purpose

What’s next? Is that question bothering more people these days? Does the pandemic and lockdown have anything to do with it? Traditional office work provided social connection, shared goals of a community and friendships. Since the lockdown, social connection moved online and the work was reduced to its bare essentials - accomplishing well defined goals. When stripped to bare bones, are we now seeing work for what it was? Are we searching for more meaning and purpose now? I think we all have lot of time on our hands to explore this question, in isolation and without distractions. I feel not finding satisfactory answers could lead people to take more chances, atleast to break out and see what else is possible.

Beyond questioning the fundamental meaning of work, there are other side effects too. With no chance to just bump into someone, unless we express multi fold compared to earlier, it might be difficult to understand others and to be understood. “Serendipitous conversations” and “watercooler moments” were phrases heard recently. People who were expressive in person are reduced to sterilized, measured, careful statements in chat, email or phone. Phone conversations are for a specific need. Agenda-less discussions about anything under the sun, aided by a coffee, are missing. It is just like the saying that long distance relationships are doomed to fail. Only remedy in these times seems to be to try harder to reach out more without a specific purpose, say more than usual, be vulnerable and share first.

Group of people could slowly drift apart – the strong ties of shared goal, common purpose, feeling of going on an adventurous journey together is coming apart. Unless we continuously refine the purpose, repeat it and reassure, there may not be anything in common to fight for.

I hope the end result, when we come out of this pandemic, will be good for all. Ties that could not hold might be broken for the sake of new beginnings. I hope more people will find new answers to the meaning of life (or work) too.

-------------

1. I had come across this towards the beginning of this crisis – “In a crisis - an opportunity for a more meaningful life”. Was reminded of this due to another conversation today.

stories

I have been thinking for some time that most stories are extreme approximations of actual lives lived. Details glossed over, unpleasant and embarrassing parts left out and moments of doubts and anxiety omitted. I heard an accomplished film script writer saying no one wants to know about the boring life of a protagonist -  if they show him waking up, going through the motions and getting ready, audience will lose patience. But who will ever see the hero waking up, just having dreamt a bad dream, lie awake thinking about the day ahead and pointlessness of the job he has to do, but still make the effort to get up and put himself through the paces. That itself should be heroic enough. Sometimes we come across an ordinary moment from daily life written up in a book and think that is the first time someone else had expressed that exact thought which you always had and never told anyone.

I heard someone say that we should tell our stories so that for someone somewhere it might become validation that such thoughts are normal and such lives are okay. But it takes enormous courage to say it as it is. I hope I can express myself in words that are true to what I feel, have courage to be seen and never judge others when they do the same. Without being a cynic, know also that I might not have heard the full story still, that it is hard for another to say it and make allowance for the same.

1. I came across this passage in the book “If on a winter’s night a traveler” that triggered above thought – “Do you want to demonstrate that the living also have a wordless language, with which books cannot be written but which can only be lived, second by second, which cannot be recorded or remembered? First comes this wordless language of living bodies then the words books are written with, and attempts to translate that first language are vain…”

2. In what I think of as déjà vu, happened to come across this facebook post which was talking exactly about untold stories. 

3. There are 115 days left in 2020. It is one of the weirdest year I have ever lived through and it is not yet over. Rather than getting rid of this year and deciding new “new year resolutions”, I thought why not start now itself? What if I take on a 100 days challenge – read atleast 25 pages a day, write journal or blog daily, exercise for 30 mins and cook a meal. At the very minimum, it will distract me from all the other worries and anxieties. I have 15 days cushion too to make up for any lapses.

നോൺ ഫിക്ഷൻ

"Chinua Achebe - Man of the People. ഫിക്ഷനോ നോൺ ഫിക്ഷനോ?"

"ഫിക്ഷൻ"

"നോൺ ഫിക്ഷൻ നിർത്തിയോ?"

"ഇല്ല. ഒരെണ്ണം വായിക്കുന്നുണ്ട്."

"എന്തിനാ. ഫുൾ ഉപദേശം. വായിച്ചാൽ ഉറക്കം വരും." 

