On the Velocity of Life(Jimmiki Kammal)

It was dusk. The starry sky and KSRTC night bus noises(they have a different noise at night) invaded Trivandrum. The call of the conch rose from a nearby temple. Moonlight streamed through the long, narrow leaves of the surrounding coconut trees onto that terrace. Seated on a mat there, were Raghu, Isha and Nair eating sandwiches.

"Nair-ey, you are so stuck up in your past and so stubborn to changes that you are letting go of the new memories that you could have made. Don't keep whining about not belonging. For you, that belonging came after you went neck deep in water. " Sneha remarked.
"Yes. But, I still want to savour the things that happen to me. You jump too fast and get tired too easily."He replied.
"Savouring can wait. Until, old age comes."
"And, when is that?"

"...Hold it."Raghu interjected Nair's dreamy narrative."So, all this is over a clash of opinions. Slow-mo and laid-back versus let's-conquer-the-world."
"That's simplifying it a bit. There were other reasons. But, at the heart.."
"..You were very different people to begin with" Isha finished the sentence for Nair."But, you people did carry off it with flair. I do not understand why your friends think she is to blame though."
"Because, they are our friends"Raghu replied.

"Don't do that bro-thing to me, eh. You Malayalis and your perversion towards simplification. Naive-and-simple-hearted-guy-in-the-gang faces breakup. The girl must be a bitch."
"Simple-hearted-guy can't be the dog."
"I did not say that. But, please eh? You knew Sneha before. You think she can be stereotyped into a black-white continuum? Bitch, my foot. People should reserve their opinion when they do not have adequate information."

"Raghu, you know. First time, I am seeing people eating sandwiches and getting angry."Nair grinned. "But, she is right. It was a slow and gradual attrition. To blame it on either of us, would be injustice. Anyway, that is not important. What's your opinion on the savouring part?"
"Hmm. Potayto. Potahto. Different people. Different ways."she replied.
"What is there to savour so much, around here anyway?"Raghu asked Nair.

"I don't know. This has always been a sleepy town, Trivandrum. And, now its slowly becoming a melting pot for all the different stereotypes. Khaki-and-mundu-wearing opinionated auto-chetans and jasmine-wearing churidaar chechis. Curly haired, thick-specs intellectuals in kurtas and sometimes marley t-shirts. Jeans-wearing college girls who get ogled at. All the prim and proper Catholic schools. Thattukadas. Strong chais. Temples and Mosques. Extreme conservatism fighting against a  new liberal generation. Alavalathis in superbikes. The pub culture slowly trying to seep in. Our sexual contradictions. I like this sleepy town. We work our asses off in other states and countries so that we can come back and let go here. "

"Haha. Like on this terrace, yeah. Eating sandwiches and toasting ourselves to the moonlight."
"Exactly. I mean you come to this place. And, your heart slows down a bit. You offload all the work. Have some good old communist, philosophic thoughts."

"KOBAYASHI MARU." Isha burst into the conversation.
"Huh?"
"What?"
"That's my opinion. Kobayashi Maru. It just struck me. Let me explain. Kobayashi Maru is a term from Star Trek."
"Aah. Star trek."
"Shut up. So, Kobayashi Maru is a simulation game that the Starfleet cadets have to undergo in order to complete their officer training. It's a no-win game. You cannot win that simulation and it's designed to test how the officers face defeat."
"Er so??"
"If you read all the philosophers, writers and religious gurus in the past. Camus. Buddha. Sartre. Fitzgerald. They all say the same thing. Life's rigged towards losing. People are too greedy and horny. They long for all sorts of stuff. They don't get it. They lose. Every one of us."

"Cheers to that."Raghu raised his sandwich.

"If so, what's important is we lose in a style comfy for us. I mean, we do it our way. We lose in a way that reflects us the best. For you, that means something slow. Dipping yourself in nostalgia often. You are the wine guy. You sip. You savour. You toast. You have sandwiches with friends on a beautiful moony night. You fall in love with a land that has so many assholes and as many sweethearts. A place with contradictions that is a reflection of you."

There was absolute silence for a while. Then, Nair spoke up.

"So if I am the wine guy, she must be the tequila woman. All shots. Lapping up new experiences, one after the other. Always on an adventure. "
"And both give you a hangover in excess. "Raghu quipped and winked. "But, Isha, this also seems like an excuse to mediocrity."
"Agreed. People should not make such a reasoning an excuse towards mediocrity. The whole point is they should chip at stuff they love and chip in a way they love because at the end of the day, nobody is really a success story. We all bob up and down in sine waves."

