EK AKELA IS SHAHAR MEY

For some reason, the word ‘loneliness’ reminds me of the Scottish Highlands. I haven’t been there, but it’s like a dream that you vaguely remember after waking up. Something that you haven’t experienced first hand, but you can allude to as if you have known it from another life. I don’t know what the Highlands are like in reality, but I presume it is both beautiful with the fluent landscapes, and eerie with the lore about the Loch Ness monster.

Loneliness. Like Scottish Highlands. Haunting and murderous. Obsessive and vicious. It can be a curious fixation you can’t shirk off and at the same time be a pain you can’t bear.

There are times when the irresistible charm of solitude draws one into the shell and makes them build an abode there, and be permanently caught in it, like a spider in its own web. Every crumb of solitude is devoured ravenously because it is the only thing a famished spirit craves.

And then there are also those moments when loneliness bites like a bed bug and sucks one’s essential life force; it drives a blunt dagger into the chest and lets the blood drain out of the vacant heart - slowly, agonizingly. The carnival of the world then fades into the ether and there is only an imaginary line at the horizon that divides the sea of tears from the sky of sanity.

What does someone invaded by such savage loneliness search for in this world?

एक अकेला इस शहर में रात में और दोपहर में आब-ओ-दाना ढूँढता है आशियाना ढूँढता है

(A lonely man in this city is searching all day and night for food, water and shelter)

Let not the lines from this supremely melancholic track trick us into thinking that the man is suffering from poverty in terms of food, water and shelter; the basics are mentioned only to highlight his existential angst. It’s a life devoid of the emotional essentials. His condition is one of abject penury in terms of ‘being alive’. It speaks of a man who feels he has died inside. It is a feeling that we so cleverly hide with our seasoned gimmicks; a feeling that gets lost in the melee of everyday preoccupations.

Listening to these lines, I wonder what privations must be haunting the people who live behind the windows I see from my room at night. Every glass box of light that shines amidst the night’s darkness must be seeking something – love, laughter, peace, conviction, faith and then some that they themselves can’t decipher. Behind every window there must be despair clinging to the walls and disappointments crouching in corners.

For the man who has exhausted all hope, the search is ambiguous and never-ending; it goes beyond day and night.

दिन ख़ाली-ख़ाली बर्तन है दिन ख़ाली-ख़ाली बर्तन है और रात है जैसे अंधा कुआँ इन सूनी अँधेरी आँखों में आँसू की जगह आता है धुआँ

(The day is an empty vessel, and the night is a blind, bottomless well. From these empty dark eyes, only smoke arises in place of tears.)

I have always perceived despair as a bleak, grey entity that blurs our vision and distorts our perception. But it seems despair/hopelessness pervades the human heart in the sooty shades of black, especially to those who have gone to the pits and touched the abyss.

Do people really hit such lows where they lose all positive perception of life and get pushed to the edge of sanity? Yes, they do, when they forfeit their life purpose, when loss becomes their only perceived reality and days are rendered directionless. I have seen and heard them at close quarters. I have watched them writhe in insufferable throes. I have felt their agony in my veins.

To them, the day is a bare vessel that has nothing to offer and the night is a cavernous well that belches only darkness from its belly. I have heard them describe themselves as wasted and spent, with only smoke coming out of the vacuous eyes. Smoke in place of tears – it can happen only if a quiet volcano is simmering inside waiting to erupt and set their very soul on fire.

They then search for a valid reason to be alive, but they have no legitimate excuse to die either.

जीने की वजह तो कोई नहीं मरने का बहाना ढूँढता है

No reason to live. No excuse to die.

These are stinging lines that make me wince. Broken and defeated, how many people are driven to the precipice, unable to resolve this dilemma!

What will I not do to save someone standing on the brink like this, lurching between hopeless life and perverse death?

If only we had answers to all our questions and life could resolve all our riddles!

एक अकेला इस शहर में… A lonely man in this city…

He further watches with distress the roadways that stretch longer than lifetimes. Roads which, perhaps like him, run forever without a breather and yet, don’t reach their destination. Neither the man nor the roads know where they are running and in search of what ultimate end.

इन उम्र से लंबी सड़कों को इन उम्र से लंबी सड़कों को मंज़िल पे पहुँचते देखा नहीं बस दौड़ती-फिरती रहती हैं हम ने तो ठहरते देखा नहीं

These lines hold up a glazing mirror to me. The snide remark about our inherent nature to keep running isn’t lost on me as I stand in my balcony and watch vehicles zipping through the 14 lane Sheikh Zayed Road. What am I doing, sprinting without a pause like this? Where to, actually?

