The Swayamvara

I looked at the wedding venue’s address again. Then, I looked up. There it was. The mandapam. Not bad. Even though I had lived in Chennai for more than a decade, I still found it a challenge to locate addresses outside Adyar. And this was way outside Adyar. But credits to the mandapam itself- it was massive, and definitely hard-to-miss. I shrugged my shoulders, half in resignation, half in fearful anticipation, before I walked in. The welcoming committee recognized me almost immediately; they comprised of all my classmates, and half of my best friends. After some cheery banter, they showed me to a seat, and went back to the entrance to resume their duty. I, for my part, slumped in my seat, and turned my attention to the most attention-demanding event in the hall- the music. Old veterans of semi-forgotten instruments played them like they were an extension of their arms. Familiar music enveloped the crowd, which was gradually swelling. The music, ever so familiar, continued to emanate from those instruments, which led me to ponder- did these players understand what they were playing? Did they appreciate the magnitude of the task faced by their ancestors, who sat down and said,” Listen, we need to come up with something for a wedding. What do the guys who come early do, else? We need to keep them occupied.”? Or did they just do it, learnt by rote from their dads for ages, so they could earn their 20K package to feed their families, until the next wedding? I paid close attention to the mridangam player. I had heard say that these people had to, as part of their training, slap rocks, cold water, and sand, to harden their palms. Did he think of the first time he cradled his swollen palms, or had he taken the sum of his experiences for granted, the magnitude of which has lost significance because of the numbing effects of Time? You could read nothing off his face, as it looked expressionlessly at the trumpet player for the next signal. So, I switched my quiet study to the trumpet player. Having been an asthma patient from birth, I could definitely appreciate the effort he put into sustaining a note till the veins danced and shimmered on his forehead and neck, a grotesque tribute to his skill. I closed my eyes, and let my head fall back a little. In what seemed like almost two heartbeats, I felt someone shake me awake, and tell me that I was expected to stand right next to the Bride’s family. I winced. This was exactly what I had been trying to avoid, but it couldn’t be helped now, and I let myself be led away. I saw familiar faces, but I was in no mood to engage anyone this morning. I fixed my gaze on the flowers adorning the altar. My brain yet again tried providing useless statistics to distract, as I vaguely remembered that on an average, almost 20% of the wedding expenditure, including jewellery, went to the purchase and transport of flowers, and its subsequent use in decoration. That money could cover another hall’s rent and food.
Suddenly, the tempo of the music changed to something more urgent, signaling the entrance of the bride, and my heart lulled to a stop, gently. I had imagined this moment a dozen different ways, with me in it, before I found out that the truth was starkly different. Afterwards, my mind had continued to imagine it in endlessly different scenarios, but my imagination couldn’t capture a speck of what actually unfolded. The music, the lights, the smell of jasmine….and She.
Truthfully, she was something of a Plain Jane in pictures, except for a really glowing smile. But having known her for almost ten years, I knew every one of her vast range of expressions, and the emotions they conveyed, and what every nuance in her voice meant. And the entire sum of her was something I stood in silent awe of; something that made me sit down, and say, “Gosh, there really must be a God. Who else could possibly make such a complex and wonderful creature?”
But now, no matter how much I tried blaming the advances in cosmetics, she sat there, a vision to be beheld, a sight to be silently appreciated with naked admiration in everyone’s eyes. I knew it wasn’t anything to do with the stunning silk sari, as much as her proud, yet relaxed, posture, which made her look like a Queen, even if she were to wear a lab coat. She looked around once, and her eyes almost bugged out when her glance rested on me. I couldn’t blame her, as I had absolutely, and firmly, refused her invitation two months ago. I flashed the half-mocking, half-comforting grin I always reserved for her, showing her I was still her old confidante and fellow adventurer. She hesitated, and then grinned so brightly that I felt a dull CLUNK somewhere in my chest cavity. I slouched a little at the pretext of picking flowers from a bowl, to ease the pain. Then, the music turned again, as the groom was brought back in by the father-in-law, having convinced him from absolving from his “Kashi-yatra”. I couldn’t help but begin making comparisons between he and I; I was five inches taller, fifteen kilos lighter, and three shades fairer. My IQ points might have exceeded his by at least 20, and salary by 20K. Most importantly of all, I loved her, and had been around her for a decade. He had been lucky they picked his name from a list of fifteen other guys off a matrimonial site, thirteen months ago. Yet, why wasn’t I the guy in white, being led by the father-in-law to the altar?
I wasn’t of the same caste, and he was.
For an unfettered second, I railed bitterly at my ancestors for having decided to stay in Kerala instead of moving to Tamil Nadu. Then, I sighed. I probably would have been Mr. Doofus there, if I had been brought up by his family. And I would never have had a chance with being anything to her, as Mr. Doofus.
We had never been romantically involved. We had been too close a pair of friends by the time I realized she was something much more to me. I had taken it for granted that we would spend our lives together, as I knew she was as dependent on me as I was on her. Nothing prepared me for the quiet chat we had, while she recounted in an impersonal, clinical manner, how she met a stranger, and had fixed a date with him to get to know him better. The overwhelming emotions, the helpless rage directed at no one in particular, the silent meditation on the caste system, and its impact, were still vivid. That the system, once meant to establish social harmony in times of yore, was being practised blindly in modern times set a series of thoughts in motion, which led to forbidden habits, and a haze of memories stitched together, as I surrendered myself to vices that promised to ease the pain, show me an answer, wipe out that which was etched.
Unpleasant memories were suddenly dispelled by the sudden rise of the music to that familiar and dreaded crescendo, when the groom tied the thread around the bride’s neck. I had planned on being far away for this event, eyes turned to a sight that could overwhelm the mental pictures I was sure to conjure. But suddenly, an inexplicable instinct took over me, commanding me to witness the events to follow. It was like a well-wisher’s silent, firm and purposeful gesture, telling me, “Look. Pay close attention; this is one of your life’s most defining moments. Do not miss it, for all your worth. Witness it as penance, as punishment, as atonement, as an exorcism.” I fixed my gaze on her bared neck, as her mother helped the groom tie the thread, finally passing the responsibility of that priceless miracle on to another family. But knowing her, I knew she’d hardly be responsible to anyone but herself. I smiled, and threw flowers at the couple, now circling the sacred fire slowly, hand in hand. The Earth and Moon, paying homage to the Sun that sustains them. I was Venus, alone and zooming off rapidly in another direction with every second. The sight sent unseen swords sliding in smoothly and silently, between ribs, through joints and right through my heart. Then, I spent the bravest and most torturous thirty two minutes, watching as the couple attained the blessings of all the elders, until my resolve snapped, and I shuddered as I let animal instinct take control over me. I quietly turned, and blindly shoved my way through the oncoming crowd. By the time I had reached the gates, I was half-blind, and I stumbled as I pulled my bike out, and started it. Just before I could flee, I noticed the groom’s name one last time.
“At least that’s one thing that you beat me in- the length of our names.”
I turned to look at the foreboding-looking entrance to the hall. I silently bowed my head for a minute, wishing her all the good, the glory and joy she deserved, and more.
The bike coughed a mournful cough once, as I disappeared into the ever-welcome, never-discriminating traffic, that Great Equalizer.

