Happily Ever After...

September 11, 2001, people cowered in fright as terror dawned on the US of A.

September 11, 2008, people beamed with pleasure as another institution was firmly established.

My sister, the only one, got married.

Standing an arm’s distance away, resplendent in a white sari, awash in the yellow glow of halogen lamps, was the being which I had protected all my life, with all my will. She had transformed from ‘our little one’ to a confident young woman. It did not feel like 23 years had passed since I first held our family’s ‘little bundle of joy’ close to my chest, next to my mother’s cot, in the hospital room.

When happy memories rush at you from all sides, it feels delicious to submit to its joy. Growing up was certainly more fun with her around. She taught me to be a big brother, in her own subtle way.

There were times when I took her hands in mine, while crossing busy roads, and then there were times when I covered for her mistakes, earning sound thrashings in return. There were times when we used to make hand-drawn birthday cards (competing to outdo the other) and other times, as kids, when we used to count the number of cows during long journeys.

She was the one who always called my bluff and found that I cried while reading Reader’s Digest articles. She was the one, who in the darkness of countless movie theatres, found that it was not only my mother who had streams of wet tears while watching sentimental scenes. She was the one who knew all about my crushes, since class nine. She was my fashion guru and she was my rock. Correction, she IS my rock!

Not having you around is going to be hard. But knowing that you got the best mate there was, makes it a bit easier.

I now close a little box, inlaid with velvet, deep in my heart, about happy memories of you, from 23 years, till now. Once in a while, I will open it, living again the joys of our yesteryears. On September 11th, I opened another fresh little box in my mind, where shall reside the happy memories of your second phase in life.

NOTE: I dedicate this piece to every brothers this world saw, who enjoyed seeing their little sisters grow up from being shy youngsters to charming princesses.

A Song For December...

The memory of my first hearing this song, on a cold December evening three years a go, is still fresh in my mind.

I was walking back from the St Stephens College Library, in Delhi, arms full of heavy books on Indian history, cursing our curriculum that made me toil so hard, yet was stingy in appreciating the efforts. Cutting and walking across the basketball court, I heard this song for the first time. Although four of my friends were singing along loudly, fittingly out of tune and reminding me of croaking frogs, it didn’t matter in the least…

…the song had already captivated me.



“Bulla Ki Jaana Maen Kaun” or “Bhulla, I don’t know who I am”, sung by Punjabi rock singer Rabbi Shergill, immediately went to the top of the list of MY favourite songs. It stays there, firmly at the top, to this day.

It was then strange that it took me three years (until today, June 25, 2008) to finally watch the song’s video. Once again, it blew me away. It reminded me so much of the past that I left behind, it reminded me so much about home…

...The green trees, the inky darkness of the night, the cold kept away from me by four layers of clothing, the warmth of the camp fire, the hotness of delicious tea against my freezing, ungloved hands, the mouth-watering smell of fresh made omelette, jam-packed between two lightly-brown roasted breads, the old radio hanging from the wall, blaring out the song which I fell in love with...

The song has made different impacts on different people. Over three years, I have heard some say that “Shergill sings with gay abandon,” while others “I could feel the heart-wrenching pain in his voice.”

For me, it was both.

This song, each time I got lost in it, made my heart soar like a bird who made its first flight into the deep blue sky. This song made me feel like having taken a prolonged dip in a cold river, on a hot summer day, refreshing me to the core of my being. This song made me feel like a lover, pining for his long lost one. This song made me feel... so much like myself.

Try to hear, see and feel this song.

Do not worry about lyrics, they have been deciphered for you. The camera work is awesome, capturing India’s mood perfectly.

Someday, if I meet the Punjabi gentleman who gave me a song to love forever, I would hold his hand in a firm shake, look into his eyes and say softly…

“Thank you…”

The Dance Of Death!

