Helplessness

If there was one wish that someone granted me, it would be omnipresence. How many times have you had that feeling of helplessness when you want to be somewhere and you just can’t? We make informed, well thought decisions and then label them as sacrifices to pacify our mind. We’ll, it wouldn’t be called a sacrifice if it didn’t hurt, will it? But at times I am forced to question its worth.

How worthy is your job if your Mom has to walk up to a dentist herself to get her tooth extracted. The doctor said ‘do not speak for a while’ but she has to, in order to reason out with the chemist and the rickshaw-wallah; causing blood to ooze out and have her rushed back to the dentist. You can’t talk to her, just hear her mumble she’s fine. That is the feeling of helplessness.

They happily carry a new LED TV from The States, hoping to replace their 15 year old CRT TV, with a ‘Smart’ one, but can’t get it to work. Apparently, it’s too smart for them. You try your best to help via Skype on a patchy network, but all in vain. “So what it didn’t work beta, we will keep it packed and wait for you to come and set it up for us this Diwali”. That is the moment of helplessness I’m talking about. How worthy is that TV you purchased for them if you aren’t there to set it up for them.

Make your choices wisely. You can’t be omnipresent. Nothing can replace You.

Lunch Break

Our usual lunch table was occupied today. New faces that I hadn't seen around on the floor. They were all brimming with energy and excitement. Sharing lunch boxes, introducing each other, some silent smiles, many giggles, a few looks through the corner of their eyes. Mischievous faces, serious faces. This was our new batch of interns.

 We lose our enthusiasm very easily in our 9-5 grinds, you know. Looking at those bright faces, images of our TCS training back in 2009 flashed in front of my eyes. It was fun. Proud batch of campus placed students. Making new friends in the co-ed hostel. Smartly dressed in Van Heusens, proud of that tie. Ah, those lovely days. Rushing to our usual dhaba to gorge on paranthas, ditching the coconut oil canteen food. Late night stairway talks, smoke walks, freestyle dance sessions.

Fast forward half a decade and here I am, looking at those kids. Yes, I call them kids, not because I'm too old, or they are too young either. But the energy they have is no less than of kids. I finish my lunch, pack my empty lunchbox and walk back to my cube with a sudden urge to go back to school or maybe become an intern or a trainee again.

Such is life.

मेरी कोई तस्वीर नही तेरे घर में

मेरी कोई तस्वीर नही तेरे घर में,
इक शमा ही जला दिया होता.

जुड़ा रहता तुझसे साये की तरह,
ग़र बुझा दिया, तो अंधेरे सा परवाना.

My room

I have never had a room for myself in my house. As far as I can remember, I have always slept in the living room on the spare diwan. I am not complaining, though. I always have the liberty to watch TV late at night. Albeit my luxury would be complemented with the same TV blaring pravachans early next morning. Being a partitioned house, it was more like a few compartments of a train with a pantry car in between. Linear. You couldn't get to the bedroom without going through the living, dining room and crossing the bathroom and kitchen on the side. So everytime someone passed by the highway, I got to hear either " abhi tak soya nahi" , or " abhi tak so raha hai".  At times it was irritating, but deep inside, I knew people cared about me.

Fast forward 10 years. I have a room of my own now. A penthouse unit with a terrace. Textured walls, attached bath and a walk in wardrobe. My dad ensured that the vent for AC ducts were made at the right place. It gets too hot in summers, you know. My mom made additional efforts to supervise the painters and plumbers. Moms are perfectionists, aren't they ? She also planted a few seasonal flowers in those earthen pots, colored in saffron. Even though I hadn't moved in yet, she ensured the maid swept and mopped the marbled floor every alternate day. In the evenings, she switches on the lights as is the tradition in our culture. Goddess Lakshmi doesn't enter a dark house.

Then one fine morning, the earthquake struck.