Back to the Hills

It’s been a while since I felt like writing. Now that school’s out and I am sitting on a job offer and the only thing on my mind is to unpack Punjab and pack Bangalore in my overstuffed suitcases and cartons (how I hate all the packing and unpacking), I have taken a sojourn to the hills. While I attempt to find peace in the two cottages with the spectacular view in the depths of Hemingway, I can’t seem to be able to spend more than ten minutes at a stretch reading For Whom the Bell Tolls. Mum and I took an early morning walk, taking in the unusual freshness in the air with a tea spoon of chill that is omnipresent here. There were tiny little pink birds fluttering around, hopping on the mountainous slopes chi-chiing away without a care in the world. For a place that is supposed to be fighting incessant forest fires (as per our very dependable media), there seems to be nothing that could possibly disturb the peace of these little ones.  I get reminded of the sparrows back home that have gone missing over the past ten years. Clichéd, but sometimes, I yearn for those simple times when Nim and I would spend an afternoon giggling in bed, with mum fast asleep in the next room, listening to them sparrows outside with a bit of the sun trying to force its way in through the not-so-thick curtains hanging on our window. Back then, family vacations to the hills were frequent and in hotels, with daily walks to nearby spots, when I would try to outpace dad while pretending I wasn’t tired at all and could keep up with his stride forever. Today, as dad and I sit nursing aching joints, that pair feels like it existed in another time, on another planet. As always, Nim’s presence is being dearly missed.

While I sit on a couch contemplating what to write, I hear mum and dad fighting over who needs to bathe first. Neither budged.

It is now time to return to the present. I should probably take a shower and get dressed so we can head out someplace. My undying desire to find a grassy spot with the wind rustling the blades for a picnic remains unfulfilled. One day, I will find my spot, sit with a book and a picnic basket and enjoy a lazy afternoon in perfect company. Oh yes, I always pictured a red and white checkered sheet underneath me while I laze around. I think I read too many Enid Blytons as a kid. It has ruined my perception of reality as an adult. Anyhow, if school has taught me anything, it is that everything is possible if you put in the right amount of effort. I intend to make this picnic a success someday.

Back to the hills,

Keep calm and move on.

Naina

Rural Visit: An Interview with Keshav Ram, Owner of 16 Cows and Some Land

So, it's been a long time since I posted anything worthwhile here. I know it's not as if anybody is waiting to read the blog, but still..
This piece of work is not something I wrote strictly for the blog, but something I wrote for an assignment for my Rural Marketing course.
Thanks to Professor Harish Bijoor for compelling me to write this! I personally love the interpretation. :D

***

I spotted an elderly man squatting in the middle of a field run over by grazing cows. Another, much younger man, sat a little further off watching the cows as they lazily chewed on the browned wheat strands. As he saw me approach, he stared at me warily, wondering what a city girl like me could be doing in this part of the world. When I reached where he had been peacefully sitting, I greeted him and enquired after his health. He looked a little skeptical. When I asked him next what he was doing sitting there by himself, he looked a little reluctant to talk. He began asking me who I was and what I was doing there. Jaggi had to intervene to let him know we were only “researching” there. I don’t really know if Keshav Ram knows what “research” means, but the word of a fellow sikh seemed to satisfy him. He visibly relaxed a little and told me to ask what I wanted to know. I repeated my question to him. He told me he had come there to graze his cows. I had trouble understanding his dialect and had to ask him often to repeat himself. He began to enjoy the process of explaining what he was trying to say to me with loud hand gestures. Somehow, this routine made him more open and forthcoming and he began to look upon me with more warmth. I asked him what his daily routine was. He told me that he brought the cows to graze daily at around 7.00 – 8.00 in the morning and returned home by about 11.00. When I tried to probe him about what he did the rest of the day, all I could get out of him was bas, kuch nahi. It appeared to me that the man was very content in his life just sitting and watching his cows graze. He did not seem to have any needs or wants in his life besides the roti, kapda, makaan. 75-year old Keshav Ram had moved to this village from another village 2 hours away about 20 years earlier after his wife had passed away. He had been a farmer there. He has three sons who live with him, while 2 of his sons help him take care of the cows and the dairy, the third one goes to the shehr to work. While I was speaking with Keshavji, two of the cows suddenly decided to take off. Keshavji jumped to his feet with great agility after them. He had only bounded a few steps when the younger man, who I later learnt was one of his sons, took over and brought the cows back. Keshavji returned to his spot next to me and continued his story. Two of his eldest sons were married. There were five children in the house and each of them went to a government school that was located across their house.

The family owned a total of 16 cows that they used to milk and make money out of. When I asked Keshavji how much milk the cows gave per day, he said very simply in Punjabi, “the cows give milk depending on how you treat them. Sometimes, we get 10L. of milk and sometimes, none at all.” The men would bring the cows home by 11.00 am, after which point, the wives would milk them. Later, in the evening, the brothers would deliver the milk to households in the city. In case the quantity of milk on a particular day was not enough, they admitted to adding a little water to increase the quantity.  

