Lost Talisman of my Wallet

It came as no surprise to many but a dire shock to me when during my decent from a U.P. transport bus., my till then faithful wallet was besotted by a prestidigitator (a mere pickpocket cannot pick me) and took my leave. My numb ass, revengeful and treacherous having been burned, boiled, bruised and numbed under the combined action of north Indian heat and heat conducting seating raised no alarm during the act reporting the crime only upon being interrogated by my hand. Before this commission had completed its inquiry the result was out, as always. The Indian system literally seeps into you.

With nothing but action to my aid I followed that crummy old, variegated rusting bus whose number had been washed as a testament to the monsoons it had endured. Ironically for a bus of above description, tilted to the side of the passenger’s door, under the effect fatigue, cruelly metallurgical, it ran fast. For a vehicle that took half an hour to cross five sectors of noida, cleared the next five in ten minutes, as if my wallet was a baton for their relay. Conveniently no passenger had to alight in the next few stops. I am sure the driver and the conductor were a part of the racket but to think of all those people…

I never gave up pursuit though my oversized (given the contents) bag stymied my chase which ended in catching the bus in an auto rickshaw. It gained nothing for in the land of cycles and elephants, buses cannot be expected to be honest. In summation: I lost my wallet during a bus ride. It was gone. Poof!

Now coming to the curing mode the first question my uncle asked me was: What was in that wallet? The first thing I thought of was: screw! No, I am not using such language because of my frustration but then things must be told in the correct manner. Here in I introduce the most important things that I lost: my talismans.

But let me end before I begin. I lost money, that what wallets are for and though the significance of the amount will vary from one reader to another for me it was paramount because it mirrored a defeat. Hard earned by my father it made me in my eyes a pain in my parent’s neck. So that’s it. Answer to what was in that wallet but that is for sure not the way I answered it. But let me list them first before I tell about the lost talismans’. So spoils of this war were: driver’s license, money, two ATM cards! But some of them are also talismans so I will repeat them in the order I thought of them in my retreat march across the sectors of the city. First I thought of that screw, long forgotten, with magical prowess beyond reasoning, never fully demonstrated or understood. But this is one I will cover later if at all because it is most difficult to explain even for me.

So beginning the journey in my mind through the recesses of my wallet; my old, rusty brown coloured, tattering, torn at places, slightly bend to the shape of my ass, never having place for change, and now lost wallet. Now that I write I find it closely resembles the bus.

Just below my misused, without gear, Lucknow issued driver’s license, used in Raipur with five geared racing bikes, were two coins. Never used, safely kept, one smaller, plumper, golden wealthy in terms of value, other octagonal, large, and lacking luster. Perfect reflection of our society.

The wealthy coin of rupee 5 had a logo of the commonwealth games held in Delhi. The place and time of their receiving is also important. I got it in the host city, on the opening night of the games, in October. Why would I preserve a coin bearing the logo of one of the biggest dishonest and corruption ridden undertakings? How did become a talisman?

All because the logo was at back and things are opposite there. For me it represented the time when for the very first time in my life I got completely honest with myself. Alpha and Omega. Beginning and endings. End of trying to fool myself into perceptions and notions I found novel and seeing things as they were, and surprisingly finding them more beautiful. Alpha and beginnings, omega with endings.

The second coin, priced as two by the RBI, had the bust of Sardar Vallabh Bhai Patel and somehow the coin stuck with me. I just never spent it. It gave me a strange sense of responsibility.

A deeper search led me to the transparent compartment, unused and unopened. It had the receipts of all the speed posts I ever sent. No I would be lying here. It had receipts all right but not of all the posts, but those whose contents never received a favourable reply. Of application forms, scholarship and research requests for baccalaureates and many more. It would be hard to explain why I kept them. They were tokens of failures. Frivolous.  Maybe a caveat to my baccalaureate ambitions. Interestingly, or maybe strangely the ones that received a triumphant replies were shredded by my bare hands and found themselves in the heap of the weekly room cleaning campaign.

That old, loyally faithless wallet also had a diary. A small phone and address book which stored much more. A companion of the times I did not have a mobile and read the numbers off it as I dialed them in dangerously claustrophobic phone booths. Neither the diary nor the numbers it stored so carefully were exactly in use but it was the talisman of memory and nostalgia. It came to my aid one rainy day as I stood with punctured cycle and a soaking, tattering ten rupee note. The faded ink and the translucent paper spots mark the point where rain hit them as I dialed from a booth.

