The other day I called up an old friend of mine, someone I hadn't spoken to for months. After the initial awkwardness, as the ice had begun to thaw, when I asked her how her life was going, the response was a dry - "Oh... the same old routine... office-home-office...".
The call didn't last longer than a couple of minutes.
Just two days back, I bumped into an old colleague of mine while lining up for hakka noodles at the office cafeteria. We had worked together in a project for more than a year before moving on to different groups. I casually asked, "How's work going?". "Oh.. the same old stuff..." he said, looking clearly bored.
I hoped the noodles would come soon.
Ask a high school student how he feels about life and most of them have this (or something similar) to say - "The same old stupid classes, silly teachers, nagging parents, boring food...oh.. the same old everything...".
Wisdom lies in not taking the conversation any further.
In one of my bad moods, as I was flipping the channels on the TV remote, foolishly hoping that Shahrukh Khan would pop out of the idiot box and say something nice and charming to me, I heard a socialite announce on one of the lifestyle channels, "Oh... we simply dash off to the Maldives everytime we get fed up with the same old place...".
I switched the television off.
Monotony. How we sometimes hate this word!
I thought about this a long time. And bored and irritated as I myself was with the "same old" responses, I decided to consciously look for monotony in the world around me.
Something that was so easy to complain about was suddenly difficult to key out and tag. (But I don't give up easily once I catch a bug like that.)
To begin with, we see the "same old" sunrise and sunset every single day of our lives and never care to thank God for it...
The "same old" notes (seven to be exact) keep repeating themselves in some pseudo-aritho-geometric progression to fill our lives with melody...
It is the "same old" stitches that repeat themselves in boring white threads to make delicate, beautiful lace patterns...
The "same old" ingredients in the "same old" measured proportions repeat themselves in sumptuous recipes that pass from one generation to another...
Can you blame a workman for being upset when his tools are not in their "same old" places...
Who can ever get tired of the "same old" routine of tucking a four year child to bed each night and getting a big noisy kiss in return...
And not to forget the devastation of not finding your desk on the "same old" seventeenth floor of the "same old" NYC tower on the eleventh of a September?
Suddenly, "same old" life was no longer boring. Predictability seemed like a blessing, routine became discipline and familiarity sounded friendly.
Now when someone tells me their life is full of the "same old stuff", I quietly whisper "Amen".
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
Short Story: Identity Crisis
"You are forgetting your ID card."
She said, garlanding her husband with the blue strap of his official identity card. She was careful not to let the heavy plastic card touch the gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Bye honey". He darted out of the room having planted a kiss on her cheek.
She turned back to see a pile of discarded shirts and ties on the bed smiling at her. She sighed.
"Ma... Have you seen my school ID?" yelled a fourteen year old from the room next door.
She let the first shirt she had picked drop back on the bed and rushed.
"Look, it is here."
She pulled out a yellow strap from under an assortment of socks, books, CDs and other teenage apparatus.
"Looks like I am the only one around here without an identity."
She sighed deep and sad, lost in a far-away thought and lovingly wiped some imaginary dust off the Class Scholar's digitized face with the pallu end of her sari.
"Ofcourse not, Mom. You wear your ID card twenty-four seven." whispered her son as he gently tugged at the gold chain round her neck and ran out of the house yelling louder than the car horn blaring in their ears.
"Cool it, Dad! I'm coming".
She stood there holding on to the gold chain for a long time. Surprised and over-whelmed.
At the end of the chain dangled a small pendant of goddess Lakshmi.
She said, garlanding her husband with the blue strap of his official identity card. She was careful not to let the heavy plastic card touch the gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Bye honey". He darted out of the room having planted a kiss on her cheek.
She turned back to see a pile of discarded shirts and ties on the bed smiling at her. She sighed.
"Ma... Have you seen my school ID?" yelled a fourteen year old from the room next door.
She let the first shirt she had picked drop back on the bed and rushed.
"Look, it is here."
She pulled out a yellow strap from under an assortment of socks, books, CDs and other teenage apparatus.
