A Special Note of Thanks to All of You

                                                                                                                                     Mumbai,

1^st August, 2011

To My Dearest Followers,

This is a very Special Note of Thank You to all of you who have supported me from the time I picked up my pen to compose my first word in my blog. Although I do not have a mind boggling number of followers, but the quality of your encouragements through all your comments as well as emails have prompted me to send across my humble collection of short stories to a handful of reputed publishers in India. Now, 2 months later, my first collection of short stories which I have named “Strange Connections” is underway. The editing & the cover design work is going on and the earliest the book is expected to hit the market will be in December.

I would especially like to thank Legacy who inspired me to write again after a ten year break from creative writing. I have also mentioned the following people in my acknowledgements :

Drachma – For being the first to encourage me and always being my ardent reader.

Psycho Basher – For the complete and unconditional support.

Cayman – For always being there and for giving meaning to my writings.

And to all those whom I have not mentioned, every single word from you has been my inspiration to reach out & connect to a nameless stranger who knows me intimately through my writings.

Thanks for all the inspiration guys. You all are simply wonderful!

With Love,

JM 99

The Gulmohar Tree

Right in the centre of the construction site of the new five-star hotel stood a gulmohar tree. The tree was an impediment to the layout of the plans for the premise. There was no other option but to bring it down.

Over many long and laborious years the roots of the tree had slowly penetrated the earth, spreading out intuitively to suck in the life force that made the tender sapling bloom into a strong and proud tree. The roots branched out unevenly in apparently random directions but sure in the knowledge and wisdom of experience. The roots brought stability and security in the whimsical tides of fortune. It held the gulmohar tree firmly and obstinately. It prevented the tree from sailing on a raft of clouds to experience the euphoria of flight. It stopped the tree from walking away from disaster. It grounded the gulmohar tree decisively and surely to its home and its identity.

Over many a summer and monsoon and autumn, the sapling had shot up and reached for the heavens through its branches spread out to greet the call of the wild. The branches divided and subdivided to embrace the creativity unimaginable to the roots. They sang with the birds and danced with the breeze. They embodied the deepest aspirations and expressions of the soul of the tree and bore flowers of radiant, unparalleled beauty. They brought fulfilment to the gulmohar tree.

The tree weathered many a storm due to the strength of its roots and sought many an ideal due to the expanse of its branches.

The engineers of the construction site pondered upon the most effective method in bringing down the gulmohar tree. They debated whether to uproot it from its stump or to cut off the branches first. It is always a dilemma which is more painful.....the death of the life flowing through the body or the ruthless murder of the spirit of life. What can the roots support if the branches are amputated? What is security without dreams? What good are the branches when the roots are wrenched off? What are dreams without strength?

In the middle of the construction site stood a gulmohar tree; and while the engineers were busy making plans to replace the tree with the foundation of a swimming pool, the tree lived and breathed and dreamed life to its overflowing brim, blissfully unaware and unconcerned about five star hotels and profitability of business.

After all, the tree had learned that the intensity of life matters more than illusions of permanence. 

The Complete Picture

I smile.

I have a sip from my cup. Green tea with lemon and honey. Here am I, perched on the window seat of a perfect life, having a perfect cup of tea. Only thing is that the perfect life is an incomplete puzzle and I have just glimpsed the missing part that will complete it. I have just seen the complete picture. My perfect life is not perfect any more. Perfection lies in completion of the picture.

There is a key somewhere in the universe that will determine the one single move that will place the missing part in its proper place and give meaning to a truth beyond the definitions of reason. Or it may be a series of moves synchronised by a higher hand. Why do I feel that the orchestra is already set in motion? Why do I feel the inevitability of the impossible? Why do I know that what is wrong has never been more right than now?

I look outside the window beyond the lazy traffic and see a makeshift pavement tea shop. I see men from the poor walks of life...the daily labourers, the watchmen, auto drivers, the construction workers; I see them huddled together enjoying their tea , their gossip, and their mutual company. My eyes fall on a particular figure for no particular reason. He sits there on the ledge, contemplating over his tea. I see imperfection in him. I see perfection in him. I feel he is no different than what I have ever been. Does the universe hold the key for him too? Will he one day find the missing part to complete his puzzle? He should, for after all, he is same as you and me.

I feel incredibly fortunate. I have a vision. It does not belong to my life and the window seat. It belongs to the mountains and the sea and every bit of me. Maybe the vision is my life. It belongs to me. The flower that I hold and whose scent I breathe in belonged to a bush which is part of the garden that I see, that borders the walls of our compound just below my window seat. We all belong to each other, we all hold together the complete picture. The vision saved my life. I have hope. Beyond my window seat lies a pavement tea shop. Beyond imperfection, lies completion.

