The Next Compartment

Paulo Coelho writes in Aleph,

“We never lose our loved ones. They accompany us, they don’t disappear from our lives. We are merely in different rooms. For example, I can’t see who is in the next carriage, but it contains people travelling in the same time as me, as you, as everyone. The fact that we can’t speak to them or know what’s going on in that other carriage is completely irrelevant. They are there. So what we call “life” is a train with many carriages. Sometimes we are in one, sometimes we are in another, and sometimes we cross between them, when we dream or allow ourselves to be swept away by the extraordinary.”

Yesterday morning, I was travelling to office when my mom called me and told me about Dida’s (grandmother) disorientation of late. My mom had very solemnly informed me that since the last couple of days, Dida had not been her usual, that she was sleeping long hours. Her speech had also been slurring so that, most of what she tried to communicate was not understandable. It was as if slowly she was drifting away. I was told all these to be mentally prepared for any eventuality.

Even as I disconnected the call and put away my cell phone, I remembered my last visit home in July ‘12. Dida had been slightly troubled at that time. She had told me that she could not remember her gurumantra (she had a bound photograph of her guru on the tea table by the side of her bed). She was very troubled being unable to remember her initiation chants and was worried that God would not accept her (post mortem). I was at a loss of words, not knowing how to console my grandmother. She held my hand with a plaintive look in her eyes. I had taken her palms in mine, folded her fingers into the gyan mudra and asked her to chant after me,

‘Hare Krishna Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare;

Hare Rama Hare Rama, Rama Rama Hare Hare’

She had said, “But this is not my gurumantra, this will not work.”

I had looked into her helpless eyes and had asserted that this is the most powerful mantra, stronger than any guru mantra, and this alone would suffice. After holding her hand in mine and chanting Hare Krishna for some time, I had helped her lie down and asked her to keep on chanting aloud. She kept chanting the mantra, till she drifted away to sleep.

Two drops of tear that had been growing all this while at the corners of my eyes threatened to well over. From what my mother said I could make out that my Dida was biding the last few days before embarking on a new journey. I remembered Paulo Coelho’s allegory of Life being a train. I wished that I could hold my Dida’s hands in mine while she left for this new journey. I wished I could see her safely through the vestibule into the next compartment. I wished she was not alone when the great moment came and she had to cross over.

The same after noon when my father called me up, I understood that the moment of truth had come. I heard my father saying in a very normal tone,

“Babu, there’s sad news, Dida left.”

Although I was fully prepared to hear this, yet the immensity of the realization that Dida is no more, took some time to sink in.

I asked, “When?”

“Just about half an hour back,” he answered.

Dida had been sleeping for a long time after lunch. My parents had woken her up to feed her some milk. She had taken a couple of mouthfuls but the third had just spilt out of her mouth. There was a drop of tear in her eyes. Thinking that she had again fallen asleep, my father wiped the tear off her eye and made her to lie down.  But later as my parents realized, that was the moment she had taken the leap. Now it feels good to realize that she was not alone when she had to cross the vestibule. She was safe in the arms of her son and daughter-in-law as she had gone across.

The Brahman pundit who was overseeing the last rites had said that since it was a poornima (full moon), the journey was on a very auspicious day and that indications were very good. Apart from this, it took us some time to realize that five years earlier my grandfather too had passed away on the same date. My mom said that just as in life they had been so inseparable; it was my Dadu only who had come and taken Dida away to be with him. It gave me much relief to believe that not only was my grandmother not alone while crossing the vestibule, but also her best friend in this life was ready on the other side to welcome her and take her away safely into the next compartment.

I dint think I would post again this year, but the latest turn of events had given rise to some very conflicting emotions and I felt it could be best resolved when laid down on paper. Now that it is laid down as intended, I feel happy again.

In continuation to the discussion described in the beginning, Paulo Coelho also says,

“Love always triumphs over what we call death. That’s why there’s no need to grieve for our loved ones, because they continue to be loved and remain by our side. It’s hard for us to accept that. If you don’t believe it, then there’s no point my trying to explain.”

