Voids

Your hair fell partly on your face covering your left eye as you looked down, and that was all it took to take me back to the time when I had first seen them flying as winds kissed them on their way. I saw those eyes, that would broaden every now and then whenever they found magic around them, unaware of the fact that I was the one bewitched by the spells, still trying to decipher what exactly were they trying to say. And to top all that, your lips, that smile, both the partial pleasure grin, as well as the full fledged display of your dentition, which would fix my gaze almost permanently until they were disturbed. You were happy, or at least, you looked so to me. Poor me, for I still have a hard time differentiating between the actual ear to ear grin originating right from your bosom and the formal restrained one. Poor me, I thought, for I am still unable to read my girl's eyes, when suddenly, mother reality whipped me. She isn't my girl.

That one sudden moment took everything away in a flash. Every memory that was imprinted a few years back had already finished its job of poking holes into my heart. I would like to call them voids, because that way, perhaps you would know the state of non existence of my soul, perhaps that way you would know how desperately I want those empty spaces to be filled, how badly I want you to see those vacuums not as mere defects of my poor self, but as places to put your love into.  I want you to kiss my wounds and see how responsively they heal. But till then, till the time I make you realize that I need you to make a life out of my existence, I need to find ways to constantly keep those voids at bay. I need to stop them from spreading their roots at the bed of my heart because the more I allow them to dig deeper, the easier it will be for them to eat me from within like termites, as they have already been doing. If I don't start filling those holes, I would end up being a log of wood which looks rock solid from the outside, but is actually hollow and vulnerable from the inside.

In all our lives, we're left with voids. Voids created by our own mistakes, or the ones deliberately gifted to us by God, or the ones imposed upon us by others, all of them contribute to the pain, which in most of the cases, we are forced to live with and in some cases, are forced to make friends with. Pain consumes you from within, it makes you weak, makes you susceptible to threats which at some point of time you thought you were immune against. And in time, it becomes your master, it starts controlling you, your dreams finally succumb to it and your life becomes its slave. Each of those voids now look like huge craters or like those magnanimously deep wells in which, if you fall down once, it becomes an uphill task to climb out of it. At those times in your life you must find ways to fill those craters with mud or to cover that well with a cap.

We all have things that we love to do irrespective of the fact whether we're good at them or not. And during these times, those things are the ones that come to our rescue. We call them hobbies. Apart from that one column to filled in the Resume, we really forget to think about the importance of these small things which are actually not that small as we think of them to be. Use them to your advantage. Use them to fill those voids and tell your master that there is a lot of life left in me still. Go sing, go speak out your emotions, dance off your miseries and knock your mistakes out of the park for a six. Read books and sooner or later you would find that world amidst pages much more interesting than the actual one in which you have to fight. Read, re-read and then write. Write about your joys, your sorrows, your worries and your loved ones and you would be relieved, at least for the moment. Sketch out the love of your life, fill her with colors and keep it next to your pillow with the hope that someday, you don't just have to sleep with the sketch.

In a nutshell, we all come with an emotional baggage which is the major cause of pain, but then, the key is to take that baggage and try to unload it one at a time and convert it into something beautiful, something that you've always loved to do. And very soon you would find that all those debates, all those on-stage performances, those dance moves, those books that you read and the notes that you wrote were the fillings that you needed to make those immense craters look like tiny rat-holes. Though none of these can permanently ease the pain, though you still might need to cry your heart out in the darkness of the night, but they can for sure keep you busy each and every day of your life, and I don't really need to substantiate on the fact that there is nothing better that a busy life. As this song goes-

"Take that rage,
Put it on a page,
Take the page to the stage,
And blow the roof off that place."

Follow your passions, your hobbies, if not on a big scale, small ones would also do. It would make each day of your life worth living and well spent and as the time flies, we find that it were those days that made us who we are today.

Do this, so that one day when you get into your dream company, that happiness won't just be utilized to fill the voids because you've already filled them to large extent. It can be used to make yourself feel that you're not dumb, that you deserve it, that you have it within you and that now you would see your parents smiling and you would know that the reason is you.
Do this, so that one day, when she comes back to you, she would have to spend lesser time on your wounds and the entire eternity on your lips.
Do it, because there is just one life and you are bound to make it large!