"So, the lazy going, mundu-wearing, beedi-smoking, philosophy-chewing and philosophy spitting commie uncle is doing it in style as well."
"Oh yes, he is. As long as that is the life, that satisfies his soul. "

Nair went to the edge of the terrace. He touched his phone and suddenly pink floyd filled the air in a subdued volume. He flicked his sandwich away.
"Haha. Isha. You and your theories."
"Sweethearts, both of you know one thing. I am always right."

Towards a new Sun

NB:- I hate poems and poets in general. Because most of the time, poetry is what people do when they feel lazy because prose requires sharper words, more number of words and more thought. Of course, some poems are an exception to the above and a class apart. This one below is not. 

Move aside.
Move aside, garlands, symbols, imagery and image-less.
To the side, beards and ashes.
To the side, rahu and ketu and shaitan.

And the old vultures encircling the bleeding carcass,
And the false red flags on the battlefield,
Burn.
They are here.

Destroying the gates, walls and the useless legends.
And stories that tell you what needs to be done.
Dusting the antique to see its worth
Wisdom, courage and humanity.

Hear them, descending down the mountains.
Each prisms of their past.
And yet lightly packed on their horses.
Each deciding the quantum they will bear.

Firm but light steps.  New rules.
Deep roots into a soil that sustains.
And yet winged to rise.
A lump of clay shaped by words.
Words that are blind.
Onwards.
To a new sun.

A stranger and his land.

So, today, I came back home after some time(The coming-back has become a rarity). I got out of the airport.

Random cab-driver: Taxi veno?
Me: Nahi.
Both of us: *pling*

So, I ended up replying in a language that I never used to like in my hometown to people who never really understood it either.

A little later, my dad comes to pick me up because of the luggage. On the way, I see that he is fumbling a bit with the driving. I duly inquire. "Mon, it's becoming a bit difficult to see in the dark." Age. Time slowly ticking away.

Time. These days, whenever I meet up with old friends, the topic always comes to how time has passed. It doesn't matter that we are all 20-somethings. Our faces wrinkle and asses elongate under the baggage of the experiences 20-somethings go through. Emotional disconnects. Flailing relationships. Career question-marks. An "Ayee Machaa..?" does not as easily bring back people as it used to do. Lost chances, love, success, opportunities.

People. A generation grows up. Little kids on sports bikes burning tarred roads under the hot sun. A far cry from cycles and muddy, dusty roads and shady trees. Succeeding generations coming to know what addiction is, one quantum of time before the previous one. No, it's not a criticism. To each generation, it's own.

The dilution of the left-liberal view of a society into a bunch of pseudo-leftists who create a heap of smoke and no fire, disruption and no solution. The creation of brand new hindutva, christitva and islamtva. Feeding a new generation into seeing only a quarter side of the coin. And the churning of bank officers, IT professionals, Yem-Bee-Ayes without rhyme and reason. Cliches.

 I pick up my old diaries, writings and thoughts and I feel like a stranger and a misfit in my own land. Like in the poem by Frost, where at the fork in the woods, my land took one way and I took another. And, neither one of us can decided which is the less threaded one.

Discontent. Pitch-black discontent.

At our greying society and lost ideals and 100 pavan gold at weddings.

And becoming a wanderer eating aloo parantha and pyaaz parantha, with no place to call one's own.

Of looking forward and back.

The three wheeled auto screeched through the newly and unevenly tarred narrow lanes, still slick with oil. It eventually halted where the oily modernity halted. A 6.5 cent plot of land, enclosed by a cement wall, with a mini-jungle inside. It was noon and two dishevelled individuals got out of the auto. A middle aged gentleman and a young kid. A trolley-bag followed.

"Why do you want to go to India, Kishore?"Anu sounded annoyed. 
"It's been some some time. I want to check the property, once in a while." He replied. 
"Why do you hang on to that small fragment of land? It's a small plot. And for that, you want to go every one year. I don't mind your trips but you are wasting a lot of money and time."
"Come on. It's Rahul's vacation as well. Let him see his extended family."
"Really now? You have never bothered to keep in touch with them, except for your uncle and you want him to see all of  them?"

"Ahm, Dad? Are we supposed to camp out here?"
"No, kiddo. Your great-uncle lives nearby. We'll be going there."
He took a look around. Three years had passed, since he last visited this plot. Things had already changed a lot. The lane had been re-tarred. New houses had come up and very few vacant plots were left in the area.