I thank you Dida for showering so much love on all of us. I shall always remember you in the many ways that you have touched my life. Today I feel very happy for you. I wish that your new journey be full of thrill and plenty of happiness and you make lots and lots of new friends on the way. Farewell.

The age of story telling

Some of the most cherished memories of my childhood are those of listening to stories from my elders. My grandfather and my maternal grandmother were excellent story tellers. Since most of my life I stayed away from my relatives owing to my father’s transferable job, the short breaks that I spent with them would be highly cherished.

My mama-bari (Bengali for maternal uncle’s house) trips would be real fun. I have 9 cousins on my maternal side, out of which 5 of them are either about my age or older than me. It was with these 5 cousins, I used to sit in the evenings with my grandmother on her big cot and pester her for stories. Our grandmother would only be happy to comply. While she would continue stitching together rugs with small pieces cut out form old clothes (and by god, she used to stitch the most wonderful rugs for us); she would tell us stories, which we kids would listen to, wide eyed, with our imagination running wild. Once in a while, one of us would ask a question or a doubt, which she would very patiently and lovingly answer. One of the elder sisters (she was in high school by then), would sometimes be skeptical about a story and start an argument. At such moments I would use my clout of superiority being the guest in the house, to beat her up and show her the door (Oh I was such a bully). I did not like interruptions in the midst of my grand ma’s stories.

Sitting around her, we used to hear with eyes filled with wonder, stories of Chand Saudagar, of Behula and Lakkhinder, of the Barobhuiyyan of Bangladesh and their heroics against foreigners and many more. I don’t have a count of how many times we made her repeat these stories but she used to tell us these stories with the same zest each time. I have never been to Bangladesh, but in her stories my mind would fly away to her village in Dacca. Her narration would invoke the imagery of the ponds, the tamarind trees, the house, the courtyard, her father who was a zamindar and her step mom who was kind to her. I never understood earlier how somebody could be as patient as to tell these stories over and over again to a bunch of toddlers who may not even understand everything said. My grandmother never really liked having to leave her own home in Bangladesh and come over to India during the Bangladesh war. From being the daughter of a wealthy landlord, to having to start afresh as a refugee was not the easiest truth of life to accept. Now I understand that every time she repeated these stories she actually re-lived those days whose memories she always held so close to her heart.

After so many years, having grown up and living far apart, each busy in his/her own life, I still feel these stories and the time thus spent bind us together at a certain level. It is something that is still common among us cousins. It is these small things in life that I feel keep each one of us rooted. How so ever our life changes, these moments will always remain there, fixed like the pole star.

My grandfather was a different type of story teller. In the day time he would sit on an easy chair on the veranda and would tell stories of olden days when with a char anna (25 paisa) coin he would buy a rickshaw full of vegetables for the entire joint family. He told us about his journey to Kolkata for his studies. He told us about the house where he used to stay and how he used to cook for himself. And then there were the funny ones too. Our favorite among the funny stories was the one in which a shepherd boy, one day meets a tiger and the tiger says, “I want to eat you.” The shepherd takes off his clothes smears oil all over his body and enters into the gaping mouth of the tiger. Thereafter he slides through its stomach and intestines, comes out of its back side and escapes, thus fooling the tiger.  I and my cousin would roll over and laugh our hearts out at the funny way our granddad would narrate the story with his exaggerated expressions. Our granddad, on winter evenings would wrap his favorite shawl all round himself and sit cozy and chat with everyone. But in a short while he had the tendency to doze off. I and my cousin, being the naughty imps that we were, would shake him out of his snooze and ask him to tell the story of the tiger and the shepherd. Then we would laugh ourselves to splits as he would doze off in the middle of the story and we would wake him up again.

My father and uncle are also great story tellers. They tell us stories of their childhood in Bangladesh of their joint family, of the cousins and of all the mischief they committed together and got punished for. They still tell these stories with so much enthusiasm, that I can feel how much they miss those days. I have heard that my grandfather had parted ways with his brothers over property and since then my father and uncles and aunts had had to shun contact with their cousins. Now with the life of the older generation mostly accounted for, my father and uncle are trying to reestablish contact with their long separated cousins.