The Dance and Death of Kuma The Bear

April 5th, 2013

Tag words: missing tooth, makeup, horoscope

Eradi checked his horoscope in the newspaper at exactly 7:12AM, after having digested the headlines at 7:00AM, the sports page at 7:07AM and the obituaries at 7:10AM. Do not think him morbid, or dark, in any manner; he had developed the habit of looking out for friends' names ever since he hit the age of 75 in a dramatic manner- plunging through the safety net from a height of about a tenth of a kilometre at his last act of trapeze. Eradi still treasured the blood soaked costume from then. Now, he resided in St. Mary Ann's Nursing Home for the Aged, paid for by an NGO who took care of circus artists and folk dancers. He read the papers everyday, made no trouble about his breakfast, and properly utilized his time outside in the evening. Eradi was a good inmate in all manners, but one; every night, at 7:00PM, he would return to his room, lock the door behind him, and play blaring music from an aged tape recorder. The Matron had tried gifting him a music player, but had withdrawn his offer hastily, when the taciturn Eradi's face turned a squishy, bright red with apoplexy. The music, hence, continued to blare, and the Matron resignedly changed the TV timings of the B block to 7:00PM. Thus, every night, the corridor stood empty witness to Eradi's revisitations of his past. For, no one ever knew that Eradi had smuggled in his face paint, his makeup, his other "self". The music he played was his act's song- "The Dance and Death of Kuma The Bear", by Ji Tzu Tan. He would never forget the progression of notes even if he were to die, for he had been born to it; a child born in a circus caravan to 2 trapeze artists. 