ബുക്ക് കൊണ്ടു തലക്കൊരെണ്ണം കൊടുത്തു. 

"നീയെപ്പോഴാ അതിനു നോൺ ഫിക്ഷൻ വായിച്ച് ഉറങ്ങിയത്?"

"ആ പിക്ചർ ബുക്ക് ഇല്ലേ? അത് വായിച്ച്."

"ഏതു പിക്ചർ ബുക്ക്‌?"

"അതു പോലും ഓർമ്മയില്ല, പിന്നെന്തിനാ വായിക്കുന്നത്. ഇതാ ഞാൻ പറഞ്ഞേ, നോൺ ഫിക്ഷൻ കൊള്ളില്ല."

ഒന്നൂടെ കൊടുത്തു. 

"ആ, ഓർമ്മ വന്നു." Shape Of Ideas - Grant Snider. "അതു നല്ലതായിരുന്നു"

"നാളത്തെ ഹെഡ് ലൈൻ - അച്ഛൻ മകളെ രണ്ടു പ്രാവശ്യം തലക്കടിച്ചു. പ്രതി ഇപ്പോൾ കൊല്ലത്തിരുന്നു ചപ്പാത്തി കഴിക്കുന്നു. വാദി അടുത്തു തന്നെ ഉണ്ട്."

All the Bright Places

Precocious teens, smart and wise beyond their age, moody, suicidal, beautiful / handsome, well read, troubled, weird – common characteristics of three YA novels I read recently. I seem to have forgot my teenage years, whether I struggled so much. It is the time when you understood enough about the world, society, people, politics, religion and community – but still harbor an idealistic view, wants to contribute, want to change the world and think it is possible. Half of them would have already blended in and any one fighting still could be seen freakish. It is hard to accept the adults who have become like zombies who have adjusted and accepted the world. How much longer do they fight? How do they deal with the failures when the reality closes in? How do they keep their idealism burning as long as possible, to keep them genuine, uncorrupted, fresh and innocent? How to keep the connections open while they make the transition? Or don’t transition at all, but keep the sanity?

- After reading “All the Bright Places”, Jennifer Niven

milkman

“Perceptions are reality”, they say. Start a new narrative / gossip about a person, on hearsay, driven by jealousy, intention to take revenge for one’s hurt ego, or upon violating someone’s preconceived notions about how someone should be. Keep finding new reasons to strengthen that narrative, anything could cement it further. Keep building the crescendo, the germ transferred to other minds, multiples and feeds on itself. It could lead to bringing someone down, that’s when the new imaginary monster unleashed gets satisfied. 

In its wake, boundaries of what is true and what is false gets blurred. No one is able to decide and separate out fact from fiction. Eventually the victim might start believing it herself. Any one acting out of ordinary will be turned a freak and that makes it easier to discount their view which may be the truth. Create narrower divisions of us vs them, draw crisscrossing lines to block off people like pawns in a chess board, create symbols and micro ideologies to keep the smaller groups tighter and closed off from others. Are there masterminds to these games or once started these are independent monsters who cannot be controlled? If there is an overall master mind, in spite of the evil and danger he poses, it must be mind blowing strategy.

How do one get out this maze? Reacting and kicking out will drag one down like a quicksand. Blocking out will also not make it go away. How do one fight an imaginary hydra? Do an individual have any way out once caught in this? Resign to the fate is the only option? How to device a counter attack that has a chance of success? How to keep the sanity? How to not become another pawn in the game?

- After reading Milkman, by Anna Burns.

this year

This year I learned some.

Read few good books.

Watched some good movies.

Discovered good music and made some new favorites.

Listened to new podcasts.

Wrote a bit.

Did yoga for 6 months.

Fought some, lost some and won a few battles.

Made some mistakes.

Felt host of emotions.

Scored a winning goal.

Made wine.

Cooked some new “dishes”

Traveled to few countries

Made few friends

Here's to a new year!

possibilities

So many possibilities exist for all of us. At any given moment. To make another choice, to take a different path, to make a difference to our lives and to others. Inertia, customs, duties, responsibilities, society – all words to tie us down.