Recently, I read an article on Paulo Coelho’s blog. It is attributed to a certain Loren Eisley. I found this very meaningful and so I have copied the contents as it is from: 

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2012/11/29/in-the-plane-between-melbourne-and-los-angeles/

There is also a movie named Big Fish, directed by Tim Burton. It is a wonderful movie telling about the relationship between a son and a father who is a great story teller. It ends with the story teller dying happily and all the characters of all the stories he had ever told his son come alive and come to happily celebrate his passing. The movie ends on the note that,

“A man tells his stories so many times, that he becomes the stories. They live on after him, and in that way he becomes immortal.”

This oral tradition is as old as the Vedas themselves. There have been story tellers in the past, there are now, and there will be in the future. But how long can we keep this tradition alive in our own families. Does our next generation, born and brought up into nuclear families, big cities and more conversant in computers, video games and PSPs have time for these stories? Or for that matter our generation, living our life in such mechanical, competitive and materialistic pursuits; do we have the time in our stressful lives to tell stories to our successors. Well I don’t really know; it is just a doubt that came to my mind. But if the answer is yes to any of these questions, then I guess we need not worry for one more generation.

Wishing everyone a very happy new year 2013…..

Adios

The Road to Lekeythang

I count myself among an elite group of fortunate people who have been specially blessed by God, for really less known and not so well understood reasons. I was born and brought up at a place that could only be the outskirts of what they call paradise, only more beautiful. Today as I was watching some photographs of Punakha, I remembered the happy school life I spent there. Of all the places in this quaint little town, there were a few that were my favorites. One of those favorites was the road which I walked every day to go to school. Today I suddenly missed that road very much. It was a road from which I have viewed some of the most beautiful things in my life. I was just sitting and trying to recollect my experiences on this road.

My school was at a place called Lekeythang. Punakha High School was exactly a kilometer from home. It used to take about eight to nine minutes to reach school, walking at a very brisk pace. My school was by the side of the road connecting Punakha to Thimphu the national capital. This stretch of road with its surroundings was a beauty in itself. It was cut out of the side of a mountain with a sheer but vegetated drop on one side, into the blue-green waters of the Mo Chhu (Chhu = river in dzongkha) River. On the opposite side, the slope of the mountain bore lush greenery, with some flowering shrubs, on which sweet smelling flowers bloomed in the evening.

This road would be an interesting sight from the distance twice a day; when school going kids in their smart little grey ghos (traditional Bhutanese dress for boys) and blue and grey kiras (traditional Bhutanese dress for ladies) with red collar would troop to school in the morning and back in the afternoon.

It would be a sight to behold when the soft morning sunlight would shine on the beautiful green water and the silvery silt on its far side, giving both an amazing sparkle. By mid morning, the sun would be vertical enough for its rays to penetrate the clear green waters to expose the bed with its well rounded pebbles and boulders, and also the school of trout that would now and then be visible in the clear waters. This is also the ideal time to observe the kingfishers that would perch on overhead branches and swoop down with lightning speed to make their catch. Sometimes on a sunny winter morning, if one is lucky enough, one can even see a family of otters swimming or basking in the sun on the far bank of the river.

On reaching the Black rock (that was the limit till which students were allowed to loiter during breaks on school days), near our school, the swirling waters of another river, the Pho Chhu, would be seen joining the relatively calmer waters of the Mo Chhu. The minty blue turbulence of the Pho Chhu and the green waters of the Mo Chhu would come together at the confluence and give birth to the Puna Tsang Chhu. And just like in any marriage, for the initial hundred to hundred fifty meters, the Puna Tsang Chhu bore evidence of the initial conflict of Mo Chhu’s green and Pho Chhu’s blue, in the form of a different color in each of its halves, before settling down for a uniform greenish color. There was a small chhorten painted in traditional red and white, at the confluence of the two rivers. The word of mouth was that, some ancient lama had prophesied that the day the water level goes above the chhorten; the town would be in danger of submergence.