Every child's dream.

What a nightmare. 

His entire life could be summarized into that 6 minute track. He had relished his accident, utterly believing that he had escaped that life, that costume, that song. 

Yet, the first night in the nursing home, the nightmare had occurred, more vivid than his vision had been in 13 years. The net, the speeding earth, the twanging snap of rope, and the gnashing crunch of bone. But, the crescendo of the dream (and the song) was the abrupt discontinuing of the song, the silence that did not belong in the story. Someone had shut the song off.

Why had they turned the song off?

Had he, Eradi, not the right to listen to the song that had been his ditty, his anthem, his friend and his dirge? 

He had woken up screaming in terror, at the idea that someone, anyone, could, with the press of a button,stop the song that was, in essence, his very being.

He refused to eat for 2 days, until the day he played the cassette. The song had submerged him, filled him, supported him, and whispered his name over and over, like a chant that made his skeleton more tangible, more solid than it had ever been, summoning from his depths all of him. 

He had, in a vitalized trance, sat in front of his square little mirror, opened his makeup trunk, and applied with unforgotten skill, the paints that made the other "him".

Rocky.

The Clown.

The Jester.

The Child-Dream stealer.

Rocky looked the same. His eyes were tired and rheumy, and his hair just barely made whisps above his ears. He also appeared to be missing a tooth. But those were minor, smidgen changes. What mattered still remained; the grin, the nose, the dimples that never ceased to exist. They were the same. Rocky, Eradi had come to realize at the age of eleven, was the reason Eradi existed. One could not be without the other. Rocky made people touch the skies, made their hearts pound till their shiny, sweaty faces plunged with him in terror, towards the nets, before he pulled off an escape they heartily acknowledge with applause. Ah, applause. It fed Rocky. That was probably why he went wild in the fag end of their career, when the Great Chinese Traveling Circus could hardly muster a fifty-strong crowd. Eradi still remembered the last time he saw Rocky, his makeup smudged, his happy face contorted from within, the paint cracking at his frown lines. The incarnation of hate...

Eradi-stealer.

He had spoken about Rocky to his Doctor in the nursing home. They told him Rocky did not exist. They told him that he still remained Eradi when the makeup was on. He had shaken his head in exasperation the first 2 times, then he had stopped visiting the doctor because he seemed to be stupid. How would the Doctor know Rocky wasn't real if he hadn't met him? Had the Doctor ever had his dreams stolen and flung through the skies by Rocky's acts? He would definitely change his mind about Rocky then. Eradi had, as a result, taken to believing in Zodiac signs. They managed to bend the truth to mean anything the reader desired. Like his horoscope this particular day:

"Follow your intuition today, and take on challenges you have kept aside. Success is sure to favour you. Romance is a little low, but as long as your spouse/partner does not expect a trip somewhere, things should be just fine."

Hence, he had followed his intuition, and worn his makeup to the mess hall, enduring the stares and comments of his fellow inmates. As he spooned peas into his red, painted mouth, he knew what he had to look forward to. The next day, he would read the headlines at 7:00AM, the sports page at 7:07AM, the obituaries at 7:10AM, and the horoscope at 7:12AM. He would wait until sunset, and at 7:00PM, he would insert the cassette into the tape recorder. And Eradi would apply makeup to the tunes and strains of "The Dance and Death of Kuma The Bear" filling his room. And then, he would die somewhere in the near future.

The End.

But until that day, Eradi would meet Rocky.

