laugh at me after each delivery. I mean, can you imagine that? it was very disconcerting and it was the main reason why i could not play my shots. It just got to a point where i couldn't take it anymore so i decided to take things into my own hands and stand up for myself, like a man.

AJ: So you complained to the umpire.
SG: Yes i did. I wish i didn't have to, but it's the only way to keep things like this from happening again. It brings the game into disrepute and it's just not cricket.

AJ: So just to get things straight: Taking your shirt off, swirling it around your head, and shouting the 'F' word over and over again like a retard, while standing atop the visitors gallery at Lord's is perfectly acceptable, but being amused as a fading, past-his-prime batsman tries in vain to hook one of the games' great fast bowlers is just not cricket?
SG: Precisely.

AJ: Thanks for talking to us.
SG: Always a pleasure.

A New Years' Lack of Resolution

Twenty-two days into January and no posts. Truth be told, there have been no events worth posting about. And as February, the armpit of the year, approaches, the likelihood of such blog-worthy events taking place seems slimmer than ever. Still, if only to momentarily halt this blog's sad and inevitable decline into cyber-nothingness, post I will. Even if it's about nothing. Because when you lay the little fragments of nothing end to end, it just might add up to something.

So, if this is to be a death song, so be it. If this blog is to serve no other purpose other than to be a mere epitaph, an elegy, a requiem for so many unfulfilled dreams, then so be it. It's the moments that matter, in the end. So long.

Silence runs in my family.

Silence,
like the kind my grandfather possessed,
always drowned out
everything else,
bouncing off the carpets
and seeping
through the walls,
the silence.

There in his chair
I still see him
sometimes,
watching his offspring,
little replicas of him,
scattered all over the floor
like from a Matryoshka.
Words would not come,
they had gone long ago, taken
in one fell stroke.

Still, he would watch
as they played
out scenes from his youth,
smiling all the while.
yet seeing nothing
but transience.

Silence,
of the kind that roared
in my ears like the sea,
like a million unsaid words,
while I lay sprawled
on the road,
beside my father
his white robe stained
with dirt.
My fake sheep-skin cap
offered little protection
against fear,
but I felt no pain.

“Son, are you hurt?”
was what I heard
from behind the visor
of his shiny red helmet,
the echo
both deep and hollow
at the same time,
rendering the voice
unrecognisable.

What I didn't see was
the face,
folding into grimace, as rock
pierced skin
and connected with bone,
forming a hole that we would watch
spout blood for weeks
to follow.

“Son, are you hurt?”
was all my father asked
from behind his red helmet
to the lamb
in sheepskin,
while all the while he bled
in silence.

It was a strange feeling, being a guest inside my own house. Visiting for a few days and then returning. 'Feel at home', they said jokingly- but I'm not sure I did.

Sure, it was beautiful- a little slice of heaven, set in the woods, with a brook and large screen tv. My new permanent address.
Except there was nothing permanent about it.

While my sisters pretended to sleep, I sat out in the back and sipped orange coke. Soon it would be time to hit the road again.

Those who travel are always guests. And everywhere is home.

A Fresh Start

Last night's promises
lie in splinters near the door;
Each one glinting
in the morning sun.
Step quietly over them,
And start afresh.

Last night's kisses
have attached themselves to the wall
in single file;
Each one folding
into an upturned smile.
Step slowly around them,
And start afresh.

Last night's dreams
lie strewn across the floor;
Each one like old clothing
devoid of meaning.
Step gently through them,
And start afresh.

Last night's emptiness
filled you up,
Despair dripped from out of a paper cup
and formed pools of loathing
that gathered by your bed.
Step softly beside them,
And start afresh.

Outside the window
a new day awaits-
like virgin snow.

Step lightly into it,
And start afresh.

Singleton Park

I cross from the light into the dark
to this place where I come to drown
out the sounds, alone in Singleton Park.

Outside, the evening rituals of the town
take place without a thought
for those who wander on their own.

I was a child when I first brought
myself here and stopped to nuzzle
the moon and all ambition came to naught.

Returning since then like a dog on a muzzle
to watch countless mysteries unfold
and search for pieces of the puzzle.

Words, like memories, mean nothing I am told
But here the silence is something to behold.

LADYBIRD

A thought arrives like a ladybird,
From out of nowhere, without a word
Softly landing on an unfurled palm,
Crawling up an outstretched arm
The slightest movement will scare it away-
Instead, let it stay and watch it play.
When tiny feet brush against collar bone,
Do not claim it as your own.
Just sit still and marvel at the way
It chose to spend part of its day.
And whether it stays or leaves matters not much
If you are subtly changed for having felt its touch.

SPRING / spriη / noun, verb


The season between winter and summer
As in, ‘The spring flowers are in bloom.’

A thing for which you would ring a plumber
Not as in, ‘Hello, yes, could you spring a leak in my room?’

Someone who is full of annoyingly good cheer
As in, ‘She’s always got a spring in her step.’

To suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, appear
(Used for dramatic/poetic effect)
As in, ‘Oh, the tears would spring to her eyes as he slept.’

A place where water is bottled and sold
(The mountain spring)
As in, ‘Full of vitamins, Sir, and even cures a cold.’

Something you weren’t expecting to be told
As in, ‘I’m sorry to spring this on you, but this just isn’t real gold.’

A quick sudden jump, upwards or straight ahead
As in, ‘With a spring, the cat got the cream.’

To free a prisoner, before he’s actually dead
(He’s going to spring me, he said.)
Not as in, ‘No Sir, you’re in for life, you’ve just had a bad dream.’


Spring clean / Spring for beer / Spring green / Spring is here.

Chocolate Santa

For nearly a month now you've stood
silently overlooking
my desk,
with a crinkled smile
that never left your face.

You watched as I unearthed
stories of birth
and death,
slaved over
endless drafts of haibun and englyn,
and when they were done you seemed to nod
in mute appreciation,
giving me the non-critical approval
that I so craved.

For three months you stood on the shelf in Tesco
somehow surviving
the Christmas frenzy.

And then enduring the shame
of being marked down
ten per cent each week,
until the final humiliation:
‘Clearance!’ it said, in big dismissive letters
when they had no more use for you.

That's where I found you.
Or did you find me?

Did you think you would still be here,
past the New Year
approaching Easter,
long after the trees came down,
and the fairly lights were packed away,
finding a new life
as a reluctant muse?

A strange turn of fate it was
that brought us together.

You, chocolate santa; and me,
with nothing in common,
save an expiry date.

In faded black and white photos we first saw you, a little boy in shorts and curls, blissfully unaware of your own genius.

And then eighteen years ago, older but with the same unruly mop, looking like a slightly skinnier Maradona, you walked onto the ground and into our imagination and we embraced you as one.

We winced when you were hit on the head in that first match against Pakistan, our hearts soared higher with each six in Sharjah, we wept with you at the World Cup when you raised your bat to the memory of your late father.

We put up posters of you on our walls; we built shrines in your name. We prayed in turn for your shoulder, elbow, and back.

And above all, we watched.

We watched as a boy became a man and a man became a legend. We watched like it was a dream that we hoped would never end. But of course we knew it would have to, eventually.

And last week it did, as we watched you walk away while a group of Bangladeshi players danced in your wake. They were just boys, those players who danced. Like you were, eighteen years ago.

You began on zero and ended on zero. What happened in between changed our lives and made us believe we could be so much greater than ourselves. But it’s time to let it go.

Those old pictures of you with a bat in your hand and a smile on your face seem like a distant memory for us, as they must do for you.

The posters have come off the walls now, and in time the shrines will have new resident deities. But before that, perhaps one last prayer will be offered up:

Walk on, Sachin. Walk On.

Team India

Even before it has properly begun, Team India finds itself out of the World Cup. Predictably, stones have been thrown, posters have been burnt and some of us have sworn never to watch again. But once the tournament is over and our feelings of anger and frustration have blown over, life will soon return to normal.

The Indian Cricket Fan is not one to lose hope so easily. So ok are we with losing, and yet so desperate for something to be proud about, that we will once again sit glued to our television sets the next time the team takes the field, be it against Bermuda or Bosnia.

For some unfathomable reason, for a majority of us Indians (myself included) it is eleven men in blue who truly represent us, who carry our collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders, who define us, even. And so we watch; game after game, expecting everything and nothing at the same time. What to do, we are like this only.

Too many articles by far more knowledgeable people have been written for me to even attempt another one. You can read one of these about the fascinating ‘Desi Fan’ here.

PS: A class of fifth graders were discussing their father’s jobs. Each one took turns to say ‘Doctor’, ‘Engineer’, and so on until finally it was Vivek’s turn. ‘My father works in a gay club’, said the little boy. ‘He takes his clothes off in front of strangers and dances for money.’ Shocked but slightly curious, the teacher took him aside and asked if this was true. ‘No Miss’, went Vivek, ‘he plays for the Indian cricket team but I was too embarrassed to say that.’

Goodbye Uncle George

When I first met Uncle George in Belfast about five years ago, I could not have known then what an important part of my life he would become.

That evening, having heard of my fear of flying from my parents, he took me aside and proceeded to explain how a few simple relaxation techniques would no doubt cure my completely. Although initially sceptical, I decided to go along with it. There was something about his gentle voice and calm demeanour that appealed to me and put me instantly at ease. But what struck me the most was his confidence, his almost child-like conviction that I would overcome my phobia, and fly without fear.

One week later I flew to London and Uncle was overjoyed to hear that I had had a good flight. A couple of months later I flew back to Belfast and he was at the airport, running through the crowded terminal and hugging me as I arrived. It was a moment I will never forget.

