Reinstituting faith...

“How do we inspire ourselves to greatness when nothing less will do? How do we inspire everyone around us? I sometimes think it is by using the work of others,” suggests Nelson Mandela to Francois Pienaar, in the movie, Invictus. Frankly my quest right now is not for greatness. That’s too much to ask for when all I am seeking is sustenance in and a periodical, critical review of the decisions I have taken in my life. Why I am where I am and why am I doing whatever I am doing? In such moments of uncertainty I seek out for reasons, and further for inspiration to sustain those reasons.

Recently I happened to meet two inspiring sets of people.

I was walking towards Matunga station with some friends. That’s when I spotted this lady, busy teaching this child while running her vegetable shop. I wonder, what kind of determination and faith in education it would take for a mother (or guardian) to keep on educating one’s child in most difficult circumstances of life?

Few days later, I happened to visit the Cuff Parade Slum area which is majorly populated by fishermen and their families. I met these two awesome boys (right in the above picture, boys in the school dress) who lived next to a filthy garbage collection pit (left in the above picture). Still, they were getting dressed for their school with a happy smile on their faces. There was no one in the house. I assume their parents were off to work. The elder brother was helping the younger one to get ready. Their smiles whispered to me then, “We believe in what you are doing, do you?”

I would want to make a point here that I don’t intend to glorify the “power of poor to fight against the odds of poverty”. That’s not the aim. I have met people from other sections (the upper and the middle class), who have lived their lives with equally strong examples of faith. It so happens that the two stories I mentioned here come from a certain section of society (of which I have other issues but shall not discuss it here, as it's not in the scope of this piece). Also, I think it doesn’t matter which field of work we choose to live by; what matters is our understanding about our work and what is it intended at. Rest everything falls into place.

I have read Gandhi’s talisman* in almost all my CBSE board books through my schooling days. However its true meaning only unfolds now when I think of that lady on the street, those boys in the slums and many such amazing set of people I happen to interact in my course of life. With this, the doubts in my mind start melting away…!

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* Gandhi’s Talisman: "I will give you a talisman. Whenever you are in doubt, or when the self becomes too much with you, apply the following test. Recall the face of the poorest and the weakest man [woman] whom you may have seen, and ask yourself, if the step you contemplate is going to be of any use to him [her]. Will he [she] gain anything by it? Will it restore him [her] to a control over his [her] own life and destiny? In other words, will it lead to swaraj [freedom] for the hungry and spiritually starving millions? Then you will find your doubts and your self melt away." – Source: http://www.mkgandhi.org/gquots1.htm

P. S.: The opening of this blog is same as one my previous blogs,  http://rohit2093.wordpress.com/2011/01/28/beyond-the-cycle-and-cancer/  . It fitted in here pretty well and didn’t feel like changing it.

Time we change our sports?

I was sitting in my window last weekend, watching children play various sports in this huge ground opposite my building. I was following them, from cricket to football to volleyball and so on. And something struck. We have always believed that sports teach us stuff... but today, it was interesting to note how they teach us stuff that might mirror the society they originate from and those where they flourish.

Take cricket. There's one batsman and one bowler. Rest all are others. Their position may strategically have value but socially, in the structure of cricket, they are not as valuable as the role of a batsman, followed by the bowler. This is more apparent in gully cricket, where there's no team as such. Rather children take turns for batting. You ask a child who plays cricket, and 99% times you will hear that he prefers being a batsman. In fact I have seen insances where children cheat – they play their part of batting and then go home excusing themselves with “mummy is calling”. Everyone on the ground wishes to bowl the batsman, so that they can take his position. We know so many good batsmen or bowlers. Barring few exceptions, how many good fielders are remembered (and given a chance to endorse products)? Doesn't it in a way reflect the society where certain hierarchy is DNA-fied in the its structure? And where else this sport could have originated other the Great Britain, which has a history of hierarchical social setup? And where else could it gain such popularity other than India (and its neighbouring countries), which is so profoundly fixated with its love for class, caste and creed?

Well this is not about discussing how good or bad cricket is. The sport may have its own merits. However, I am more concerned about the lessons we are planning for our children on the field. All I am asking is, if we are really looking for solutions to such problems of social stratification, shall we not relook into what's going on in the schools (and not just classrooms) and streets and sports grounds? It has long been established that what's going on in the classrooms is not the most right thing that can happen to our children. Shall we also give a thought to what's going on with them on the field? And more so when The Great Britain itself has successfully shifted it's focus from cricket to football? Isn't it time we change or transform the sports we play?

P.S.: I am just thinking aloud. I may not be right in what I am proposing. It's just a point of view. I invite all the readers to post their views and have a good discussion here. And would really appreciate the cricket-lovers to give it an objective thought before presenting their views :)

The stalker

The car stopped at the signal. She looked for him. He was standing there, wet, in his underpants. She smiled. He smiled. As he moved his hands up and down, his ribs flexed to define the leanness of his body. She opened her lips to let the warmth of her breath be smoked out. As the air passed through, her lips reddened. She almost licked off the water from his body. She let her eyes follow all his moves and then zoomed them out to focus on a particular part of his body. But then she realized she was missing on what's happening at other parts. She immediately zoomed her eyes in, in a frustration of missing on those forms that occurred in those missed moments. She found him looking at her. She felt being undressed. The honks around them didn't matter to her. They appeared far off.

