The One Question Sachin Tendulkar Cannot Answer

Miles away from Bombay, I was stirred last evening by a loud roar. India had lost its second wicket at the Wankhede. A predominantly Indian crowd was cheering at the fall. This was not unexpected. Nor was the cold wave of nervousness that I stayed engulfed in for the next two hours. I had felt this chill often over the last twenty years.

The giant screen at the stadium yelled, “DON’T EVEN BLINK!” Not today, I didn’t. In fact, I never blinked when the great man batted. Did they not know I was the boy my mother always thought was obsessed with his hero? Over the last few months, her theory was disproved. The hero was an international obsession.

When Sachin Tendulkar came out to bat one final time, seemingly unfazed by the hysteria around him, my pulse dipped. I did not care what he was going through. He knew better about dealing with pressure. But I have never known how to deal with the agony every time he has walked off the field. Yesterday, I noticed this more than ever before. ‘Watch him play one last time,’ I told myself; instead, I lost context and travelled back in time.

1992:

I knew little about cricket, except that I knew his name. My father had told me about a boy called Sachin who had recently taken the wind out of an English team’s sails at Old Trafford and was on his way to doing something similar with the Australians in Sydney. I was made to watch the game. Ravi Shastri walked down the pitch to congratulate this boy as he raised his Power-labelled willow to acknowledge the applause. The image still lingers. 

I began following the game because I was intrigued by Tendulkar. The World Cup followed. India disappointed, Tendulkar did not.

Yes, for me, Tendulkar had already become bigger than the game.

1993:

The blistering form continued. My faith was reiterated. I returned from school one afternoon, I had won an inter-class elocution and I needed to tell my folks. But Tendulkar had scored 150 against England and was going strong. I forgot all about my victory, it did not feel important any more. He lasted only another fifteen runs. A tacit home rule was soon implemented. I was to take ill every time India played a cricket match. I would watch Sachin bat, then recover miraculously, and then be driven to school. My parents did not mind, my teachers pretended to not observe my sickness patterns. That summer, I enrolled in a cricket camp, where our coach often asked us about our inspiration. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I always wanted to ask in response.

The answer was plain obvious.

1994:

I was nursing a fever. I was upset because it was Holi and my illness meant I was not to partake in the celebrations. Sidhu took ill as well, Sachin Tendulkar replaced him, scored a memorable 82 against New Zealand and changed the face of Indian cricket forever as he sealed his spot as an opener.

It was the best fever I ever had.

1996-1998:

The images from this period are somewhat blurred. He was the star of the World Cup, only to once again be let down by the rest of the team that did not really matter to me. Later, his captaincy invited some negativity from the media. I lost faith in the media but never lost faith in him. He peaked again in 1998 at a time when we had just moved to a new house. We had not unpacked, but a television was plugged in with urgency because Tendulkar was now plundering Pakistan in the Independence Cup. My board exams were nigh, but I could not care less. 95 off 78 balls, 67 off 44 balls, 41 off 25 balls, this man stopped at nothing. The board exams were taken sincerely, all was well.

He resurfaced in Sharjah as if to say, ‘You have been a nice boy, let me treat you to some wonderful sixes over these bowlers’ heads.’

I still watch Youtube videos of those two innings, and I pause the clip at the instant I hear Tony Greig scream, ‘What a player…that’s gone miles, it’s dancing on the roof!’

1999-2001:

Sachin Tendulkar lost his father during the World Cup. Surely, everyone felt his pain. But we had still not measured his true courage. I had seen it in the movies. The wounded hero returns to the warfront to avenge his circumstances. Tendulkar replicated every inspirational legend we had ever heard in a single innings against Kenya.

Against yet another World Cup failure, against the match-fixing scandals that riddled our motivation towards the game, against the chaos in my teenaged mind, Tendulkar continued to give me hope. Whatever may have been the question, Tendulkar was always a reasonable answer. When he became the first man on the planet to cross 10,000 runs in one-dayers a year later, I finally began to wonder:

Was this the final countdown, or was it just the beginning?

