The Darkness and the Light

Once upon a time, two men were imprisoned in two separate, identical rooms for an indefinite period of time. The rooms were pitch dark. There were no light bulbs, no tube lights, no switches, no furniture. They were given one candle each with a book of matches.

The first man lit a match. It burnt bright for a second but then it blew out. "I'll preserve these matches," he thought, "since i do not know how long i will be a prisoner. They might come in handy later." So saying, he kept them in a corner and waited out the rest of his days in that cold, dank, dark room.

The second man lit a match. It burnt for a second but then it blew out. "Hmm," he thought, "There seems to be an opening somewhere in this room from which the draft that blew out my match came from." So saying, he lit another match and watched the direction of its flame as it blew out. He walked in the opposite direction and sure enough, he felt a light breeze coming from a hole in the wall. He stretched out his hand towards the hole in the wall and to his amazement, the wall moved. He lit another match and in the second that it sparked, he saw that what he thought was a wall, was actually a door. An ajar door. He walked out. Free.

Most of us take life for granted and just wait for good things to happen to us. Maybe its time we got off our asses and did something about it.

News Update

I came back to Bangalore about an hour ago. Came home just now. No dogs to welcome me, which is quite strange as they generally wait near the end of the road for us. Mom is in tears and has landed up getting a migraine. She was apparently too upset to go to work yesterday. Apparently Brownie bit someone yesterday and that person lodged a complaint with the Dog Pound. The Pound got a written order to take the dogs away. No amount of begging and pleading worked, although all the neighbours tried. An order was an order. Both Brownie and Bouncer were carted away in the Doggie van.

I don't think they're ever coming back. :(

In A Nutshell

Snail mail. Good news. Acceptance letter. PG Course. Different college. Different city. Different state.

Packing. Tearful goodbyes.

Hostel. Checking in. Unpacking. Final farewells. Initiation. Ragging. Making friends. Sharing rooms. Midnight parties. Fun!

First day of college. Introductions. New classmates. Learning names. Learning faces. Learning.

Exploring college. Exploring the city. Exploring shopping malls.

Coffee shop. Free sms. Crank sms. Making friends. Phone calls. Exciting!

Second Semester.

Beach house. Girl's night. Surprise birthday party. Bonding.

Spencer lunches. More coffee shops. Movies. Sparks. Banned phonecalls. Heart ache. Lousy birthday.

Christmas at home. Speeding time.

New Year's. Pongal holidays. Loafing. Bad news. Black days. Teary nights. Funeral. Depression.

Frenzied studying. Sleepless nights. Final exams. End of semester. Back home!

Awesome holidays.

Third semester. Back to the grind. Internships. Case studies. Research methodology. Dreaded statistics.

Psychotic room mate. Dreaded hostel. Midnight tears and confidences. Sleepless nights. Drowning. Breaking. Obsessive phonecalls. Counselling. Packing bags. Running away. Goodbye hostel. Goodbye schizophrenic roommate. Goodbye madness.

Wild saturday nights. Phone-sickness. Phone obsession. Dreaded end. Heartbreak. Heartache. Dissent into madness. Again.

Class trip to Bangalore. Partying! Partying! Partying! Good food. Bonding sessions. Fun.

Another lousy birthday. Lousy Christmas hols. Lousy New Years'.

Fourth semester. Frenzied rushing around. Project done. Final corrections. Final Submissions. PG over. Back home. Jobless bliss.

Application for MPhil. Lousy entrance exam. Lousy interview. Acceptance letter. Back to Chennai!

Start afresh. New hostel. New classmates. New church. New friends.

Blissful independance.

Coffee shops. Tearful farewells. Angry rantings. Helpless.

December blues. Back home. Club X. Interesting night. New friend.

Utterly depressing birthday.

Carol Rounds. Sneaking out. Meet the parents...the first time. New Years at church. Party after. Talking all night. Being together. Bliss.

Back to Chennai. Frenzied work. Speacial papers. Research. More research. Submissions. Deadlines. Hostel solitude. Studying. Studying. Final exams.

