Bombay ka Bhiyya ya Bhiyya ka Bombay?

The train journey back home is always optimistic, despite being painstakingly long. 24 hours is a hell of a long time to at a stretch - lie flat, sleep, read, think, ration 'jobs' - or a blend of all of the above.

UP and Bihar bound trains are always visual and auditory treat. Either in the form of a newly married couple who shy away from each other's eyes - letting the occasional exchange of pleasantries or accidental touch define the institution in public gaze or the pan chewing male bragger who air of superiority has an incredible rub off on all the fellow passengers.

I always travel with Bhiyya's - eating, belching, arguing, digressing, staring, smelling, spitting- all in all, its quite endearing. This time, I was seated infront of an elderly couple - could be christened for ease of reference Gopal Ji and Kamala Ji.

They reminded me of the magician and his accomplice. Kamala Ji was ordered "So jao" as soon as we boarded the train (11 a.m) and Gopal Ji stayed guard, doing nothing, occassionally grunting. Every time she moved, he would carefully peek at her and gently mutter "So Jao". It almost seemed like he would cast a spell on her with the two magic words. And strangely enough - whenever the spell seemed to be broken, she would like rummage into the numerous 'potlis' and conjure up an elaborate meal.

The fantastic ends here. Gopal Ji is a station master at Bandra Terminus. Every morning he donns his black coat and little brass badge and lunch box. She on the other hand has never worn anything but synthetic sarees of the brightest possoble hues and the extremely prominent sindoor and mangal sutra for as long as she has known him. He has spent the past 30 years at the station, for the station and of the station. And he is the provider, for dear old Kamala Ji and her seven children - 5 daughters and 2 sons. The eldest daughter is 30 and the youngest son is 15 - which would mean a 1:2 ratio in terms of child birth: years. With pride they say "All born in Bambai".

During meals, they make conversation about the son Dharmendra, who is living up to the looks of the actor himself. The youngest daughter gives them utmost grief, for she is unwilling to get married, wakes up late and doesnt know how to cook. The daughter-in-law is obedient and respectful. All her daughters are blessed with sons, she mildly curses her own luck to have had five. If there were grandaughters - it would be equivalent to a family curse.

They have not had a hard life in Bombay. Courtsey an indian railways job which entitled them to travel all across the country with the seven children - on a railway pass (till they were 21 years old), flipping between gaon and Bombay was not a monetary hassle. They have their own mini UP - with bhiyyas and bhabhis, in the heart of the city. They talk of their land and cattle back home, the ailing aunts and an occassional notorious girl who ran away with someone. Some wishfully think of going back.

Kamala and Gopal Ji speak of relocating too. Their voices suddenly drop and one can sense the solemnness. Gopal Ji is up for retirement. Their girls are settled and the one room home suddenly seems smaller. Age is catching up. And they often get to hear of them being equivalents of infiltrators in forbidden territory.

One can sense the discomfort. After having spent 30 long years in a city which adopted them and which they adapted to, where they as people with families grew - have to suddenly think of the village where they sent money on a monthly basis, as home. Their primary home.

Kamala ji mutters something about how would their kids manage. With a certain amount of calm and finality, Gopal Ji says "Bambai humka sikhai di, unka bhi sikhai degi." (Bombay taught us, will teach them too). They both look at each other, convinced.

In Bombay, one has the chance of meeting many from eastern UP and Bihar. They leave behind families and farms and are armed with dreams and desperation. Most get absorbed as cab drivers, train drivers, milkmen, guards, dhobis. They work very hard, save money and travel to their native lands and in most cases to their wives, or children left behind. However, these long journeys are scant. Once, maybe twice a year. More than that could be potentially hazardous to careers and savings.

Sons of the soil is an elemental concept tying people to their place of birth and confers some benefits, rights, roles and responsibilities on them, which may not apply to others. However, when one is infused in the very DNA - how does one delineate the two?

Like a Masochist

To me, a novel is basically an account of people.