2003-2007:

Sachin Tendulkar’s promise of performing in World Cups continued and how. The ‘beta aur baap’ legend followed the smoothest six ever hit off a fast bowler. A mistimed shot in the final match was an anti-climax; pictures of fans in tears flooded the news headlines the next morning. A double century a year later at the SCG, and the World Cup was forgotten.

Darker times beckoned. I did not know what a tennis elbow meant, except that it potentially meant the party was over. Or so the critics seemed to suggest. Fake articles announcing that Sachin Tendulkar had called it a day were doing the rounds. He returned yet again – 93 off 96 balls against Sri Lanka – and let everyone know that he was altering not just the nature of the game but also his own destiny. India faced a most ignominious ouster from the 2007 World Cup. Critics lunged at him again. For once, I had no means to snap back at whoever said, ‘This guy should just retire now.’ But with the series that followed against England, his return to form ensured I did not need to bother any more.

I had got my answer. This was but the beginning.

2008-2011:

‘Impossible is nothing,’ he said in an Adidas advert. He meant every bit of it. Centuries galore in Australia, a series win in the ODIs driven by his remarkable scores, and that near-impossible Test victory against England that rode on the back of his tribute to the victims of the terror attack – the hero had now transcended all realms of reality. Two months before he created history with that ODI double century, a friend asserted, ‘I do not think this man can ever go wrong. The only time he can fail going forward is when he chooses to.’ He said it had been his dream to lift the World Cup. I wonder if he saw that he was speaking on behalf of a million others…

…I was snapped out of my reverie. Back to Wankhede. Tendulkar struck that familiar straight drive off Sammy. Of course I will continue to cheer for him over the next four days. But how do I detach myself from this memory? This is one question even he doesn’t have the answer to.

The Economics Of Heartache

While recently conducting a survey as part of my research on the next book, I asked around what the youth thought were their burning issues today. (I don't actually use all this research, but it makes me feel smug). Around seventy-one per cent* responded with "Heartache". At the outset, this response can be promptly classified into one of frivolity or inadequacy of pathetic life experiences. Especially if it comes from teenaged boys whose moustaches still look like they are made of goat fur. But if I delve into my own enriching years that belie my youthful countenance, I realize heartache is a real and potent wreckage of the mind. Worse, it is cyclic and permanent.
I must have been fifteen when I was first victimized. I didn't even have goat fur for a moustache, although some semblance had been offered thanks to a razor that otherwise lay useless in my Biology class' dissection kit. A friend who had been through the drill suggested I cope up by locking myself in a room and play intense music on a guitar to purge out the sadness. It sounded like a great idea, except that I didn't know how to play a guitar. Ronnie from school lent me his Gibson very kindly. I learnt a few chords, played intense music, so intense it snapped Ronnie's guitar strings. The heartbreak was successfully transferred to Ronnie, I had found my catharsis and had thought I had conquered a wounded heart.
But it always came back. In the alienation from a social circle, in the job that did not get me a Jaguar, in a dream yet unrequited, in Sachin Tendulkar's retirement, in the Zanjeer remake. Well, what doesn't kill you only shows you a pattern. The presence of hope lying beyond dismay. The realization that bad as it may have gotten, there can be worse later. The relief that your neighbour's unhappiness is bigger than yours. The empathy for the person who chose to end it all with one big leap, who chose not to wait for the happy interludes in the ballad of distress.
Wait for the happy interludes. They don't just give hope. They give us a sense of humour, and if we get that far, they also help trivialize a heartbreak of the past. I guess this is our best shot at countering it. For when we look in the mirror, the stubble will have thickened. And soon it will grey. But despair will continue to peer over our shoulders, challenging us to make the next move.

*Just corroborating my argument with a useless statistic.

Why So Serious?