Wish we can simplify every thought, action and interaction. No pretenses and be original, bare, raw human. Find bliss in that. Say what we know and what we don’t know. Express our feelings without needing to explain why we are feeling that way or feeling guilty of that feeling.

Wish we can accept people for who they are, see the good in them and amplify that. Simple powers to subtly lead someone to be a better version of themselves.

Wish we can show people endless possibilities in front of them. Lives which will be lived in eternal monotony can be nudged ever so gently to fulfillment. Find the larger purpose and meaning of our lives and others.

-- After reading Totochan. Teaching is such a holy profession, so undervalued atleast in my part of the world. So much can be done, so many lives can be touched in a fundamental way.

the lowland

What makes people absolutely hate someone? What actions we do permanently affects trajectory of someone else's life and be the reason for everything else they do or don't do for rest of their lives? Should we have that kind of influence on someone or should we allow to have someone occupy our thoughts and actions so deeply? Why can't we forget and forgive - it is so liberating, even then? Is being kind even with people who wronged us weak? What actions are unpardonable - even from a victim and even when it is justifiable? Why don't we speak about our emotions, reason it out with another person, even when we are not sure of it and try to discover why we feel what we feel and get out of mental knots that prevent us from being free?

Every person has a story, untold to anyone else in the world and unknowable to the world. Some stories we live with and take to our graves. It cannot be told to the loved ones to avoid hurting them, postponed for the right time which maybe forever. Everyone has such bundles. I read somewhere that be kind to people as we don't know what they are going through. Adulthood and maturity are masks earned for hiding the inner turmoil effectively. In that respect, everyone is a hero too. Sacrifices and choices made for others and oneself, long journeys spanning decades nursing wounds and still smiling.

I wonder how the twilight of our lives will be? Who will be around and how the stories end? In the end everything is pardoned and nothing else matters anymore and world moves on as if none of it ever mattered.    

- after reading "The Lowland" by Jhumpa Lahiri

Can't have two faces..

There is something called radical honesty - being truthful in every situation. But can truth have various versions? How do we know if what we know as truth is the only version of it? Should we constantly doubt our own versions of the truth and modify it? How can we not become delusional, pedantic or radical by believing only our version of the truth and stop being open to accept other versions or variations? Should there be balance in saying the truth? Should we be silent sometimes when the truth can hurt someone? Is white lies ok to avoid hurting someone? How do we know if we are not slipping down our moral thresholds if we push the limit of not telling the truth, too far? Doesn't truth change over time - with expansion of the view point, more data being available? A sudden emergency, a catastrophe suddenly brings clarity to us that some truths should have been said early, somethings shouldn't have been ignored. But at the same time, when should truth telling be sweetened to avoid hurting egos vs when should it be plainly told to make the impact felt? Is there a bigger truth vs smaller truth? With whom can you tell the truth and with whom should you not? With someone if you can't tell the truth openly, what does that mean for the relationship? Should you be kind with even enemies and avoid hurting their ego? Should you be kinder with your loved ones and protect them from some harsh realities by not revealing everything? When should you withhold and when should you reveal? How should you say the truth? Saying it in one way vs the other changes the truth or the acceptance of it? Should there be a purpose to telling the truth? Saying the truth or lie for one's own benefit or for the sake of another - does it change how we choose to do it? 

How to suppress emotions, like a man?

- Never talk about it with anyone. In groups talk about only serious subjects like economics, politics and sports. Condition oneself.
- Set expectations and live up to it - calm under any circumstances, always be "rational". Act as if you know everything and have any situation under control.
- Anger and Pride are allowed since it matches with the expectations.
- Any signs of breach of these, fight back / avoid / ignore so that the moment passes and one can forget about it and move on.
- What is past is past, never analyze too much, think too much or talk too much.
- Talk about objects, not subjects. Don't get into details, keep it short. 