"Awesome. Now, we both get to go to the US of A. And, that too, jobs in the same city." Anu could hardly contain her excitement.
Kishore smiled. 
"You don't look too happy, Kis-o?"
"Nothing. You do know that I have a thing for memories. It breaks my heart to actually leave this place behind."
"I know." Anu came closer and gently kissed his forehead. "But, it's a necessity. You are lucky to have a supportive family. I need to be away from mine for some time."
"Yes. Yes. I know. And to add to it, you want to look towards the future and leave the past behind."Kishore winked.
"Haha. Yes. I do. There are a million things out there. Miles to go, no? Nostalgia can wait until we loose our teeth and wrinkle our faces."

"Daad, I am hungry."
"Whaat? You just ate like half an hour ago."
"I spent it all on that autorickshaw ride."
"Pinnaee."Kishore grinned as he waded through the weed that had grown around. He inspected and uprooted a plant. He had asked his cousin to plant some tapioca there. His cousin had took his words to heart. This one had been planted recently and the result was nothing short of spectacular. He suddenly heard some joyful shouts from across the neighbourhood. Rahul went and peered through the cracks in the wall. Kishore moved towards him.

"Haha. So you. To come here after, exactly 10 years."Anu remarked.
"Big attitude eh? Why did you tag along then?"
"Aah, Kis-o. Chekkane kandu veenu poyille. Pyaar, mohabatt and all that. What can I do? I have to tag along."
Anu shoved Kishore and ran. 
"Aha. Who exactly is the kid here?" Kishore shouted as he ran behind her, along the Rajpath strewn with dried leaves.
They had both studied at REC-Calicut. Today, it was called NIT-C. But, he somehow felt that  things hadn't changed much around there.

Colours were flying around. It took Kishore by surprise. Holi. That's one festival he did not expect to see, being celebrated with gusto in this neighbourhood. He wondered whether there were any North Indian families settled around here or whether India's heterogeneous cultures were seeping in and mixing together just like he, at the heights of his idealism, believed it would.
"What's happening, Dad?"Rahul asked. His big eyes widened at the sight of all the colours.
"They are playing Holi. It's an Indian festival. I'll tell you the story behind it later. You go play with them."
"But, my clothes?"
"I never liked your mom's selection anyway. Now, go. Shoo"
He gave a friendly wave to the other kids. They waved back.
Holi. His mom was a Gujarati while his dad was a quintessential Mallu. This meant that he usually celebrated more number of holidays than the average kid around in Trivandrum.

"And, so I fell in love with Trivandrum and your dad. "his mom finished the story for the umpteenth time. He did not mind the repetitions. He loved seeing the way her eyes sparkle as she recollected the bits and pieces. She was watering the anthuriums that she had planted in the plot. 
"You know. We bought this plot for you because you wanted to come back here one day."
"I know, Amma. You needn't have. I would have bought a plot of land myself later. There was no need for you to have bought it now. "
"Land prices will shoot up eventually. Maatramalla, it's something from your dad and me to you. We have always loved this place so much."

The land that his mom and dad had loved that much. He had been reading some of the Indian newspapers early morning in his flight to Trivandrum. Rapes. Hindutva. Jihad. Oppression. Poverty. It reminded him of Hirschmann's theory of voice or exit. People like Anu shunned the bad and the good memories and went away in search of a better future, never bothering to look at their painful or maybe uninteresting or even a happy past. He had a different perspective on that past versus future debate. He wasn't sure whether he was right. Sometimes, he stubbornly resisted change. He wondered why he came back. Maybe, it was because he was an optimist. He believed in voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Rahul and the other kids running towards him with buckets. They were soaked in mud.

This land, where he found friends that lasted for a lifetime, where he fell head-over-heels in love and then ended up with a bitter heartbreak and then found love again in an old friend. This land, which made him a communist, with scant respect for oppressive traditions . Yet, this land, which made him fall for outdated and heart warming ideals. This land, that his dad and mom loved with all their hearts.

Rahul let out a yell and threw the mud at him. A small and high-pitched yell. The voice of a new generation, who should be given the choice to develop their individual stories in a land that they could call their own, despite its imperfections.

The mud ricocheted off the cement wall and splashed all over his polo t-shirt. He grinned, jumped over the wall and ran behind the kids who broke off in different directions.