Since then, there have been good flights and bad flights, but it was Uncle George’s voice that has always been in the background, pushing and prodding me on. At Chicago airport two years ago, he spoke, prayed, and even sang into the phone as I prepared for take-off. When I finally landed at Mumbai twenty hours later, I wept not because of my air-sickness but because I felt I had let him down.

But Uncle George never gave up hope. Finally last year as I prepared to come to London, he decided it was time to settle the issue once and for all. He went on to call me every night for three weeks, and on the final night before my flight he prayed and after a few moments of silence said “I will wait to see you here, mone”

The flight the next day was the best one of my life.

Perhaps it was the thought of Uncle waiting at the airport, like he did five years ago, when he hugged me and made me believe that everything was possible once more. Perhaps. And even now though he is gone, for me he will always be waiting at the end of every flight, waiting with a wide smile on his face.

Ever since I met him, I was always unsure about whether to call him Doctor George or Uncle George; to me he was always both, providing me with the advice of a physician and the affection of a family member.

While trying to make me relax, he would often ask me to go to my ‘happy place’ and then ask me to describe it to him. It was all a bit amusing back then, but at this time of deep sorrow perhaps we can draw some comfort in the knowledge that he is now in his happy place, united at last with the one whom he loved and served so well.

Thank You Uncle.

It's been an eventful Cricket World Cup so far.
India loses to a bunch of Bangladeshi teenagers, Pakistan get thrashed by an Irish pub side.
And the 58-year-old coach of the Pakistani team is found dead in his hotel room.

A few of the big teams may soon be on early flights home but surely the first to leave was Perspective.

An Indian passenger named Anantharaman Subbaraman arrived at Jeddah airport. At immigration he waited for nearly two hours for the authorities to call him. Finally running out of patience, the man confronted the officer and demanded to know why they hadn't called his name.

The officer replied that they had been calling him for the last hour and a half and were wondering why he hadn't responded. All was clear when a voice announced his name again over the microphone: 'Anotherman Superman' to counter number five please.

........and we're back!

After a couple of months of being frustratingly locked out of Blogger (apparantly something to do with the New and Improved version: Is it New or is it Improved?) I am finally back to regular posting (of course, here that means once every two weeks but I'm working on that) The promised Ad Absurdum Make-Over is underway, and even though I am tempted to stick with the name, if someone suggests a better one I might just change it. A couple of suggestions did arrive for which I am grateful but I must politely decline, at least for now.

And so moving on...The story goes that Julius Caesar was warned by a seer to be wary of some great peril on the 15th day of March which the Romans called the Ides. When the day had come Caesar happened to meet the seer on his way to the Senate and greeted him with a sneer (sneered at the seer, you might say) and said: "Well, the Ides of March are come," to which the seer replied softly: "Ay, they are come, but they are not gone." Minutes later Caesar was dead, killed by his own senators.

So now that the Ides Of March are behind us, it is time to march on. And with bright sunshine streaming through my window, a month-long Easter vacation approaching and a Cricket World Cup in progress, what possible cause could there be for complaint?

So, friends,(and Romans and countrymen) onwards and upwards!

Ladies and Gentlemen

Eight months ago a little blog arrived kicking and screaming into the world. For the first two months it was cute and cuddly, it cooed in its sleep and smelt nice. Every time it got a little restless I’d feed it a couple of words and it would go back to bed, content in its own little way. However, the blog has, as it should I suppose, grown up. Now it stays up half the night and throws its food around on the floor. It screams from time to time. And it is teething. I realised with some dismay that a couple of words now and then were no longer enough; it had turned into a hungry little monster and was demanding to be fed. I panicked, like any reluctant parent would, when the thing they have created takes on a life of its own.

But what's done is done. I cannot ask it to go back to where it came from, that would be stupid. I considered putting it up for adoption, but that would be inhumane. For better or worse, this blog is mine; it is a part of me. For all its faults I know it is merely trying to make something of itself. Often with little ones it can get so exasperating that you wish they would die, but when you see them later, asleep alone in their beds looking like little angels you feel more love than you thought you were capable of feeling. And you hate yourself for having felt the way you did. Of course, I cannot know for sure if this is true with real children but I imagine so.

And so, my little blog will from now on be showered with a little more affection. I intend to buy it some new clothes and a rocking horse. I may even change its name. Ad Absurdum sounded cute in a pretentious sort of way when it was smaller, but now I fear that other blogs with cleverer names will pick on it. (Ideas for names will be welcome.) I will occasionally take it for walks and we might take pictures. I will attempt to pass on my meagre knowledge about the way things are. I will talk to it about music, movies and sports and will tell it some good jokes when I think of them. I will introduce it to other little blogs and big sites that we happen to meet along the way. And most of all I will watch it grow because we can never really know how they will turn out, can we? I suspect it will make me proud some day but even if it doesn't I will love it all the same.

To those who have been its friends over the past few months, thank you. Thanks especially to my cousin Rachel for being its bestest friend. And as for you, if you by chance see it on the street, please smile and wave if you can. It’s a bit shy, my little blog, and not very good with real people, but it's not its fault. I am told it's a spitting image of me.