During my interview with Keshavji, I came to understand that the man was probably not really contributing to the household activities in any significant way. The family probably made him take the cows to the field just so he would have a routine and some sort of “job” to do each day. From a city dweller’s perspective, I find it amazing that the old man was so content with his life and was happy being idle all day. When I asked him if there was anything that bothered him in the village, he shook his head and told me he had everything that he needed right there. He pointed out to the land that he was sitting in and said, “All this land is mine”.  When I asked him how much of the land he owned, he just spread his arms out and said, “All of this.” I figured this is what retirement probably looks like to the elderly in villages after they have spent their youth toiling away on agricultural lands. Keshav Ramji was perhaps flourishing in his solitude and inactivity.

The Journey

It's been a while since I last posted anything. I have some stuff lying in my drafts that need time and effort before any of it comes even close to being presentable. This tiny thing popped up during REM. Hope you like it.

The story of all our lives. My take on various relationships we form and break during an entire lifetime. Some last,some don't. I am thinking of G'n'R singing November Rain in my head right now.
C'est la vie.

***

We met,
We spoke,
We smiled.
We became friends.

We laughed,
We kissed,
We sighed,
We became lovers.

We moved,
We got busy,
We ignored.
We became distant.

We fought,
We cried,
We broke up.
We are strangers.

Naina 

Turmoil

Today I walked in your city,
You have no idea.
I walked the streets you've walked,
And you have no idea.
I am eating foods you once wanted me to taste,
You have no idea.

I met your friend you told me about,
Do you know yet?
We shared a frame on a camera,
Have you seen it yet?
We spoke about you,
Have you heard?

We've traveled so far,
We'll never reach where we wanted to.
Everything looks familiar,
The music resounds of you.
That stupid woman who sings,
Keeps playing on TV.

What am I to do with all the pictures?
Where do I store all the memories?
What becomes of our friends?
What of the hollowed greetings,
That will never be?

Goodbye, mon ami.
Someday, forgive me.

An Ode

For someone who hates to say goodbye, a one year MBA program is not the place to be. The frequency with which we have to bid farewell to out professors is higher than the frequency of Aravind Kejriwal's dharnas. Every two weeks, we give a standing ovation to a professor from one part of the world or other for delivering the last lecture for the class of 2016. I kid you not when I say the room is charged with emotions, I honestly believe some people secretly break down and cry later with all the energy that exists in that room. This term, we had Professor Katalan taking Decision Making and Optimization for half the term. He is a truly remarkable man. The kind of insight he brought to the classroom with all his understanding of different industries and weird trivia was awe inspiring. I don't think I spent more than 10 minutes of sleeping time in any of his lectures. (Not counting, of course, that one lecture that I slept through because I just could not bring myself to get out of bed.) And then there was dearly beloved little Professor Croce with his little eccentricities and perfect sense of humour. After his sixth lecture, I honestly regretted sleeping through the first five. He made economics fun. I find it hard to believe that I am saying this, but global economics is actually quite interesting. And just like the rest, they are now gone. To be heard from no more. Just two of the fourteen who have been with us in a span of three months. C'est la vie. our paths shall cross if they have to, or maybe they won't.

In another world, another one of those psychometric test reports has called me arrogant. I don't get it? I think I am the nicest person in the whole wide world. How can anybody call me arrogant? I disagree. Just stating my opinion out loud.
Neha is now waiting for dinner. I should scoot!

Another time,
Naina

Through History in Heels

So, I finally got to watch Jurassic World last week. I thought it was well made. Yash Raj would be very proud. They even took the effort to make Rahul Gandhi's strain of "women empowerment" a reelity (That was  not a typo). Apart from the cliched kissing scenes and the over hyper pre-teen, the only thorn in my side, (or should I call it the stiletto in my side?) was the five inch heel Bryce Dallas Howard was wearing through the movie. I don't care if those are Jimmy Choos or never before heard of shoes, here is a fact. Heels break. And I don't just mean the ones attached to your shoes. Here is another fact, Pressure = Force per unit area, which is to say, if you be walking on mud, your heels be sinking in deep. No way you run like a chicken whose ass is on fire like that. So Missy, unbuttoning and rolling up your sleeves is not how you compensate for your choice in footwear. Slipping out of those pretties, gently picking them up and throwing them far far away into the deep blue artificial lake behind you is the only way to go. And yes, you might want to consider putting on a pair of running shoes. Bare-feet ain't getting you anywhere either.

So much for the anti-sexist movies. Would it kill you if the actress doesn't look perfect (read sexy) at all times?

*Spoiler below*

Q: How do you outrun a T-Rex with a flaming torch in hand, pretending to be Anya Major?

Ans: You don't. But when you do, make sure you do it with panache in a pair of stilettos you've been running marathons in All Day Long.

*Spoiler over*

I don't want to get into any meninist/feminist arguments over this. I am just pointing out a big fat blooper in a big fat dino movie. Read it, and let it go.

And yeah, Go Girl Power!

Naina

OCD

How do I make the deaf hear,
How do I have the blind see?
Perhaps the greatest human folly,
How do I learn to let it be?

A fish outside of water,
Or a bird in a cage.
One struggles to breathe,
The other struggles to be free.

What really beats within,
Nobody wants to know.
Not you, nor me,
All we want, is peace.

One day the fish will die,
And the bird fly away.
The struggles will be lost,
And no peace shall prevail.

****

Let me know what you think. I have no idea what it means.