The Right To Silence

This weekend, we decided to go on a road trip. So, after hiring an SUV, eight of us set off on a road adventure. The first few hours passed blissfully with everyone chatting merrily. But soon one could hear only one's own voice and didn't know whom to address because everyone was talking to everyone else. As the bout of talking ceased, we started withdrawing to our own worlds; some retired to their phones, some stared out the window while others started snacking.

There are some things which happen almost all at once. People sometimes have a tendency to think alike, and we are often influenced by what others are doing and start doing the same thing. I got my earphones out and started browsing through my playlists. Almost simultaneously, three of my companions took out their headphones. One of us had one of those tiny speakers shaped like a soda can. Music wafted through it, a lot like a fizzy drink would have, had the can been what it represented. Immediately, everyone hounded the guy with the speakers.

"Play this one. I have such an awesome collection!"

"This is that famous Beyonce track. The one from the Grey movie!"

"Forget all that. Play Kailasa's songs."

And the one who had got the speakers started regretting it instantly. A few of the songs were played while others couldn't see the light of day. Finally, the owner of the speakers decided to play his own songs and started playing them loud. Everyone else lost interest and went back to their headphones. Suddenly, B in the front began to bleat and cry. On closer inspection, we realized that he was singing. So immersed was he in the song that he couldn't hear Y sitting beside him, asking him to shut up.

"I can't listen to my songs. Will you please stop singing?"

He took one plug out of his ear and yelled, "What?!"

Y reiterated her problem. He put his earplugs back on and started raving louder than ever. Someone at the back had taken cue as well. C was trying miserably to imitate the song she was listening to and ended up spoiling the experience for everyone. Y turned around with a dangerous expression on her face.

"You too?!"

But that was to no avail. Soon, two more joined in the braying and the cacophony threatened to impair the hearing abilities of the rest of the company. When asked to stop or ordered to 'put an end to this drama', they replied that their freedom of speech was getting curbed. Y fumed. I advised her to use some earplugs herself. But she was not an easy person to assuage.

"If that is their right to sing, their 'freedom of speech', this is my right to not be sung to, my right to silence! I can't stand this!"

Image Source : highlysensitiveperson.net

The musical road trip had weirdly turned into a battleground for rights. No one knew how to solve this conundrum. How can the right to sing and the right to not listen to songs coexist? Who was impinging on whose rights? Even though B's right to sing appeared more valid, Y's right to NOT listen to B sing could not be undermined either. Being a minority, Y's voice could not be heard. And the right to remain silent or the right to avoid songs was an ambiguous right no one had heard of. Those of us who were neutral just didn't know how to go about it.

A vehement debate ensued. We argued and fought while the serene hills and fields flashed past the window. Before I knew it, nearly everyone had hit the sack within an hour. I too was snoozing, my hand over the seat cushion. An eerie quiet pervaded the car now, like that of a battlefield with slain soldiers after a battle. Suddenly, I heard a tune followed by some words. It was a very old song, of the time of my parents'. The driver had made the best of the situation while everyone was exhausted and asleep. He was playing his favorite song, exercising his right to music while everyone else was utilizing his/her right to repose.

The Finish Line

( This post has been tagged as a WOW post as a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. )

The day was young and fresh as he sprayed the plants in the verandah with water. He went leisurely from one plant to the other, bathing the leaves and enjoying the morning breeze. As the little boy’s eyes roved over the surroundings, he suddenly went rigid, his gaze fixated on a point many floors below their flat. He dashed inside the house calling, "Grandpa! Grandpa! Please come out!" Within a few minutes, the two generations were standing together; the younger one pointing down at a narrow gulley.

"Look at the pigeon! It's so badly hurt; it will die! Can't we save it?" the little kid bleated pitifully. The old man followed his grandson's gaze and descried a puny bald creature with a few feathers sticking out of its body, most of its left eye gone, replaced with a yellowish gooey bulge and the rest of the body sprayed with a deep crimson shade, something that might act as an emetic for the faint-hearted.

"Poor guy...I'm afraid he is too far gone to be saved...he is almost at the finishing line..."

“What do you mean it can’t be saved? I want to save it! And what is the finishing line?”

