Unflutter by

She was beautiful, or so she seemed in that split second when I could catch her glimpse.

But probably she thought she was ugly.

Well she was, although I would not call ugly, rather ‘not-so-beautiful’. This I realized after a moment, when she came close to me; very close.

It would have been bothering her that she was ugly, unlike her friends. Perhaps that’s why she wanted to end her life. She died; infront of me. In a way I am responsible for her murder. If it were not for me and my vehicle at that moment, at that spot, may be she wouldn’t have lost her life.

Was that intentional or accidental?

I killed her.

Or rather, she committed suicide.

I don’t know her name.

And I don’t want to name her, just for this obituary. Let that be a mystery. Just like her life.

Life in her cocoon must have been a bliss, and she might have seen hell in this world.

Rest in peace, dear butterfly.

Assorted quaestiō

What makes a person commit suicide?

Is it extreme self-love or self-hate?

I would like to believe it is the extreme self-love, because death is the ultimate bliss one could offer oneself.

Do suicides have a sadistic element attached to it? Or is it orgasmic? Or is it sadistically orgasmic?

How I wish I could speak to Nandanar or Rajalakshmi or Nanditha or Virginia Woolf or van Gogh or all of them.

What is easier – putting up a façade of pleasantness and feeling sad inwards or exhibiting a sad demeanor and feeling happy inside? May be equally difficult.

If people were all their true natural way, what would have happened? May be human race would have been extinct long back.

Is life a journey of procuring and securing materials to meet our metabolic and carnal demands?

What happens after one reaches the top most triangle of Maslow?

Does a person who has died by age of 30, suffer from a mid-life crisis at the age of 15?

Why is logic so much over rated?

Is magic, the opposite of logic?

Asking questions is a pleasure, although there are no answers.

Okay now, back to business.

Head Eastward

Assume you’re in a new place and need help with directions. Whom do you ask for? What do you look for in a person who could potentially help you with directions, distances, buses and street names? How do you choose a person who you think could help you, and not misguide you?

Because this happens to me all the time. Not the asking end, but the replying end. I wonder what do people find in me, which prompts them to stop by me and ask for help with directions. This is true even when I am in a strange city. I can sense it when people are about to approach me seeking guidance. I’ve answered questions like “Excuse me, how do I reach CDS, Ulloor from here”? or “Hey, which way to Mekhri circle?” or “Would this bus take me to Besant Nagar?”. On the other hand I am very reluctant to ask for directions if I am alone and if I am not in a hurry. I always have this feeling that “let me go this way, I can always take a U-turn and come back to my origin, incase I get lost”. I have discovered a lot of new pocket roads, especially when taking a walk rather than on a vehicle. Strange thing is I might find myself explaining this new route to a fellow direction-seeker, which I would have discovered only minutes before.

All said and done, I get immense satisfaction when I could help them, and I feel terrible when I say that I am helpless. But no, I have not misguided anyone.

On a lighter note: Once when traveling with my family in a village during night, we lost the way. There was a lone person, seemingly a farmer, beside whom I stopped to ask for direction. He answered hurriedly saying “Head eastward” and sped away. !

Out of body experience

What would it be like to get into the skin of another person and think and act like he is, for a short period of time. Yes people, I am talking about impersonating, harmless though.

I have once done it. It was something like I have to lie more to sustain the previous lies – like a Fibonacci series.

The plot : circa 2006. I was traveling from Trivandrum Central to Kuzhithurai West on a sleepy Saturday early morning passenger train. The compartment was almost free as always, and I wanted to read for sometime and may be catch up on my lost sleep too. I wish. I started to take out a magazine and a person occupied a seat opposite me. I ignored him, and opened the magazine to read. I obviously didn’t want to be distrurbed, but this fellow wanted to strike a conversation with me. Some small talks – like no rain this year, very hot, trains are full in evenings and free in the mornings  - I nodded in agreement and went back to reading after every nod, but the fellow was probably not a good body-language reader, and he came back with his blah blahs.

I understood that my trip was ruined and thought to play along. He wanted to know about me – my name, my job etc. I said my name was ‘Prakash’ and I am a security guard working with an agency at Technopark. He seemed to be more comfortable probably because he felt that I was one like him. He asked more questions about what money I make, if I am married, what other avenues of income I had etc. Now I had to link all the statements I said earlier and then connect it to my next reply. That was fun and a challenge as well. I pulled along and enjoyed this mental exercise.

