We Are Like That Only

Chaturvedi ji : Arey Sharma ji, button toh dabaiye

Sharma ji : Arey sir, daba toh rahe hain. (in a low voice) par kuch hoyie nahi raha.

Sharma ji was laboriously pushing the button to the farthest it can get. The red circle around it was gleaming since it was pressed fifteen minutes ago. Sharma ji was now breaking into a sweat. Drops of perspiration could be seen dotting his upper lip. His bald head covered with four stands of hair that he had grown on one side and had combed across, was shining. Not just Sharma ji, all the other twelve passengers in the four by four lift were sweating. The smell of their deodorants and soaps, rising with fumes of their perspiration.

The metro station was supposedly air conditioned and it was not like, the air vents were not working. Still the little group of people were fighting summer, on one of the coldest Delhi January days.

The door of the lift stood ajar. Sharma ji now irritatedly, pushed the red circular button to level three in frantic thuds. Chaturvedi ji, stood packed between a young office goer and two orange clad, turbaned men and the mirrored wall at the back of the lift. He could have salvaged Sharma ji's soul had his hands not been jammed by the compression. All he could do now was wait patiently, and hear the low clamming of a silver wrist watch band against the metallic button board, as Sharma ji continuously coaxed the button with frustration to shut the door.

The young office goer, who stood beside Chaturvedi ji looked at his golden Titan. Chawla ji had gotten up late that day and was thus running late for his office. He never normally traveled by the lift. But today was different. Time constraint today had forced him to take the lift. He had thought, if he got lucky he would skip the escalators and save himself few minutes. But perhaps, his stars had other plans. Standing where he was, squeezed between a young lady and Chaturvedi ji, he gently comtemplated the consequences, if the door didn't shut within five more minutes. His handsome young face was covered with beads of water. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the river which swiftly ran down from his right temple and vanished into his collar.

Mrs. Gupta had situated herself firmly at the far corner of the lift, as soon as the doors had opened. She was a wide woman. Her forty something age and eighty something weight now, did not permit her to take the stairs as she went to work every morning. And the escalators had a bad reputation with her. She had heard stories about how, many people had lost their valuable lives as they hitched a ride on these ghosts of chore conservation. She too stood waiting patiently like Chaturvedi ji, inhaling the faint, delicious smell of dal makhni she carried in her double Decker lunch box and dreaming of her office mates and the compliments that would be showered on her during that divine hour of lunch. They would all be curious about her secret recipe.

Bhumika stood with a grimace on her face as she now and then stole a glance at the two huge mustached, orange clad, turbaned men to keep a check on them and their perverse gazes. Her friend must be waiting for her at Rajiv Chowk metro station. They had decided to go shopping. Her friend had claimed she knew haunts at CP where they could get the best bargains on garments of latest designs. She was clutching her bright multicolored handbag on her left shoulder with her right arm, an indication of distrustful surrounding, and with the other she was absently twirling a lock of her artificially straightened burgundy hair.

Sharma ji knocked the button, now in little rhythmic beats. Mishra ji, an elderly gentleman in a white kurta pajama was trying to aid him in his endeavor as they stood side by side. He was pushing the button when Sharma was lifting his thumb off it. As if his touch would induce some magic in the little impotent object.

"lagta hai lift overload ho gaya hai". Chawla ji had finally said it. All this confusion had to have some reason behind it and Chawla ji had spotted it correctly now. The little yellow board titled 'instruction manual' in black paint hung above the button board. Seven rules were bulleted over it. It said under rule number 3, "Lift capacity is of maximum 8 persons. Kindly do not overload lift beyond capacity."

"oh" Said Sharma ji after two minutes. Chawla ji's words were now seeping in his interpretation. "Overload ho gaya hai". First he said it softly to himself. Then he said it loudly to Chaturvedi ji standing a little distance away from him, "Lift overload ho gaya hai sir". He said it, as if Chaturvedi ji could only hear Sharma ji and not Chawla ji who stood right beside him.
But oblivous to Sharma ji's flawed ideas about distances, Chaturvedi ji was devising a plan to make the lift door shut. Soon after, he came up with this very intelligent idea, "Kisi ko utarna padega".

"Haan, kisi ko utarna padega" Sharma ji's congratulatory voice rang across the lift to all the twelve passengers. Everybody stood with a pensive expression for the next fifteen minutes. Nobody moved.

