The Picture

There is a picture on the wall
Bigger than the wall

There is a beggar in the crowd
More numerous than the crowd

There is a spark within the fire
More important than the fire

There is a window to the world
More beautiful than the world

There is a green on the grass
Greener than the green

There is a shadow in the dark
More conspicuous than the dark

There is a thrill in the night
More mysterious than the night

There is a light in the day
More pristine than the day

There is a tear in my eye
More eloquent than my eyes

There is a muffle in my laugh
More a muffle than a laugh

There is a spring in my step
Minus a spring, only a motion

There is a winner at the end
But all is redundant then.

Black and White

Interpretation relies heavily on the senses of the beholder. You and I could go about interpreting the same object and yet, at the end of the day, our interpretations would be unique, merely because our view points are different. The black and the white have intrigued me relentlessly; they seem more symbolic than they were probably meant to be, and more difficult and easier, simultaneously, than the others to comprehend.

Black, most would say, doesn’t signify anything. It’s vast, empty, without life. But how then would one determine the worth of life if it isn’t weighed against lifelessness? Black gives emptiness substance, and in the process, serenades vitality, gives it reason and comprehension. It gives life a place which otherwise it would not have attained, or deserved, for that matter. The beauty of company lies in the despondency of isolation. It is when the good and the bad are juxtaposed, that the goodness in good is manifested more vividly than earlier. So, for whatever else it is not, black is integral, complementary.

Can white then be defined as the antithesis of black? One would feel tempted to, but then that would be similar to treating white like the moon, saying it is radiant because of the sun, and questioning its ability. White is independent because it signifies that which is desirable, that which is worthy of the virtue involved in desiring. It is seemingly perfect, almost spotless to the observer; it is elusive. But it is not a mirage because its radiance doesn’t disappear even on approaching it, but it remains elusive nevertheless. The impossibility of achievement of that which is desired makes the desired further desirable. The elusiveness further enhances the greatness of white, and stamps it with unquestionable superiority.

Black is blind, white is pure. A black on white is not the same as a white on black. The former becomes dirty white but the latter still remains black. Black tries to absorb all, nurturing mediocrity and contagion. White tries to reflect all. The resilient and the determined strive, and in that struggle, become a part of the greatness that is white. That sense of greatness, though, becomes more perceptibly clear when seen alongside the depths of black.

The Journey -- II -- Luck-no-way

Dazed by the events of the previous night, I stuttered out of the airport arrivals. In no mood to negotiate fares with an auto driver, I planned to hire a pre-paid taxi from the airport for the railway station. I took a slip from the man at the pre-paid counter and took the front seat in the taxi alongside the driver. The air was chilling, but I was already too numb to feel any of it.

As the driver sped past the empty streets at this time of the morning, when the sun hadn’t come out of its recesses and the human mass hadn’t come to life, I looked out of the window hoping to make as much sense of Lucknow as I could in the receding darkness. A railway station came into view, almost surreptitiously, and I was getting ready for the driver to take a turn into the station parking. But the driver continued straight down, without bothering to throw as much as a glance towards the station. I tried apprising him that the station had come, but he continued driving nonchalantly. Was I being kidnapped; were my next thoughts? Had I jumped into a wrong taxi at the airport? Where was I being taken now? Was I to be robbed? Should I jump out of the car? The driver turned sideways and looked out of his window and in one jerk, ejected a mouthful of blood-coloured pan masala in one smooth projectile, and proceeded to tell me that the station which we had seen served metre gauge lines, and we were going towards the broad gauge railway station. I realized that sure enough, there had been a relative lack of activity at that station. Paranoia had gripped me after yesterday’s misfortune. Soon enough, we arrived at the main station and I felt stupid.

I proceeded to take out my wallet for paying the driver an amount of Rs. 200. I took out a 500-rupee note, expecting him to dish out the corresponding change. But the poor guy hadn’t any. I asked him to come with me to the railway waiting hall, where on enquiring for change from several people, all I came up with was a new-found principle that it’s impossible to get any change from Indian railway travelers, perennially frustrated, either because their trains are late, or because they haven’t been able to get reservation in any train, or because they are plain terrified of taking their wallets out at a crowded station and getting robbed, or because they happen to be people who have just had bad experiences, like me, and are in no mood to help other people. I went to an STD booth and was refused change there. I then saw an SBI ATM, and thought I had struck upon the solution. I entered in an amount of Rs. 500 on the ATM screen, expecting five crisp 100-rupee notes in return. But all I got was a 500-rupee note. Bad luck, I thought, and tried again, this time with an amount of Rs. 1000, but only ended up with two 500-rupee notes. With no intention of emptying my bank account, I moved to the enquiry where a moustached person in security clothes was having a hearty laugh with his colleagues. I asked respectfully and with the longing eyes of a person desperately in need, “Uncle, 500 ka change milega aapke pass?” To which he replied, “mil jaayega, 450 hai mere paas.” An avaricious smile laced with corrupt intentions betrayed him, and I walked off in utter disgust. The driver proposed that it would be possible to get change outside the railway station. I approved of it immediately and sure enough, the change problem was solved outside.

