"Kisaan ki juti,

Pardesi ki biwi,

Hoke bhi na hone ki barabar hai."

-Arun Jha, Taxi Driver, Kolkata Taxi Service.

Akhtar

Akhtar has a busy life even after all that has happened. The closing of the Khidderpore docks led to the loss of his 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. steady career. Akhtar used to ferry sailors and food to and from the ships. Once the Calcutta port ceased to function, he and his brother were forced to switch to a more trying and less gratifying job. Now he rows across the Ganga, laboriously ferrying wide-eyed tourists and locals while they enjoy the soft water breeze ruffling their hair. There are the newly-in-love couples who are still in the phase where the list of 20 most romantic things has not been completed; there are college groups happily smoking pot and guzzling beer; there are artists, intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals; there are general noisy families. All these people, however, have one thing in common--- they do not give a fuck about the tired, thin and greying little man who is spending every ounce of energy his frail body yields with each pull of the paddle, just so that the selfish little comfort-mongers can have their moments of bliss. Each earning, says the ferryman, is split 45 ways. His wife has long given up hope of the quiet togetherness that old couples share after they have achieved life and its necessities. She has given him "license". He rows along minding his own business, smiling his secret little smiles, chuckling soundlessly at the witless little people.

We think we have hardships galore. Each one of us believes that his/her problems alone are the gravest. We listen attentively to our friends, faithful confidantes. But we inwardly mock them their misery. We think their stories are oh so pathetic. Wonder what they'd do if we started on our own problems. A boyfriend. A break-up. A fight with the family. A few harsh words from the boss. Akhtar smiles on. His body paints a frantic blur against the pink sky. He seems to be putting in so much effort. But Akhtar smiles on. He has not a care in the world.

Is it just me, or has the world gone awry? It has been over three months since it last rained. My parched and arid world seems to be dying a dry death. It is as if everything has reached a peak in stagnation in unison. My life is reflective of the unchanging weather. The beauty of life has aged in a flash. Rain for me is a life well lived in a few moments. It soothes me. And like so many other things that have gone amiss, I have lost my will to live.

Some small moments seem to make up the essence of living life well. A smile from my mother. A hug from my father. A long-distance phone call from my best friend. A student saying "Good morning, Ma'am." An evening of very bad carrom with best friends. My baby niece calling me "Maa!" in a moment of dislocated confusion! Yes. Those I believe make my life a life I love living. Yes I am trying. Retrying. And I am getting there faster than I ever thought I would. The rain will come soon. And I shall sing again.

Yes. I officially went crazy. Guess I needed some banality to combat the cruelty I endured.

I drove a car. For the first time. Crashed it. Wrecked it. And it wasn't even mine.

But, for the record, I made a perfect turn around a pretty tricky corner.

And I realize now that I have been lamenting without a cause. Lamenting has become second nature and all this has happened so often that I have taken to lamenting each time without even thinking whether it actually deserves all the attention.

Bleh. Closure.

Cleaning Up

It came. And went. It's 2:37 am on Thursday, October 9th, and Dashami, as the proper English tea-sipper would note. As I sit in my room and type away on my keyboard, bleary-eyed, and too tired and dazed to sleep, I can hear those last half-hearted blows on the cheap trumpets balloon vendors hand out to kids, I can see tired people trooping home in twos and threes, their new clothes crumpled and sticky from the sweat. But the looks on their faces say it all. The promise my city held when she prepared for the Big Show--the make up, the rehearsals, the build up to the stage performance-- has been fulfilled. They all look deliriously happy. Another one slips by. Another little addition to the Memory Log Book. A new set of faces to mark these memories by. All dear. All along. The last blasts from the mic fitted over the Para Pujo Pandal. Strangely alliterative that. The man shouts about a lost umbrella. Does anybody really care? Really? A petty worry. Yet perversely comforting. Yes, I am home. Incomplete my home is. But I still belong.

Soon the city will be dusted clean. The hated bamboo barricades will be taken down. All kinds of people will rush to their respective work places like these five days never existed. That's the beauty of this city. No one will repent though. There's always so much to look forward to. My city of joy. Joy.

