Of Closed Chapters and Open Endings

This is my last post here, on Thought Experiments. My thought experiments have been my sanctum, my refuge, my shell, my window and my bridge. And they deserve better closure than being abandoned at random. But what with logistics and logic getting in the way, abandonment is exactly what they've been relegated to these last few weeks, and the future doesn't look too promising either. So this is one last post from Crossworder, just to say goodbye. It was wonderful knowing you, World! I'll see you later, hopefully. Where, though, is the question.

All in good time. :)

A little lost, a little incomplete.

I feel like I left a part of myself behind. And it will always remain right there, where I left it, even as I travel new roads and walk, stumble, grow and learn afresh, the way life is meant to be lived.

I lost my heart to the city. It's the kind of thing you can't really help doing, and can't really undo.

Leaving Home

There's so much I want to say right now...which is why this isn't going to be a long post. I just had to put this in here, though, because it marks an inflexion point of sorts.

This is my last night in Delhi.

Yes, I know I'll probably spend several days, even years (who knows?) here some time in the future. But it won't be the same. It will be good, of course.

But this has been special. It's been a very special six years that nothing can come even close to approximating. Tonight is the end of a phase.

So much has changed...and so much set to change. It leaves me breathless just to think about it. Who would have thought?

Who would have thought that whatever I was six years ago would turn into whatever I am now, for better or for worse? Who would have thought that life and its geography would change altogether?

My last 10 hours here. And a lifetime of lessons, loves and memories. No, there's no way this can be a long post.

Till next time, then.

Of Money and a Muddled Memory

...and hello to you!

What have you been up to all this while? How are things?

Me, I've had a very eventful two weeks here. Here I am, two papers away from a postgraduation degree...and tentatively about to begin another trip, a new one entirely. And this evening, with the latest Mani Ratnam-Gulzar-Rahman masterpiece in the background, I am going to write about a few things.

Here's a revelation: I can actually understand Finance!

(If you're wondering why that is a revelation, well...Hi, I'm Crossworder. Nice meeting you!)

Getting back to the point, I discovered yesterday, to my utter astonishment, delight and alarm, that I am actually capable of making sense of all those concepts and calculations. Nothing very fancy or complicated, you understand, just basic Finance. But it stunned me to find myself following all of it last evening. Of course, one has to take into account the fact that I had a paper this afternoon, and I am one of those oddballs who perform best under pressure. Maybe it wasn't me, just the exam looming large. But, for a change, it made sense.

Does that mean I had a good Finance paper, then?

Nope.

I went a little mad during the paper. The first five minutes, I thought I could answer all the questions pat. Then, euphoria gave way to reason, and I picked my five questions and began the paper.

Ten minutes later, everything began to slip away.

Formulae rearranged themselves in my head. Capital structure blended itself inexorably into cash management. Theories and their assumptions and propositions melted into an unidentifiable mass.

No problem, I thought confidently, ignoring the ominous cackle somewhere in my head. Can't do these questions, will do the others. I know all of this.

No, I didn't. Not any more.

So I took a deep breath and sprinted out for a glass of water, the whole classroom's eyes following me. If they had all chorused, "What's with you?", I couldn't have heard it any clearer. Nobody voluntarily leaves the room during a paper like this. But I was suddenly thirsty, and it wasn't helping my convoluted thought processes any.

To cut a long story short, I did finish the paper. Was it good? No. Was it bad? I'll have to say, not very. Where the formulae and my memory were being uncooperative, I simply applied some homespun logic and doggedly got to the answer somehow. Not bad. Only, I'm not sure it was the right answer.

What next, do I hear you ask?

Why, Marketing, of course! I can't wait to get started. :)

Mellow Fruitfulness :)

It is a beautiful, beautiful day. The afternoon was pure poetry...and now, early evening, it is all I can do to prepare for a paper on Strategy tomorrow without running out for a walk on the Ridge. Just thinking about the Ridge in this weather makes me want to throw everything aside and take off. The sky is clear and blue; there's a very soothing, cool (yes, cool!) breeze blowing; the world is bathed in mellow golden light; everything is just...perfect. Almost too good to be true. Honestly, this weather begs a walk. Know what, I think I'll give Strategy a break.

:)

p.s. If this weather makes me want to borrow Keats' words, just how beautiful must the English autumn have been, to inspire them in the first place? Sigh.