Rohit Shetty can never have it easy as a maker of comedies. Being humoured, unlike other states of mind such as outrage, idiocy and the recently discovered poverty (Poverty IS a WHAT?), is a tricky affair to understand and there is no science to it. Making a joke is a difficult art, because your joke has varying standards set against it before it is dispensed and it is nearly impossible to cater to your recipients' myriad tastes.
Imagine the perils of being a stand-up comic, for instance. Firstly, there are far more people who want to stand up and deliver comedy than those willing to sit down and receive it. Not more than a tenth of these comics probably read into their audience's psyche before making a joke. Secondly, the audience's psyche is way too complex to make sense of it, which is why a whole lot of jokes fall flat much to the teller's embarrassment. Admit it. Your childhood has most certainly been riddled by that one birthday party where your mother coaxed you into telling "that chutkula" and the only trickle of claps that followed were from your mother.
Being successfully funny is subject to various factors such as socio-cultural sensitivities, tone modulation and the innate human desperation to run down anyone who has found a podium to showcase his talent. The kind of adverse reactions one has to often face from one's audiences arguably explains why the best of comedians have seldom smiled in their personal lives - prime examples include Ben Stiller, Charlie Chaplin, Paresh Rawal, Sreesanth, etc. Of course, some comedians are to blame too, for they carry the same joke wherever they go. Consider the "How do you put a giraffe into a fridge" gag. It might work with Indians. Europeans will find it bizarre. The Chinese might run away mid-narration in search of a camera so they can photograph the giraffe. The Americans won't get to hear your joke because you will likely be detained at an airport because of your fetish for placing suspicious objects in fridges.

Maybe, as many an expert might argue, the safest option for a comedy is to be topical and relevant to existing issues. And maybe Rohit Shetty could consider paying heed to such a suggestion.After all we have so many hot subjects to choose from daily: Narendra Modi, Rahul Gandhi, #Feku, #NaMo, #RahulBaba...But Rohit Shetty knows better. He defines his genre, opens it to you for acknowledgement, and does so pretty successfully more often than not. He plays to his strength, which is pure, low-brow entertainment at the cost of logic. With Chennai Express, he goes an edge gutsier by bringing in Shahrukh Khan who is your average Joe's favourite punching bag (dissing whom is never going out of vogue). So, yes, he gives you a car that can be somersaulted by a human fist. He can get a blind man to read you the time. Diwali is spelt 'DDLJ' in his world. You are free to enter or stay off limits.
The world is pissed off. It needs to be made to laugh. If you are looking for polished humour, there are enough artists playing to your gallery. For many others, there is Rohit Shetty. Neither can grudge the other his choices. 

Tutored By The Temptress

‘An ideal story is the one that writes itself,’ Nakul signed off at the conclave, swaying between flippancy and intensity. Being flippant came easy to him, as would vouch his family, friends and others who were neither of the other two. What else would you say of a young man in a conservative Indian society, who renounced a plush job for the dark labyrinths of a writing career? His parents reckoned they had been too soft on him; he had not seen hardship. The value of financial security eluded him. To Myra, the woman who had claimed to know him better than he knew himself, this was a tactic to evade their wedding nuptials. He would have her examined for paranoia, but that could wait. At this time, he was not willing to barter his dreams for social approval. Today, the acknowledgement he received at the Young Turks’ Literary Conclave in Switzerland seemed to answer his detractors.

‘This is only the beginning,’ argued Cecilia, between mouthfuls of her secret recipe of the evening. ‘And don’t bother answering your detractors. Vengeance is but a constriction en route creativity.’

Nakul nodded politely. Inwardly, he marveled at the girl’s dexterity with words. He also decided she was remarkably intelligent for a housekeeper at a countryside bed-and-breakfast. She was amused when he opened up to her about his notions, later that week. In his defense, housekeepers in India were not perceived to be intelligent. A person’s capabilities were judged per the choices he made.

‘Your choices are your fetters,’ she laughed. He was inadvertently drawn to her as she regaled him with stories of her limited choices; the orphanage she had grown up in had been kind, but not inspiring. When she took a liking to demonology, she was banished from the orphanage and ostracized by the local church. With meager belongings and fewer choices, she set out in pursuit of her passion. It had been a mad long journey, and she was still traveling. Scathed, and her financial condition leaving a lot to be desired, she was still content with living her dream. She told him of her recent adventure - the exorcism of a middle-aged farmer in a Scottish village. What looked visually devastating proved spiritually enriching for her.

The morning he was leaving, she walked him to his cab. He did not want to go. She had inspired him when no one else had shown a semblance of conviction in his decisions.  She leant into him and kissed him. He remembered the firmness in her eyes as she said, ‘If you find my inspiration worked wonders, come back and tell me how.’

