Your Virtues

“Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”

- H. Jackson Brown, Jr

The times when we smiled and rejoiced the most, were the times when we were free of all the worries and burdens on our weary shoulders. Each of these carefree memories that we have are the most cherished minuscule tidbits of our life. Our life is made up of gazillions of such anecdotes, but for us some stand out among others for some unfathomable silly reason. These are the moments with which we grade the completeness and true merit of our own lives, the more these are the merrier.

And here too as in every aspect of men’s life, to each their own. Some like spending time cooking or gossiping with friends, some like spending time washing and cleaning the same subset of their material possessions again and again repeatedly, and some absolutely weird ones like me enjoy spending time talking to total strangers in bus stands and parks and railway ticket queues. The sheer novelty of the meeting and of that person gives you such a happy high. The chance to say whatever you want to, be whoever you want to and not make an iota of difference to the personal lives of both the parties gives you a this strange thrill that no skinny dipping in the middle of winter can give.

There was this girl in high school one of my classmates was insanely in “love” with. He usually was capable of finding his true love once or twice each semester. We all thought this one was one such worthless endeavor of our Romeo, and soon would find someone fairer and prettier. And he did do the same in a couple of weeks, without fail. But for now he was busy gawking at this girl from school. He circled her home in the morning like a vulture waiting for his prey to leave home for school and follow her there, when the night comes he haunted her neighborhood to get a glimpse of her through the windows kept open to let the air in warm summer nights. This went on and on for a week or so. In the beginning we, as we always did, were busy pulling his leg and teasing him about his current “true love”. But by the end of the third week he got even us believing that he truly must be serious about this girl.

And when a realization like that cracks into the thick skull of any guy, he goes all out to give a helping hand to his brother in arms, and have no doubt love is war, and in high school they get messy. The problem with us was that none of us had any firsthand experience about a real love affair. We all were completely naïve, and it clearly showed in our suggestions and ideas to get the girl to fall in love with or friend.

What sensible girl would think a bunch of roses thrown at her from a car romantic? It almost seemed like a gangster drive by hit. We even got him to write a letter and put it in her bag, not that bad idea, right? Well trust me it is when you mistake the bag and put it another girl’s bag and she turns out to be the class teacher’s niece. Luckily, he forgot to write his name in the letter, truly Romeoesque.

We were bringing out the most stupid romantic ideas of all time, and mastering this art better than Don Juan or Casanova did. We toiled days, then we all got bored of it and decided to take shifts in accompanying our lover boy in his nightly love trysts. One such night, changed everything.

The trouble with love is that it is contagious. Once one of your friends is in its spell, you have this urge to be in it too. You go around everywhere trying to fall in love with every other girl you see. Sometimes you do fall in love but not more than two hours so, and then the next one comes along. 

The problem was that one night, when he was busy gawking at the now all too familiar window, I was busy staring at another. This one was a few blocks away from the girls home and on the other side of the street so the Romeo didn’t have a clear view of it. But I could, there I saw a huge TV and girl in her pajamas a staring at it, the light of the TV falling on her beautiful face. I did not know this girl then, but after that night I began to notice her all the time when we used to go to school. Her name was Priya Cherian, our heroine. She lived somewhere close to the girl’s home and our school. 

We used to pass each other when we went to school, she went to the same girl’s only school that our lover boy’s girl went to. And that common link caught the eye of our dear friend; he started pushing me talk to her, get to know her. Bloody git.

And I did, well just nods and hi in the beginning then we found common ground in our mutual hate for math and I used it to lengthen our minute long conversation each time before and after school. Soon she started waiting for me at the gate of my school to walk together till the crossroad some blocks away. Now my friends had started to tease me, and oddly it felt awesome to be at the receiving end of it. For the first time in my life I was beginning to feel happy about my ease in talking to strangers. She started talking about stuff other than math too, her hobbies, family, friends etc. I supposed that must be a good thing that she is opening up. It felt good to be confided in, the now familiar high was at its highest then.