So when I read, I read about people and interpersonal relationships, of a struggle to make sense of life, to understand ones place in the scheme of things. I find myself getting increasingly involved with ordinary people and something unique and extra-ordinary emerges out of each and every so called ordinary.

On reading Shashi Deshpandes collection of short stories, a number of characters with extreme inner anxieties and doubts were flung in the forefront. I could identify with some aspect of each and every character - as they were constantly engaged in questioning and evaluating the meaning of ideals, attitudes, actions and reactions of people in personal interactions and relationships and in the process themselves.

Since it turned out to be an expose of sorts – people no matter how ordinary or extraordinary, have been mercilessly dissected by her – even though at the end of every story, they may or may not have come to a final understanding or resolve.

A central theme is the “Quest for Identity”. Her main concern is the urge to find oneself, to create space for oneself, to grow on one’s own, which holds true for the men and women in her stories alike.

“He did not know what he had intended to do when he first entered the water. Perhaps he had hoped to cool the fire that was in him.”

“Why is she asking so many questions now? Do you have to come as close to death to ask questions about life? Must we live unquestioningly, unthinkingly, until death comes upon us?”

Despite usage of flashback and role played by memory, the entire setting of the characters is in real time. One cannot help but turn into a mute, even invisible spectator to the sequence of events.

“Even today when I remember his letters, it’s like being jerked back into the state they threw me in. the memory knocks the breath out of me and I cease to be a woman of 40 to whom a man and what he does to my body become and matter of routine and habit. I go back to being a girl, standing outside a door, knowing little of what’s inside the room, certain nevertheless that I want to, no, that I fiercely long to be inside the charmed room.”

Most of the characters have an ambivalent need for independence on one side and on the other a need to belong, and such are the responses at different stages of life. Even though the man is the provider of the family, the woman forms the core of a family. Any and every quake begins and ends at her. As a result, a number of relationships become very geometric based on hierarchy and a policy of not asking questions – ‘Mother-Daughter’, ‘Mother-Father’, ‘Mother-Self’.

“I have never known her needs, never spoken to her of mine.”

Several marriages are built on the principle of attraction highlighting a streak of rebellion on the part of the women.

“I join him in speaking of family and old friends, as if there is nothing else in coon between us. I ruefully think of how I’d planned the evening. I’ll tackle it at last, I’d thought…”

Each and every character is caught in a tryst, a search – and it remains a constant across gender, across age, factions of the society and across every story. Thereby bringing out a voyeuristic streak in the reader, without directly relating to the subject of whose life is being observed - from a distance, using stealth (in this case a keen imagination) to chance upon their most weak and private moments.

Complete TT: Tragic but touching.

taxes

When constanly bombarded
with images of unattainable happiness

Pay Toll.

Sub - Microscopic Infectious Agent

Travelling from one end of the world to the other -


Like a virus in search of a host.

Ganga

He sat there at the banks of the Ganges,
Lost in deep thought - his flute set aside.

And my ears ached to hear to hear him,
The notes: high pitched, melodious.

But he wouldnt play.
I waited. My patience flowing like the breeze.
And the water and him, as placid as the other.

My longing reached him,
and as is snapped out of a spell - he played.
The melody filled the air, it consumed the water -
And I was floating in a pool of calm.

I was the instrument he played.

Act I, Scene XIII

I screamed for help, and the whipping continued.
Whips for screams.
Everyone looked, sadness in their eyes.
In a still and stunned silence.

My body was beaten to pulp,
Even the blood would sting -
As it would find its course.
And the body went numb with pain.

I staggered at every step,
begging him for mercy
begging the onlookers for help.
Heads shook and backs turned.

"Cut!".

The make up man is summoned to remove
make-up excellently done.
The extra's are paid.

The director and I smoke a joint.
He says something about something.
I nod my head in agreement, act interested
The lights are blinding.

I can only think of unpaid bills and a 3 year old alone at home

Touch the Perfection

I hate those who flash smiles,
That perfect 32.
Making me feel inadequate - I smile sheepish. Conscious.