He then narrated his story – that he was in some section of Indian Army and after voluntary retirement he was a security guard himself and how he earns very little etc. He spoke about how dangerous these jobs were; the rifles the robbers possess, compared to a guard with a lathi or a heavy double barreled shot gun, which is often no more than a show piece. He also explained how his biological clock went haywire, on account of his roster. More importantly he sounded out his mental agony when he has no one to talk to during his duty. He then asked me not to count ‘my’ security guard job as a means of living; he advised me to get a degree, amidst my ‘difficulties’ and try for a government job.

I felt a pang of regret, but I did not want to reveal my actual identity. I felt happy because he could talk to me and atleast for few minutes he could be his true self.

He could be anywhere – the one who guards the entrance, the one at the ATM door or the one at the parking lot.

Alas! I do not remember his face. May be if ever I meet and recognize him, I would tell him that, yes I earned a degree and that now I got a good job. I just want to see him smile when he hears that.

I wish.

THOSE 17 MINUTES

Duh! How I hate those 17 minutes.

17 minutes is the time I require to pick my son (in Lower KG) from his school, cross a road and drop in his crèche where, he’ll be put up till evening, and walk back to my workplace. I am the worst version of myself for those few minutes, when he cries his lungs out with tears flowing down his cheeks, pleading me to take him home, while me ignoring him but apologizing silently.

If only I could.

This is what all parents go through, consoles my friend. But sigh!

I am sure a couple of decades later, he will get me admitted into an old-age home, relishing at his revenge. 

I shouldn’t cry now. 

I have to stock up my tears to cry then.

Around the World, Forever

Geography fascinates me. I can sit for hours with an Atlas in hand, keeping myself busy. I almost always discover something new whenever I lay my hands on an Atlas.

Being a bibliophile, when asked what do I like reading, my answer would be: Travelogues !

I love travelogues, be it books, documentaries or TV programmes. My father used to borrow books on travelogues written by S K Pottecatt from the Trivandrum Public Library. I was so hooked to his language, metaphors and personal experiences that, they taught me more geography than my school teacher. All travelogues by Pottecatt followed by Pico Iyer (Falling Off the Map), and a book on travel experiences by Khushwant Singh (Sights and Sounds of the World) remains my favourite.

Its now the age of visual travelogues. I love them too, but seeing and listening to various places and countries does not have the thrill of reading about them. Of the many visual travelogues the one I love is ‘Sancharam’, being telecast in Asianet. It is not only the places Mr. Santhosh George shoots, but also the captivating script by Ratheesh, and the excellent narration by Aneesh Punnan Peter, which makes it so very attractive. My cable guy doesn’t supply Asianet News (where Sancharam is being telecast on all Sundays 10.30 am IST), but I do get to see Asianet, where they telecast older versions of Sancharam, Saturday mornings at 6.45; I sit glued to the TV during then.

I have read some horrible travelogues and seen some lousy TV shows which mostly explains nothing but the detailed history of the place, which is very unnecessary (in this age of google). What I look for in a travelogue is the first hand personal experience of a traveler.

Traveloging (!) is an art in itself. A fine blend of facts and creativity.

BLIND BELIEF

Disclaimer 1: I am not against religion and religious worship; rather I consider it a personal affair.

Disclaimer 2: I stay at Bangalore, and this is with reference to Bangalore.

There is nothing wrong in closing eyes before the deity in a temple and praying for 2-3 seconds. But what if the person who is offering such prayers is on his two wheeler riding at 30 – 40 kmph? Drivers already have the risk of potholes, other speeding vehicles, garbage strewn over the road, footpathless roads, cows, pushcarts and now blind belief.

Blind belief here is in the literal sense – the belief which blinds you for 2-3 seconds. But the vehicle must have gone forward by about 15 feet by the time the driver comes to senses after his mobile prayer. I wouldn’t want to travel with such a cab driver. There is no dearth of temples along the roads and it is a habit of the riders to turn to the direction of the temple, close their eyes, not caring about fellow riders and pedestrians and risking their lives.

Well.. may be they believe God(s) would take care of them.