The Mark of Vishnu

The sacred ash on the forehead is something that I have been forced to adorn, ever since I can remember. It wasn’t always pleasant – for the ones who associated with such things were ‘uncool’ and well, I suppose it was a time when I did not want to be left out of the gang. I am not sure if I had questioned the rationale behind the practice, I must have, for such has been my nature. I certainly do not remember having been provided convincing reasoning, yet, I stuck to the rule. I do not know why – sometimes, I feel we are ordained certain things. This is in spite of my having read The Secret, and also having trusted the so called logic in it.

Much later, I grew up to associate with the Lord of 'constructive destruction'. Legend says He is perpetually in a state of trance, and that He lives in the cremation grounds; a place where He would hardly be troubled by anybody. For this was where He would enjoy the greatest of all music; that of silence. And why would anybody want to trouble someone who lives in the midst of burning corpses?

And thus, the sacred ash became more than just a habit. I would be proud to wear it – for it reminded me of what I consider to be a great truth – the end. I would wear it in the morning, and night, and every time I had a wash or visited a temple. To me, it was a constant reminder of sorts. Interestingly, when I had learnt the symbolism, I had started to develop a liking, and to an extent, even a certain pride in sporting it. Strangely, to me, the very same thing had become ‘cool’. And thankfully by then, I had stopped worrying being ‘cool’ and accepted anyways.

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“That is not a smart idea”, he had said.

I looked back to find him stand at the door of the compartment. He sported a clean shaven look, with the mark of Vishnu very neatly done on his broad forehead. I hadn’t had a good look at him yet, but told him that it wasn’t legal to smoke on the train, and so I had chosen so jump out while the train had halted at a signal, to quickly enjoy a couple of drags.

For some reason, I was reminded of this short story that was a part of my English textbook while I was in school. Even though I could identify with the ‘smug scientific minds’ of the youngsters in the story, I had, even then, felt a deep surge of pity for Gunga Ram. And that, for some reason, made me dislike the author then.

“The train will start moving and it is dangerous. You aren’t even on a platform. Get in, and I’ll allow you to smoke from the doorstep”, he retorted. So surprised I was, that by the time I could grasp what he had said and take a good look at him, he was on his way.

It was breezy, and the moving train added to the effect. I stood there for a while, enjoying the force of the wind on my face. It was hard to know if the thoughts whizzing past the mind where any more ferocious in their speed than the wind that was literally piercing my skin.

When I decided to go back to my seat, I found the ticket checker seated, his feet stretched on the vacant seat opposite his own. There was something peaceful about his countenance, and the mark on his forehead only added grace. I walked past, hesitated, and walked back to him. I did not know what to say. I told him my name, stretched out my hand for a shake, and searched for the customary name badge that they wear on the lapel of their coats. When I did spot his name, I smiled, and looked into his eyes. He reciprocated, with the most beatific smile I have seen in recent times, and simply said, “Thank you”, and I know not for what.

I nodded, and quietly walked back, content with having met Mr. Tiruvengadam in a pleasantly surprising encounter.
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PS: my apologies for having disappeared all this while. with work the way it is, my guess is that this may continue to be so for a while. i considered shutting down the blog for not having done justice to it, but shot down the idea when i realized that some of you have indeed been lurking around here, and requesting me to write. my gratitude to such of you - it is indeed gratifying to note that we connect to remote souls in different parts of the world, in different ways, through this medium. i shall endeavour to drop by at your own 'taverns' when time permits, and also to keep this space alive...

learning the hard way

fan⋅tas⋅tic  –adjective
1. conceived or appearing as if conceived by an unrestrained imagination; odd and remarkable; bizarre; grotesque: fantastic rock formations; fantastic designs.
2. fanciful or capricious, as persons or their ideas or actions: We never know what that fantastic creature will say next.
3. imaginary or groundless in not being based on reality; foolish or irrational: fantastic fears.
4. extravagantly fanciful; marvelous.
5. incredibly great or extreme; exorbitant: to spend fantastic sums of money.
6. highly unrealistic or impractical; outlandish: a fantastic scheme to make a million dollars betting on horse races.
7. Informal. extraordinarily good: a fantastic musical

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"you seem to have a lot of 'fantastic' thoughts", i have once been told. i have been wondering about it ever since, and i know for a fact that i can safely assume that the implied connotation of the word could have been anything except Number 7.

