Don't you remember?

Memories need no invitation. They're already inside the house of your mind, unobtrusively living in various nooks, crannies and forgotten attics. You'll run into them every now and then; depending on their personality, you'll feel sad, happy or just wistful. Today seems the kind of day that I'm going to run into songs from my past.

Making some space for myself in a crowded train compartment this morning, I suddenly thought about Nirvana's 'Come as you are', a song that took me back to college, a spring day in Pune, lunch at a friend's place in Lohegaon and Ketan's gutsy attempt to sound like Cobain. We stood around, listening to him give it his all, and none of us had the heart to say out loud that he was woefully off key. Maybe he knew it and didn't care. Who knows? Isn't the spirit of college the freedom to try? And isn't it funny that we only realise how much more we could have done after we've left?

Rushing through various nondescript assignments at work, I was feeling increasingly ragged. Outside, it was, and as I type this, still is a lovely, balmy day in Mumbai. The summer heat will be upon us in no time and its best to try and enjoy days like these. Ruminating on this, I thought back to a few days ago, when a friend had shared a link to some lovely old photos of Mumbai life. As I went through them, I saw fragments of a childhood home in Goregaon. The home is gone and Goregaon itself has changed into something else altogether from the cozy, friendly place it was 30 years ago. And just like that, a long-forgotten memory came floating in the wind.

A small living room, two sofas making an L on one side of the room, various people seated or lying on the floor, which is a lovely pink marble speckled with various other stones. It is mid-afternoon and the smell of boiling water (yes it has a smell) and filter coffee powder is wafting slowly from the kitchen. There is a child, sitting close to its mother, who is in conversation with her two brothers. The television is on and the kid, all of 3 years & a bit, is watching the song playing on the screen. I guess, if you are of a certain vintage, you'll recognise the nostalgia the boy associates with the song today, on another spring afternoon, many years later. Maybe you'll even smile and shake a leg...

Song for the moment: Yaar bina chain kaha re - OST Saaheb (1985)

Imitation of life

Bombay makes it very easy to get sucked into the rhythm of work and the peculiar energy that permeates every nook and gutter in the city affects people in two ways.

It can, for instance, trick you into thinking that 2 hour commutes to your office are a normal thing. An ex-colleague would come from Vashi to Wadala on one train, take another from Wadala to Andheri and a third from there to Goregaon. Fighting ugly crowds all the way. His other option was to take an auto to the Vashi bus depot, and then take a 2 hour bus ride to Goregaon. He'd sometimes switch between these two hells. For variety, I suppose.

On the other hand, another bloke I know, who could be described as being a shade like the Marquis de Carabas, will refuse any job opportunity that doesn't appear between Bandra and Juhu, because he doesn't like to travel in Bombay. I see his point. Funnily enough, I see both their points of view as being reasonable.

Anyway, because of all this 'work-work-travel-travel-make money' prancing, its easy to become blind to the entertainment the city offers. Take, for instance, the Kala Ghoda Festival at Fort. There's a ton of stuff and activities on offer, across genres. Ok, so the timings suck for anyone who works, but there was stuff to see and do on the weekends too. Since I've come to Bombay, this was the 4th festival they've held. Every year since 2009, I've made plans to go and then simply didn't. Call it being busy, tired, lazy or downright disinterested. This time around too, the festival was almost over before I could chivvy myself up enough to attend at least one session. And I'm glad I did.

First off, going to South Bombay, or city proper as it were, is a visual treat, if you think Victorian Neo-Gothic and Art Deco are beautiful architectural styles. Heck, make your way past Andheri for 10 minutes and even a shabby, half-broken cuppola on one of the most decrepit of the Fort area's buildings will have you cooing in approval. So, by that standard, Horniman Circle and Asiatic Society buildings don't even have to try. They just are beautiful. Spend some time there and then head back towards the suburbs and you begin to wonder whether the words 'aesthetic sense' were quietly banished from the city. 

Yesterday, there were two open air music shows at the Asiatic Society steps. The setting was charming and the shows, by Niladri Kumar and the Raghu Dixit Project, were lovely. There was a moment when the sky was indigo, Venus was shining bright, a cool breeze wafted in and the buildings were enveloped in a golden glow. If there were no reference point, it could have been any city in the world. But since it is Bombay, instead of completely enjoying the music, I got to wondering if it made sense to hold the programme in the vicinity of a Grade A heritage building. Why? Because, there's a fair number of people I saw who lack even a jot of propriety, never mind any respect for property. Why else would people deliberately hoist themselves onto the steps from the side, anchoring their weights on the old bannisters and balustrades? All the while, admiringly cheered on by a crowd of lunatics standing nearby.

