Being Robbed, Being Found

My heart started racing the second I saw my backpack’s zip open, and even though I frantically looked through all the pockets, deep inside I knew that my wallet had been stolen. In that moment yesterday, with hundreds of people teeming all around me at the Delhi Metro station, I felt alone... very alone. My personal space violated. My sense of freedom associated with money, gone.

I went to the nearest guard/police and narrated my story, but I was handed off from one official to another; with a reprimand, “Aap ko careful rehna chahiye tha madam.” (You should have been careful Madam)

By then my mind had started imagining the thief’s identity: a young man, with swift, darting eyes, a sly smile and a self-congratulatory attitude. I was sinking in a swamp of self-pity, asking myself, “What did I ever do to harm this person, why has he placed me in this mess?”

I eventually found my way to the Police Control Room dazzling with banks of CCTV screens. For a couple of seconds relief permeated through me, hoping that they would look at the CCTV footage, find the thief and my ordeal would be over. Ah! But reality is usually different! I was told to go to another Police Station to file a FIR, start an investigation and only then would the police start the process of checking the footage. I sank into a broken chair while they told me, “Madam bhool jao, kaun dhoondega chor ko? Aap aage ke liye khyaal rakho ab.” (Madam, forget it, who is going to look for the thief? Just be careful in the future now.)

I walked back into the crowds with tears stinging my eyes, uncertain of what to do next, trying to reach Ashim in USA. The weight of all the perceived and real frustrations of living and working in India plummeting on me like a row of dominoes set into motion. Talking to Ashim brought some calm, but anxiety was once again paramount while recollecting the specific credit and debit cards, Indian and US ids in the wallet. While Gautam and Ashim took over the chore of cancelling all the cards, ordering replacements, placing fraud alerts on my accounts; I looked around once again noticing the people oblivious to my tears.

I finally sat in the Metro train to head over to Gurgaon. Something about closing my eyes in the moving train allowed me to separate myself from my journey. I realized that my few hours sans the security of my cards and cash, had rendered me a small glimpse into the vulnerability millions of penniless people feel while facing life every day. My hurt at the indifference around me brought to the forefront the many instances, when I might have ignored offering comfort to another being. My families rallying around me guided me towards gratitude for all that I have.

And then… I was able to breathe out my self-pity and my anger; take in a few composed breaths and send my love to the ‘swift and sly person’ who stole my wallet and hoped that the money does him good.

In Distress

In Distress

A bright blue saree, a large nose pin, orange marigolds in snow-white hair, a bulging shoulder bag and a face that showed every wrinkle of her 70 or so years of age.   She was walking bit by bit towards my parked car; my attention divided between the book in my lap, and the people passing by.   She stopped and put a hand out to rest against the car’s hood; gently closed her eyes, took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off her forehead with her saree pallu.   The sweltry day was taking its toll on her slight frame, and the disproportionately large bag seemed to affect not just her gait, but also her breathing.  

My heart beat faster with an unknown urgency.   She reminded me of a delicate bird, struggling because of the weight someone had clipped on to its wings.   Was there a way I could do something, anything, to stretch those wrinkles around her mouth to a smile?   But then, had the lady noticed me sitting inside the car, she would not have rested against the hood.   Would it be feasible to take away her few moments of respite just to fulfill my desire to help?   Would she feel embarrassed, and walk away once I made my presence known?   I stilled my body while my mind frantically groped for answers.   Would I even be able to communicate with her as we most probably would be unable to converse in a common language?   I started looking around to spot my driver, wanting him to ask the lady if we could give her a ride.

Of course I forgot about the head movement, of course she noticed me, of course her calm expression changed to a cautious one and of course she jerkily moved her hand away from the car.   I grabbed the water bottle next to me, smiled, gently opened the door and offered the bottle to her.   She looked at me hesitatingly, shook her head with downcast eyes and walked away.

I was so annoyed with myself.   I should have been more careful not to move; instead of lending a hand, I had burst the lady’s miniscule bubble of privacy.  

I was feeling blue and I saw blue in the car window again.   She was back.   I opened the door and patted the seat next to me.   She sat down, opened her bag and offered me a banana.   I took it and offered her the water bottle again.   She took it.  

I ate, she drank; we smiled.   She rested for a couple of minutes.   Those minutes brought such tranquility to me.   She took my head in both her hands, made a small kissing sound in the air, opened the car door and walked away.

I was trying to help someone in distress.   In turn, I became distressed and she kissed my distress away.  

Beauty in the Trash

The stench permeated the car interior.   I rolled up my car window the very instant my olfactory senses were aroused to a heightened state.   The words ‘shock and awe’ flashed in front of my eyes.   With a shrinking nose and expanding frown lines, I looked out the window to track the instigator who had defiled the air.  

