Sita

Another nice little happenstance greeted me today, as I returned from work.
Having overslept in the bus, I got off at a newly discovered McD, had a trademark snack for old times sake, together with all the 'I love Delhi' sentiments it brings back. Then, on my way back from there, I bumped into my Sita.

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'Inspired' fiction 3.0
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Sita
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The world knows her through many names. While her parents would call her with one, with all the loving attached, the neighbourhood children had another one to greet their cheery pal. However, in spite of all these distinct references, to me, and only to me, she was Sita.

I still remember the first time I met her. More than the faint smile radiant on her face, more than the dainty little hands that she kept to herself as she sat on her father's lap, more than everything else, I recall the little triangular plastic violet bangles she wore on her hands.
Of course, that does not take anything away from the overwhelming sense of life, abundant with the little joys and hopes that characterize childhood, that emanated from her very being. The way her eyes looked ahead, the way her hair blew gently in the wind, the way her hands kept fixing it from time to time, and also the way her hands passed time with each other when there was nothing else to do; everything spelt out a unique blend of warmth, innocence and goodness.

That chance encounter was one of those moments when one takes a backseat, and looks at the world around as part of one's active ecosystem; or rather, when one views oneself as a part of a larger dimension, going beyond the often dominating sense of self.

That day, when I sat opposite her in an unassuming auto, was when I had received my first paycheck. And somehow, that detail didn't seem to matter in any way, at that moment.
I had followed the family back to their place. Other than Sita, the parents had a little baby boy named Manu. When I knocked on the door of their little apartment, in a small locality next to a slum, it was answered by the mother, who was a bit circumspect, having identified me from the auto journey we had shared just minutes back.

Telling me to wait, she went inside and called her husband.
The man walked out, and I introduced myself as Justin, their co-passenger from the auto. He gave me a controlled-ly bewildered look.
I told him I had a 2 year old nephew back home, and sitting with his family got me back to the times there. Further I asked him if I could join him for tea.

He seemed positively clueless as to what was happening at this point. I could only smile at the near comic situation I had actively created here.
Out of sheer courtesy, he asked me to sit inside, ushering me into what seemed to be the common central room, that doubled up as the living and dining room. The house was modestly furnished, with a few cane chairs here and there, other than the 2 piece sofa set and central table. The walls were a pale shade of green, made paler over time. A window adorned the wall opposite to me, which in turn was covered by a worn out, yet beautiful, red and white patterned curtain.

Sitting on the sofa, I introduced myself to the man as Justin, currently interning at Dwij Motor Works. He in turn told me he was Ghanshyam, working at the Airport, and originally from Nagpur. His wife then entered, balancing a tray containing 2 glasses of water, and the little baby in her arms. Taking the tray from her, I asked her the little one's name.
"Balram.", replied Ghanshyam, with a newly radiant smile on his face.
"Wah! Ek taraf Ghanshyam, aur ek taraf Balram! Bahut pyaare..", I exclaimed.

And then, I saw her.
Busy opening up an orange coloured toffee, careful not to step out of her mother's shadow, ambled in the little girl who had captured my imagination; my Sita.
With a visible spring in my voice and smile on my face, I asked them her name.
"Savita", came the reply from the mother who now had a slowly awakening baby competing for her attention, with a 5-year old tugging at her sari.

In my mind I knew that Savita would always remain Sita. I noticed she still had those violet bangles on.
I asked her if she went to school.
She smiled and nodded.
Upon asking her which class she studied in, she replied with a dreamy "One".

At this point Ghanshyam asked his wife to make us some tea. She went inside for the same. I went on to ask Ghanshyam about his work, about Sita's education, and other factors of daily life.
He had been at the inspection department at the airport ever since it came up, back in 1996. Then a lanky 16 year old, fresh from the fields back in Nagpur, he had been a consistent and dependable face at work. Given his textbook virtues of diligence and honesty, he had risen through the ranks quickly, always in the good books of his seniors. In fact, he had once been trusted with house and car keys by the Security Head at the airport, when he had to rush to Delhi in an emergency.
Today he was the go-to man for any glitch or hassle, not just in the security inspection department, but anywhere in the Eastern half of the airport.

He had married a girl from his village, back in 2002, once he was convinced he had reached a basic minimum level of stability. And in 2004, had entered this world, a light named Sita, or Savita, depending on which way one looks.

Sita was born on the 4th of April.
To her friends at school and home, she was 'Nanhi', after her mother couldn't get over to 'Savita' for a good one and a half years.
It struck me how 'Nanni' in my native tongue meant 'Thanks'. I smiled at the thought.

Sipping on the hot tea, I asked Sita what she wanted to be once she grew up. She smiled coyly and confessed her utterly blissful and uncaring aimlessness, with a "Mujhe nahin pata!". Her father said he wanted her to be a nurse. I watched as she smiled and picked up a little doll.
Her bangles caught my eye again.
I asked her where she had got them from. They were from the local Saturday market she said with an evident sense of joy.