And the song would play, echoing in the dark, square corridors of B block, St. Mary Ann's Nursing Home for the Aged.

3songsofmylife

Music, for many, is quite an essential behemoth in their lives. Nobody questions it, the essentiality or the size, like nobody would question the repulsiveness of cannibalism. However, not questioning the nature of your affinity works for the carefree; for worrywarts like I am, music is a constantly evolving person within us, and we pore over the momentous influences that forever coloured our tastes. When I was first introduced to 3songsofmylife, I almost had the entire story ready to be preached, pat down to the incidents. The three songs I have picked may no longer even feature in my playlist, but there is no denying the power they hold over all the consequent music I have listened to, and appreciated. So, be warned. The following article isn't as much about music as it is about its role in MY life.

Lateralus – Tool

This was during my high school, when I was utterly (strangely) dependent on friends for any new music. I was very naïve, and it never crossed my mind to search for fresh music. I would borrow my classmate Saketh's iPod, and listen to all the familiar tracks of Staind, Green Day, Metallica, Iron Maiden, and others. Saketh was a budding guitarist then, and had his head running through Slayer riffs. He had no reason to, and yet, did show me Tool, said they were a crazy band, as metal went. He would never have predicted the hook it would sink in me. I remember feeling powerless as my attention got wrapped up in the song, as it demanded more of my being to be there, listening. That might have been my first experience with addiction, because the consecutive semester stood testimony to my obsession with just one track of Tool's, “Lateralus”. Like a ritual, I would take the iPod after lunch, sit with my head down at the same isolated spot in class, and listen to the entire track, with all of its hypnotic progressions and seductive vocals (I remember feeling scandalised when people dismissed Maynard) through to the end. In the following years, I wore their discography out, and subsequently, fell out of love with them. At least, the passion had died. But this phase changed me irrevocably, as I no longer listened to music as a background to life, but as messages, pieces of art, monuments to visit and appreciate for their grandness. I would call this my “coming-of-age”.

Adam and the Fish Eyed Poets – Black Eyed Monster

With fresh eyes and ears, I had begun searching for new music actively, and wound up right at home (Chennai, India). The artist was touted “a prodigy”, and had finished his schooling in my neighbouring school. I believe it might have been that deliciousness association with some detail of the artist's that initially drew me to picking Kishore Krishnan, aka Adam and The Fish Eyed Poets, out. Yes, he is Adam and all the Fish Eyed Poets because it was no band – just him. I would later come to learn that his influences included Dylan, XTC, Robyn Hitchcock and Attraction and the Kinks, bands I would learn about only a few months before I type this. But to my still-raw ear, the music he whipped up shocked me to my core, revealing how low my expectations had been when it came to contemporary music. He stood for all the things I was fascinated by then – individualism, objectivism, perfectionism. There was no favourite I had among his songs, I would listen to each album as if a single track each time. But the lyrically layered Black Eyed Monster would be the song to fester inside me, as I repeatedly boiled it for more depth and meaning, and it never disappointed. His albums “Snakeism” and “Dead Loops” created in me the most solid foundation of faith in the indie music scene. From then, music became a solid, silent way of my life.

Radiohead - Kid A

I still consider this one of my grossest misses yet. Radiohead, to me, was “Creep” for a very long time, even though I had heard a few other tracks of theirs too. I still hadn't completely kicked the habit of relying on the opinions of friends, and most opinions were dismissive of them as “heavily experimental”. Hence, Radiohead was buried somewhere half-visible, probably tagged something like “american post rock band”. Then, I read “Kafka on The Shore”, by Haruki Murakami. To the uninitiated, Murakami is a Japanese writer who shot to fame in the 80's, and continues to this day write mysteriously powerful novels that transcend translations and ethnicities. “Kafka on The Shore” was another of his surrealist novels that ached of existential angst, and as a sincere reader, I was in the throes of this angst, hook, line and sinker. As the protagonist, Kafka Tamura, wandered through the bizarre events of his life, he made repeated references to the music he listened to (Haruki Murakami had been a musician, and been heavily influenced by Western music), and the track that echoed his ennui was “Kid A”. Murakami briefly describes it; 2 lines, maybe. Intrigued, I listened to the track online. I remember, to this day, how weak I went in the knees, as if yet again, the room fell away suddenly to reveal how vast and enigmatic the field of music could be. I remember thinking, “Experimental? This? Heavens, no.” Kafka Tamura and his dark adventures fell away in the wake of the song, and several pieces of my life fell together in place, as if this had been the missing stopper to the basin of chaos in my head:

...and Music became, to me, “the Art”.
…and Music became a civilization apart from Mankind, a beautiful race of messages meant to lull the human beasts in the right direction for progress.