Then was the talisman of communication. Sim cards. Keeping me connected. Some would objectively disagree with the ‘talismanisation’ of a mere sim card, given their ease of acquirement and abundance, but for me it was freedom and bondage. Letting the kite fly a little higher. Talisman of moonlit nights and dark shady days. Of being able to letting someone know you are not well or helping them when they were not. Of unseen tears and vicariously true smiles. Talisman of aphroditic voices and shrill songs. Refusal of HR’s in conversation and waiting calls of final selections. Of anticipation and fun.

And then there was a screw, the most powerful of all, a real talisman that could work with time. No this terminology will not do in present context. It would mean the opposite. It could not work with time. It manipulated time. Yes, and in sooth its powers were never realized. Nor can they be. It lies with the wallet. Unknown, unvalued, uncared for. Maybe it will self destruct. It cannot be used just anyhow.

Who knew some scraps of paper and coins could hold such power. I did not. The funny thing about talisman is that you can know what a talisman is only when you have lost it. Tragic, but true. Omens and talisman have a deal. One confuses and prepares, working on or mind and another works silently, steadily, loyally for you. One is present in the open, discussed, debated, other in the dark, like a secret, a secret even the secret keeper is unaware of. Omens and talisman. Alpha and Omega. But from the opposite. Things are always different in the opposite.

My still loyal mobile (a device/talisman?) had a new message. My offer letter had arrived, and if rumors were to be believed a new bag and wallet from the company is a welcome gift along with it. Or maybe we will get it during joining. A new wallet. Omens change with times, and maybe so should talisman’s.

A new beginning, new talismans.

Alpha and omega. Omens and talismans.

NO Questions

There is something strange about me, or maybe with this world, or most probably with this life. And by that I mean everyone’s life, because they are all intertwined. We are all in the same boat, rowing the same ocean. Back to my weirdness: adding a new chapter. I hate this world; some could say I am an alien but whatever. The catch is that I hate it when I am happiest and with my loved ones. And why is that? Because this world is not meant for happiness. It cannot sustain that. And it eventually regains its equilibrium by spreading sorrow. Most likely on you, of some pain you buried long ago.

I hate life. Because it is unreasonable, unjustified and it never answers its whys. We all think there is a grand plan and maybe there is but why should I be a pawn in my own game? I hated this world, there was a reason, a why and I answered that. But in life, things happen, things that were never supposed to happen, things which benefit no one and they offer no why. Life is here to kill you. Maybe I am being unreasonable, but that is what life has taught me. This is not pessimism, neither a promise of hope and motivation. This blog is what it is supposed to be: unreasonable and irrational.

Between the sentences of banal talks lies the silence of our emotions. In those true expressions lies the pain of the heart. Ask me when it stops hurting and my answer, which may seem as a bullshit advice, says: if we are lucky then the pain never goes away. Losing the love of our life is the single biggest pain the heart may ever have to endure, and it does suffer. We think time heals and the pain goes away, or maybe we become immune to it, things feel brighter and better. But the pain persists, just below the smiles, a surface, and emotion. Just another day when we stare ourselves in the mirror we see that loss, the hole in our heart, visible in our eyes.

The fire which emanated in us out of love begins to burn the heart. Saturnine in conception who eats his sons and here the heart which gives birth to fire is burned by it. And all this, while the tears in a valiant but tragic attempt try to put it out. Wrong place, wrong time. Who thought even god’s would make this mistake in his most valued creation.

It’s quiet. We like quiet. It allows this unsaid to be put out in the open before the words flow. Lesson: there are no questions in life, no whys. There are answers, which make no sense. Quiet allows emotions to flow. Yes, we can never forget our first love, if ever we can actually love more than once. We can neither forget our true love. Both happen only once. They are special, inimitable, definitive and unreasonable. And with the same unreasonableness with which they happened, it so happens that you have to forget them. The only rational clause: if we have no control over how they happened, so we have no control if they are realized. And what if our first love is the true love? Or what if there is just one love, the first one?

NO questions.