Once back home, he started writing his first novel. To his dismay, he did not have a story on him. He sat doggedly at a corner of The Bombay Café for weeks at end, staring out the window, watching people pass by, scanning their motley expressions for a stroke of motivation. But nothing yielded.  He could not get over his memories of an unfaltering Cecilia, and the diktat of fulfilling a dream she had issued to him. Possessed by her, he spun a story around a young Indian’s rendezvous with a demonologist he fell in love with – a story that found few takers in the market.  When a dying publication sourced his manuscript with a frail attempt at redeeming its business, its owner fell in love with the outlandish plot and decided to publish it.

A year later, Nakul had found readers aplenty. His debut project, Tutored By A Temptress, had recorded massive sales and myriad responses that ranged from awe to vitriol. He had detached himself from the story the day he had launched it to market; the woman he had attributed it to seemed to have been an illusion. The emails had all bounced back. The phone number he had was now out of service. But when he was couriered the program booklet for the upcoming Frankfurt book fair, he was left reeling. The brochure, in its listed bestsellers, had pipped psychologist Gerald Bond’s “Meandering Minds” on the top spot. The synopsis talked about the doctor’s tryst with a certain Cecilia Gomes, whose imaginative identities had shown her around the world. Last found in a gypsy band traveling across the African deserts, she was previously known to be an aspiring demonologist who had fallen hopelessly in love with a young Indian who had taught her how to smile. Of the countless cases of multiple personality disorders that he had encountered, this one stunned him with the rapid changes he saw in this woman…

Nakul flung the brochure on his bed with a trembling hand. Somewhere, he heard his own words ring out loud: ‘An ideal story is the one that writes itself…’

The John Inverdale Guidebook To Appropriate Insulting Technique

BBC presenter John Inverdale is facing the heat over his sexist remarks made on air against the recently crowned Wimbledon champion, Marion Bartoli. Inverdale reckons Bartoli is not much of a looker. This has invited widespread public ire - by which I mean, 674 complaints to BBC demanding Inverdale's ouster over this WHAAATTT?

674 complaints, are you kidding me? Is this all you got after making news headlines with that comment? One of Bartoli or Inverdale, and I am confused at this point who, doesn't invoke impressive mass outrage. Consider Govinda, for the sake of argument. The poor chap has received at least Govinda times as many slanderous remarks on his appearance all his life (I am talking only about the ones I have been privy to) when they barely even find room in the gossip columns of newspapers.

Of course, sensible arguments will point out that making jokes on Govinda's appearance can never be a big deal, because that doesn't amount to being sexist. Except under certain rare circumstances, of course.

In that completely logical view, Inverdale's horrendous mistake of making disparaging remarks about a woman's looks needs to be taken very seriously, and I am more than willing to sign any petition floating around that demands his immediate transfer to India TV. Or even better, place him in intensive training under the Sly Commentary at Indian Weddings program.
I say Inverdale be granted a hall pass to a wedding or two. Quietly hear the whispers in the crowd. They will tell him many a story, laced with the choicest adjectives, about the hapless couple posing on the podium before the shutterbugs. Marriage functions will teach him that there are such things as an appropriate method, tone and timing of insulting someone. You can't just go up on stage, pose with the bridegroom and ask him to lower his wedding veil so the crew can click a nice photograph. You smile at the couple appropriately, get off the stage, go to a corner of the bhelpuri counter and then offer your opinion, peppered with laughter and approval from your own little audience. The satisfaction will be far greater than going ballistic in public and having your specially crafted comments boomerang right back at you.
Snide remarks are all pervasive. About a half of them are sexist. The other half are directed towards the male species, so they evaporate into oblivion. Of the ones that are sexist, you only need to be careful of the medium you choose to air them. All said and done, if your options confuse you, you have the right to remain silent.

The Lootera Leverage

Early this week, my Twitter timeline had begun showing trickles of applause for Lootera, a film that hadn't released to audiences yet. Mostly from the film fraternity, a few close aides of the film fraternity, and a handful of relatives of the close aides, had wonderful things to say about the film. By the middle of the week, I had heard from various corners that Lootera was a poignant love story with a heart, painted in glorious hues. On Friday morning, colleagues asked me if I was going to watch Lootera - and that I should - because it was a poignant love story with a heart, painted in glorious hues. And so I did, that night.
When we walked out of the hall, my wife asked me for my response like she always does (except the time I made her miss dinner so we could go watch 'Joker' - that evening she asked for various explanations, but not a response). I answered, scavenging on residual popcorn crumbs on my shirt, that Lootera was a poignant love story with a heart, painted in glorious hues.

