The Itinerant

Just a rant

2006-06-30T20:33:00.000+05:30

My house is a hotel. I have lost track of the number of people who I have picked up and dropped back - to airports, railway stations, bus stops, other people's homes, interviews, temples, church, Elephanta caves, Cuffe Parade, Borivali National Park. Family. Distant family. People I didnt know were family. Friends. So called friends. Friend's friend. Someone's brother's son's business partner's friend (Not kidding). Unknown Hungarian women. Women who looked like Big Ethel. Men who burnt the pressure cooker. Men who ate up all the Godiva chocolates. Other people who have not kept in touch. People who dont keep in touch except when they need to accomodation. For 4 hours between 2am and 6 am. For 14 days. For long weekends. During office hours. After office hours. With babies. With babies who poop on the floor. With boxes of telecommunication equipment. With idols of Mary and incense sticks. I have cooked, cleaned, washed and entertained till I cant do it anymore.
Someone once suggested that I should take photographs of each visitor and put it up on a soft board with date of arrival/departure etc.
I am seriously considering it now.
Wasnt there a piece Ruskin Bond once wrote with echoes of similar sentiments? Maybe I should frame that and put it on the wall. Or this.

Admittance of eccentricity!

2005-08-03T19:05:00.000+05:30

Very often I stare. I stare out of the window. I stare at people. I stare at the computer screen.
People think I'm daydreaming. But I'm not. Thats because I have nothing in particular to dream of.
And more often than not I am usually clueless of what thoughts I had while I was staring. Usually I am mesmerized by colours I see. Colours, things, people, sights, views. Anything.
And staring has got me into trouble.
On a recent flight between HK and Singapore I suddenly realised that a (presumably English) tall, red-faced burly corporate attired elder man with an incredulous look on his face was madly gesticulating across the aisle...I did a double take...looked around and realised that since I was the only one in the row, it was probably directed at me. So I looked at him with raised eyebrows..what followed was a tad dramatic but suffice to say, with some lipreading and flailing-arms-reading & other hand-movement reading, I realised, that not only had I been staring, I had also been making faces at him for a while ( probably while cursing the hectic itinerary in my head.) It was most embarrassing.

I have been also told that I stare at women more than I stare at men. Which I am thankful for. It could have otherwise brought some complications.
And when I'm staring, I sort of zone out, so slight movements or noise behind me doesnt filter through till someone comes really close, at which point I get startled. My getting startled somehow usually startles the other person as well. Monday last however, when R furtively whispered for a cigarrette, since I was on the edge of my seat, I also fell off. Much to the amusement of R & the rest of my colleagues. Needless to say, I didnt give R a smoke. I am also endangered by a big boss who takes pleasure in creeping up behind my chair and then loudly hollering in my ear. That too, amuses my colleagues. And the big boss. I am glad I provide such entertainment. Maybe I should start getting paid for that as well.
The monsoons are particularly distracting, since I have a beautiful view of green grass, grey skies and falling rain (the glass, cement and steel monstrosities somehow fade into the background). Nightfall brings bursts of orange streetlights and myriad colours of refracted lights from vehicles on the road. So as a rule of self-discipline the blinds remain drawn. Terrible Tuesday of last week and the cloudburst that followed, caused the blinds to be undrawn. So I have spent a blissful one week staring out of the window & the rest of the time wrestling my mind, telling myself to get back to work. And since most of my colleagues (including the boss) had remained in the safe confines of their homes through the week, thankfully I didnt fall out of a chair.

2005-08-03T10:20:00.000+05:30

War of the Worlds!

2005-07-26T22:35:00.000+05:30

Did I think there would be a day, when I would no longer only wonder, what it would feel like to be a victim of the forces of nature?
The sky was overcast and the rains came suddenly, with no premonition of the intensity of the attack..
Caught unawares, the city was slow to react..
We've seen lots of rain before, but as the water pelted unceasingly, one realised that this wasnt a normal rainy day.
While I write this the entire city is plunged in darkness and many many feet of water..
I dont know when I will be able to leave work or reach home.
People have braved the rain...and remained stuck for the last 6 hours or more, in various modes of transport; Trains have been stopped. Flights cancelled; Cars float on flooded streets. People abandon umbrellas, accepting the futility and plodding on in waist deep water;
Anxiety runs high...contact to be established with family, friends, colleagues. One hears of a person gone missing. One hears rumours of water running 8 feet high...
The streets are enveloped in a shroud of darkness...broken in places by the dim headlights from slow traffic - of those who were brave to venture out of the office building and had to return. Telephone lines stopped working; Cellular phones have intermittent network; Air-conditioning switched off; lifts have stalled; circuits have blown a fuse; all modes of communication severed;
The cafetaria was raided savagely, people willing to chew on dry bread; Others pooling in forgotten remnants of biscuits, nuts, candy from drawers; one person contributing a bottle of whiskey from the boot of the car!
The financial capital of India, the pulse of a country of millions - brought to a standstill, the populations held hostage, by a superior force.
And I sit hear, with an open glass pane - the breeze on my face, bringing frequent splashes of water...watching..cant help admiring the music of the rain, the darkness interspersed with the myriad colours of fleeting headlights, of one solitary halogen lamp casting an orange glow, of dark figures splashing on flooded streets...and the night that has no end...

