Be there

A strange thought occured to me now. Look at the world through other's eyes. Completely and without judgment. Just let them talk, give opinion, say whatever comes to their mind and never, never interfere when they talk. Don't prompt when they are looking for a word. Wait. Wait and listen. With the patience of a hawk. Wait and watch how they react. Just look with eyes and ears open. Be so absent in the other's presence that s/he speaks openly, unreservedly, without fear of being contradicted or judged. Be gone, get lost, be nowhere, be not where the other is. Listen, observe. Without interruption. Let it flow, whatever it is, from their mind, from their heart, from their lips, from their hands, from their movements, from the look in their eyes, from the breath through their nostrils, from the shuffling of their feet, from the trembling of their fingers, from the tightening of their veins in the temples, in the jaws, in the arms. Just be, without being active, without being gentle or rude, without aching to know, without bothering to understand, without encouraging or otherwise, without caring or being sympathetic, without condemning or justifying, without patience or irritation. Just be, with your eyes and ears open, with watchfulness and alertness, without a thought in the mind or an expression in the face, like a stone idol, passive, aware, available. Say nothing, do nothing, no geatures, no movement. Be there, yet make not your presence loud.
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Twilight

I wait for dusk to fall as eagerly as the struggling world awaits a new dawn. It is the time of the day when the activities of the world ebb and the laboring humanity return home to rest and recuperate, a time when the harsh light of the day mellows and explodes into the fading soothing colors of an evening, when the blue of the sky deepens to indigo and the birds return to roost, and the family members come together but only to lose themselves in their separate rooms. I look forward to that time when I could walk the earth like a free man, a man without encumbrances, without hopes of an unborn dawn or the entanglements of a dead night, the only time of my life when I meet people of my age, all in one place. In the evening of our life dusk is our meeting time, the community hall our meeting place and the hoot and clatter of a train our common refrain.

I shed my pajamas and change into a brown cotton trousers and a plain white bush-shirt. Adjusting my spectacles, I bend slightly to pick up the walking stick that was leaning against a corner of the room. The fist curls over the knob, but before I could grab it, the stick slips on the smooth tile and clatters to the floor. Ths sound from the fallen stick bounces off the walls and the ceiling and dissolves into silence, leaving a dull echo in my mind. The slender aluminium body of the stick gleams pitifully in the fading light. I push a cane chair close to it. Holding the arms of the chair in order to break the fall, I lower myself gently into it. I pick up the stick and using it as a prop I hoist myself up, groaning from the effort and cursing out of habit at nothing.

From a window sill I collect the lock and key, my mobile phone and wallet. I step slowly out of the apartment and lock the door. I double check the padlock by pulling it down twice, check to ensure I am carrying the mobile phone and the wallet, then slowly turn round toward the staircase. I hold the bannister for support and feel my way down with the stick one step at a time, taken slowly, ponderously, like I was hauling down a load.

As I round the street toward the back of the apartment blocks, a train chuggs past the community hall - I am late by a few minutes. When I reach the hall, I find that my comrades are already chattering and shuffling about in short awkward movements. It is a large hall, ideal for ceremonies and celebrations. We take turns to be the secretary and assume responsibility for its upkeep and arrange functions on public holidays. On a normal day, like today, we just get together and talk to one another until the train returns after two hours.

After the usual greetings I limp to a plastic chair and go through the circus of occupying it. The voices echo from the high ceiling and linger for some time like murmuring spirits. Women speak longer and louder than men. We all sit in an imperfect circle, turning this side and that side, or looking ahead leaning far out of the chair sometimes to hear better or to respond to queries.

We don't have an agenda for these meet-ups. We meet simply, casually, for companionship, for having someone to hear and talk to. Growing old is painful physically and lonely psychologically. We overcome the physical inconvenience in order to share a few moments together; we are then no longer lonely or feel out of place in this fast changing world.