The one thing I really didn't notice back then was that our lover boy was also walking along with us. I was too busy gawking at her perfect teeth and long hair, I did not notice the spring in our lover boy’s steps whenever Priya came around the corner. I did not notice the weird excited nervous laugh that guys have when they are around a girl they like. I did not notice the lack of interest he seemed to be having now on the girl from school. The nightly trips to her neighborhood to stalk her neighbor became rarer, while the walks after school more consistent. I even caught them walking off ahead without me a couple of times. Soon in a couple of weeks, they were talking more about each other, to each other than anything me. Soon, they started making plans to meet on weekends and holidays. And I failed to notice this all because, I was distracted by another tall 11^th grader.

School ended, we all went on our own way. The tall 11^th grader was soon forgotten and replaced by equally nameless others, each unique, and oddly each with the best smile ever seen on the face of the planet. But the most savored one probably is Ms. Cherian, who incidentally got engaged last week.

Question: Guess who the guy was? Answer: Our own lover boy. The bloody git.

Moral of the day: It is not always so that you are the only one to profit from your own virtues.

The Beautiful Woman

"I see that woman everyday, sitting on a bench at the bus stop waiting for her ride.. Saying she is beautiful might be an understatement, she's gorgeous!

But she never smiles, I guessed she's one of those females who's beauty got to her head and now has an attitude problem.. Well hell with her, like I give a damn..

Then yesterday, I was late for my ride and saw the reason for her being at the bus stand.. She was waiting yes, but for a kid, her child probably.. A school bus stops and a kid gets down, helped by two guys.. He was a handicap with limp legs..

The woman, who never smiles, hurries to him with open arms and huge grin on her face..

She has a beautiful smile..

I suppose none of us 'daily-whiners' deserve to witness it, but her child does.. A child who has all the reason in the world to throw down the towel and say 'I quit', but still goes on with his life.. That's strength!

And just look at her.. She clearly could have a better life than having to spend her days tending to a kid with special needs.. But she will stick with him till the end, come what may.. That's love!!" :-) :-) :-)

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Getting Almost Killed By A Train

"Here is the test to find whether your mission on earth is finished. If you're alive, it isn't."

- Richard Bach

Today again I was a little late to get out of house in the morning; today again I would just barely reach the railway station in time for my 9:31 train to Thane. Today again I am probably going to bash into a couple of people, at the speed that I am walking. Today again I would partially turn at them, still running at the same time, mumble my apologies and hurry right-on towards the platform. Most of these people that I bash into are as much in hurry as I am, so I tell myself probably they don’t mind my half-baked attempt at being courteous.

Today what was different is that I have just three minutes left till the train leaves the station. I don’t take the over-bridge running over the other railway tracks to get my platform. I decide to just walk over the tracks to reach it as early as possible. A feat I rarely, if ever, do.

You see, in Mumbai local train’s tracks are infamous death traps. Often slippery and have puddle all round, you get your foot stuck in it at the wrong time and you’re a goner. You’re last sight on this sweet planet Earth will be of the big engine compartment of some train coming full speed towards you.

They will have to sweep off your guts and bones from even 50 meters off of the spot where you collided with the train.

When I was in school and living in the Western lines region, I had seen people carry away a guy on a stretcher once. That guy had apparently jumped off of a running train too early and landed right on to the signal posts that they build at the ends of each platform. His face was half torn open and he was clearly knocked-out cold by the impact. Maybe just had a concussion, but the way his body was laying limp on that stretcher anyone could have already thought he was dead. They had tried to cover his face up with a piece of cloth but with the amount of blood pouring out of it, the bloody rag of cloth only made it look all the more horrifying.

An image like that stays on in a kid’s memory.

That was the image that came into my mind that day as I was hurrying over the tracks. I could see my train has already arrived in platform number 1. I had just passed number 4 and was getting over the 3^rd when I heard the siren blast. It was so loud and sudden that at that precise moment, I thought it was already on top of me.

I turned around to my right, real slow. I couldn’t speed up my body while doing that, it was like in the movies, important scenes always happened in “slo-mo”. I guess this is what those directors were aiming at.  I was there gaping at the big engine just twenty-or so feet away from me. I could see the engine-driver inside his cabin yelling at the top of his voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but by the movements of his lips I could guess he was asking me toget off the tracks and showering me with some very tasteful, innovative abuses. I never knew crap-for-brains can be used in such colourful combinations.

But I couldn’t move. I tried again, I just couldn’t.

I looked down at my feet. They were still where they always have been, at the far end of my legs. Larger than normal people’s, on account of my height which also was not of normal people’s measure.

