There is always taxes and...

A cold breezy Friday morning. I was visiting North Korea, with the words of Pico Iyer as my guide. I occasionally glanced at life passing me by, while my bus raced along, almost in a mad fury. It was then that I saw it. A murder. A fleeting image. The details – I don’t remember. I can recall seeing blood here and there. It must have happened the night before. It looked like he was asleep and just needed to be woken up. Tufts of grass around him. Policemen were barking orders and questioning two befuddled men alongside. Just another day at work for them. Well, I whispered a silent prayer for the man and was back in North Korea, within five minutes, reading about Kim Il-Sung’s conceit.

I could not help thinking about it later on during the day though. Death – a promise- made to all of us. Life –the very essence of our being. To take a life – one can only imagine the amount of pure hatred, blind fury, lapse of reason and irrational jealousy, which goes into inspiring such an atrocious act. People kill –in the name of peace, in the name of country, in the name of religion, in the name of love, in the name of wealth, in the name of power, in the name of God.

Death need not be necessarily limited to the body, it can be associated with the soul as well. At the risk of sounding morbid and pessimistic, I am sure I talk for a majority of people when I say that I get to meet dead conscience, dead souls, dead opinions, dead voices, dead thoughts, dead dreams, dead ambitions and dead words at one point or another during the day – day after day. Death lives incognito in our society, changing disguises, every now and then. We either don’t recognise it or ignore it with exceptional finesse.

That murder might not stop haunting me for quite sometime. I could not stop myself from wondering – while the murdered dies, does the soul of the murderer die a quiet, unnoticed death alongside? Cold-blooded murder – is it followed by a feeling of regret, guilt, self-hatred and shame or with a sense of relief, satisfaction and tranquil? One can only but ponder. All said and done, the eerie presence of death that Friday morning, seemed out of place and unnecessary amidst the slow, rhythmic pace of life. To paraphrase what Buddha said – " What one can’t give, one has no right to take". But then, I doubt if those words find even a remote relevance in today’s world, given the current political and social scenario.

Well, as for me, after North Korea, it’s Cuba. Bring it on, Iyer.

Delhi calling

Delhi – have been missing it quite a bit of late. Close my eyes and try to recall my previous visits to the place. All good times come back at once and bring along happiness in tow.

I vividly remember my first rendezvous with the city. I was seventeen. It was four in the morning. I had two sweaters on. My mind was exhausted. I had two suitcases to take care of. I had no book to keep me company. I had six hours of tiring bus journey behind me. My nails were blue with the biting cold. I could not feel my cheeks. My eyes watered voluntarily, every time a whiff of early morning air pushed hurriedly past me. I hated it. All of it. The cold. The quirky people. The crowds. The traffic. The chaos. The sheer madness of it all. I could not wait to get out of the city.

It changed. All of it. I don’t remember when I fell in love with Delhi. Maybe when I saw ten stores, in a row, one after the other, on a busy street, serving only cholay and rice. Must be when I giggled listening to ladies bargaining away with indifferent shopkeepers for tinkling baubles, shimmering fabric and everything else in between. Or was it when I hesitantly asked a stranger the directions to Connaught place and he gave me the most pleasant and comforting smile ever. Had to be when I stared in disbelief at the exorbitant prices of coffee at Wimpy’s. Or maybe when I was wondering whether to have a cheese pizza or not at Nirulas. Was it when we got lost in the maze called Connaught Place? It might have been when I found that there were bookstalls around every curve of Connaught Place, replete with the most eclectic of literary works. Just maybe when I was busy taking in the sight of sugar kissed candies, fresh baked biscuits and an entire array of creamy, delicious and exotic pastries – all at once. Then, I found that moment. It was when I first saw the silhouette of Red Fort, almost translucent, standing tall against a bright winter morning.

The defining moment for me in Delhi was to walk along the lengthy arcade inside the fort, leading right into the Diwan-e-Aam - to see the throne of Akbar - to imagine Birbal whispering a piece of advice or casting a wise glance at Akbar while the court was in progress - to see the ramparts from where the prime ministers of the nation address the people - to imagine the discussions happening about art, literature, history, politics and society in general between the princes, while I was sipping coffee in a restaurant within the confines of the fort, whish was earlier the prince’s quarter – engraving my name on one of those countless trees when I though no one was watching and smiling with pride for an hour, thinking that I had somehow become a part of history of this mystical place, albeit a small part –closing my eyes and wishing to go back to those centuries, when life resided here and the hustle bustle of daily routine was anything but uncommon. I opened my eyes. I was still in front of Diwan-e-Khaas. Studded with gems here and there. Lingering traces of a royalty long lost. No Akbar there. I checked - twice. I moved on to admire the delicate and exquisitely adorned walls of the queen’s chambers.

