Let The Candles Shine Brighter

This Thursday will mark the anniversary of a dark day in the country’s history that no Indian would ever want to forget. The gory visuals flash across our eyes once again, and a seething pain runs through our veins – a pain that can probably best be fathomed by my fellowmen who were present at the sites or by those who lost their loved ones in the tragedy. Today, we ask ourselves once again – has the common man woken up to the assault?
First things first. This was not the first terror strike that has shaken us. There have been plenty. And by now, the common man – which includes you, me and every other person who has asked the above question – would have garnered sufficient prudence to realize that something needs to be done. This was affirmed by many an angry voice a year back, as well as today. Very well, yes. But I reckon it is worthwhile to sit back, ask ourselves what the ‘something’ is, and get started.
As commoners with limited offices, it is reasonable to argue that there is not much action we can initiate except for sounding preachy, that often veneers towards sounding hollow. But if we cut through the fetters that bind our thoughts, we will see there is much that can be done.
For starters, it is imperative to appreciate the importance of internal tolerance (if not brotherhood) before crying foul over the foreign forces that act filthy with us. Sure, terrorism is a burning issue. But let us not ignore the pressing need for first accepting each other the way we are, and for putting an end to the factionalizing of our fellow Indians.
We still get into meaningless brawls on the roads. We still argue over which God is greater. And we still resort to violent assertions over regional rights to local residents. And then we hold candles to pledge solidarity. Do we not see the stark paradox?
A tragedy of unforeseen proportions struck, and we were all out on the roads, conducting protest marches(I’ll make no bones of the fact that I was a part of those marches too). The intent behind these acts is well taken. But did we ask ourselves of the real value they brought to our objective? For all you know, those marches may have affected a fellow Indian who was trying to get to a hospital in an emergency. When the solidarity mattered the most, the voter turnout in the elections was not so much as fifty per cent. Sadly, this speaks very poorly of our will to fight for our rights.
Think about it. What might go a longer way in helping India would be to take ownership of individual responsibility. Why don’t we form groups of like-minded people; identify and promote able youngsters in whom you see the perfect bureaucrats of tomorrow - a much better deal than to hold placards demanding the damning of the current government? Why don’t we stop asking why the Indian defense and intelligence infrastructure are not as efficient as the FBI and the CIA, and start contributing with our little bits of responsible civilian behaviour, so that the attention of these forces can be focused on the real issues at hand? Why don’t we render a smile of gratitude to the security guard at the mall for taking those extra six seconds to scan our satchel so he can ensure our safety, instead of scoffing at him for delaying our entry into the cinema hall?
Let’s ask ourselves these questions. They need simple answers which can be addressed within the realm of our own little capacity. These answers might just kindle our minds. And then, the candles in our hands will shine brighter. And longer.

What's Your Worth?

This morning, I held a copy of my new novel for the first time. It was a magical, almost surreal moment to see in complete flesh and flair a product I had been trying to give shape since the latter half of 2007. An interesting journey this, of over a year and a half - compiled by moments of ecstasy where ideas flowed generously, months of frustration where I nearly pulled my hair out for want of ideas, and eons of uncertainty as I faced multiple rejections from the publishing fraternity before finally landing the right choice. A friend asked me how easy was it to cope with the impatience and anxiety. To which I replied, "Very difficult, unless you can remember to always ask yourself the quintessential question: "What's your Worth?"".

Circa 2005, I was attending a B-school fest with some friends from college. Not surprisingly, I was not who you'd call the shining MBA star in the group of twenty, who was to achieve something magnificient in any of those contests. While the other nineteen had proven their prowess in some contest or the other, I had not so much as made it through the elims of any of them. And this ugly truth was brought to the fore by one of them, who said as we all sat for dinner: "Come on, Nishant, will you ever show your worth somewhere at least?"

The triviality with which the comment was made was not important. It was the hurt that lingered within for months at end that got me to ask myself, "What indeed, was my worth?" I found the answer in due course of time and discovery. Today, as I see my books in the store shelves, I am glad I've managed to answer my friend's concern. I have shown my worth - if not to him, at least to myself.