Research. Writing. Typing. Thesis. Deadline. Torture. Missed deadlines. Running around. Pulling out hair. Nit picking. Brain picking. Homicidal tendencies.

Final submissions. Relief. Final viva. Mphil over.

Back to Bangalore.

Sigh. Chennai. I'll miss you.

Pay-per View

Good morning, sir. I am your guide for today. I will be guiding you through the various intricacies and wonders of ...yes! You guessed it! The passport office! Would you care to join me at the back of this long-ish line? I assure you, sir. It just looks long. Trust me, sir. The wait is much longer.

Ah. You must be lucky, sir, look! From where we stand, we have a most advantageous view of the entire outside of the passport office. Notice the damp walls, so inviting....so invigorating ....for that cluster of insects. Try not to go too close, sir, they may bite. What's that sir? Oh yes yes yes. Speaking of bites, you can live vicariously by feasting your eyes and empty stomach on the restaurant right across the street. Yes yes, The Passport Restaurant is a very novel name for a restaurant. Note the neo-modern decor! The extravagant buffet! The stunning array of food! And, yes, its all for the taking right after you're done with the passport office.

No sir, it won't take long for the gates to open. Just another hour or so. But of course, the doors are a different issue. Now that might take about two hours. No no sir. Thats excluding the one hour wait outside the gates.

Ah. You must be really lucky sir, look! They're opening the gates! Now, run, sir, run! We don't want to get trampled now, do we? Whats, that, sir? Now whats that supposed to mean?

OH.

Do you work out, sir? You did a pretty good job of running to the front of the line just then. Yes, sir. I work out, too. Have to stay in shape to catch up with my clients you see. Some of them run so fast when the gates open that I sometimes lose them in the crowd. Whats, that, sir? I didn't quite hear you. Something about it being the point? Oh, never mind.

Let me interest you in the various sights to behold inside the compound of the passport office, sir. This is only visible to the vigilant eye. Did you know that you can tell a person from his spit? That's right! For instance, take the wall you are leaning against, sir. Note that there are six different colours of spit on it. No no sir. Get back in line or you'll lose your place in the queue!

Did you know monkeys are very possessive? If they grab something from you, you dare not chase it or else they tend to get violent. I suggest that you put your passport into your pocket or into your folder right away sir. It is, after all, another tedious but extremely educational job to get it replaced. Whats, that, sir? Oh, i brought up the subject about monkeys and passports because the one above you on the ledge has been staring rather intently at your passport for quite some time now, sir. Sir! Sir! I insist that you get back in line right now!

Hark! Do you hear? The inner doors are opening. It wont be long until you are invited in, sir. No, no, I will not be able to guide you once you are inside, sir. Sir? Are you crying or laughing?

Well, I must bid you farewell, sir. This is where I take my leave. That will be 500 bucks plus tax for the tour down the line, sir. Whats that. sir? Stick it up where???

OH

Death Threats

It's ironic, the way things work out. The same person who tried to kill her three years ago, actually saved her today.

Or, at least, for the time being. If I’m being incoherent, it’s because I'm still upset about the entire thing.

I guess it started eleven years ago when she decided to adopt herself into our neighbourhood. We named her Brownie for obvious reasons. Everything including her nose and eyes were brown. She was a pedigree dog, but for some reason, had strayed from her owners and had found us, her new family. She was adorable, and, needless to say, was doted on by the entire neighbourhood. That was until they showed up.

They would be my new neighbours. The pregnant mama, her half-deaf husband, their two year old daughter with the lung power of an opera singer, the half-deaf husband's brother and his pregnant wife. Quite a village. And, judging by their behaviour, probably originated in a village as well.

This was three years ago. By this time, Brownie had had her third litter and we had given away all her puppies except one, whom we named Bouncer.

One Sunday afternoon, I heard Brownie yelp loudly. It was a completely inhuman yelp. That is to say, it was horrifying. I went out to check but couldn't find her anywhere. After a few more minutes, I heard her yelp again. This time, my neighbours from the opposite house came out. I thought that maybe the sound had come from the next house so I peered into their house from the balcony.....and started screaming uncontrollably.