Today, on March 26, 8.30 pm, I was involved in a spectacle I had only ever heard of before. The Qatar-Iraq World Cup qualifying match having concluded at the Al Sadd Stadium, I was walking towards the place where my car was parked. The atmosphere was a bit windy, balmy and thick with excitement…

…and smoke…

…and screeches of raw rubber burning on asphalt, on the huge parking area, where my Don Whito Corleone lay…

I was witnessing for the first time how Arabs truly proclaimed their happiness. Land Cruisers, Hummers, Nissan Patrols and even a flame red LAMBORGHINI danced the mad dance of victory, the mad dance of death...

A huge circle of cars, mostly white, all turned inwards, with their lights on, made up the arena of fun. Cars, in huge numbers, raced into the circle from different directions, at each other. Swerving at the final moment, they skidded sideways, in full circles, burning rubber, throwing up gut wrenching screeches.

The pattern of the mad, deadly dance shifted with the passing time. Starting out with just two cars, the numbers gradually built up and so did the cheer from the watching white-robed congregation.

And then, another strange noise, like that of croaking frogs, overtook those of the screeching tyres. The people, almost on cue, turned and fled. The cars stopped their deadly antics and rushed for various exit points as one. The revolving blue and reds were here, the cops…

They came in packs, flooding the arena in their powerful Land Cruisers. They cut off the exit points, caught a few death dancers, while many fled. The spectacle, which lasted more than ten minutes, was busted in less than one.

Sometimes, I believe in fate…

Had I decided to go back to the stadium to collect my friend, as was the original plan, I would have missed the entire show. I would not have had anything to write in here.

Now, when me pops asks me if I ever saw the dangerous side of living in Qatar, I can smugly say…been there, done that!

Resolutions!

 

Thats the new look for the new year.

It will last a few months...

...or till the time my sister, or mother, finds out about it!

2007 Is Dead, Long Live 2008!

Words won't be necessary.

These are pictures of 2007. Selected at random.






No, things weren't as bad as that, and NO, I AINT down and out...

Mr. 2008, here i come. Stop me if you bloody well can!

Of An Aquamarine Sea And The Visions It Holds…

The blue waters of the Doha Bay lapped gently against the old black inflated tube, overgrown over the years with sea corrals, off the Marina at the Marriot Hotel. The yacht, slowly moving away from firm land, curved around and began its seaward journey.

The occupants, with wind playing games with their hair, sat mesmerised, as the Filipino captain expertly handled the boat, shouting instructions into his walkie-talkie, in sweet Tagalogue tongue.

The boat’s speed gathered, and wind scattered people’s hair with newfound vigour. The fun was on, and on the top platform of that open luxury Caterpillar yacht, my mind was born again.

I was once again a little child, flying through fresh, sea-salty night air. Stars shone bright, reflected in the deep pools of my fast-filling eyes. My spirit soared like a seagull, ever expanding its trajectory upwards in graceful motion, capable of by only the very best of god’s creations.

We left the Doha shoreline behind, and with the deepening depth, the blue waters turned green. The only other colour was that of the waves, making white froth against the boat’s hull.

I imagined imaginary fishes jump up and plop down back into the water, making widening water circles, to be immediately devoured by the ever-strengthening sea waves. I imagined a bald eagle sweeping down majestically from the heavens above, squarely landing on the water surface, firmly clutching a still-dying fish, that was the master of all it surveyed, till a few seconds a go…

I imagined an imaginary land, hundreds of feet below the calm sea tops, just waiting to be discovered.

I discovered that world, in the insides of the belly of the boat, so unlike its stylish outsides.

Luxury seeped from its every pore. Soft lights emanated from the most unlikely places, giving it an almost ethereal quality. Sunlight played a game of hide and seek with the lush green curtains at the windows. The carpets were softer than freshly sheared wool, off a well-bred Swiss sheep. Rich, sweet music engulfed me and tugged at my heartstrings. And as easily as it appeared, the vision lifted…

The wind still flowed, and I was still at sea.