Anything that doesn't kill us makes us stronger, and anything that makes us suffer makes us courageous. The fire is within us. And just like the pain it never extinguishes. It burns, sometimes silently and sometimes with force that can conflagrate the world and beyond. Love binds this world and also tears it apart. Irrationality and insanity rule the world. Why do things happen which benefit no one? Why is a person not allowed to have the love of his life? Why does not the person understand that no one in the world can love them more? If and when they do why is it that they refuse to accept it?

NO questions.

We walk this world alone. Stop looking for true love. It won’t happen again. You have loved with all your heart. You have hated the one to stop the pain. It’s is momentary pleasure, which will redouble and hurt you back. You can’t hate. You have loved and that is the truest feeling in this real-false world. You have carried that feeling allowed your heart and mind to be consumed by it. The fire has burned you and purged you. And now you stand as a man, who has loved-suffered-hated and loved. You stand as a testament to the courage that emanates from within.

True love never happens twice, not to you, not to anyone, but then you maybe someone else’s destiny, someone else’s love. In the boat you are supposed to row in the ocean with holding someone else’s hand. It is not what you heart wanted, but maybe it is the balm that you had been looking for since long. But again why couldn’t you be the love of the one you love. It happens, it has happened to others. But not to you. Why is it so? Is it unfair? Hold the hand a little more tenderly my friend, and now let that fire light you instead of burning you. Life is unfair, but maybe you can justify it for someone else. It is irrational, be a part of the randomness.  Maybe the hold of your heart was meant to be filled in a way you never thought it would be.

Keep rowing the boat in the direction of your dreams and let the fire light your way. It’s a large ocean, much larger than the hole in your heart. The yearning of the ocean is deeper than the irrationality of the world. Even the ocean is agitated over its lost love yet yearns since so long. And maybe at the bottom it all makes sense.

But why all this?

NO Questions.

KARNA: The beginning

Our epic hero, Karna, is born to Kunti, who in a moment of youthful curiosity invokes the Sun God, Surya, to test a spell bestowed upon her by a rishi. Under the effect of the spell the Sun god bestows a son, Karna,in the regalia befitting a true warrior, with a golden armour and golden earrings. They itself signify the infinite capability of the boy, an infant, who would change the course of time in ways so profound.

But from the moment of his conception he is shunned. He is unacceptable to his mother who fears defamation for bearing son while still unmarried. In a manner most disrespectful to a hero he is cast away in a casket to reach the house of a charioteer. His fatherhood is again intensely debated: should it be the Sun God, Surya, or the man his biological mother marries: Pandu, making him the foremost Pandava, or the husband of the woman, Radha, a charioteer in the Kuru dynasty, who bring him up as their own son. The irony continues to amaze us. Karna’s ancestry and fatherhood makes him either the ruler of the Kingdom, or its mere vassal, upon the generosity of Duryodhana.

Another stark comparison between Karna and Krsna’s childhood cannot escape this narrative. Both born of royal parentage are brought up in primitive households. Krsna brought up in the house of Nanda and Yashodha. Krsna accepts this position playfully and enjoys every moment of his childhood, playing with friends, tending to cows, with soft music of the flute. Karna on the other hand is forever seen distraught with this position. He knows he is born to be a warrior, why else would he have a golden armour and earrings. He never really comes to terms with his place as a charioteer ‘son. . We see that while Krsna, who is variously referred to as a cowherd is foremost respected by most kings, including Yudhistira, never takes ‘cowherd’ as being an offence.  Krsna accepts this fully and takes pride in being called a cowherd or nandlala. He accepts himself with delight and that may be the reason why he is accepted as a Kshatriya, a king more easily than Karna who refuses to accept himself, his past.

Much like a tragic hero of some odyssey, or like most men in the modern sense, Karna is presented with problems right from the moment of his birth, most of which he is helpless to do anything about. Yet he has to rise above them, for therein lies the glory. He cannot change his father’s position but he can very well rise up and does so to become the king of Anga, though again it is not his merit or his prowess as a warrior that lands him the kingship, at least not directly. It is rather the jealousy of one man Duryodhana upon the pandavas and the prospect he sees in Karna as the one man who can defeat Arjuna. He is made king of Anga by Duryodhana who wanted to see Arjuna loose more than Karna win.