A work of a muddled mind

Once upon our lifetimes, we stumble upon a high minded individual. Often it results in severe consequences. I consider myself lucky, for I am only being made to write this article for my readers to waste their labor on. I rather wish, H.G. Wells had invented the Time machine. So I may have gone a few days back and saved myself all this trouble.

I am just another Alice who prefers to live in her wonderland, whose intellect stubbornly refuses to succumb to any material thoughts. Thus this demand, that I, employ my masterly mind in bringing a sensational change towards betterment of our already good lives, is but a hollow bargain. But my friend here chooses to emphasize, that it is my duty as a resident of the world, that I strive to contribute towards improving it. So I am hereby writing this article to give you, my practically no good ideas, in a great harangue.

Memories need messing so they may highlight things, you never knew existed. Pursued by my friend, as I sat down to question myself, "did I ever, in any point of my life, join hands with revolutionaries?", the answer was only in an affirmative. Back in time, when I had been struggling through my graduation, I had joined the theater society of my college.

I hoped to hog the lime light with some extra-curricular activities. Since I flopped bigtime in my academics, this was the only way, my professors could take notice of me. But my expectations were turned head over heels when I stepped into my first session. A young girl stood in middle of a vast room full of students, directing them as they sang Kajra re in chorus. It was then I learned, our theater society was a small group of students, and only students. (That throughout its seven year history, the society had fought to resist granting admittance to any of the staff members, teaching and non- teaching alike.) Another aspect of its intrigue, was the fact that, they invited students without any formality of auditions. Thus, the theater group was perhaps the only theater group on this planet where ninety percent of its members didn't know how to act. It was only after months that I realized that the theater was never interested in acting or bringing to the college, laurels from inter-college competitions. It only meant to give a platform to students, to rediscover themselves.

In course of my years in college, I discovered many dimensions of my character. It was in this theater, that I met students from different religious, cultural and economic backgrounds, who had different natures, abilities and ideas. I may not have experienced the world, but the exposure the theater gave, helped me fairly, to estimate my capabilities and limitations.

Nothing is devoid of glitches. You may say with such an assistance, all the students in our college were living in heavenly bliss. However, the truth is, the theater never got an overwhelming response. Many people stayed out of it, for they feared ridicule.

Can't blame them really. There are so many things I know I can't do. Take mathematics for example. I still need a calculator to do two plus two. I know its my little secret which if spilled in public will only buy me humiliation. I would never join a maths club, even if there were seven others like me there. I am just too scared.

Call it my oddly wired brain, I believe, had my college had, a club called "what you can't do" club, by the students, of the students, for the students, things would have been different. This club would invite students to any activity they felt they couldn't do. Shy students would spare time to perhaps practice some public speaking. The club would organize painting workshops to entertain students who felt they sucked at drawing. And genius mathematicians like me would be given some sums to palpitate upon. These activities held by the club would only aim at encouraging students to overcome their fears. To make them realize, they can do, what they think they can't.

Believe me, it is more fun to see people sync with your inabilities than what you think is your strength. This way, its easier to bond with people. Losers bond better than winners, for they have within themselves, no competition.

The WYCD club idea may sound fickle, but it is a better way of exposing students to the harsh realities of the world outside. Since overcoming their own fears, is the only way students can equip themselves to face the challenges of time, nothing I believe would work better than the WYCD club.

This is just a hypothesis. A work of my muddled mind. It would require a lot of patience, energy and time on the part of the volunteers to run a group like this. But I am sure, we all need an excuse to bunk classes. Don't we?

Specky

Every morning when I flip through the newspaper, the world seems, as the most depressing place to be. Every morning, when I step out of my house and set off on my daily pilgrimage to the University, I encounter the overwhelming garbage can on the way to the bus stop, bus conductors exchanging exotic verbal abuses as tokens of love, the crowd on wheels, Aunty jis swiftly kicking your shins with their vanity bags, Uncle jis trying their best to touch young women all over, flying dust shamelessly settling in the eyes and the horns of every frequency, blaring from every standing vehicle at the traffic signals. The world then confirms itself, as indeed, the most depressing place to be.

