Of Animals and Aesop's

“As a rule, man is a fool

When it’s hot he wants it cool

When its cool he wants it hot

Always wanting what is not”

I remember this poem from a time frame so obscure, that it’s a miracle I remember it at all. The poem was from this thin little copy of Aesop’s fables I had. Yellow cover. Red lettering. Very poor quality paper. Bad printing. I learnt the poem thinking it meant something very important and adult like, not realizing how true it would turn out to be. [Adulthood fascinated us so much when we are kids, its such a let down I tell you. The only part I like about it is that you don’t get shooed into bed at an ungodly early hour.]  So, coming back to Aesop’s, I realized how my treacherous memory was failing me and I couldn’t remember even one story [or fable whatever]. So I picked up the book [this version was a hardbound, tastefully illustrated version, nice yellow paper, beautiful slanting font and delectable printing] and began a very loud rendition of … wait I think I should read it out to you people as well (since it seems like I have nothing else to write anyway :P). Here goes: 

The Wolf And The Sheep

 A Wolf, sorely wounded and bitten by dogs, lay sick and maimed in his lair. Being in want of food, he called to a Sheep, who was passing, and asked to fetch him some water from a stream flowing close beside him. ‘For,’ he said, ‘if you will bring me a drink, I will find means to provide myself with meat.’ ‘Yes,’ said the Sheep,’ if I should bring you the drought, you would doubtless make me provide the meat also.’

Hypocritical speeches are easily seen through.

That, I realized was some moral. And yes its been tried and tested by so many, that it's not a hypothesis by any stretch of imagination.  But then I also came across another one, which was sort of, let’s just say, a little drastic?

 The Ass And The Grasshopper

An Ass, having heard some Grasshoppers chirping, was highly enchanted; and, desiring to possess the same charms of melody, demanded what sort of food they lived on, to give them beautiful voices. They replied, ‘The dew.’ The Ass resolved that he would only live upon dew, and in a short time died of hunger.

PS: The concept of a story with a moral seems so proper and naive. 

PPS: Narrating stories with animals as characters lessens the blow. But that doesn’t make the moral any smaller or more frivolous.  

Question 19

Does jealousy stem out of insecurity?

Philosopher Phixation A

Indignation doesn't sit well upon the shoulders of those who don't do anything with it.

The Song That Was Never Sung

Ours is a different kind of love baby,
Everyone says that I know.
It teases and appeases and hell yeah it pleases.
Its the painful high, the exhilarating low.

Ours is a funny kind of jive baby,
We are always dancing out of step.
Any song that plays through my soul
Has a rhythm you can't interpret.

Ours is a silly conversation darlin',
You talk to me with baited breath
We listen to our fancy silences,
Words die their silent death.

Ours is the unfinished masterpiece my dear,
The one that could get smudged anytime
We are so drunk, we're almost sound sober now
A crazy cocktail? The shameless wine?

Leh Journal: The Pictograph

The view from the plane.

Snot and awe (Courtesy: Rinchen)

The Buddha at Likir.

Ladakhi shoes. Size teeny.

Moss

Apricot flowers blushing away.

Pangong Tso

Icicles at Igoo (photo by Dr. O)

A Bactrian camel at Chuchot (they are the double humped ones as opposed to the single humped Arabian camels).

The Maitreya Buddha

Guess who's back?

Travel, as usual, never fails to amuse, entertain, educate and fascinate. And when you have four whole days of unplanned rides from Leh to Delhi, things can become awfully exciting. And so we set off on the first leg of our adventure, R and I, two very tired souls, on the long and awe-inspiring journey from Leh to Srinagar. We were greeted by the imposing and sufficiently famous Lamayuru Monastery (have you noticed how people love flaunting how they have visited places of "high tourist value"? "I have been to the highest motorable road in the world." So what if the ice there it’s just dirty slush and you can catch more dainty ladies crying woefully to their gallant beaus there than in the whole of wherever). We passed Fotu la and Zoji La, the fascinating passes en route. We drove through walls of ice, skidding frequently, wide-eyed and held-breath. Ice looks eerie at night - solid blocks of cold, reflecting the dark of a moonless sky. Imaginations are not extremely pleasant things to have at such times and especially if it’s like mine - wild and out of control.

After a tumultuous night of bumpity-bump, we woke to the coniferous greenery of the Kashmir Valley. Remember how they told of paradise on earth and how you snorted (well I did)? They were true (the they I tell you, often get it quite right). The stone and wood houses with their sloping roofs and walnut groves. White waters gushing past blades of grass and sheeps' noses. The smooth rain-soaked roads and perfumed winds. Wild flowers nodding amicably at the groggy sun. And amidst that, me, squashed in a Tata Sumo, trying to guard my packet of chocolate cookies from crumbling into anonymity and rearranging my legs into another insane pose.