Image courtesy Google Images

What I'll Miss About Delhi - Part I

How's this for absolute randomness: In spite of wanting to do some writing, I just didn't feel inspired enough to come and post a proper entry here in days. Now, out of the blue (quite literally!), just as I made a conscious decision to return to my hermit crab ways for a bit, there's a volley of posts and I'm seized with an overwhelming urgency to write about all that I'm thinking of. Life, I tell you. :)

Anyway, it rained today - almost. Actually, it did...but it didn't last long enough for anything - not to offer any respite from the heat, not to permit at least one rain dance, not even for the earth to get thoroughly soaked and quenched. Instead, it has left everything in a limbo of sorts. The leaves are undecidedly wet and dewy; the sun is drying itself off before it returns to work; the air is still choosing between dragon breaths and minty freshness, droplets and vapour almost visibly suspended in the atmosphere. Somwhere, I'm sure, a paper-boat is lying half-folded, and a family of sparrows debating the wisdom of venturing out once again today.

But it was good, even if it lasted only ten minutes. The world does look freshly-laundered. :)

Walking back from the department this evening, I couldn't take my eyes off the riot of colours that the trees always become at this time of year. Every conceivable shade of every imaginable colour. It was with a pang that I realised that I don't quite know when I'll set eyes on all this beauty again, after a few weeks. Yes, I'm glad I'm leaving Delhi, and hopeful that it will be a year or two, at least, before I return. But the fact is, I've spent six formative, very eventful, memorable years in this city...and I love it (which is why I'm looking forward to going away for a bit...but haven't I written enough about that already? :)...

...and now, in no particular order, here are the things I will miss about Delhi, and the University in particular. I know I'll never manage an exhaustive list on this one...but here's an attempt:

1. The greenery. There's no two ways about it...there could be trees and vegetation galore in other cities, but it won't be the same. It's lush, soothing...and very, very beautiful.

2. The history. The city breathes it. It's grand and old and hoary and proud...and in many ways, it deserves to be. And this isn't just about the Jama Masjid or the Red Fort...it's also about all the little alleys and broad avenues, old localities and older names.

3. The freedom. It's the Capital. There are all kinds of people here, from every place imaginable. And they're all welcome to stay, explore the place, study, make a living...just be, because no one owns the place, really. Delhi will embrace you, no questions asked. And that is its biggest beauty.

4. Haanji. The all-purpose magic word.

5. The food! While I will have to admit that my experiences here are solely responsible for what now seems to be a lifetime's worth of aversion to rajma and dal makhani, I will miss all the other food. Period. Delhi loves its food, both the street and the exotic variety...and there's "planty of it, ji". :)

6. The bookstores - and Daryaganj. The bibliophiles' paradise. Enough said.

7. The Delhi Metro. I was thrilled when it began running from Vishwa Vidyalaya to Kashmere Gate (yes, I was here that long ago :), have consistently counted it amongst my biggest blessings in this city, and appreciated it even more fell even more thoroughly in love with it after a two-week brush with the Calcutta Metro. The crowds may have seen an exponential increase, and the legendary precision of timing may have taken a small beating...but my gratefulness and affection will remain an incontrovertible truth.

8. Summers and winters. Six of each, and I know I'll handle any kind of weather, anywhere. But I doubt I'll find as feisty and authentic a summer, and as poetic and picture-perfect a winter in another part of the world.

9. This strange mix of laid-back luxury and total chaos that this city is capable of. It's a living, breathing mass of contradictions, in this way, and in many others. I'll probably go into that later.

There's more to come. This list is incomplete. It feels incomplete to me. Next, the University.

QED

This weekend has been a weekend of conversations, memories and some serious thinking. It didn't just rain, it poured - in the best sense of the term. Some wonderful things happened - as sweet and touching as they were unexpected. And, as I was telling a friend a little while ago, this is probably the Universe telling me that it isn't such a bad life yet. :)

Deep breath. Broad grin. Big whoop and jump. Yay! :)

About another Gandalf :)

Sometimes, when the wanderer in me takes over, I find myself in one of those frames of mind where I'm more than willing to leave the entire world behind and take a trip on my own, even if all of it is inside my head. If I could take only one thing from this world on these jaunts, though, it would have to be Gulzar's poetry. And if a benevolent genie materialised before my eyes and asked me to name a wish, I would ask to be given a mind like Gulzar's.