The Cargo of Life

It was the last evening of 2013 and luckily I was at home. This is one of the few boons of studying in a college like mine, which gives you a one day holiday for Holi and Diwali, that you get to be home every year for the new year. It was already dark, as expected during winters, and I was returning from the grocer's shop when I saw a man carrying a huge cargo of brand new empty sweet boxes on his rickshaw. The load was really huge and there was no one to supervise or deliver it except the man himself who had to pull the rickshaw through the rough, bumpy Gorakhpur roads, some of which are really a pain in the arse. Additionally, he had to ensure that the 'out of the capacity' load that he was carrying doesn't fall off from his vehicle whose probability of happening was very high. No sooner had I entered the kitchen to place the stuff on the rack, than my brother came yelling, " Dada, kisi ka rickshaw palat gaya... Jaldi chalo" (Someone's rickshaw has overturned, come soon, he needs help)

I had guessed the culprit by then. At a road junction in my colony, there lies an uncovered drain at a certain slope, such that any vehicle has to undergo an irregular and an uncomfortable bump to cross that junction, which makes it very difficult for a heavy vehicle, as well as, thin-tire broad vehicles such as a rickshaw to pass. For years, attempts have been made to cover the drain using bricks, concrete pavements and what not, all of which have been nullified by the careless rough usage and impatience of my own neighbours. Putting that aside, I rushed to the venue to find that the front tyre of the rickshaw was in the air as a consequence of the heavy load as well as a huge pit at the junction which was again too sloppy for the rear tires to cross. The body of the rickshaw was on the ground with those rear tires still stuck in the drain. 

As expected, there was a commotion created at the site with different kinds of people looking at the situation indifferently. We tried to lift the rickshaw, but the load was heavy and there was a probability that the frame would break. Unloading was the only option, as a bulk of sweet boxes were dropped on to the ground, after which, we lifted the frame and it was restored to its former state. Though, the sweet boxes were still lying on the road, suffering occasional stampeding by the pedestrians. As is the trademark of a typical Indian crowd, people started their own retrospections on the event telling the man how to take precautions while delivering, which road not to take, how to load and unload and which road would take him to his destination, all of which, he already knew. After greeting him with their expertise, which in their opinion, would have been of great help to avoid future occurrences of something which happened merely as a consequence of people's carelessness, they left leaving him alone with his rickshaw and those half dirty, partly destroyed scattered sweet boxes. I too was about to return, when out of the blue, a second thought struck me I went back to him.

It was then, that I had a first decent look at the man. He was old, to be honest, probably pulling rickshaws at this age to cater for his family needs. He might have been the sole source of income for his family, or probably he didn't even have a family, or he had the kind of family with an old father working out of his skins provide for his wife and un-married daughters. I didn't inquire about any of that but I had a prolonged stare into his eyes and they spoke much more than his lips would have ever spoken. I saw pain, helplessness and worry. Pain, probably because the fare tendered wasn't enough, or should I say, has never been enough, which meant, probably a chapati less or none for his little son or daughter. Helplessness, probably because he had a whole lot of partly destroyed goods scattered all around the place, the proper delivery of which, was extremely necessary for him to earn the night's food at least, and he had no one to help him out of the situation. Worry, probably because he was afraid as to what would happen when the owner of the sweet shop comes to know about this. Not only will his pay be cut off remorselessly, but he would also lose the daily contract, if he had any with the owner, which meant removal of another daily source of income.

I walked towards him as I saw that he was unable to reload the boxes by himself. I stood there for a moment trying to decipher how to put these boxes back and asked, "rakhwaa de?" (Should I help?)

He looked at me for a second and then with a low, regretful and disappointed tone replied, " rakhwa dete to accha hota." (I'd be grateful.)