And then before we could breathe in the beauty of Sonamarg and feast on the pastoral landscapes that identify the valley, we rudely charged into the bustle of Srinagar. Indian cities, on a whole, are uncannily similar. They may have their own "look" and character but deep down, they thrive on the same values. Jugaad. Bullock carts jostled with taxis, a fruit seller washed his shop and threw the water on the road, unsettling some lethargic dust, garbage was placed at prime in-your-face locations, people walked around with familiar nonchalance, a dog lifted a leg and urinated on the tyre of a parked car, trees made themselves heard by whistling in the wind (yeah yeah they were the famed excessively beautiful and grand chinars, but they were trees)... so you know, the regular. A market in the morning is a fascinating place. A man was wiping his Quran, another was dusting a picture of Ganesha. The air was heavy with the aroma of spices. Cardamom, saffron, cinnamon, cloves. Walnuts poured out of gunny bags. Shopkeepers pushed vegetables onto wooden planks and washed them more vigourously than thoroughly. Watermelons were sliced and put on display at positions reserved for the enviable. Cows jostled with other road riff raff for morsels of yesterday's mangoes and discarded vegetables. The intense activity, all carried out in languid precision was a sight to watch. I could've been in Agra or Cochin and the essence of the scene would have been identical.

The Dal Lake, on first glance, disappointed. The houseboats were infinite in number, the shikaras too eager to help, the waters looked murky, the air smelt dank. And then we actually descended into a boat. It was like entering another world. The heart shaped paddle gently cutting into the water. It almost caressed the waters, willing them to part and give way. The waters lapped around the boat in fond familiarity. We steered through the first row of "important" houseboats. They were large and almost had a pompous air about them. Like people who know they are powerful and like to flaunt it. Then we reached the "backwaters". Here an amazing world, a planet in itself unfolded. I saw white-capped men pray. Women, blue eyed and fair skinned waved to us. A boat passed by, urging us to dress up in "true kashmiri outfit mam" and get a "Kodak" clicked. The houseboats here were smaller and humble here. Singhara and lotus leaves fought for air space. A boat full of flowers passed us by. And then we reached our houseboat. Ameen guided us through its beautiful interiors. He spoke at length (with inspiring passion) about his people, how it gladdened his heart to see Indian tourists come and bust their notions about an “unsafe” Kashmir, how Srinagar was indeed jannat. He spoke of his religion and how some fanatics had maligned it irreparably, “Islam talks of peace and humility. It tells me to look after my guests and place them before my family. It tells me to be humble and kind, certainly not kill and spread fear.”

R and I discovered the city like children in a candy shop. We ran around the expanses of Srinagar’s famous (and after a point monotonous) gardens. Shalimar Bagh and its colours. Nishat Bagh and its fountains. Pari Mahal built by the unfortunate Dara Shikoh. Chasmashaaheen named so because of the spring in the garden, the waters of which are considered to have medicinal properties. An impromptu thunderstorm moistened the hues of the setting sun. We indulged in a shikara ride lasting hours and which cannot be described by any other word but the rather ambiguous adjective – “romantic”. We slept that night in tune to the rhythm of the waters lapping at our boat and the gentle swaying of a dreamless sleep.

The rest of the journey back to Delhi was a muddle of assorted modes of transportation, erratic meals, a curfew in Punjab (because of goings on in Vienna if you please), smelling pee-perfumed air at the Jammu bus stand, delays and fatigue, pacifying a harried family, awe at activities inside and outside the sleeper bus and of course major sessions of slumber. The journey came to an abrupt end, earlier than expected and rather comfortable in its final leg. I am back in the heat of Delhi (I had forgotten how it makes your skin melt) and the madness of office. I am back with a new face (it's the unflattering and woe-of-my-life tan), a new mood (which I am unable to describe) and a new peace (no I am not splattering every sordid detail of every single thing in my life people). So yes, cutting the loooooooooooooong story short, I'm back. Yet again.

Leh Journal III - Of rods and unfinshed baths

He was lurking in the compounds, with, of all things, three emersion rods in his hands. What would a man be doing in someone else’s house flaunting devices to heat water in such a manner? We gave him a look and he just shuffled his feet somewhere else, looking around shiftily, like an amateur detective. He had grimy salt and pepper hair which was arranged in disarray on his thin long head. He wore something maroon I remember. Was it his sweater? Most likely. Can’t be his pants. Definitely. He didn’t have the look of a person who experimented with his clothes. So there he was, looking lost and trying to figure out whether this is where he wanted to be.

