I’m thinking of a time before whatsapp…..

I am thinking of a time before Whatsapp, before Facebook and even before the internet.

I am picturing in my mind (in fading flashback) a young wannabe writer sitting in the backyard of a palm-swept house, under the green shades of miscellaneous foliage, in the company of distant cockerels and nearby crows, tooled with a pen and a writing pad, registering little thoughts that a localized mind and milieu can inspire. The musings were unsullied by external influences and the exercise was disciplined by nature. They were inspired by their own purpose to be revealed and recorded. They survived because they couldn’t die unborn.

Writing was then a sacred ritual that one attended to like morning prayers.

I am thinking of a time when reports from the morning paper and one round of evening TV bulletin was all one had for news gathering, along with some commentary from the magazines infrequently purchased, stories from the books that the nearest library could ladle out and barely any debate to break one’s head over. We knew things that had to be essentially known, and not a morsel more.

Reading was then a conscientious task that one indulged in like filial duty.

I am now living in a time pressed by real and unreal walls. The swaying green shades belong to a distant era; now the shades in which I sit are cement grey, weighed down by tons of concrete. The tools and setting have become too urbane and intimidating for comfort. The thoughts are splintered and the mind is shepherded by rogue elements on the rampage. It feels like living in a mental space that is being carpet bombed with this, that and all else that don’t essentially matter. There is no place to hide; no haven for quiet contemplation. Even the closet in the house is cluttered with needless accumulations.

I am thinking of a time when I wrote unhindered, aided by sweet tranquility, when words had shapes and character, and thoughts had an identity. Now when I write, surrounded by hysteria, the words that I generate become an amorphous mess, and thoughts get caught in a quagmire.

I long to pare myself down to the bare essentials, shun the distractions, escape the chaos and return to a time when thought was uncorrupted, writing was guileless and the setting was rustic. A time when writing was the means and the end to happiness.

I am thinking what it would be like to return to a world before the virtual hurricanes hit us. I am thinking what it would be like to live far from the crowd and cacophony. To be primitive in these times of untamed progress.

And I also wonder if I have travelled too far into the future to return to the pristine beginnings.

#Articles

Diary Days

Much as I am hassled by the rampant picture quotes that barge into my space unsolicited very often, I must admit that every once in a while, some very pleasant ones trundle into the inbox to give a stimulus to an inconsequential day. I truly appreciate those who are discreet in her/his forwards and know what is significant and will make sense to the recipient. While a majority of what comes in is apparently dumped, a few like the ones I received in the last two days deserve to become collectibles.

As I saved one more Whatsapp gem to my folder today, I was reminded of my years as a teen when I had a diary in which I would write down quotes and proverbs that I found here and there. I copied them religiously, understanding whatever I could of them as a child/adolescent, and gleaned nuggets of knowledge from them. I never let them be consigned to quick oblivion and even exchanged them animatedly with cousins and friends who shared the interest.

One of the most interesting quotes I can remember from those times is, “A mosquito flies amidst clapping hands” or something like that. I found it curious and humourous then, but today, I can spend hours reflecting on its import. It resonates more with me as an adult now than it would have at that point when life’s vagaries were still unknown and proverbs evinced only a juvenile interest, like philately did.

In the flurry of forwards that I receive every day, many a profound word is lost, and saving the images to the gallery isn’t doing me any favour. I rarely go back to read them, and weighed down by their enormity when the phone begins to lag, I delete them in a flash of frustration.

But now as I hark back to my diary days with supple nostalgia lacing it, I plan to write by hand and preserve the lines that come by and add a dash of colour to a dreary day. And may be, create a scrap book of inspiration to browse and smile when I am gadget-worn.

It will remind me that I cannot grow too vain to value words that speak to me from the sidelines, I cannot get too loud to listen to language that edifies from between the lines, and too self-assured to accept souvenirs of good thought from elsewhere. It will remind me that I haven’t become erudite and enlightened enough. I will travel back in time and find myself growing up all over again. Perhaps, this time a tad bit reflective and rational in character than I was then.

#NotesFlashFiction

Truly, deeply, madly

Beware of touts and pickpockets –

That was one thing that most internet info and tourist feedback on Bali had said to us prior to our visit to the Paradise Island. In these times of deficit trust, that was enough to put us on notice. So when a local biker suddenly stopped by us while we were on a lazy city stroll on the day after we landed, we put up our guard.

“From India?” the man asked, putting his hand out.

“Yes.”

‘Hindu?”

Ah, he knew that we had been to the temple, from the rice grains stuck on our forehead.

“Yes.”

“Welcome to Bali,” he said, beaming from ear to ear.

We spoke for a few minutes, about Bali and India, and our shared culture and traditions. When I inquired him about the decorations we saw on vehicles all around, he said it was a day of ceremony for them, one that celebrated implements and machines. A la Viswakarma Puja or Ayudha Puja of ours, I reckoned.  And off he went, wishing us well, but not before telling us he loved Amitabh Bacchan.

We had just made our first friend in Bali. No tout, no pickpocket – just a freewheeling Balinese tourist guide who made us reassess our habit of judging people from hearsay.

In the six days that followed, we met and made friends with a dozen or more locals – smiling, serving, sharing stories, taking selfies, helping us out of the way.

Eka, Syne, Dewi, Tika, Dewisri, Budhi, Wanda, Surya, Madhe, Ayu, Yan, Mur….

They reiterated with their adorable ways that one can love strangers without rhyme or reason. They convinced me that where there is no sense of ego or pride, there are no boundaries.

For the first ever time after a holiday, I miss the people more than the place. I have seen persons who are trained to be hospitable to tourists, guests and customers with plastic smiles and forced pleasantries. But not the Balinese. You can tell the fake from the real thing.

When our driver, Eka, said to us that he believed in the philosophy of ‘Aham Brahmasmi,’ (universal oneness), I knew – they are folks with their heart in the right place.

Many years ago, Julia Roberts had found true love in Bali.

So did I, last week.

It’s a Love that became immortal in six passing days. It’s a Love that will remain long after the faces and names have faded away.

Suksma, Bali. Thank you.

Tiang tresna rago. I Love you.

#NotesFlashFiction