i think it is but true. when i find an ideal worth aspiring for, i tend to latch on to it, and i keep reminding myself of it. for a lot many times, every other material pursuit pales out and seems trivial to me, when compared with an ideal that holds me in awe.

last night seemed dark, darker in the inside than the outside. my deepest beliefs were awakening, from within, almost snickering at me, chiding me to walk the talk, and prove to myself that some ideals can indeed be achieved. and the mind wasn't yielding easily, it put up the biggest resistance, as is its wont. it pained, and i knew the pain was real, and before sleep finally descended, i had fallen in my own eyes. almost.

i am learning to love and let go, in the truest sense. and this morning, in the warmth of the rising sun, i felt a bittersweet smile emerge on my face.

chugging along

This sleep, if any, had only been intermittent. The body and the mind were desperately seeking some rest, and that would send me into a slumber again, now being awoken at a stopping, now by a fellow passenger squeezing himself to find a little space and settle down. I felt blessed to have found a seat.
Earlier last night, the auto driver would not stop talking. And when he wasn’t talking, he would chant some ‘mantra’ and tell me how powerful ‘Ayyanar’, the watchman-deity of the countryside was. His faith in the Gods seemed unshakeable. At one level, it was frightening too, for he would keep twirling his moustache, as he described tales of how people had wronged him and how every time he sought revenge by invoking his deities. To me, it was sad – for here was a man, who claimed to have discovered the power of prayer, yet was using the very same power to satiate his baser tendencies, of avenging those who he had perceived to have done in harm in the past. I say perceive because in retrospect, it always seems like everybody only does what they are meant to have done.
Yet there was something compelling about the man, I was being drawn to him by a certain force that I couldn’t fathom. It was probably the honesty, for I do believe it is important, above all, to be honest in prayer.
“The Mother Sakti is with you in your journey”, he said and then added, pointing to the flask of liquor in my hand, “but be good, be careful”.
I rush to the train after one last smoke – it would be a while before I could think of smoking. I run, not thinking much about this relatively small episode, but one that was significant in an eerie sort of a way.
- - - -
By the time I located my train, it had started moving and I had to rush and jump in, just in time, never mind the coach I was supposed to be in. I like boarding that way – there is an excitement in it, every time. No fun being on time. When I finally got to one of the air conditioned coaches in which I was supposed to have a berth reserved, I quickly spotted a ticket checker and flashed my ticket. Indeed, I was looking forward to catching up with the much needed sleep during the 30 hour journey that lay ahead of me, one that would take me to the maximum city. As it turned out, my ticket continued to be waitlisted and I could not be accommodated in the air conditioned coaches. What is more, I was informed by the man that since my ticket was still wait listed, the law did not even permit me to board the train, leave alone a luxury compartment. I was in no mood to go back home, and a plane ticket is something I couldn’t afford.
When I got off, and stepped into the general (unreserved) compartment at the next station, I was questioned by a curious Good Samaritan as to where I was headed. On learning that I had a fairly long journey ahead of me, he directed me to the other half of the coach. And rightly so, at the next stopping, quite a few people got off from my coach. And that is how I ended up feeling blessed, and thanking God for having found a place to sit.
- - -