There is a grilled gate at the centre of my neighbour's garage. Brownie was on one side of the gate and my half-deaf neighbour and his brother were at the other side of the gate. They were pulling at a noose that went around Brownie's neck. The poor dog was jammed up against the gate while they tried to break her neck from the other side. Bouncer was standing beside his mother and whimpering.

My dad had woken up by this time and bolted downstairs. He threw open the neighbour's gate and demanded to know what was happening. "The dog kept barking at my wife and sister-in-law," Half-deaf replied. "They both are pregnant. We thought the dog would bite so we killed it."

On hearing this, I began yelling at him, yelling like I’d never yelled at anyone before. "You want your dog?" he asked me with scorn. "Here, take it. It's dead already." He picked up her limp body and threw it out of his house, slamming the gate behind him.

I picked up Bouncer and cradled him in my lap while the other neighbours picked up Brownie. To our surprise, she stirred and then wriggled free, whimpering all the while. We slowly removed the rope from around her neck. It had burned her neck and left a black scar on her brown fur. She could barely move but didn't want to be petted by any of us either. She slowly hobbled away with Bouncer following, and we didn't see her again for three days. When she returned, she was completely back to normal...barking at strangers and growling at the neighbours.

I never really made an attempt to get to know my neighbours after this incident. I thought of them as barbarians and completely stayed away from them and made sure that they stay away from the dogs as well. In fact, there was a growing animosity towards them on my side....until this morning.

This morning was one of the scariest days of my life. I heard a noise outside and when I looked out the window, I saw a man chasing Brownie and Bouncer with a sickle. I thought that maybe he would leave them alone, now that they were safely under my car but he kept yelling and trying to cut them with the knife.

By the time I rushed downstairs and got my gate open, my next door neighbour and opposite house neighbour had come out and were yelling at him. It was the same story once again. Brownie had barked at him so he wanted to kill her. Even with all of us standing outside and yelling, he kept coming at her with his sickle. Finally the next door neighbour put her foot down and told him that he absolutely could NOT come any closer. This from a woman who had wanted the same dog dead only three years earlier.

While he was giving us his explanation and waving his knife at us, I saw one of the neighbour's gates opening and Bouncer slinking inside. The gate was silently shut behind him. Brownie was safely under my car. Suddenly, she stuck her head out from under the car and growled at the man. He immediately lunged for her. I stepped in front of him just in time. He looked straight at me and said, "You're like a sister to me. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to kill the dog." I stood my ground so he backed off a little. By this time, his wife had walked up behind him and slowly took the knife from his hand.

He did not budge. He looked at me and said, "Don't worry. Sometime when you're not at home, I’ll bring a bigger knife and cut up both your dogs." So saying, he left.

My next house neighbour and I stood outside until he was gone. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing and crying at the same time. I swear I could have hugged her just then.

Maybe this is a good time to bridge our differences. I don’t know. But for now, I have to figure out a way to keep Brownie and Bouncer safe from knife-wielding maniacs when we’re not home.

Hope

The chasm deepens. Darkness falls. The blackness undulates like waves of sluggish oil. The yawning maw of oblivion beckons. And I. Surrender. Gladly.

Deeper into the rippling pitch I fall, entranced. Sucked. Suctioned. Plumetting. Flying. And then. The gentle sun of a mellow day. Brilliant in its contrast to the ever fading darkness. Lush trees and babbling riverlets. Snow-clad mountains in the distance. Flower-manicured bushes lining pitch roads. A cool, summer breeze gently ruffling leaves and flowers.

Hope.

ONE DAY...

...........you’ll wake up and realize that you’ve slept your life away.

...........when you’ve finally found yourself, you’ll realize that you’ve lost everyone else.

...........you’ll look back on your childhood and wonder, “Did I really have one?”

...........you’ll look down at the ashes and realize that life has passed you by.

It wouldn’t hurt to .....

..........live life ..... just a little.

