One Red Bag, One Revolution

Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday there should be a day called Oneday. Because Oneday is the day when everything seems to happen in the stories and it seems to change lives. So, here it is. I have discovered it!

Now the story…

It was neither a wallet, nor a pouch, neither a sack, nor a carryall, neither a satchel, nor a purse. It was a bag - a red, leather bag - handcrafted by some craftsman in some forgotten village. It was a gift from Grandmother. Sarika never forgot her last words.

It was not happy being red. The bag that is. It was definitely not happy being red. There was not much it could do about it. It simply was. The little floral motifs however were pretty. Everyone seemed to adore them, especially Sarika.

Then Oneday…

The bag was angry when Sarika stuffed it recklessly on her 16^th birthday. Her parents couldn’t approve of her and she had to leave. Her thoughts were too revolutionary. It was too early for change.

She left home for good with the bag as her only possession. She dropped it angrily on the rusty old bed in the women’s hostel where she had found refuge and began to cry.

The bag was sad. The floral motifs seemed to be wilting. Nothing made sense anymore. It was all confusing. Right now it hated its colour even more. Why red? I hate red. It thought.

Sarika must have wept all night.

“Perhaps tomorrow she will decide to get me a new colour!” The bag thought.

Sarika finally fell asleep in the comfort of hope.

She got up in the morning and got ready to face the people in her college. It was going to be tough, after the article she had written in yesterday’s papers. Even so, she was ready to face anything now. Although she always wanted to be a writer, she had no idea that her career would take off with a crash!

There were people from the press right outside the apartment. “What made you write something like this?”  One of the journalists asked.

The red bag gathered strength. It hoped for the best. It prayed for a new colour. Sarika ignored everyone and went to the college. She would feel better when she saw her professor, who shared the same views as her. Society needed to change. It was time.

Days went by. Months. Years. Sarika never married nor had any children.

She wanted to be normal all her life. Couldn’t. The bag was stuck with red all its life. They stayed together. Her grandmother’s words stayed with her all her life.

Then Oneday…

It was Sarika’s 80^th birthday today. She was used to being alone by now. She had managed to change the world a little. She was happy that women like her were finally free from social obligations.

Once again she remembered her grandmother’s words. “You are different Sarika. Don’t be afraid to be so. Be who you are and fight for it if you have to.” She fought. What had been a revolution once, was now commonly accepted.

The bag had lost its colour. It was hardly a red anymore. The years of wear and tear had taken its toll. It had been pieced together many times and the scars showed.

The  journey with Sarika had been a roller coaster ride. It was a perfect time to die.

Dancing Fingers, Breathing Toes

At a very early age, I learnt the language of hollows. Hollows that are formed by the absence of sound. Hollows of unsung notes. Hollows formed on paper by empty curves of ink. I learnt to see the world in hollows – as that which is not – as trapped empty spaces.

She ran towards my two year old self as I stared back in wonder and amazement. I grew up to find out that I was eating a worm in the back yard with my back towards her in the kitchen. How did she know? Little did I know then, that the whole process of growing up would be full of awe.

 I didn’t know then, that when I would be eight years old, she would pull my face towards her and her eyes would say out loud, “NO” to communicate that I was misbehaving.

I didn’t know then that, they would have long conversations while I played with trucks in the absence of sound.

I would often hear the neighbours using voice to stop their children from mischief. Mine, used action. My neighbours would yell and run after their child throwing a tantrum. Mine just ran after me and pulled my face towards them, while I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I didn’t know then, that when I would be a teenager and come home after curfew hours, a light would light up in the bedroom even before my car pulled in the drive way. I always wondered then, “How do they know?”

I would learn later how my diapers got changed in pin-drop silence. How my visit to the pediatrician would be thick with silence. How the trips to the cottage were filled with lose silence. How their fights bore a painful silence. Every type of silence had a flavour.

When I would be sick my mother seemed to know what I needed without me having to ask for it. I guess, all mothers have that sense. There was something extraordinary about mine, though. Every little thing that happened to me seemed be like a wave of energy passing through her body. It almost felt like she breathed my breath through her toes. Her whole body seemed to be sensitive to my feelings and it seemed as though she had ears all over her body.

The air splitting among their combined fingers would then, communicate worry to each other.

I didn’t know then, that one day, I would also learn to see through these dancing fingers and give meaning to the quietude.