...and I knew I would never again experience another ground-breaking epiphany, as my idea of Music had fully matured to be an intimidatingly elegant being, better and more free than any aspect of my life.

...and after the rush of falling pieces, and the clearing of the smoke from my head, there reigned true, sad and absolute silence. The romance and adolescence was over even before I knew their charms for what they had been.

This, I labelled humourlessly,"The death of innocence and naivete". 

The Haircut (dated Dec 2010)

"Eighty Rupees for only haircut, Sir." said the saloon owner with a slick hairstyle and slicker smile.
"Okay. Tutu, go sit there.", my father said.
Don't get this wrong. I am mature enough to get an haircut on my own. This scene, however, is of my father making sure I get a haircut.
I sat down in the chair without taking my eyes off the reflection. My hair was all over the place, but in my eyes, it was very becoming. I must be deluded, because my dad had labelled it a lot of things that I really don't have the heart to put down.
"Short-a medium-a?"
Short or medium? Short or medium?? I don't want any! I shot a look at my father, before I mumbled "Short."
He took out a shiny pair of scissors.

SNIKT SNIKT.

I reminisced to back when it reached its normal length, and people started the usual "Machan, get a haircut" comments. Generally, long hair never agreed to anything in my routine, like Basketball or general maintenance. But then, the distance between my parents and me, and the general ambience of my college (Amrita. Enough said.) aroused a rebellious spirit in me, far more rebellious than ordinary (which is saying something) and I decided to wait and see how long my hair could get before I myself got disgusted.

SNIKT SNIKT.

The scissors' blades were a flash over my halo of hair, and my halo fell around me in many small streaks of black. A fallen angel. I smirked. Angel. Right. In the days that followed the birth of the new "Me", I had unconsciously become more loud, uncouth, brash and self destructive. I would become over-defensive and give people around me the look that said "What do you think you are staring at? I like my hair, so fuck you and your suggestions." It was a refreshing change when people stared at me in fear, as though I was floating in heroin. All this in security of the knowledge that I believed myself innocent and a decent character. (Talk about self-conceit.)

SNIKT SNIKT.

The pair of scissors continued in rhythm to some local tamil music blaring from the television set perched in a corner of the room. I remembered the joy of headbanging to heavy metal music and feeling my hair bob in tandem, yet lagging behind my neck's movement. I remembered the astonishment of finding out that my hair could be pushed back so far as to tie a pony tail. I remembered how I argued with my Materials Sciences professor about whether I was "consuming". I remembered ducking under corridors when my Head of the Department passed by. I realized how my life seemed to have revolved around my hair, like a mother's around her new born's. It depicted how starved I was for change from the regular monotony, and had desperately clung to the trait that made me and my life unique, worth waking up to. I realized how utterly jobless I had become in my drive to do anything other than what my hated college ordered us to do. (Oh yes, studying was quite on top of the list.) I realized how low I had sunk. I sat stunned in the light of the revelation.

SNIKT SNIKT.