All through his life he is pitted against problems he did not create, shunned for deeds he was not responsible for, his merits, skill, prowess and virtues all erased in the questions of blood and birth, and problems he can do nothing about. In modern terms that would be every man. But he rises no doubt, but not as great as Krsna, and that is because he refused to accept and respect himself for who he was and tries to become what the world respected.

Mahabharata: Characters

While reading the story of Mahabharata, we come across characters which teach us everything we can will ever need to know in our life. Just a surface deep, lie every emotion that crossed our heart, every thought that flew in our mind. The epic presents a variety of situations, each representing in its own way the subtleties of life. And then there are characters. Some are the incarnations of what one should not be and their deeds directives of what should not be done: exampled by Duryodhana, the foremost of the Kauravas, the villain in the epic in layman terms.

We have Krsna, the supreme personality, the perfect, revered, admired, a teacher, a warrior, with a shrewd mind and an innocent smile. He is mysterious, not all he does is understood, and that is what makes him more than a mortal. But we assume he is right. And he is always on the winning side, even when he uses no arms and fights against his own armies. He is God, his speech, Gita, is venerated, to be followed.

Devaratta, or Bhishma is another Goddess son, a figure so complete in himself. A warrior without equal, a son who embraces celibacy for delights of his father, a caretaker of the Bharata clan who watches the clan perish in the gory of the battle, bonded by his vows. He is not clever like Krsna who plays with words and smiles. He presents a curious and exciting dilemma much like the ones in our lives, times where we know what is correct and to be done but watch things unraveling in the wrong way helplessly.

Then we have the Pandavas, the God-sons, whose fatherhood is always intensely debated and always concluded in the perspective of them being correct, the rightful heirs to the throne. Our society will have a very difficult task if we for a moment conclude that they not being Pandu-putra, not at least biologically did not have any claim to the throne in the first place. The five Pandavs in their own right present the five important qualities in a man. They are all imperfect in their own self, but together they are the perfect male. The youngest of pandavs, Nakul and Sahadeva, who represent beauty and handsomeness loose prominence in the narration, signifying the slight and feeble position these qualities hold for a man. The Pandavs, Yudhistira, Bhimasena, Arjuna and the virtues integrity, power and courage are greatly esteemed. The Mahabharata has made a very clear distinction between being powerful and courageous, being brave and fearless.

Yudhistira, the upholder of righteousness, presents before us a perfect king, a perfect moral person, he is not exciting, just like the integrity of the rules he represents, he in modern terms would be a person we would call a bore and refrain from calling to adventure rides. He is also the person who losses his kingdom and his ‘wife’ in a game of dice, and lies, if not technically to win a war. Then we have Bhima, hopping across the line between good and evil. He is strong, powerful but he is also haughty and arrogant.

Arjuna is the most upheld of all Pandavas. Krsna was after all his charioteer, and revealed the Gita to him. He is courageous and compassionate; he wants to find morality ‘Dharma’ in his actions. He is powerful but not arrogant. He is the perfect disciple and an almost perfect warrior. He is the again a character one can find most close to oneself in the scheme of life, but he had Krsna in a way no one else had.

The various characters of Mahabharata, their virtues, their problems and dilemmas present before us situations we can relate to. But then stands Karna, the most interesting and exciting character of the epic. Karna: the right man on the wrong side. Our heart goes out to him, but he is not a character for pity. He is in the real sense a hero but is not allowed to be one, wronged by all, his mother, brother, teacher even God, yet stands up for himself. Unlike the other characters of the epic, we not only learn from his vitures, actions but he in one character we can relate to most easily.

Therefore in my next few blogs I am going to share of how Karna, a central character of the epic is actually the true representation of humans in the age of darkness or the Kali-Yuga. The right man on the wrong side: Karna.

Quitting Greatness…

Befitting a Shakespearean drama, he called quits on the date he made his debut in test cricket years earlier. But he was not vacating a place for a youngster, retiring from a profession or bidding farewell to his passion. He was quitting greatness, achieved on combining ‘vocation with avocation’, and all that Dravid brought to the game.

“Talent without hard work does not carry you far. I combined both”.