During the monsoons the picture would change all together. Heavy rain would cause soil to be eroded off the face of the mountains and both the rivers would turn rusty red and then brown. I still remember, during the monsoons when both the rivers would swell up to double their normal volume, I would look fearfully everyday towards the chhorten, to see if it was still there. Seeing it intact, and the prayer flags fluttering, would give me assurance that every thing’s fine. Other than that I would always avoid looking towards the roaring mass of brown and grey water in the monsoons. I have always been afraid of water bodies.

On a moonlit night, the view of this road with the mountain wall on one side and the river, and in fact the entire valley on the other side, poses an ethereal view. It would look as if it has just jumped out of a Byron poem.

She walks in beauty, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meets in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

 Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

It would seem to me that this is the picture Lord Byron had in mind when he penned these lines. The atmosphere would be so surreal and heavenly, that time would come to a standstill. The only signs of any movement in the entire universe would be the constant gushing sound of the Mo Chhu flowing, the chirping of the crickets and the pleasant smell of some wild blossom wafting with the night breeze. It would be like living many lives in just that single moment. Now that I think of it, I realize I am blessed for being a part of numerous such moments; in any other way, my life would have been incomplete.

I have also been on this road on a new moon night during the rainy season. The road, owing to absence of street lights would be pitch dark. Those days one had to have a light to walk comfortably. With the roaring sound of the swollen Mo Chhu on one side and the fear of poisonous snakes on the other, I would always try to walk on the middle of the road to feel safe. Occasionally (the occasions being very rare at such late hours) a vehicle would come with its blazing headlights and I would run, to make the most of the god sent illumination. On such nights the pitch dark water of the river with its angry roaring reminded me of the chasm Coleridge mentions in Kubla Khan. 

“And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing…”

Now that I think of my past life, I feel so grateful to God that I got a life, an opportunity to see this creation of his, its different facets and in multiple forms. This is but just a miniscule part of the beauty of the place I have come to love so much. If I were to extol its beauty in its fullness, I guess one life time of writing would not be enough.

An unfinished story

Those days I was working in Pune and was travelling at weekends to Mumbai, to be with my wife. The three hour bus journey on the Mumbai Pune Expressway was always a very exciting one for me. I liked it especially during the monsoons, when the entire Western Ghats springs up to glory in all its entirety. The vibrancy of fresh vegetation masks the dull grey crudeness of the rocky outcrops. I always cherished these three hours of ‘Me-only’ time. Not that, I was plagued by need for space amidst the crowd of Homo sapiens; in fact I stayed in a PG room all by myself.  But just like the kite that cannot fly inside a room, my mind too would find it easier to break away from its reins; with the cool air rushing in through the window of the bus; and fly away, far, far away. I would sit by the window and look out while my mind would be flying outside, like Harry Potter riding his witch’s broom… Wooooohoooooooooo….

On such trips, which were plenty considering I travelled almost every week , I would either read a book, listen to music, observe people, or simply look out of the window and let my mind fly. I was never really a great ‘fellow traveler’, so I would never strike up conversation with any of the other passengers.

On one such occasion, I was reading a new novel by a young author (If it’s not for ever… It’s not Love, by Durjoy Datta). I started reading it without much expectation (It came in free with a couple of other novels at a Landmark sale), but as I went from page to page, I liked the story better and better. It was about the protagonist who survives a bomb blast. Incidentally, he finds a half-charred diary at the blast site, belonging to an unknown young man (presumed to have died on that fateful day). The contents of the diary form the backbone of the plot. Numbed by his own near death experience, after reading the contents of the diary, the protagonist is agonized at the thought of having to pass away without a good bye, dying without having said the right words, dying with unsaid words buried within the heart. After going through 50-60 odd pages of the novel, all of a sudden I realized that I was shedding tears. I looked around; it was my good fortune that all the seats behind and beside me were empty; luckily no one bore testimony of this weak moment of mine.  I went back to reading as the protagonist with the love of his life, set out in search of the people mentioned in the diary, with the hope of conveying the untold words and unprofessed love of the dead young man. I could simply not stop the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I read through the lines, and I couldn’t stop reading either.

