Me, mullah and a glass of juice

Me, mullah and a glass of juice

December 2, 2018, 3:41 pm IST Amit Gupta in Myriad Musings | India | TOI

(https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/blogs/myriad-musings/me-mullah-and-a-glass-of-juice/)

It was a tired evening. I was about to call it a day when a colleague from another officer arrived, at an unexpected time for me. She looked as drained out as I was. I modestly commented as well. Desperately looking for something soothing, she implored for a glass of juice.

My instant query on her visible fatigue disturbed her, perhaps. Gladly for me, she did not express her discomfort and obliged by answering my query.

“I have had a long and difficult work day. Is it reflecting on my face?”
I was honest in saying “Yes”

Her smile conveyed more than the words. I asked her to sit, relax and wait for the juice (which arrives at a progressively slower pace as the evening descends in office!)

We looked at each other, smiled again silently.

A silent wait is always a goldmine for thoughts – they roam and reverberate without the bondage of words. I am no exception. I looked outside the glass window to notice that the Sun was almost sinking into the night; the outside was getting dark. Time to go home! A visitor on one side, wait for the juice on another and ‘me time’ in the back of mind – I was split among choices.

Words knocked at my ears, “Action seems to begin here after the office hours, I believe. Do you stay so late in office every-day?”

It was the lady asking me – a wanderer of thoughts.

‘Yes’ could have been the simplest of answers. But her words pierced deeper; the dwindling light outside prodded me and I unleashed a flurry of phrases, “Yes, madam. Work is apparently taking its toll. I am spending more evenings on the table rather than on a candle- lit‘table for two’; I am listening more to the arguments in meetings rather than acoustics of melodies; I am scribbling more number of notes in office rather than mere seven in solace; I have forgotten that we are the masters of our own time and have apparently, succumbed to the weights of work.”

The pace of my outburst was increasing with the growing darkness. She, along with another colleague, wanted to interrupt me. I, however, went on unbridled.

“ER Braithwaite had once said that there was the difference between ‘living’ and ‘existing’. But I have perhaps merged the two notions. My life now gallops faster than Bolt; I do not have a moment to pause and ponder; the breaths that I take mark my existence, the joys that would mark my living have been dumped somewhere in the bundle of burdens. Madam, ever since I have moved from a serene hill-station to this noisy city, I rarely see a beautiful evening. These lines share my sentiments,

Wahaan to subah ke baad shaam by hua karti thi,
Yahaan to subah ke baad sirf raat hoti hai, sirf raat hoti hai….

I am often reminded of an anecdote from Mullah Nassruddin, a wanderer and storyteller. Once a Sarpanch invited him for addressing the villagers. The residents of the village were, however, averse to such speakers and wanted to humiliate him during his address. They gave a small hummingbird to each person in the gathering and told them that they will ask a simple question to the Mullah – whether the bird in the hand was living or dead? If the Mullah would say, it was alive, you would press your hands, kill the bird and show him that the bird was dead. If he would say that the bird was dead, you would simply unlock your fingers to release the bird and prove that the bird was alive. In either case, the Mullah would be proved wrong.

The crowd gathered on next morning, equipped with their humming ammunitions. The the question was asked to the Mullah.

He replied very tersely, “Yeh to aap key haath main hai…”

We are sometimes so overloaded with errands that we often miss what is in our hands, in other words, in our control. Somewhere, we become dishonest to ourselves and hence, miss the chill out of life”

“Is it chilled?” the sweet voice of the guest suddenly blew away the clouds of my mind. I had not noticed that a person had walked in and offered some juice to the guest.

The attendant, in his reply, was inconclusive but concise “Yeh to aap ko dekhna hai”

Was he being honest, unlike us? Or was he a Mullah in the making?

(P.S – Chill, incidentally, is used as a synonym in the contemporary generation for Relaxation)

Titanic

November 22, 2018, 1:16 pm IST Amit Gupta in Myriad Musings | Lifestyle | TOI

A walk into nostalgic pastures of one’s life brings to surface many a strange memoir – pleasant as well as unpleasant, funny as well as serious and of course, fanciful as well as truthful. I met a friend after a gap of two decades. Twenty years is a long time to write history; we preferred to recite it, at least.

After the initial sharing of updates on professional and personal fronts, we migrated into more exploratory domain of mid-life crisis, parenting, and purpose of life and so on. It was during this thoughtful conversation that he cited an experience.

He, father of a teenaged daughter, reached home one evening after a week-long outstation trip. Soon after dinner, the daughter came to him and told him that she wanted to have a word with him – one on one. He was taken aback. The three membered family is adequately liberal, frank and modern in its demeanour to discuss any topic under the sky or even beyond!