“Idiot, is this the time to be thinking about the size of your beep-darn feet? Move it, before you get crushed to pulp!!”

I look up again to the engine; it was only ten feet away. Now even the driver had stopped with his abuses and was staring at me with both eyes and mouth opened. He got out of the trance faster than me and was reaching at the panel in front of him and pushing levers and buttons right and left.

And here I was still stuck like the deer in front of headlights, ready to be another road-kill just like most of them deer inevitably become.

I suddenly felt myself falling backwards. I land heavily on my backside. Ouch, that’s going hurt bad when I get up. I looked up from where I was the train’s wheels had now started to pass by from the spot where my legs were at just a few seconds back. I looked higher towards the engine, the driver had popped his head out of his side window, again back to yelling abuses at me and also gesturing with his left hand too, the old familiar respectful finger was up.

The train’s engine was out of sight soon and I looked around to the small knot of people who had already gathered around me by now. There were a couple of older men of my father’s age who invariably had started with their “kids of this generation have got no common sense at all” speech. Mister, you were right behind me crossing the tracks on foot, was your common sense on vacation in Goa today? 

Bloody hypocrites.

What my eyes were searching for, was the guy who had the right sense to pull me off the tracks, than just wait see me turn into tomato ketchup all over the railway tracks.

I recognised him soon enough, he was the guy who I always see commuting in same train as me. He gets off two stops ahead of me.

He mouths, “You alright, boss?”

I mouth, “Yes. Thanks to you!”

He hurries ahead towards platform number 1 without turning back again. I will have to ask his name sometime in future, or buy him a cup of coffee or something. After all you don’t get a guardian angel to rescue you from instant death every day, do you?

(I had missed my train that daythough; wish there was some guardian angel I could keep on a retainer for that as well.)

I got up off my butt, and as I had predicted earlier it hurt as hell. I was not going to walk right for a bit today in office, hope nobody notices and starts getting ideas

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Somebody and Mr. Nice Guy

  

Somebody asks Mr. Nice Guy: 'I hear that nice guys always finish last, and mostly end up alone.. This is the age of jerks and pricks.. Is this true??'

Mr. Nice Guy: 'You heard right, so?'

Somebody: 'Don't you get tired of it??'

Mr. Nice Guy: 'Well, it really depends on how you look at it.. Nice guys are winners before the race even starts, we don't let the game destroy who we are.. We stay true, honest, loyal..o conditions applied anywhere.. We don't SELL OUT, to SCORE MORE!!'

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Ma's Appointment with the Surgeon

“There's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begin.”
- Mitch Albom

  'For One More Day'

The hospital was huge!

Its large pillars and domes on the four corners made it seem more like a Mughal palace than a place where people come to when they are sick (or to die). There was lush green lawn outside with a smallish angel fountain in the center of it, around which the IN and OUT routes for vehicles were mapped out so that people may navigate themselves within the premises. It was quaint on the outside. Beautiful flowers were beginning to bloom on the decorative plants around the park benches in the lawn. This place reeked of rich monies. There was probably had a rich trustee or a patron, who had donated generously!

But on the inside, inevitably, the environment was gloomy. The whole place stinked, the usual stench of hospitals anywhere around the planet. The smells of medicines, anti-septics, alcohol swabs, maybe a bit of urine here and there. This hospital was just as big inside as it was outside. But the sheer number of people inside it made it seem tiny and crowded, especially around the reception's desk. That was where Vik was standing right now hands on hips and exasperation evident on his face.

Vik had just told the lady at the desk for the hunderedth time that he was here for an appointment with the surgeon for fixing his mother's leg. To which the receptionist has just informed him for the ninety-ninth time that his appointment was for 6PM and he has come in at 6:45PM he will have to wait now. She can only get him to see the surgeon once a gap shows up in the his schedule which was packed for another couple of hours, or he could take a seat and hope that someone else was just as punctual as him had an appointment today and shows up late so that she could get him into their slot.

Vik was always a kind-hearted guy but also had considerable amount of temper under his hood which he always kept in check. It inevitably showed up from time to time, especially when he has had a rough day in office like today.