Each of us has one single unchanging characteristic that distinguishes itself from all other qualities of the person. Call it a trait, a habit or an obsession or what you like. It is something that is so innate and intrinsic to the person that he or she may be easily identified with it. The person and his or her distinguishing quality are so inseparable that the person is the very embodiment of the quality.

Sarala is talking to Manohar about her grandchildren. She has short scanty hair that ruffles as she shakes her head this way and that way, making a point or gesticulating with a sense of hopelessness. She is angry that no one in her house cares about cleanliness any more. She expends a lot of her energy in cleaning the dining table, the curtains and the furniture. She spends a good deal of her time arranging things around the house. Manohar says he has been to her house a couple of times and found nothing to complain about. He tries to change the subject, but she keeps returning to it.

One of the helper boys comes in with a small steel drum of hot tea and sets it up on a table. Manohar excuses himself and gets up for a cup of tea. Sarala turns to Lakshmi and continues her harangue without interrupting her flow.

Lakshmi is a soft-spoken woman who rarely exhibits strong emotions. She looks frail and her forehead is creased with lines as though she were in a perpetual expression of anxiety. She has a granddaughter who spends most of her time partying and shopping. Her son is an artist who has had a modicum of success, for his paintings appear now and then in the art galleries. He is too preoccupied with his work and his wife, who works in a government office, is also very busy. Lakshmi is a pious lady who performs pooja twice daily and listens to the bhakti channel on the TV regularly. She has a duaghter who is married to a business man whose fortunes fluctuate on market conditions. She speaks to her often and enquires of her well-being. Lakshmi lost her husband a few years ago and since then she has devoted herself to praying, seeking divine munificence towards the families of her son and daughter.

I have known lakshmi for a number of years. She was religious, but not much given to rituals. However, as days passed and she was getting older she became more and more attached to the gods, going on pilgrimages, listening to religious discourses, performing the rites and praying, praying and praying.

The two women comfort each other as they share their mutual hardships, anxieties and helplessness. The tea is served, and it is drunk cold. The women continue their chatter as if talking it over together is going to resolve their problems.
TO BE CONTINUED...

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The dinner party - I

Dressed in jeans and an open-necked plain white T-shirt I join the talkative bachelors who loiter in the playground waiting to form a group. No one ever wants to step into the RM's house alone. A group gives strength to the individuals who come together to form it. And it is always the like-minded who make up a group, like birds of a feather. In a group it is possible to divert attention from oneself, take refuge in a united front, slip into the background when singled out.

Usually the RM's secretary is a man who doesn't belong to any group, for fear that he may overhear or discover something and pass it on to the Big Boss. But luckily I don't inspire fear because as you know, Mrs. Arora, I don't gossip. I neither squeal nor carry tales. I am therefore welcome in any group, though I can sense an undercurrent of caution among the members; after all, though I am powerless and inconsequential myself and even though I am known for my neutrality, my proximity to the local power center is enough to make any man wary in my presence.

The trainees, the junior engineers and clerks I find are among the most outspoken of the lot. As men grow older they become more guarded, behind their apparent joviality lies fear; fear of God, fear of job, fear of the boss. I am sure they shun me inwardly, for they greet me with undue respect.

The groups have now formed, isolated clusters of men and women, chatting, shuffling, and looking towards the path leading to the RM's house - who will take the lead?

A pandal is erected in front of the house and chairs and tables waited to be filled. Behind it, there were lights in every room of the house and the sound of music reached our ears through the still moonless evening. It was very quiet, the trees scarcely moved. The heat of the day rendered the trees motionless in the night; they were silently recuperating, sustaining on bare essentials and waiting for the rejuvenating morning dew. The stars shone with brilliant clarity in the dark sky, something that is never seen here in the city. The cloudless sky, vast and peppered with numerous points of dazzling shimmering light, produced a grand spectacle. But very few looked at it, for they were engrossed in their own world of endless chatter, and missed the beauty of the world that is constant and available free for all who would experience it. It seems to me, Mrs. Arora, that there is more to living than merely seeking success, striving endlessly as if it were the very goal of life.

