Pyaari Maa....Mamma

Songs do strange things to you. For the past few days I am glued to ‘Titliyaan’, a song by Strings. Every time that song comes in my play list, I wait for the lines

‘Girti kirnein, tera aanchal, kaise bhoolein, kya kahein. Gaati koyel, mehka aangan, kaise bhoolein, kya kahein’.

A rare thing for me, but it strikes something deep inside, a cord which almost brings a tear to my eyes (for people who know me, no still couldn’t cry), reminding me of my mother. Being in a different city now, I don’t get to see her like the way I used to. Going back in time, it seems it was just yesterday when she used to run behind me in the house, every morning with that glass of milk to finish the last sip ‘verna gunaah milega’ or playing the mediator and saving me from ‘papa ke pitai’.

Funny part is she never trusted her son’s potential for anything (maybe she thought I am not good enough). There were days when I was waiting eagerly for something, impatient and nervous I used to be floating around, it was then that she came and said something like ‘Koi baat nahi agar nahi hoga to... iske ilawa aur kuch nahi hai kya’. At that time, it used to irritate the hell out of me – my very own mother not trusting my abilities to pass the ‘test’. But now when I sit back and think I realise all she was trying to say was... ‘Beta, there is always a next time’.

It’s strange what songs do to you, the song now goes...

‘Titliyan yaadon ke udti jaayein, rangon mein mujhse kuch keh jaayein’

I long to see her now, waiting for the day when I will be home, because no matter at what time my flight lands, no matter at what time I reach home, I know she will be ready with Mutton Biryani (my favourite) and sit next to me till the time I am filled till my throat.

There is something which I am not sure if I will be ever able to do or not. Tell her I really love her and she is one person on this planet for whom I can do anything.

Life was simple being a kid, you never had to say anything, you never felt like saying anything, it was just reaching for her and giving her a hug. Or just sleep next to her very well knowing that you wouldn’t need a pillow, her arm will always be behind your head.

No words needed.

It’s easy to write it down here, because I know she will never read it (She doesn’t know that I write a blog). Sometimes you want to say something and still remain unheard, this is one of those times.

Times, when you just want to have her sitting next to you and giving you a third serving of that Mutton Biryani even when you can’t take even a single grain anymore. Or hearing her voice on phone telling you how to wash your clothes.

I remember the late nights I had with my friends, she used to call asking if I am coming home for dinner, the answer invariably would be ‘Nahi Ammi, I will eat out’.

Now when I sit back with the song playing in my ears, I just wish the answer on those phone calls had been a little different and I have had a few more dinners, with She sitting by my side.

Intellectual Masturbation

‘Manual stimulation of your own genital organ for sexual pleasure’.

An act of pleasure, is what the dictionary means, but pleasure can differ from person to person. While somebody can enjoy playing with his/her genitals others have their own way and method of reaching an ‘Orgasm’.

Slowly and steadily, as I walk along the path called Life, I keep bumping into a very strange class of humans, and with each interaction (which sometimes is funny as they themselves) there is this venom building up inside me not being able to find a way out. With this post, I intend to vent it all out and settle the score once and for all.

The industry I work in, is an industry where you just keep bumping into this breed. These people talk nothing less than Marx, Foucault and Freud. And when they talk, they talk as if they were the ones who sat with these greats and told them what to write/say.

The kind of bull shit these creatures can do will make a strong healthy bull hide with embarrassment for his inability to produce the same amount of crap. The best part is that, they themselves are not bull shitters by birth but influenced by bigger bull shitters who think they have cracked ‘the puzzle’ . This is how the chain progresses, bull shitting passed from generation to generation.

No matter how screwed their life is but they will always have an opinion on everyone. Always an advice to tell you to make your life better or a ‘critical appreciation’ of the problems you have in your life or how incomplete you are as a person.

And in doing so, they contradict themselves without knowing that they are, maybe they realise this but then it’s all right for them since they are ‘The all knowing, ever prevailing’ .

As far as my limited knowledge goes I think Marx once said, ‘Those who cannot represent themselves, need to be represented’. But who decides that a certain flock need to be represented or who decides that who will become the shepherd of any flock?