It took me a while to settle down, I had done quite a bit of running to find a place, and not sooner than I did indeed settle, I was the subject of a curious fellow traveler. Harmless curiosity, I had told myself, for it is in the blood of this race to befriend, to ask for more details than one might be willing to share.
His name was Ram, as I happened to learn later. He seemed very upset when he discovered a patch of chewing gum stuck on his shirt. He kept cursing the unknown body that had chewed it and left it astray, saying it was some ‘meat eater’. He was from a village near Gorakhpur in Uttar Pradesh, and my guess was that caste, creed, religion and other such considerations where of significant importance in his world. Ram is a migrant labourer of sorts. I am not able to understand what he does, as all he is able to describe is ‘Aluminium Company’, and I don’t bother to ask him anymore. He seemed visibly upset, because he had been sent to Pune, from Madras, without prior notice. He would lose the 400 rupees worth of groceries he had bought in Madras, and it was but obvious that losing such a sum of money was a significant loss for him. He did decide to move though, with a small bag that contained his possessions – minimal clothing, and a blanket to protect him from the winter. The travails of a man who keeps moving in order to make some money and survive, I think to myself. He kept asking me what I was, and I could only tell him that I was a bum, that I had no family, no religion, no belonging. All of which was a lie, of course, but I was in no mood to entertain more curiosity, no matter how harmless. I was beginning to lose out on the last bits of energy, and when the train stopped next, I found myself blessed, again. This time around, for having found a vendor who was selling tea. I offered Ram a cup, which he gratefully accepted. It suddenly occurred to me that in all the hurry, I had forgotten the sandwich that was lying in my bag. I had learnt then that Ram had not eaten anything himself, because he had to leave in a hurry. Though there wasn’t much to eat, we split the sandwich, and he ate his bit gratefully, mouthing the word ‘bread’ repeatedly. Very soon, I found him dozing off, and then sleeping quite sound. I sat there a while, smoking – indeed, it was not allowed, and I just decided to relish the kick of breaking the law. Not much later, I decided to rest myself, for it was almost dawn – and well past 5 in the morning.
When I did come to my senses again – though I kept being woken up by one thing or the other – it was broad daylight. The sun was shining brightly on my face just then, and I realized it was not yet 8. The train had stopped in a nondescript place, and the first thing that came to my mind was food. Ram was still sleeping, and I jumped off, found the first vendor, and ate quickly. I hadn’t yet finished when I heard the whistle, washed, gulped some water quickly, and jumped back into the running train. I smoked a cigarette, with much pleasure, feeling the smoke clear the fog in the nose and the head simultaneously, while the outside was still foggy, in spite of the warm winter sunshine. There was that pleasant buzz in the head, as I inhaled deeply, and watched the world around me slowly come back to life, soaking in the warmth of the sunshine and the cool wind brushing against my face.
I did not realize how tired I was but I had indeed dozed off again, and when I next awoke, this time, for good, I noticed Ram was wide awake, reading the Sundar Kanda of the Tulsi Ramayana.
“None, not even the powerful shani, can harm you if you seek refuge in just the Sundar Kanda, let alone the rest of the epic”, he was saying. I rubbed my eyes, looked around, and on impulse, found some more tea to get me awake. I drank it and then settled down for more talk. I had learnt that his family of 2 sons and 2 daughters lived back in the village. I was surprised, for he didn’t seem like he was beyond the later is thirties. And to me, that was a lot of reproduction. Personally, I wouldn’t want to populate this world with more of my species, but it is every man to himself.
I was reminded of the time when I had travelled ticketless, between Delhi and Allahabad, my destination then not being far from where Ram lived now. It was a General Coach too, and I was huddled in a corner, with not an inch to move. Quite literally, for even if anybody had wanted to scratch their back, it was impossible for such was the crowd. We were packed, literally like a bunch of sardines in that coach, and I remember the relief, when we had arrived, after 12 hours of standing, in the January chill in those parts of northern India. My thoughts drifted back to the present, as I found Ram probing into my marital status and finding it amusing that i was yet to have tied the proverbial knot.
Ram was the typical rustic from the north. His faced looked jaded in the sun, and his half shaven cheeks gave him a beaten sort of a look. Those lines running dark and deep across his forehead, almost accentuating his personality, the typical smell of sesame oil, the simplicity of his life and his world was but obvious from the little that I had known of him.
“Ten thousand”, he had repeated a couple of times, with fascination. His eyebrows had gone up briefly, and I thought I saw a brief but a very lively twinkle in his graying, tired looking eyes. I had quoted that figure, when he wanted to know how much I earned. I knew I had lied, for in reality, I was earning much more. But the difference between our lives was so blatantly obvious to me, that I had somehow felt compelled to lie. May be it was the guilt, of being perfectly cognizant of this ever widening chasm between the so called haves and the have nots, and yet being content with the complacence of doing absolutely nothing about it, in spite of all the learning and education that I had had.
Somewhere around afternoon, the coach started getting more and more crowded. This was a mail train, and had several stoppings, and most people who got in were traveling shorter distances. There was a young woman with two children; she had the most beautiful nose ring and kohl shaded eyes. Ram was chivalrous enough to offer her a seat. I felt a tad jealous, for she would hardly look at me. I went on with my reading, and intermittent sleeping, and a few hours later, realized that Ram was still standing. I decided to walk around a while, and offered Ram my place.
“I did not realize she would be traveling so long – my seat is gone”, he said, as he gratefully accepted my seat for a while. Very soon, there were too many people and too much noise for us to engage in any sane conversation. I found myself picking up my pen and the little oriental notebook that was gifted to me, in order to write something. It was dark now, but there wasn’t any hope of sleeping. I wanted to be fully present there, in that coach packed with scores of travelers – young and old, mostly not so blessed as myself with the luxury of being able to travel in reserved coaches, air conditioned or otherwise. In spite of all the guilt I felt about being a mute witness to the sufferings of my countrymen, I felt a strange kind of peace descend upon me – if only for the span of the journey, I was one with with my countrymen, representatives of the real India.
Around midnight, Ram bid me farewell, he got off the train, came around to the window where I was seated – he had a kind smile on his face. He held out his hand, and when I offered mine, he grabbed mine with both his hands tightly.
“There are not too many people who bother to talk, to get to know others, specially these days. I am glad to have met you”, he said, and added “if you ever happen to be in Uttar Pradesh, please visit my home, my family would be happy to have you”, he said. I knew he had meant every word of it.
I smiled to myself, content with everything at that moment in time. In a few hours, by the crack of dawn, I would be in Bombay, eager in anticipation of what the famous city had to offer a bum during the short vacation to celebrate the advent of yet another year.
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PS: Sorry if this was particularly long – it was written on the train during a journey, a few weeks ago. To those of you who got along reading until this point, my humble gratitude. To the bum, it is these little sojourns – journeys within the so called journey of life – that make life worth living.

