His Midnight Eyes

I love his eyes
The haunted look in them
One broken dream
Through the silence it screams

Silence shriller than any war cry
This man fiercer than any warrior
Anguish running wild in his very nerve

The darkness in his midnight eyes
Naked defeat lingering in them
His gaze arrests mine
The reality so real, bare and stark

The battle is lost
But he continues to fight

The Tainted City

At that precise moment the loathsome city just got on my nerves. I clenched my fist, cursed aloud and kicked the rear tyre of my black dumb vehicle. The other guy looked at me, his face quite expressionless. Maybe he was trying to figure which one to wear and how he could pacify my suddenly upturned mood…

I had to bear with a long drive across the Mumbai city twice everyday. In the morning, I sometimes wished it could be a little longer and I could never reach office. The drive back home used to be different; I used to conjure up the images of my son smiling at me. In the evenings I wished there were no traffic signals between me and my happy family.

Today as I left office my thoughts were all a tangle, like the disobedient mesh of wires. I could see my son’s toothless smile, but my ears were listening to one of my particularly vociferous colleague’s shrill voice. Absentmindedly I drove across few lanes...

Few days back, on a late evening I locked myself inside the small space of my car. After the day spent with people asking for instructions it was a nice relief to retire in my own personal space. Enveloped in the cold, my mind was lazily grazing through a range of thoughts. My fingers were lightly tapping to the Jagit Singh number. Some lanes more to go and I would reach home, I thought. I was passing through a busy lane, this one being peddlers’ favourite lane to sell cheap Chinese products, veggies, clothes, fruits etc.

Elite households must have been empty at that hour, as they were on this street buying veggies and blocking my way. My fingers were still tapping on the steering wheel when I saw a guy pointing a finger at me. He was screaming something. Though I couldn’t hear him, his unheard scream could tell me that something had happened to my car. Or maybe he was looking past me at something else I told myself as I drove on. Now another guy was waving at me, signalling something. I kept moving. My car managed to move a few feet before the third guy came and almost blocked my way. It was high time I got of the car to see why these gentlemen were taking keen interest in me or to be more specific, in my car.

When I so wanted to reach home early and take my wife out, these gentlemen had other plans for me. The first word to fall on my ears after getting out of the car was FIRE. The honking impatient horns were unable to comprehend why my car stood there like a tomb in their way. One of the 3 guys, a lanky man in his 30s was trying to help me make sense of it all. He said he was trying to call out to me, stop me as he saw fire on the bonnet of my car. The other two just nodded or spoke in monosyllables.

I followed him to the front side of my car; he was explaining how he had seen sparks flying from my car’s front. In the midst of this crowded Mumbai Street I stood with my black car. My mind is programmed to resolve any situation quickly. As a manager I hate roadblocks of any kind. It irritates me to stand helplessly and let any situation loom larger over me. I quickly opened my car’s bonnet to check the damage. Then I noticed that one of the other 2 guys had a spanner in his hand. He moved swiftly to my side and requested me to move aside. I more than willingly moved, as I did not want to dirty my hands. My wife wouldn’t allow me to touch our son with those blackened fingers. It would take a few minutes to clean them.. and I hated the idea of not being able to touch my son sooner.

The guy was peering inside my car’s mouth. I could hear some sound as if dry leaves were burning and I saw what the 3 men were trying to tell me all this time…FIRE. Okay. So, there certainly was something happening to my car. The guy explained that the car’s carburettor was responsible for the fire. It needed to be changed, he further explained. This time I nodded and spoke in monosyllables. Then he said that he could help me change it as his buddy (the third guy) owned a small garage nearby.

I then realised what the media meant when they talked about the helpful Mumbaikar Spirit. He said a new carburettor would cost me Rs.2000. Whatever. I didn’t mind paying this money if it could save me time. I followed their directions and reached a small empty space. The 3 men made best effort to get it done quickly for me. Finally, they said it was done. My car got a new carburettor; the old one was thrown away. I glanced once at the new carburettor, paid the money quickly and left. Home was only 2 lanes away from this place. With these guys’ help I could reach home in time, take my wife out and also hug my son close to my heart the moment I reached home.