A rickety tractor, which looked like a shantytown house on wheels, was parked ahead to my left.   Ripped, dull brown cardboard sagged against its sides creating a makeshift enclosure.   Ropes and wires at various places held the jalopy together.   This mournful object was imparting the unearthly odor; one could well call, ‘the smell from hell’.   Curiosity got the better of my nose, and I peered at the tractor through the window.   It was overloaded with mounds of garbage of all sizes, shapes, decaying intensity, colors, etc.   I wished my daughter would return from her class soon so we could leave.

The article ‘Singapore- The Squeaky Clean City’ in the glossy magazine in my lap was unable to hold my attention any more.   I eyed the mangled remains of packaging, vegetables, bottles, paper, plastic Styrofoam, and the likes in the truck.   Partially hidden in this pile, I noticed a lady sitting atop the garbage in a corner.   She was sorting the garbage into smaller heaps and I could decipher plastics in one section, bottles in another, neatly folded crinkled paper in another.  

There was a hypnotic quality to the earnestness in her labor.   Being surrounded by foul smelling garbage did not mar her beauty.   Rather, the dismal surroundings enhanced the exquisiteness of the festive red saree draped seductively and red bangles that slid up and down her arms as she worked.   Suddenly she smiled, dug her hands into the pile and pulled out a glittering golden ribbon; a discarded party decoration.   She tenderly straightened it out, wound it around her hand, jumped off the tractor, arranged the sparkling trimming around the tractor’s bonnet up front, and took a couple of steps back to view the effect.   Her face, resplendent with joy, reminded me of a mother doting on her child.  

There I was; so disturbed by the stench, yet so enamored by the sight.   I fervently felt like adding beauty to this already beautiful lady’s day.   I tried talking to her but she spoke Kannada, I spoke Hindi.   I saw a flower lady near by and bought some extra long lengths of ‘gajra’ jasmine flowers strung together.   Walking over to the star of my day, I offered her the flower string.   She graced me with a delightful smile, hesitatingly took the string and immediately arranged it in her long hair.   I prayed that the fragrance of the flowers may be powerful enough to prevail over the smell of her surroundings.   Sounds like a cliché, but she did prove that a lotus has the ability to rise beyond the dirty water it grows in and maintain its purity and beauty.  

Feel Like Breaking Something?

Mera desh mahaan, log phir bhi pareshan
My country is great, but the people are still upset/unhappy

Dekho, magar sirf pyar se
You may look at me, but do so only with love

Thand rakh, ai bhi pass ho jana hai
Stay cool, this too will pass

Duniya gol hae, phir milenge, ta-ta, bye, bye
The earth is round, we’ll meet again, ta-ta, bye

Rab hi malik hae
God is the boss

The above would evoke a sense of ‘déjà vu’ in anyone who has traversed some roads in India.   Such avowals, and plenty more philosophical and comical ones, are painted on auto rickshaws, trucks, and buses throughout the country.   Reading these and pondering their relevance to life is a pursuit that helps keep my mind off traffic and pollution.

Another very common declaration on auto rickshaws is “Buri nazar wale, tera moonh kala”, which translates to, “To the one with the evil eye, may your face be blackened”.   In the Indian culture a face is blackened to insult an individual.   However, walking to my hotel in Dehradun I saw a parked auto rickshaw that said-

Buri nazar wale, tera bhi bhala ho
To the one with the evil eye, may you be blessed as well.

I stopped.   I read the saying again.   This was a first for sure! A diminutive smile sprung on my lips.   I chuckled. In spite of the blazing sun overhead, I felt a wisp of cool shade find its way to my heart.  

I went over the auto rickshaw person.   “Where to?” he asked,   I answered, “I don’t really need to go anywhere, but may I speak with you for a minute?” He looked at me quizzically through his over-sized sun glasses, shifted a bit in his bright red, skin-tight, transparent shirt that showed off his bulging biceps.   Then ignoring me, he started digging under his extra-long hot-pink painted pinky with a screw driver.   I repeated my question and he shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly; reminding me of my teenager saying, “What ever.”

Deciding to get to the point, I asked him, “This saying written on your auto, did you get it painted?”

“Yes, why?” he quipped.

“I found it very interesting.   What made you change the ‘black face’ one to this one?”

He laughed.   The sun glasses came off.   I could see his large black eyes lighten up.   “Madam ji, I like breaking things. I broke my parents dream when I dropped out of school.   I break a bottle of alcohol every night.   I break the hearts of girls in this city.   I break the bodies of people who mess with me.   This time I decided to break something different- the chain”.  

I reminded myself to breathe.   And asked, “Break which chain ji?”   The ‘ji’ tumbled out on its own.   I wanted to ensure he felt respected.