The pair of scissors vanished from view, and my head was pushed forward. I sat staring at my shorn locks on my lap and wondered how these keratin deposits had made me change so subtly that I justified things I would have thought twice about before. "But", argued a small voice in my head,"what difference does it make that you grew your hair? Its not like you did something that went against nature?"
That's true.
What HAD I done wrong?
Nothing.
If so, why had I changed?
"Its the society.", proclaimed the Voice smugly.
Absolutely true. The society viewed long haired guys with piercings with quite an amount of (justified to a certain extent) foreboding. But this was no longer the 80's! This was an open minded era of information shattering myths and Old Wives' tales left, right and centre, obtained from the numerous sources of information that sprout on a yearly basis.
Or was it?
"This is India", the Voice reiterated, like the many mindless and unimaginative defeatists I had the unfortunate fate of meeting, albeit with more than a hint of sarcasm.
Also true. The Indian society displayed astonishingly vast levels of stubborn-ness in letting go of the many short sighted and almost stupid beliefs that had taken seed along the way from the days of Independence. They found it fairly easy enough to adopt child marriage and sati, but it was like sticking a gun into their mouth to let people display their affection in public, or accept a man grew his hair. (Do I sound venomous? Sorry.)
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
I was shaken from my reverie by the loud buzz of the trimmer as the man added his finishing touches. I stared at my reflection, brutally ordinary and acceptable, taking time to comprehend. It was done. The pains I had taken to preserve the Halo were reduced to a mass to be swept into a basket, to be sold to a Wig making company. I stared bemusedly at the mental picture of my efforts up until this point on one scale of a balance, and the effort this man had taken in shaving. I added the Society onto his balance. Now the balance seemed satisfactory. There. Left Hand Side equal to Right Hand Side. Conservation of balance. Sigh.
"Over, Sir." said the man in the unctuous voice that he must have honed over the years to become the Ideal Tradesmen.
I walked out of the saloon and watched the multitudes that made up The Society pass by. I suddenly recalled the line from Jack Black's "School Of Rock", in reference to the society.
"Don't let The Man get to you."
Kudos. You got me.

The Djinn's Plea

A gasp, a wheeze, then a sigh.
A smile that uncurled quite wry.
Thus did the Djinn begin:


I'm the Spirit you have summoned.
As you stand there with shoulders stooped
Burdened by the wishes you have shaped
From your motherland, beyond the desert and that sea.
Time aeons may have passed,
But by the familiar quality of the gleam in your eyes,
I glean that Mankind has changed naught.


Hence, pay heed to my warning,
And listen in
Onto the fate of the three before you.
I do not seek to rob you of thy wishes,
But merely cling on to a near-dead notion,
That there may yet be salvation for your Kind.


The first was a Woman, thin and drooling with thirst.
She did not even pause to breathe, but recited thus:
"My husband, The King, The Father of Egypt, is barren!
Oh Djinn, make me the mother of a hundred of his finest sons!"
She returned, and bore a hundred shining princes,
And lived on to watch them pillage the kingdom to the loam.


The second was a young man, barely out of adolescence.
His lip quivered, but his voice was quite steadfast.
He wished to conquer all women, merely by his presence.
He imagined the courtesans of renown thronging his doors,
As he fed upon the envy of his neighbours, and his brothers.
Three years later, he was found with a man in his bed.


The third, your predecessor, was a world-weary sailor.
He bore the whispered titles of "Sea-conqueror" and "Death-defier".
Funnily enough, he commanded me to transport him to the Land Beyond;
The Afterlife, The Seven Halls, and the Swarga you know of.
Whence he returned, he unhesitatingly stabbed himself in the heart.
His blood is that dark spray on the tile upon which you kneel now.


So, oh Child of Fire and Ice,
Born of Passion and Reason and Vice,
I implore to you, with what little respect for your race I bear,
To ponder well one last time, unmindful of the hardships you may yet face:


Is your wish worth wishing for?

India In Fast Motion

Describing India, whether to another citizen or an outsider, would be a singular task. There are salient facts, and there is a chain of consequence. Hence, beginning with Her Past would be the appropriate course, no matter how dead it may remain.

Half a millennium ago, India was, if not anything else, extremely vital. Let the analogy stand of a human body, full of life. Consequently, colonialism by the Turks, and then the British, could be compared to quite a vicious visceral disease. When she got over the worst, and began recuperation after our Independence, she was still on life support. The disease had left her organs fighting each other, and the amputation of some of her extremities. But she had put her decisive foot out of the grave.