The signal had turned yellow. She tried to look within his towel while he was changing. The lights turned green and the car moved. Her body didn't move. Neither did her face. Only two black balls moved from one corner to another in her eyes.

As the car turned right, she looked at her husband in the driver's seat. He looked at her and smiled. She smiled back and leaned to rest her head on his left hand. He kissed on her head. Some people indulge in a foreplay before making out. She did just the opposite. While she was cuddling in her husband's arms, she was still kissing the man she had left at the last signal. Every evening while returning from work, she would look for him. And he would be found there, mostly, cleaning himself, at an open pipeline, the only source of water for him, after a day's hard work. His nudity was a luxury for her, but a compulsion for him. The craving for a human body is probably the only one, where we dont engage in the discussions of the class. Its class is only defined in its quality, not from where is it produced or which brand is it of. Her want was the purest, devoid of any social subjugations, exactly as he existed. Every evening as she would walk out of her office, the only thing she would pray for would be this one minute at the signal. It had almost become the fuel of her life.

That day was a blessing. Her husband was out of town. She had to drive herself back home. She left office early, reached the signal almost ten minutes before her usual time and parked her car near the broken pineline. The evening supply was on and water was fountaining out. Some kids were playing in there. Two women were washing cloths. An old man was cleaning his cycle. She realized, probably they all were there, every evening. How come she never noticed them? She looked closely at their faces. The kids were playful. Women were chattering. The old man's face was devoid of any human expression. If something it contained, it was only an expression of the time which had passed by. She looked into the direction these people were coming from and going to. After few minutes, he arrived from the midst of the dirt, he would have called home. A torn jeans. Slipper-less, rugged feet. Bare chest. Strong, full arms. Hairs, curled up till the nape of his neck. White clean eyes, cupped in a dusty brown face. She gasped for some breath. “Oh! I so want him!!” she told herself.

The women asked those kids to pack up and move towards the dust this man was coming from. The sun had almost set, leaving behind the redness in the sky as its only trace. She looked at him as she would have done if they were alone in a space where no one else could enter. For the first time she had looked at him so closely. She moved her eyes from his feet to his face. For the first time she had looked into his eyes. Those clean, white ones. But they were not looking at her. She followed his gaze. She turned in the direction they were pointed at. She stopped at her car. She looked back at him and back in the direction he was looking. She again stopped at the car. Something crashed within her. She turned back, walked towards the car and started the engine.

Some wishes are better kept within than being given a form in this world. Inside, they remain authentic. Once exposed out, they get colored with the textures of who we are and how we are socially placed. The car zoomed into oblivion. He watched it till he could, then splashed some water on his face from the broken pipeline.

Image Source: http://www.toniccare.com/RefreshEyes-Anti-Wrinkle-Eye-Serum-p/refresh-eyes.htm

तुझे, कुछ और पाना चाहता हूँ |

तुझे पा लेने की एक अजीब ज़िद है,

जो तुझे पा लेने भर से, ख़त्म नहीं होती |

तेरे साथ होकर भी,

तुझे, कुछ और पाना चाहता हूँ |

हर वक़्त बेताब होता हूँ,

तेरी बाहों में आने को,

पर वहाँ आकर बस,

कुछ, घुट सा रहा होता हूँ |

तेरी साँसों में घुल जाए मेरी सांस,

इतनी करीबी की है ख्वाहिश,

पर तेरे पहलु में खुद को,

अक्सर, बस रोता-बिलखता पाता हूँ |

आ ख़त्म कर दे मुझे,

या राख़ होजा मेरी रूह में;

बस आज भर की रात, चाहे जीतनी लम्बी हो,

फिर, एक नयी सुबह पाना चाहता हूँ |

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Posting in Roman-Hindi (as one of my friends call it :P) as well, for those who understand Hindi but cant read in the original script:

Tujhe paa lene ki ek ajeeb zid hai,

jo tujhe paa lene bhar se,

khatm nahi hoti.

Tere saath ho kar bhi,

tujhe, kuchh aur paana chahta hoon.

Har waqt betaab hota hoon,

teri baaho me aane ko,

par waha aakar bas,

kuchh ghut sa raha hota hoon.

Teri saaso me ghul jaaye meri saans,

itani kareebi ki hai khawaahish,

par tere pehlu me khud ko,

aksar, bas rota bilakhata paata hoon.

Aa khatm kar de mujhe,

ya raakh ho ja meri ruh me,

bas aaj bhar ki raat,

chahe jitani lambi ho,

fir ek nayi subah paana chahta hoon.

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Apologies to my friends who may not understand Hindi. Feeling incapable of translating it with the same or even toned down essence it has been written with :(

P.S.: Thanx Donald! Reading and discussing it with you felt like good ol' times :)