Or like these roads, am I supposed to keep going, and find my freedom in the mindless running, like our iconic Forrest Gump?

All said this city feels so estranged to the lonely heart; it is so filled with unknown faces that it desperately looks for something familiar and recognizable, someone to associate with, something that would provide it with a sense of acceptance.

इस अजनबी से शहर में जाना-पहचाना ढूँढता है

ढूँढता है ढूँढता है

Every lonely man in a city….regardless of which part of the world he might be in....at night and in the day…is searching for means to survive and an abode to reside…

एक अकेला इस शहर में रात में और दोपहर में आब-ओ-दाना ढूँढता है आशियाना ढूँढता है…

Flush with melancholy and metaphors, this sweet lament written by Gulzar leaves a dull ache behind as I retire for the night. But I will endure the ache tonight for all the lonely hearts in cities across the world. I hope the morning shines fresh light into their lives and they find a renewed reason to be alive. May there be wholesome new beginnings in their lives. And in ours too.

A GOOD LIFE IS ALL ABOUT MAKING A DIFFERENCE

(Khaleej Times column dated 23 August, 2022)

Last week I woke up to a Shamaal outside that had blotted out everything outside my window. This was also accompanied by the news of the demise of India’s ‘Big Bull’, Rakesh Jhunjhunwala. The news rattled me, and initially it wasn’t clear why. I had seen his happy demeanour many times on business channels, ladling out advice, exuding such confidence and foresight that he seemed almost invincible in his territory.

Despite being plagued by multiple health issues about which he only briefly referred to in his interviews, he came across as an immortal to me. And his sudden departure shattered all the perceptions I had about this man. Successful. Unshakable. Ingenious. Above all, indomitable. He too had succumbed to the whims of time, after all, giving up all that he had so assiduously gathered in his life. It was this realization that probably niggled at my heart and made the news hard to digest. But I quickly recalibrated my thoughts and deliberated upon what a remarkable life this man had led. The more I thought about his exemplary attitude to life and the way in which he had left a mark, my sadness abated to a serenity that put things in perspective.

It is not how long a man has lived, but in what way he has spent those years that count.

It is not what he accrues for himself, but what he leaves for others that determine his worth.

It is not the acclaim he adds but the mark he leaves on the wall that makes him memorable.

It is not the deeds he indulges in during his tenure, but the difference those deeds make on others’ lives that makes him a legend in his own right.

Making a difference – it has been my ambition in life ever since I realized the futility of mindless ‘fetching’. If I am on this planet for a reason, then I must do my bit to shift things by at least a fraction of a needle point. It took a long while for me to determine in what ways I could achieve this goal.

I was greatly inspired by people who took up incredible causes and put skin in the game to bring changes around them. I was awed by the colossal levels of altruism people exhibited to share their lives’ spoils with others. There were social crusaders all around me, torch-bearers who led mankind to a better future, but none of it seemed achievable within my modest means.

The only mentionable skill I had at that time was to knit stories with my word wool, but that, in a moment of epiphany, revealed to me my life purpose. I could provide warmth to beleaguered lives with my writing - creating blankets and sweaters, socks and mittens, scarves and caps. I could make a difference with the tools that were at my disposal. I could touch lives with my available capabilities. I really needn’t have great wherewithal to contribute to the wellness of the world.

It was a monumental revelation that altered the way I assessed my diurnal activities. Small things done with the intention of ‘adding value’ and ‘making a difference’ began to assume noteworthy aspect, their consequences appearing larger than what it seemed to convey. What might have been insignificant to the common eye could bring about a teeny-weeny transformation in somebody’s life. It didn’t matter if the beneficiary was an immediate kin or a remote acquaintance. What mattered was whether my life and thereby my presence was having a positive impact on other people.

A friend who quit his high-flying corporate job in Dubai is now running an NGO in India, chipping in every ounce of his resources towards providing quality education to the under-privileged. His commitment towards the cause inspires me. A close kin is pulling out all stops to staunch the wounds of a bleeding planet with her sustainability programs. I am in awe of her passion and pursuit. But I am also convinced that not all people can be part of large movements that can turn the world around and save it from the rot it is currently spiralling towards.