the gift

it was getting late. the bottles had almost been emptied, and the guests had settled comfortably in their places, with random conversations flowing. since we were finding it hard to actually make a sane conversation involving all 5 of us, we decided to play a game where one person asks a question, and each member has to take turns to answer it.

"when was the last time you loved yourself?"
"i don't think i ever did, and if i did, it was probably so long ago that i don't remember now"

"what is the one thing you like about yourself?"
"the madness"

i found myself drifting away, at one level, and at another, i found myself making a concerted effort to remain civil and participate in the conversation. i left the room for a smoke, and on impulse, i picked up a notebook, and decided to write. really write, for a change, rather than employing the set of keys and going tap-tap-tap.
i was pleasantly surprised, for the purple pen that i thought i had lost, i was now holding in my hand, and writing with it too. it seemed to have found me, just the way it had first found me, and then i had lost sight of it for a while.
she had given it to me. she said she had known me as a little boy, and was quite surprised to meet me after a decade, may be more. sometimes, people tend to forget that everybody grows old, including kids. the truth be told, i had sought the purple pen from her, on impulse, when she offered me a nice looking metallic pen as a parting gift, from her bag. it looked like she was preparing to leave, when father had called out for me to meet to her. she had spontaneously opened her bag, and picked up the pen from within, as if her bag was a treasure trove of those little things, just to be given away to the people she might have bumped across.
i reached across, to receive the purple pen that was hers, that i had wanted, instead of the gift she had intended to give me. she handed it to me, and then gave me a hug. her tiny gait was almost covered by me, though i am no big guy myself.
i have always considered it a privilege to give, no matter what and how much you have, but to give it like you're giving away all you had. indeed, such givers as this lady, would give all they had, if it came to that. something about her told me that.
i received the gift, and the hug a little tentatively, feeling smaller than i usually do, and thanked her, as i felt a ghost of a smile pass by my lips. a genuine one.

the holiday

a year sounds like a long time, and yet, it is at these times that one actually tends to think of it. and as always, when we look back, it seems to have passed, as if in a whiff, almost contrary to our perception of that time frame.
while i seek the wisdom to retain the good, and purge all the evil, the mind can't help but feel bogged down, laden with the weight of the past, uncertain of the future, just knowing this moment, when i trod back, tired, of everything. of humans, mostly.
what the mind wants the most now, is some solitude. to be away. to experience the silence.
there is another part of the mind, that yearns to reach out to all those who seek. to give, and give it all, and not think about it once, nor look back.
there is supposed to be that state of being in the midst of everything, yet being perfectly alone - may be that is what is really sought.

a few days away. alone, yet not. time for some introspection. time to welcome another year, with arms wide open.

later, with more stories, thoughts, perhaps.

the stain

it was yet another busy morning. i rode my way to the workplace, in the midst of the boob-to-butt traffic, humming a tune here, whistling a line there and attempting to keep my sanity in the midst of all the noise. i stopped off at the usual pit stop, the tea shop just before reaching my workplace, for the usual smoke and cuppa.