2005-07-22T19:13:00.000+05:30

WHAT SHALL WE CALL THIS?

She swings by on an olive branch
Interrupting his banana lunch;
Batting her lashes, stroking her tail
Flirting with this rhesus male;

He falls for her coquetish looks;
In a couple of days, she's got him hooked
In the courtyard, they play and prance;
And engage in a monkey dance;

From her hair, he picks out bugs
Showers on her frequent hugs;
But this blissful time didnt last
Her actions left him quite aghast;

He sends her peanuts, a special treat;
She's on a diet; "sorry cannot eat";
"Were you waiting?" "Forgot to call";
Or, "got busy"; "was at the waterfall";

Excuses abound, in the days that follow
Caused him heartache, angst and sorrow;
Confused by this sudden change
He grapples with her actions strange;

The more she played hard to get,
The more it made him yearn & fret;
Till on good advice oneday,
A different tac he tries to play;

Stops the efforts to get a reaction;
Ceases to give her any attention;
Busy with other monkey friends
Away from her, his time, he spends;

Predictably she swings on by
Imploring, with monkey eyes;
She doesn't find anything amiss
Prior endearing behaviour persists;

He didnt budge, nor play the game,
His love for her, he didnt proclaim;
The more attention she did bestow
The easier it was, to let her go

In the absence of, a better name,
Lets call this act the Monkey Game.

2005-07-18T20:55:00.000+05:30

Rain

Smell of earth; Teasing, tantalising;
Grey day, green grass, outlines blurring;

Orange streetlights; darkened daytime;
Anticipation runs subtly sublime;

Tender trickles, down the face;
Droplets rest, the lips are glaced.

Silence broken; rhythmn permeating;
Steady beats reverberating;

Frenzied showers, sting and soothe;
No colour of rain; Mere blinded hues;

Drums of thunder roll on by
Lightning breaks an even sky

The moment passes, sensations cease;
Touched, imbued, cleansed, released.

Without an End

2005-07-15T12:45:00.000+05:30

She watches;
He sits alone;

Surreal aura;
Sepia tones;

The picture of
An empty bench,

Grief & loneliness
Entrenched.

Sea meet sky
In a burst of light;

She squints against
The shock of bright.

Broken by a
Patch of green.

Distant memory,
Hazy dream.

Or was it
Peace & solitude,
To which this was,
A mere prelude?

While time stood still
With silence filled.
She captured the moment,
this would be hers.

Unexplained,
for all the years.

Murphy's diktat for travel

2005-07-12T10:34:00.000+05:30

At the end of long nights (and days) of frantic activity in preparation for the meetings that one needs to travel for, I have a flight to catch, with tickets waitlisted, emmigration check not cleared, visa unobtained and an absconding travel agent who's mobile treats me to a remix version of a song called "Pardesiya". Most Charming.
I have visions of the airplane getting ready to take off and me standing at the airport, while the travel agent does a slow motion sprint holding my passport in one hand and tickets in the other...and like the baton of a relay...hands me the entire sheaf of travel documents...so I can (in slow motion) sprint to the counter.....and hand it over...and then sprint (again in slow motion) to board the aircraft just as the doors are closing (this has alternate shots of me sprinting...door inching shut ...me sprinting...door inching ...me sprinting...door inching ...me sprinting...door inching ...you get the idea?) and in true hindi movie style...all the passengers (including one turban clad sardar Gulluji, his wife Pappi and their top-knot turbanned children harvinder and gurinder, swami with white streaks on his forehead wearing white kurta and veshti, bannerjee in soda bottle glasses and his garrulous wife with shakha-pola bangles, one safari-suit-clad-gold-chain-jangling-pan-chewing-cell phone using Pandeyji, 1 NRI, 1 model, the cabin crew in blue outfits and a blur of other faces) applaud as I sink into my seat...
However, in keeping with Murphy's laws, I have a middle seat & the seat next to me is not occupied by that one person who I have always loved and never told...or by articulate individual closer to my age, who I strike a conversation with, & which promises to be the beginning of greater things to come....instead I have large grumpy 55yr old vegetarian man on one side (who keeps looking disgusted at my non-veg meal) and on the other side - smelly snoring aunty who keeps nodding off on my shoulder and I have to keep shaking her oily head off mercilessly.And instead of bliss on my face, I shall have a look of utter disgust and a sincere amazement on why I didnt just cease and desist from making this damn trip.
Afterthought: Come to think of it, I havent met anyonewho has had a wonderful air trip.