What we can do, as laypeople, is make sure that we bring a positive difference in whatever roles we play in our lives. In our relationships, in our profession, in our regular work and interactions. We need not have fabulous credentials. All we need is a heart that is willing to invest itself for the goodness of the world, through deeds big or small. There is no need to bring tectonic shifts; a simple but compelling nudge is enough to alter the course of one or one thousand lives, and to find fulfilment in our own.

WHAT ARE YOU TO ME?

..When Your name becomes my breath,

I realize yet again, that I am alive..

It’s been long since I stripped you of Your halo and brought you down to the mortal space of my life. Here, into the chaos of my quotidian circle, to be anything but that which You are acclaimed to be.

It’s blasphemous, I know. It’s the ultimate sacrilege a conceited human can do to someone idolized for ages as the ultimate Godhead by people of a religion. But the word ‘God’ had become so warped and maligned in the popular imagination of people that it ceased to have any sanctity for me with regard to You.

God? Really? The pampering parent who hands out goodies to the well-behaved offspring? Or the overbearing governor who whacks the unruly kids? Or the one who supposedly waves His mesmerizing blue hand and makes things happen as per the will of the mortals? They plead and You give. They refuse and You retract. None of these fit the nebulous picture that I have of you now. Why nebulous? Because You are many things at the same time to me, a confluence without contours. A kaleidoscope of patterns. An endless poem without a title.

To consider you God is to separate You from me, for Gods live in temples created by man, in an esoteric space that has fences and boundaries. I reject that version of You. It is for those who are willing to prostrate a thousand times to win Your heart and thereby, tickets to life’s transient gains. It is for those whose hearts are split like curdled milk and retch bile in Your name. It is for those who have pointless duels over Your indefinable nature, and for those who call your very existence into question. Funny that people should suspect Your presence in their lives! If they believe that they are a gurgling stream running between birth and death, if they believe that they are veritable pieces of mass in this vast territory of objects, how far are You from those beliefs, after all? Their being is Your being. Such simple truths are overturned only because You are called God. I refuse to give You that sobriquet.

As the world celebrates Your birth today, transforming You momentarily into a toe-sucking infant who had the might to kill demons and vanquish evils, I wonder if that’s what You are to me. An adorable munchkin who can fill the empty spaces in my life with cosmic babble.

It would take no less than a second for me to assume my role as the divine mother, giving you virtual cuddles and kisses, letting my tears overflow like the breasts of a new mother who cannot have enough of feeding her distilled love to her child. But that’s not what You are to me either. Putting You in the cradle would be to contain You and in my utter ignorance, adopt a vain posture befitting a mother. For all the cherubic, artistic representations You are given by fertile human imagination, I refuse to buy into the fallacy that You are my child.

What’s now left is the rousing realm of romantic love! How effortlessly You slip into that niche that seems to have been carved exclusively for You in my heart, Krishna!

I read the Gita Govinda every once in a while to soak up the human dimensions of divine love, and to decipher a mythical love affair. I wonder how Jayadeva could portray your amorous games with such lucidity that reading it, I am tempted in my mind to usurp Radha’s place for a fleeting glimpse or a sweeping touch or a stirring kiss from Your manifested Self.

Such delirious love-making that transcends the physical realm is not a thing that humans are capable of in their ordinary earthly lives and how I have longed to relish its flavour through my mystical writings! How often You have been my beloved, and my beloved has been You, and yet, I have felt deprived, starved, incomplete and inadequate as a lover.

What You are to Radha is something I cannot dare to imagine to have for me, for she isn’t Your paramour, She is You. It isn’t love that You have for each other, it is mutual surrender that makes You (two) an undivided soul. It isn’t the pangs of separation that Radha suffers when You are away from Her, but the bliss of fervent anticipation. It is something that a mere mortal cannot even dream of, no matter how ardent her desire.

Neither God, nor a child, nor a passionate mate. What then are You to me, Krishna?

Perhaps,

an indistinct presence that speaks to me in silence;

a flutter in the heart that no one can hear;

a nothingness reflecting in the mirror of my eyes;

a dancing flame in my dark chambers;

a resonance of Love in my feeble fibres;

a salve that spreads in moments of stillness;

My sigh, my tear, my happiness.

My pain, my comfort, my numbness.

My knowing, my blindness, my niggling doubts

And at times when the world stops buzzing in my head and when You are none of its palpable aspects,

what are You Krishna

but me

sans this name, form and character?