If we were to take a "Midnight's child" into consideration, he/she would age 67 years this day. This fact, juxtaposed with the current Indian scenario, has significant implications, Take the fact that this new born country, with an educated minority for government, managed to effectively govern the "hundred warring states" under a constitution that they had created, and had begun taking active parts in global affairs by the 70's. Additionally, yet unrelated, the introduction of Information Technology at the turn of the Millennium had India touted to become a Superpower, with China by her side (in pursuit, or support, only Time may tell.) To have accomplished so much within the passing of a generation since Independence is, relatively, or as a stand-alone case, quite a laudable achievement.

Nonetheless, it is only as a citizen among 'the billion' that one realizes exactly how much of the country's potential dissipates in its everyday life. We, Her citizens, are like little dipoles in a magnet, oriented every which way. We live in such fast-motion every moment, not knowing that for every person moving speedily in a particular direction, there will (with near certainty) be a number 'x' opposing them simply because they move in the exact opposite direction. The net result is the sheer physical sum of just an average magnetic field around the electromagnet that is India today. In a word, the situation may be described as "semi-random chaos".

Blaming, complaining, postmortems and 'big-pictures' are of no assistance in changing the scenario in our favour. All the people of India truly need is a unifying force that knocks the ethical orientation of the diverse society in one direction; towards progress. Such a force may have risen in the figure of our new Prime Minister, Narendra Modi, only Time may tell. But you can take away a fact: we are done patting ourselves on the back for our "recovery" we make. Our blood's pumping, our mind's on the cusp of waking up, and it won't be very long before we open our eyes, get off the bed, and begin sprinting again, full of vitality. 

Beware of the Chilum Smoker

The software engineer parks his bike, and heads towards the little shop as the sun glints blood-red off his helmet. He buys a pack of cigarettes, steps out, appraises the surroundings, and pulls out a cigarette. He lights it up, then takes a huge drag. An expression of content crosses his face, and he exhales. He takes another massive drag. He is, what you would call, the stress smoker. He smokes because he thinks this is the last gesture left to him, as a means of taking a break from his life. Over by the beach, an aged man, probably around seventy, lays his cane by his side, achingly slowly. One look at him, and you would think his battery would run dry, and he would freeze there, immobile, and rusted in the joints. He pulls a long, brown cigarette, and lights it, after many fumbled attempts. He takes a long drag, and simultaneously, a long drawn out whine is heard. It takes one a second's pause to realize that it is the man's abused lungs, eking every last gasp of air out, through gaps in blackened masses of sticky tar in his lungs. He is a chain smoker, clinging onto the one thing that has been his sole companion in every little detail of his life, including the incident when he had been stuck in a well for two whole weeks. Letting go is unimaginable, and so, he shall stubbornly go down with his habit, lung cancer or no, pipes from his throat or none. As one strolls along, one can see several different kinds of smokers, each telling his story by the way his hands are cupped around the thin, fragile roll of paper, by the way he pulls it away from his lips.
But.
Pay attention to that man leaning on the wall there. He is dressed very unremarkably, in tracks and tees. He could be around the age of twenty, or so, for he looks quite young. But note the way he takes a drag. He does not take one single pull. He gently puffs at it, pulling and blowing alernately, and in the process, looks like a humanoid dragon, smoke emitting from his nostrils and cigarette. The cigarette flares to life, and he looks like he has had experience lighting firewood ovens. But considering the age and place, we may assume safely that neither this man, nor any other man (or woman) wearing tracks, had a firewood oven at home.

No, this, my dear readers, is the chillum smoker.

Beware of him, for he is not what he seems. He may look twenty to you, but the sum of his experiences would bring him close to fifty. His eyes are steady and calculating, wise and hoary, a scar on a fresh face; an abomination on a conventional sculpture of youth. He cannot kick the habit of smoking the way he does, because he has smoked chillums for far too long. He is the one in college that not many knew of because he chose so. He was the true "pothead", as he stoned only for himself, whenever he felt like it. He was the man people looked up to, in respect, envying his air of cool aloofness, no matter what the situation was. He was the one several impressionable fools mimicked, as they tried weed. His were the gestures they reproduced, as they proudly proclaimed themselves to be potheads to other fools, just as they knew secretly, in their hearts, that they hated the taste of marijuana. His was the name cursed and taken in vain, as these fools plummeted to their ruin, their echoes their only testimony of their hollow existence. Yet, he was the one ignorant of the influence he had on their fates. Do not fall into his web, for you wouldn't recieve even the honour of nourishing him, as your body decays to a husk, a whisp, into nothing.