It was December 15,2001. Since that day, for me, Delhi has been synonymous with Red Fort. I have not travelled a lot till date, but hope to do so, extensively, in due course. I know that there exist places on this planet with monuments of higher architectural finesse and which, indeed, have a greater claim over history, but Red Fort, will always remain special to me, because, in my imagination, the boundary separating the past and the present fade away when I stand on those lands.

Four years. I kept going back to that city. My fascination grew exponentially. But, all good things come to an end. I remember my last visit to the city. I could not say a proper goodbye. I had things to attend to. In a way, am glad that there was no goodbye. I did not want to bid farewell to the city that housed Red Fort – that somehow kept the hope of a reunion alive.

I miss Delhi for the very things I hated at first. I don’t know when I fell in love with Delhi. Was it when – I guess I have come a full circle already. In those four years, I could never figure out a mystery –the roses and chrysanthemums sold on the streets of Delhi, somehow looked bigger and happier than those I found elsewhere. But then, maybe, I am, at the best, exaggerating facts or, at the worst, imagining things. I can’t help it though – I hold Delhi guilty of that one crime – it cast a spell on me and very conveniently, forgot to break it.

Once upon a time

A talk. A comment. A thank you. A joke. A wisecrack. A retort. A laugh. A computer. A room. A chat. A coffee. A cookie. A confusion. An apprehension. A drink. A car. A star. A song. A muse. A giggle. A stillness. A message. A look. An act of innocence. A pretense of ignorance. A moment in time. A time so fine. A church. A call. An endless road. A drive. A melody melting into the night. A drizzle. A blessing reflected off the skies. A smile echoed back. A magic mingled in the air forever. A farewell. A silent tear. A look ahead. A stolen glance at the past. A reunion. A photo. An auto. A movie. An IPod. A CD. A walk. A calm lake. A city explored. A city ignored. An evening. A talk. A ten rupee note. A thought scribbled. A joke shared. A goodbye said. A screaming silence. A chaotic calm. An inevitable fact. A false display of courage. A meek acceptance of future. A futile rebuke at the status quo. A reason to smile. An excuse to cry. A continued existence. A moment forgotten here. A moment frozen there. An episode of moments – comfortably ensconced – somewhere in the pages of time.

Dear,

There is something fascinating about catching up with old friends. It feels like meeting an old forgotten version of yourself, that you somewhere, somehow lost track of, along the way. It brings back many old memories and long forgotten jokes. You end up laughing over silly things like school kids all over again.

I was thinking the other day – the whole of last year has been a big episode of friendships for me. I caught up with many old friends after a real long time. We picked up from where we left off and it felt like it was just yesterday that we last spoke.

One particular friend deserves a special mention here. I met her first when I was all of sixteen. She was a shy, reserved and thoughtful girl. She looked like she was unsure about some things and certain about others. We had a hilarious time back then. After college, the conversations were few and distantly spaced in time. But, we somehow, managed to stay in touch, still giggling over the same jokes and discussing everything possible under the sun. I always admired her sense of the written word. I actually read Harry Potter after she yapped about it for several hours. Her heightened interest in literature managed to evoke a curiousity within me, a loyal non-fiction advocate, to browse through the works of Browning, Rowling and Tolkien for starters.

Years later, I met her again at the airport, while she was all set to leave this country, spent 10 odd minutes with her, laughed again over the most dumb things possible and walked back to the car realising that hers was the only friendship of mine, which was more or less consistent all through these years. I walked back realising that I cherished her friendship more than I thought I did. I walked back realising that I was going to miss her more than I thought I would. I guess it sometimes takes a goodbye to make one realise the importance of few people in life. She was one such person.

We still remain in touch. We both swoon at the mention of the name "Hrithik Roshan", read similar kind of stuff (though am more inclined towards non-fiction), get mesmerized by similar poems, we drive each other crazy by trying to outbeat each other at dumb jokes. I cherish her friendship more with each passing day. She always says that I was there for her through some very confusing times, but I think, it mostly was the other way round - she was there for me in many ways than she ever realised and I ever acknowledged.

She was a good friend then. She is an irreplaceable friend now. She will always remain a special and cherished friend. Its true- some friendships are like wine - they keep getting better with time.