റിസര്‍ച്ച്

“പെണ്ണുങ്ങള്‍ മള്‍ട്ടിടാസ്കിങ്ങില്‍ മിടുക്കരാണെന്നാ വയ്പ്.”

“ആരു പറഞ്ഞു?”

“റിസര്‍ച്ച് ഉണ്ട്.”

“എന്നാല്‍ ഞാന്‍ പെണ്ണല്ല. എനിക്ക് മള്‍ട്ടിടാസ്കിംഗ് പറ്റില്ല.”

അപ്പുറത്തു നിന്ന് കമന്റ്‌ “അമ്മ ആണാണെന്നാണോ പറയുന്നത്?”

“അതെന്തായാലും ആവണ്ട”

..

“അതിരിക്കട്ടേ.. ആണുങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് വീട്ടുകാര്യത്തില്‍ അല്‍പ്പം കൂടെ ശ്രദ്ധ വേണമെന്ന് റിസര്‍ച്ച് ഉണ്ടോ? കണ്ടു കാണില്ല. ആവശ്യമുള്ളത് മാത്രമല്ലേ കാണൂ.”

ദി ഏന്‍ഡ്.                

chatter

"we suffer more in our imagination than reality."

So much chatter goes on in our head. We talk to ourselves more than with any other person in our lifetime. So little of will be known to anyone else, we cannot bear the consequences of letting other people know. So we reason with us, the good part of us trying to be in control and suppressing and improving the ever worrying, criticising, jealous, devious, evil parts. So many layers of defense built up and little that goes out is sometimes by accident when we think someone is trustworthy. That they will see the good and ignore or make the bad better. When they deceive, some more layers of defense adds up, the shell gets thicker and the chances of another person breaking through diminishes further. So every act of unkind behavior causes ripple effect, within the person at receiving and denies chances for others to make up.

What if we break the norms? What if we act kindly to every person we meet? What if we always help first? What if we never defend ourselves - take anything for what it is worth and reject the rest? What if we smile more? What if we share more, if it helps someone else to know it is normal? What if we reach out randomly to fellow passengers in this journey? Even those who look cheerful on the outside may be putting on a massive show. Not just the loners and socially awkward, but what if we connect genuinely to everyone we encounter? Without any expectations. 

- after reading the book "13 reasons why"

rabbit holes

Someone tweeted about this spanish song. I didn’t know what it meant and about the music. It was a refreshing / different music. On Sundays, I do the laundry and it is usually with the background of some music. These days it is from youtube - either My Mix which is random or take any of my favorite songs and just hit the Mix option that comes up on the top. It sets me up for an hour or two.

Back to this Spanish song. It is not frequent and easy to discover a new song. I wish there are music recommendation (and book, story and whole lot of other recommendations) which is not algorithm driven (based on what I liked in the past), but a recommendation from a human friend. Share a surprise music recommendation that can set you up for new journey.

I feel it is like falling into a rabbit hole like Alice. Once I started listening to this song, I hit the “Mix” which brought up a whole lot of others. It might be similar songs like those, songs that others liked who also liked the first one etc. I am ok if algorithm does that. I choose the path to go to and let it play the part of the GPS.

Spanish is sweet to listen to. So much so that it is in my bucket list to learn. Now this reminds of that goal. What if I take it up seriously? If so, it would have been a wonderful thing this song would have accomplished – to push me to this rabbit hole that could lead to new adventures beyond similar music. Need more such new paths, atleast alley ways to do detours to once in a while and get lost.

feeling that has no name

There needs to be more words to describe some feelings. Like some random forwards about a single German word or Japanese word describing a feeling that can only be expressed in a sentence in English and still be incomplete.

Like what do you call that feeling that comes every time I see the sky darkening, silence descending, with occasional cries of a bird, a cold breeze, announcing impending rain?  It used to be one distinct feeling, but now with aftermath of what happened in Kerala, I am not sure if it will remain the same. When it just sprinkled the other day, my wife was commenting that now every time there is a mention of rain, it will remind of Ms Rita’s front room that leaks.  

