Cinephile 655321

By Unspoken Consent

2006-08-24T23:38:00.000-07:00

When it comes to writing about one’s sister, there is a variety of sweet normal beginnings that you consider. Should you write about the sweet childhood you had with her or should you define the beautiful relationship you grew into as adults. Should you express the wonderment about how she came to become your best pal or should you talk about the sweet rivalry that exists between you and your sibling. As I said earlier, there is a variety of sweet normal beginnings. However, of all the accusations that may be freely lauded on my family, normalcy is not one of them. Not even close. As my sister aptly puts it, “we are all ‘out there’ most of the time.”
Asmita, born on the 4th of October, 82 (or was it ’83?). The first memories of my sister go back to when she was barely about a year. She was this cute little pink bundle that led to a lot of initial curiosity and later dissent. For the first four years of her life, Asmita refused to speak. When normal children start harassing their households by the age of two, Asmita distinctly kept mum (However, now she claims I have kept Mum all along). My parents were fairly worried about her condition and wondered if she had a speech disorder of some sort or may be she was plain mute. Unfortunately God of nature (depending on whether you are a believer or an atheist) was far less forgiving. She recovered quickly from her self imposed silence and acquired a vocabulary and volume that rendered even my mother ineffective. Here, I must mention that I come from a family of teachers which boasts strong vocal chords and lung power. My mother was considered the climax of all her generations in terms of projection. That was until my sister came along and took her title with little resistance from the then ruling incumbent.

All through our childhood, gravity meant little for us. Newton would have been depressed by our continued efforts to defy his axiom. Our feet, our minds and our attitudes scarcely stayed aground. We were dreamers, truly capable of conjuring up brilliant flights of fantasy. We were masters of role-play. One day we were pirates stranded on a raft (Amita’s quilt) with little food and water (jelly biscuits and Rasna sherbet) in the middle of the pacific (the living room); another day we were rulers of an enchanted forest (parent’s bedroom) where all the animals (all the cushions we could find in the house) were our friends. Looking back, we had so much fun. Although our school timings differed, we always found time to concoct some new adventure by putting our heads together. We raided our mom’s closet for all her satin sarees and chunnis, and ransacked our father’s closet for all his silk ties which were often used to make ropes. No curtain rod of crepe bandage was sage from being turned into a shiny sword and its golden hilt respectively. Despite the constant grandparental vigil, our parents had to continually renew their stock of talcum powder which had ended up on the floor as part of our very own skating rink. We managed to have a load of a time despite the occasional thrashings.
But more than play, we usually ended up brawling. A snide word stemming from an ambitious ploy to overthrow the person who headed the role-play today led to a punch and ten minutes into the sequence the king and his supposed usurper were on the floor trying to gouge each other’s eyes out. On the rare occasions that we actually played, our household became truly religious sending visible offerings for sustenance of the current conditions. But alas that was not to be. We were like two tiger cubs, extremely volatile and extremely territorial. Asmita dared not touch my He-man figurine or my jigsaw puzzles and I dared not tamper with her dollhouse or her Barbie; except on rare occasions that Barbie rescued He-man (Yes! It’s not a typo. She did save He-man at times)

Family outings were another cause of frazzled nerves in the household. A trip to a relative or the arrival of a guest was equally dreaded. Even film viewings entailed a strong wall of parents between the two of us to prevent either from messing with the other’s popcorn. But by some unspoken consent we always behaved ourselves in social company. We never intended to embarrass our parents before their well-wishers. It was far more productive to harass by denying them the pleasure of any evidence that they could present to outsiders about the true status of their nerves. We would eat what was put before us without so much as a sound and even seemed to enjoy leafy vegetables. It truly baffled our guests or hosts why our parents referred to our relationship as shared by India & Pakistan. And true to the real world, ours was a diplomatic truce which instantly ended reverting back to cross-border terrorism the moment we had attained the safety of our sub-continent (Our home). The problem as both of us agree by unspoken consent is that we loved each other; we just didn’t like each other.

A lot between Ashu and me has been arrived at by unspoken consent. As puberty hit, we saw less of each other. It was only common desires that led us to stand together in that era. When it came to convincing our parents of some idea, however, we provided a insurmountable front. By unspoken consent.