The original architect must have envisioned the construction for people, not idiots. Which is why it came as no surprise that the poor structure began to shake as wave after wave of Gen Yers (and I'm beginning to think that's a good name, since we can only ask why their parents hadn't bothered with a prophylactic during coitus) anchored themselves to the railings and climbed across. Some bright beans from the oldies category, no doubt seeing their misplaced sense of manhood threatened, followed suit. All this, 20 feet away from 3 cops, who, driven by a sense of duty and honour, proceeded to blow their police whistles, wave their arms about indignantly and volubly suggest that the miscreants engaged in incestuous behaviour.

Amidst the lovely surroundings and great music, it was a sad and stark reminder - this is Bombay. Anything goes, as long as you get what you want.

And in this thought, I see the burden this city bears.

Song for the moment - Hey Bhagwan - The Raghu Dixit Project

Window to the world

The glass walls of the office let him stare at the people on the other side. As a scene, it was not extraordinary. Neither were the people. People were after all, just people. The observer and the observed shared a floor, but they could have been worlds apart.

After many minutes of observation, he understood. Perhaps. Those on the outside looked comfortable. He did not know them. He had no idea about their daily office lives, never mind the ones they led after leaving at the end of the day. But there was no getting around it - they just looked content. Confident. Cheerful. Hopeful. Like they knew they'd be able to handle anything life threw their way.

He felt as aware of this as the people were unaware of him.

They looked alive. He looked like he would never be.

Song for the moment: For what it's worth - Buffalo Springfield

I gave you all

It never fails.

Stress, frustration, angst, ennui, boredom, the stifling, never-ending pile of work... call it what you will. This amalgamated feeling will build, build and build. Sometime in midweek, when you're literally forcing one foot in front of the other out of sheer bloody-mindedness and fatigue, a vision will appear in your mind's eye.

A pub, a beer pitcher, music, and the kind of friends with whom you can stay comfortably silent for any length of time and still call it conversation.

Of course, at that moment, there will be no recourse.

So you'll write this post and take solace in the past. 

Song for the moment: Under the bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Tiny Dancer

I can't think of many advantages to being a short person. If you are no good at sports, you tend to get bullied in school because you can't hack it as an athlete. If your social graces are awkward at best, you tend to get ignored in college for the most part and slink around campus like Gollum. Heck, there's even data suggesting that tall people get paid and treated better, right throughout their lives. So, the 'altitudinally' challenged get the short end of the stick, as it were. Which is consistent, I suppose.

Still, there's one place where you'd think it might be beneficial to be small of stature - the Bombay local to Borivali during the evening rush hour. Look, this is no forum to debate the horrors of train travel at said time. In my previous job, I've taken trains in what is as the 'wrong direction' in Bombay-speak, so I didn't quite understand the nitty-gritties of the situation. My new job is in town, so I finally travel in the same direction along with what is effectively the population of a small country. Space, in those splendidly minuscule 1st class compartments, is at a premium. This is where the short bloke is supposed to come into his own, laugh at his taller brethren and travel with impunity. From personal experience, I sadly report that this is complete balderdash.

In rush hour, the tall guys seen to stand their ground by force of physical presence and considerable will. The short chaps are summarily dismissed as a waste of space and either discover flexibility that would have B.K.S Iyengar taking notes or find themselves involuntarily alighting at the wrong station with a host of other people. The tall get to stack their bags in the overhead rack, whilst the short resort to strapping bags in front, waddling around like pregnant ladies. And don't even get me started on the shoe-stamping. It would be better for the petite to learn to levitate.

Years ago, I read a book on body language which spoke at length about the Occidental need for personal space and how the violation of this space made them very uncomfortable. I wish that lot would get a crash course in the harsh realities of life, by having them travel like other Mumbaikars for just one day. I suspect there would be a marked cooling of expectations and rapid reorganisation of thoughts on what personal space really means. Also, a very thorough understanding of the meaning of 'violation' and maybe even 'molestation'.

However, it has to be said that the train is a great leveler in rush hour. Finding yourself unintentionally executing one of the more complicated Kathakali poses, your eyes just might meet those of a fellow struggler. Regardless of stature, the accepted practice is to smile wanly, give a Gallic shrug of recognition and pray that your destination arrives as soon as possible. When in Bombay...

Song for the moment: Standing in the doorway - Bob Dylan

Wrapping paper

After swearing to lay off the sappy stuff on the blog, it was but natural that the last post would be swimming in that tripe. However, it has been shrugged off just as we're about to wrap up another year.

2011 started off at a stagger, collapsed a couple of times, got knocked out once and after a pick-up & dust-off, and a calibration of directions, began a steady jog-trot towards the finish. On the professional front, I gracefully parted ways with my organisation sometime around November. It'd been a decent ride and I would have continued there for a while longer were it not for extenuating circumstances. I took the opportunity to closely examine the idea of plunging into freelance writing, tried my hand at a couple of projects and learned that one needs to be fully committed to the experience and whatever comes along with it. I wasn't ready, so I interviewed and successfully have got another job in Bombay, a city which isn't done with me yet. I'll be starting at the place in January.