Or the feeling of tightening in the chest of not being able to do anything, not feeling like doing anything, feeling like nothing is worth doing and all is in vain? That cloak of doom should be shaken with a coffee, sharing the wordly worries and have a good laugh with a friend.

Or the feeling of being accused of something and instead of arguing and making it worse, keeping silent, fully knowing that it is quite the opposite and the karma will catch up and reward me later.

Or the feeling of not telling someone about something knowing that it will hurt them, but at the same time not able to do much to prevent it from happening.

Or the feeling of embarking on something not knowing the path, not knowing whether it will succeed, not knowing answers to all the questions, but all the while feeling like it may lead to something wonderful or it may be a spectacular failure.

I should be able to say – yes, I am feeling “this” now, rather than the whole sentences above.

lullaby

What is good to read or hear or watch just before going to bed? I think just right at night is bittersweet. In the morning, need something that can warm the bones and the blood, get the mind hopeful and body ready to run the race of the day. At the end of the day, when one more day has passed away, what is needed is not too happy and not too sad. To cool down the racing mind and to put one to sleep. If I find what is just right, I should put that on endless repeat until I am ready.

Ms Rita

They said her house is In the small alley next to the ex-Minister’s bungalow. They said It is a big house and the yard will be clean since she would have plucked out all the weeds. She stays alone, she is strong willed even though her memory started fading. So if we go in such late evening hour, she may not even open the gate and even if she opens the gate she may not recognize. But we thought we will still try. She had taught my wife moral science for one year, she teaches History normally. Their batch recently collected some money for her. On our way my wife was thinking what to give her, whether there was an envelope. She does everything properly – I wouldn’t have thought of such things. Finally she found some envelopes in her 10 kg handbag that she carries everywhere. It has everything that is needed in any kind of emergencies – from torchlight to stapler. The envelopes were already labeled “Onamshasakal”, which she had written up to give small gifts to anyone who gives any sort of service to us – ladies who collect garbage, Chakki’s bus driver, shopkeeper from whom we buy milk every day. She wanted to add “From all of us”, but did not find a black ink pen, to match the “Onamshasakal”.  Chakki was impatient to finish this off since we were using the time she thought she had to go to the beach.

We parked the car on the side of the road, in front of closed shops – old ones, like the old ration shops, with wooden paneled doors, with tiled roof. First house in the alley on the left was padlocked. It had peeled off paint, but the board on the wall said it was a nursery. Bush taller than me were growing all around the house. Next house looked serene, with a nice yard. I said this is the kind of house I would like to live in. “Yeah, right, next to abandoned houses and plots” came the reply. A house on the left was also locked, overgrown trees, bushes and grass around. We passed another house on the left, we thought that was also abandoned. There was a guy standing ahead of us, looking at us, questioningly as to what we were looking for at this hour. We asked him where her house was. He was on phone and in between pointed at the house which we thought was abandoned. There were knee high grass growing around the house. We noticed then that a light was on inside. Knocked on the gate a few times. I heard an inner door inside getting unlocked. She opened the top half of the door to peer outside. My wife called out “Miss, it is me”. She opened up the door, came out and unlocked the gate. My wife introduced. “Yes, I remember you and your sister. Come in.”. She said she remembers the best students and the worst.   

She was as tall as Chakki. Bobbed hair, mostly white but combed neatly. She might be 80 or 85, did not know exactly. She was wearing a frock like the traditional Anglo-Indians in that area. Her frock was faded and frayed. She was too thin, skin like wrinkled wax. We went into the sitting room. Three wooden chairs, an old showcase with some dusty ornamental show pieces inside. Paint has peeled off, showing yellow and blue and white at places. Slanted wooden ceiling had yellow patches, no ceiling fan. I tried to close the door, but the grills above it would anyway bring in the mosquitoes. Three basins were kept next to the showcase. There were old black and white pictures behind her on the wall. There was an yellow light burning inside somewhere and the rooms were dark.