I have talked about my love for his poetry, and where it comes from, before. The love of words runs in the family, but in being completely besotted with Gulzar's poetry, I take after my father. Sometimes, it takes my breath away to see how simply he states the most convoluted truths, how perfect his poetry is. And then I wonder just how intelligent, original, eccentric, sensitive, quirky, perceptive, playful, innocently irreverent, whimsical, imaginative and, above all, free, must the mind be that yields those words. Everything just right, never more, never less. Gulzar's poetry is like the river - it has a mind and life of its own; it will be only itself and nothing else, and it will do so measuredly, only in amounts it deems fit. It makes me smile, forces me to think, keeps me going, makes me believe. And that is why I consider his poetry a religion greater than any sort of institutionalized entity.

Gulzar is always in his element, no matter what the subject. Wry humour, melancholic rumination, searing sadness, sprightly cheeriness, unbridled lunacy, haunting recollections, passionate love...there is no emotion he isn't capable of handling, no shade he is unfamiliar with.  It makes you wonder how deep his feelings must run, and how astute his knowledge of human nature is. This man is an artist: he effortlessly paints whole murals and tapestries in your head. The words flow with an ease that belies the all-encompassing imagination and originality fuelling his poetry. The best part of it all is the utter magic he can work with words. Regular, everyday words start talking, building landscapes, creating people. His poetry, as simple as it is rich, could be a self-contained course in Urdu or Punjabi literature. In an interview that I read years ago, he talked about an imaginary childhood friend of his. There weren't too many children in his village, he said, so he simply made up a little boy called Tunna, and talked to him constantly, worrying his parents into believing he needed help. Once he created Tunna, he said, he was never lonely again. Apparently, every time Gulzar needs inspiration, Tunna comes calling. No wonder there is a touch of the other-worldly in Gulzar's lyrics...that imaginary little guy must be quite an influence!

So here, in no particular order, are excerpts from some of the songs Gulzar has written. I have no idea how many I am going to list...but I do know that I couldn't enumerate all of them if I sat all night. Here's some sheer beauty:

Jal gaye jo dhoop mein toh, saaya ho gaye

Aasmaa ka koi kona odha, so gaye

Jo guzar jaati hai bas, usmein guzar karte hain...

Aaina dekhkar tasalli hui

Humko is ghar mein jaanta hai koi...

Nainon ki mat maniyo re, naino ki mat suniyo, naina thug lenge...

Nainon ki zubaan pe bharosa nahin aata, likhat-padhat na raseed na khaata...

Jiska bhi chehra dekha, andar se aur nikla,

Masoom sa kabootar, naacha to mor nikla...

Yaad hai, peepul ke jiske ghaney saaye thhey,

Humne gilehri ke jhoothe matar khaaye thhey,

Ye barkat un hazrat ki hai...

Hawaa chale, sar pe liye

Ambar ki thandi phulkariyaan

Hum hi zameen, hum aasmaan,

Khasmaanokhaaye baaki jahaan...

Jitne bhi taye karte gaye, badhte gaye ye faasle

Meelon se din chhod aaye, saalon si raat leke chale...

Hazaar raahein, mudke dekhi,

Kahin se koi sadaa na aayi

Badi vafaa se nibhayi tumne

Hamaari thodi-si bewafayi...

And, of course, the theme that Indian childhood has consistently identified with for the last 25 years...

Jungle-jungle baat chali hai, pata chala hai... :)

We have any number of people in the world who'll tell us that life is beautiful. Gulzar proves it. It's that simple, really. :)

Philosophy at Ungodly Hours - I

It's one of the curiosities of life, I think: the most important things - the ones we really cannot do without at the end of the day - aren't rocket science. And because they are not rocket science, we don't know what to do about them.

Because, honestly now, who can't handle rocket science? You may know all about it, or something, or nothing at all. But even if it is devilishly complicated, it can be done. In fact, the more complicated it is, the more fascinating it must be. Simply because there is a pattern to follow, and a result to expect. You can get someone to teach you, or you can go the trial-and-error way. What do you risk, at the very most...a damaged workstation, maybe, or a laboratory that exploded in on itself?