As I was growing up, our conversations became visual music to me. The hollows that our dancing fingers would create had become the life-blood of my relationship with my parents. Over the years the touch became more and more expressive and the conversations more elaborate as I excelled in their sign language vocabulary. I do visit them often, as I long for the expressive silence.

Today they are old. They seem to have lost the need for the dancing fingers and the breathing toes. The simple quiet air between them has become eloquent.

There Was Someone Else

All he could see were silhouettes of people. People. A lot of people. An overcrowded blue space. He grew restless. The bed sheet above the rubber lining was wet with his sweat.

He knew he was sinking. Sinking deep. He felt the strong pull. It dragged him further and further down in the deep, dark, crowded, blue valley.

Inhaling seemed impossible. The struggle seemed futile. He fought with whatever little consciousness remained. Finally with all his strength he inhaled. The sound of his own breath startled him.

The breath was nothing but a blurry reminder of existence. His left arm seemed heavy with a dull pain. It was the intravenous.

Either the semi-consciousness of his own existence or the lingering knowledge of something that had gone wrong, made him gasp harder for breath. His heart was overcome with a sudden knowledge of grief. An overwhelming sorrow.

Unaware of the sound of his wailing he tried to move.

“What’s wrong?” a sound asked. “Do you need something?”

All he knew that he felt like crying out loud. The grief was beyond himself.

More sounds of people.

The clouds seemed to be parting from his memory. He remembered and asked, “There was someone else”. Where was she? Who was she? What happened? The questions started emerging slowly from behind the fog.

He became aware that he should stop crying. He tried to steady his voice. “My wife?” he asked.

“You need to rest, we will talk in the morning” answered one of the voices.

He found himself relaxing his back on the bed. He fell back into a dark abyss.

He started sinking again. Deeper this time. Those dark images were pulling him. They were persistent. He couldn’t resist this time. Who were they?

Among the black shapes he seemed to remember something. He recalled a familiar figure. He wanted to sink deeper. He wanted to move closer this time. The valley grew darker. He sank lower.

The pull was magnetic. The darkness seemed beautiful now. He did not struggle against the force.

He started feeling more at home. He knew who the familiar figure was.

It was she, his wife.

Guilt

The Cat shook the tree.
Everyday,
All the time.

The Sparrow protested.
He had his nest on the tree.
And eggs.

The Cat shook the tree.
Everyday,
All the time.

The Sparrow protested.
He tied the nest to the tree.
Firmly.

The Cat shook the tree.
Everyday,
All the time.

The Sparrow protested.
He collected cotton for his nest.
Cushion.

The Cat shook the tree.
Everyday,
All the time.

The Sparrow protested.
Held on to the nest and the tree.
Firmly.

The Cat shook the tree.
Everyday,
All the time.

The Sparrow protested.
Couldn't hold on any longer.
Tough.

The Cat shook the tree.
Everyday,
All the time.

The Sparrow protested.
The nest crashed.
Eggs broke.

The Cat shook the tree.
Everyday,
All the time.

The Cat teased the sparrow.
What kind of parent?
Can't take care of your nest?

Protecting the nest
Is your first duty.
It preached.

The Sparrow was sad.
He felt guilty.
Terrible.

The Sparrow didn't protest.
He forgot that the Cat was the one who
Shook the tree.

The Touch!

Going at a speed of 120 km per hour on some highway in North America. All I could hear was the speeding road underneath. Everything else seemed to move in slow motion. The roads were relatively empty and I had the car on cruise control. The habitual changing of lanes etc… had become second nature with no deliberate thinking required. 

It was summer time and the dead trees were back to life and full. So innocent! As if there was never a winter that took their beauty away! As if nothing happened. The sight was a darling. The dark green trees and the grey road darkened by a recent shower. The eyes were focused on the horizon. There was another hour of driving to go.

“What’s the point?” Marjini said switching places with Chandovati and moving to a softer cloud. Her eye lashes were heavy and she could barely focus.

“Well, that’s what people in my area of service have been doing for centuries and therefore it is necessary to follow those traditions so that future generations know about them.” Kshiti continued defending her point.

“That’s exactly my point. Do they really need to pass on these traditions to future generations? I think humans are blessed with a brain and they should use their own rather than their brains of some past generation.” said Marjini in her usual calm and heavy tone.

By this time Ramya was pouring madira for the rest of her guests. Each one was wearing a different variety of beautiful light, white gown. The air was cool and breezy. The clouds were perfectly white and soft against the blue sky. They moved involuntarily into a circle to accommodate the conversation of the guests. It was difficult to distinguish between the flowing white gowns and moving clouds.