I despise those with gorgeous bodies,
Admired and desired by all.
While I try and hide these 'curves',
In yards of cloth.

I abhor flawless skin,
Smooth - reflecting character.
My own indented, coarse and ugly.

Hair like the night, captivating - chokes me
"feel mine!", I scream.
Sparse and cropped - jute like.

I writhe in pain.

But then -
I love eyes - expressive and reflecting clarity
And hands -
Which bear each one's detiny,
So different yet so similar.
And a peculiar abnormality - a crooked nose.

But then,
When I cant hear,
Cant speak,
Cant see -
How do I trust this perception I created in my head?

Im beautiful he says.
I feel it.

Sanity

Childhood.
I told them, I saw dead people around me.
"Child's imagination", and I was dismissed.

Adolescence.
The number of corpses grew.
"Television!", they blamed.

Adulthood.
I still see them.
"Asylum?", all heads nodded in unison.

The visits became irregular,
Scant,
And then stopped.

Nobody wanted to see or feel me around, insanity around.
It was limited to beautiful and perfect.

As I sit here, with a vacant set of people -
I no longer see dead.
I feel weightless.
Elated with my own discovery.

I was never crazy,
And no one realized - It was them I always saw.

ME

I look at myself in the mirror,
With sometimes open. Sometimes squinting. Sometimes closed eyes.
Thinking of the metaphysical: What is life versus What is to be alive?

Pensive:
What am I?
Who am I?

Fearful:
What have I done?
What will happen?
What will they say?

Worldly:
Future?

Theatrical:
Why?

Real:
What I see - Me

One Revolution

When I was born, Im told
The sun shone brightly,
And families were ecstatic.
Don't remember anything till I was three.
I know - I never cried.

Aunts, uncles, neighbours would obsess,
happy to see a healthy, active child
Growing steadily.
I know - I never fell ill.

Parents were always with me,
After all, I was helpful, truthful, intelligent.
Teachers praised me. Friends adored me.
I know - I never spoke much.

I never had any addictions,
Was never convicted.
Had never been kissed.
I know - I was never popular.

I got married, had children.
Employers were happy - I worked hard.
Co-workers were pleased - I was never a threat.
I was a good partner, and a dutiful parent.
I know - I did a good job.

I am old now, wishing -
I had cried.
Fallen Ill.
Spoken more.
Been popular.
Had to my credit - more than 'just a job'

Maybe, maybe then I would not have been so alone

Numbers

Math always seemed complicatd.
Some said I had a metal block -
Probably, I was never built to solve problems.

Whenever I dabbled with numbers,
they joined and became beautiful patterns.
Geometric. Angular. Bold.
And then, did a brief jig in front of my eyes.
I did have fun,
Msuic, dance, numbers and me.

Two plus two was never four.
It could be more. It could be less.
Why stick to age old computations
when the answers would continue to be complex in itself.

So, I surround myself with numbers,
Life no longer binary.

And all my reports bear red in ath.
Get turned out of all my classes.

"Problem Child!", most say
I smile. If only they knew.

I Saw, was Conquered and Defeated

People often laughed,
When they read what I had to say.
At my arbid thoughts,
the asymmetry,
non-rythmic patterns.
Of being - 'too conversational'.
Sometimes even gruesome and morbid.

I was young then -
With undaunted talent,
and a soul which absorbed.
Owing to my inexperience, I swore and spat -
Ears burning and eyes smarting.
I lashed out, angry at their inability to understand,
and mine to make them.
"I am the poet!", I screamed and cursed at them
for having given in - all lapse of reason and question.
Blind acceptance.

And then -
I grew older and calmed down.
I now write about,
Beauty and goodness.
I sell. People love me.
Those same people.

I accepted defeat, and 'I am still the poet',
Whose soul is dead.

The Idealist versus the Realist

I dream -
To live,
To be a good person,
Forget the past,
To have babies - lots of them.

I know -
I will live - in guilt.
Be a good person - somehow always in question.
Will forget my past - already having internalized it.
Have babies - all born dead.