My discovery of my worth is in doing what makes me happy. In pursuing my dream. In challenging myself. And whenever I feel short of breath or tack in the chase, I remember that dinner - those nineteen sniggers, and the one important, maybe unintended advice: to realize my worth.

Humour yourselves with this question. You never know when it helps you take the otherwise unimaginable flight of fancy.

The Plan

Of a forgotten year, there's a memory I recall
Of a few bright stars in the school's felicitation hall,
I scuffled for space in the corner of an aisle
To cheer for Maria as she picked her prize with a smile.

I asked Maria out but she didn't care two pence,
Seek friends among equals, she said with insolence.
An injured ego and a broken heart then drew a plan:
'Tomorrow I'll be something, for I know that I can'.

In the name of inspiration, arose evasion tactics,
When I stacked heroic biographies and motivational flicks,
And in the dead of the night, a rendezvous with my dreams
Would assure me that success is as easy as it seems.

Days run into years, and years into a decade,
A hundred resolves broken, a thousand others made,
I still sneak out the paper that contains the old plan,
Saying 'Tomorrow I'll be something, for I know that I can'.

Life moves in a rut, resolves get difficult to keep,
I try dreaming big, but simply drift into sleep.
Tomorrow I'll be something, and I know that I can,
But defining the 'something' is the next part of my plan.

Last night, I watched an insipid film that had everything a film should not have - a bad script, gawdy costumes, a hero who smells bombs when he is not being the cute chocolate boy in college, and a 'bebe' who hams like there is no tomorrow. But I'm not complaining. I made a choice, and a mindful one at that. The promos had got me sufficiently aware of what was in the offing, and I still gladly trotted along to the movie hall.
But then, there is something surreal about cinema that attracts me to it. It pulls me into its charm. It makes me want to believe in it. I have almost started pining for the power possessed by the protagonist. I mean, I could use some divine smelling power so that I can pre-empt my boss's attempt at peeping into my screen as I write this waste of a post!
I flourish in the vicarious thrills of being a hero some day, of riding bikes in the air, of dancing on stage even with two left feet, and of romancing a princess after rescuing her from a bunch of terrorists. Suddenly, cinema makes everything seem alright. Hail cinema!

The Secu-LIAR-ist Ideology!

There are quirks of this society that never cease to surprise, or rather, rattle me. A friend of mine was recently denied the purchase of some property in Mumbai - reason: he is a Muslim! Quite shocking, I'd say. It's routine news, some others might say. But the point is - I think it's disgusting to think that people can have such parochial mindsets in what they call the advanced era of a modern India. I mean, to stoop as low as to deny someone an equal right based on his religion is pretty shameful. But let's leave that aside for now.
What I fail to understand is, how do we have the (in)sanity to indulge in such trifles after witnessing such heinous forces already trying to disturb the harmony of the country (it's barely 5 months since 26/11, guys!). Is the bitterness that they are trying to spread in here not already enough? Is it wise to give these external demons a reason to laugh at our own inability to live harmoniously? How much sensibility does it take to consider the existence of compassion and humanity beyond a concocted boundary of religions? Food for thought, everyone.
For the property owner who prompted me to write on this hackneyed topic - do remember, the world goes a full circle. Let not a day come when you find yourself seeking a plush home abroad, and you are denied one simply because you are not of the same creed as the others. But if it does, you will probably wish you had been a little more broad-minded towards your own countrymen. Don't take this suggestion to heart. Take it to your soul, if you have one.
It's no good faking integrity and unity and..what was that word again? Yeah, SPIRIT! - if you can't get your basics right. To sum up what we stand as even after witnessing a hundred 26/11s already, I'll end by re-writing a few lines I had recently penned:

We limp back to life on a busy city street,
Where meaningless trifles turn up the heat.
Curses turn into blows, and blows into bloodshed,
Each man for himself, unity be dead.
Those demons laugh at us as we busy ourselves in the brawl,
And we still proudly claim: United We Stand, Divided We Fall.

Meru - RELY ON US! - Whattay farce!