I remember how much my sister loved me and stood by me all through my rough patches. Our relationship is best described as the one depicted by the famous animated duo, Tom & Jerry. The chases and mutual attempts to kill each other would be continuous until one of us got really hurt. Then there would be a scramble for first aid boxes and shedding of heavy tears. Every time I would get hurt (didn’t always stem from my sister, been quite an accident prone kid), Ashu would always accompany me to the doctor and sit outside listening to me wince or scream as the doctor tended to my wounds. Every time I came out of his observation room, Ashu would have her face buried deep in our father’s side streaked with tears. Once, I remember I had incurred a serious injury to my foot and needed to visit the dispensary every week for a change in the dressing. Every week, she would religiously come and cry in the doctor’s waiting area sharing my agony, by unspoken consent. Two years ago, a bike accident led to a deep flesh wound in my knee. Neither her age nor our then relatively detached relationship, she came right with me to the hospital and sat there crying. Those are the times that I really understand my relationship with Ashu. It works both ways too. I remember the time a stray ember from a corn-seller stove entered her eye and burnt her cornea. It came a millimeter close to her retina. I cried that day like a baby. Or the time when she was hospitalized for Typhoid and suspected Tuberculosis. The doctors were considering a biopsy. The year was 1996 and I had just recovered from chicken pox. Ashu had a room to herself in Nanavati Hospital. A nurse was trying to put in a needle for the saline. My sisters lay there weeping her heart out and I was told to leave the room. We left her there at the mercy of strangers. The last thing I remember before the door slammed shut was her calling out to me for help, to stop them, to get them to take their wicked instruments away. The image has burned in my memory ever since. I will never forgive myself for not going back to hold her hand, providing the support as an evil pin invaded her body. I have never been religious or ritualistic for as long as I can remember, but that was one of the few times when I kneeled down and prayed. I have never felt the need to bow before an effigy, but for her I went 8 weeks straight to a small Hanuman temple with offering coconuts and flowers praying and begging for strength. If at the end of my existence, I could just sum all my good deeds and good karma, I would happily trade it to go back in time just to hold her hand on that day in the hospital.
There is often so much that you wish you did when you were younger. Unfortunately, life does not come with a shortcut like “Ctrl+Z”. But I can control what I do till I settle in for my final Z in life and I definitely wish to cross my ‘t’s’ and dot my ‘i’s’.

Recently we were discussing old age and death with the same levity that we usually employ for such mundane topics. She told me about how, many years hence, she would take care of me as I grow old and die. She will have trouble selling the place as it is likely to be haunted by a ghost who randomly screams, “Lights, Camera, Action!” or “Cut it!”
Our sentiments for each other are fierce. No matter how much we bend each other’s noodle, when it comes to any outside adversity on either side, we strictly follow the Mahabharata dictum “For the outsiders we add up to 105”. This, again, by unspoken consent. Although this was supposed to be an essay, I could scarcely help myself from penning down unconventionally about our unconventional relationship.

In conclusion, I wish to enumerate the times when our father used to have the energy and inclination to carry us both in his arms. Owing to my small size in the former part of my childhood, the visual often drew comments to the tune of, “Are they twins?” My dad would smile and brush the comments off. Today I think the answer to that question stands as, “Yes, we are Siamese. We are connected in the head and at the heart.” Our rivalry like our love knows no bounds. We even compete at loving each other more; by unspoken consent. For all those lost days of celebrating our relationship, for all those missed Raksha Bandhan gifts, I can only try to make do by putting pen to paper today. Now, with all the niceties of life that we have and all the materialistic pleasure we can buy, I know that all that exists between us can be the only gift she will accept, by unspoken consent.