“It has bled way too much. Some cat must have got it.”

The poor boy looked horrified.

The grandfather continued in a kinder voice, “As for the finish line, well...some reach this line in a dash. You know, how, in a race, when it looks so close, you just double your speed and cross that line? It’s like that with some. While others take their own sweet time to reach it. The pace does not really matter. However, there are some unfortunate ones who are tantalizingly close to the line and yet, take ages to cross it, through no fault of their own. That poor pigeon is just such a creature. The best thing would be for it to be put out of its misery the soonest possible.”

“Why? Why can’t it be saved? Why can’t it live?”

“It can live. In fact, it will and that is what is so miserable about it. It is at a stage worse than death. A vegetative stage out of which it cannot extricate itself. It’s like you are stuck in a limbo; you cannot take that one step that will take you to the finishing line. Neither can you keep walking, meandering or charting new courses. It is a stalemate; a period, which seems to extend forever. The only thing one can do is pray that such a state never befalls anyone. You don’t want to be stuck indefinitely, waiting ponderously for the line to reach you.”

This discourse had chilled him to the core all those years ago. He had still wanted the bird to survive, to live as long as it could manage. 

But now, when he saw his dear grandpa enervated by a debilitating illness lying in a hospital bed in a comatose state himself, he finally realized the import of what the old man had said at that point of time. While everyone shed tears and lamented his state, he knew what his grandpa would have wanted- a dash to the finish line, not an insect-like crawl but a heroic dash. He could only envisage how his grandfather must abhor his current condition, but all he could do was pray- pray for him to reach the end line as soon as possible, just like they had prayed a long time ago for the poor pigeon.

Revolution of the Paupers

No man is exempted

No woman either

From the laws of change

That spare neither

A ravishing red rose bobbed along at the level of my waist as I chatted animatedly with my brother while strolling lazily in the market. I had barely looked down to see its source when a coarse voice called, “May God bless the thriving couple!”

It was a disheveled urchin carrying a bunch of roses, some still buds and others past bloom. His feet were bare and his brown hair fell all over his face. I walked resolutely ahead, wondering that the new-age tramps no longer played on the human sense of sympathy at disabilities but had now reverted to well wishes aimed at vulnerable people.

“Bhaiyya looks like Salman Khan and Didi looks like Katrina Kaif. What a couple!” said the kid, who was determined to dog us. I don’t know what came to me but I blurted out, “He is my brother!” and went away laughing before the ragamuffin could cook up some new comment about the eternal fraternal bond and the undying devotion of a brother towards a sister or any such crap.

I have come across many brands of beggars. There are those at the traffic signal who live off the red traffic light, which gives them the opportunity to hound vehicles by rapping on their windows or thrusting some unwanted article like penny dreadfuls, mobile covers or shades, inside them via some carelessly unclosed window. If there is a kid with you, then you will attract extra attention from the balloon guys or the toy sellers. There are obviously those typical women in tattered sarees with a kid on one arm and a kid on the side, who ask for ‘something in the name of God’ while pointing to the baby who has snot flowing copiously from his dirty little nose. But the ones who take the cake are definitely the eunuchs who will start with a compliment that panders to one’s vanity and move on to threats of a malediction in case one doesn’t shell out some bucks.

My mother immediately took out a twenty-rupee note when once, such a person reached us and looking at me, said to her, “You have such a beautiful daughter. May God bless her with a wonderful husband!” That had touched a nerve. So while I rolled my eyes, my mother promptly gave the person some amount that was certainly more than what she would have given a ‘general’ mendicant. “These people can curse you and it often comes true. They have a certain faith and power.” She explained to me, trying to assuage my anger and skepticism.

I used to be sort of proud of the fact that I never fell for such tricks. I never stopped to hear any insistent plea or see any attractive gimmick. Actually, I have never understood how to respond to beggars. Should I help them or should I be wary of them? The situation of the country and the disillusionment that has prevented us from believing the stranger on the street makes me wonder if I am not sinning by not helping those who might benefit by a few coins? My doubts continue to assail me however it was the following incident that turned the tables on me. I was standing at a bus stop, checking my watch when a thin woman came up to me and said “Hello”. I turned to look at her. “Good Morning” she continued. Out of sheer habit, I responded with a hello, although the rational senses of my mind had started smelling something wrong.