The narrative had invoked a powerful surge and opened the flood gates to numerous memories. Memories long repressed, those that have become a part of existence, a dull pain that I have gotten used to, a dampened throbbing that never really ceases.

I realized then that Life is just like a ball of yarn. It is made up of numerous relationships. They come in various forms, duration and stature; small, big, close, distant, long, short and many more; each bearing a different name. These relationships are crisscrossed, rolled over and across, round and round, to make the ball of yarn that is life.

I have seen kittens playing with a ball of yarn. When we are young, we are immature, restless and impulsive. Just like a young kitten, we paw the ball of yarn, play with it, now kick it, again bite it, then scratch it. Within a short time the ball becomes a loose mass of yarn, with torn threads hanging out all around. By the time we learn to take notice of this and try to set everything right again, it becomes too late. The erstwhile ball of yarn becomes a soft floppy mass of torn and entangled yarn, the torn ends hanging loosely. These torn ends are the numerous people, the relations that lost their way in the maze of our busy lives. These are the relations that unceremoniously petered out, without conclusion, without even a ‘Bye’. By the time we realize the importance of these interactions or rather lack of them, it is too late in the day. There is no alternative to bearing the weight of all these unfinished, unconcluded relationships in ones heart forever. I felt as I read this book, the importance of a last word; every relation, every interaction deserves a conclusion, a decent good bye. Sigh!

As I resumed reading the book, after a long break, poignant with heavy thoughts and sweet and sour memories, the protagonist and his lady love had already started meeting people mentioned in the diary. By the time the bus crossed Khalapur Toll Naka, I was already at Page 108. But then something very frustrating happened. I flipped the page to reach directly to Page 129. Twenty pages were missing from the book. I wax vexed at my bad luck. I tried to continue reading, but then I felt that it won’t be fair to read such a good story in an improper manner, I dint want to continue without reading those 20 lost pages. I will have it exchanged I thought, I still had the bill.

After reaching Mumbai, I went to the Landmark outlet where I had bought the book and asked for an exchange. But the book was not available in the store. Then a thought occurred to me. Why not wait for the book to come to me. Maybe someday, I will get a copy of the book, without my trying for it, and then I can finish reading it. At least as long as I have not read the end, it can be anything. There’s still hope for an ending that according to me would be the most fitting. Thus, I have been waiting for the book to fall in my hands so I can finish reading the story.

The Tao of 'Self' Study - My first attempt.

I grew up hearing and believing that Learning is a means to an end. Life has been as kind to me as to kick my backside every time and finally making me accept and admit that Learning is an end in itself. Paradoxically enough, Learning has no End. I heard that the best place to start with, is one's own self. So I started studying myself.

When I embarked on this mission of self- study, I realized that what I had presumed to be a cup of tea is actually an ocean of brine in itself. My heart sank at the prospect of never being able to complete.  But then wise people say that we have come into the world bare and alone and will return to the elements in the same way. Nothing is for the ‘taking’ or ‘keeping’. So I convinced myself that whatever I manage to achieve will only give me joy, and no one’s going to judge me for what level I achieve or fail to achieve. These are paths not frequented by many. There aren't many hares to taunt this tortoise.

I was at the CCSHAU (University, where I was doing my Masters studies) shopping center when such noble thoughts were seeding in my head. Not a person to procrastinate in such innovative and capital investment free ventures, I resolved to start immediately. At that funny moment in my life I was taking puffs of happiness out of a Gold Flake cigarette. Yes, that’s the brand I vouched loyalty to, all my smoking days. Thus I undertook my first ‘study of myself’- How many puffs are required at my usual pace to suck up the cigarette, till the embers reached the logo at the bottom, a couple of millimeters above the filter (The portion that dedicated smokers of my acquaintance called the Golden kiss; but I always maintained unequivocal hatred for that revolting and distasteful last puff).

Having thus made an outline of the study to be conducted and of the inventory requirements, I returned to my room in Ajanta Hostel (163, or 165?). I had all that was required to carry out the study; one and a half pack of cigarettes and a match box. I intended to put myself through a set schedule of smoking a cigarette every waking hour and take down the number of puffs. This was to account for any variations due to vagaries in my mood over the period of the day. Well okay, that needs some explanation.