And then there is the irony that characterises our species: we long for simplicity, but we positively adore complication. Unless something wasn't achieved in a complex, convoluted way, it simply doesn't seem worth our while. We've collectively elevated complexity to a form of art...to the extent that we are either scared of simplicity, or we simply don't understand it. There's this old adage about how we are afraid of what we don't understand, so maybe we are scared of simplicity because we just don't comprehend it anymore...not unless an electronics major puts the term into its catchphrase as part of its marketing strategy. Then, we're willing to pay a pretty penny for stuff that will uncomplicate freezing, cooking, heating, cooling and driving for us. There, we appreciate the need for simplicity, but in the things that really matter, there's only one credo: The more complex, the better!

That bear hug you crave. That friend you haven't spoken to in months and miss terribly. The high you get from listening to your favourite song in the still of the night. That long, soul-searching walk that you promised yourself ten weeks ago, and have put off every evening since. The 'I'm sorry' that will set everything right between the two of you. The spur-of-the-moment trip to the bakery. That music you've been meaning to work on. That unfinished chapter from the book you intend to publish some day. The spontaneous call to a parent or a sibling, just because. The decision to watch your favourite old comedy on late night TV, and class tests the next day be damned. The freedom to laugh out loud, right from the pit of your stomach, till your sides hurt, the way Nature intended laughter to be. The thrill of a family outing. The decision to do not that, but this, because this the kind of work you like even if it pays less and won't seem as scintillating on LinkedIn. The acknowledgement that, at the end of the day, beneath all the degrees and designations and impressions and frequent flier IDs, we're just human, and we want to be happy in whichever way we define being happy.

And that is the irony of it all. For all these things to happen is a one-step process. Just go ahead and do it. But we are strange creatures. We may acknowledge what makes us happy, but we'll never just do it. We like to complicate our relationships with mindgames; our work with an unduly strong sense of competitiveness; our lifestyles with constant comparisons with the Joneses. We delight in the hassle of being too busy, and take pride in not being carefree enough to head out for a walk, a drive or an ice cream when we feel like it. No thought that isn't accompanied by a dozen ifs and buts and whys and wherefores is considered worthy of being thought at all. Unless we make excruciatingly detailed plans, nothing is worth doing; and unless we factor twenty highly improbable scenarios into our plans, they don't deserve to be labelled 'plans'. At the end of it all, when we've covered a long, circuitous route, we're convinced that we're happy...and, what's more, that we've earned the happiness! But when we're alone, or fighting insomnia at 3 a.m., for the fifth month in a row, we think about life and how complicated it is, we miss having someone to talk to, we miss being able to do whatever we please, and then we admit to ourselves that, well, we could, maybe, be happier, or more relaxed, or simply more at peace with ourselves, the past, the present and the future.

There's a reason why there is security in rocket science. A ruined workstation or exploded laboratory can be rebuilt. There's a pre-defined method for that.  But the problem with a weary mind, bruised spirit, broken heart, arms that are too tired to be raised for a hug, or a face that has forgotten how to break into a grin is that they defy all pre-existing methods and demand that we look within, take stock, and simply do what we really, really want to. And then, faced with demands from our own hearts and souls, we are at sea.

Now if being happier were rocket science, we could all do it. Because it would please us no end to be able to whip out a lab manual and a slide rule and begin a process that requires endless measurements and immense brainwork. We're all good at rocket science, really. But there's no rule book, no measuring instruments and graph sheets for what we truly want. It's pure simplicity, and nothing else besides. And so we're foxed in our pursuit of happiness. The wiser and/or more fortunate amongst us decide to sit and do some rethinking. The less fortunate simply decide that more complex rocket science is needed, and dash off on a fresh hunt. And all the while, the little things we're looking for are sitting put in a corner, staring at us in wide-eyed astonishment, genuinely puzzled at all the frenetic activity.

Just a Little Ranting...

It's been a while, hasn't it? And so much has happened - dissertation, unbalanced equations, assignments, random realizations, a million second thoughts, exultation, anxiety over scores of things, unbridled laughter, more assignments, sleep deprivation.

Why, then, am I up at 2.47 a.m., with nothing in particular to write about? Tonight, of all nights, when I finally have no deathly-urgent deadline that I must meet tomorrow, why am I not curled up in bed, dreaming of the mountains or of distant islands as I am wont to? In my experience, chronic sleep deprivation leads to chronic insomnia and vice versa, till you really can't tell one from the other and end up sitting up all night, thinking of nothing in particular, wanting to say something but not sure you want to talk.