That is all for now. It’s time for its nap.

Woof!

All I heard were shuffling feet,
As I stood beside the bar,
I was sliding into an empty seat,
When I spied her from afar:
My eyes were rooted to the floor,
As she bought her rum and coke;
She was close enough to know the score,
But I waited till she spoke.
'This seat taken?' she softly posed,
With lips of reddest red,
Down she sat but then arose,
To pat me on the head:
And now you’re going ‘Shut it please, wouldja?’
Bet you didn’t guess ’twas a dog though, didja?

Going Home

This was written by one of my classmates. I thought it was beautiful.

Homesickness has little to do with home and everything to do with love.
When I am not happily in love I long for home where love waits hanging
on tree branches outside the house, and seeped into furniture fabric and the fuzz and fur of old blankets and missed pets. Sitting silently in memory and invisible to eyes that behold it in person, the home love is ideal.
It does not hurt or ask questions and it is forever steadfast; held eternally, and holding you back, in the mind’s eye. That’s why it’s so easy to leave it for the tangible brand of love, the kind you can touch without a twinge of sadness,
because you’re not sick for the old love
and the new love won’t make you sick, yet.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1833

Ode to the Pod

plugged in, he turns into one of those he till recently despised.
white wires protrude from shirt collar, leading out from the soul,
sucking it dry of all emotion.
He walks on, doesn’t look back
music on max, the world on mute,
He pretends he can’t hear her
homo habilis with opposable thumb, scrolling to the edge of the world.
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
jaded, battle-weary faces,
Seems embarrassed to be there
unblinking eyes, staring into nothingness,
Oh think twice, it’s another day for
You and me in paradise
an alien on life support

In the Park

It's deceptively bright today. I had set out wearing just a light jacket; you'd think I would have known better. Still, the brightness makes up for the lack of feeling in my fingers. On other days the park has been sour and depressed, the tower slides looking like the ancient ruins of an older, more playful civilisation. A park is a disappointed playground, Joyce might have said. Today it looks a lot happier. I make my way past the swings and see-saws, shining yellow and red in the sun. Two children dangle from the monkey bars. Just beyond them a group of eager boys take turns trying to dunk a basketball. A frisbee hovers over the grass for a few moments before touching down.

On the lake, ducks clamour for the breadcrumbs that an old woman lobs at them. Sunshine glints off their beaks. A little girl squeals in delight, asks her mother whether she can have a go. I remember the ducks we used to have in the park near our home. One of them got slightly carried away on one occasion and had picked off, along with the slice of bread on offer, a sizeable chunk of a child's hand. They were all gone the next day, we never found out where.

scurrying to safety
two squirrels
I retreat, defeated

The shadows lengthen. In an hour the curtain will come down on another day. The old woman tosses the last of the crumbs into the lake, heads home while she still can. The streetlights come on, burning orange at first, like the setting sun. I dust my pants and watch it disappear. Overhead, a plane unzips the sky.

string of fairy lights
in a window
christmas hangover

Year of the Pig

And so it was that in all the celebration, in all the hubbub of noise and excitement, there were two figures who stood silent and still...

And though every single human in the stands or in the commentary boxes was at a complete loss for words, the man who in his life had uttered fewer words than any of them knew exactly what to say.

"That'll do, Pig.
That'll do."

Does anyone else really really like this film?

India- Tales from the Hinterland

Rustic transcript of speech by local Member of Parliament (c. 2004)
On a whistle-stop tour of the world’s largest democracy:

Namaste, bhaiyo aur behno[1]!

Please to be giving your vote to me,
I will be much obliged;
Roti, kapdaa aur makaan[2], tho-
I will personally provide.

Roads to your home will be best quality,
24 hours light will be there;
Excess of water for every person,
No need even to share.

Best schools for all the bachaas[3],
Medicine will be all free,
To all who be voting, I will give-
Fully new colour teevee.

I know I’m promising all this before,
But, really, erm…what to say?
See, five years seem long time to you,
In politiks, is like a day.

No fear; I be making your village,
Whole total duniya ki shaan[4];
So press down those thumbs, bhaiyo aur behno,
Mera Bharat Mahaan[5]!

Thanking You.


[1] Greetings, brothers and sisters! (a standard opening line)
[2] Food, clothing and shelter; three words with which many an Indian election is won and lost.
[3] children
[4] Pride of the whole world, a largely elusive concept
[5] My India is great!

Two hours to Kottayam

I stare out the window
as we cross the border.
Brown earth slowly turns to green.

I reach for my notebook;
This is what being ‘moved to poetry’ is like.

For so long she’s hoped for my return,
She’s waited patiently,
The wait’s over, and she’s preparing now-
To warmly welcome me.

Wind-blown and wide-eyed,
Sticking out like driftwood,
A tourist in the land of his birth.