That’s a stupid question to ask, at this juncture. Can anyone do (read faf) it in a better way than our friends, absolutely not!

You go to one of their ‘Get – Togethers’ and you will realise what I mean (the writer says this from personal experience). The first time I was a little nervous, the aura was getting to me but then I tried to be a little optimistic. At least I will learn something in the company of these great men/women, I told myself and went ahead.

The ‘Get – Together ’, as you would have guessed by now turned out to be one session of ‘bakchodi’(at least for me), now to be honest we all do ‘bakchodi’ but then we agree to the fact that at the end of the day it’s nothing but mere ‘bakchodi’.

But here I was, sitting with a person who was discussing religion and telling me how one should follow it with discipline and fervour. Quoting from texts never heard of (I didn’t know that books with that name existed). That’s another thing that the gentleman could booze, lie, back bite, have casual sex and still, tell me to be a better Muslim than him. I guess he was above all of us to actually follow whatever he was saying.

Or the lady sitting in the far corner, for her life/friendship was about the goodness, gentleness and a lot more *esses which I don’t seem to remember. But it seems that somebody forgot to tell her not keeping your promise or lying or scheming isn’t a good feat either (maybe she still hasn’t read that book which says this).

There are many such examples, many more people who just remind me of the term I just coined. The way they talk, the way they try to sound compassionate, the way they make you feel what they feel etc etc. All of this, if it looks anything is nothing more than a big facade.

Finally, my final message to all intellectual masturbators, you guys suck and you suck big time. Why do you do it? I understand if it helps you in any way – sexual or asexual, but then you make it clear that you need to do it, without which you are incomplete.

Maybe you can device a sign or something which you can give before you start doing it and we will know that you are just trying to help yourself.

I am sure it wouldn’t take a lot. Would it...

I fear.

Before I start, just a word for a dear friend who thinks that I mistake Morbid to being intellectual. Don’t know what you will think with this, it’s not an attempt to be intellectually Morbid or Morbidly Intellectual, just an elaborate elaboration of an elaborate fear – My Fear.

Moving on, I feel all of us fear something which is subjective to his/her likes and dislikes. The Romans gave these fears some fancy names which to me are nothing more than some fancy names. Doesn’t matter who you are, we all have that one fear which can send a shiver down our spine. No matter how funny it may sound to others, but for you it’s that one thing which is worse than death.

Me being no exception, I fear my death. It doesn’t go well with the ‘worse than death’ phrase but that’s the way it is.

The faintest memories of my childhood are the ones in which I am crying on my bed, thinking that a day will come when I will no longer be a part of the wheel, no longer a part of the planet and the way it’s being run.

Silently hugging my pillow close to my chest, thinking of the different things that can happen to me (an accident, brutally murdered, old age, a body deforming sickness, or just silently closing my eyes to the eternal darkness and later buried in a place which scares me to death any way), I used to cry like an inconsolable child.

The fear never went, it just graduated to a level where with each passing year I ended up thinking ‘another one goes, how many more left?’

Now, when I Google it, to add more ‘attractive’ word(s) to this post, I find that I actually suffer (if it’s the right word to be used at this point) from ‘Thantophobia’, the technical term for ‘Fear of Death’. The way they have explained it on the website, it certainly is very extreme but then that’s the way articles are suppose to be exaggerating everything.

Today, even though I don’t hug my pillow or cry thinking about my eventual demise, there are nights when I am all alone sitting, talking to myself and wondering about that moment which will separate me from the Living and the Non Living.

That split second which will make all the difference.

Scratching the Surface...against the Wall

As I start the research for my next documentary, I feel something I had never experienced before. It comes as a shock, ‘the city’ was supposed to be more progressive / homogeneous / accommodating than any other in the country. But, just a little scratch on the surface and the worms start to come out – Ugly, venomous and scathing. The number so huge that I wonder why is it called the ‘Maximum City’.

Is it just a figment of my imagination or a strange co-incidence or something that happens on a daily basis, just that I never noticed it? But whatever it is, suddenly it has helped me remove all my doubts, if I had any for my Documentary (in fact made me believe more strongly in it).

