I've moved

Every now and then, you juggle up your life.
Do a little something different.
Come read me on: http://imonpurple.wordpress.com/
A personal blog, where I hope we can all share stories.

Of Breath

 

 

 

 

 

On my way to work this morning, I began thinking about 'breath.' I wonder if we humans are motivated by a simplistic want- the security of hearing someone breathe. Not just any someone, our lives aren’t searches for soul mates, but to match the sound we were born into.
In the womb, the sound of breathing is intrinsic to our being. In growing up in families, hopefully, the sound of breathing fills our ears.
We grow up, and often out of our homes. Searching for the familiar sound of comforting breath.
Sometimes, we find it.
Staying awake, staying still. To the sound of rhythmic breath.
It reassures you of what you want.
And, what you don’t want to lose.
The sound of that breath.
Everything else notwithstanding.
It also makes you yearn to trap the breathing sounds of yesterday, and today for tomorrow.
Lest you wake up…without breath.

Rickshaw woes

In the February of 2010, I moved to Gurgaon. Much of the first month was spent house-hunting in Gurgaon's many squalid colonies by foot, on a cycle-rickshaw, in a borrowed car, or a ramshackle Tata Indica rented out at Rs.800/- a day.

Come Saturday morning and I’d bobble through the streets of Phase 3, in a rickshaw about to crumble, looking up at Millennium City. Often I’d alight, leaving the rickshaw-puller an extra ten-er, it was easier to keep pace with the property broker on his motorbike, by foot. Some days, friends were kind enough to transport me about town.

The day I finalized my lease, happened to be a Tuesday, Gurgaon’s official holiday. Although offices continued to work through the day, the rickshaw-pullers on the street were absconding. I stepped out of the hotel room, scanning the streets for a savior. He came in the form of an elephant-sized auto-rickshaw that ferries twelve people over short distances for Rs. 5/- a day.

To my relief, I didn’t have to be sandwiched among Gurgaon’s many sweaty men; I had the rickshaw all to myself for a mere Rs. 20/-. I whizzed past all and sundry, feeling like a rickshaw queen. How ridiculous I must have looked!

All packed in and settled into a matchbox-sized house, my Gurgaon rickshaw woes continued. Getting to work on a cycle rickshaw sometimes took me over two hours. The sun burning down, the dust in the wind.

The journey to Delhi was another ordeal, an elephant-auto, a bus with hungry, gaping men and broken panes- we were at last across the border!

Thus arrived the Delhi Metro. Delhi came pleasant at last, but Gurgaon was still a menace. You’d alight a swanky air-conditioned metro imported from God-knows where, and climb onto the oldest form of transport known to man- the cycle rickshaw.

One fine November morning, along came the Radio Tuk-Tuk. Dial an ant-sized auto-rickshaw and you could zip about Gurgaon at Rs. 8/- per kilometer. If you were lucky, the rickshaw would actually turn up at your doorstep, and not leave you stranded and hoping.

Hoping at least the newly launched, women’s share-an-auto would come by. Or, perhaps a recently launched Rs. 10/- a km cab would stop for you. Alas, they never do.  (Tell me if you spot one.)

Given the incredible thing that competition is, however, one fine summer morning in 2011, hundreds of green and yellow auto rickshaws begin to fill the streets. All of Gurgaon’s villagers had turned to the cause- transporting Gurgaon’s hapless, car-less- in response to the Government’s half-hearted measures. At eighty odd rupees for short distances, no less…

Racket or not, what a joy to roam Gurgaon’s streets with a little dignity. In a year, the cycle rickshaw had come a long way, still bobbing although.

Finding your own spirituality

Spent a recent Saturday at a meditation camp, nestled deep within Gurgaon’s farmland- a welcome respite from menacing concrete. Flies buzzed, green grass stilled and restless souls gathered around to ‘close their eyes. Focus on their breath. And discuss their sentiment.’

I confess, I found it to be a tragic waste of time. Most of us were restless within a few minutes, some pretended otherwise. Everybody knew the politically correct thing to say, answers were rehearsed as if from a Paulo Coelho paperback. The man in the middle led the session, that took much too long, to give very little.

Admittedly, I’m a bit cynical. I find modern-day spirituality to be a cult-centered, money making racket. Give the free meditation session; rake in the profits on a weeklong camp. Or, sell Christianity, hope to broken hearts, love to the unloved, and a cultured life to the downtrodden, fear to the famous. Make some money while you’re at it.

I’ve been bitten, and I’m not afraid to reveal, I succumbed to spirituality’s deceiving charm. I’m not against being a balance, sensitive, even spiritual person.

Be that person.

But away from the forms of the world that corrupt it. The religions and cults that misguide those who merely want to be better people.

Be that better person.

But, find your own spirituality.