But this is a land of a billion sons,
And each minute more are born,
How will she possibly welcome me back,
When she doesn’t know I’ve been gone?

I breathe in the smells,
Coffee, cocoa, a hint of pepper,
Boats float like dead fish on water.

Coconut palms line the tracks.
Beauty, too heavy to be contained,
Falls like invisible rain.

A child waves from beside the lake.
I wave back-
He grins and tells his brother.

A tiny leaf lands on my palm.
Fragile and so full of promise,
Like the land itself.

No, no red carpet awaits me,
I’m just a face in the teeming crowd;
But she will hear about me somehow,
And for a fleeting moment she’ll be proud.

I close my eyes.
It smells like home.

Song for the New Year

As for 2006, so for 2007...

Another year is marching through the door,
I do not have the weapons for war,
I've never felt so unprepared before,
As I stumble on.

So many years I've left in my wake,
So many chances I've failed to take,
What difference then will one more make,
As I stumble on?

Happy New Year, it's almost here,
But I feel no gladness; only fear,
I'm just waiting now for the smoke to clear,
As I stumble on.

But then that voice- soft yet clear,
"I will heal each wound and dry each tear,
Stick with Me son, you'll have nothing to fear,
I will lead you on."

"You've stumbled your way through life before,
You don't have to stumble anymore,
Don't worry about the battles, I've won the war,
And I will lead you on."

Happy New Year 2007

Tonight

As a child I believed
you could hear the sea in a shell;
Now a cupped hand does the job
just as well-
it’s too cold to venture out tonight.

Tonight
everything seems de-romanticized,
I stand stripped of wonder.
The more you know, the more you wish
you didn't.

Snap crackle pop
words stop
to make way for a passing thought.

Tonight
my pine scented candle burns down,
mixes with cheap potpourri,
teases my throbbing sinuses.
A painful reminder of a careless late shower.

Darkness encroaches on the flame
a little sputter,
a final wheeze,
and then it’s gone.
The shadows die a silent death.

Tonight
I pine for my family.
Ten thousand miles away
my mum sneezes.

In the stillness the phone rings
three times.
I pick it up, put it down and draw the blinds
Tonight is for silence.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who is easily impressed.
A heart that feels like it's about to explode with all the beauty in the world.
So much beauty.
A heart of someone so happy to be alive and tired at the same time.
Jaded.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who can never find the right word.
So many thoughts die before they're even born.
A heart of someone who knows that nothing is as it seems-
but wishes it was.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who's aware that gifts that are so easily given-
Are just as easily taken away.
A heart of someone who realises he's just another face
In the Crowd.

Full Circle (prelude to the music album)

While we're on this little journey,
The road is often hard and long,
And it sometimes seems to lead away,
From the place where you belong.

And every time the road leads off,
To a place I do not know,
I think back to the places,
That I passed through long ago.

That's when the thought occurs to me,
(I realize it's a little strange)
But these places aren't so different,
I'm the one that's changed.

And then I look back and recall,
My journey from Boy to Man (?),
And reflect on how I made it back,
To where it all began.

I do not know where it goes from here,
But I hope to God I'm strong,
And wherever it takes me, one thing's clear-
That's where I'll belong.

Week 3 of the course and it was time for Haiku. If you just went "Haik-who?" (or, more accurately, "Haik-wha..?") you are not alone. As it turns out, these three-line poems are a major form of Japanese verse. Hai, meaning amusement + ku meaning sentence, which roughly translates into English as 'Poetry for folks with Attention Deficit Disorder'.

After much deliberation and discussion, here is my feeble attempt: *drum roll*

warm clothes strewn about,
I gather
you've left me

staring into my coffee
as I drink
Sunrise in a cup

he rakes the leaves
recently shed,
the Fall Collection

When one blog dies, another has to take its place, so here goes:

Introducing myself has often been a struggle since I arrived. While most people would get past the first obvious hurdle -that of pronouncing my name- they would inevitably stumble at the second. This of course would be the point at which I have just answered their question: "So where you from, Ajay?" Their vacant stares would be my cue to launch into my orientation speech, which I can now rattle off in my sleep. "In the west of the country, three hours drive from Bombay, about the same distance between Swansea and London..."

Lately, however, this process has become a lot easier, thanks to a certain Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. "Poona?" they ask me now, a flicker of recognition already passing across their faces.

"Yeah," I begin, "In the west of the country, three hours drive from..."
"I've heard of it, that's where Brangelina are, innit?" "Shooting a movie, yeah?"
"Yup," I say, "that’s the one."
"That's wicked man."
"Yup."

So, thanks are in order, I guess. To 'Brangelina' and the hundreds of paparazzi that have followed them all the way to my little hometown, three hours drive from Bombay. Alas, soon they will head off to Ulaanbataar or some equally random place, and Poona will go back to being the place no-one has heard of.

And I have to go back to cringing each time someone goes "Pooh...Nah?"

Yeah. Wicked, man.