My train was scheduled at 9.00 a.m. and it was still 2 hours to the moment. I took a seat at Platform No. 1, took off my headcover and plugged in my Walkman, which I had newly bought and planned to show it off to my friends on reaching Varanasi. A familiar-looking guy was sitting adjacent to me, talking smoothly into his expensive-looking phone. When he had finished his conversation, I bothered to enquire if we had seen each other somewhere. That wasn’t the case, as we then understood it to be. He was from some local college in Lucknow; I told him where I was studying, and he threw the slightest of those looks of awe reserved only for the IITians. “You are coming from Sharjah, right?” Now, how did this guy know that? But before paranoia could strike me again, I realized my bag had a conspicuous airport sticker on it. He then rose from the seat and started chattering again into his mouthpiece.

I was now listening intently to the sundry Lucknow FM stations, looking at the multitude of people making haste on the platform. I caught sight of one such face, and after we had both gazed at each other for a couple of seconds, realization dawned on each of us of who the other one was. My best friend of Abu Dhabi, whom I hadn’t met or talked to in the last 3 years, was standing in front of me, looking as amazed as I was. He had come to receive his sister’s to-be in-laws for her soon-to-be held marriage and was in a hurry. So, we quickly talked about where the other had been all these years, exchanged our mobile numbers and bid adieu. All the agony of the last day seemed to vanish and I felt that it was worth it all, if only to meet a long-lost friend.

The mouthpiece guy came back and asked me how I knew the guy I had been talking to. I told him, and he then explained that he and my friend stayed in the same building in Lucknow and knew each other well enough - what a coincidence. We then proceeded to talk about our careers. I told him about my being in civil engineering, and came to know that he was studying architecture. When I told him casually that I had landed a job in Deloitte, the guy took it upon himself to preach me on how one ought to work in his core field; about the abundant opportunities in my place, the UAE, for a civil engineer; how he would always be an architect and never anything else. Now this was the last thing I wanted to hear, a sermon from someone whom I didn’t know. So, I bid good-bye to him in a subtle manner, plugged back in my Walkman and moved towards Platform no. 7.

The platform digital clock showed 8.25 a.m. The sun had started warming the air a little bit now. Soon enough, there was an announcement. My train had been delayed by half an hour. Well, that’s a norm for trains, I thought. An extra half an hour would pass away quickly enough. And it did. At 9.15 a.m., there was an announcement that the train had been delayed by another half an hour. But when this happened a third time, I knew that I had been cursed. Such an awful end to the year, the bad stuff just doesn’t seem to stop. Finally, the train arrived at 10.45 a.m. As the train was lumbering down to a halt, I asked one of the passengers on board if he was standing in coach S7. I received an ominously malevolent look in return, as if I had asked him a question that was way below his dignity to answer. I boarded the train and the journey passed off relatively uneventfully. The only thing to quibble about was a man brushing off his peanut-chaff-laden berth with his newspaper so violently and with such disrespect to my presence there, that it was me this time who had to give him a sermon on public respect and hygiene.

All’s well that ends well, and sure enough, I reached the confines of my hostel safely and soundly. It’s rare that you encounter such an experience where the worst seems to keep coming back. At the behest of my dear friends Abhishek Aggarwal and Rahul Gupta, I have been forced to narrate this experience. But I think, despite it being an awful experience, I will love to treasure this travail.

The Journey - I - Flight Plight

Boarding the IC 884 at about 12 o’clock, I began to wonder what the last day of the year might hold in store for me. We all know that each day unfolds exclusive of each other, yet we humans tend to attach special importance to some days, an importance which could be at times even frivolous (April Fool’s Day). Finding that I had nothing better to do, I allowed myself to be consumed by this folly and amused myself by what could lie ahead.