We started loading the boxes again, at the same time, taking care that the pile doesn't fall off again. Those boxes were supposed to be tied by a rope which unfortunately was broken and required replacement. I was picking up the boxes and placing them on the frame while he was continuously instructing me to keep them in a symmetrical manner so that they don't fall off. We almost kept all of them back leaving a few completely destroyed ones and now they had to be tied. It was then that he decided that he needed to call the people who had first loaded it, probably the manufacturers. He might have thought that they would help him out here as it was their stock as well which was at stake. But at the same time he was afraid of the consequences, and that was why he turned around and said, "maalik to bulaa ke laate hain hum, rickshaw dekhna babu... yahi rehta hai paas me... babu jab maalik aaye to ye mat kehna ki rickshaw palat gaya tha... ye keh dena ki rassi khul gayi thi." ( I will have to call the owner now who lives nearby. Look after my rickshaw please until I come back. And when he comes, don't tell him that the rickshaw overturned. Lie to him that the rope broke-off)

With these words he left and for the next 20 minutes or so I had to look after the rickshaw during which I came across certain realizations. What I just witnessed, was very similar to what we face, at times, in life. We all find ourselves at the crossroads of oblivion where we're all like the man with the rickshaw, in pain, worried and helpless. Despite having hundreds of people around you, all you manage to do is to look back at the cargo that you have been carrying through all these years and think how different it would have been if you took another ship or carried a little less just like the man would have thought of taking another route or carrying lesser boxes. Despite having everyone, of every kind who keep telling you everything that you already know and need to know, all you manage to do is to think, think and re-think about what you want to know, and not what you need to. 

While I was waiting, another man, probably with his family came across on a motorbike and stopped his vehicle near the mess, as those boxes were acting as roadblocks, and asked me if the rickshaw was mine. He then asked me to push aside the boxes so that he may drive his vehicle through, to which I responded by carefully picking up the boxes thereby clearing the way. He asked me to hurry up by kicking the boxes at one go instead of placing it one by one by hand and I gave him a disgusted stare. I didn't listen to him despite his regular requests, but cleared the way nevertheless and he left. I thought of replying him back, that for those few boxes that I kick, a poor man may lose half of his pay and probably a day's food if not anything else. But then I kept quiet, as the realization dawned upon me-- 'Such is life'. No one here, cares about your cargo, no one! Trust me. We live in a world where people know that you're amidst a mess, they know that you're having a hard time cleaning it up, yet they would prefer to kick that mess aside and make way for themselves. And when you don't get the much needed help when you need it the most, you eventually succumb to the world and become one of them, not because you want to be, but because life's easier for you that way!

In a nutshell, the one thing that goes begging through this rat race and the so called 'my life, my rules' attitude is that very feeling that everyone needs but refuses to give in return- 'kindness.' Be kind and you will get kindness in return'- the phrase has lost its meaning not because it is actually meaningless, but because we have stopped looking for meaning behind the words. Kindness goes begging when an old man travelling from the south, who has been to Calcutta for the first time, is being stopped at the Howrah waiting room, just because his next train is from terminal 1 and not terminal 2. It goes begging when you refuse to offer your lower berth to senior citizens despite knowing that they would be unable to climb. It goes begging when you fight with your batch-mate over a petty issue despite knowing that its your mistake and in the process insult and humiliate him beyond limits, bringing into light his mistakes from the past, not realizing that even you or anyone for that sake, has a past, and not everyone like you loves to hurt back after getting hurt. These are many day to day examples where we get self centered, not because we're really that bad inside, but because we have been moulded into someone which we never really were.

It was about time, as I saw the man returning accompanied by two other men, who, as was expected, were blaming him for choosing the wrong route along with other accusations. I don't know what happened thereafter as my mom had been yelling furiously at me to come back. What I do know, is that everyday in this world there are a million people, travelling with overburdened loads imposed upon their shoulders, be it hopes of a hungry wife and children, or hopes of your own parents, or hopes of a disabled mother, or the responsibility of a father with two daughters, or just a struggle to survive for another day. Everyone here has a cargo tied behind his back, and this world would have been a lot better place to live in if we could lend our shoulders to unload or unpack some.