I'm angry, I'll confess. Angry, and hurt and fed up. Feeling shortchanged is alright - at some point or another, I assume we've all been there (to those who haven't: I envy you) - but this has happened one time too many. Oh, I know I asked for it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. :)

Now that it's out in the open, I feel a little foolish. Strangely enough, I am also sleepy.

On another plane...

Poltergeist. A ghost that goes about knocking things down and creating a racket.

I like the sound of that. :)

If I were a ghost, I would be a poltergeist. Not a spectre or a wraith. No offence, but spectres are sad, and wraiths are just plain spooky. Poltergeists sound like fun, though.

Many Happy Returns!

For being one of the primary factors in my discovery, at age 5, of my biggest passion,

For teaching me to empathise, to exult, to imagine,

For introducing me to the company I love the most,

For being my first favourite author,

Thank you, Hans Christian Andersen.

Happy Birthday. I hope you are in a world as vibrant and beautiful as those you painted in your books, where wishes come true, nothing is impossible, and everything is right in the end.

Epiphany

It was like this: I went down to the chemist's for toothpaste. When I went to make my payment, I saw this big jar sitting on the counter. It was filled with candy bars of some sort - candy bars in bright, electric pink wrapping, and a trippy cartoon on the label. I squinted through the plastic - these were Jam Treat biscuits coated in chocolate.

Second to scurrying into my room to solve the daily crossword without so much as changing out of my uniform when I got back from school every afternoon, Jam Treat biscuits were the biggest bone of contention between my mother and me. "Why must you have half a pack at one go?", Ma would say, annoyed and incredulous at the same time. "It isn't exactly healthy. And all that jam and sugar and cream! You'll lose all your teeth by the time you're fifteen." Then, turning to my father, "What's wrong with crackers? Or even Bourbon? Why must you get these?". My father would placate my mother, or distract her with stories of how he had run into an old colleague, and my sister and I would solemnly promise to eat no more than two biscuits a day.

Ma had a point, though. In the fifteen years since, I have had two root canal treatments and three times as many cavities filled. I still think it couldn't have been the Jam Treat biscuits. Not those.

Jam Treat. I hadn't had one of those in years now - not since I came to College. It's one of the countless changes 'growing up' made to me, I suppose. (It happens to everyone at some stage or the other. Or does it?) Somewhere along the way, an old habit fell away, like a dried leaf off a branch on a warm March afternoon. There were so many alterations - some bewildering, some through concerted effort, some stemming from the need to protect myself emotionally, and the rest involuntary, as complete as they were quiet - that I never had the time, till that afternoon, to acknowledge a small, insignificant change like the complete absence of jam biscuits from my life. Change, alteration, metamorphosis...so that I don't quite know who I am anymore, on most days. I'm on a constant trip of discovery. There have been more discoveries than usual these past few months. I assume there is some growing up left. It isn't always pleasant, but it isn't bad enough for me to start complaining yet.

So I stuck my hand in and pulled out a bar, holding back the urge to buy the whole jar. Back in my room, I eagerly tore the wrapping open.

Two biscuits sandwiching strawberry jam looked up at me woefully. The chocolate was all over the inside of the wrapping. So much for 'delicious chocolate biscuits with a jam filling, enrobed in chocolate'. The Indian summer can deflate the fanciest product description.

I bit into the biscuit, anticipating the thrill that accompanies the first taste of jam from between crisp biscuits.

It didn't come.

Instead, my first thought was, "This jam is too sweet. Why is the biscuit so hard? This isn't really worth even ten bucks. Who put this thing together?"

It made me sad. Of course, people can outgrow things, especially something like food, especially jam and biscuits and sugar. But I still found myself wondering what the world was coming to if I didn't love even jam biscuits anymore. I worked my way through the biscuit pensively.

The last crumb gone, I began scrunching up the wrapper to throw it into the bin. Molten chocolate rubbed onto my finger. Reflexively, I licked it off. It tasted good.

It still tasted good.

Tentatively, I wiped some more chocolate off the wrapper and tasted it again. A little more...and then, with a chortle, I found myself licking the chocolate off the electric pink wrapping.

It tasted of cocoa, innocence, childhood, and an all-guards-down, uncomplicated happiness.

24

Hmm. Decisive, completely sorted out and raring to go.

One hundred per cent. Well, almost. Rounding-off is a scientific mathematical practice.
(But didn't Lorenz say it's responsible for the butterfly effect?)

Oh wait, this is my 125th post.