“The chain of evil eyes, Madam ji.   See, if you look at me with an evil eye, and I blacken your face, you will look at me the same way again. The evil will keep coming back to me.   Instead if I ask God to bless you; I break the chain of evil eyes and black faces.   Better for me too, correct na”, he said it all in one breath.

Wow! Could breaking something ever be better?

Mom, I Cherish .....

Would you like to write a couple of lines on what you cherish the most about your mother and/or your parents?

Share it please.

Be a part of making this journal a special ode to all the mothers (and fathers too).

Together let’s say “Happy Mother’s Day”

****************************************************************

I cherish the comfort in knowing that my parents’ love, acceptance and support for me is always secure, no matter what. I am truly blessed!

Who am I?

Am I who I think I am?
Or
Am I, who you think I am?

Answers lurch at breakneck speed
Thoughts saunter along
“Slow down, speed up,
Stick to one side,” I plead

Perceptions, contentions
Run parallel, diverge
A new question tags on
Will the lines ever merge?

Merging would be joy
Or compromise?
Is it even a possibility?
Or a mere fallacy?

Soul mate, wherefore art thou?

A beautiful yellow butterfly shared the air space with us for a couple of minutes while our taxi was en route from Dehradun to Delhi.   Then I noticed another butterfly, brown in color, flying in tandem right under the yellow butterfly.   They soared, dipped, and inched to the sides as a graceful ice skating team dancing in perfect harmony.   “Ah! Soul mates”, I sighed to myself with longing.  

This was the beginning to a seemingly long thought process.   Is finding a soul mate a romantic fallacy, a quixotic belief such as ‘love at first sight’ or is it a truth that is meant to be, a jigsaw puzzle where that single piece with the perfect fit does exist.   Is it a destination or a journey? Is the connection based upon spirituality, emotional fulfillment, physical attraction, common goals, magnetism drawing opposites together, thinking alike or having been together for so long that life seems incomplete without each other?

Strolling down the meandering path of memories, I could not pinpoint one single person who has understood me at all times, with whom I have always felt complete, who accepts all of me, all the time- just the way I am, or who has the ability to perpetually bring out the best in me.   It was quite a dispiriting thought; having covered half or more of my lifetime and still no sign of the perfect jigsaw piece.  

I decided to plunge deeper into the thicket of thoughts and reminiscences.   I remembered the times when a friend was there to listen to me without being judgmental.   And the times my husband helped unravel difficult situations for me, his efforts to bring me happiness.   The emotional fulfillment my children bestow upon me, especially the times when I held them as tiny bundles, secure in my arms.   My confidence that my parents love me just the way I am.   My sister’s willingness to be a perfect friend and sister rolled into one, whenever I need her.   The thoughts I could share with my brother knowing that they would always be secure with him.   The spiritual connection I felt while sitting on the porch swing and eyeing the immense greenery in our yard.  

So yes, I have not found the “one” soul mate I may be destined for.   But then, perhaps this search is not a destination; it is a journey with several milestones on the way.   My soul mates complete different parts at different points in my life.   Yet, the nagging thought stayed forefront, “What about the times when the whole still has a hole?” What then? Am I destined to be incomplete, with holes?

Pensively I looked out the window at the butterflies and realized that the brown butterfly flying in synchrony with the yellow one was nothing, but its shadow.   It dawned upon me that the only way to fill all the holes and find my perpetual soul mate was to look into a mirror.   This search must end within my own self.   There are jigsaw pieces that will fit at various places in my life, but I must become the piece that will complete the puzzle.

Does that sound right, or is this just another case of “sour grapes”?

If only I could hear, what I deem as meant for me, nothing less, and nothing more!

Have you ever wished for the ability to close your eyes and in effect close your ears as well? The ability to stop the constant cacophony, to hit the mute button on all electronic devices, to zip the lips of people around you, to soundproof your tympanic membrane . . .

My recent round trip from Bangalore to Dehradun left me wanting to move to a city where sign-language was the law.   The ordeal started with the 6 am airport bus.   The radio blared songs.   These were interspersed with a very peppy DJ ensuring that the listeners were paying attention and with advertisements of sexy wardrobes capable of changing my life, apartments that could make my home heavenly, grocery store prices that could double my purchasing power.   Wow! What else could one ask for?

Well, the two fellow travelers behind me ensured that the 1 hour trip thoroughly enlightened me on the architecture of their under-construction houses, how the grills would be hidden to show off the floor to ceiling windows, the balcony door would have a metal plate sandwiched between the wood, the roof-top garden would be waterproofed, the drop down ladder from the attic could be widened so their wives could access the attic as well, etc, etc.  