Karmic Circle - Part I

2006-05-12T01:16:00.000-07:00

“Life comes around in a full circle!” she said passionately. I, not for a moment enamoured by her philosophical trash, scoffed with all the cynicism that I was worth. But well things did seem that way when it came to Akanksha. All she really wanted was to believe in the fairy tales and the romantic goings on in the literary realm. My tastes, however, were attuned to a different kind of literature and so I was not kind in falling prey to her puerile trappings.
“But you have to accept, Abhay”, she continued, “All your actions and reactions are part of the Karmic circle.” Her voice, as her convictions, had steadily been rising to the Astral plane that she was trying to introduce me to. I scoffed again, but this time also threw in a vehement “what crap!” into the distaste I felt for the issue at hand. “Ok, Ok. I see that you don’t really subscribe to this conviction of mine”, she retreated suddenly, “let me try a different tact.” I thought that she would have been far more successful if she had not made clear her strategic advances to make me belong to her ideology. But I stopped frowning. She was adorable, wasn’t she! No one else would have pursued such issues with me without compromising a reasonable amount of their sanity and patience. Her big eyes just got wider as she went into another full-fledged argument. God, she was beautiful. And I smiled to myself. Her presence rather than her arguments had already made me swear and ratify the existence of the supernatural entity that I was trying to deny. Her lips quivered with emotion as she went about her animated tirade. Those were the moments when I liked her best. It was just watching her pursue some inane cause with such impassioned hope; I almost loved her for that. Hope. Hmmm. Now that was something I seldom agreed to feel. A natural cynic, I have always prided myself on the fact that I am the poker of holes in anyone’s arguments. That’s what amounted to my being a top defense attorney. Law school had been fun- correction - funny. Law school students usually amounted to a load of guys who didn’t really know what they wanted to do, until some haggard uncle or aunt from a distant town introduced them to the idea that Law was the place to be in. The intellectually frugal lot, without a clear idea of what they were getting into, would then try their hand at a frivolous entrance exam and invariably get through. Then they would sit next to you chewing cud of different flavours, thinking happy, Bollywoodish thoughts of screaming at the filmy judge, Sunny Deol style. For most of them, it would dawn quite late that not all lawyers defend the poor and hapless and that there are several areas besides Criminal law. Unfortunately they don’t realize that for a long time they would be facing a career of drafting mundane and boring documents, trapped in musty rooms with dusty files all around. Only the lucky few would get the opportunity to litigate. And fewer still would ever succeed at the craft.

I, of course, belonged to the elite class, born with the proverbial golden spoon. However, taking birth in a family of lawyers had its cons. The pressure is immense. People are constantly expecting you to do better or at least live up to your family name. Atul got away. The day Mom was appointed as a High Court Judge, he announced that he was going to study Anthropology and Philosophy in some obscure university nobody had heard of. Mom’s only consolation was that the University was in a foreign country, even if it was in Africa.

That put the spot light on me. I guess Atul’s digression from the family tradition had been an eye-opener to them. They decided to tighten the belts (mine to be precise) and make sure that I never wavered from ‘my’ childhood dream of becoming a big, successful lawyer. Well the ‘childhood dream’ had just been a misinterpretation on their part about my creation of a superhero called Black Beak who had a black cape (my father’s gown) and roamed the streets at night. They instantly took it for granted that me, struggling and prancing around in Dad’s gown, reflected a deep desire to follow in his father’s footsteps. Well I lived their dream. For a while. Won all the debates in college, made it to the head of the Elocution society; but it soon dawned upon me that I wasn’t really interested in living THEIR dream. So I went in search of my own and found it – Film making! It all began when Prof. Arora started the Film society in college. Well, at the time all we were really interested in was Prof. Arora. What a hottie! The male members (pun not intended) in her class could invariably be seen following her around, their faces screaming “Mary! Oh Mary”;Of course she understood the attention and dealt with the raging sea of hormones brilliantly. People called her manipulative because she would use her appeal to get her way and she always seemed to get her way. But when you saw deeper, you realized that she never misused her powers. Her sheep would invariably have to work harder, score higher and perform better at their assignments to impress her. That was her way of making us work. And as her sheep emerged bleary eyed on a Monday, not from the excessive partying or a hang-over but from a 20 hour slog at her assignment, their tired eyes were rewarded with a million dollar smile. Well, that was enough for them to keep working. So when she started a Film society, it had, predictably the largest turnout in the history of any cultural association in college. Dominated obviously by males, the society reached full-capacity in less than a week.

So that was how we went to the movies. Initially all we were interested was the introduction that was given by Prof. Arora and then we could peacefully go to sleep in the air-conditioned college hall as obscure black and white images with barely readable subtitles lost our attention fifteen minutes into the session.

But over a time, something changed. We started to see different films or rather see films differently. We finally realized that the celluloid images that we saw were basically our windows into other cultures. We realized that films were not just restricted to lost & found routines, song & dance sequences, rehashed themes and tacky melodrama. They really spoke of a world where things were normal.