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He had had an argument with his manager at work just an hour ago,

The Truth About Lies

“But better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”
- Khaled Hosseini

I have always thought that truth and lies are always interlinked to each other. Each cannot survive without the other. They both are nothing but the two sides of the same old rusted coin. Truth is usually overrated, but then so are the lies. People think that the truth might liberate their soul, which is all nothing but a pile of rotten horsecrap. People want to always know everything. And hear nothing but the truth. What is the point anyways? More often than not we never like the truth any more than the lie. The truth only makes it all the more difficult. It’s so much easier sometimes to just say a lie and get it over with than bring out the whole big fiasco of a truth to light which needs a much longer explanation.

And explanations aren’t foolproof. There are times when the explanations get so complex and twisted and turned such a way that you yourself have got no idea what was it that got you into this mess you are in.

I think that the main reason for lying is our loss of the most precious human qualities, our ability to forgive. We are afraid of each other. We are scared witless that the other person might not understand our helplessness or the conditions and the pressures that we were under at that precise moment which led to the choices or actions we had undertaken. The choices and decisions that got us in the trouble we are in. If we knew that they would understand and forgive us. We would have no hesitation in plainly saying the truth as it was.

I am sure that our mistakes aren’t as grave as crucifying Christ. And even He asked for forgiveness to the culprits who did that to him. No, none of us are Christ. I don’t actually expect anyone to walk on water (would have been pretty cool though). And I probably don’t expect anyone to crucify anybody except their college profs may be (y'all know you want to). If He can manage to forgive at the last moment of his life. Why can not we do that? They say to walk on the path of the Almighty. Then why don’t they do the same. Why can’t they forgive? Why does everything have to be done according to their norm? Why can’t they forgive us if we stray from their path? Is it so unbearable for them to see us defy them? Why can’t they let us be? Judging us and condescending us is not going to help us in any way. When are they going to realize that?

We are young. We are meant to make mistakes. Loads of them. We are meant to learn from them. We have to fall first to learn how to walk straight. Humans did not learn to stand without falling for the first dozen hundreds of years. If you had patience then. Where is that patience now? If you could tolerate and forgive mistakes way back when you were just like a chimpanzee, why can’t you do that now when you are supposed to be the smartest living creature on this planet? May be if you could forgive, we wouldn’t be so darn scared of the truth.

So now that it is quite obvious that not forgiving is not helping much. Why not try forgiving?

Hope it doesn’t take another bunch of centuries to better ourselves this time…

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My Story

“Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are.”
- Niccolò Machiavelli,
  'The Prince'

People think that they have the vaguest idea of me and what I am but that, unfortunately, cannot be more further from the truth. I’ve been called secretive, secluded and even hostile at times. And at sometimes I am called very outgoing and a very center-of-all-the-good-times kind of person.

Contradictory? Yes. I think so too.

How can a single person be so many things to so many people at so many different situations? May be that’s it, the situations are the ones that make us be different at different times to different people. Some people make us let go of all the boundaries and limits that we make ourselves restricted to. We just cannot seem to stay reserved and secluded from them for long like we do with the rest of mankind.

It probably is a universal problem. I am sure there are more like me. I am not really surprised at that notion. Because. There is never enough of anything. Never. We as a specie always need more.

Need. Funny word isn’t it. We think we need this pricey little shoe that is probably worth a week’s meal for a family in Africa. We think we need this immaculate vintage Jag that can probably fill that same family’s hungry stomach for a year or more. We think we need that. But we never actually do. I think what we actually lack in life we make up by wishing for stuff. Dreaming of it. Working our butts of day-in-day-out that a day will come along when we actually get to have all these oh-so-lovely stuff that we need so bad. But that is what they are. Stuff. Good for nothing stuff. I don’t wish for them. I am darn proud that I am not that materialistic. Not that shallow.

I wish for experiences. Yes, experiences. Experiences like Polo had. Experiences like those kids of the houses with a big hall with crystal chandeliers and swimming pools. Experiences like the lowly thug who has had some self-claimed, exaggerated and glorified tales to tell. I’d like to have some like them. I’d like to have some experiences to call me own. Some stories that I can tell around a bonfire as my own experiences. Some story where I was a character of importance. Some play in which I am the lead and not among the audiences. Some movie based on a true story.

My story.

Wish I had one. Hope for one. Dream of one.

I am waiting for it to come around. Working, waiting for my story to begin…

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