* * *

I hadn’t bathed in time frames that defy normalcy and so my haste to check whether there was hot water in the HUGE orange bucket (those tall HUGE fellows which don’t fit anywhere in the bathroom) was justified. I ran up the steps, turning back just once to look at the ridiculous guy with his ridiculous rods (no matter what they say, I think puns are always intended). I removed the emersion rod in the bucket and checked the temperature of the water. “The water is lukewarm, another 10 minutes and I’ll be having a luxurious bath.” My whole day had gone by in the hope of this one bath and thus, no matter what you believe, it was imperative for me to get this one thing done. As if I would accomplish all there was to accomplish, as if I would suddenly become the clean good person we are supposed to be. I smugly put the emersion rod back to heat the water. The bath day had come!

Suddenly, things begin to happen very fast. Bhaiya (the landowner, self-confessed worshipper of all things electric and usually sloth-like person) was seen running at speeds of light to the bathroom where I stood. Within seconds, the emersion rod was unceremoniously yanked off its socket and pushed into the bucket. Fast on his heels, the unknown pseudo Holmes came, sniffed at the air and looked around the bathroom in this irritating self-important manner that was at total loggerheads with his persona. He looked at the orange bucket suspiciously.

(Imagine the conversation in Ladakhi)

“What is in this?”

“Nothing, only water”, stammered Bhaiya (poor acting if you’d ask me).

“Then let’s see...”

And of course the offending emersion rod was discovered, wet and guilty. The triumphant look in unknown pseudo Holmes’ eyes was a sight to behold. The guy got kicks from confiscating peoples’ emersion rods! In this freaking cold, where geysers are banned because of the scarcity of electricity and these rods are our only path to hot water! The guy must be a sadist. When he was a kid he must have been the boy who tattled to the teacher about who stuck chewing gum to her chair. I could’ve struck him then and there and got back the rod (just as well I didn’t, he turned out to be an “Assistant Linesman” which makes him a government employee and striking such a man for something like an emersion rod would not seem too convincing in court I think).

After that, unknown pseudo Holmes searched the entire house. Downstairs, another emersion was discovered and captured in unfettered delight. We groaned and pleaded with him. I even ran after him shrieking, “I want to bathe. Pleeeeeeeeease give us back at least one rod.” To which he looked back at me in such disdain, it’s a marvel I didn’t wither. Before leaving he said, “Sharam aani chahiye aapko, ek ghar mein do do rod lagate ho. Pandrah laakh ka transformer phuk gaya kal. Huh.”

Right then and there I hated him SO much. Here was this goon, walking away with my only hope for a bath, and that too with such aplomb. Yes he was doing his job, but STILL. I heard Bhaiya mutter profanities under his breath. That made me smile. Then Bhabhi returned (she had gone shopping to get us some veggies...brinjal costs 160/- per kg here hoohaha!!!!! Lemons are an appalling 120/- per kg!!) and shrieked out profanities. That comforted me a great deal. I entered the kitchen, to rehash and laugh over the incident. In spite of the lost bathe, the absurdity of the entire event had me in splits. Bhaiya was sitting there, in the middle of an impressive assortment of wires, screws, heating elements, screwdrivers and what nots. He was, of course, making another emersion rod. “Koi nahin Chandni, kal subah tak garam paani mil jayega nahane ko.”

Leh Journal II - My Magpie

He looked at me with his black beady eyes
Those eyes lost somewhere in that black face of his
He had a piece of flesh in his mouth
Still dripping red
For the moment he seemed to see right through me
Through my farce
Through my fears
Right to my core
Where nestled my dearest woes
And then he flew away
Resplendent blue feathers
Metallic
So shiny
The white accented by that ebony face.

Have you ever seen a black headed (or is it called white-chested?) magpie? Its a beautifully coloured large bird found EVERYWHERE in Leh. Google it for some images. I find the bird obscenely beautiful. And the funny thing is its large head (it looks like Moose - the Archies comic male version of dumb blonde guy) which makes it seem like a bully, with its squating oh look at me gate.