Cheek Pulling Hand Slappers

So here I am, at my so-called childhood friend's wedding. Childhood friend because I've known him all my life. So-called because I've spoken to him like three times in the entire twenty three years that I've known him. The church looks absolutely beautiful. I sit near the aisle so I can view the entire proceedings.

The organ begins to play and the bridegroom and his entourage walk in and take their places at the front of the church. The organist then begins to play the bridal march and we all turn around to see the bride walking down the aisle. First, the church pastor walks in, then the flower girls, the brides' maid and then the bride and her father walk down the aisle. Except I was too busy gaping at the church pastor to notice anyone else. He was none other than my cheek puller from the week before - Pastor Kurvilla. He must have gotten a promotion along the way, cos he was no longer the assistant pastor but the Presbitor In Charge of this particular church.

Bumping into my cheek-puller twice in the one week that I happen to be in Bangalore is way beyond coincidences. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the wedding trying to avoid him.

I hate weddings. No wait, let me rephrase. I hate crowded places. I hate being jostled around and elbowed. To make things worse, it began to rain. Worse still was the fact that the wedding reception was being held on army grounds - open air. Goodbye designer shoes and saris. Hello bad mood.

I was so intent on avoiding Pastor Kurvilla that I bumped smack into the bridegroom's grandfather - a 92 year old ex-military man with a handshake of iron. He was so overjoyed to see me after SUCH a looong time that he gave me a resounding slap on my arm, that even made my dad wince. OUCH! Look at all the preeeeedy tweeeeeties. That one came completely out of left field.

Already in a bad mood, I spent the rest of the wet wedding avoiding anyone who looked remotely lethal, violent, drunk or interested. But even then, I got my cheeks pinched a few million times, got the now familiar oh-you've-grown-so-much-I-last-saw-you-when-you-were-this-high-remember-me monologue and even got a proposal from some loser with a green card.

But even after all that, my poor ego was still smarting from having taken a good beating from a 92 year old man.

Sigh.

Remember Me?

My mom does it again. We're doing a little shopping on Commercial Street when we bump into what seems like an old friend of hers. They begin to catch up on all their news when she happens to glance towards me.

"Is that your daughter?" she exclaims.

"Yes," Mom gushes, "this is Shireen. You must have met her last when she was a baby."

"No no...I met her a couple months ago." She turns to me and asks the dreaded question, "Remember?"

Of course I don't. I stare at her blankly. Of course, my mom still hasn't introduced her to me so I still don't know her from Eve.

I start fidgeting uncomfortably and thankfully the conversation goes on with me out of it.The woman leaves and my mom and I continue down Comm Street and stop at a slipper store. While my mom checks out the slippers, I notice a man on a scooter beckoning me. He's yelling, "Aye, come 'ere." The sunlight glints off his spectacles so I don't know if he's calling me or the girls behind. I turn around but then he starts pointing at me and yelling a little more animatedly. He seems so excited that I feel that if I don't walk over to him, he'd get off his scooter and grab me and shake the living day lights out of me.

He does worse. He freakin' clutches at my cheek in a pincer grip and presses down even harder, all the while saying, "You know who I am? Huh?" And all I can think of is, "OUCH." Of course, my vision is blurring but the little tweeties I can see flying around me in circles seem clear enough.

Finally my mom saunters over and when she recognizes him, screeches, "Rajan!!! It's you!!! What are YOU doing here?"

He finally lets go of my cheek and turns his attention to her. "Your daughter does not remember me."

Nice opening statement. My mom looks at my, astonished. "What? You don't remember Rajan Uncle?"

"I....er..." I stammer, trying to look uncomfortable. It worked the last time. But not now.They're both staring at me, waiting for a reply.

My mom is looking impatient. "Don't you remember him? How could you not?"

I look at him. He obligingly removes his glasses and peers at me. Like that's going to help. Today is proof enough that my blank looks work.

"I'm Rajan Uncle," he says helpfully.

Yes, I think we established that. But Rajan Uncle from where and when and how would I know you?

"You used to punch my paunch when you were...this high," he says, making a big deal of leaning forwards and holding his hands knee high.

Ah. That explains it all.

Not.