Mediate, in the true sense of the word. Find something that makes you focus on the task at hand. Swimming, yoga, a run, a game of tennis. Something that allows you to release energy.

Pray, every now and then, in thanks. To anyone, no one at all. Just silent words whispered.

Calm yourself, by finding something that deeply moves you, books, literature, art, travel.

Find a purpose, not set out by a Lord, or a Veda, but by you. Make your life more than going to a temple, or a camp... make it a career, or a life in self-service, or a family.

And, believe. Believe that it’s okay to rely on you. Rely on a man above and not be certain who he is. Rely on a dream, even if it fails. Rely on strength from within and outside.

You can be good. All alone.

The Tree of Life

Watched a queer movie last night with dinosaurs, bursts of light, shadows, erupting volcanoes, too much silence and too many whispered dialogues.

The movie was too still for me, and queer even to the other audience, who weren't quite sure what was going on.

I was hoping to take away a heart wrenching story, but returned terribly disappointed.

Found a quote, I'd want to keep though, "Help each other. Love everyone. Every leaf. Every ray of light. Forgive"

a dreamless sleep

Every time I wake up in sweat, another dream of a ghastly downward spiraling plane crash, I wish I'd had a dreamless sleep. The images are vivid- the sharp turn upward, the unexpected plummet into moist earth, the crash, the burn.
I always come out alive.
I'm the saved, I'm the saviour.
I rush to the burning debris, I aid the media. Some nights, I am the media.
I look for my mother, and father, the man, my sister. I even look for my lost luggage. In marketplaces, in glass buildings, off seashores.
I weep, I wake up.
I wonder why I have recurring dreams of plane crashes.
I think I now know. (After a bit of research: http://www.lisashea.com/lisabase/dreams/symbols/accidents/planecrash.html)
It's because I'm so afraid of losing you. And, there's nothing I can do about it.
Mama. Papa. Priya. Rohan. My friends here and back home.
I don't know what I'd do without them.
I don't know what I'd do if I lose them. That too, without warning.
Perhaps, I'll have a dreamless sleep.

Another battle to wage

Of course you’ve heard of the bomb blasts in Mumbai by now, and of course you’ve read the government-bashing, Rahul-gandhi squashing, BOMB-ay declamation posts doing the rounds. I’ve even seen friends squabble over a post from Delhi that belittles Mumbaikars (calling them insects), and a rant and rave that proclaims: “I’m apathetic. And, I’m not sorry.”  Words also gotten around that Mumbai is made up of the callous.

Indeed, dear world, we’re sorry. We’re sorry for not reacting appropriately. We’re sorry the terrorists seem to pick us, and NO we don’t think it has anything to do with us.

It has nothing to do with our apathy.

It has nothing to do with how we let our lives roll on.

Yes, when I hear of a terrorist attack, I still remember being one train compartment away from the bomb blasts in Mumbai, 2008. I still remember my hands shaking. And, I still remember going back into that train within a few days.

But, then my thoughts move on. Go on with my work-drive to home-life afterwards routine. I call my mother and laugh about nothing, speak to my father and plan my next investment. Even send my sister an unimportant Whatsapp, then crack a joke with a friend.

I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to do, dear world. I send out a prayer. I dwell over our turbulent times.

I think about how important it is to be happy.

But mostly, I think about how we have just a brand new battle to wage. One there’s little we can do about.

Like cancer. Like making it to work on time. Like ever affording a house. Like insecurity. Like rape. Like the drunk driver that rams into your pretty white car at 3AM. Like death itself.

That’s terrorism. You can’t keep fighting it. And, you can’t let it overcome you.

And, we, Bombay have been struck enough times to learn that.

Nobody said life was easy, did they?

tactless on tuesday

You know, this is just the kind of thing that makes me feel like a tactless bitch.

I’m standing in the queue, waiting my turn in the office lunch line. Along comes the friendly canteen guy, whose company had the contract for last week’s lunch. I complimented last week’s spread, and then began to tell him how this week’s food was rather unappetizing.

Just then, the slightly round man in charge of this week’s lunch comes along and looks at me quizzically. He knew I wasn’t saying flattering things about the food, but didn’t say anything. I felt terrible.

I tried to make myself feel better. I told myself I wasn’t one among the people raving and ranting at the different round tables. But, I had still managed to offend someone who came across as incredibly harmless and terribly naïve. (This is such a rare mix in wretched Gurgaon.)

Indeed, he didn’t even have anything to do with the food, and was probably stuck working for the wrong company.

I absolutely believe in making someone’s day.

Every now and then, I manage to do just the opposite.

I do deserve this four-hour-and-unending toothache, don’t I? I do.

And, yes I know what it feels like to be working with the wrong company.

(P.s. attempting to consolidate my blogs)