Well, the film club experience resembled my experience about Formula 1. Until, you started to follow stuff like names and driving styles and strategy, it was just a bunch of cars moving really fast which promised to be pretty boring after the first five minutes. Films got progressively interesting as we started to follow film styles, Noir, Cinema Verite, Dogme 99, Neo-realist, Iron-Curtain Cinema, Hungarian School; and the film makers Scorcese, Bergman, Rosselini, Von Trier, Fassbinder, Tarkovsky, Bertoulucci. The experience got progressively enriching. I had just begun to understand, appreciate, enjoy, think, evolve, when Mom realized that I was progressively digressing in my film viewing choices from the conventional Hollywood action thrillers.

An urgent confidential meeting was held between the Politburo and a unanimous decision was taken to take drastic steps. Next thing I know, I am being held in the steely gaze of my birth givers and told firmly to enjoy the last few months of college life to the fullest. They broke into smiles after that. I was relieved. Had been thinking really horrific thoughts till then, like maybe mum found my private stash of Playboys and video porn of had noticed the ash on my dressing table (I had been careful enough to dispose of the other signs, visual or olfactory but ash tends to show up at the most unexpected place). But fortunately all they were announcing was my admission into the International Law College, the most prestigious one in South-East Asia. Wait a minute! How could they announce my admission when I had not even applied? Well, it turns out that the set of papers I had signed last week as routine investment deeds accepting either benefactor status or giving power of attorney to my dear dad for managing my finances, had contained an application form. My signature in triplicate was printed all over the form.
I spent a couple of days contemplating my next move. Of course I was enraged by my parents’ treachery but I couldn’t really attack them directly. I knew all their arguments and also how exactly the conversation would proceed.

Me: Mom, I am not so sure about going to Law School.

Mom (smiling broadly): Of course you do son, that’s what you have always wanted since you were a little boy.

Me (anger rising): Well, I never applied for admissions. I wonder how I got offered a seat.

Mom (still unfazed): We thought it would make a pleasant surprise for you considering it has been your secret ambition all your life. So we did the applying on your behalf.

Me (Positively fuming): Thank you but no thank you! I wont be forced to go to Law School just because I come from a family of lawyers! I, um… I have already decided what I want to do.. (the last bit makes me lose a bit of the steam I have built up so far)

Dad (Now comes the grand finale): Look son, no one is forcing you to do anything. We just thought you always wanted to be a lawyer. You have natural flair for the profession. You always have won all the debates you ever fought. We didn’t realize that we were being overbearing on you. Of course you can do what you want. Who are we to tell you, our only son (I wondered at this point if something untoward had happened to Atul, my elder brother) what to do with his life. (can I see an actual tear well up?)

Most households are ruled by a mom who has a distinct taste for melodrama. In my house the gender roles are fairly reversed. My mom is the strong, strict and silent one while my dad has the taste for the sentimental, theatrical and melodramatic. Of course their professional roles may play some part in building their personalities since my Dad is a Divorce attorney and my mom a High Court Judge.

Continuing with my envisioned dialogue, my Mom would then thunder my name:
Mom (Thundering): Abhay! Enough is enough! You have enjoyed the fruits of the freedom we granted you and thouroughly misused our trust in you. Having enjoyed the lifestyle, now you question our intentions of making sure you enjoy them for life?! We are your parents and we will not make a decision that will be let harm you in any way. We (translated as ‘I’) after much deliberation have decided that Law School will be best suited to milk all your natural talents. So next semester, you are going to Law School That’s THAT!

Despite my anger, I know that not even the most hardened criminal dared look eye to eye to Justice Mrinalini Thakur after she had pronounced a life sentence. I, was not even going to try.

My Dad would have tried, for a while, to convince me that the decision was still mine to go to Law School and that I would come around to wanting what I had. He might even go as far in his deception, as to tell me that if it didn’t work out at Law School in the first two semesters and at the end of the year I still wanted to pursue a different profession, the matter would be brought under “serious consideration”.

Well, I knew I was good at debating or arguing, but I was a novice. I would prove feeble competition to the combined force of Justice Thakur and Advocate Thakur. So Abhay Thakur had no choice but to go to Law School. And it would be far better if he did it with good grace rather than making some innocuous little effort to resist, like the one envisaged above. So for the next few months, I studied little and partied hard. Drank all I could, smoked pot all I could, tried desperately to get as much sex as I could (which proved to be fairly little) and lived life as if it was about to end in a couple of months.