Those were very troubled times for me (or so I perceived). At one end, I was only physically present in Haryana, my mind was really somewhere else (that’s a different story all together). At the other end my Masters guide was not making things any easier for me. Now that I think back, the main problem was that I had gone to Haryana with the sole academic objective of completing my masters and returning in two years. It never occurred to me that I would be spending a couple of years of my academic life in CCSHAU, why not enjoy it and make the most of it. On top of that, having a circle of Bengali seniors and batch mates didn't really help. Other than the occasional (although the occasions were not scarce) get together to drink and make merry and share general contempt for the ‘pig-headed’, drunk ,brawling and whoring  ‘local’ hostelers  nothing substantial was achieved in these communions. Well that’s beside the point. On the whole, I was not at peace with myself and would be in different states of mood depending on the plane on which my mind was dwelling.

So the next day, I executed the study as planned and at the end of it (at about four o clock, the following morning), I came to results that were quite amazing. Barring the cigarette that I had smoked during the game of cricket on the field, in all the other 12 instances, I had finished the cigarette in 13 puffs. The outlier result on the field was 17 puffs, attributable to heightened physical activity and shorter drags to accommodate a parched throat. From this raw data, I concluded that whatever my emotional state over the study period, the 5-6 minutes spent on smoking always brought it to a different plane that is away from the current state. The results indicated (at least to my ‘scientific’ mind, or whatever you may take the liberty of calling it), smoking distracts our mind from whatever it is dwelling on. In other words it provides the mind an escape, a wormhole to a completely different world.

When one is stressed, a short period of escape from the problem at hand seems reasonable enough. The problem is that, once one gets acquainted with this escape plan, he starts using it for every single reason. It may become an indispensable companion, whether one is burning the midnight lamp, playing chess, having a ‘man-to-man’ talk, watching an India- Pakistan cricket match, or simply waiting for his girlfriend. So the situation becomes completely reversed. When one begins, he has genuine stress and is looking for a stress-buster; later on he looks out for ‘stress’-full situations, excuses, to use his ‘stress-buster’. Well whatever it is, I was very satisfied that my study was completed successfully and unhindered, and more importantly, with solid results.

Thus, began my journey of studying ‘myself’, stupid as it may seem now, I know how important it had been to me in those days. The subject (smoking) was pathetic to begin so grand a venture. But then, it is just like the outskirts of a big forest. Dense, thorny bushes block one’s entry. Its only when one manages to get through this initial obstacle, the jungle floor reveals clearer passages. And just like that over the years, I have observed and realised many things, but those are all stories for another time.

The Bracket of Life

She sits there on the creaky stool

Aloof of all that’s going ‘round

So much present, her worn being

Yet silent amid the day’s sound.

He sits high on the veranda railing

Excited eyes darting ‘round,

Flush of vigor on his face

Freshness and spirit of youth abound.

She sits amid the hustle and bustle

But oblivious of what matters ‘nymore

She sees but no more comprehends

What all the people move round for.

He jumps off the ledge, his mother yells,

Landing light with feline grace,

Face flushed, and a gleam in his eyes,

Akin to a cub with its maiden prize.

Senility having taken its toll,

She hardly learns what unfolds.

Sans the senses five, with quaky limbs,

She awaits what, she knows no more.

His muscled pride he enhances,

With dips and dives and groaning crunches;

Scrutinizing his mirror image often,

Thinking of how the girls will fall.

The bright red orb that sails the sky,

Where she sits, from left to right;

The glint of crimson at her right eye corner,

Signals the end of her wait tonight.

He comes back home in a huff and a puff,

Casting his shoes, tossing the ball,

Sweaty and soiled but chatters, excited

Of great exploits at the goal

Thus ends my day of observation,

One ripe with fresh expectations;

The other waits, but for some abstract,

One being nineteen, other ninety old.

Where I stand, I can see them both,

Forming the bracket of life, my own.