The smell of freshly baked pies. Even now I can conjure up that smell just by thinking about it. They were sometimes apple pies, sometimes pumpkin, sometimes some other thing I had never heard of. But they all smelt the same to me. I think that made it all the more exciting, the thrill of not knowing what was in them, of finding out. It was all very magical, the way she pulled them out of their brown paper bags every evening. Like rabbits from a hat. Magicians did that a lot, I saw it on tv. I thought about what a great job she must have, going away every morning and returning with these wonderful treats she had made. A ‘baker’. That’s what she told me she was; and from that day on that’s all I wanted to be. She taught me English too. One new word every day.

*****
It always amused me, the look on his face when I got back from the bakery and handed him the bag with a few crusty old pies. I was only allowed to take them home because they’d gone past the sell by date, but he always thought I made them just for him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He had the same look on his face when I taught him a new word; he would bite into it like he did with the pies, and then roll it around in his mouth, his eyes full of wonderment. He called me a magician once, I’m not sure why. But I felt like one sometimes, unlocking his sense of taste and language, and watching him play with both.

Room 1.1 (E Block)

Finding accommodation at the University was always going to be a problem; I was told two months before the course had begun that it was full-up. So it was quite a surprise to learn that there was one room left in Ty Beck, the 'poshest' halls of residence. There was a catch though; well, two catches really: it was a small room, and I couldn't see it before I signed the contract. Not one to make impulsive decisions, I hesitated. And tried to buy time. “How small?” I asked, followed by “can I see a photo at least?” The lady smiled kindly and then said No firmly. There were two people in line behind me, supposedly for the same room in question, so I was faced with a curiously tricky dilemma. I could sign for the room and move into what might well turn out to be a medium sized cupboard, or I could refuse, spend the rest of the month walking in and out of private accommodation, and feel like a prize idiot.
So I signed.

Any relief I felt at this uncharacteristic display of decisiveness quickly evaporated when I reached the accommodation office to pick up my keys. “Ah, Mr Jacob” said the caretaker, who seemed incredulous that I had not just agreed to take the room but actually seemed quite pleased with myself for doing so. “You do know it's small, don't you?” I gulped. I hadn't even been 24 hours in this place, and I was already being scammed. By the Welsh. With a binding 12 month contract to boot. “Well, it's liveable,” he offered helpfully, “as long as you hang from the ceiling.” I smiled weakly, the humour completely lost on me.

As it turns out, the Welsh are great at Exaggeration. And Reverse-Psychology. So there I was, completely resigned to the possibility that I'd be spending the next one year sleeping upright, so that when I finally walked into Room 1.1, I couldn't help but laugh. It was a beautiful, well-equipped little room. There was a table, a wardrobe, two sets of shelves and a sink. And a poster above the almost-double bed that said simply- 'Welcome to Swansea.'

My Friend

I can see that you are in love,
Though you say it isn't so,
Not surprising: for when push came to shove-
You were often the last to know.

I'm sure she's completely sweet,
In a way you cannot express,
You worship the ground beneath her feet,
And feel no more loneliness.

But your best friend's eye is on her,
And his feelings are just as strong,
Who's to say he cannot love her?
Who decides the right from wrong?

And if they end up with each other,
As they most probably will,
You'll find that you are now a brother-
And must learn to love her still.

For Mother

The floor looks faded,
The ceiling seems jaded,
Everything is bare but the walls;

The sun is setting,
The stillness is upsetting,
Until footsteps echo in the halls.

There's no room for slack,
There's no turning back,
What's begun must be seen through;

But the thrill of arriving,
Is offset by the pain of leaving,
And all i can think of is You.

I am off to Wales tomorrow.
Swansea Bay, glistening in the sun, awaits.

The Road goes ever on and on,
Down from the door where it began,
Now far ahead the Road has gone-
And i must follow, if i can.

Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many path and errands meet-
And whither then? I cannot say.

JRR Tolkien

Lately, i have been having two recurring thoughts.

It is important to have an end to journey towards,
But it is the journey that's important, in the end.

A man travels the world in search of what he needs,
and then returns home to find it.

Nuff Said.

Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don't know where it goes
But it's home to me and I walk alone

I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Where the city sleeps
and I'm the only one and I walk alone

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me
'Til then I walk alone...

- Billie Joe Armstrong

Blue Suede Shoes

I felt a hand brush my back pocket. Instinctively I reached for my wallet, making sure it was still there before turning around to see who the hand belonged to. As it turned out, it was a little boy trying to get my attention, reaching for my pocket only because that was as high as his little hands could go. He was dressed in full-length pyjamas that made him look younger than he might actually have been. The little bag that hung on his shoulder contained a shoe brush and tins of polish in assorted colors.