Later that night, I wavered on my opinion. No, I still did think the film was wonderful.Yes, Lootera surprises you with its texture, its vintage appeal, very controlled performances, a smoothly adapted O Henry twist, and some breathtaking cinematography which becomes the primary reason you shouldn't compress this lovely canvas on a Youtube video (especially if you use Reliance Netconnect). It also leaves cynics dissatisfied. "Oh, but I had planned to say - Sonakshi's nose-ring is more expressive than her - damn, she was good".
I only think my view of the film, and arguably that of many others, was built prematurely, and was a little exaggerated too. Maybe that is precisely where I felt deprived. I went in expecting a magnificent film, all I got was a wonderful film instead. I thought the film was slower than it should have been. The narration was somewhat linear. All said and done, I liked it. But the uproar in the media and on the social network had stripped me of that tingling, alluring uncertainty that I want to feel when I buy a movie ticket. (You could make a joke here about how expensive this alluring uncertainty is, but then I could ward you off by assuring you the public hasn't signed off on this joke yet.)
On publicity, films face their share of potential perils too. A beautifully made, labour-intensive film can be trashed in a matter of hours, lying precariously the way we have seen often, in the hands of reviewers and nobodies who take themselves too seriously. Naysayers are infectious, as are the over optimistic. Somewhere in this common trapeze act, many a film lies confused as to which side it should take - that of indulgence in its creativity, or the pursuit of its commercial viability. Sadly, the whims of its audiences don't allow it to form a clear judgement.
The next time a film releases, I'd like to watch it before experts tweet about it. For that to happen, I might need to be invited to pre-launch premiers. For that to happen, I might need to become an expert on films myself. For that to happen, I might need to start stoking public opinion through my own reviews. Oh damn, this web has me in a snare. For now, I might just go watch Lootera for the second time. Because everyone else is doing so, and that just seems right.

No, YOU Are Cheap!

Imran Khan was recently in the limelight for the second time this year, when he called Twitter 'lowly and cheap' (the first time was when he featured in a film as a Haryanvi bumpkin with a Persian accent). What has annoyed me the most is that more than forty-eight hours after his ghastly, irresponsible act of expressing an honest view, Twitter hasn't retorted with anything ludicrous that reads something like #YouAreCheapBecause.

This calls for a serious reflection on our core competence of negating opinions and engaging in senseless, fulfilling slander. The last time such an opportunity was lost was when we forgot to mock Chetan Bhagat's latest haircut at the local salon in Bandra. "Can a man who doesn't look like Che Guevara or write like Miltonbhai stoke minds by making opinions on public policy?" was a potential subject that could have kept us comfortably distracted from unnecessary peeves such as the Uttarakhand relief fund, unheard distress calls made by friends, or even our own symptoms of underachievement. With someone as minimally talented and obnoxiously rich and famous as Imran Khan, we should have had a field day venting out our frustration on the hapless fellow.
I seriously believe Imran Khan, having shown his prowess at making frivolous and irreverent remarks, finds a comfortable place back on this wonderful social platform. We are in dire need of people who can prove counterproductive to the mental health of our society, because we are running out of other personal and national issues to deal with. While our top political leaders sensitively handle this recent Uttarakhand calamity by peacefully sharing media bytes, the least we can do is bicker and take sides. Blind ourselves to littler potential contributions we can make and take the plunge.
Be vociferous. Shout. Retweet people who subscribe to your outcry. Label the others as furniture. If someone opposes you, take him to task. Nobody will be right if nobody will be left.
Imran Khan, welcome to the warzone.
PS: Are you on Orkut? Because like everyone would like to categorize, that would be lowly and cheap.