Now I'm happy. :)

Moving On

It was on a March morning similar to this one that a classmate said something that I have, since, given more than occasional thought to. We were both standing outside the cafe, where we had bumped into each other at a late breakfast. With the Univs less than three weeks away, we had ended up talking mostly about this chapter and that reading. But on our way out, I stopped under the Dhaba tree, mesmerised, for the millionth time, by the sight of the Cross against a clear, blue sky. So perfect, it seemed unreal.

"You're going to miss College, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, I will." I replied, still overwhelmed by the enormity of the simple fact that I was about to end three years in three weeks.

"I will, too. But I'm glad I'm leaving now", he said, and I turned to look at him.

"You know it's time to leave when people and things that you have always liked begin to annoy you just a wee bit, don't you think?" he said, frowning absent-mindedly as he leafed through his notes, checking for a CED tute. Then he looked up. "Even for College, which I love so much. Especially for College, which I love so much."

We were friends, but not exactly bosom buddies. It was more a cordial acquaintance, a natural result of studying in the same class, living on the same campus and running into each other in the Dining Hall every now and then. Inevitably, we fell out of touch as we moved on and got busy with our lives over the years that ensued. But the closer I get to each finish, and the more I think of his words, the truer they seem to echo.

I'm at the end of several phases at once. I may not have loved every bit of it as much as I loved College, but I'm glad all this happened, I'm glad I learnt so much. But I'm also glad I'm leaving now.

I've rattled my brain about, turned it inside-out, and scoured every inch. No inspiration. Absolutely none. If you're looking for some place to wander to, Muses, right here would be wonderful. Thanks.

It pays. Or does it?

Now here's something that made me sit up and take notice. With a total of five years of economics behind me, I am, academically, considerably acquainted with the concept and the mechanics of taxation. There's a faint personal acquaintance, too - the sort engendered by eleven months of paying taxes and a week of running around like a headless chicken when it is time to file returns. And, of course, there's Marketing, the other love of my life. But this is the first time I have seen the two coming together, and to call the phenomenon merely interesting would definitely be an understatement.

The first thing we were taught about taxes was that there is no quid pro quo involved. Taxes are unilateral payments made by households and firms, which are meant for the government's coffers. That they form a substantial portion of the government's revenues goes without saying. And while it is implicit in Public Finance that proceeds from taxation are used for the benefit of the economy, no individual is entitled to ask for anything specific in return for the taxes he pays. That's what theory says, and that's exactly what is borne out - more emphatically than is needed, if you ask the average citizen - by the actions of the government.

So I'm sure we have all either been - or seen - the person who wonders exactly where his hard-earned money is going, every time he drives over a potholed road or glances at literacy or health-related data in journals and papers. There are ways of questioning the government about its measures and policies. But if Household A paid Rs 60,000 in taxes this financial year, they cannot go asking for benefits worth that amount, or even question the use of the funds.

Which is why I did a double-take when I first spotted a half-page ad in a national daily, reading "Have you paid your taxes yet? You pay - the country pays back!" Of course, there's absolutely no implication that there is any quid pro quo. But what is fascinating is the attempt to address the cynicism that has come to characterise the attitude of the average tax-payer, some of it justified, some not. There have been attempts and platitudes before...this one is a novelty simply because it has been put down in black and white. Positioning taxation as an activity with moral and patriotic appeal - that's a first! Undoubtedly, there are several reasons - the moral and patriotic included - why one should pay one's taxes. There is also, by corollary, an equal number of reasons why that money should be put to honest use by the exchequer.

That is what makes this campaign intriguing. One hopes to goodness that those who designed the campaign will also remember that the job isn't complete till the promised value is delivered. If, after a colossal exercise like this one - it must have cost them a pretty penny; guess where the money came from! - tax-payers don't get to see exactly how the country is "paying back", the campaign will backfire on a similar scale. Public memory, usually notoriously short, is not equally forgiving when money from its pockets is involved. One recalls a certain campaign that claimed India was shining. Appalling people with the enormous wastage of taxation money, it succeeded only in eroding goodwill away from the ruling coalition. So, yes, while it is great to be told that the country will pay back, some evidence that the promise is being kept will go a long way. Do I sound cynical? I'm afraid that's how I feel. :)

For the Love of Beans...

I fill a saucepan with water and set about looking for matches. There's no time for anything fancy today. Everything dumped into one big mug is how I'll have to have my coffee. I begin to tear open a sachet of dairy creamer. Something makes me pause midway.