"Bhaiya jootein polish karoon?" I smiled, began to explain that polishing blue suede might not be the best idea, and then stopped mid-way to pull out a 10 rupee note and hand it to him. He smiled back - a wide boy-smile - and accepted gratefully, but did not disappear. Instead, he offered me a suggestion: "Dho leta hoon na bhaiya, paani se. Ekdum naiye jaise lagenge" (I will wash them with water, they'll be good as new) Once again, I declined his offer. Finally, in a voice so sincere that I almost choked, he said: "Please dho leta hoon na bhaiya, nahi to bheek ho jayega." (please let me wash them, otherwise you'll be giving me alms.") Lessons in dignity and perseverance from a six year old. Right at that moment, I wanted to hug him.

"Bheek nahi hain, thofa hain" was all I could manage. It was a gift, and he should accept it. He smiled his boy-smile again, much wider this time. "Phir to theek hoga", he said. "Thank you bhaiya", and he was gone, shuffling along with his bag and his brush and his tins of polish.

Theek Hoga. Everything will be ok.

Intimations of Mortality

In the last one week, I've watched a cat being mauled to death, a dog being run over by a car, and a college professor being beaten by his own students till he eventually died of a cardiac arrest, the last one on live television. I had no connection with the cat, the dog, or indeed the professor. And yet, in all three cases I was left with a gnawing pain, somewhere between the heart and the rib cage. Helplessnes, rage, sadness, all rolled into a ball. Imagine how God must feel.

Tomorrow I am going to write about something happy.
IamIamIamIam.

Promise.

Of Loss and Longing

Finally, after 6 months of using my I pod, I've had my first Apple nightmare. I guess it was bound to happen at some point. I am by now quite used to the Microsoft Windows nightmares that I am subjected to on an almost daily basis, when, for no apparent reason my computer decides to re-start at the precise moment at which I'm saving a 32 page document.

This latest one, however, snuck up on me. Even now, as I try and re-create the sequence of events in my head, I am still not sure what happened. All I know for sure is that 15000 songs were deleted in less than 2 seconds. It was all over before I even knew it had begun, so fast that my head still spins just thinking about it.

15000 songs. Collected over 6 months, each one bought, borrowed, stolen, and then lovingly saved, copied, sorted, and tagged. All gone at the click of a mouse. I was left feeling bereft, hurt, violated. Empty as a shell. I tried feebly to remember those songs, where they came from, would I find them again, could I, piece by piece, note by fractured note, put my collection back together once more?

How easily, I remember thinking, the things we love are taken away from us. Just when we start thinking that perhaps we might hold onto them for ever, they're snuffed out. Our stories and our songs. Our hopes and our dreams. Everything we hold dear sinks without a trace and inevitably leaves us clutching at memories, seeking comfort in the vaguely familiar fragments of a life that once was. Like the tune of a song we know we've heard somewhere but can't quite place.

On Leaving

The close-out plans have been laid,
The final changes have been made;
The lights in the office have begun to fade,
'What then?' whispered the voices in his head, 'What then?'

The last tasks have been assigned,
The remaining text boxes have been aligned,
His head's exploding, but he doesn't mind,
'What then?' is all he hears, 'What then?'

All his nightmares have come true -
Flak and criticism is all he drew,
Credit's never given where credit's due,
‘But what then?' asked the ghost again. 'But what then?'

The work is done, grown old he thought,
A jinxed project to near-perfection brought,
The wars of sleep and dissatisfaction have been fought,
But louder sang that ghost,‘What then?'

Inspired by 'What then?' by W.B Yeats

Soliloquy of a Seed

"Something tells me
To surrender all I am
And hope to be;
And to descend
The dark of earth
To be transformed
Into a tree.

But to go up
Dare I go down;
And think a tree
Can fit in me?"

Thank You, Father Paulson

My Train Journey from Hell

I boarded the train from Bangalore with two bags and a smile, only to find that my ticket was for the previous day. Although I’ve been late for trains before, at twenty-four hours, this was comfortably a new record...

And so, after two weeks of living in four and five star accommodation, I found myself standing in a train compartment unlike any other I had seen up to that point. I was going to travel unreserved.

I placed my bags behind the door and surveyed the area half-heartedly for a place to sit. Surprisingly, many of the berths were vacant and for a few fleeting moments I had visions of myself sleeping comfortably till we reached Pune, while others jostled for space to rest at least half their backsides on the custom made wooden seats.

However, the minute I got within a few meters of one of these empty berths, huge hairy men began to leap from nowhere at me, their eyes conveying what I already feared- these berths were taken. Like lions defending their territory, the men were prowling the compartment, making sure other skinnier, impertinent males wouldn’t dare take over the places they had either reserved for themselves, or were planning to sell for money. I slinked back to my corner with my tail tucked in firmly between my legs, and the law of the jungle prevailed. This was clearly the survival of the fittest.

It had now become adequately clear that I would have to spend the next twenty hours crouched in the space between the main door and the sink. As I attempted to come to terms with the thought, I realized that there was another more pressing problem. One of the toilet doors was jammed. Lucky me. I now had a room with a view. And a smell.