I tap my feet impatiently as my mom and him chat about church politics and their respective parents, all the while willing myself to not rub my smarting cheeks. I have a feeling he might have drawn blood. I make all the usual signs of impatience: looking at my watch a few billion times; feigning interest in every passer-by; jiggling all the plastic bags I'm carrying... Finally I hear my mom saying her goodbyes. Before I could step out of the way, he leans over and pinches my arm. Hard.

"Next time, you better remember me," he says and starts his scooter.

"I'm sure I will." I think, rubbing my arm.

"Who was that?" I burst out, when we were out of earshot of him.

"He was the assistant pastor at our church in ... hmm....1987, I think."

Hmm...Let's see....1987 would mean that I would have been 6 years old at the time. And they expected me to remember him? OH MY GOSH!!!

"Why the hell didn't you just introduce him to me in the beginning instead of embarrassing me like that? You did the same thing with that woman we met earlier...." I continue to rant on for a few minutes.

My mom listens to the entire thing and just laughs it off. Which of course pisses me off no end. I know for sure that nothing has registered. I know for sure that there will be another time. But next time I'll come armed with some clever come-backs.

The next time someone says, "Do you remember me? I used to carry you as a baby!" I'm gonna say,"&^%$$#@" and walk off.

Anyone have any better answers???

Lost Wallets

After a long, expensive and tiring day of shopping, our final stop was at the bakery. I decided to wait in the car while my aunt went to buy the bread. Of course, the minute I’m alone, I automatically reach for my cell phone, my one true addiction.

While fiddling with the cell phone, I suddenly realize that somebody is talking to me. I look out the window and see a well-dressed man, carrying what we call a missionary bag.

“Please, sister, can you tell me the way to Egmore.” His English is impeccable.

“The bus depot is just there. Just go there and take a 27H or a 27L and ask for Egmore.”

“Yes, but how far is it if I had to walk?”

I think about this for sometime, mentally trying to calculate the distance. “You can’t walk there. It’s about 16 or 17 kilometers from here! Take the bus.”

At this point his voice breaks and he yells out, “Praise the Lord!”

Huh? Oh well, back to my phone. Another tap on my window. I look out. He’s still there. I roll the window down again.

“You see…” he falters. “I need to go home to Nagercoil.”

“Oh, in that case, you need to go to the main bus stand. That’s only a fifteen minute walk from here down this road.”

At this point he shows me his leather bag. The side of the bag is slashed open and there is a big gaping hole there. “All my money has been stolen, and I need to get back home.”

“oh…kay….”

“Please sister,” his voice dissolves into tears, “I’m not a beggar but I need money to get back home. All my money was stolen.”

I look at him uneasily.

“Please, I also have daughters your age. All I want to do is get back home to them.”

Okay okay. So I’m a sucker for sob stories. I sigh and take out my wallet and hand him a ten rupee note. I look for any sign of my aunt but she’s nowhere in sight.

The man does not move. In fact, he begins to sob uncontrollably. “The fare to Nagercoil by bus is 480 rupees.” He looks down pathetically at the ten rupee note in his hand.

What? He expects me to give him more money?

“My aunt will be back now,” I say, “Maybe she can help you.”

At this, he looks panic stricken. At that time, I thought he may have been panicking because of his bus fare. But now, on hind sight, maybe the thought of my aunt seeing through his charade, might have sent him into a panic.

“Please sister. I promise you I’m not a beggar. But can you give me the money to go home?”

“I don’t have 380 bucks to give you!” I sputter.

“Please sister. Only 90 rupees?” And we go through the whole rigmarole of the voice-breaking-and-dissolving-into-tears routine all over again.

“Okay okay. I have only 20 rupees more. But that’s all I have.” Like I said, it was a long, expensive day of shopping.

He looks like he’s going to cry again so I quickly take out the money and hand it to him.

“Praise the Lord!” he says and disappears into the night just as the car door opens and my aunt gets in.

I’d like to think that I helped out someone in their time of need. I’d like very much to think that he reached his home and family safely and that I may have had a hand in getting him there. I’d like to think so.

Then why do I feel so cheated?