“Please...” she said and extended a white sheet of paper towards me. 

“Charity”, she said and took out a pen. As I looked at the odd sheet, I realized that the winds of change had transformed the uncouth beggars into proper professional destitutes. Globalization has brought many things to India, not least the culture of the west. But this evidence of the westernization of the community of the indigents had taken me by surprise. A few words in well-accented English and a pen and paper can give an overhaul to the image of a panhandler. It can make incredulous people like me listen and put skeptics in a dilemma whether to contribute to ‘charity’ or not. Thankfully, the bus arrived before I could be tricked any further. Next time when I encountered a girl roaming about with a piece of paper, I quickly steered clear before she could accost me further. Change, thou has swept the world!     

Image Sources:

www.telegraph.co.uk

www.chinasmack.com

The Two Words

( One of the winning posts of IndiBlogger's #MyFirstExpert contest )

I was an introvert by nature (I still am, for that matter) and my mother knew it. I would sit in a corner of the classroom by myself while the other kids chatted away animatedly. My mother always wanted me to be an eloquent public speaker. I guess every mother wants that. That feeling of seeing your child on the stage, it's just too poignant to express in words. There was just one little issue. I wasn't one of those voluble cute kids that everyone liked to talk to. I was one of those ruminating ones, sitting by myself, thinking and observing things around me.

My mother used to teach me two words everyday. Say Yes. She drilled these words into my head. Everyday when she got me ready for school, she would tell me to 'say yes' to any challenge- be it an activity, contest, competition; anything that ever came up (I guess she knew that activities and contests were challenges for me). I would nod and make a mental note of not saying yes ever.

It was on that hot sunny day, one of those days you wish you had been at home, when this happened. I was in standard 3rd then. Our English teacher had chosen some kids for a story-telling contest- one from each section. The girl who was selected from our section backed out at the last minute. The teacher was in turmoil. She scolded the girl a little but didn't know what else she could do. She then turned to another good speaker A and asked him, "Will you be able to learn this story over the weekend?"

A shook his head.

She turned to B. "What about you?"

B gave an excuse about a sore throat and backed out. The poor teacher asked ten more kids in quick succession. There were around thirty students in the class. None of them were willing to be the fall guy. Finally she announced in the classroom if there was anyone who could learn the story over the weekend and recite it on Monday. Suddenly there was pin-drop silence in the class, as though, if anyone uttered even a sound, he/she would be asked to participate. I could see my English teacher's face falling.

"Does anyone want to take part in the contest on Monday?" she asked again, almost like a final call. It was actually a privilege call. My teacher chose the most eloquent and talented people for the competitions and to be asked by her was no less than an honour. When no one answered, or even batted an eyelid for that matter, she turned to some guy X. He too refused. Her eyes roved around the room, her best warriors gone; now she only looked for a pawn, anyone, anyone who would agree to just stand there and say a few words. It was like she was looking for someone who would agree to be made a scapegoat of, someone who wouldn't mind being made a fool of. The students looked anywhere except at her. It was only I, who was unwittingly staring at her, wondering about the color of her saree and the color of the blackboard and how they matched so well.

"Do you want to take part, A?" Out of nowhere, I saw the question being pointed at me. I probably didn't hear her properly or perhaps I was too thrilled to be asked by her or (and I think this might be the actual reason) my mother's aphorism had taken root in my subconscious so well that I could hardly resist saying-"Yes ma’am".

I saw my English teacher heave a sigh of relief, the kind of relief that results from having found someone to send to the gallows. Only when I received the four-page story did I realize the extent of the predicament I was in.

When I got home and told my mother, she was so overjoyed to finally have me on stage that I didn't have the heart to narrate the entire story to her of how I was chosen as the final resort more like a last expedient than a first choice for the class representative. I was just happy to see her happy, although my heart itched to think how she would feel when I would tell her on Monday that I didn't win a thing. I was secretly glad she wouldn't be there to see me fumble and make a fool of myself.