As I ponder, tottering on my swivelly chair, vaguely aware of the distant buzz the heat has given me, I arrive at the conclusion that it is always more productive to regard every experience as the last of a kind. That is only way you get to live. And that would be the closest you could get to the Upanishadic complete life. The cliched carpe diem. We all say it at least once in our lives, collectively, or individually.

You are not here. And I live my half life mechanically. But even that has fallen into a pattern.

Soon it will be dawn. Another day will begin. And like usual I shall spend it in sleeping stupor. This

too shall pass.

Friends and Some...

We ask for so much in life. A break from monotony. An escape into stability. Opposite conflicting desires and emotions course through our minds and hearts incessantly. Among such petty nitty gritties are the occasional moments of sheer selfish bliss. And within these fall the random unplanned getaways with friends. Core friends. Not regular occurrings. But that's what makes them so special.

For the sake of valour I shall practice honourable discretion and not implement real names. Instead I shall affix them with special pseudonyms which hopefully will reveal their identities when those others who are already acquainted with the people I shall be talking about read this post. This exercise is mainly for the sake of reporting an intriguing conversation we had (three of us to be exact) at Mocambo while we waited for two others who had embarked upon a sincere and valiant expedition to find an ATM counter on a bank-strike-day. I need not rename myself. The other two yclept The Flying Charmer and His Girlwonder.

The topic of discussion was a brothel. Not any particular one. Just one in general. The Flying Charmer (hereafter FC) revealed his express desire to visit one, simply to sate his curiosity about the whole affair. Then his philosophical banter got the better of him and he launched into a fanciful tirade on his views on love and its appendages. Here I must drop a remark, by way of passing, that FC had indeed let slip that his desire might not be limited to simply curiosity. But, in all fairness, he did use "might".

FC clinically circumcised sex from love maintaining that neither one can "piggy back" on the other. Both were independent entities and actions and their execution could be safely separate and unconflicting. He said that to love he would not necessarily have to initiate it with sex. Or vice versa (do correct me if I am reporting wrong). The gist of what he said was that the Human rationalising about being physically faithful would perhaps be a spiritual constraint, much in Jungian fashion. A social taboo that civilization has indeed enforced us to abide by, albeit reluctantly.

Here His Girlwonder (HG) and I made vehement protests. Incidentally, FC and HG are staunchly devoted to each other, perfect sweethearts and a beautifully synced couple. Us women were unable to take FC's liberalism about the intimacy of sex. As he said he could love separately, and his love would have nothing to do with sex, I asked him, "Say HG grossed you out physically. You were unable to have sex with her. Would you still be in love with her?"

The debate remained unresolved sadly as the whole conversation upset our HG (and justly so) and she shed a few plaintive pearls.

Why am I talking about this? Because I AM indeed intrigued. Like, if there were to be a poll, how many people would vote for the right to sexual freedom despite being in a relationship? It's all very easy to associate the possibility of such indulgences with yourself. Would you however be able to accept the same in your partner? Many of you would say yes, but would you mean it?

Love includes all sorts of weird complications. Demands. Expectations. And more often than not, we create issues regarding reserved space and liberty without realizing that we impose the exact same restraints ourselves. Where can I find one such perfect relationship? Maybe our perception of perfection is faulty. Maybe what we perceive as mayhem is what makes a relationship so perfect. Everlasting. Not much unlike little girls, I still do believe in soul mates and happily-ever-afters. Would not the relationship be perfect if you could always feel a possessive desire for your beloved? A karmic pull if you will. The sort that scorches you. Jealousy. Never a good thing. But does it not express the quintessential fact that you want your beloved for just yourself? And would it also not necessitate the fact that you are yourself so fiercely in love that you do not even desire another, physically or spiritually? That I believe is a complete relationship. And yes, love and sex, more often than not, DO "piggy back" on each other.

We all know that. Somehow. Somewhere. Some time. We had that. Didn't we all? ;)

Here I say goodnight ladies and gentlemen. Sleep well. And love well.