Happily Ever After

2005-07-07T18:23:00.000+05:30

Charles Perrault was the first person responsible for weaving magic for her, between covers of prettily illustrated fairy tales...followed by other forms of literature (including the quintessential MB) providing wings to her teenage dreams..
Her Singapore based parents encouraged those dreams by pushing for offshore based suitable boys & festering the belief that marriage is the ultimate sign of success. Plying her with suitor after suitor....off to a great start on phone calls, emails ...invariably ending after a few meetings.
(The song/dance-laden-happy-family-wedding sequence created by the likes of Rajshri Productions didnt help either).
The aggregated effect left one educated urban woman firmly enconsed in the belief that her weight (& not her clingyness) drove men away. So this pretty, intelligent woman, with a successful career assesses every man she meets on a scale of probability...unconsciously ceasing to be herself, every action laced with an intent to effect, her coyness & desire to please or establish a connection consequently changing her inate personality. Extra-curricular activities consisting of endless "lets meet for drinks/coffee/dinner/movie" with mr.imperfect, a phase of interest, slowly petering off and an unending sojourn for mr. near perfect which carries on. The agenda doesnt change. Weeknights merge into weekends; Friends become lovers; Lovers choose to be just friends; Friends cease to be friends. Lovers cease to be lovers. Robbing her of the last vestiges of confidence, the heartbreak recurrs, till there is a new focus...will he be the One?

I dont judge her; I cant change her; I merely hold her tight, while she sobs on my shoulder. And promise myself never to succumb to the premium placed on such yardsticks of success & happiness.

Lost in Translation

2005-07-04T18:17:00.000+05:30

Hidden, originally uploaded by Itineranting.

I once saw a film, which, in its English (and international) translation was called Cloud Capped Star.
In its original language, the director, Ritwik Ghatak, called it "Meghe Dhaka Tara".
Only people familiar with the regional language will be privy to the simplicity & beauty of the original title and its relevance to the film.
I have always loved language, vernacular or otherwise, enthralled by the artistry of words. And there comes a point in time ever so frequently, when I am reminded of the true essence of the phrase - lost in translation.

To believe or not to believe?

2005-06-30T14:49:00.000+05:30

Tarot, originally uploaded by Itineranting.

I stopped believing in the likes of Linda Goodman soon after I graduated from crushes to meaningful/less relationships. And I'm ready to scoff at people who live their lives ruled by daily horoscope/astrology/stones/stars/planetary positions, the works. I really believe that people read horoscopes to search for that little link that they can use to reaffirm events in their life. And ofcourse with global predictions like "the breeze will blow in your face today; dont forget to turn off the remote" the daily horoscope might just work for people around the world.

(Aside: there are times when I feel that blogs have effects similar to horoscopes...people express themselves and there are bound to be others who read it and identify with whats written...and a connection of sorts is assumed ...and it builds up....and when I read some of the gushing comments some blogs evoke, I feel like saying, hey there's 7 other people who probably identify with that..so you're not the only one with a connection with the blogger....but I refrain, coz hey, why ruin someone else's dream?).

So I went to a tarot card reader. If I wanted to sound cool, I'd add, just for a lark. But the truth is, I went out of curiosity.
I consider myself pragmatic, so no matter what he had to say, I was pretty certain it wouldnt create havoc in my life. And my decisions will always be mine.
I was speechless when I walked out. He was a far cry from the generic horoscopes in the newspapers or the man with the parrot who picks cards. Armed with my name and birthdate/time, which he fed into a sleek laptop, he proceeded to inform me of startling facts about my life. Not predictions. That came later.
If it hadnt been for those damn facts that he proceeded to rattle off (that no stranger could possibly know in so much detail), the predictions would fly off my shoulder.
The science wielding mother vehemently stated that its not the astrologer, but the planetary positions that the astrologer saw, that helped him assume accuracy.
I think she missed the point, I dont believe in planetary bunkum either.
I dont want to be a believer and am trying really hard to dig holes in his predictions...trying to rationalize the information; trying to see if I can draw a parallel to other people's lives.
Or maybe its just coincidence? Thats the best justification.
But there's just this little part of me thats a little startled. Amused at how the human mind can be so vulnerable, that something so coincidental can set off a tumultuous conflict in the mind, with rationality and pragmatism fighting hard against that little seed of belief. Which has a scary potential of growing into a tree.

Serendipity

2005-06-28T15:12:00.000+05:30

Catharsis, originally uploaded by Itineranting.

I sleep with music. Choosing what makes me dance.
Stepping over the memories of eternity,
Reaching beyond the conversations of many midnights.
Trying to erase what was & what can never be.
Stronger in my own vulnerability.
Fallible only as a I can be. In loving. And losing?
And still walking, believing I will find my sunshine once the clouds are gone.
Revelling in the rain that touches my face and washes away the last trace of sorrow..