Kshobhini entered with her usual boisterous self and big smile on her face. She added, “You know something, Rama has been wondering, whether humans should continue celebrating his return from Ayodhya. He feels it was too long ago and doesn’t see the significance of it anymore.”

Kshiti seemed offended by this statement. She could not get used to the idea of letting go of the traditions. Someone must have seen something good in them, at some point, she thought.

“People who started these rituals, were as human as the people following them now. There is no reason to believe they were wiser than humans today.” Ramya added.

Marjini had emptied a few glasses of madira by now and added to the conversation, “What’s the point? There has been tremendous relocation of humans across the globe. Therefore the rituals are losing their geographical context. Using mango leaves for pooja in Canada is ridiculous. Mango trees don’t grow in Canada!”

"For example: Indra has always been fond of Canada and goes there all year round, even during freezing temperatures. Canada does not get the rainy month of Shravan, which seems to be significant only in India, because of the high dependency on rain.” Kshobhini seemed to know what everyone in the heavens was upto.

“But other religions follow their customs and traditions why shouldn't the Hindus?” Kshiti continued her defence.

Marjini had a silly, drunk smile on her face and said, “well, I hope people are more intelligent than that.”

“The historic and legendary stories teach people lessons of life. They tell them right from wrong.” Kshiti insisted.

Chandovati who had been quiet all this while said, “When we started the human race, we programmed them to tell right from wrong. They probably need some reinforcement, of these in-built values and this can be achieved through a lot of things today. Like books, music, internet, movies etc... They are not solely dependent on the old texts and stories anymore. Reciting things from a language, that is not in everyday use is silly and should be gracefully discarded. Sanskars only happen when you not only understand but relate to what is being said.”

There has to be something common. A common element, a common principle that can be followed anywhere you live on earth. Simply a philosophy may be. Or a thought that would guide us through life rather than bind us to rituals. A thought that would set us free from the bonds of culture and tradition and thoughtlessly applied scientific reasoning.

The road kept hushing below. The car and I had become the same object. The sun rested for a short while behind a cloud, creating a fascinating glow around it. I was occupied by it.

My heart felt full. Full and wet with something unknown. My eyes welled up for reasons beyond my understanding.

I was touched by something that was beyond language. Beyond religion. Beyond culture. Beyond anything tangible.

I drove rest of the way, eyes wet and all. Yet smiling.

Happy.

Inexplicable happiness.

The Collector

“Where are the others?”, he asked. “They are in the back of my truck”, Sands answered. “Be careful the long thin one is particularly torn. It was hanging in a fence when I picked it up. It is quite tattered.

“Long thin ones are the hardest to find. They are scarred and extremely difficult to mend. The chubby ones always seem happy but who knows what goes into making these. Thank you for bringing these to me. I know, collection days are especially long for you.”

“Well, you know, you got to do, what you got to do! How long do you think, to mend these?” Sands asked.

“Probably six months to a year.”

Far away, among the hills, played a little boy. He jumped on the puddles formed by recent rainfall and splashed water so it soaked him wet. The sun was out after a long spell of rains. The little boy of six found his shadow extraordinarily amusing. It appeared and disappeared as the sun did in the left-over clouds. He tried to catch it as he was jumping in the puddles, so that the shadow drowned. But it seemed indestructible. It appeared untouched over and over again.

His mother worked in the rice farm near by. It was plantation time. She yelled, “stop doing that you silly boy, you will fall sick again!”

“Dow dow ripple, dee dee tipple, tipple ripple, double doo!” the little boy sang his favourite song, as he continued with his mission to drown his shadow.

It had been a busy day for his mother. She finally wrapped up her share of the work and hurried towards her son. She lifted him by his arm and dragged him along, towards the hut. She must have spanked him a couple of times, because he was crying.

‘Tired’ was not a word in her vocabulary, as she began to prepare dinner as soon as they reached the hut throwing the little boy by the door.

Seeing that his child was howling, as he entered the hut, he was mad with anger. He struggled towards the child, trying to focus on what his wife was up to, he grabbed the boy and beat him until he couldn’t utter another word. Next was his wife’s turn.

After the daily commotion had died down, she came out of the house for some peace. She sat by the door holding her dear boy who had cried himself to sleep.