Well, little did I know that fate had other ideas for me. I still had to meet Akshaya..

To be Continued…

If only settling accounts were easy…

2006-04-18T02:36:00.000-07:00

For a long time, things have been this way. A muddled set of emotions seems to be pulling me slowly apart, piece by piece. Cant seem to clearly state what emotion is the one that I most identify with. I guess we need to trace the problem to its roots. Things went down this alley since We stopped being companions. No talk, no eye contact, nothing. I wonder what went wrong or rather who went wrong. But things have gone from bad to indifference. There are several areas where man and woman may compete and their relative abilities of coming out on top is a highly debatable subject. However, there is (at least) one trait where a man can never equal a woman. Her ability to ignore is a product of generations and eons of genetic practice. No man should even attempt to equal her natural prowess. From this prowess stems her inherent ability to practice the delicate art of indifference. And Her ability to be indifferent is a beautifully honed weapon. Weapon? Since when did we need weapons? I was trying very hard to remember what, Sorry, Who went wrong? It just is something I cant remember. Also my bosom does hold remnants of some sentiment for her. Even if it may be a mélange of contempt, anger and utter resentment. Anger. Yes! That’s it! Anger.. Haven’t been an alien to this emotion. In fact I have been angrier in the short span of two and a half decades than most people are in their entire lifetimes. But I guess age and maturity or just plain lack of will or energy could be the reasons to which the thorough decline in this infernal emotion may be attributed.

But I digress. I wonder what made me most angry. The fact that I was spied upon? Or was it that I was not trusted by Her.. Ever! Or was it the fact that She never allowed me to be my true self. Or was it guilt? Guilt? Hmmm.. now that’s an emotion I haven’t felt in a while. Usually I tend to supplement this emotion with another one called indignation. Sometimes, in a rare moment, in a burst of honest reckoning, I sit back an actually savour the emotion. Cathartic, it promises to be. However, not a useful feeling to harbour on a regular basis. Maybe, I am angry because it seems to be an extension of the supplicant emotion, indignation. But no.. I think there is something deeper there..

I think what really bothered me was when she returned the gifts. She complained often about receiving expensive gifts from me. It bothered her greatly that I constantly tried to appease her with economic manifestations. It was just me that she really cared about, so she said. And the emotions I felt for her were far more valuable to her than the gifts. You may say that I would equate our relationship in the economic realm and she would do so in the emotional one. Or was it the other way round? The only reason why each of the objects I had presented to her were important was because SHE was going to use them. My mum once told me, “Son, I can buy you an expensive shirt but only when you wear it and carry it off, does it become invaluable.” It wasn’t my fault that when I looked at a pair of earrings that looked like they would have no value unless they adorned her ears. Or a bag, which seemed like it would have no purpose unless her small change rested against its inner cheek. I never really asked what the objects were worth. I never really paid attention to the credit card slips that I signed. It didn’t matter.

And then one day, she gave it all back. Just like that. I refused. Told her that the things had lost all their value and they might as well rest at the bottom of a dustbin. Then she went and did something worse. She balanced our “accounts”. Emotional ones I guess. She turned me into a stranger. And now, I get paid daily installments of indifference. I guess it could go on for ever. Just tired of this line of business. I was never too good at it anyway. The last time around, when the other party abruptly voided our contract, I just wrote off all the emotions as dead loss and moved on. Or tried to.. Went bankrupt.. Built it back brick by brick.. Thought I would get it right the second time. But alas, this time around my scruples were questioned. Don’t know if I can do this anymore. Just tired… Yes now I know what is the emotion I most identify with today.. tired… I guess it is time for me to sleep.. Only if life allowed me a siesta where I could dissolve into a comma and live in a pregnant pause between life and that final full stop called death.. Only if..

The War Within

2006-02-28T23:35:00.000-08:00

Two negatives make a positive. Unfortunately the rules of English grammar are far more forgiving than their counterparts in life. No matter how bad you want something, you can always manage to embarrass yourself by refusing it when offered, then wanting it when you know it has been taken off the table. In this situation, you could go two ways: beg for it again or let it go and brood over it, probably cheating others into believing you never wanted it in the first place. And then, there is the third more macabre alternative; wait. As my friend once told me, there are three sides to look at everything; the right way, the wrong way and the interesting. The above case, though, poses a serious exception. You definitely can’t think of the right way. You do know the wrong way or so you think. And there is nothing interesting about the above alternatives.