Eventually, in the midst of all this chit chat and randomness, I noticed Father Time waving his "It's time to leave" flag. I glanced at my watch to see it had crossed 7pm.
With that, I rose to take their leave. The by now eased Ghanshyam asked me to stay on for dinner. I was already full, with all that I had experienced in the 2 hours that had just flown past. Thus I politely refused, and went on to give Sita and Balram little gifts I had bought earlier.

As I took leave that beautiful evening, I knew this would probably be the last time I ever see Sita and her family. However, unlike the case that often arises on such occasions, I didn't feel sad or even remotely dejected by this inevitability. I soon realized, the reason behind this new found galvanization was the fact that I could see Sita whenever I closed my eyes. To be more precise, whenever I wanted to, I could refer back to the memory of this wonderful evening, and specifically, of her very being as the auto moved along its path.
Exactly what the elements spoke to me at that blessed hour, I do not know. However, their thoughts seemed to revolve around some way to look at life and all that it had to shower along one's path. Taking that hint, one tried to make sense of everything; the smile, the bangles, the hair, the hands.

Over time some parts of the puzzle have offered teasing glimpses. And while each part may be disparate by itself, the one unit of commonality that threads them all together, is Sita.
The hope remains that her generosity towards every opened, inquisitive eye, shall remain unabated.

After all, 'Ummeed par hi toh duniya kaayam hai..'

This 19th evening of May

It was my immense fortune and privilege, among other things, that the first rains in Pune should descend on the very day that I travel beyond my normal route to procure cake for my brother’s birthday.

This I say, because the rains forced the sun into a corner today; a corner wherefrom all the sun could do, was shine behind a sheety layer of thin clouds and dust, thus emanating a shade I like to call “Nostalgic Yellow” – Asian paints might just have something on these lines. Might. Just.

Anyhow.
There stood the sun, high up in the sky, nearing the horizon with every passing minute. One could see an air of defeat looming on his face, visible in a distorted mass through the clouds. It seemed as if he was expressing his nostalgic blues through the one language his condition and orientation allowed him to muster – Yellow.

However, just as one was about to begin working on a sad obituary for the setting sun, realization struck.
One suddenly caught a glimpse of a fleeting smile on the face of the sun. And then one knew of the conniving role that he had himself played in the larger magic that had enveloped the world that moment.

The rains had descended, the clouds had surrounded the big star, but at some level, it had all been with an implicit consent by the tyrant sun himself. It seemed as if the dictator that had menaced his subjects in the dry and hot afternoons all these days, had himself willed for such a downfall; for it was not that he didn’t care for his tiny subjects on this 3rd rock, rather, the heat was a convoluted combination of disciplinarianism and love; and he knew that after a while, tough love degenerates to downright tyranny; and his subjects deserved better.

Thus the last 3-4 days or so had been ones of tremendous internal conflict for the poor old man. To give in to his conception of what was his right and duty, would mean to further torment the little ones here, while the other option would be tantamount to giving up on his powers; on his hold on his beloveds. In fact, to let go of the very children he had nurtured all these years, and prod them to go forward and explore another dimension of cosmological affection; that of the element of water, and the gentle arms of the wind that come with it.

He knew that the people would love the change; that people would pounce on this chance, and live a million nights in one; that for those hours of exquisite, untouchable elevation, his children would forget that he ever even existed. His only hope, the one thing which could prevent him from recoiling into a shell of possession, paranoia and a directionless fright, was that the morning after, people would thank the forces for the wonders of the previous evening, and be gracious enough to seek the blessings of the old star; the star of yesterday, of yesteryears, of yesterlives; of all eternity, or at least till where the mind chooses to see at this moment.

Comforting himself with this belief, the sun laid down his aged arms, reclined under the clouds that had previously seemed menacing, and perhaps even shared a joke or two with them.
And with that, began the transition from ‘Nostalgic Blues’ to a parade of infinite hues, all resplendent with a love that didn’t wish to possess. For from that moment onwards, every opened eye could see that smile on the sun’s serene face, and every single object that was caressed by the mellowed rays of the sun, knew that it was a moment of immense, immaculate love that was passing it by. With this realization, one experienced the true value of living a moment; of looking around and reading the poetry that had so ingeniously been woven into every fibre of life.

One turned to head back home and share this magic with all the people one had been blessed enough to know. Before that, one stood still for just a few moments more, and looked.
The sky, parted into two halves of blue and yellow, dividing all the world with it; the gentle drops that could hardly contain their boundless joy; the very air that carried with it a universe of blithe purpose and loving.

With that, one knew that this day had been special.
The sun was blissfully calm and half asleep somewhere. His subjects were rejoicing here. Goodness was all one could see.