Next day in the middle of a meeting, a thought crossed my mind that I should take my car to my regular garage and get it checked again. I didn’t want my wife and son seeing something like the flames coming out of our car’s bonnet. In the evening, I loosened my tie and stood patiently as the mechanic examined the car as per my instructions and tale of the burnt carburettor.

There was something wrong about his expression. Was it the smirk or the raised eyebrows that made me inquisitive, I can’t remember. I made him explain what was so amusing about my car that made him want to smile. He took great joy in pouring in all the details. The fire, he explained was not because of the carburettor. It was because of the red and the yellow wires his dirty hands were holding and making the sparks fly again. The realisation hit me pretty quickly and I uttered many four letter words in its response. The mechanic looked at me, this time his face was devoid any expression…

I shared my realisation with only my wife. A few days later, a particularly vociferous colleague of mine was narrating one of his recent experiences. He said that on his way home, 3 guys stopped him claiming that they had seen FIRE coming out of his car’s front. They changed one of the car’s part. Some time later again 3 men stopped him, told him that they saw FIRE coming out of his car’s front. This trio helped him too. Later, he took the car to a service centre to realise that this bunch of men had replaced his car’s good carburettor with a faulty one. And, to top it all he was fooled twice on the same day in quick succession.

Today, as I left office my mind was unable to think straight. I sat there at the steering wheel trying to think past my colleague’s story. My son’s innocent face was unable to get me away from the unnerving thoughts. I am not sure what upset me more, the fact that I let 3 men fool me or the fact that I kept quiet about it unlike my absolutely vociferous subordinate…

I wish

I wish I could camouflage

Mix and dissolve in the mass

With no distinct me

I wish I could never talk

make my words unheard and lost

The Bargain

Malls were mushrooming uniformly across all the suburbs of Mumbai. I was one of the many Mumbaikars who had spent their Sunday evening in one such mall. Though I had gone to the mall without a shopping list I had returned with a few things in my bag.

After an evening spent browsing through various tags, labels and brands I was resuming back to my routine today. Like everyday my day began in a local train that would after an hour’s journey take me to my routine destination. My fellow travelers pushed, jumped, pulled, cursed to board the train and get a seat or a comfortable place to stand inside the crowded compartment.

I lacked that kind of motivation and preferred to board the train when the pushing-pulling exercise would get over. I had discovered and developed two hobbies while traveling in the local trains. The first one was standing at the compartment door and feeling the breezy wind on my face and the second one was eavesdropping on the myriad conversations that took place inside the compartment.

Today I was entertaining myself by observing and assessing my fellow travelers' activities. My eager eyes were grazing through the many faces in the compartment and were drawn to a face with a toothless smile. That old face belonged to a lady selling bags. I couldn’t help but look at her intently.

Women around me in the ladies compartment were too engrossed to notice the efforts this old lady was doing to make them look at her bags. Nothing could dishearten the smile and the positive vibes she was carrying with her. After some time my fellow travelers took some interest in the lady and her bags.

The well-dressed working women from Mumbai, faces glossed with the lipsticks, bodies draped in ironed saris and salwar suits.... After scrutinizing the bags to their satisfaction they would ask for the price of the bag. By now almost all of them knew the bag would cost them 10 Rs. and it was to be used when you go to buy vegetables.

Nothing could still discourage the smile and the old lady. She had pushed herself around the compartment, disturbed every group busy with the gossip talk, yet she was unsuccessful in selling a single bag. The powdered, prim proper face of the city women would lose its shape and the expression signified the shock, discontent, horror they felt after hearing the highly inflated price of that bag. The women would all of a sudden lose all interest in everything else and debate, plead, order, force this woman to reduce the price as it was just too out of reach for the shopaholic women to spend Rs. 10 on a not so useful bag.

My journey for today was coming to an end.. I could not look at the wrinkled face anymore, my eyes refused to meet those jet black eyes full of hope to win over everything even when more than half of the life had proved them wrong. Then I heard myself calling that old lady. I told her that I needed to buy a bag. The joy that she felt in showing me the different colours I could choose from and telling me that she had stitched every bag herself was making it impossible for me to hide the emotions that surfaced on my face. I picked up a red one for myself and gave her 10 Rs.

