Behind the veil

I saw this funny sight yesterday. I was at the traffic light near Dr. Ambedkar's statue. Riding pillion on this snazzy bike was this woman in a burqa, only the slits making her eyes visible. This is not a regular sight in Mumbai. She was holding on tightly to the guy riding the bike.

It was obvious he was her husband. They were a young couple. What surprised me was this guy. He was wearing tight crotch-flaunting jeans; he had a diamond ear stud, his hair had blonde streaks and was gelled back and he wore trendy shades. Everything about his demeanour was shouting for attention. I wanted to roll down the glass and shake him up, give him a piece of my mind.

How could he so callously want his partner to be all wrapped up and project himself so? Did he not imagine that she might like to have some freedom of movement? It has become so convenient these days in resurgent and born-againism to say that women are 'finding' themselves in such clothes. This may be true in some cases, but often it suits the men perfectly.

This time, the traffic and ennui prevented me from 'interfering'. On an earlier occasion, I had. At the time I also had a proper reason -- he was ogling at the group of us. So, I asked him why he had put his own woman behind the veil. He had the audacity to say it was for safety reasons. I told him, "Instead get all the men like you to cover their eyes. The moment you have some shame, then all women will be safe."

Some men are such cowards. They fear their own kind...

The trip down guilt lane

This was my star forecast a few days ago: "You're going to have to be very tough with somebody. That isn't a problem as you're perfectly capable of standing up to others."

Then, what could the problem be? I was a tough one, I would brandish a sword, aim the barrel of a gun, claw at someone's flesh...my imagination was running riot at the thought of me, whip in hand, dressed in leather, galloping into the sunset...but the star teller had other ideas. She continued rather ominously, "The real difficulty is that the person in question is you, and the issue one you've been avoiding for ages. Continue to ignore it and you'll only feel more guilty."

Hah. More guilt on my plate. So, what was new? I am my own opponent. I avoid tricky personal issues. I am then filled with guilt about those issues or about not dealing with them or about dealing with them or about just being involved in them, with them, for them, against them....of just being me.

Okay, I was made to feel guilty again. I was a bit rude with someone. Such disillusionement had set in that the only recourse was to find sleep in stupor. The slow rumblings of my conscience reached a crescendo. Red-faced anger was replaced by red-faced embarrassment. I felt like I had been slashing at a canvas that I had painted with my own blood...I fell asleep with these broken thoughts.

I woke up with guilt...I sat quietly wondering about what punishment I should give myself.

Suddenly, as Fate always does, I got the tidings that at the cause of my guilt was a false alarm. I should have been happy, but I felt cheated. And stupid. Did I imagine that I could have such an impact on another's life? A few stray words may cause immense upheavel for me, but the other person could well remain unmoved because those were merely words, merely actions, merely everything...

It is a world where 'merely' rules. But when I burst out in emotional torrents, it is not merely a case of ruptured veins.

A 'true' portrait?

Of course, this picture (wish it could be seen in its animated form)will bring a smile to your face.

But with so many recent famous happenings, let us ask a few questions...

1. Is what is visible always true?
2. Is what is hidden always true?
3. How much of a 'pose' works and for how long?
4. Is honesty all about image?
5. Are those who are out to ruin an image in fact not trying to get some visibility for themselves?
6. Do gilt-edged frames add to a person or 'frame' him?
7. What does it take for a portrait to be considered art?
8. Do the 'characters' in it then become art too?
9. Is art the truth?
10. Is being self-conscious about the conscience a sign of honesty or deceit -- deception to oneself?

I shall leave you with the words from one of my favourite literary works, The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde...

"I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more -- at least not before me. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous."

If I were...

If I were a comedy, it would have been black. It has got to be subtle, dark...like chocolate mousse.

If I were a play, it would be the theatre of the absurd. Those sub-plots, the sudden changes, quick-silver temperaments

If I were a tragedy, it would have to be Greek. Sorrow has to be luminescent and large enough to embrace the world.

If I were an epic, it would be the Mahabharata. Nothing comes close to it in terms of space, time, depth.

If I were a film, it would be an erotic thriller.

If I were a poem, it would be haiku (transcend me as you trap me!) or a ghazal...each couplet with a new meaning holding the whole together; different roads converging at one destination.

If I were a moment, it would be a dewdrop.

If I were to be given the largesse of recall for longer, then it would be several clouds splashed across the sky, changing patterns, sometimes clashing, often meeting and merging.

If I were a nightmare, it would never leave.

If I were a dream, it would never live...

"main to ek khwaab hoon, is khwaab se tu pyaar na kar
pyaar ho jaae to, phir pyaar kaa izhaar na kar

ye havaaen sabhi chup-chaap chalee jaaegi
laut kar phir kabhi gulshan mein nahin aaegi
apne haathon mein hawaaon ko giriftaar na kar

shaakh se toot ke gunche bhi kabhi khilate hain
raat aur din bhi zamaane mein kahin milate hain
bhool jaa jaane de taqdeer se taqraar na kar

main to ek khwaab hoon, is khwaab se tu pyaar na kar
pyaar ho jaae to, phir pyaar kaa izhaar na kar"

Touch me

Most of the time I just feel sorry for people.

Sorry that they have to stoop to the levels they do. Sorry that they have so little to say. Sorry that the little they say means even less. Sorry that in trying to hit out at others they are in fact revealing their own deep-seated anxieties/fears/dilemmas. Sorry that they behave like trained monkeys. Sorry that they will always be like that.

Most of the time I feel sorry.

When I get disgusted by things around me, I find a stray piece of paper...Sometimes a few loose sheaves...And they remind me of what I really am. I have never referred to these as 'fan mail'. They do not give me a temporary high; they in fact make me find myself in the wilderness.

One such note came from a writer (the year: 1999) who has a few books to his credit. He wrote, "Whenever I read you I want to reach out. I was waiting for an opportunity. It never came. So I created it."

That's it.

Another one said, "I feel I can trust you. Lest you think I am flattering you, then let me tell you that there are other writers I like too, maybe more than you, but I relate with you much better."

There are times I have wept.

The time the lady suffering from cancer had met me and asked me to be the Executor of her Will. She had relatives, she had friends...here she was sitting across from me asking me to be in charge of whatever possessions she might have and how she would like to disburse them after she had left this world.

How does one react?

I just held her hand and convinced her about other options. The moment she left, I wept.

I had never met her before. I had not done anything for her. Are a few words enough to make someone believe in you, belong to you?

Last night, again a night of deep thought, brought me this verse in an email...did someone read my thoughts?

Tu bhi dil ko ikk lahoo ki boond samjha haiy Faraz
Aankh agar hoti tau qatray mein samundar dekhta