Sometimes apparently unimportant things can create an indelible impression on our minds. A few days back I was travelling in a not-so-crowded local train from Wadala to CST. I happened to sit beside an ordinary and unimpressive young man who had with him a bunch of newspapers. Reading while travelling alone is often the best way to avoid being bored. So I took from him ‘DNA’ (Yes, it is a newspaper and it stands for Daily News and Analysis) and was flipping through the headlines. I found a column by Fahad K Samaar interesting and started reading it. The writer in some context has described his father to be a ‘Muslim atheist’. Muslim because his father ‘understood and spoke exquisite Urdu, appreciated ghazals and poetry, relished a well cooked biryani and greeted his friends with Salaam and bid them adieu with Khuda Hafeez.’ He meant that though he was culturally a Muslim but was against any kind of organized religion.
I was moved by this description of religion being more akin to culture and morality than to other fundamentalist notions that it has come to mean in recent times. I was looking forward to read the rest of the article when ill-fate struck. The young man whose newspaper I was reading had to get down in the next station. I was about to give him back the newspaper when he gestured me to keep it and hurriedly got off the train. No word was spoken. I couldn’t even thank him. I read the entire article and was really happy. As the train entered CST I smiled silently remembering a line that I had read many years ago…”It is not the biggest things that make the biggest show, it is the little things that people do that makes this old world go.”
27 August 2008.
TIFR, Mumbai.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Strange Rendezvous
On the lonely night of 3rd March 2007, it was about time for me to go to the Old Delhi railway station to receive my mother and bring her home. As anticipated, the train was late and she was to arrive sometime around midnight. Delhi becomes quite desolate at night. To travel thirty kilometers at that hour is not easy. I was hoping to take an auto-rickshaw to reach the station on time but luck was not on my side. Standing on the main road I could only see cars passing by at great speed. I felt hopeless and desperate. Time was running out. I had to act fast.
After sometime (which seemed eternity to me) I saw an auto coming. When it came closer I realized that it was already occupied by two men. Nevertheless I waved frantically at the driver indicating him to stop. He agreed to give me a lift after dropping them at the Safdarjung Enclave. I found for myself a seat next to the driver. Sharing an auto with strangers is not a great idea but I had no other option.
I could hear one of them talking over the phone in a deep yet husky voice. The other man was silent. The smell of alcohol was so strong that I felt nauseous. Amidst all this the auto was speeding past the neon lights on the Aruna Asaf Ali Marg. I could see the Qutub Minar far away against the backdrop of the moonlight sky. Our minds are not confined by the restrictions imposed by space and time. It wanders about freely wherever it desires. I was to meet my mother after many months and I could almost feel her drawing me towards her bosom.
I was shocked back to reality when I heard the same voice ordering the driver to take a turn towards JNU. It was not on our way so I was surprised and annoyed. To express my dissent I turned back and saw him for the first time. He was a well-built man of middle age with deep red eyes, thick beard and an emotionless face. Just near the JNU entrance he again ordered the driver to stop at the gate of a housing complex. The other person hurriedly stepped out and disappeared. I was becoming increasingly impatient. Gathering some courage I asked him how long would he take. I also explained to him why I was in a hurry.
Immediately his face tightened. Controlling his emotions he said: “Do you know who I am?” I was listening. He continued, “I am a criminal. I deal in arms and weapons.” I knew I was in trouble. I was shocked to hear him admitting that blatantly. He also said: “I have just had a fight with a friend. Had he been a stranger I would have killed him.” Now I could see fresh stains of blood on his right shoulder. I knew I had to remain silent.
Under the influence of alcohol, he went on: “My mother was the most important person in my life. I miss her so much.” Tears started rolling down his cheeks. He then moved out of the auto and indicated the driver to take me to my destination. He threatened me not to disclose his identity to the police.
I was so shocked, thrilled and touched that I barely managed to shake his hands and thank him. I couldn’t have met my mother on time but for his help. I kept thinking about the entire episode throughout that night. Remembering it gives me a shudder even today. The only assurance is this realization that even seasoned criminals like him have subdued compassion and sympathy.
Israel.
Aug, 2007.
After sometime (which seemed eternity to me) I saw an auto coming. When it came closer I realized that it was already occupied by two men. Nevertheless I waved frantically at the driver indicating him to stop. He agreed to give me a lift after dropping them at the Safdarjung Enclave. I found for myself a seat next to the driver. Sharing an auto with strangers is not a great idea but I had no other option.