Be wary of him, for he is not to be trifled with. He has seen much, and is deserving of any whim he may have. He may take offence at the way you stare at him, or at your red shoes, and nothing would daunt him in telling you so. He has been to the pits, and back, several times, and he has been stripped of all except the skills of survival. He would be labelled "an antisocial element" by his candour, and a "psychological hazard" if ever he chose to lie on a shrink
's couch. Yet, you wouldn't see a more composed man when things begin to get shaky, and tiles start crashing down from what seemed to be a strong roof, for he has long given up faith in any celing other than his mind's. He wouldn't bat an eyelid if you tripped and fell, unless you fell in his way, in which case he would step over you, and move on. Do not make the folly of tagging him a "human", for human beings are creatures who need inspiration, and consolation, from each other. He is a monolith, a complete being, and haughty of any unnecesary attachment.

Do not look into his eyes, for they glint with a supernatural light, and draw one into them. He stands there quietly, smoking, with a cup of coffee in his hand. Yet, his posture speaks volumes; of knights, arrogant and proud; of nomads, watching from afar as civilisations are built, and brought down; of sailors, who have seen things that defied bedtime stories. His voice, when he speaks, is almost devoid of inflections, and reminds you of veiled oracles; mysterious, and wise beyond moon-ages. You might find this extremely romantic, and try to draw him out of his shell. You might let out a hearfelt sigh in private, imagining the hardships that may have made the man lose his colours. You may fancy yourself becoming the one thing he treasures. But be warned, for his shell isn't a shell, but a solid monument, impenetrable and untarnished. His colours haven't bled from him; he has chosen to keep them in a palette that he keeps inside a cupboard in his head, accesible to those he deems worthy. His treasures exist already, and all hoarded and coveted within himself. And he wouldn' bother telling you that your quest was pointless. He will watch you, without any expression, as you swim hopefully up to him. He will continue watching detachedly as you get caught on the swells, as your expression turns into one of doubt, dawning consternation, and then, terror. He will turn to continue his charted route as your sails wave a final farewell at the world, your flag the sign of your sacrifice and dedication to this hopeless quest of yours. Make not the mistake of tinging the air around him with pink, and spring air. For his Spring may be your bitter winter.

Tread carefully around him, and you know why. He isn't a new species, or the first of his kind; he has walked among us ever since we thought of standing on two legs, and living in caves; ever since thought itself was born. He was the one who invented fire, and was feared for it. He was the single entity that didn't fit with the rest of his kind. Yet, he is the true epitome of Mankind, and of its greatness. He shall put to shame philosophers and wise men. He is the one represented in the pictures of the Tribal god with a snake, and a blue throat, living in seclusion in the mountains. His are the people we see with matted locks and scanty clothing in the Himalayas, smoking pot and squatting around. Do not feel ashamed in superstitiously fearing him, for your fear is justified. Keep twenty paces from him and avert your eyes, for he is the siren that sings of promises of being free, of being a true human being. Throw salt over your shoulders thrice after you pass him by, for he is the shadowy one that many have named Lucifer.

But.

He waits. He waits for men and women of his kind. He waits for kindred minds, who have shrugged their shackles of materialism off. He yearns for a conversation with like-minded people, for he has few he can name, and fewer he can claim any right over. His kind's numbers are dwindling, and they are wary, in turn, of being hunted down for being different. He will recognize you instantly, not by the way you smoke, or by the glint of your eye. And he will welcome you into his folds, and take his palette from his cupboard, and show it to you proudly. He will revel in your company that cold morning, and would love to share his cigarette and coffee with you.
He waits, the chillum smoker. Near the little teashop by the sea, in the shacks of Mahabs, in the shadows of bars.
He waits, in the recesses of all our minds.
He waits.