She dragged a chair and sat facing us. She said her memory is ok. She said she is blind in one eye and can’t see much with the other. She has cataract and glaucoma, she talked about going to eye hospitals 10 years back, prepared to do the surgery and the doctors told her that her nerves were too weak and can’t do surgery and she returned home the same day. They told her she would gradually become blind. Now she can’t read anything other than the headlines in newspaper. She doesn’t watch TV during the day and in the evening tries to watch 7:30 serial. She doesn’t go out at all these days, even to the church. Once in three days, a nephew brings her some provisions. She cooks rice and boiled vegetables in the morning around 11. She will have something left for the dinner which she will heat up. She sleeps around 10, otherwise she may not be able to sleep through the night. She was worrying about the grass growing in the yard. It will take 4 days for someone to clean around the hose and they charge Rs 850 these days for one day of labor. She says there are snakes around, she saw three of them in the back yard, it crosses over the road from other empty plots.

She said the rains were terrible, had never seen anything like this in her life. Her front room leaks. She had to remove the ceiling fan since it burned out. It explains the basins and the peeled off paint. She had to sweep out the standing water three times during the rainy days. She had the tiles replaced with a patch of GI sheet, but it made the leak worse. Now they say they have to replace the entire section to fix it properly. The house is 60 years old, built by her father. It was red stone and lime, not concrete or hollow bricks. She is worried if the entire house will collapse. Ex-minister’s high wall collapsed to her back yard in recent rains and now they are re-building it.

We wondered about the pictures on the wall. She pointed out her mother and father and herself when she got the B.Ed – looking so bright. She wanted to see the pictures of other teachers that my wife had in her phone. She looked at each picture, commented about each. She speaks in matter of fact tone, about everything. About her only sister dying 10 years back after getting gangrene in a leg, getting amputed and passing away in a month and not being able to see her. About even waiting for every day as the last day.

It was dark out when we started from there. We promised Chakki to take her to the beach some other day. My wife was commenting that we should have just cleaned out our wallets and given everything we had on us to her.

Would I live so calmly if I was losing my eyesight and alone? What happens to everyone we know now when it is fading hours of our lives? Who will remember us and does it even matter then?

moments of a life

I attended a marriage ceremony today, a simple function that I enjoyed attending after a long time – usually our kind of marriages (in Kerala) are just show pieces that are meaningless (or today I made up some meaning from it). For example, I watched the groom take blessings from an elder in the family. His father had made it a point to break off the groom from the procession which was taking him to the mandap, take blessing from this person and proceed. I thought he genuinely touched the person’s feet, asked for blessings and received it. It was someone with a head full of clean white hair, who knew him probably as an just born infant to a man that is standing before him, entering a new life. For some reason, hairs on my arm stood up.

I was thinking if people realize that such moments, of taking or giving the blessings before you start a huge leap in your life, tying the knot, are once in a lifetime which makes it big moments. How do we get them imprinted in our memories – being fully present, realizing the “power of now”, mental images with the intensity of feelings that we felt at that time – than the still photos. I used to think about this when I say final farewell to friends who move away – often they don’t realize this may be the last time we see each other for years and when we see each other after those years, we may not be exactly be the same. So the last time we see each other with such a closeness that we mutually feel is now. From that point, the relationship fades into a maybe a nostalgic one which we both hope is the same as the one we really had at one time. Hence the final farewell is a significant moment for me, but I usually see both of us just saying we will keep in touch and walk away. Same is the case about moments with my daughter. I may never feel her innocence just the same, or her joy of simple things, or silly jokes, or non-sensical questions in the same way later. I hope to being more present in the moment, with full attention, enjoy and cherish such moments.

life under yellow haze

Looking outside my window, I can see the tall building of Tata Steel. It is on the other side of a 4 line elevated highway, lined with footpath which looks pretty nice with some mosaic pattern. The stretch looks like a Hollywood set with façade buildings, looks unpopulated.

But this is not what I saw for an hour drive through Kolkata. It is my first time here, was curious about Calcutta that I read about so much. Land of Tagore, Satyajit Ray, communism and literate intelligent people. But the drive through the city seemed to me like a horror show, like those Halloween rides in theme parks where you are taken inside through tunnels and suddenly zombie dummies jerk on to your path.