I could hear one of them talking over the phone in a deep yet husky voice. The other man was silent. The smell of alcohol was so strong that I felt nauseous. Amidst all this the auto was speeding past the neon lights on the Aruna Asaf Ali Marg. I could see the Qutub Minar far away against the backdrop of the moonlight sky. Our minds are not confined by the restrictions imposed by space and time. It wanders about freely wherever it desires. I was to meet my mother after many months and I could almost feel her drawing me towards her bosom.
I was shocked back to reality when I heard the same voice ordering the driver to take a turn towards JNU. It was not on our way so I was surprised and annoyed. To express my dissent I turned back and saw him for the first time. He was a well-built man of middle age with deep red eyes, thick beard and an emotionless face. Just near the JNU entrance he again ordered the driver to stop at the gate of a housing complex. The other person hurriedly stepped out and disappeared. I was becoming increasingly impatient. Gathering some courage I asked him how long would he take. I also explained to him why I was in a hurry.
Immediately his face tightened. Controlling his emotions he said: “Do you know who I am?” I was listening. He continued, “I am a criminal. I deal in arms and weapons.” I knew I was in trouble. I was shocked to hear him admitting that blatantly. He also said: “I have just had a fight with a friend. Had he been a stranger I would have killed him.” Now I could see fresh stains of blood on his right shoulder. I knew I had to remain silent.
Under the influence of alcohol, he went on: “My mother was the most important person in my life. I miss her so much.” Tears started rolling down his cheeks. He then moved out of the auto and indicated the driver to take me to my destination. He threatened me not to disclose his identity to the police.
I was so shocked, thrilled and touched that I barely managed to shake his hands and thank him. I couldn’t have met my mother on time but for his help. I kept thinking about the entire episode throughout that night. Remembering it gives me a shudder even today. The only assurance is this realization that even seasoned criminals like him have subdued compassion and sympathy.
Israel.
Aug, 2007.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Being Arkarup
The name is a person’s primary identity. The association of a person with his name is ‘till death do us part’. As a child one learns to associate himself with his name and I think meeting a new acquaintance becomes a dreadful affair ever after. Every time someone walks up to him for the first time, with a big smile he is confronted by that same question: “What is your name?”
Most love their names by default and I am quite certain that to live without loving your name is miserable and unfortunate. The choice of name depends upon country, religion, sensibility of the parents and other such factors. It does not depend upon the wish of the person concerned (unless it is legally changed later which is still rare).
Throughout my childhood I have heard many names incompatible with any degree of rationality. On the contrary I have always enjoyed the distinction of having a nice and unique name with a ‘meaning’. If Google is to believed there is no one except me with my name. I really love my name. But things started changing once I moved out of Calcutta during my undergraduate days.
I first realized in Delhi that my name is difficult to pronounce. My friends and teachers took over a week to pronounce it correctly. Some have not yet succeeded. No stranger could ever understand my name in the first attempt. So instead of saying my name I started to spell it! This saved time but nonetheless was awkward to say the least.
At present there are half as many versions of my name as the number of people I know. Starting from ‘Arkroop’ to the weird ‘Aur-kurup’ which means something else altogether in Hindi. Weary of saying such a long name, some choose abbreviations like ‘Orky’ or just ‘Aur’ or a little more generous ‘Aurko’.
More recently my well-wishers have found a queer phonetic connection between my name and ‘Orkut’-the internet menace that takes up half the net surfing time of many of us. And some have already started to call me so!
I thus being honoured of having a million versions of my name (a moderate overestimate), respond with equal cheer to whatever people choose to call me. I am amazed not to suffer from identity crisis yet.
The journey of my name has been quite a long one and it is just the beginning I guess. It has picked up so much momentum in the last few years that I have no idea where it will stop. Or it may never. Is that what is meant by ‘Journey of a life time’?
TIFR,
Mumbai.
12.04.08.
Most love their names by default and I am quite certain that to live without loving your name is miserable and unfortunate. The choice of name depends upon country, religion, sensibility of the parents and other such factors. It does not depend upon the wish of the person concerned (unless it is legally changed later which is still rare).