Suppose you choose to beg, the possibility of it coming your way is no less bleak than if you waited. But if you never asked for it and tried to convince yourself, that you never wanted it, it puts an enormous strain on you. After all cheating one’s self takes practice. Silencing one’s instinct is something we can always try and there are times when it hurts too much to refuse. Now comes another dilemma. Is it going to hurt more if I refuse or scar me for life if I accept its advice. Instinct is after all just instinct. Its very existence represents a continuous raspberry to the British solemnity of reason.

Then you have to choose. Do I forgo my dignity. A small voice screams, ‘EGO!’ You silence it with the stern hand of reason. No it is self-respect. The small voice guffaws and starts to cackle. The sheer impudence of this silly guy!! Only you know that the delinquent has won as the voice grows louder and louder. Finally you give in and the voice suddenly assumes calm. It stops poking fun and tells you serenely, “It’s ok. Don’t worry! You can decide! I just wanted to be heard in a proper environment. Your mind has attained it. Now you can truly choose.” This state is probably the worst.

The battle lines have been drawn. Reason with its immense array of weapons faces the mischievously unpredictable instinct with its huge array of emotions. It would be far easier if the two made up and helped you make a decision rather than stand poised for bloody war. Damn them!

So you choose the third option and wait. Hopeful as you are that sooner or later, one of the two armies would back down and call a truce, you wait. This angers both armies and they each decide to send envoys to you periodically reminding you of the imminent war. Neither is likely to blink, you can only delay the war not avoid it. Each passing hour brings more and more envoys urging you to ignite the inevitable. And one day, impatient from a long frustrating wait, the mischievous army strikes. Before you know it, the armies of Reason have been devoured by the guerilla warriors as they stand victorious over the mangled bodies of several logical arguments. Instinct has won. Now you act guided by its invisible but steady hand. Only it is too late. No amount of begging can get you what was offered once. It is gone forever. You come back broken. Instinct was wrong. Now you wish it had lost. But it is too late now. The action has been taken and you lost. You vow that instant to rebuild the armies of Reason and never allow it to lose to the jokers at the other end. Instinct smiles. You crush its existence or so you try; it scampers away out of sight.

For the next few years, you brood and build the army that would have truly helped you. You bandage the wounds sustained by logic, you set the broken bones of sensibility and transfuse litres of blood into their General, Mr. Practicality.

But it all is in vain. The small voice is back. This time matured from a lost battle, reason steps in and offers a truce and peaceful co-existence. You are angry at first. How dare they make peace with the devil. Their General answers, “You were right the first time. We should never have fought. Together, we can help you for better than either alone. My armies would save you from getting hurt but letting life pass you by. You need both of us together.

You settle down peacefully. Now you can rest. It won’t matter now what decisions you must make. Your armies would work together to provide a workable solution. Some may be right, some may be wrong. But either ways the army that failed to help would carry the blame silently and promise to co-operate more in the future.
Now, you bitch called destiny, lets see you throw those three ways of looking at something. I can see only the third. Everything, now, is only interesting! And it is then that you realize that either force alone cannot produce a negative impact. And you smile. The rules of life, are in fact as forgiving as the rules of grammar!

Confusion Is Home

2006-02-24T10:03:00.000-08:00

Zindagi ki kitaab aaj hum khote hain
Haan, kabhi kabhi hum jhooth bhi bolte hain…

Khud tak hi rakkhi kuch apni baatein,
Pata nahi kyun keh nahi paate..

Jisse chaahte hai, ussi ko khone se darte hain,
Aaine ke saamne dekh hum khud se hi muh modte hain.
Haan kabhi kabhi hum jhooth bhi bolte hain...