The World Beyond Her Eyes

I have known this woman for a long time now. Sometimes her heart beats faster than normal; sometimes she feels a lump in her throat and sometimes her eyes arrest my gaze as if for eternity. When I am looking at her eyes it seems as if they are an entranceway to some mystic world too different from the world I live in.

I don’t see her everyday. I see her only when I wish to take a stroll in her world. She is the only inhabitant of her world and I am her only guest. She always stands at a high peak looking at the expanse of her world below. Once I step inside this world through her eyes I can feel her every thought, every grain of her emotion.

When this connection is established, even with my eyes wide shut I can see her world clearly. The crowd and the innumerous conversations in my world were making me restless and I decided to make my trip to this woman’s world today. I closed my eyes as I stood next to her. There was a sudden rush of energy that eased my weak shapeless thoughts. I could feel something happen to my shoulders. Next moment I saw an eagle; strong winged floating in the sky of this world.

I was the eagle. Fearlessly cutting past the currents of the wind, feeling wind against every shred of my feather. The chaos of those conversations in my world stopped affecting me the moment I became that eagle in her world. There was an aura sheltering me. At this exact moment I could feel thousand different energies within me.

I was a wall tall ocean wave journeying in an ocean. I also was the small fish in the depths under this wave, though small it was giving me tons of zest. In her world I could become a freefalling waterfall, an ant, a wild running black horse, a leaf, a single raindrop or the rain pouring at it’s own accord. Whatever form my feeble thoughts acquired it always made me feel boundless and capable of doing and undoing the exact thing so unachievable in my world.

The White Handkerchief

The bag on my shoulder was little heavier that day; it was the weight of those new books I had purchased while strolling up and down some street in Colaba. The train took a breather for few seconds at some station allowing women to crowd the already crowded ladies compartment.

I adjusted the bag to hear some raised voices. Enquiringly I looked in their direction. Women were pointing fingers towards a kid. Like a battlefield the space was divided in two halves. A boy, 8-9yrs of age was the lone commuter on one half of the compartment and the other half was inadequate for the women pointing fingers at him.

What was the paranoia about? I was wondering, a stinky street kid is no object of awe for the local train commuters. I looked harder as the panic voices couldn’t tell me anything. Now I could see the lanky kid wearing those oversized torn clothes that made him look sickly.

I realized then that the women were staring at a white handkerchief in the kid’s hand. Mumbai had few days ago witnessed a series of bomb blasts in local trains. But I was sure the all-famous Mumbaikar spirit would not surrender logic so easily to imagine explosives in a kerchief held by that fragile hand.

When my muddled mind was struggling to make sense of it all, the kid opened the white handkerchief & took it to his nose. A groomed, neatly dressed school kid using a kerchief to wipe his nose would have been a mundane sight. But seeing this urchin do the same was unusual and what followed was shocking. He took a deep breath in that handkerchief, his facial muscles flexed in excitement as he pulled the handkerchief away from his nose.

I was no stranger to the worldly horrors. There were too many newspapers in Mumbai gallantly breaking news of drug trafficking, murder, scams.. the list is never-ending. But to actually witness a kid so young demonstrate the horrendous reality was nightmarish.

Numb and frozen my thoughts were. Then suddenly a shrill piercing voice broke the trance. A lady had gathered guts to trespass into the kid’s half. Middle-aged and possibly a mother of 1-2, her motherly instinct wasn’t ready to give up on the kid. She was trying to stop the kid from smelling the white powder in that white handkerchief again. Empty eyed the kid stared at her. I wished I could snatch the kerchief and fling it out of the train but I was glued to the ground.

The train was slowing down to welcome some more women to witness the dread. As the women were struggling to get in… the kid dissolved in that crowd.

I am a Painter

I am a painter
White paper
Facing me
Colours staring eagerly

The brush seems alive
Paints my thoughts
An easy stroke here
A hurried stroke there

Like a graceful dancer
Explores the canvas
Step after step

Colours like refugees
Lifted from their bottles
Discover the undiscovered space

Like the first colony of men
Formation so unknown
Now reside on my paper.