No regrets

I thought I could do better, so I finished work early and went for a walk. I phoned a friend and talked as I walked. I talked about work and films and music. I told her about Shams bhai and our weekend meets. I thanked her for being a friend when there are none left.

There are things I did not tell her though. I did not tell her that I watched La La Land one of these days and cried past midnight. This person is not a fan of subtitles and do not watch English movies.

I reached back home and took a bath. It is cold out, still not chilly as the mornings. I gelled my hair and sprayed perfume and applied old spice on my stubbles.

I then called the Lady and told her that I love her. No qualms about that. I told her neither that I cried the other day.

On the laptop, I tried this and that. Some of it worked, some didn’t. I spent an evening. No regrets.

Of lost purpose

I have nothing to do. I bought a new laptop. I thought having a new laptop would give me some access to a world. The access I got, but I have nowhere to go and nothing to do. I had thought I would read some novel. It’s been ages since I read one. Though I will read nothing and do nothing. It was not access that I lacked. I lacked purpose. No laptop can instill purpose in me.

The bar is low; I pass.

I have nothing.  There is nothing for me to tell and for you to listen.

I read cheap novels these days.  The page-turners.  The ones that you forget as soon as you put them down.  I read them in whatever little time I get between work and sleep and YouTube and twitter and Facebook.  Sometimes, I watch movies.  Most of them are more than two-hour long and they run past midnight.  There are very few things one can do past midnight.  I do one or the other.  I sleep.

I wake up in the mornings when it is impossible to stay in bed any longer.  I need to get up and brush my teeth and trim my beard and take a bath and iron the clothes and polish the shoes before ten o’clock.  I do some of the tasks; I leave some of them not done.

Some days I feel better.  Other days, and these are many, I feel miserable.  I don’t want to see anyone and let no one see me.  I sit in a glass chamber.  People come and go.  Some watch me through the glass panels.  Sometimes I feel like a person.  Other times I feel like I am an animal kept in a zoo.

Some days, I do good.  Most of the days.  I don’t let them know that I am sick and tired.  The bar is low; I pass.  People applaud.

Evenings are good time.  There are certain tasks one must do.  I make a phone call to home.  Nights are better.  I read cheap novels; the page-turners.  I scroll YouTube and twitter and Facebook.  Sometimes, I watch movies.  The movies run past midnight.  There is very little one can do past midnight.  I do something or other, then I sleep.

2018: A Twitter Review

January

February

March


April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

I am no more a reader

I have lost all desire to read.  I, who once considered myself a reader, has stopped reading altogether.  I have tons of books in Kindle and also in paper copy, but I read none of them.  If I read anything, it’s some total useless self-help book like I’ll teach you how to become rich.  I am no more a reader.  I sleep within five minutes of starting to read.

So next time if I boast of reading some book or something, remind me I am no more a reader.

Beyond love

What a loss!  To dream of a person for life, and then coming to a realization that you don’t dream of them anymore.

You meet her and see nothing has changed except these subtle changes, like you won’t touch her, and she’d keep a distance, and you won’t look into her eyes and stuff.  And then there are things like you tell her of The Milkman and she reads a page and something of it, and she tells you of some Guns and Roses and you know you won’t listen to them any time soon, but there will be some evening when you’ll dig them up and play those on loop.

Some things in life never change.  You loved her and you will love her.  Love acts in ways beyond making any sense; your dreams stop being your dreams and your love still keeps on being your love.

Letter to my son’s class teacher

A photograph of my son (2012)

Dear Sir,

I wish you a very happy Independence Day.

I’m writing this to you to tell about an incident my son told me this morning while getting ready for school. It may seem a trivial matter to some, but I think it’s a grave concern and I should inform you about it.

Yesterday, during some class, the teacher asked “Who (which country) is celebrating their Independence Day today?” She was talking about simultaneous freedom of two countries: India and Pakistan. But it happened that as she was talking about Pakistan, some students pointed towards one of your students Parvez and said “Madam, aaj Parvez ka Independence Day hai.. wo Pakistan se hai..” From what I know from my son, the teacher replied, “haa re, tum Pakistan se ho?” The kid bit his tongue and kept silence.

I’m shocked to hear about such an incident happening in our class. I told my kid that this country is as much of Muslims as it’s of any other Indians. Incidentally, I was listening to the song “apni aazaadi ko hum hargiz mita sakte nahi..” I told him about this song: it’s written by Shakil Badayuni, music by Naushad, sung by Mohd. Rafi, filmed of Dilip Kumar – all of them Muslims.

This is not the first time he told me about such bullying of Parvez. Many a times, other kids ask him to go Pakistan.

Kids are kids, sir. They learn from what’s happening around them. It’s our responsibility to identify the problem and correct the course. I’m sure such incidents happen away from your gaze and they are almost never brought to your attention. Yesterday’s incident was a perfect occasion to talk about it and get the kids sensitised about the topic. Things can’t be washed out just by hiding them. I’m afraid – if such incidents are happening at our school where all teachers are well-trained in children psychology, I cannot imagine situation of private schools that run on poorly trained teachers.

I’m a parent to one kid. You are a parent figure to hundreds of them. I’m sure you can educate the kids in a better way than any of us. I request you to please find some occasion, talk to the kids, and sensitise them towards the issue.

I’m especially concerned about the poor kid Parvez. My son, also previously, had told me about some behavioral changes in the kid. Sometimes, he gets aggressive and replies with “हाँ, हूँ मैं पाकिस्तान से..” Please provide him special attention. The kid has done nothing to suffer this kind of bullying.

I hope you’d understand my concern and would excuse me for overstepping into your area of expertise.

Yours faithfully,