At one past thirty, now I must see,

What this vision bodes for me.

Self-ish thoughts.

I was sitting today, lazing on my easy chair by the window of my room, looking out into the approaching dusk outside. A group of birds flew past my window; the scent of the sunset still warm on their wings, calling out for all to return to nest.

The big house on the other side of the wall, whose rear gate opens just opposite my window, looked cosy and inviting, with its surrounding lawn, flower beds and a bower with trailing bougainvillea; the hint of gold on the tiles of the house scripting the epilogue to the day’s story.

The old couple, the owners of the house, were sitting under the bower, looking around apparently pleased and at peace. I remembered having seen the old gentleman personally tending to the garden every morning. The peace that this senior couple manifested was infectious. I too found myself relaxing, sinking into a strange sense of floating calmness.

Eventually as the light faded the elderly lady, apparently agitated by a swarm of mosquitoes, nudged her partner and the couple decided to retreat. I too was shaken out of the state of ‘nothingness’. The couple slowly walked the paved path to the door of the house. The walk was a slow one, almost a reluctant one, as though given a choice they would surely have liked to spend some more time in their garden. As the door opened, the old woman walked in. Her husband turned around a last time to gaze upon his garden and then he too went inside. The door closed behind the old couple.

I withdrew from the window, in a pensive state and lay back on my bed.  A thousand fragments of thoughts cramming my brain and crying out for attention.

Day in and day out, we do the same things over and over again, most often oblivious of how time silently smiles and passes by. We are so entrapped, so attached, so blinded, so blunted; an idea, vague, of an illusory goal, coaxing us, saying, “Carry on.”

I lay back on my bed and like the small insect caught in the cobweb in one corner of the ceiling, suddenly felt trapped. I got the feeling that I was not doing enough for myself, my own Self. I have spent all my life pleasing others and enjoying false gains.

The sole purpose of this life is to be ‘Happy’. But where does one get true happiness? Wise men say, “Happiness is within you, you only need to look for it.” As I stand today at the cusp of possibly a third of my life, I realise that every time I did well in studies, it was to please my family, I courted the best girl in school, to earn jealous appreciation of others. I strived hard in sports to get approval of my peers. In fact every action, every small act done, was motivated by some such trivial end. The false sense of happiness that has pervaded me all my life was actually my inflated ego.

We live in a world (an illusion, some might say), where Relativity rules. Relative success, relative prosperity, relative income, relative knowledge and so on, have become our indices of Happiness (so called). Right from childhood, like wound up toys, we run round and round in this quagmire, learning to know and seek a false idea of happiness.

So, what is it that makes one really happy? What does our existence really seek out? Why is it so difficult to let go? What is it that is binding us? Which path is the right path?

With all these questions darting around in my head, I understood one thing. It is wisest to start seeking these answers so that, when The Time comes, I can let go of my beautiful garden with a smile on my face.

IN DESPERATE hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not.

My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish-no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe.

-           Geetanjali Verse 87,  Kabiguru Rabindranath Tagore

The Last Leaf……

I tried to hide,

To fake a smile..

But my eyes told me

That I lost something.

I tried to forget,

All my regrets..

But my tears told me

That I lost something.

I tried not to bother,

Said, it doesn’t matter..

But my heart told me

That I lost something.

I tried to be busy,

But it was not easy..

As my mind kept reminding me..

That I lost something.

-Dia

Well this is not something I wrote. I found this on the web. Its written by someone named Dia. I sure think she must be a very wonderful person and hope she is over the sorrow that her verses reflect.

The context may not be same but the words did to some extent represent my feelings on the day of my send off. Over the last few days, memories of the last 5 years have come back repeatedly. Every moment that I remembered left a smile on my face.

As I walked down the path towards the canteen that day, I felt a strange lump of emotion creep up my throat. In the past 5 years, so many people have come and gone; so many send-offs I have seen. I had always been a part of the group that waited on the inside of the glass doors. But this was different. The group on the inside was waiting for me. I was the bride walking down the aisle so to say metaphorically. A sudden sense of sadness engulfed my mind. I could just feel the clock ticking away much faster. My time in DALC was fast coming to an end. It was such an overwhelming feeling, my trying to balance all the memorable moments of the last five years and the realization that all this was coming to an end. I guess this place and the people I worked with have become so much a part of my life over these years, it will be very difficult for me to disentangle myself from the attachment.