But life has a knack of letting us know, that happiness can be found in the darkest of places. After the tiresome day had commenced, in their hurry to reach home, three girls had taken the wrong metro by mistake and then, they became party to a little adventure.

It was the coldest day of the year. Though the big clock at the station struck half past two, fog lurked over the tree tops. As we stepped in the train while scanning the rows of people who sat with we-are-glued-here look on their faces, I spotted him. We had managed three seats for ourselves as it was astonishingly empty for a metro. My gaze tracked him as he entered the train with us and took a seat opposite where we sat ourselves.

He was a lean guy. Tall enough to be said he was tall. Complexioned as any man of the brown race is and was dressed as every other student of our age, only a little too casually. I noticed he wore a pair of tracksuit lowers over a pair of nike sports shoes. Not something everyone prefers over denims, when its freezing outside. Over a light blue shirt he wore a beige colored pullover. I could see the blue collar and cuffs peeping out elegantly from his sweater. He had on his lap, a black canvas bag which looked as if it contained nothing. Perhaps it was suggesting, he had an exam that day. He sat slightly slouching, with an air of a bright student who had done his best in the paper out of sheer habit and who now hardly cared what the outcome might be. Such pupil eventually topped the class.

When the train arrived at the next station, he moved slightly to make room for an old man who had walked in. They politely smiled at each other and spoke. I couldn't hear them. Soon after they fell silent and the old man got busy, ducking his balding head inside the boldly lettered red and white polythene bag he was carrying.

The train rattled ahead in super speed. The passengers who had companions were busy gossiping. Others sat lost in oblivion. A mobile phone somewhere was cracking into pieces a popular bollywood number and over the mutilated tune rang the regular two language recording - a list like the ten commandments, served in public interest by the metro authorities. He turned his attention from his aged co- traveler and suddenly his eyes fell on me.

I was so engrossed in my endeavor that it didn't occur to me, I had stopped blinking. My wide eyes had been on him ever since he had entered the coach. Now when his eyes lay on my face, I felt blood flush my skin. He had caught me staring at him. A small voice in the back of my head nervously said, "Shit".

He was exceptionally good looking. His long face bore a serene look which could instantly relax anyone who cared to look at it. A tuft of black hair shadowed his forehead. Underneath were a pair of mesmerizing eyes framed in thin square rimmed silver glasses. Nor elongated like an eagle's beak, neither was it flat like a mushroom. His nose was unusually, normal. Trailing below the nose I had found a pair of, a very kissable variety of lips and they completed his face with a very manly, pointed chin. He had a stark resemblance with someone I know. Someone very close. But at the moment's pause when he held my gaze, I felt my mind go numb with the strange uncomfortable feeling, called embarrassment.

I wondered, if I should remove my eyes from his face, look around a bit and pretend as if I was looking at him just as I was looking at everybody else. But then I had held his gaze in return for a time long enough to certify that I was caught leching. I decided not to fake. This decision then led me to a greater confusion. I now knew what not to do. But what to do, was still beyond my comprehension. My brain was still fighting its numbness.

Life has its own way of springing surprises when you are least expecting them. Miraculously, his face which had hardened to stone under tremendous pressure of analysis, broke into a handsome smile. I could see blood rush under his skin, as they had been rushing under mine.

It was as if my system had an auto-pilot program installed in it without my knowledge. My lips expanded on their own and I felt air on my teeth. The small voice in the back of my head was now praying to God, to whisk away any scrap of food that might be sticking between them.

The train jolted into a halt. The doors opened, and a little mob of unfortunate people tumbled in. They were unfortunate for they found no seats and were left standing. Their misfortune then fell on me, for they now guarded my view. He had vanished behind a mass of protruding bellies and gigantic handbags. I realized I had company beside me whom I had been ignoring since.

Both my friends were now deep in conversation. When I tried to jump in with my contribution, they broke apart and mischievously smiled at me. "wassup?"
I knew, that they knew exactly what was going on.

"you too?", I asked both of them, amazed.

"who? That Specky?"

"yes"

And we giggled our guts out. Each of us had separately ogled at him and each of us were aware not to let the others know of their fancy. It was only when I flaunted the confusion on my face they had learned, we were eggs of the same basket. After all, we had taken that wrong metro together and it had not dawned on us until we hit the terminus station.

photograph courtsey : Pietersen Rahul.