God has gone and done it again.

A hundred and fifty-eight lives have been cruelly taken, an aeroplane that could well have landed safely like so many others, went over a cliff and left behind mangled remains and charred bodies. People who came to the airport to receive their relatives were faced with the unenviable task of going home to break the news of the death of a loved one. Tragedies beset us. The Libyan plane crash, the Deepwater Horizon incident, cyclone Laila- the magnitude or the geographical location doesn’t matter- what hurts is just how insensibly lives are lost, when perhaps one act of precaution, a little care exercised, could have saved them. Why must whole families be left in the lurch, to fend for themselves against adversity, to mourn the loss of an only daughter or son? When people come home to celebrate success, why must their families have to grieve for them? It doesn’t make any sense to me. More often than not, I am brought back to the basic questions that we all ask- the purpose of life and the reason for evil and sickness, if God is merciful and kind.

As usual, people are offering to resign in the wake of this massive tragedy. On the contrary, as the incumbent officials, isn’t the onus on them to fix the loopholes and participate actively in the investigation that will follow? Walking away from mistakes never helps- as the people in power when the incident occurred, they should know what went wrong if they have been doing their job properly. Prompt offers to resign are an act of cowardice- large amounts of time and money will inevitably be wasted in bringing a new person to manage affairs at short notice, and the efficacy of such measures is also dubious. However, considering that people with little experience often do occupy some of the positions with high responsibility attached to them, perhaps it wouldn’t make much of a difference- not here.

When Nature is on a rampage, we can only hope to minimise the damage. However, when the causes of tragedy are human, we have several lessons to learn- starting with humility.

Things can go awry with inexplicable adroitness. Going wrong. That's what they do best, when you least expect them to. And that, of course, is when the most irrelevant questions come coursing through your head. Like why Laila is in Vizag when you're miles away in Bangalore. Vizag, like Singapore, won't get out of my head. Some places grab those lofty pedestals in your head that you save for the best things- they slide in smoothly before you even know it- and then where do you slot the other memories? Do we choose our memories? I don't think so, or the more embarrassing, hot-flush-on-the-cheek moments wouldn't be the ones that came to mind most easily.

If only I could pick and choose the songs and the stories I wanted in my head. I'd leave the stinging ones behind and keep the ones that gave me that delicious thrill of ecstasy. But that would probably make me appreciate the better moments less than I otherwise would.

On second thoughts, I like my memories as they are. And life, in general.

PS: This is just one day we're talking about.

Rain on the Expressway

A strong gust of wind blows a fine spray of rain into my rapidly cooling coffee. People break into a run past me and unfurl umbrellas as the drops begin to fall faster and harder, drumming out a staccato on helplessly flailing leaves. I walk steadily on, bareheaded; I want to feel the rain. A Cappuccino can be easily bought anytime; the fragrance of moist earth and the numbing sting of a heavily-falling raindrop cannot.

The bus drives out as sheets of rain sweep the freshly tarred roads; I wipe the vapour off the glass and create myself a little window to the world. Is there dust on my palm? I don’t give it much thought and the hand sanitiser stays in my bag for a change. The tiny restaurants by the road lose the relative normalcy of daylight and take on the semblance of nondescript roadside shacks (populated by burly, moustachioed truck drivers drinking glasses of steaming tea, if you choose to imagine them into your fancies as well) that materialise amidst nothingness on mostly deserted highways. On the curving expressway, high above the sprawling city, a smattering of water-smudged lights appears in the distance. Sudden flashes of lightning streak the brooding sky and startle decrepit dark buildings into momentary life. A tube light flickers on half-heartedly inside the bus, like the watery smile on the face of one trying to tell a lie while doubting its efficacy.

The rain slows down, comes to a complete halt- and when the bus takes a turn off the expressway, nothing remains but the sweeping curves traced on the dust of the window-pane by impatient fingers- yes, there was dust on it, and I look hesitantly at my hand. The road is bone-dry but for a few slushy puddles and water collected in some crevices, like memories left over from a well-remembered past. The romantic fancies evaporate rapidly, too- the warm lights of cosy homes dispel curious thoughts of adventure and mystery with consummate ease- the illusions of overworked minds craving for a few hours of solace.