Cricket is not my religion. There is not even a T-20 match that I have watched ball to ball, neither do I claim to be Dravid fan as countless others. But this testimony to the great man comes from the adjectives that have and will forever be associated with him; ones which I wish to imbibe in my life as well. It’s not just about his technique of the cricket he played, but how he played it. He was not just a wall. He was an architect, one that meticulously planned a strong foundation, and then had his glory snatched away from the interior decorators. Maybe 'the wall' befits him as a epithet in more ways than one but never completely.

Probably the last gentleman in the Gentleman’s Game, his career blossomed with two of the finest and the most popular batsmen of this age, in a country where ‘messihanism’ trumps true talent. His exit befitting his character came not after a triumphant win, possibly at home, with a standing ovation from the stadia of people. Rather the media, as all along his 16 year long career, took his retirement as precursor to Sachin’s, pushing the gentleman the background, the wall if you will. His records have that vitriolic predecessor attached to them injustifying his batting talent. That being ‘second’ or the ‘third’. The ‘second’ highest run getter, century maker and so on.

I hereby discuss the traits of this man which are not just for cricket, but life.

First, he got nothing without labour. Sweat, strive, struggle, practice, reform, accomplish were inseparable part of his cricketing chores, ones that our lives are made. An incorrigible spirit which refused to say die, making improvements in perfection, even if it was in the method he left a ball.

If a man’s first judge is his clothes his spotless whites, in the true spirit of the game, never revealed the dusty work he put in the field. His traditional, cherished, crumpled cap represented a man who respects his game as himself. He played his game with dignity, a word heading in oblivion. He brought a distinct splendor to his style through relentless pursuit of excellence. All his expressions played in symphony at when it was time to display them: at the crease, his place of work, not in press conferences.

Learning from his cricket, for life, was his towing to the adage of ‘A successful man makes more opportunities than are presented to him’. Like a true motivational figure, a fact hereitho forgotten in his tabulations of records, is a fact that makes him bigger than any record holder, better than any player of the game, any God, would be his rising to the occasion, taking risks, proving a point, and being the perfectionist. Yes, he did create opportunities, took to wearing shoes that seemed too big for him and walked away with the ease and class of a ramp walker.

I am referring to the infinite occasions when he played out of his zone of comfort and create a special space in territories unexplored. A wicket-keeper, captain, no. 3, no. 6, opener, anything. No other player was used as him, and he with a classy disregard performed selflessly in a selfish game in its most selfish era.
All through the 2003 world cup he was behind the stumps on the call of his captain, even when he holds the record for the highest catches. And it was this sacrifice on his part that the Indian team with 7 batsmen sailed to the finals. In the final, when all gave in even before facing a ball, he with Sehwag raised the hope by bringing the run rate close to the asking. 

In test a no.3 player, he walked out to open the innings against Pakistan, against a daunting total, and converted that to record opening partnership.

He took over the captaincy of the side at the most difficult and controversial of occasions, and while the whole team lashed out against the Down Under Coach of Change, he in a dignified state kept his cool.

And when they found someone better to lead the side, he quietly bowed out, not just on the national side, but even in the League games.

That my friend is the true character of greatness. Not only to rise to the occasion and deliver but bow out when you there is someone better. Most of us, filled with envy wouldn’t accept that, but then we are a long way from the first stepping stone of goodness. Greatness and true talent is what can accept it. His daunting character helped him score runs when others failed, that is in the most challenging situations. And therein I find another lesson for life.

Learning from the style of the batsman in our everyday life is something not many sportsman can boast of.  That when his life has not been eulogized like many others.

Records do not speak truly of a person, and the wide gap between them is evident from our experience of the university marksheets and the person himself. But not caring for them but for our dignified work in our realm, persistently pursual of our passion, filled with a deep desire to outplay ourselves, the infinite capacity to learn, confidence to rise to an occasion, otherwise unknown, untried and excel, the daunting spirit to succeed when all about you are failing, never say die and never leave your true character maybe that is what greatness is all about.

The game, the man goes on to teach you all about life, and how to live it: a warrior, a gentleman, a perfectionist even in this age.

Ps: And to look for the perfect example of bouncing back from defeat would be the Eden Garden test match against Australia where we won after the follow on. NO record will ever justify that. That test match may just be the perfect dramatization of life.