The glorious, aquamarine, calm, peaceful, life-giving, salty sea…

These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things…

The ‘Sound Of Music’ inspired me, for the millionth time, and hence this list, of a few of my favourite things…

- The wind - sweeping through my hair, tears - forming channels on the sides of my eyes, as I breathe the delicious night air, while coursing the misty dark New Delhi roads, in my silver Honda Activa, on my way to Jama Masjid, seventeen kilometres away from where I lived, to have steaming hot beef kebabs, lovingly baked over red hot coal pieces, and blown hot by the little silver hand operated fan, worked by the little boy, standing nearby, in his traditional Indian Muslim dress…

- Sitting cross-legged, on the floor, with a big elephant-ear shaped leaf in front of me, white, yellow and red curries keeping me company, eagerly looking forward to have the first taste of steaming red rice, cooked in the dark black mud clay pot…

- Slicing the still night with the yellow beam from my pearly white ‘Don Whito Corleone’, during long drives into the desert, with nothing more than soft music, keeping pace with the very beats of my heart…

- Seeing a cloudy sky, feeling the clap of distant thunder, eagerly looking heavenwards, to catch the first round fat water droplet, at the tip of my nose…

- The birds that fly to the south, in an open V formation, with wind on their wings, and courage in their eyes…

- The gentle gooey feeling of clay, sticking to the base of my feet, and the delicious pain that follows, as my bare skin touches the hard white rock below, at the Al Khor beach, on a dark night, with just two friends, and the numerous crab hunters, with their shining lanterns, as small as fireflies, in the distance, clothed in darkness…

- The pain of labour, while giving birth to words, fearing each moment, if they would be lost on me, forever….

- The immense satisfaction, after each successful story written, of having brought into this world, a healthy, screaming, imaginary baby, full of words…

Last, definitely not the least, thinking about my favourite things, and mentally reliving every moment of them, over, and over, and over…

The Written Word…

I sat in the middle of a largely empty stadium, devoid of the numerous screaming fans that usually inhabit it. They were still at least an hour away from me. It was then that I realized that my laptop had died on me. I had nothing but the greens in front of me, gradually springing to life with the frantic footsteps of the camera crew, eager to air the football match that was soon to happen.

Strangely, I was not sad at my predicament of an hour to be burned out… for then, I rediscovered the joy I always felt, when I was writing.

I freed myself from the constant ‘spell checks, word counts and thesaurus checks’ that had made my words plain mechanical. My notebook was once again filled with words that had cuts and bruises on them. My hands protested against the unfamiliar writing routine I was putting it through. Somehow, I felt happy, and I felt human.

Once again, it was that delicious race against time to transfer ideas onto paper, before they disappeared altogether. No one has ever called my handwriting neat. But at that point, I swear I felt that it was the best on the globe.

Though I don’t remember the first word I learned to write, I do remember the first word I spoke - ‘Am-ma’, which means ‘mother’ in my native tongue. I do remember the innumerable hours the lady so selflessly spent, to teach me to write and read. I do remember her gifting me my first ‘join-the-dots-yourself’ alphabet book. I do remember the joy I felt when I completed joining the dots, though I had no idea at the time that I had written what was my first few English alphabets.

Sometimes, in the darkness of my bedroom, when I am balancing myself between consciousness and a dreamless sleep, I rue my loss of the written word.

To own a computer was a childhood fantasy. I yearned to escape from the dirtiness of my written word and graduate to the tiny, neat, roman letters that appeared on screen whenever I gently tapped the white keyboard in front of me. For the 18-year-old boy who was me, it was a dream that led me on while growing up.

Now, two desktops and two laptops later, I yearn to return to the written word, fully knowing that it’s simpler said than done. Computers hold a charm for me no more. In the midst of a rapidly filling stadium, I understood that pen and a sheaf of paper were indeed my greatest friends.

Not to forget the written word was a lesson I learned while I grew up. Not to forget the written word will now be a lesson that I will learn never to forget.

...And Calm Came Down!

Sometimes, emotions built over months will pass in just an hour of simple talking. When it does, one'll feel calm, and peace with oneself.

Like I do now!

The wait, and the calm, was well worth it!

Hallelujah!