Coming out of the airport, I took the pre-paid taxi – not the AC or private ones, but the one controlled by City Police. Yellow taxies here are all old ambassadors, taxi drivers in tatters. For few minutes after coming out of the airport, I was trying to connect to a conference call – it kept saying all lines are busy, it anyway never got free even after 10 tries, so I left it. City is derelict, decadent, decrepit, decaying, dilapidated – this is the city where all of those words will fit perfectly. Buildings wouldn’t have seen paint in ages and I think everyone decided that something that is broken is better left that way. Just like we as irresponsible bachelors used to live – assuming some mess made is better left untouched, as if it will go away on its own, ignoring it or assuming it is not there and carefully sidestepping it every time. Even the trees by the side of the road are dead, with no one bothering to cut it down. There are rotting buses, trucks and cars by the side of the road, the kind which is seen near traffic police stations in Kerala. Just like those abandoned towns shown in zombie movies. It was 10:30 pm, but I saw old ladies sitting with a few fruits in their baskets under street lamps. People were lying in charpais, there are charpais in wide junctions. I haven’t seen so many people living in streets in any of our cities so far, there were makeshift awnings put up, with full lives lived in the open. So many people sitting calmly in the side of the road, autorickshaws with 4 people in the driver seat, bikes carrying three people, cycle rickshaws, taxis coming head on, scream at each other and passing – tableaus passing by, which should have been from an old Hindi movie. In between I thought whether the driver is abducting me and this is not the right way.​

In between I thought I saw someone washing something in water in the gutter, but then I thought I must have imagined. It had rained before, so water was pouring into the gutter from inner alley ways. In one junction, when the taxi stopped at light, I saw a family – a man was drying himself after a bath, a women with wet hair after a fresh bath, they were bathing from the milky white water that was rushing through into the gutter. A kid is washing the few vessels and a sieve. I had to voluntarily grunt to keep control, to suppress the shame and pain. Everything is in a yellow haze of 40 watt bulbs – people in sleeveless banians, laboring
inside shops which must be 100 years old, still looking exactly same way, decaying and everyone putting up with the corpse. This is how far the one of the most intelligent people of this country have come to?

It is not like I am from an affluent state, feigning shock seeing poverty in Kolkata, as some foreigners are expected to. I am from Kerala, twin brother of West Bengal – along with Tripura, states where communism is deep rooted, where being veg includes fish and football crazy people. When I started, my friends were saying, for Bengalis the onsite is now Kerala, so when I reach there they might welcome me as we welcome foreign tourists in Kerala. It is just the same in some respects – one of the biggest sources of revenue for Kerala is remittance from expatriates, we work hard but mostly outside the country. Now in turn most of the construction work and other manual labor in Kerala is done by Bengalis and Biharis.

In some of the western countries, being communist is as much a bad thing as being a Nazi. But not for us – we still eulogize strong communists who fought for the working masses, who are idealists and humanists. As someone said, if you are not a communist when you are young, there is something wrong with you and if you are a communist when you are old enough, then also something is wrong with you. Present age communists in Kerala are nowhere near the legends and it is worse in West Bengal. But is this what a long communist rule could do to a state? Like how Cuba looks in pictures. Or is it due to something else – a city being this way
for centuries, not able to change, don’t have means to change, wed to the prison built by them, adjusting to the Stockholm Syndrome. There would have been 100 pictures of Deedi throughout the way – every bus stand, every junction has her photo. There she is speechifying to her people, there she is in a muslim headscarf praying in Ramadan greeting. Does she not see how the people who idolize her as Deedi lives?

When do we grow out of the Ammas, Deedis, Mulayams, Lalus and Babas? Why don’t we get better leaders? Or maybe they are not the problem in the first place. I know the obvious answer is that all of us are lazy, interested in arm chair activism or opinionating just like I did now. May be this is how it will always be, we are great at “adjusting”..