The sun was about to set. She saw a big truck afar on the highway. To her surprise, the truck proceeded towards her and came to a screeching halt.

A dark man stepped out of it with a big, bulky bag. “I save the indestructible ones and mend the injured of the past, in the hope of creating happiness. I collect shadows.” He said.

Packed in Puffed-up Plastic

Once there was a chip, a potato chip. The potato chip lived in a bag. A big plastic bag. This bag was currently in the hands of a man. A man named Salil. Salil currently sat on a bench. The bench happened to be near a lake. Lake Ontario. It was April. It was spring.

Crunching numbers was Salil’s profession. He learned through his educational years that he was madly in love with numbers. They were his passion because he thought of them as an entity with no beginning and no end. Numbers, to him, existed irrespective of space and time. Of all sciences numbers were the most abstract and yet the most pure and everlasting ­‑ an intangible as alive and real as the tangible. He thought of numbers as being omnipresent and unending. (It is believed that the first abstraction, which is shared by many animals and humans, is probably that of numbers). Mathematics was almost poetic to him. He saw philosophies and deep thoughts in his math problems. He thought numbers gave him little insights into the metaphysical. They almost corresponded with what was described as God in Hindu texts – unending.

People around him failed to understand this obsession with numbers. They thought his love for numbers was abnormal and weird. However, Anjali seemed to have understood him since the very beginning. She was an artist. If Salil was “yang”, she was “yin”. And they fit together perfectly. They were complementary opposites completing the whole.

Being an artist she understood his love for numbers. She understood abstractions. She believed that abstract concepts exist equally in art and science. But she chose art for its freedom of expression. Art did not lay any restrictions on how she could draw certain conclusions through her pieces. She believed in the wholeness of one’s existence - an existence without bonds. She understood that every human element is complete and incomplete at the same time. She found insights into the metaphysical through her art.

They had moved to Canada eight years ago. It had been a joint decision. They had thought that it would be better for them to be away from family for a while. They could concentrate on their careers and passions for sometime and then when the time was right, they would go back.

However, this cold country had somehow left them dry. They made new friends, but it was not the same. Something was missing. They couldn’t pinpoint to what exactly that was. It was an empty feeling that both of them had, every once in a while.
They hardly ever spoke to each other anymore. Their long talks about life and its wonders had somehow died. They were losing the “light”, if it were. Both of them felt this inexplicable loss. They say, a part of you dies when you leave your country of birth. May be that is what this feeling was about. It was sort of mourning for something that had died within.

That morning Salil sat on the bench musing over all these things watching the seagulls and the geese. It was spring and it was still very cold and windy for him. He couldn’t get rid of his winter jacket as yet. He sat there staring at the waters of Lake Ontario. The water was a mix of emerald green and pthalo blue. He thought, Anjali would have loved this.

She had left that morning, with two words scribbled on a note pad: “Good bye”. He didn’t know why or how she had come to this. He did remember her complaining about something or the other recently. However, at the present moment on this bench, Salil couldn’t recall what that was all about. All he did remember was that she was not happy and he did not understand why. Anjali had said that he did not understand human relationships anymore. She told him to stop thinking about numbers for once and listen to what she saying. He had thought of her as being unreasonable at that point of time.

But as he sat on this bench today, he missed her. He missed her a lot. He wanted to talk to someone about his recent findings on “Aesthetics of pure mathematics” – a thesis he had been working on for sometime. Anjali had provided very useful insights into this from time to time.

He sat there on the bench feeling the chills of loss, when all of a sudden a seagull, unable to withstand the speed of the wind, brushed his hair and managed to fly to the ground. He jumped up with a start and before he knew it, the bag of potato chips fell and the pieces scattered all around the bench.

Salil was confused by this abrupt stop to his thoughts.

He bent down to rescue the remainder of the chips and bag, when he realized that the sun was out and bright again. It was spring. He picked up the bag and peeked inside. He was happy to have saved a few of his favourite snack treats. He smiled.

The helpless seagull had a brought a sudden revelation with it. He noticed his winter jacket and smiled again. He realized he had packed himself up in puffed-up plastic, just like the potato chip in the bag. Content with his own world and neglecting the world of his best friend that was Anjali.

Salil took his jacket off, let go of the bag of potato chips. He took a deep breath of fresh spring air. He looked at the horizon and the beautiful lake again.

Next thing, he found himself dialling Anjali’s number

“Hi Anjali”, he said, “I am sorry. I was packed in puffed-up plastic”.