So, being a Muslim or following a certain faith is indeed a reason good enough for suspicion, a reason good enough for hatred, a reason good enough to make one feel like a Rodent.

Friends often ask me to forget the whole ‘God Damn episode(s)’, ‘These people are arse holes, who are nothing but spineless jerks’, they say. But how do I forget them? I guess it would have been easy had the Episodes been in the singular form but what do I do when they just keep on multiplying.

It was only yesterday, when I was coming from a friend’s place in an auto rickshaw, as usual a conversation ensued with the driver. A graduate in Political Science (he claimed) from Benaras, he tried to explain the politics of the state.

The junior Thackeray according to the gentleman is taking the state in the drains, unlike the senior version who at least was doing something worthwhile – ‘building a Nation’. The junior one on the other hand has gone crazy and his hell bent on dividing the country just for his personal interest and greed for power.

And then it struck me, in the rickshaw, at the dead of the night, it wasn’t rocket science but still something which disturbed.

The idea was scary, scarier was the fact that the idea was everywhere. The worms were not only confined to the corporate lobbies but to the narrow roads of the suburb.

I am no moral guardian/watchdog/ preacher of the society (I don’t intend to be one). But for an average guy like me it’s a little unnerving.

I start to ask myself questions, questions which are not easy to answer, questions which are way beyond me and my intelligence. Questions which I feel can be avoided.

Rather should be avoided.

Fried by a Haryanvi, Roasted by Two Gujaratis

Statutory warning: This post is not for the politically correct. It is a direct attack on all the Haryanvi policemen who are fascinated by “Media” (especially TV journalists, who can get anyone in a uniform on Television) and also on all the hard working Gujarati Businessmen who work their asses off and can still talk about their work (read money), work (read money) and a little more work (read more money).

So, please who feel for their cause, this is where it ends for them. For the rest of the clan who think that I am a readable writer, read on to change that thought.

Enough of rambling to make this post sound more interesting than it actually is...

Let’s start it now…

I was thanking my stars that the ticket taken at the last moment had managed to get a RAC status (oblivious of what awaited me)

After a few hiccups (courtesy another Gujarati businessman, not our hero(s) who just wouldn’t believe that a thing like RAC does exist in the Indian Railways), I finally got my ‘half - seat’.

Waiting for my fellow passenger, imagining what if the co – passenger was god’s only mistake (attack on the feminists of the world, also hadn’t met the second and the third till now) and wondering how good/bad it can be to share the bed, when I heard that voice...

‘Ikram, Ikram…!’ I was out of my reverie to the harsh reality called life. A man in grey shirt looked at me proving that dreams don’t often come true.

I didn’t know that warm smiles could be so lethal till I met this Jat. That’s how the conversation started, ‘Partner, tujhko to mujhse sare raste baat karni hogi…tu mera partner hai iss train mein’.

That’s how we met, soon a conversation rather an interview started, just that this time I had exchanged roles and was now the interviewee.

“Kya karta hai?”

“Kitna kamata hai?”

“Andar ke kamai bhi hoti hogi, kyon??!!”

Accha tu to Media se hai tab to tujhe sab pata hoga, yeh bata yahan road aisi kyon hai?

Is train mein kitne bogeys hain??? (Wouldn’t have been surprised, if he expected me to know about his sex life)

My only escape was my book, and soon I looked for Mr. Pamuk to help me out.

The moment I opened it, Mr. Haryanvi’s came close to me, and with a menacing smile said, “Isko to band karde Ikram, mere saath to yeh pad nahi paayega!”

I was speechless, never in my lifetime had anybody said something like this. Suddenly it seemed that this person had known me for ages and I was somebody he can just bully around.

Me being me, politely asked him to shut up, which obviously fell on deaf ears. Soon, there was a volley of questions and I had no option but surrender to the Mister’s demands.

The rest as they all say is some vague memory, dinner was served under his supervision. Soon, it was time to sleep (or I made it a point that I call it a day even if it was just eight in the evening), and for the first time I saw that face – not that wicked smile but creased and defeated, for once.

Time to introduce the other characters but before I do that let me take a break (to spit some more venom) and reaffirm the fact that the men in uniform especially from Haryana and in Delhi Police are an impossible breed. It seems that they don’t have an important organ called ‘Ears’, it’s absolutely missing or they just don’t realise/care what the other person is saying.