"make it nice and strong", i requested the 'master'. that is what they are called - the ones who make the tea or coffee. i understand tea is made and served in a hundred different ways. in this part of the world, there is one stove, on which water, along with tea leaves in this huge strainer, is brewing. on another stove, there is milk, boiled initially, and simmering - just warm enough to make a drink. tea is usually served in a transparent glass, unless the customer insists on a disposable plastic cup - something that i personally despise, and avoid. i'd rather bury my notions of hygiene - indeed, the cups are just given a bare rinsing in most places - than to consume another one of those despicable plastic thingies that would ultimately make this earth one bit more polluted.

when a cuppa is asked for, the 'master' usually throws in some sugar, half a measure of the decoction through the strainer with the leaves or dust as would be the case, and another half measure of the milk. the milk is usually diluted with a lot of water. the most interesting part is this admixture is then flung between a small mug, and the glass in which it would be ultimately served. the glass is held in one hand, below waist level, while the mug - with the tea - is raised in another hand, above the head, and is then tilted, till the tea falls into the glass. in its flight, the tea usually covers a distance of atleast a meter. the idea is to mix the content, while also frothing it up a bit. how they accurately do it, i am not aware, but this is a common sight in every tea shop that has caught my fancy for years now.

but i digress. the location of the 'master' is just at the entrance of the shop. the shop itself has a couple of tables inside, with a few chairs for those who preferred to be seated for their drink, and probably a snack. i usually prefer to stand out, in the open. today, i notice a young man inside the shop. he was tall, fair, dressed in an impeccable white shirt that was cripsly ironed out and a trouser to match. i thought he was incredibly good looking.

just when the 'master' was about to bring me my cuppa, this young man chooses to rush out of the shop, for some reason, and collides with the 'master'. there was a good amount of tea that had spilled on his white shirt, leaving a dark brown patch. for a moment, there was just silence, nobody spoke. i looked on - the young man was just looking down at his tummy, where the shirt was stained. the 'master', he looked like he had seen a ghost. i could say that in those few seconds that elapsed, there was terror in his eyes.

in a moment, the young man looked up at the 'master', his eyes softening, and said, "go on with your work, it is ok", while just placing his palm on the other man's shoulder, as if to comfort him.

my tea arrived, and as i sipped it, i lit up, and wondered how i may have reacted had i been the one in the white shirt. i knew for sure that i'd have lost my temper, screamed, and stormed out of the shop, cursing the whole world till i got to work, and would have probably carried that mood through the day.

"it was nice of you to just smile if off", i told him. he looked at me, and didn't say a word, just smiled. i felt grateful, for the smile, and for the little lesson in life that he had taught me.

the birthday party

the strangest thing happened today.

as i walked out groggily in the morning to pick up my sachet of milk from the grocer nearby, i noticed a bunch of canines feasting on a box. as i neared them, one of them - this scrawny little creature that i have on occasion had the good fortune to feed - looked at me, wagged his tail excitedly, just for a brief moment, before digging into his meal again.

"he seems to know you", the young man, who i had presumed was feeding the animals, said.

"i have favoured him a couple of times. dogs remember, they always do", i replied.

as i looked down, i realised, much to my surprise, that it was actually a cake the dogs were eating.

"that is an expensive diet", i exclaimed, almost involuntarily, and added, "and probably unhealthy for the animals too". not that they were otherwise in the pink of their health. these were, after all, quite far fetched from their home bred counter parts - who were well fed, groomed, and most importantly, fortunate enough to have ample attention. i suppose for these hungry fellows, on the contrary, anything would go - they weren't expected to live too long anyways. they weren't exactly wanted. so as long as they lived, they might as well rid themselves of their hunger, among all the other miseries that their wretched lives and us humans had subjected them to.

"it was for a friend. she was supposed to cut it last night and all that. just refused to turn up, and hardly spoke a word about it", he volunteered. he was young, but looked fatigued. he had the look of a burdened man.

there was an uncomfortable silence that followed. we both watched the dogs lap up the last bits - lick the box clean of any bits of cream that remained.

"i don't understand why people make such a big deal of birthdays - i find them bourgeois". i hadn't known what else to say. i am usually at a loss to say nice things to people, especially at a time of discomfort.

"i don't either, but she wanted it, it was her idea. said she'd like a cake, and that she'd like to cut it in the middle of the night, and that i ought to sing for her".

the early morning sun was just beginning to shine upon us. in the yellow glow, i noticed little drops of tears glistening in his eyes.

"well, you sure made their day", i told him, pointing at the dogs, and added "it is going to be a beautiful day" as i walked away, wondering if the poor dogs were at all aware of the little chat that transpired between us. sometimes, i wonder if i'd rather have lived blissfully ignorant life, a life of instinct, something more like those hungry dogs.