It has been a while, hasn't it, since I had black coffee?

Black coffee. For a person who thinks in terms of pictures, there can't possibly be a more powerful stimulus to the imagination. The last three months of twelfth grade, I woke up to a steaming mug of black coffee every day. My aversion to milk was the stuff doctors' (and mothers') nightmares are made of. So mornings found me hunched at my desk, reading or doing the daily crossword, black coffee at my elbow. Months later, the beverage was to become a habit an addiction. If I didn't know this then, the kick I got out of sniffing at my mug every morning should have given me a hint.

The water begins to bubble. A quiet, familiar, comforting hum.

This is a sound I would know anywhere, this low humming of water being brought to a boil. It used to echo over the staircase in Allnutt South when I went to use the hot plate to make coffee in the middle of the night, or at two in the morning, when the entire block was silent. Coffee calmed me down, cheered me up, was the perfect accompaniment to Systems or Policy, made Micro II bearable, and was the best company I could ask for on breezy, rainy evenings, when all I wanted to do was to sit on the ledge of the verandah and stare at the sky.

The water bubbles louder, more insistently.

It makes me think, for some reason, of the rich, bitter black coffee in the white ceramic pots that sat on our breakfast tables in the College mess. If that didn't wake one up for an 8:40, nothing could. Because the marmalade was both sweet and tart in a way only marmalade can be, it accentuated the bitterness and strength of the coffee that I washed my toast down with. And I know I can tell that coffee apart from a million other brews any day.

There's something warm and homely about a good, old-fashioned cup of coffee made the traditional way, I think to myself as I take the pan off the flame.

The process of making it is as therapeutic as the beverage itself. Not that the 30-second method - set water to boil, empty sachet of instant coffee into mug, take now-boiling water and pour into mug, enjoy! - is a bad substitute. Vending machines - now those seemed like an insult to coffee.

An outrage, I thought, till I found myself employed 10 hours a day researching M&A transactions. Looking back, I realise I owe my sanity to the 8 cups of espresso I helped myself to from the dispenser in the pantry every day. I breakfasted on espresso practically every morning for about 10 months. It isn't the healthiest lifestyle option, but I was too young and always too hassled to know any better. By the time I left the place, though, I'd kicked the habit, coming down to two cups a day, refusing to allow myself to depend on anything that badly in the long run.

It's been a while, but the smell of espresso still automatically triggers a small attack of nerves - will I finish all that work before noon? Is that report error-free? Why isn't this godforsaken transaction making any sense to me?...you get the drift. :) And black coffee and economics are married to each other in my imagination; through eight years of association, and of one accompanying the other, I now instinctively think of demand curves, inflation and development (in that order) each time I smell black coffee. I suppose it will remain like this for a while, if not for the rest of my life. Truth be told, I hope it will.

I tear open my sachet of Nescafe, smiling at the memory of a kindred soul from College, whom I share a love of coffee, economics, EcoSoc, books and Asterix (among several other things :) with.

Ruch insists that Bru makes for better black coffee than Nescafe does. The coffee table in D-8 was always piled with ribbons of bright green, and the occupant of the room always more than willing to make giant mugs of soothing black coffee for friends going cross-eyed over the Phillips curve or Public Finance.

I stir the instant coffee into the water, all these images in my head coalescing into one glorious, earthy ripple as the smooth brown powder dissolves into a mugful of the best thing in the world.

The dairy creamer doesn't belong here. :)

Breaking Spells

When the veil has fallen
and the mists have cleared
there's nothing but disbelief;
endless, incredulous laughs.

Another new experience,
a new lesson learnt
another long recollection
for vacant, querulous hours.

Moment of Truth

Today, I have realised something. I have realised that I have become nothing, done nothing, achieved nothing in my 24 years, because I was powerless to do anything about that man on the road. Good upbringing, a degree in a social science from one of the country's most hallowed institutions, and another in Human Resources - and I couldn't help that man in the brown shirt, couldn't do anything about the humiliation he was being dealt so unfairly. That I wanted to is immaterial - I didn't; and so my good intentions didn't make a difference to his situation. I have failed, and I feel ashamed of myself.