Please Look Up My Calendar

The only comic relief I rely on every Monday morning is the guilt that rings loud in the voices of certain people. "We have lost two crucial days, so we really need to step up the gas." "That's the weekend you are talking about." "Yes, but did you know we could have saved 96 million dollars via optimum resource trenching aligned with strategic identification of weekends that tip marginally over the productivity-potential-threshold banana curve?" My minds does a cartwheel (not out of joy) and settles on the figure '96 million', wondering what fraction of that monstrosity would make my annual salary. I sputter and consciously bring myself to look interested in the debate. As I open my laptop to a swarm of emails ranging from 'High Importance' to 'NSFW', I am consistently goaded to provide a deadline for something I don't know how to achieve. "Uh, maybe first you should stop tickling me by breathing down my neck..." "YES! Nick of time, I know, but we need to commit to our mission statement of under-promising and over-deli..."
RUN. HIDE. ANNIHILATE. But you can't escape this eternity of a day.

Or maybe you can. Here's a few pointers. Take them with a pinch of salt, and if they don't work, sprinkle the salt in the eyes of whoever has been giving you a bad day.

1. Send out meaningless meeting invites: Turn into a maniac. Open that damn calendar. Bring up unimportant reasons to 'connect and communicate'. Loop in two kinds of people without fail: one, who are too busy to respond to your invite; and two, who are not very sure about what you do anyway - like that distant stakeholder, your CEO's secretary, or your HR head. Also, mark your boss on the invite but do let him know this is only to 'keep you informed'. Two hours later, send a spam email that begins with 'Thanks y'all who accepted the invite. For those who didn't, here are the minutes..." Trust me, no one in his right mind would make inquiries about the attendance roster.

2. Don't accept meeting invites: Besides the possibility that it can get you in trouble if you aren't prepared, it also makes you look desperate. Always TENTATIVELY accept with a cryptic "Will look up my calendar." Keeps all monkeys and snakes off your back.

3. Need to talk to you: Hover around the boss' desk and slip in this one-liner with a tone of utmost urgency yet composure. If he lends an ear promptly, let him know you want to mull over this thought for some time before looping him in. If he "aha?"s you, nod sagely and walk over to the coffee machine and laze around.

4. Drink but don't hide: Make sure your boss knows you are at the coffee machine. Appear pensive and insightful. Grab a colleague and start talking to him animatedly, knocking the life out of the kitchen cabinet. Actions speak louder than words, and you will never have realized this better. If the boss shows interest in your hogwash, save it for a discussion in the monthly team townhall. If he catches your bluff, there is always the manager's feedback form to let your angst out on.

Mondays are malleable. Manipulate them into allowing you to live through their offered drudgery. The rest of the week will be a breeze. Rinse. Repeat. Retweet.

Blaming It On Raanjhanaa

Raanjhanaa is walking on the razor's edge. At a time when our countrymen are offering major lip service on how the reputation of the Indian male is going to the dogs, this film presents itself on a warm grill, giving every cynic a reason to explode. "What nonsense? You make your hero a total chhapri, chasing girls all day long? That too in UP? And then you expect our laundas not to rape and molest women?" In another era when we were more oblivious to national issues and the rage of the social media, few would have scoffed. Today, every self-righteous person wants to uphold his social sensitivity by questioning that of the filmmaker.

Face it. One of the century's biggest runaway hits, DDLJ, had its lead actor pursue his traditional, value-clad heroine in multiple foreign countries with his crooked smile and countless sexual innuendos. "But that was Shah Rukh Khan, the eternal romantic! And he played the mandolin also, and....and he was at least fair and handsome." You bring a Dhanush in who can, well, be better related to by the common Indian man in question; bring in an honest love story where Sonam Kapoor has featured for the eighth time in a film but has debuted as an actress, and everyone is getting upset about the film giving out wrong ideas to people.
Because Raanjhanaa is totally responsible for the warped mentality that is ruining us, we can conveniently ignore less obvious menaces such as the gaping gender discrimination, archaic and hypocritical Indian - ahem - "values", fewer homes and more people, and increasing collective indifference. Hence, let us together blame art. Yes, then, how disgusting that Anand Rai make a thoroughly riveting, beautiful film based on the purest emotion that humanity has ever experienced? Does he not realize that some wasted fellow in a dark alley of the country is only waiting to watch this movie and go, "Well, here's the go-ahead; here I come in all my assholery to outrage someone's modesty again."
Films give us hope. More importantly, they provide respite from our usual despair. If we were to start deriving moral sermons from them, we would be holding virtually every work of art guilty of villainy as our real demons continue having a field day. If anything, a well-made film like Raanjhanaa does dole out a message that Roadside Romeos don't make for fancy heroes with a happy ending. So, hard luck, but dissing a film doesn't help heal our collective conscience which has many reasons to feel wounded.