Orange and Red

He emptied another packet of sugar into his coffee, knowing very well he wasn’t supposed to. What with his diabetes. And all the weight he was putting on. As he stirred his coffee he had a weird feeling that something was waiting to happen. He saw someone from the corner of his eye. She was standing on her toes to reach counter in a ridiculously bright coloured sari. It was orange, vibrantly sunny and she had coupled it with a red blouse (a red blouse? Whoever wore orange with red? She did. Apparently.) He turned to face her. Slowly. He felt himself move in slow motion. He felt this encounter was going to be momentous. It had that air about it. As he turned she happened to look up at him and the full impact of her hit him. Her kajal-lined eyes, her black hair left loose, her sari’s orange paloo falling off her shoulder in unhurried abandon. Her eyes registered surprise and something else (irritation? Anger? Resignation?) when she recognized him. She still looked beautiful, her eyes still smiled along with her mouth, she still seemed to look like she had somewhere to go, something important to do.

Now she was talking to him. “So how have you been? Oh isn’t it amazing to meet after all these years? (She said amazing. Not nice. Not great or splendid. But amazing. Like how one is amazed at seeing a satellite launching into space. Like how one can be amazed at the squalor people live in. Like how one can be amazed at beauty of a blooming flower.) You look so different!”

He tried to reply coherently. Her enthusiastic greeting had a hollow ring to it. Falsely cheerful. Her smile was shrouded (when had it not been?). “Aah yes it’s been long. I’m working, earning well. I am married and have a baby girl. She’s six.” He felt smug, almost proud telling her of his life. He was living the dream everyone wished for. A perfect job. The beautiful wife. A child – appropriately bright and sufficiently pretty. Then why was he feeling foolish, almost cheap telling her of his wonderful life? As if he was back in school trying to impress his teacher with a drawing he knew was mediocre. He saw her smiling at him. That pretty face exasperated him. He looked closely to find some flaw. He asked her a mundane question, buying time to observe her. “So how have you been?” He didn’t pay much attention to the words being said. He noticed how her hair seemed thinner, the curls fewer. The wrinkles around her eyes became her. She had a scar over her left eyebrow now. I looked like it would hurt if he touched it. There were more lines around her mouth, seemingly there because of her smiling. She wore no ring, there was no red powder on her forehead, her neck was, as always, unadorned. He drank in these details with satisfaction. She was still alone. It made him smirk and he felt slightly light-headed. He had managed companionship, a successful career and a ‘normal’ life. But then how did she manage to make him feel insufficient, make him feel that although he had it all, he didn’t know the secret, make him want to ask her how she seemed so content in spite of the glaring inadequacies of her life? It unsettled him. And the fact that it unsettled him fascinated him. She had always left him perplexed. He went back into time.

She was standing in the doorway, her hair tied back, it was much longer then. A dusting cloth draped her shoulder, her worn-out-spring-cleaning skirt kissed her ankles, one of which had a silver anklet with little colourful beads hanging from it. Blue. Red. Yellow. Green. Her hands were on her hips, she had a cheeky grin on her face. She was calling him, urging him to see what was coming on tv. He was reclining on the pillows, drinking her in. Satiated. Wondrous. Content. Even then her wholeness, her laughter had disturbed him. He remembered often feeling that she was crazy. Mentally unstable. But when you are young you believe strange things. Looking back now, maybe she thought he was crazy. “Perspective, you fool,” he chided himself. That was one of the lessons she had taught him. Then he had believed and that too strongly that they would last. In spite of all her excesses and his insufficiencies. His excesses and her insufficiencies? She made him feel so terribly complete. Snapping back to the present, he fumbled to catch the thread of her conversation. “So now I am living in a house near a zoo. A zoo. It sound ridiculous, but I guess someone has to stay near the zoo. Ha I knew it would make you laugh. It amuses me no end. I just have to hear the elephants trumpet in the evening and I remember the world is just as hilarious as I had imagined it to be.”

Suddenly he was tired of her. She made him feel terrible. The joy in his heart was shriveling. His life seemed a sham. It was OK for him he thought. “I am perfectly satisfied with being ‘conventional’. I like to value things that normal people cherish. So what if she is happy with her singledom, a trumpeting elephants and pathetic zoo-house, her ridiculously bright saris, her thinning hair and aging face, her wild notions and stupid books?” He was sounding mean, a word no one who knew him would use to describe him. That delighted him no end.

She touched his elbow. And asked in that sincere beautiful voice of hers, “Are you ok?”

“Yes. I am.” Yes I am? Blatant lies.

Suddenly he was seized by the urge to get away from her. Tear himself away before he was swallowed into her world again. It glittered and glistened – but for her alone. It was an unhappy world for an outsider. It was complete for her. A colourful world of his orange clad girl.

January 4, 2009

I asked him to write me a song

I promised that I’d sing along.

It’s another story that

Neither did he write me one

Nor did I find my voice when he was done.