Climbing up towards the plane entry, I prayed to the heavens for bestowing upon me the company of a lissome lass near my seat and a couple of beautiful young air hostesses. As I reached the door, I looked up and my jaw dropped. Standing there was a 50-looking lady with a huge paunch and a badly sculpted face, blurting out “welcome”. (My thoughts for a moment whizzed to IT-BHU). No way can they allow such ladies to be air hostesses, I thought. It’s an insult to the passengers’ sense of aesthetics and an ugly slap on their wallets. Jolted and feeling abused, I limped on towards my seat in the economy class section. Once here, my spirits soared back. Two young good-looking women were looking up, one genuinely pretty and the other, who otherwise might actually have been repulsive, made to look decent through the genius of make-up. I helped myself to a chuckle when it dawned on me that the old lady was meant to be serving the business class while the decent girls would do the duties for the economy class. More money means better service, who said? I saw the pretty hostess helping out some of the people in front of me to find their seats, but I realized I had missed an opportunity when no such help came my way; I guess I looked literate enough. Normally, I land up with a window seat, but this time I had no such luck. I took my seat adjacent to a fellow passenger who was peering intently through the window, as if the plane was already air-borne.

Ensconced comfortably in my seat now, I began to rummage the seat pocket in front for something interesting to read, when a man came up to me and asked me where he could find his seat in such a manner that encouraged me to think of him as anything but a literate person and a pleasant company. Dearly wishing that the empty seat adjacent to me would not be the one, I looked at his boarding pass and my admonition came true. He settled down after much huff and puff. I reprimanded myself for thinking low of a person just by his look and demeanor; the first impression is not always the last impression, I told myself. I tightened my seat belt, and saw the new man succeed after a tough time with the buckle and the strap. The plane started moving backwards, and seeing this, the man spoke with a mix of curiosity and horror, “ee plane to ulta jaa raha hai”. Innocence, I told myself optimistically; it could happen with any first-timer. The plane today seemed to be full of the labour class people that toil day in and day out for the UAE’s infrastructure industry in grueling conditions. The man was soon enjoying a loud conversation with some more of his ilk in a local Indian dialect. I soon understood that they were passing some lewd remarks on the air hostesses. I started feeling irritated by now, by his constant shifting in his seat and his tendency to turn his head right in the direction of my ear drums during the middle of his conversation.

Barely 10 minutes after the flight had taken off, the man started clamouring about why he wasn’t being served any wine at all and was this the kind of service that he had paid for. Soon enough, whisky, beer and the likes were served in the plane, and my friend helped himself to a beer. I put myself in a position ready to sway just in case he spilled open the can. My head had started throbbing painfully by now, through a combination of tiredness and the surrounding din. A second helping of alcohol arrived, and this time the man put up a case for whiskey. The hostess refused, saying that whisky after beer would lead to a reaction. The man argued his case with the lady, claiming to down 2-3 bottles of whisky everyday. “Do teen to hum roz ludka jaata hun, ek peg se kuch nahi hoga hamara”. The hostess denied him in a matter-of-fact voice, asking him to have beer or have nothing. So, my friend decided to make do with beer. I was thankful that that was the case, for the last thing I wanted was someone spewing their contents all over me. My fellow passenger at the window seat had already exchanged a few remarks with me about how such people are a nuisance and should be banished; but probably the only thing bothering him was that his sleep was being hampered. Imagine my discomfort.

Dinner was served soon afterwards. I removed the aluminium foils and saw the ill-mannered man watching me closely to get hints at opening his packet. During the course of the meal, my attention was disturbed by his cup of water that was placed precariously near the edge of his food tray, and which with intermittent plane vibrations, threatened to come down splashing onto my legs. I asked him to put it into a less perilous position. He did so, but not without replying, “arre nahi girega bhaiya”. Newton wouldn’t have been impressed to hear that, nor was I. The cup moved dangerously again, and this time I reacted with more menace, but saw that he had already fallen into a gentle slumber. The alcohol had knocked him unconscious. That’s better than everything else, I thought. My small joy, though, was short-lived, as his head kept falling sideways onto my shoulders and I had to constantly push him away. Once, I jerked him away so hard that he woke up with a jolt and I told him threateningly to take care of himself, but he just relapsed into his state of unconsciousness. By now, those images of a wonderful flight that I was harbouring earlier seemed to exist in a different world. I had made up my mind not to travel economy class next time.

The cabin rang with a voice asking us to fasten our seat-belts for landing. I did so, and so did the passengers around me except ‘him’. He was still sleeping. All attempts to wake him up went In vain. We passengers shouted into his ears; the air hostesses tried by banging the food tray against his knees; I had half a mind to box his ears out. Ultimately, we took hold of the straps and tightened the tight man. No one wanted a drunk man toppling off his seat when the plane was landing. The plane came to a grinding halt and I felt I was being released after serving a jail sentence. He was still asleep and no one was bothered anymore, except the airport authorities who gave him a tough time later on for his indecencies. The last day of 2007 had started off badly, and I hoped it would at least end well. With this, I stepped onto the earth of Lucknow, not realizing that the journey was only half over.