I cry. There are no words to describe the rhythm of the beats to which my soul is dancing. There is so much joy in those tears. There is so much longing in that joy. There is so much contentment beyond that longing. There is so much pain in that contentment. There is so much love in that pain. And there is the whole universe in that love.

I smile.

The Silent Pond

The pond was still and calm, and its depth unexplored. It was tranquil and playful and full of bliss. How large it was I do not know but it encompassed all known concepts of peace and love. It was steady and I could glide in its still waters with the enthusiasm of a child and the ease of a practiced professional. The pond was lively in its calmness and joyous in its serenity. It reflected the colours of the trees and the flowers around it and danced with the silver moonlight at night. The pond was the only life there was that I knew.

That was until someone threw a pebble in it. The pebble caused a ripple that disturbed the stillness of the pond. The slight disturbance grew more intense as the pebble was followed by more pebbles. Soon everybody was throwing pebbles at the silent pond. There was a turmoil. The ripples became angry waves and the waves became currents and exploded with alarming speed to knock every part of the tranquil pond. There was no more laughter, no more joy. Before my eyes, the pond changed into an angry ocean full of tides and undercurrents, threatening to swallow the simplicity I knew.

The ocean had strength and passion. It lured, it shouted, it spoke a hundred words. Yet it could not speak the profound truth reflected in the pond. It roared and was joined by the howling wind. Together they screamed of treasures found and treasures lost. They howled of deceit and anger. They abused the tides and cried of abandonment. They did not understand love.

Men rode the waves on mighty ships. Some were out to challenge the world, some to make a fortune, and some just to ride an adventure. Nobody understood the language of the child. The ocean raged and fumed and tossed the mere mortals out in grave fury, indifferent to the emotions of humans. Its fury frightened some while others were enchanted and attracted. But no-one understood its meaning.

I was wrapped in the mystery of life unfolding and changing before my eyes. I forgot about the silent pond. I dreamt of the merchants and pirates of the sea. I was sucked in by the unfathomable secrecy of the ocean.

I fought to free myself from the conspiracy of the waves and the abuses of the winds and somehow, a haunting note penetrated the chaos and whispered to me some long forgotten songs. I trust the song and follow it as I know I am loved and secure. Somewhere, very deep, in the realms of my mind, I know that I have been caressed by joy and divinity profoundly in a space and time where there is a silent pond that reflects my naked self intimately.

(I dedicate this post to my dear friend Cayman, who led me back to the Silent Pond i had forgotten)

Ten Rupees

The humidity was unbearable. It was a cloudy day in June, summer had given way to the rains. As per the usual ritual, monsoon had hit the thirsty earth with thorough vengeance; then, perhaps a bit exhausted, had taken a pause. The pause was filled with gloomy, cloudy, sultry days that craved for evenings when the Sea Gods would send a breather in the form of the sea wind to blow away the perspiration from the face of Mumbai.

It was late afternoon on one such day that she sat on the front seat of the BEST bus(local bus of Mumbai), normally reserved for ladies. She was lucky to get a seat, as usually she had to wait for the Mahim stop where a large number of commuters alighted, to get a chance to sit. As she settled deep in a reverie, absent-mindedly absorbing the passing sights of a tired city, the throng of people occupying every possible space in the bus gradually built up to a point of saturation. There were now two standing lines and the conductor squeezed his way to and fro with practised perfection to reach out to the crowd, impatient to buy their tickets.

Shweta wondered idly how long would it be that she would need to commute in this fashion. With her next pay hike due in October, she may be able to afford an auto rickshaw at least one way. She may settle for an apartment where she need not share the rent with four other working ladies. Maybe, she could afford a twin sharing apartment. She dreamt of the occasional dinners she could afford at her favourite ‘Carlton Court’ corner in Bandra, instead of settling for the local ‘Udipi’ restaurant every evening.

Her flow of thoughts was interrupted by a commotion somewhere near the rear of the bus. The commotion soon gathered volume and strength as several people joined in. Straining her ears and turning her neck to get a view of what was unfolding, she heard the bus conductor scream, “Just get off! Then he breathlessly continued, why do such ‘evra’(slang for mad) people get on the bus when they don’t have money for the fare? Saala chutiya!(f***ing bastard) Wasting everybody’s time! ”

The interplay of the high humidity and the general struggle of everyday life allowed tempers to soar at the slightest provocation. The person to whom the expletives were addressed to, seemed to stop his pleading and announced, “All right, all right, I will get down. I don’t need your sympathy, all for mere 50 paise!” Shattering the exchange, Shweta heard the high pitched voice of a lady with Parsi accent. “Why make so much fuss for 50 paise? Bechara (poor thing), he must be garib(poor)! Let him on.”