Since the day I joined here as a fresh college graduate, I feel I have come a long way professionally as well as personally. I have always believed that the people you meet have a role to play in shaping you up. At this moment I am very happy and proud to be me. So I would like to thank you all for that.

I am very grateful to my ‘team’. SN, PT, MD you have taught me a lot. Whatever I have learnt here, most of it I have learnt from you. Thank you for teaching me the meaning of the word ‘team’, thank you for always being around whenever I needed you. I will always remember all the fun as well as tough moments that we have gone through together. I am very thankful to AS Sir, my first boss, for making my transition from a rookie to a professional a very smooth and memorable one. I feel very fortunate that I got him as my first boss.

I owe a lot to KS Sir, for the constant encouragement he has provided me. He is such an enthusiastic person, so full of energy; I have always found him as a person who can invoke the good spirits in everyone with his incessant humor. Thank you sir, for all the support and your faith in me.

When we had first joined the Quality team, there were only 3 people who were there before us. We grew, looking unto them. I always visualized them as the 3 pillars over which the team was built. BS Sir, AS Sir and SN Sir. BS Sir was a great person and a fantastic leader who always led his team from the front. SN Sir, it has been a great learning experience, seeing you at work and working alongside you.

I was fortunate to join this organization as a part of a big team of YQPs. Since day one we have learnt and worked together. This has forged a very strong bond among us. DsC, RR, DtC, RjP, GC anna, it is very hard for me to come to terms with the fact that I wont have you all by my side at work. DsC, RR, DtC, thank you very much for patiently listening to my ‘Banyan tree’ stories. It will be nigh impossible for me to find such good listeners for my stories. Also the fun moments that we have shared will always be very memorable. Rest assured they too will find their way into the Banyan archives. I am very lucky to have had friends like you.

JBS mam, I have rarely seen a person with such composure and patience as you. You have always been like an elder sister. Thank you too for listening to my incessant ramblings so patiently.

PS mam and NS sir, I feel you make a fantastic pair. NS sir, I will miss our afternoon tea and vada pao sessions. PS mam, thank you for tolerating my pranks and jokes so sportingly. I will miss cracking 12 o clock jokes with you.

RjP, buddy we had great fun together, formulating all the ‘Curry patta’ jokes and stories. Do call me up if there are new stories in the series. I will miss having fun with you. GC, brother please forgive me for offending you multiple times with my stray humor. I thank you for the patience and grace that you manifested when I pestered you. But that does not mean I am not going to make the 5th sequel in the Ch-ku series. RjP, bro please keep a look out for good scripts.

RtP sir, it has been a good experience working with you. I have always found your humor highly refreshing. I will miss all the funny anecdotes we shared over work.
VR, you are the bubbliest of the lot. Remain that way. I wish your cool cars always run smooth and unhindered between Mumbai and Nagothane. And for your sake , always, ‘Satya mewa jayate’.

RhP, RG, my association with you has been a brief one. Nevertheless we have spent some quality time together that I will fondly remember. RG I hope we will continue the 6 km walk partnership. Also I would like to declare you as the fittest person of the department (now that I am out of the reckoning). I would like you to take over the responsibility of giving fitness bytes to GC anna, RhP, JM and AA (if he happens to visit the lab). JM, my friend now that the house keepers have already made fun of your paunch, please don’t wait for the canteen staff to denigrate you further before deciding to shed it off.

SM, Wait for me. I’ll come up with a 6-P one day and call you up. Till then we will definitely meet on the Mu-Pu highway. PrnR, bro wish you all the best and a very happy new year.

As for all the new people, I wish you all the best in all your endeavors.

I guess I will sign off here, with best wishes for a very happy, prosperous and fruitful new year for all of you.

Dasvidaniya.