That weekend, my mother trained me very hard. Hour after hour, she recited the story with me, making me learn every word and narrate it with as much expression as I could muster. She knew learning a four page story by heart was not my cup of tea but she was determined to draw out my best. She was making her utmost efforts and I felt a little sad that she would be disappointed if I didn't win anything. The fact that it was near impossible for me to remember the entire story, let alone win anything and that my competitors had been preparing since many weeks made me feel even more deflated. But I plodded on. Just to please my mother, if nothing else.

The D-Day arrived. I was frantic and my heart was beating erratically. I was not a very popular person in school but after this, I was sure everybody would recognize me. As the Fumbler, if not the Forgetter. Anyway, I went up to my English teacher. She was smiling at me. She looked happy with me. You see, sacrifice engenders faith. The sacrifice of my self-respect at the altar of my teacher's had earned me a place in her heart. That is how I saw it that time, anyway.

There were two participants before me. The first one had fumbled on some lines and forgotten parts of his story. I felt sort of reassured. 'I have a companion', I thought. The second one had spoken well though, and my heart sank again. Finally it was my turn. I will not dramatize it so much. I recited it as best as I could, looking straight ahead at the red school buildings instead of my classmates and teachers.

It was a story about a shepherd who fooled the villagers time and again by calling 'wolf, wolf!' just for the fun of it. After a while the villagers got angry and when the actual wolf arrived, they assumed that he was poking fun at them again and didn't come to the rescue of the repentant shepherd who was then made a meal of by the hungry wolf. Story Finished. But instead of these two lines, I had to narrate a four-page tale, replete with dialogues and details. I don't know how I managed to finish the story; I don't know how the details stuck, perhaps it was the way my mother had taught me to enact the wolf part or the way she had told me to jump from the hill scene to the one which had the shepherd, over to the village scene and finally to the wolf one. Whatever it was, I kept looking straight ahead and envisaged my mother making me recite those parts. It all just flowed forth thereafter. When I descended from the stage, I was relieved to see that no one was sniggering at me. After all the section participants had spoken, the time for results arrived. I had never been bothered about them before and I wasn't bothered about them then. I had done my job.

The result? Yes, it looks like a page out of a fairytale but let me remind you that fact is stranger than fiction. I heard my name being called out and purely dazed, went up to the stage.

Mother of God! I had actually made it as a winner!

Apart from shell shocked surprise, I was ecstatic beyond belief. My English teacher had a new favorite now. But the one who was the happiest was my mother. Her jubilant smile and shining eyes were the most most beautiful things I had ever seen. When I showed her the trophy that I got a few days later, she was almost crying with joy. I think it was then that I realized how much I liked to see her smile and how much she has made me into the person that I am today. Believe it or not, I went on to take part in nearly all the elocution contests at school and managed to win almost all of them. I also became the school's Cultural Secretary and then the General Secretary in my college. Anchoring events and speaking impromptu now came to me easily. But they would never have come to me had she not taught me those two precious words; had she not sat with me and taught me the story that day; had she not urged me to say yes to challenges. She was, she is and she will always be My First Expert! Love you Mom...

http://godrejexpert.com/single_used_pack.php

PS : Those of you who find it hard to believe this story, spare some moments to go through the attached pictures. Of course, you can ask my old school mates as well. Or just drop by anytime at my place and I will show you my laurels!

The Ride Home

( As part of a blogging initiative by 27Coupons )

"I didn't get it." 

Samir spoke into the phone and sighed, preparing himself to face a barrage of questions and a spate of "I told you so!"s. Throughout the phone call, he mostly kept silent, while the volume of the voices at the other end kept growing. He wished fervently that his parents would stop talking. Finally, he cut the call and heaved a sigh of relief. Now, he was dreading the trip back home. Everything about his life sucked. Actually, it wasn't everything. It was just his job. That didn't exist yet. He had tried every possible trick in the book, sent his resumes to multifarious organizations, attended countless interviews but Lady Luck had continued to evade him. On top of it, the expectations of his parents from him,since he was their only child and a son at that, had created a pressure that he could not sustain. It had got him worked up and highly strung. He simply wanted out. He wished he could defer returning home.