Now, a couple of cars drove up and the contractors, including Mr. Abdulla, arrived for the party. They looked around once at the arrangements, nodded to themselves and made their way into the RM's house. Then the senior managers started to move purposefully towards the pandal, followed by their juniors, and the clerical staff brought up the rear.

"Excellent arrangements, Mr. Abdulla." The RM expressed his satisfaction and Mr. Abdulla grinned effusively and bowed to acknowledge the honour.

"Thank you, Sir. It is my pleasure." Mr. Abdulla declined to take a glass of liquor offered to him by the office boy. He pointed at the RM and told the boy to begin from there.

"You are being too formal, Mr. Abdulla. Remember, this is an informal get together. Come on, friends," the RM picked up a glass,turned and swept his hand in an all-inclusive gesture. "Make yourselves at home. The party begins now."

The women formed a cluster around the First Lady who offered cool drinks and snacks to her retinue. From time to time their eyes roved over the partying male fraternity which was now slowly regrouping in the vicinity of the RM.

The men stood respectfully around the Boss, some closer and some a little farther, while the rest watched from the sidelines. The men who were closest formed a coterie, a loyal group of men who made the RM's life easy in this industrial outback. They spoke to the contractors on his behalf and arranged matters so that he could quietly enjoy certain benefits which would not be possible even at his position in the company. These men formed the first circle, followed by hangers-on who were eager to do their bit if they were given a chance to prove their worth. The men on the sidelines envied those in the cynosure of the Boss and watched helplessly. The men who did not and couldn't care to belong to the elite group were the clerks, the trainees and the juniors. They crowded near the liquor counter, cracked lewd jokes, argued over cricketers' fortunes or listened to the music in a wistful way as if it reminded them of home.

"They seem to be discussing something seriously with the RM. Why are they crowding him?" the junior trainee wanted to know.

"Oh, no, no, no." The senior trainee has seen a bit of the world, so he says, "they don't discuss. They are yes men, they repeat what the Big Boss says and feel satisfied that they have repeated it verbatim. Look at them running to fill his glass, how they jostle to light his cigarette and fetch snacks for him."

"Not all of them, though. I can see only some of them fawning all over him while the others are merely nodding and talking politely." The junior corrects him.

"Yeah, and those fawning men have an unenviable epithet - every one of them is a chamcha, a stooge," he said contemptuously. "You see them buzzing around him like flies around a Gulab Jamun."

Drinks begin to loosen tongues, raise the level of voices, increase the clatter of utensils and before long there is din enough to submerge the music from the record player and the silence in the vast open fields beyond the pandal.

Rati, remember? The RM's daughter, the lone adolescent in that little community, chattered with her even younger companions and threw inviting glances at the trainees. Accidentally our eyes met and she winked. An itch arose on the inside of my palm as I remembered our last meeting and closed my fist almost involuntarily. She grinned and said something to a little girl beside her and they both burst into laughter. The junior trainee caught our exchange and let out a high-pitched yodel. When I turned to him, he buried his head into his glass and licked lasciviously at the golden liquid. I must have reddened, for his mate, unaware of the context, remarked, "Guru, I think you need to go slow on that stuff. You look like you are going to conk out soon."

"No, it's nothing," I said defensively and moved away with extra steadiness in my step to show him he was wrong.

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Movements

Talking of promotion, Mrs. Arora, brings to mind the notion of movement in the life of a construction employee.