The cell phone of my vivacious neighbor to the left had a ring tone of a child wailing on the top of his lungs.   I am sure she could win a popularity contest hands-down because her phone rang every 1-2 minutes.   Of course, there were at least 7-8 other cell phones with distinct ring tones ringing melodiously at various intervals as well.   The gentleman in front of me was ragging a junior at this unearthly hour; telling him how to handle the next client to clinch the contract.   I had selected a seat right under the TV screen thinking that I would be able to see straight out the front window of the bus without an onslaught from the movie that was playing.   I forgot out of sight does not mean out of ears as well.  

What amazed me was the ability of my ears to decipher each and every sound byte and feel the assimilated information pounding in my head.   Would technology ever advance to a stage where two conversing people would do so at a wave length privy just to them? Where my cell phone ring would be heard by no one but me? Where I could tune in or tune out of the radios dispensing information to the public? Where separations in the acoustic spectrum would ensure that one person’s music does not become another person’s noise?

I turned to my co passenger- my daughter, to share my marvelous vision of the future.   My voice at varying decibels had no auditory impact on her.   With her eyes closed, she certainly was tuned out, at peace, at rest, enjoying.   I decided not to intrude upon her reverie.   To make my wait for science’s leap towards noise-free living less inaudible, I realized, I just needed to follow my daughter’s route- purchase a set of head-phones and use them. Except that I would do so without a MP3 attached to the other end.

Will Smile, Will Smile Not

The first week into our recent visit to US while standing in a long check-out line, my daughter, Meera observed, “Mom, most people here seem to be so friendly.   They smile even at strangers.   Nobody does that in India”.   She was right.   Subconsciously I had noticed that as well, though had never vocalized it out loud.  

I asked Meera if she had noticed any similarities amongst people who smiled at her.   She thought about it; I thought about it; and we recalled that most often it was the older generation that was more generous with smiles.   Also that African-American store employees not just smiled at us, but also added, “How y’all doing today?” or “You have a good day now”.  

Taking an early morning walk in a park with my sister, I noticed that almost everyone muttered, “Good morning”, or acknowledged us with a subtle nod.   We crossed an African American gentleman who surpassed the others here as well.   He nodded to us along a cheerful, “What a beautiful day!”  

By now this had become a sort of preoccupation with me.   I would cross people in stores, restaurants, parks, streets and try to look them in the eye with a hint of a smile.   While approaching my target, my mind would play the game of ‘he’ll smile; he’ll smile not’, ‘she’ll smile; she’ll smile not’.   My findings reinforced the earlier inference about the older generation and African-Americans.   Young people (students) at a UC Campus seemed too involved in their own thoughts/lives and passed me by as if I was invisible.   Moms with little kids in grocery stores certainly smiled, albeit wearily at times.   Babies smiled and waved most of the times.   Professionals in suits and shiny shoes or heels pretended to ignore me though I could sense that their lips quivered a bit.   All library employees smiled.   I am sure the totality of the surroundings played a role there.   The lady behind the flower counter in the supermarket smiled.   The mailman eating lunch at Taco Bell smiled.   The policeman and policewoman sitting at the next table did not.   Not even a single worker at the airport smiled.  

I continued with this madness half way across the world in Bangalore, India.   The rules of the game are different here.   Smiling or not smiling is a cultural issue.   ‘Respectable’ women smiling at strangers are unheard of.   I smiled at the person at the grocery store cash-counter but he acknowledged just the presence my shopping basket.   College students responded to my smile with a quizzical look that said, “What’s up with her?”   I smiled at a young guy herding 15-20 buffaloes across the road while I sat in the patiently in the driver’s seat; he smiled back with a 1000-watt smile and a wave.   The professionals at the Tech Parks were thoroughly engrossed with either a cigarette or a blackberry or both.   I was absolutely non-existent to them! The old lady selling flowers always smiled back even though I never bought any flowers from her.   The young lady selling flowers did not smile.   The watchman nodded curtly with a “Good evening, Mam”, but did not smile.   The woman holding a baby on the backseat of a scooter rewarded me with a beautiful smile.   The little boy selling magazines at the traffic intersection smiled ear to ear.   At the shopping mall men a lot older to me gave a lopsided smile, men of all other ages either seemed to look through me or seemed perplexed at my demeanor.   Irrespective of their age women shoppers did not want to waste time on smiling at me.  

So, what’s the conclusion? Nothing really.   It was a fun exercise that took my mind off mundane worries.   Here at home in Bangalore, I no longer cursed the buffaloes crossing the road; rather I tried to find humor in its absurdity and smiled.   I did not avert my eyes from the flower lady just because I did not want to buy flowers.   In the shopping mall instead of focusing on the crowds, I tried to focus on finding a prey to smile at.   So, until I am labeled a nut-case, I’ll continue with my exercise.   :-)