It happened rather suddenly, at the juncture where Chhatra Marg turns right to become Bungalow Road. From about fifty metres away from that point, I only saw the road curving right, and the usual stream of traffic. The next second, a motorbike and a rick had collided at the turning. It wasn't, technically, a particularly ugly collision. The rick and the bike both fell on their sides. The bike-rider was a portly man - from a well-to-do background, if the sunlight glinting off his gold chain and expensive watch was any indication - and the rickshaw-walla a scruffy man in a brown shirt; fairly young, thirty maybe.

Our rick had drawn abreast of the site of the accident by now, and I could hear and see everything clearly. As was inevitable, a crowd gathered there in under five seconds. A couple of people helped the men up, and then the passers-by stood uncertainly on, looking undecidedly from one to the other. Honestly, I suppose I could say I'd seen the whole thing happening, and it really was impossible to say whose fault the collision was. And seeing as nobody and nothing was particularly damaged, I entertained, for half a second, the foolishly sanguine idea that they would dust themselves off, maybe shoot each other a couple of annoyed glares, and then go their separate ways. It didn't even occur to me that what followed was capable of happening.

The owner of the bike got up, reached over his bike, grabbed the rickwalla by the collar, and began a succession of blows, punches and slaps on the man's head, face and shoulders, shouting abuse after abuse of the filthiest variety in English, Hindi and Punjabi. Ten slaps, twelve, fifteen...I lost count when I realised, with a shock of disgust, that I was still on the rick and my rickwalla was slowly circling his way past the spot. "Ruko bhaiya", I said, digging money out of my bag and thrusting it at him as I leaned sideways to jump off the rick, already sticking an arm out in a reflexive but useless attempt at holding the violent man back.

"Nahin, Madam!", the rickwalla hissed at me, pushing my hand away, "yahaan mat utaro. Dekh nahin rahe ho yeh bheed? Aur us sahab ko? Aap rickshevaale ke liye kuch nahin kar paoge Madam. Chalo yahaan se. Aap khud bhi phasoge aur main bhi phasoonga."

His warning didn't make sense to me. Of course I could do something. I could talk sense into that man's head, pull his hand back. I could ask the others - now standing like so many statues, witnessing the incident with a fascination borne partly of horror, and partly of - this sickens me - entertainment, to help. I could do something to halt the mindless beating, the stream of profanity.

Or was I just another well-meaning, but entirely impotent, witness on a rick?

Maybe that is what I was. As my rickwalla pedalled furiously into Bungalow Road, I found myself turning around to stare at the two men. The rich man with the bike was still yanking the other guy by the hair, still delivering slaps and blows left, right and centre, still shouting things that made my blood boil. And this man in the brown shirt said not a word, not one word. His hands hanging limply at his sides, his eyes lowered and back stooped, he looked up at intervals only to stare contritely at his attacker. Apologising, as it were, for the accident that was, technically, nobody's fault; apologising also for having had the audacity to use the same road as his well-to-do fellow-human being; for his audacity in existing, in all his poverty and misery and lack of influence, in the same world as this other man, who, clearly, had the greater right - the only right -  over everything good that life and the world have to offer. The sunlight that had glinted off the rich man's gold chain now glinted off the wetness in the rickwalla's eyes, the one sign of protest by his body that he didn't have the power to suppress.

There was this man, this violent lunatic, beating this guy up. And there was this guy, submissively taking every blow, every cuss-word. And there was the crowd, watching silently. And there was me, on a rick, looking at all this from a steadily-increasing distance. It made me physically sick.

There was no point in going forward like this, so I asked to be dropped off then and there. Now at what he assumed was a safe distance from the site of the trouble, the rickwalla pocketed the fare and pushed off. I ran back to the spot. By the time I had elbowed my way into the middle of the circle, two of the posse of policemen who patrol North Campus had arrived there, too. It didn't take the crowd long to disperse after that. Both men were led away. I turned back and walked home.

And that is when I realised how completely and utterly I failed today. What great things have I any right to aspire to if I can't pull a hapless victim of road rage away from his attacker, whose sole right to attack stems from the fact that he is burly, knows enough English to be able to abuse in the language, and rides a Hero Honda? All my good intentions notwithstanding, how was I any different from the forty people who stood there watching everything in stony silence, the forty people I had stared at in shock, disgust and disappointment? Didn't I just let down every person and institution that has had any hand in the building of my values? I let that man down. I have never, in all my life, felt so angry, so helpless, so useless. It makes me want to cry, but I'm not sure I deserve the privilege of release.