Throughout my childhood I have heard many names incompatible with any degree of rationality. On the contrary I have always enjoyed the distinction of having a nice and unique name with a ‘meaning’. If Google is to believed there is no one except me with my name. I really love my name. But things started changing once I moved out of Calcutta during my undergraduate days.
I first realized in Delhi that my name is difficult to pronounce. My friends and teachers took over a week to pronounce it correctly. Some have not yet succeeded. No stranger could ever understand my name in the first attempt. So instead of saying my name I started to spell it! This saved time but nonetheless was awkward to say the least.
At present there are half as many versions of my name as the number of people I know. Starting from ‘Arkroop’ to the weird ‘Aur-kurup’ which means something else altogether in Hindi. Weary of saying such a long name, some choose abbreviations like ‘Orky’ or just ‘Aur’ or a little more generous ‘Aurko’.
More recently my well-wishers have found a queer phonetic connection between my name and ‘Orkut’-the internet menace that takes up half the net surfing time of many of us. And some have already started to call me so!
I thus being honoured of having a million versions of my name (a moderate overestimate), respond with equal cheer to whatever people choose to call me. I am amazed not to suffer from identity crisis yet.
The journey of my name has been quite a long one and it is just the beginning I guess. It has picked up so much momentum in the last few years that I have no idea where it will stop. Or it may never. Is that what is meant by ‘Journey of a life time’?
TIFR,
Mumbai.
12.04.08.
Okaron Anmona
Janina aaj bajjhe keno moner kone banshi
Hotat keno bhasche chokhe tomar madhur hasi
Janina shudhui keno porche tomai mone
Ei kothai bhabchi kebol boshe ghorer kone.
Janina abar kobe hobe tomar sathe dekha
Tomar chokhe chokh rekhe melbo moner pakha
Janina totodin amai rakhbe kina mone
Ashatei manush banche tai mon swopner jal bone..
TIFR
31.5.08
Hotat keno bhasche chokhe tomar madhur hasi
Janina shudhui keno porche tomai mone
Ei kothai bhabchi kebol boshe ghorer kone.
Janina abar kobe hobe tomar sathe dekha
Tomar chokhe chokh rekhe melbo moner pakha
Janina totodin amai rakhbe kina mone
Ashatei manush banche tai mon swopner jal bone..
TIFR
31.5.08
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Love's Paradox
When you are far and I am here,
I think of you oh my dear,
When you are near and yet so far,
I wish you were not here…..
Mumbai.
7.1.08
I think of you oh my dear,
When you are near and yet so far,
I wish you were not here…..
Mumbai.
7.1.08
Friday, June 6, 2008
Oppositeness
The mornings that are spent sleeping
As if no worries ever touch me,
Or the sleepless nights that pass by
When thoughts won’t let me sleep.
The songs, the joys and the laughs
When I am lost in a crowd,
Or the solemn poems I write
In the loneliness of the night.
I sometimes wonder which is the real me
But isn’t reality just a mirage?
The moment I get a glimpse of myself,
The vision is lost, forever.
TIFR, Mumbai
May 2008.
As if no worries ever touch me,
Or the sleepless nights that pass by
When thoughts won’t let me sleep.
The songs, the joys and the laughs
When I am lost in a crowd,
Or the solemn poems I write
In the loneliness of the night.
I sometimes wonder which is the real me
But isn’t reality just a mirage?
The moment I get a glimpse of myself,
The vision is lost, forever.
TIFR, Mumbai
May 2008.
Suddenly At One
I believe that I am more rational than instinctive. This is because of a strange importance I attach to reasoning as compared to impulsiveness. So suddenly when I felt an urge to write, I, out of habit didn’t pay much heed. Strangely the impulse grew stronger and I found myself searching for a pen and a paper at one in the morning. I was about to start. But what did I want to write? I had no answer. It felt awkward. May be I should write about the wonderful time I have had in the past three years in college. I started to write but I didn’t like what I wrote. I tore off the page and it rightfully went into trash. I told to myself that fond memories are like wine, they become better with time. We should fall back to our past only when the present becomes insignificant. Let the memories mature, let it pass the test of time. Let me save it for the moment when the thought of college will simultaneously make me smile and cry. The time is not yet ripe. With this realization, I was left with nothing to write about. I stopped. I tore off this page and I should have thrown it into the dustbin.
Rehovot, Israel
18.07.07
Rehovot, Israel
18.07.07
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)