On the personal front, its been one of the best years of my life. I met this lovely girl and have been in a wonderfully fulfilling relationship for some time now and I hope to... Screw it. I can't sustain that kind of nonsensical lying, even in text. Status quo this year. Thank heavens for books and BBC Entertainment.

As is par for course, the end of the year balanced the good news about the new job with the bad news about my laptop. Old faithful completed 5 years at the start of the month and promptly crashed a fortnight later, taking all my data with it. I do backups of course, but it'd been a while so I lost a lot of stuff I'd been working on for my projects. Yes, its inconvenient, both for me and others who are depending on my writing. But there's no point crying over spilt milk so I'm picking up the proverbial pieces and trying to put them back together asap. Its kept me away from the internet / computer for a bit, which is not that bad a thing, on the whole.  

I don't want to bother heaping ridiculous expectations on 2012. Suppose I'll do my bit and wait for the dice to roll kindly.

I do want to write more though. Lets see. Good luck with the new year, all.

Song for the moment: Playing for time - Acoustic Alchemy

Reference Point

The next time you hear "there's no use revisiting the past", take note. It is good, solid advice. Let me tell you what could happen, when you choose to ignore it.

I've never been one of those blokes who'd give Charles Atlas or any of his brethren a complex. But the slightly slothful lifestyle brought on by working as a consultant for the last month, mostly spent working and writing at home, has taken its toll. A hint of chubbiness has started suggesting itself again, which is troublesome. The path to hell, or rotundity, is paved with vada pavs and other good intentions, so I haven't engaged in any urgently-required callisthenics. Having shamed myself enough, I decided to go for a jog today at the Pune University track.

The University is where I spent two years at the Anthropology department collecting a degree. They were good years, marked more by normalcy than anything else. At that point in my life, normalcy suited me just fine. I'd been jogging at the track there for a few years, so being on campus made it even easier to be faithful to the regimen. And trust me, considering the condition of the track, serious effort is needed to remain faithful. Laziness and a lack of money and other options helps too.

I understand the University may not be resting on sackfuls of shekels, but they could and sadly, can still make at least a modicum of effort to maintain the facilities. Taking inspiration from some ancient Olympic site, the track was originally constructed entirely of mud, with the hope that regular watering and care would help grass grow on the surface. Well, the cows that pass through the campus had other ideas, and were no doubt delighted with being provided a kilometre long snack bar. The track is popular with Punekars and there's a sizeable crowd of people there, morning or evening.

With the passage of time, some sections began to wear out, but that was not considered a problem. Mud is plentifully available. Some bright bean decided otherwise, filling these sections with the choicest of carefully considered sharp stones and bricks. In one fell stroke, it became one of the most challenging obstacle courses in town and has stayed that way for as long as I can remember. People have adopted a peculiar half-trot, half-stumble style when navigating it which is hilarious when viewed from the sidelines. If you can hack through the many thorny bushes lining the track, that is.

I used to be able to run about 5 km continuously. I fortuitously managed 1 km today, before having to stop and move briskly away from a nasty looking stray dog that had collared (ha!) one section of the track. After a couple of shortened rounds, my lungs began frantically telegraphing a "its us or you" signal, so I stopped the sham. And then challenged the past a second time by paying a visit to my department. Again, I shouldn't have. Sunlight filtered through the trees, bathing the place in a cheerful winter evening glow. Which was good since the management seemed to be on some cost-cutting measure and most of the lights in the place had been turned off.

Unbidden, the ghosts of old scenes began to move across the landscape; the group camaraderie at the end of many tough days, moments of friendship, solitude, celebration and grief. The worst was the memory of failed romance. Feelings of "what might have been" seep through the fabric of all our old memories but stab deepest in the case of lost love and its regrets. I scooted out of there.

And, since I was on a roll, went back to school.

Loyola looked as lovely and serene as always, framed by hills and a beautiful sky palette painted by the setting sun. A lonely jet liner cut across the horizon, white plumes marking its path whilst a group of boys were engaged in a game of football on the playing field. It was a scene guaranteed to have Wordsworth going into paroxysms of delight and start blathering on about daffodils and such. But all I could think about on my years at school was a lot of personal potential and possibilities wasted.

In this kind of wistful & melancholic mood, it is easy to blame people and circumstances from the past for who you are today. Thankfully though, I've just finished Abhinav Bindra's superb autobiography 'A shot at history'. It is a must-read, not only because it is superbly written but also because you get a keen understanding into the amount of desire, hard work, discipline and focus needed to be successful. He took these elements to extraordinary levels, but heck, there was an Olympic gold medal at the end of that road.

So, while there may be some just cause for blaming factors beyond our control for our current lives, I suspect quite a few of us could also direct many of those accusatory arrows at ourselves. At the end of the day, if we can't learn any lessons from our experiences, being stuck in a past soaked with regret is all we'll be left with. Surely we can try to do better?

Song for the moment: Don't stop - Fleetwood Mac