I sat down and glanced at my watch. The time was 2:30 pm. There were exactly eighteen hours to go. I watched the trees and fields whiz past and took strange comfort from the fact that with each passing moment I was a little bit closer to home.

I soon noticed that the sink above my head was blocked and had now become a little pond, the water stained red with paan that people were spitting into it at regular intervals. I also noticed the looks of pleasure on their faces when the contents of their mouths made a splashing sound as it hit the water. Cheap thrills. Empty cigarette packs floated on the surface like dead fish. Pretty soon someone was going to have to put their hands in and unblock it, or the floor, which was already dirty, would soon be dirty and wet. I couldn’t believe things could get any worse.

Meanwhile the train kept moving, thankfully, at a decent speed and we had no lengthy hold-ups on the way, as is often the norm on these long journeys. About every hour or so we arrived at a station and I jumped out of my cramped space, eager to move my already aching muscles and to allow the blood to flow again.

But soon even this periodic exercise would prove futile as my body refused to make the change from five-star-bed to minus-ten-star-floor. By 6:00 pm I was starting to feel dizzy and I felt as if I had lost sensation in my left leg. A wave of panic rose inside me. I was twenty-four years old with no history of medical conditions. But for the first time that day, I wondered whether I would survive.

It was then that I noticed the little boy. It is strange how someone else’s suffering makes you realize how insignificant your own minor discomfort is. He must have been about twelve, but his eyes were those of an old man’s. I stared at them, those windows to his soul, and wondered at what they had seen. I glimpsed sadness in the one eye and defiance in the other as he pulled his tattered shirt off his back and began to sweep the floor. People shifted first their feet, then their faces, as he slowly swept the rubbish from under each seat, before stopping for the briefest moment beside each passenger to beg for some change. A few dropped coins into his grubby hands while others, as if on cue, began to tie and untie their shoelaces. The boy shuffled on, bent over by hunger and a deepening sense of resignation. His shirt was not the most effective broom, but when it is your only possession, what else can you use?

Watching the boy renewed my strength and resolve. I was going to make it after all, what was I complaining about? I looked out of the train, and felt the wind in my hair. It was then that we pulled into Raichur.

Now I’m not sure exactly what the population of this sleepy little town is, but it seemed to me as if every single resident was waiting to board the general compartment. They appeared to be fleeing, en masse, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. The train hadn’t even come to a halt before two of the more enterprising fugitives climbed over my head and got in. Minutes later, it was chaos.

Men, women, and children of all ages began to pour in, all yelling and screaming in a language that I probably would have understood if someone wasn’t standing on my ears. I just about managed to get out of the way as the crowds continued to appear out of thin air. I was sitting right under the sink now, and it was threatening to overflow any minute. The feeling of panic came back to me; after the briefest of interludes, my nightmare had resumed.

The most remarkable thing about those five minutes of madness was that while an entire city seemed to board our compartment, not one person got off. Not even one.

Just a thought: Do people know that you are allowed to get off the train at these stations? Did they think it was illegal to (shudder) disembark? Perhaps, I thought, if notices assuring them it was ok were put up in our compartments, the days of crowded trains would be behind us once and for all. I smiled at my own warped logic; I was losing my mind.

Meanwhile, I continued to sit under the sink, with my heart sinking down into my shoes. I realized that I had never seen the underside of a sink before. But the thought did nothing to improve my mood. In fact, for the first time, I contemplated getting off at the next station (to show people that it can be done) and walking the rest of the way. It can’t be that far, I would reach in a week. As soon as I managed to get rid of that crazy idea, the visions started up again. This time it was of me being carried away in an ambulance at Pune station, frozen stiff in the position I was sitting in now. They would strap on an oxygen mask onto my mouth and try to massage the life back into my lifeless limbs...

All my steely resolve was gone; I was going to die, in a general compartment of all places, sitting beside a drunken old man, and underneath an overflowing sink.

When I woke up, the sun was up, the old man was gone and the sink was empty. The train pulled in to Pune station at exactly eight am. The dirty platforms of the station had never looked as good as they did that morning. Wiping the grime from my face, I blinked in the sun. I was home.

I had slept for about twenty-five minutes through the entire journey and just the thought of my warm bed and soft pillow sent an intense rush of pleasure (or was it pain?) through my body. After twenty hours of wishing I were dead, it felt great to be alive. I got to my feet, half expecting to fall. I didn’t. I laughed out loud, mindful of the stares that the other passengers were directing at me. I didn’t care. The nightmare was over.

As I walked out into a waiting auto rickshaw it occurred to me that unless the fates conspire again, I would never have to endure such an ordeal again. Soon this will be just a slowly fading memory; another story to tell friends about, with more details added each time I told it.

But what of those for whom the ordeal never ends? Those countless millions for whom everyday is a recurring nightmare, from which they will never wake. For whom the entire world is a general compartment. And the end of one journey is merely the beginning of another.

I closed my eyes and went to sleep...I was too tired to think.