"Looks like I am the only one around here without an identity."
She sighed deep and sad, lost in a far-away thought and lovingly wiped some imaginary dust off the Class Scholar's digitized face with the pallu end of her sari.
"Ofcourse not, Mom. You wear your ID card twenty-four seven." whispered her son as he gently tugged at the gold chain round her neck and ran out of the house yelling louder than the car horn blaring in their ears.
"Cool it, Dad! I'm coming".
She stood there holding on to the gold chain for a long time. Surprised and over-whelmed.
At the end of the chain dangled a small pendant of goddess Lakshmi.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
हिंदी कविता: उजली सी सुबह
अभी कुछ देर हुई आंख खुली है
उजली सी सुबह घर आयी हुई है,
नयी दुल्हन कोई जैसे मॅन-आंगन में
धुप का आलता लगा शर्माई हुई है।
चाय की प्याली में मोगरे की झुकी डाली
किरणों की मिश्री घोल रही है,
खुद ही से छुपाये जाने कितने राज़
कांपते होंठों से आज खोल रही है।
अखबार की खुशबु ताज़ा खबरों की तरह
पूरे कमरे में समां गयी है,
और नयी आशा की किरणों में
घर की हर चीज़ नहा गयी है।
रात भी चांद का कंगन उतार,
आसमान के आगोश में सुस्ताने लौट गयी है,
और जाते जाते तारों की शरारतों को
रौशनी का ताला लगा गयी है।
एक गिलहरी फिर चोरों की तरह
गमले के पीछे सेंघ लगाए बैठी है,
और आंगन में कबूतरों की पंचायत
आज किसी नयी बात पे एन्ठी है।
सर्द हवा में बिखरी
जो यह गुलाब की पंखुरियां हैं,
चांदनी की आंच तले कल रात सिकी
कहानियों की परियां है।
कुछ तो है इस दिन में
के फूल भी मुस्कुराते हैं,
मन ही मन में आज ये और मैं
एक ही गीत गुनगुनाते है।
तुम भी सोचते होगे
ऐसा क्या है इस सवेरे में,
वही रंग हैं आसमान के,
हैं वही लोग इस बसेरे में।
मन जानता है जिसने साल भर
उदासी का कर्ज़ अदा किया है,
बात इतनी है के इस साल मैंने
अपने आप से खुश रहने का वादा किया है।
उजली सी सुबह घर आयी हुई है,
नयी दुल्हन कोई जैसे मॅन-आंगन में
धुप का आलता लगा शर्माई हुई है।
चाय की प्याली में मोगरे की झुकी डाली
किरणों की मिश्री घोल रही है,
खुद ही से छुपाये जाने कितने राज़
कांपते होंठों से आज खोल रही है।
अखबार की खुशबु ताज़ा खबरों की तरह
पूरे कमरे में समां गयी है,
और नयी आशा की किरणों में
घर की हर चीज़ नहा गयी है।
रात भी चांद का कंगन उतार,
आसमान के आगोश में सुस्ताने लौट गयी है,
और जाते जाते तारों की शरारतों को
रौशनी का ताला लगा गयी है।
एक गिलहरी फिर चोरों की तरह
गमले के पीछे सेंघ लगाए बैठी है,
और आंगन में कबूतरों की पंचायत
आज किसी नयी बात पे एन्ठी है।
सर्द हवा में बिखरी
जो यह गुलाब की पंखुरियां हैं,
चांदनी की आंच तले कल रात सिकी
कहानियों की परियां है।
कुछ तो है इस दिन में
के फूल भी मुस्कुराते हैं,
मन ही मन में आज ये और मैं
एक ही गीत गुनगुनाते है।
तुम भी सोचते होगे
ऐसा क्या है इस सवेरे में,
वही रंग हैं आसमान के,
हैं वही लोग इस बसेरे में।
मन जानता है जिसने साल भर
उदासी का कर्ज़ अदा किया है,
बात इतनी है के इस साल मैंने
अपने आप से खुश रहने का वादा किया है।
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