Without the slightest hesitation, the conductor’s voice boomed, “Maaji (respected mother), I face 20 such commuters every day. If I were to pay 50paise from my pocket for each of them, I would end up paying ten rupees every day, the cost of my daily vada pav; and I cannot afford to miss my lunch every day.”

This was followed by a stunned silence till someone uttered “Badabar hai! (He is right!)”

Shweta vaguely wanted to donate 50 paise to save the day but she was incapable of acting. Deep in her mind, she realised that her probable pay hike may be better utilised for the weekend course in graphics designing that she was always planning to take.

After all, six months of her luxury in a twin sharing apartment combined with cosy meals and comfortable commuting may cost her the opportunity to have the requisite qualification for a better career. Compared to the basic unfulfilled need of a ‘vada pav’ lunch, even the better career prospect seemed humble. But still!

She shuddered and silently thanked the opportunity for a front seat reserved for ladies on a crowded BEST bus (public bus of Mumbai) in peak hour rush.

The Quarrel

The quarrel started over a minor issue. Mrs Menon’s daughter Ria and Mrs. Sen’s daughter Parul were playing in the shade of the Gulmohar tree on one fine, sunny morning. It was a midsummer morning and the kids’ schools were closed for the summer vacations. They had been playing badminton and hopscotch till the sun became too hot to endure. So they took their dolls and kitchen sets and started playing in the cool shade of the tree. All was going well, till Ria thought it amusing to pull the dress off Parul’s doll and in the process managed to break the doll’s arms. Now Parul was feeling tired and quite hungry and at that moment the damage instilled on her favourite doll under her very eyes proved to be the last straw. On a child’s impulse, she reached out and pulled Ria’s hair. Ria, being the more timid of the two, found herself helpless and scampered off to her mother, howling.

Within ten minutes, Mrs. Menon, a big, heavy set lady came storming to ring the bell at the Sens’ apartment. Mrs Sen was entertaining a client at home as her office was undergoing renovation. Paying no heed to courtesy, Mrs Menon embarked on a long and very descriptive assault on Mrs Sen’s daughter’s aggressive, impudent behaviour. Mrs Sen, sufficiently embarrassed, vowed to intervene later as she was having a guest. This further fuelled Mrs Menon’s anger as she increased her volume of uttering expletives and refused to budge from the door. Mrs Sen, who was by now sufficiently humiliated in front of her client, and seething with rage, slammed the door on her face.

Things took a turn for the worse very quickly, as Mrs Menon wasted no time to gather all the ladies of the building and report that she had seen with her own eyes Mrs Sen resort to ‘inappropriate behaviour with an unknown male in her house during the absence of her husband.’ A few of the ladies who were generally bored housewives and desperate for entertainment in any form, seconded her allegation. They claimed that they had all seen Mrs Sen with dubious looking men in her house at all hours of the day when her husband was at work. In no time at all, Mrs Sen’s reputation was laid to dust.

In the evening, when the respective husbands returned from work, the matter took a different turn. The moment the exhausted men returned home to toss aside their brief cases and sink down on the couch demanding a blissful cup of tea, they were ambushed by their incensed wives. The poor men hardly had time to breathe when they were pounced upon with exaggerated details of the day’s activities from two totally different perspectives.

Mrs Sen, who was always the polished, diplomatic kinds, soon manipulated her husband to lodge a complaint with the housing society regarding the Menons’ lack of civic sense in leaving their garbage out near their neighbour’s door each morning and making their dog relieve itself on the common staircase landing. Before he had a chance to shower and gulp down the tea, Mr Sen was off to the Society Secretary’s place with a written complaint against the Menons. He even gathered a few signatures on the way from a handful of ‘witnesses’ who happened to be none other than his Bridge partners every Sunday.

By the next morning, the whole building accommodating thirty two apartments, were teeming with excitement. There was quite a lot on the ‘unofficial agenda’ of the monthly meeting of the housing society scheduled for the coming Sunday. Mrs Sen had a reputation to save by counter accusing her assailants while Mrs Menon was driven to prove a point.

The birds chirped and the breeze made waves on the carpet of grass. It was a light, cloudy day in summer, perfect for a picnic. Butterflies fluttered along the path of tiny violet blossoms hidden by the grass. Two little girls rolled on the green carpet, playing with the butterflies and laughing in spontaneous delight. Ria and Parul cherished every moment of their holiday, lost in an innocent world where fights happened everyday to be forgotten.