His dad had paid for the travel fare and the accommodation when he came here to appear in the interview for this job that he eventually didn't manage to get. He could only imagine what a reception he would get the next day when he got home. The thought of humiliation and rejection haunted him the entire night as well as the next day when he boarded the train. When he finally alighted at the station, he started searching for a low-cost vehicle that would take him home, although all he wanted was to somehow stay out by any means. He just could not face his father, who would surely be furious with him or his mother, who would be, at best, disappointed. He was thinking of ways to evade the probing questions that would be put up by his dad when-

"This side son..." 

A familiar voice hailed him, and he turned around. He saw his dad waving to him, standing beside a sedan, which had a huge sticker of OlaCabs plastered all over its door. Samir could hardly believe his eyes. Reaching the car, he looked at his father incredulously.

"Come, let's go." His father beckoned him to sit, and the driver took off.

Samir felt that now he would be sounded out really bad.

"How was the city?" his dad asked him. He thought he would go mad with all the suspense. Why on earth would his dad come to receive him, especially at a time when he had let him down so badly? And now he was asking him about the trip and the city as if it was some holiday he had been on.

"It was nice, pretty good." Samir replied. He didn't what else to say so he continued, "I could have come home myself, Dad. You didn't need to-" 

"Cut it. It's okay. You need all the support we can give you, son. Don't you worry about jobs and all. You are brilliant. You will get one sooner or later. For now, let's go home and rest." 

Samir was sort of dumbfounded at his father's reaction. He didn't know what to say but he tried anyway. 

"Why did you take the trouble to book cabs and all...I could have travelled by bus..."

His father waived it all away saying, "Oh it was nothing! Just a click on the app and lo! The carriage appears! And anyway, I managed to get a few discounts from 27Coupons!" His father added with a twinkle in his eyes while pointing towards the OlaCabs app he had recently downloaded in his phone. Suddenly, Samir's mood lifted. He felt that he could do anything, be anything... A single gesture had worked wonders for his confidence. He would go out again tomorrow.

"Can I book a cab for tomorrow, dad?" he asked his father. "I am going for a walk-in."  

His dad smiled and patted his head.

'I will make sure I get a job this time', he said to himself.  

http://www.27coupons.com/stores/olacabs.com/

The Vows

"I...promise...to be true to you...in good times and in bad...in sickness and in health...I will love and honor you all the days of my life..."

www.planwallpaper.com

She pressed a button on the remote and the screen froze. She did not have time to indulge in movies now. A lot needed to be done. Her gaze swept the room she was in. The bed sheets were rumpled and crushed. The pillows lay on the floor, which itself was strewn with a variety of articles ranging from safety pins and clips to empty packets and unwashed glasses. There was a mound of clothes overflowing from the clothes hamper. She sighed. It would be a long time before she would be able to lie down on the bed with her chores all done.

Her mind went back to a month ago. They had brought both the families to a truce. It was a hard fight but they had somehow managed it. The story was not very unusual. Her father was dead against the match and his mother too was not willing to have a non-khatri daughter-in-law thrust upon her. 'After all, my son is an MBA grad.' she would say proudly. The love story and the battle to get together was almost every Indian couple's story these days. Both of them had left no stone unturned in saving their four-year-long relationship. They had used trick and truth, hook and crook, peace and war; whatever they could to make sure that they would be united in matrimony.

It had been a mere few weeks since they had exchanged thick rose garlands and taken seven rounds of the holy fire. Now as she sat, waiting for her lover-turned-husband, who was currently on a call in the next room, she wondered whether she had taken the right decision. How could she know whether he was the right man? What if her parents had been right about ‘today’s men who turned rogue after marriage’? What if she started feeling lonely? She certainly felt so now as the mountain of household chores loomed large in front of her.

As her thoughts threatened to sabotage her work, she decided to snap out of the stupid vortex of her disturbing theories and resolved to get some work done. The rooms had to be dusted, food cooked and a truck full of clothes had to be washed, the white ones separately. She huffed. As she emptied the laundry basket, a voice boomed from the screen. 

"I...promise...to be true to you..." 

Her husband had switched on the movie and was walking towards her now. 

"In good times and in bad...in sickness and in health..."

He paused the movie and started speaking, his face turned up in a smile, "In the house and outdoors...in the cooking and the cleaning...in the washing and the sweeping..."