There are two kinds of movement - the horizontal and the vertical, one is the physical and the other psychological. The physical movement happens when you relocate from place to place. Though one may have travelled often and to the far corners of the globe, there is very little movement paradoxically for the traveller. It is always a vehicle that moves while you, its occupant, is stationary, simply sitting in a chair or lying on a berth. The vertical movement occurs in the psychological realm as one climbs the ladder of success. Again, here too there is a notion of movement. The promotion of an employee is a vertical movement, while his transfer is a horizontal one. While he covets the former, he abhors the latter which entails much hardship and sometimes may mean separation from the family. The promotion, on the other hand, is the ambrosia of success. It is the only reason why I think most people work, for without a reward what is there to look forward to? To paraphrase Dr. Johnson: nobody but a blockhead ever worked except for money and, ah, promotion. More than the monetary gain, a promotion brings power and elevates one's status. Though it means more responsibility, it removes you from the ranks of those who toil in the sun and the soil. If the promotion did not come in the right time, then you lose face, lose the race and what is worse you may report to men younger than you. If there is anything in the profession that demeans you, it is not a bad name you got for your ill temper or your vulnerability to corruption, but not getting the promotion when it is due. Ingratiating behaviour, humouring the boss, being in their good books, pretending to be working and running errands for the boss or pleasing him with sweets and presents - all these and more happen in the race uphill. The vertical movement while rewarding in itself is fraught with expectation, frustration, loss of self-respect, indignity or impropriety. But it remains the prime mover and binds the employee into a straitjacket of subservience. It promotes (pardon the pun, Mrs. Arora, unintended of course) unhealthy competition and obsequiousness, puts power into the hands of unscrupulous men, corrodes their integrity and belittles their dignity. There are of course exceptions; take any human affair and you will find exceptional men and women who adhere to the lofty and the ideal, who are simple, honest and hard-working, without ever losing their sense of humour or their dignity or their self-worth no matter what the circumstances may be. The vertical movement degrades the human being, Mrs. Arora, while the horizontal movement more often than not makes you a solitary, away from the family. I carry a disturbing vision of an old man in the mess of an evening. He sat alone in the dimly lit room of the mess playing solitaire while his family lived a thousand kilometers away. I find both movements abhorring since both are debilitating in the end.
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We, the people

People seldom change, Mrs. Arora. There is a horrifying inevitability about life. Similar thoughts, feelings and similar circumstances recur with unvarying regularity and unchaging repeatability. All the stuff about change through intelligent choices, influencing it through prayers and wearing stones and amulets, following your heart or your favorite guru or the scriptures, and forever hoping for good times and remaining optimistic - all these operate only on the surface. The core of the person remains unchanged and propels the person inevitably into situations that the core dictates.
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Reading

Do you read books, Mrs. Arora? No? Oh, I have been a book reader ever since I passed out of school. I find it a heathy pastime. But it is for the special world they create that I visit them often. Each writer sees the same world differently, Mrs. Arora. Each one sees it imbued with a color that seems so right when you see it along with them. You live their experiences, their fantases, their ruminations - vicariously you go through it all for a small price. But there are some who disturb a great deal. Like Sartre. A little French bird whom I came across on a holiday tour found my pronunciation of that name execrable and showed me the right way to say it. I struggled for a while trying to imitate her guttural intonation and gave up. The man is an incorrigible rambler; my god he rambles about nothing consequential; he sees the world in black and white. Why, even the radiant colors he describes so vividly hit you as colorless and insipid against the despondent and desolate background. Existentialism. You see things as they exist now, not how they have been or how they are going to be. That seems so much akin to what the Vedantists have said a thousand years ago. But there is a fundamental difference. They found bliss while Sa - aargh! - tre found nausea.

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Rush Hour

Every square inch of the road during the rush hour is precious. It is in great demand and possessed with a ferocious aggression even if it is only taken only for a fleeting moment. If you don't fight for it, you are continually pushed back in the race to get there. It is a desperate struggle every day, from morning till late evening. A hoard of vehicles bearing down the avenue, capturing every available space, and flowing like river out of bounds, choking on the bottlenecks, fanning out on broader path and converging again at the intersections. Like an army, the swarm of vehicles of a great variety advance in ever widening arrays, covering the flanks so that not even a dog may pass through.