 A little way off, in the club house hall, a meeting was on and two very agitated families were playing a different ball game, trying to settle a quarrel with heigtened zeal and purpose.

The Wait

The rains had paused on an impulse after drenching the city for twelve long hours. Alas, in the concrete jungle of the big city, the rain loses its romance to overflowing gutters and mud puddles. Against this backdrop, she waited, on Paltform number 1 of Bandra Station, under the big station clock. She waited, trying to ignore the stench in the air and the tide of mud-splattered, perspiring bodies pushing past her in waves, to catch a foothold in the Churchgate local.

Her dress was sufficiently ruined, thanks to the sadistic delights of auto rickshaws speeding over the mud puddles, drenching her in muck from head to toe. Her pretty sandals were caked with mud from the station stairs. She was waiting for her date. Between cursing the effects of rain and the lack of punctuality of her boy friend, she glanced at the station clock every few seconds.

Her mind was in a state to invite chaos. So she let herself be tormented with the recent memories of a ruthless boss who hogged the limelight at her expense. The fury and resentment that these thoughts invited, paved the way for a chain of never ending bitterness towards a roommate who had not returned a substantial portion of her hard – earned salary, towards an unrelenting landlord, an uncompromising colleague and finally, her inconsiderate boy friend who dared to make her wait under such pathetic circumstances. She knew that he would finally arrive with a big grin on his face and an even bigger bunch of red roses as a sincere attempt to compensate for her distress. She knew that she would finally relent.

He stood on the overcrowded bus, sandwiched between a plump lady and a college girl, the umbrella of the former poking his back, while the wet, spiky hair of the latter brushing against his face. He had stood this way for the past half hour during which the bus had progressed barely a few yards. Evening traffic was always bad, and coupled with an outpouring of monsoon shower, it completely paralysed the city. He glanced at his watch again. He was running late, too late. He knew that despite the delay, he would have to make a dash for the florist at the junction of Linking Road and S.V Road, and then sprint the remaining distance to the station dodging moody auto rickshaws and careless pedestrians. He cursed his last minute meeting called by his sadistic boss that had ensured that he miss the earlier bus. Now he had no option but to hang on to the jerky and painfully slow bus ride and brace himself for the inevitable tongue lashing which awaited him. Someone from the rear of the bus had switched on FM and the magical notes of Kishore Kumar drifted to fill up the imposed pause in life....pal pal dil ke paas tum rehti ho (every moment of my life I feel you with me)

She glanced at the station clock once again. And then, inadvertently her gaze fell on the beggar. She had seen the same beggar many a time at around the same spot, next to the corner pillar. His hair was long and tangled, his beard dirty and unkempt. His left foot was amputated and there was an open wound on his right knee which was infected, possibly septic. His tragic plight was such an eyesore that the reflex of any sane person would have dictated him or her to look away and save one’s mind from a blend of disgust and pity. But today, he was not alone. A stray dog, very thin and bathed in mud, shared his intimate space. As she looked on with bewilderment, the beggar tore a piece of stale chapatti which was placed on a piece of newspaper and fed the dog with extreme care and devotion, then he tore another piece and took a bite himself. The dog nuzzled close and the beggar looked contented and at ease. There was no trace of any chaos in his mind. As she watched, losing track of time, the beggar and the dog continued to share the chapatti in utter bliss and with that chapatti they shared a mutual companionship of unconditional respect and love. The eyesore has disappeared, and the mental block had cleared. She saw a unique beauty of life unfold before her eyes, a beauty so raw and tender, that it invaded her soul with its touch. The squalor and odours of Bandra station vanished from her sphere of sensations and in its place there was the scent of wet earth mingled with nostalgia.

The little girl selling the flowers was dripping wet; her meagre, tattered frock clung to her slender body. She was asking less than half the price for the dozen roses. She was hungry, and desperate for some money to buy bread. She was running from car to car, knocking on windows, pleading for someone to buy her roses.

He forgot about the usual florist in the usual corner. He took all her roses and paid her liberally. Then, on a weird impulse, he turned around and gave her a single rose from the bunch he had bought for his lady. It had started to drizzle again and he had to hurry to reach his destination.

They took an auto rickshaw to Bandstand. The rocks were submerged by the tide. They gazed at the last hues of orange shading the horizon and scattering its vibes on the Arabian Sea. They waited for an eternity saying nothing but absorbing the spirit of the rains romancing the city of mud and grime. There was no need for impatience for there was always enough time for everything.

(I dedicate this post to my dear friend Cayman who has inspired me with a little story on Cayman time)