“However, when a young daughter tells her father that she has to discuss something with him alone; options are unlimited and undefined.”, he shared.

I kept on crafting an image of the situation, as he continued,

“I settled on the side of the bed and she pulled a chair in front of me, looking straight into my eyes. I was petrified. She said, with a bit of anxiety but a lot of firmness, “Dad, I have now learnt of the big mistake that you committed when you were of my age.”

He paused momentarily to gauge the expressions on my face. My curiosity was raised; so was my concern. What would have been the revelation that his daughter would have discovered?

Taking a sip of water, he continued, “My heartbeat galloped. Before I could utter a sound (word was something unassailable at that fractured juncture), my memory jumped in action and brought to surface the follies of lifetime.”

The puzzle was getting jumbled for me; it would have been equally so for him as well. What was the mistake? Unmindful of the turbulence in my mind, he continued, “I recalled my misdemeanours during heydays and later; I recalled the excesses I ventured into during that unforgettable and eventful trip; I recalled my experiments with drugs; I recalled the foul language that I adopted; I recalled the disrespectful behaviour I exhibited before elders. The list was endless. The moment was the most revealing moment of my lifetime. I have met many top leaders and learned from eminent scholars but the one sentence was a very long sentence – I was, in fact, sentenced for life in a fraction!

As he shared his thoughts, I could read the mystery on his face. In fact, human follies have been very eventful in history and have evoked mixed responses – ranging from penance to penalty. Nevertheless, the indomitable human spirit has overcome the mistakes of history and continued to thrive. There have been criticisms and there have been reconciliations. All have survived the tests of time. When Obama visited Hiroshima, he called the nuclear attack as a difficult decision but stopped short of apologising; when Cameron visited Jallianwala Bagh, he called it as “a deeply shameful event” but again stopped short of apologising.

While life generates moments of mistakes, it also grants freedom to forget and at the same time, aeons for atonement. I asked him abruptly, “so what was your folly and reparation?”

He resumed, “I was only afraid that she does not find about that mistake, which I had deleted from my memory.”

“Folly”, I intervened, “was an allegorical figure in medieval literature and artwork and depicts a young man. The depiction is, perhaps, because youth is an age of experiments and hence, an age of mistakes! I also mentioned a couplet from Gurbani Main vich aib gunaah na hundey, tu bakshenda ki (If humans did not have vices and mistakes, what would you forgive?”

His smile revealed that he was partially vindicated. He continued, “Finally, she shot another salvo – Dad, I just wanted to tell you that I will not commit the same mistake. An eerie silence prevailed thereafter. I was worried. I had been my daughter’s pride. For a moment, it seemed that my Titanic was exposed and sinking.”

He took a moment off to answer the unexpected call on his cell-phone; I waited with concern. He started from where he had left.

“So, then, I prepared myself, constructed all possible answers – in imagination rather than actuality – and asked her in a subtle voice What mistake?”

My heartbeat was racing as the story unfolded.

“She said forcefully, typical of a teenager, I am not, repeat NOT going to study the same subjects that you did and repent later throughout the life. No, your next generation will not commit that mistake again. Period”

“Aaah! What a relief! My Titanic was saved. We smiled, as I took out my handkerchief.”

So did me.

Wiping my forehead, I wondered, was too much imagination another mistake of our life?

Eye of the Storm

November 10, 2018, 11:57 am IST Amit Gupta in Myriad Musings | Environment, India | TOI

On the pre-Deepawali evening, I was with the family members, out for festival shopping in a well decorated and crowded market. To take a phone call, I stepped outside the showroom. The caller had granted me a temporary respite from the marathon shopping experience of the festival. I was delighted and could not resist the smile on my face as I strolled outside in the dusky lap of nature.

While my ears were glued to the cell-phone, the eyes were loitering. As she kept her loaded bag aside and waved her hands to someone, I could not but notice her. There was something in her eyes. They were deep, dark and deluged. I watched without blinking an eyelid. They were loaded with something that perhaps I could not comprehend. The look was solemn yet captivating; I wanted to know what was in the mind behind these eyes; I could not sense her expression because her face was covered.

As I stayed and stared (a self-proclaimed ethical version of ogling), a few tiny droplets of water rolled out of her eyes, down her cheeks, as she moved. Adjusting her curly locks away from her shining forehead, typical of young girls, she took out a handkerchief, wiped the droplets away from her cheeks and suddenly turned and started moving back.

An urge pushed me. I wanted to get deeper into her eyes and speak with her.