330am walks

... often lead to this:


The star stands a short distance from the moon, moving his little shoes timidly. The moon is a perfect 'D', looking the other way, nose up in the sky. It seems the star, small and twinkly, is having a tough time conveying the infiniteness that resides within him to the one he cares for. Though the spaces between them are but a few trivial lightyears, he feels it to be across the universe. Such is the experience I guess, when one consciousness seeks union with another, which in turn would rather read up on the weather at Neptune.

And though the little star knows that he doesn't quite comprehend the chasms that potentially lie ahead, it seems he believes in the assumption that the journey would be worth its while; worth enough to marginalize such stumblings.

Having read this tale on the sky, every single song my phone throws at me now seems to be part of a ballad he is singing to her, in his all consuming search for his 'ardhaangani'.

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Sigh... The wonders!

Timekeepers in tow

Yes, its been obscenely long since I last wrote. Varied issues all across the board had of course conspired for the same (as they always like to!).
Anyhow... Goodness is restored, for now. And we may now stride into another epoch of bold, uncaring insanity.

This thought had struck me a few days back, and finally reached its present state from a discussion that took place yesterday.

Often enough, one reaches a phase where one is fascinated by the rhythm cycles that traverse the music all around. From the sounds of a train in full flow, to a classical performance, to the latest radio hit, and even the retro pop rock from the 60's -- everywhere we turn, we observe timekeepers working in perfect clockwork (couldn't resist! :-).

At the next level, one begins to notice the presence of another watch-man. Like the first one, he too is simply keeping count in his own realm, unperturbed and unaffected by the fact that there may be others like him, engaging in a nearly identical task, albeit with an appropriate phase/frequency/amplitude difference. (Engineering ki jai indeed!)
And then, it happens.
As if a slowly growing flame were revealing its environs with the gentle caress of a proud mother, one finds the picture, an intricate maze of many things beautiful, reveal itself in front of one's fast gaping eyes. One looks around to find many, beyond count, timekeepers; each minding his/her own business; each with his/her own clock to follow, and each, blissfully unaware of the simul-coincidence of all of the others. Time, rhythm, balance, poise, love, all come flowing to greet one's newly opened senses.

However, the magic doesn't end there.
Rather, as one is just about to find out, what is to follow has the potential to overshadow all that has taken place yet.

Just as one is about to settle into a self-satisfied mode of basking in the awesomeness of a million intricate timekeepers coexisting in an ecosystem of blithe grace and perfect positioning, a question pops up. Having transcended all the pop-up blockers that one naturally activates to insulate such a moment of pristine bliss, one gets the feeling this could be something more important than the usual online pharmacy ads which adorn the web.

And thus, one opens that neuron envelope, and finds this written on the note inside:
"If all these timekeepers are keeping count of something in such a glorious arrangement, what could that be?"

"Huh..", one sighs, and looks around, searching for who could have dropped such a simple yet menacing little question on one's doorstep.

And then, the old adage returns to one's consciousness:
"Laya pita, Shruti mata."
(Rhythm forms the father, notes, the mother.)

And then, all of one's discoveries covered thus far, seem to shine in a new light, revealing their beauty even further, while at the same time exposing a distinct hollowness latent till now. However, it is not that the hollowness renders anything less magical, au contraire, the sight reveals something immaculately beautiful, filling the hollow channels.
And that fluid embodiment of grace, of vision, of unburdened expression; that dynamically stationary mass of unfathomable wonder; that convergence of light, sorrow, joy, melancholia, together in one gamut; that, is shruti, the mother, the creator of all life, and all that makes it worth living.

For a universe of timekeepers to serve, in a common harmony, together in an undying devotion and respect, one always knew the answer to the question would be one that went beyond all boundaries of current purpose, logic and comprehension. And one is glad to see that guesstimate come true, and so much more.

To those countless little timekeepers, dancing in a cosmic sense of harmony;
And to that which rules over all of them, in a manner of benign, untouchable regality; mighty and powerful on one hand, yet dainty and graceful on the other;
And finally, to That which put the two ends together, to plant the seed of life,
countless respects, a thousand salutations, and my one, true self.

Sigh...

PS: Explaining this concept to a fellow intern at work today... :)

Tina tina. Dina dina.

Slept at 5.
Awoke at 630.
Slept.
Awoke at 1030.
Got acquainted with bai.
Ordered some food.
Ate.
Started to study.
Watched KKR fight.
Slept at 530.
Awoke at 1030.
Realized my laundry was left with the press guys.
Tried calling a friend.
Dinner at 11.
Walk began 1145.
One song done - call to B'lore.
Thass, hawas, ras and the likes - true pille material.
Call done at 1.
3 odd songs to go, of which, one formed the title above.

'The Who' rocks.
Good stuff beckons.

This isn't as bad as I had initially estimated.

I'm alive,
in one piece,
listening to/watching good stuff,
not wasted,
not scheming plots for destruction.

Forever at His feet.
H.F.T.
Amen.