A few days ago, I had to make an urgent trip from Malad to Nariman Point. I must've been damned when Meru's tagline RELY ON US registered with my sensibilities, and I requested for their service. What I saw was a stark example of how a brand's performance goes tangentially away from the values it boasts of. Here's a snapshot of the proceedings:

4 PM - I call Meru RELY ON US and ask for a cab; am told it will pick me by 5 PM

5.15 PM - The cabbie tells me he is stuck at the nearest signal to where I am waiting, and he will be there soon

5.25 PM - I call frantically, he is still stuck at the 'same signal' (Now the same answer is repeated each time I call, till around 6 PM).

6 PM - I blow my top, take another car, and call the Meru RELY ON US guys to tell them how unhappy I am.

Now, there's one thing called customer dissatisfaction, but what I got here was augmented customer dissatisfaction, if ever there was such a word. For, when I called them simply requesting them to pass their phone to their team leader, they either refused, or they simply dropped off. On the fourth occasion, they obliged and made the team leader speak to me. Now, in a desperate attempt to salvage the image of Meru-RELY ON US, the team leader launched a senseless tirade against me, accusing me of not being watchful enough, and telling me that the cab was at the required pick-up point at sharp 5 PM! Obviously that meant that one of the cabbie or the team leader was lying! And lying rather stupidly!

The rest of the experience I had with the team leader is best forgotten. But my only inference from the whole episode is that Meru RELY ON US can't quite be relied on. Surely not when you have an emergency to attend to. The services of a company that can't respect its customer's time commitments are best left to experiment with on a lazy Saturday evening.

The Other Side Of The Fence

I recently attended the Mohit Chauhan concert organized by a bunch of college students in Pune. The lawns had been divided into two clear factions: one was the designated VIP zone, complete with its plush sofas and an exquisite arrangement for comestibles-on-demand; the other was a lowered slope which was an open area for the college students to stand and watch the show. Clearly, the latter option looked much more colourful and vibrant. Students stood in huddles, swaying to the tango, and singing their hearts out sans inhibition.
"Let's take that option, it gets me nostalgic," I suggested to my colleague IC, who had unwillingly been dragged along for company after getting an assurance that I would shield him against any salvos that his demonic boss would fire at him for leaving an unfinished code at work.
"The organizers won't let us in," IC grunted bemusedly, "we have the VIP passes. And anyway, these students are happy because they are free of guilt. They haven't got here by lying to anyone. I still can't believe you convinced me to threaten my boss that I'd puke right in his cabin if I didn't leave office early."
"It will be worth it," I laughed, "let's get in now."
The organizers checked our passes and guided us to the VIP area.
"We'd like to stand there," I requested, pointing to the lowered slope.
"Sorry Sir, that's for the students," the boy resisted, "you've got VIP passes."
"That's ok," I argued, trying to shove through, "we were also students three years back - not a big deal."
"That's three years too long, Sir, I insist," he stood firm, "please take your seats on the other side of the fence. You'll be more comfortable there."
The show was on, but I felt something was amiss. My mind drifted continually to the open area, to the crazy jigs the students performed together in sync with the soulful songs being rendered by the performers, and to the three years gone by that felt like eons. And then, Mohit began explaining the lyrics of a new song he had composed, which talked of a bird's desire to take a long due flight from the hills down to the valley. I felt Mohit was scanning my thoughts as I gazed down at the slope to my left. I was the bird, and my wings flapped with candid anticipation. But alas, I knew not the route back to the valley.

A Shackled Soul

The child under censure looks for a freeway,
Paper boats and fables don’t quite make his day.
Scoffing at the fetters that shackle his soul,
He prays to be a man, so he can be on his own.

The distressed young man breathes out of his window,
Smothered by a cocktail of stress, greed and ego.
Sweet nothings of yore left behind, many a mile,
He prays to be a child, so he can remember how to smile.

Child to the man:
I’m done with the sermons on the person I should be,
Why can’t the world just let me be me?
The scores I bring home define my parents’ love or disdain,
You know not the anguish of constant embargos and refrain.
I envy you so, for you can tell good and evil apart,
And you have the freedom to let that special someone into your heart.

Man to the child:
I’ve wings to fly, but I’m dizzied by the height,
There’s not a soul around me on this dark, gloomy night.
I crave those lazy naps in the noon,
Looking back on a fond era that passed by too soon.
When you fail, your mother does comfort her son,
But as today I fail, all I see is an empty room and a loaded gun.