I followed. A latent force was driving me. I was awestruck as my steps took me suddenly in front of her, while her friends watched. A shiver of thrill ran through my body. As she raised her hands to readjust her locks, a simple pattern of henna on her palm caught the attention of my eyes. My state of mind was similar to the weather – hazy and unclear.

Bringing all my strengths to my lips, I attempted to utter something. A strange feeling engulfed me. “Words,” I spoke with myself, “have an inherent limitation in expression. I know that I want to speak but I do not know how to put thoughts in words. I want to keep looking at her dark eyes and radiant face, only a part of which was visible. I also fear that silence may breed uncertainty. At the same time, I fear that some volcanoes may erupt when conversation starts. What will be my status if she does not like what I say or what I am doing? There can be legal implications also. Am I being too selfish and confined only to my interests unmindful of the impact on her?”

Undecided but self-interested, I was jostling between fear and courage.

The partially visible face, shielded by the cover, arched eyelashes and of course, the inundated eyes, conveyed something without an utterance. As I moved towards her, I could see my image in her dark pupils, floating merrily in a hazy background. I could not believe my vision. I had never drowned thus in such loaded eyes!

The sight had triggered turbulence in mind. For the first time, my affinity for peace had been challenged. The flurry of thoughts was moving unabated at a lightning pace in my hitherto
stable mind. The eyes were storming me towards an act of defiance, reminding me of the power of beauty that Elizabeth used in her defiant act in Patrick White’s Eye of the Storm. My obliviousness of the world was complete as I sank into my selfish self. Words emanated from my mouth at the opportune moment, my mind unaware of the action. I muttered, “Excuse Me!”

She wiped a droplet from her eye, removed the mask from her face, slid her hand into the bag hanging from her shoulder, and brought up a packet in front of me asking,

“Babuji Mask khareedoge? Bahut dhuaan hai…”

I stood stunned – nailed and slit into fragments: one part with a cellphone on ears, another looking at the hanging masks, another peeping at the deluge from her eyes, another wondering when do we allow the true beauty around us to move free and unmasked of the
beast, yet another gasping for breath in the smoggy clouds engulfing the sky and thanking the showroom that had sheltered my family. I glumly thought when do I graduate from the fanciful world of selfish romances and see the true storms behind the dark, deep and deluged eyes. I was perhaps, unknowingly, scripting the decay of human magnanimity. Was this a wake-up call? I do not know; but my poetic mind, in a hurt and split state, was aptly reminded of this Gulzar verse

Aankhon ke pochhney se laga aag ka pataa

Yuun chehra pher leney se chhupta nahin dhuaan…

Chingaari ik atak si gayi mere seeney main

Thorha sa aa ke phunk do, urhta nahin dhuaan…

‘Dear’ Death

October 29, 2018, 7:13 pm IST Amit Gupta in Myriad Musings | India | TOI

I was travelling to take a session on Values for the newly joined executives in my organisation. These musings were born in the car when I was scrolling through the weekly news update. The two news items that parented these musings were:

Parent1: “62 killed in train accident in Amritsar on Dussehra”

Parent2: “Salman Khan gets emotional after his dog’s death”

Death is beyond a species and has the capacity to shake souls. In my case, the ink had also been agitated.

One of the core values that finds mention in my session and the corresponding discussions is – Care. Amidst the two parents, I moved on to take the session, totally confused at the widening gap between the reality and the internal picture of an ideal world that I craft in terms of human values of care.

A dilemma had been wriggling my mind since the death of my fellow humans in the train accident in Amritsar on the day of Dussehra. The people whose journey ended that day were, surprisingly, in there for a divine celebration. While the blame game has already started, one is left to wonder how the value of human life has changed? It was about a century ago that Amritsar had witnessed another mass casualty – also on a day of celebration. Only a Dyer has been replaced with a Train!

Deaths continue unabated.

Who Cares?

The media brings to us our daily dosage of deaths – humans, animals or values. Not only do we read that a son killed his father, mother and sister because he was scolded, but we also read that a man killed his family to elope with another woman; not only do we read that a young woman has been raped, killed and dumped in fields, we also read that our soldiers have been martyred in terrorist attacks, leaving behind wailing and lonely family members. The list is endless – road rage, terrorism, blasts, vengeance, adultery, accident, lust, intolerance, wealth and so on.

As citizens continue to die for avoidable reasons, mostly within the control of humans, life loses its dearness; death celebrates. Instead of life, death has become dear to many. The demise is not for the dead ones only, but something within the alive ones is also dying. The prefix “Late” ought to apply not only to the departed fellows in terms of their bodies but also in terms of their souls.

But Who Cares?