Now he resumed play. "I will love and honor you all the days of my life..."

The actor finished the line and he pressed the pause button again. She giggled as he picked up the dirty laundry and started segregating them into piles.

"Come on, leave them, I will manage..." she said. He picked up a large stack of clothes and took it with him to the washing machine. He undid the band fastening the packet of Ariel washing powder and sprinkled some all over the dirty clothes. She had followed him and now, she asked, "Hey..what is with all this?"

He looked at her with a smile,"What is what?"

She giggled and said,"Why are you being Mr. Cleaner? Trying to wash the clothes and all?"

"Oh it's simple. Didn't you hear the vows? I am just sharing the load, sweetie."

Saying so, he kissed her. She knew now that she had taken the right decision. She would never feel lonely or burdened. They were both in this together.

#ShareTheLoad

I am writing for the #ShareTheLoad activity at BlogAdda.com in association with Ariel.

The Pigeonhole Principle

Sundays are for reposing, relaxing, reveling, rejuvenation and for many other such –ings and -tions (that may not start with R). This Sunday of mine was spent in a pigeon ouster expedition. Do you know the pigeonhole principle?  It goes like this…

If n pigeons are put into m holes, with n > m, then at least one hole must contain more than one pigeon. I think the pigeons knew it too. Because we had started experiencing a hellish time with these birds of pray-tell-me-why-are-you-so-numerous. Some wily ones had managed to find such a hole in our verandah, where not one but more than one had cosied themselves. But we didn’t realize it at first. Every day, when the residents of No.XX including I returned from work and went out into the balcony to take in a breath of fresh air or hang up some clothes, a cacophony would be raised and a flock of feathers would try and fly to escape detection, strewing pebbles, little sticks and cement detritus all over the verandah in the process. My mom would shoo them away and set down to clean away the mess, only for the wretched pigeons to come and upset her efforts all over again. It would have gone on ad infinitum if not for this Sunday when my mom decided to amass an army of her own and give them a tough fight. She presented to the pigeon family her commander-in-chief, her best warrior alias my dad to defeat them in the battle of the pigeonhole. My brother stood next in command, handing dad the ammo, as he reached up to the hole on the ladder and swept away the nest that had been carefully put together by the parent pigeons. Dad ordered for a plastic polybag to be brought and the pigeon eggs were placed carefully in it, which was then handed over to my bro, who took it up to the roof (we do not take prisoners-of-war, so the eggs were kept aside; we are peace-loving denizens who however, do not brook invasion). My brother is young and not so well-versed in the military strategies, so one of the eggs broke on the way to the roof. Whether this fact was espied by the enemy force or not, I can’t say but they put up an admirable fight, what with all the flapping and fluttering. The canopy of fallen feathers befuddled the army of flat no. XX who retaliated with equal vigor as dad vigorously swiped away the wrecks of their nests and bro kept the flapping at bay with occasional shouts while my mother, the mastermind behind the battle stood with her hands on her hips, her fiery furry weapon (the broom) by her side. After some wrangling and hard work, the battle was finally over, the army bathed in feathers and debris.  Mom and dad exchanged sighs of relief and glances of victory. I sighed. What was my role in all this? I stayed inside, peering through the window, pleading and asking them if we couldn’t leave the cute birds alone?

“I will let the nest be if you promise to clean this mess every day. Will you?” asked my mom, while brandishing her favourite weapon, the oft-advertised jhadoo. Of course, I couldn’t. Cleaning gave me the cramps, mostly as an excuse and sometimes, literally as well. So, the nest had to go and the pigeonhole battle was won by the army of flat no. XX. After the battlefield had been cleared of the rubble, I tiptoed out, avoiding the remains of the nest packed in a polybag kept by the side of the wall, and looked at the line of pigeons perched on the electricity wires. I was sure they were planning a counter attack; some of them would probably strike back immediately, perhaps with another guerrilla strategy or some rudimentary approach (for instance the beaks) and some might start rehabilitation right away. I looked at them with a glance that tried to say I wasn’t in on this; I am neutral. I am Switzerland, leave me out. Just then a pigeon swarmed over my head, fluttering its wings and I ran inside, to claim my shelter with the residents of flat no. XX.