55 words story: "Nothing" *

That distance made the heart grow fonder was as convincing as his own state of self-denial all along. Now that they had begun a life together, he had found his calling. Tears followed debate. Reason followed revolt. Once the plane took off to new beginnings, he closed his eyes. And then there was nothing.

* "55 Words Story" is a novel concept owned by my friend Vivek Tejuja. I am merely reproducing my part of the contribution to his blog here. 

55 Words Story: "Speculate"*

She called him as the train chugged away from the platform. There was room for a last conversation at the convocation. But they had speculated a callous dealing of emotions, which got the better of memories. Now as he heard her voice one last time, the call dropped. "Out of network coverage," the screen read.

* "55 Words Story" is a novel concept owned by my friend Vivek Tejuja. I am merely reproducing my part of the contribution to his blog here. 

55 Words Story: WALL*

It once bore the marks of the bride's vermilioned palms. And the sons' graffiti in early years. Today it embodied estrangement between the brothers. The wall was dying. But even today, it allowed the widowed mother to hide her tears and wails in its crevices. "Thank God I ain't human", it seemed to say.

* "55 Words Story" is a novel concept owned by my friend Vivek Tejuja. I am merely reproducing my part of the contribution to his blog here. 

Mind your own business

Last week, a girl who came to be known by many names, lost her life to a bunch of depraved minds. A country was stirred, angry voices descended on the streets in screams and protests, demanding justice for the girl and for humanity. This wasn't a unique episode - probably just the proverbial last straw, people guessed. A week later, the protests have ebbed, everyone is back home, and we all know this wasn't the last straw either.
We are not to blame. We have our lives to live, and then, it has not happened until it has happened to us, right? Maybe. But more importantly, we don't know whom or what we are protesting against. It cannot be the government, because we are a part of them (hello, democracy). It must not be the legal system, for it is a little fanciful to combat something as colossal. It need not be the culprits, for they are not the only ones we would need to protest against. And one can only hope it is not against the eroding Indian culture, because there is anyway very little left of it to worry about.
Let's worry about how we perceive our democratic rights. Back in school, we were reminded ad nauseam that our rights only complemented our duties, or something like that. One of our most fundamental duties is to recognize that every single person around us has exactly the same set of rights as we do: right to peace, right to progress, right to express, and most importantly, a right to dignity. We all have our demons to deal with. We all feel a sense of deprivation. And that can't be a major surprise for a country with a burgeoning population, limited resources and even more limited education. But we cannot use our discontent as a trump card to go wield our frustration on any unsuspecting person. Because what goes around comes around, you know.
So, no. You cannot question a person's sense of fashion. You cannot start a riot only because a certain faction of the society doesn't play by your rules. You cannot question an 'outsider' who chooses to live in your city. YOU CANNOT LAY YOUR HANDS ON A WOMAN JUST BECAUSE YOUR FAMILIAL ORDER DICTATES THAT THE WOMEN OF YOUR HOUSE DRESS CONSERVATIVELY, WHICH LEADS TO YOUR MIND GETTING REPRESSED. 
Rapes apart, we feel a violation of our dignity almost every day at the hands of our own people - in the form of communal and racial slander, in the name of social and financial inequality, and often even for expressing a simple opinion. The legal system will always have its recourse to such matters. We would much rather examine our own moral stature than taking on something that we have no control over. For all we know, the solution lies in the micro and not in the macro.
A good beginning towards this would be that we learn to mind our own business. Let's not interfere in each other's lives, let alone trying to control or mould them. Respecting each other is asking for a lot. Let's learn not to disrespect each other. That's best done by steering clear of others' territories. The first step to a cleaner country is in cleaning our own minds. Uniting to combat challenges that a country faces as a whole comes a distant second.