Somewhere in our path towards the satellites, the planets and of course, the bullet trains, we have placed the human life on a backseat. The world of driverless cars, unmanned vehicles, virtual assistants is becoming gigantic and all-encompassing. Technology can enable surveillance, prevent accidents but can they safeguard the dying values, camaraderie and dignity for life? Will technology or the humans prevent the rise of other Nazis or Hannibals? Research has revealed that despite technology, at least two roles will continue to rest with humans – Creativity and Care.

But do we Care even now?

Every death is the loss of a My Love (It is only incidental that it happens to be the name of Salman’s dog). Every time a person visits a crematorium or graveyard on account of a demise of a known member of the human fraternity, one returns humbled and with reinforced values – which die soon after the exit from the graveyard in most of the cases, as one is in a hurry and does not want to be “Late”.

Driver interrupts my inertia and asks me to alight as we had reached the destination.

I proceed and enter the session, while so many deaths surrounding my thought process. I reinforce my brief and belief about the values for which I had come.

The host welcomes and adds, “Sir, you are Late”

Puzzled, I did not know whether to sense my watch or my breath?

The blog is now available on The Times of India

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Skeleton of faith

October 29, 2018, 3:53 PM IST Amit Gupta in Myriad Musings | India | TOI

The last few months have been transformational in the timelines of the Indian culture. The Supreme Court judgements on Sabarimala, triple talaq and Section 377 have shaken the backbone of many custodians of culture. Traditions are the manifestations of culture. These subjects are occupying a lot of media space, apparently due to multiple schools of thought. It was almost two years ago that I had penned in a blog post Packaging a Culture that the intangible cultural heritage – oral expressions, language, arts and crafts, rituals, traditions and practices, festivals and foods – travels on fluid grounds. The recent developments had made it imperative upon me to revisit my thoughts on the subject. However, the chores of routine – home or work – continued to interrupt the flow till the time I surrendered before an innocent question some days ago. 

I had taken my daughter to the National History Museum to enable her to complete an assignment on Indus Valley Civilisation as a part of the school task. Upon visiting the Harappa and Mohenjodaro Section of the museum, we came across a skeleton where beside the preserved cadaver, some artefacts such as pots had been placed.

Her primary question on the relevance of pots was answered by the Explanation Note beside the skeleton.

Her curiosity was beyond the basics.

She asked me, “How did they know that the food kept in these pots will be eaten by the dead person? When the person was dead, how could she eat?”

I politely told the little inquisitive soul that it was only a matter of their faith.

She was unfazed and insisted on a proper explanation.

I tried to hush up through a vaguely crafted statement that could see me through the ordeal, supported with my fatherly command. I told her that those people believed that the person had not died but moved to another place beyond this planet.

She looked unconvinced but moved ahead quietly. I was relieved. Suddenly, after 3 or 4 artefacts, she turned back to me and said in an emphatic voice, is their faith true?

The question was crisp but the answer was hazy. It was a small statement for the girl but a giant effort for the man (to reply!). I took the opportunity to accumulate the supporting evidences before answering. Did any exist? I pondered. How do we conclude the veracity of faith? Her question churned the inside of my mind.

Faith is an individual doctrine which evolves into a tradition as the co-believers increase. The manifestations are plenty – the religion, the superstitions, the astrology, the festivals and so on. In fact, more than 70% of total sales in our country happen during the Diwali season is an ample evidence of millions of individuals’ faith. But is that faith true? Someone perhaps needs to scientifically study the performance and longevity of the purchases made during the ‘auspicious’ period versus those made during the not so auspicious days. I relied on one such manifestation to answer the innocent question.

I asked her, “Do you remember that during Christmas season, you used to keep a wish-list under the pillow and next morning you would wake up, with loads of gifts around your bed? Who brought them?”

“Mama-papa” pat came the reply

But you believed that these came from Santa Clause

“Yes, because I felt happy thinking that there was someone called Santa”

“There you go”, I jumped with joy. She unveiled a different perspective and brought some harmony in my discordant thoughts. Faith, I inferred, is the harbinger of happiness. It is not a digital entity to be categorized as true/false. It is an individual’s construct of mind with no discrete values. It would therefore be futile to argue whether the faith was true or not.

We returned from the Museum without answering my daughter’s question.

As we sat in the cab for a drive back home, the newspaper carrying an item on Sabrimala decision carried my thoughts to the scholars, the guardians and the messiahs, currently engaged in endless debates. I was wondering when would they realise that the intangibles bear no framework, no skeletons; are fluid and fuzzy; and breed happiness beyond logic. I also mused whether it is a coincidence or some matter of faith that my daughter who unveiled a lesson of happiness is named Khushi….