Nature, though, continues to contrive her spells, leaving us blissfully ignorant of her machinations as we sleep the tiredness out.

On Hope

There was once a time when the clouds in the sky merged and pulled themselves apart into the shapes I wanted to see. When lines of ants scurrying with their burdens to their invisible hideouts evoked immense curiosity. When colours were associated with what the eye saw- birds, flowers and trees- and not with the meanings attributed to them by religious and party flags. Chocolate was just the kind you found at the neighbourhood store- white, 80% cocoa, liqueur would have been high-falutin terms for something as simple as a slab of pure happiness.

And then, one day, someone decided that a bitter concoction of reality and pragmatism, garnished with a distasteful lust for money, must be thrust down people’s gullets as they grew older. Hypothetical it should have remained, but it was incorporated with great zest into the business of life, and so we stick to it till we’re sick of it.

You cannot keep childlike amusement away forever, though, try as hard as you may. You have to marvel at the big-bellied fish under the rocks in the pond on your way back from lunch (and ignore the cell phone displaying your boss’s number) and draw the last of the lemonade out noisily with your straw (while a group of sophisticated people look down their noses at you scornfully). Not pure, untarnished pleasure, the kind that existed before you knew of life outside comic books and marbles, but rainbows will once again hold hoards of treasure at either end.

Hope is a beautiful thing.

An Open Window

The wind has decided to make peace with the forsaken. It comes to the city and its people despite the sins against it.

It has flirted with shameless regularity with the sand dunes, the waves of the ocean, the grass in the hollows of lonesome valleys, the straggling growth on quietly majestic mountains. Nature never boasts of her prowess, she merely humbles with it. And now the wind comes to the city, to roar through the mazes of concrete and steel, to ruffle the blankets off foolishly snug bodies.

People revel at the breeze's homecoming. Dogs are roused from their disturbed slumber and trains hurtle from darkness, into darkness, shrill whistles piercing through the night, as the wind dances in through open windows and carries along the smell of dust and metal- of the small, nondescript towns where you spend five minutes that will soon be forgotten, but recalled suddenly in an unexplained moment of senility sixty years on.

Palm fronds brush against the lone mango in an unusual show of intimacy. They source their kinship to a much higher plane than our petty thinking can fathom. Clouds hover low, eager to partake of earthly conversations and add their own bit to them- isn't this where they come from, after all. The moon, happy and placid, shines down from unknown perches- it flits effortlessly, its broad silver beams casting an ethereal light upon the trees, setting them softly aglow in the midst of their night-revelry.

Give up your soliloquy and your silly fetishes, says the wind, and come dance with me tonight.

Home

Window to the 'World'




A Tale of Two Cities





Off I Go

This is happening much too often now, this dissonance between thoughts and words. There is no earthly reason to be melancholy, not one that you can easily lay a finger on. This isn't a night for your words, you tell yourself, and prepare to bury your nose in a book about a Swedish immigrant in the US- a book that you picked up because it was about the only bit of non-fiction you found in a library that overflows with technical books (when it chooses to overflow). You're spoilt for choice- your shelves at home brim over with good, intriguing reading- but perverse that your mind is, it will pick the one you are least curious about- just because you took the trouble to carry it home and have had it three weeks without bothering to open it.

The sleep that you long for is fraught with nightmares; instead of a reluctance to wake up, you're only too ready to jump out of bed next morning. How unnatural. But it's only temporary- these phases are all too familiar, when you wake up thrice every night, wondering what really triggered those unrealistic flights of imagination, if you can call it that, those dreams in the colours of bleak winters, as devoid of pleasant fancies as a sere strip of land in a season of drought.

No more words, rein your thoughts in. The power is gone, thanks to the rain you were craving for, and is the very reason why you first started writing this night. The battery is low and will die out soon- and the thoughts will begin their mad rush in your head all over again. Hush them, like the flame of the candle that went out peacefully, painlessly, in that strong gust of wind.

The curtains are still and the night is quiet. When will the wind blow hither?