It was never my intention to begin my blog with a poem. But inaugural addresses tend to do so and well who am I to break a long standing tradition. However, these occurrences of me breaking into verse are rare and should not be expected too often. The occurrence just reflects the deep turmoil rising up within me, which promises to be home for the next few days; or maybe months. Invariably growing up and maturing is a process that tends to be an immensely disturbing one. All your beliefs start getting shattered at the outset and the unflinching hand of time holds the chisel steady allowing the iron hammer of reality to pound mercilessly at the delicate fragments of your will. Then one day you realize that the wall that you had built to protect yourself has given way to a playground of the maturity. The enclosures have been banished; but that also means that you have no protection against the winds of change.

But what happens once you have grown up. The playground is supposed to allow you to be free and also to make friends. It makes you less susceptible to hurt as there is nothing to crash against. Or so you thought. What if you realize that the voices you heard over the wall, when the great mason was at his macabre task, did not emanate from other people who had already reached the playground but from other enclosures such as yours. Now you find yourself all alone with only promises of others joining you shortly. It is only then you realize that the filthy task of breaking their walls has been passed on to you. Now YOU have a choice, you must find the other enclosures and choose. Choose to break it down with a sledge hammer, brick by brick, or blast it in one go with a heavy dynamite charge. You finally come across several enclosures. But the voices are unknown. How many companions do I really need? How much effort am I prepared to exert on each wall? Some of the walls look pretty thick with lacings of steel? What if I do not like the companions I find inside? I might be stuck with the wrong one in an open space leaving invisible walls around us. These are the questions that plague you constantly.
You clamber over the walls of one of the enclosures. You holler at the lone figure and try kicking up a conversation. She is scared. No one has ever scaled her walls before. You see her fear and smile. ‘Well that’s how I felt’, you say to yourself. You ease her pain and promise to break the wall down. She throws stones at you trying to make you go away. You know that the process is painful but in the end she will be happier. You persist and offer your hand. She strikes at it with a long pole of ignorance. She doesn’t want to be rescued. You tell her about the playground and then suggest the companionship. She goes silent with rage and fear. You leave her there, giving her a choice and a promise; the choice to be your companion and a promise to break down her wall if she agrees. Leaving her deeply shaken and confused, you scale the wall down again and decide to try another enclosure. The same sequence repeats itself; (the pole that she hits you with is of a different make, FEAROFREJECTION is printed across it.)
You wonder now, how long would it take to break down both walls. You are still trying to decide what to do next, when the one you left thinking is desperately trying to scale the wall. You watch innocently as her battered elbows support her as she stares at the open space that surrounds you. And you… She stares as tears roll down her eyes. You know you could ease her pain. You smile in understanding, she looks on dazed. Unable to support her weight anymore, her bleeding knuckles disappear behind the wall. You are about to scale the enclosure, when a second voice comes across. The other girl has already scaled the wall and jumps on to the open playground. You grin; she didn’t need rescuing after all. You play around for a bit. But at the same time you can’t forget the girl trapped behind an enclosure just a few feet away. You can hear her cry and then her silence. You can almost feel her agony. After a while, the girl you are playing with gets tired and falls asleep. You then sneak up to the enclosure of silent agony, listening intently.

The lone figure looks so small, so vulnerable. Your heart just reaches out to her. Cuddled up and fast asleep, you just can’t help but want to hold her. The tears which have run dry and caked her beautiful eyes present to you a desperate need to be wiped. But how do you wipe tears which aren’t there anymore? You wish you were there to comfort her wondering what made her cry so much. The realization hits you like a bus on a highway. She saw the other girl. “But I was just playing.. But I didn’t mean to make her my companion.. Well I hadn’t decided actually…” The thoughts flow through you like a maddened river.

Two lone figures, both huddled up.. One on your playground, the other inside the enclosure of silent agony. Do you choose the one who scaled a wall for you or the one who couldn’t because you never gave her the space. Was it your fault that she saw you play with someone else. Did you promise either girl that there would be no one else? What did the playground rules dictate? Were there any? Should there be any? Are you cheating someone? Maybe yourself.. But you only wanted companions? Could you choose another without hurting either? What if the companion you chose didn’t play as much or the games that you wanted? Thrown amidst a whirlpool of thoughts, confusions coloured with greys of morality, you must decide.. Now! But how? But how…

Now, probably you would be able to appreciate the poem that I began my blog with. It’s the only thing you could probably say to the girl in the enclosure of silent agony.. only way I could try and wipe the tears that weren’t there anymore..

Happy Birth Day

2006-02-05T01:35:00.000-08:00

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