Back to the incident, there is a smile finally a sort of satisfaction on my face right now after my share of mudslinging. Polar bear was right, I guess I am a sadist.

Two Gujarati gentlemen (the third mistake) speaking Gujarati walked into our bogey, (Dunno if they walked, crawled, flew their way into the bogey…it’s just an assumption based on some very basic facts)

This species, I guess also has the same ‘Ears’ problem. Suddenly I woke up and thought that I had slept in an office board room meeting or probably the Stock Market in Bombay.

‘Behanchod, yahan log so rahein hai’, I muttered but apologised the moment I opened my eyes to see two young men who it seemed were responsible for half of the Dhokla and Khakra consumption in Gujarat.

They stared at me and I quickly turned my back to avoid an avoidable argument (for my own benefit).

My bad luck that they slept on the opposite berth and just wouldn’t talking (read shouting) about some random stock which had fallen like the British Empire or the profits and the nitty gritties of a good business like pickle and papad.

Dunno when sleep got to me, but early next morning felt something pulling my blanket from my face. A couple of times I tried to pull it back but then it seemed somebody was hell bent on pulling it down. Finally, I stuck my head out to find Mr.Jat/Haryanvi’s toothy smile, ‘Ikram uth ja….tera partner bore ho raha hai…uth ja ab bhaut so liya…yeh sahi nahi hai….’ he literally tried to pull me out….that’s when I shouted….and I did shout….as everyone just stood astonished at the rare flash of bravery.

He quietly went back to his corner, the Gujaratis, I guess realised that I was neither interested in buying papads nor pickles so stopped talking about it.

As for me, I finally had a say in the whole journey.

Finally!!

Carcass of a Soul

Battered, beaten and bruised.
Beneath a baggage of a thick skin,
under the closet of rotten flesh
lies the carcass of a lost soul in this lost city.

From the jostling crowd, trying to find a footing in the local train,
to the slippery floors of the busy corridors of the corporate park.
Seems like a race,
a race among the carcasses to reach the top.
A race to be lonely or a race which leaves you lonely.

The city never sleeps, neither does it let the carcasses sleep.
For, its hard to sleep with your eyes open
Hard to dream with unfulfilled dreams in your eyes.
The clock ticks, the time bomb about to explode.
The race still on,
The winner still a mystery.

Carcasses all around, not a soul.
All carcasses of a lost soul,
A thinking machine of flesh and bone,
Just like the ‘think - pad’ you see in the ads.

Lost and delirious I stand,
Just like the carcasses, I see - Without the soul.
On ‘them’, I comment
‘Them’, I criticise,
‘Them’, confuses me.
But sooner than later I realise,
I am also running the race,
with no purpose or aim.
for me also, its hard to sleep,
as the eyes just don’t close.
I am also one of them.

I am a carcass without a Soul.

Faisal Ahmed Ikram

Early days in The Melting Pot

This is what somebody told me is how Mumbai is referred to…its been only a couple of months that I have spent in the city but it is slowly seeping in, getting in the veins to a point where its hard to live without it.

It has a strange rush, everyone seems to be running but don’t know what they are running for (something which I feel). Every morning you wake up, with an ‘agenda’ you sleep wondering whether the ‘agenda’ was fulfilled or not.

I miss Delhi, having spent all my life there. It’s a strange feeling coming to a new city with new dynamics, new people, a new job, a new industry. The first few days were a cultural shock – the food, the roads, the atmosphere, the loneliness. I used to cry in my heart, reconsider my decision, but something held me.

Guess it was the spirit of Mumbai – the melting pot.

A strange city, you hate it, you abuse it, you crib, but you just can’t let it go. The city seems to be addictive, just like the smoke in my hand right now.

You just can’t let it go.

For a ‘Dilli ka Ladka’ it was hard to start your day with Vada Pao but then some do adjust to it (I wonder when that day will come in my life).

Mumbai/Bombay till now has treated me well (and Insha Allah it will continue to do) but there is just one thing it doesn’t give you, the time to be with yourself, the time to be you and sometimes to miss that ‘you’.