Choices

To think that you could go capering down this trail, trudging carefree and careless was sheer delight. It was a notion of freedom in those times. I remember it was you, who chose to differ, who chose to streak bare. If they call you names now, degraded as you persist in their eyes, why feel ashamed. You chose to be this. Who told you it was going to be easy, name them, for no one, not one soul around you would have given you this sane advice. They are pickled in their own grease of ordinariness. They were all a group, a different brand. You just chose to be them, ever since you craved for their approval.

Their assembly has been wrecked for so long, so many times, so many clusters, each wondering where they fit in. Stigmatised by your own connections or the lack of them, you have moved on. What remains are unopened doors and unspoken words and you marvel at them as a fresh opportunity. You have systematically wrecked every relationship, cut every strand of association and betrayed every passion, just so you could drift. You are a vagabond of sorts, scared to hang on to something for too long, for longevity has never been your virtue.

You weary traveller, awaken; you are still in transit, your endpoint closing its doors on the likes of you. How many more inns will have to drench their hearth just so you don’t see a glimmer of hope? You arrogant fool, take my hand or you may die here in the cold. Let me be your crutch, I think you need me to limp along. I have been you and gone this way before. Just choose me and splash through this rivulet. It’s been dying here waiting to soak in to you. The icy waters will take away your pain, your load. I was once here and never made it further. Now that I have you, I want to choose again.

IT'S TIME TO GO

IT’S TIME TO GO

Azimuddin looks at me and wonders if I need to be bothered with the ration that is yet to be collected, since he is too old and can’t do it alone. He wonders if he should tell me about the unit cook that has been attached to a sister unit just because their cook is not cooking. He pauses hoping that I would look his way and acknowledge his presence. I don’t and keep gazing at the aeroplane taxying out for yet another sortie. Obviously the trainee is on controls since the water mark of the tyre is leaving a voluptuous trail. I shift to the ground crew kneeling under the wing of another parked aeroplane, checking for something that shouldn’t be there or should be, but is not.

Azimuddin is six feet two and in his days must have been one striking hunk. Age has caught up with him and he tends to get too bothered like all us with white years. He has put in over thirty five years in the IAF as a waiter, cook, helper, safaiwala, father, mother, guide and mentor. He has ensured no trainee went without a meal irrespective of the pressures of training flying. He has been dutifully keeping watch while trainees came and went. A life time spent managing a small kitchen and a small complex. He complains now and then about how the service has changed. If you pretend to listen he will tell you about the all the senior officers who still acknowledge his presence whenever they come visiting. I don’t pay attention since I cannot take away his misery of rations and cooks. He waits, ponders and leaves, muttering on the standard of officers in the service these days. I still pay no attention as I am 18 years away.

Same complex, same kitchen, same corridors and same him. One long trip which started back when this town was one half its size and had one main arterial road. The only place to eat was near the gurudwara, where a lady, christened aunty would make aloo paranthas and serve us with butter and yogurt. A major slice of our salary went to her. Little wonder her daughter joined the family business and lives in a house now. The gurudwara was also a favourite haunt before a check sortie. It didn’t matter if you believed in Sikhism as long one of the ten gurus believed in you for that one hour when you flew. I started my jet career here along with my batch, a patch of which has diminished and moved on. I am diminishing too and somehow it hurts that another year and I won’t be able to fly a jet ac in the service, fulltime. I am, like they say, over and done with. I have reached my pinnacle in these twenty one years since I left home. I am going to miss it so much, for I have just hung on for morning to dawn, every night. The thought of one more trip in to the third dimension, one more seduction, and one more joint of this medication called flight. You know it is the most awesome contract to have and the government also puts a significant something in your account, like a ritual, every last day of the month.

One is taught to walk in step from the first day and then, as you grow, others keep time with you. The uniform is bare when it wears you for the first time, with just the crisp wing on the chest and the skinny stripes on the shoulder. You are called; well you were called, a Pilot Officer. A pilot and an officer. No other rank had such eminence attached to it. No one was ever in doubt as to what you did and what you were meant to do. Shopkeepers, bankers, relatives, uncles, clerks, railway staff, almost everyone knew who you were. That was the power of that small stripe and the wing. Pity they changed and promoted the lowest rank a rung higher.

They also changed the officer cadre in a way that will never be the same. I remember off hand at least two dozen names of pilots, controllers, technicians, logisticians, administrators, meteorologists who made a difference in our lives. They worked diligently, so we made our mark. These days, nobody has the time to walk even a few steps, including me. We are the most awful thing to happen to today. No wonder, Azimuddin mumbles, as he strolls back to the kitchen.

I am shaken out of my reverie by the sound of a formation approaching directly above. The novice wingman tucked in tight. The formation does a peel off and comes in for landing. As I watch them, I recognize that one more lesson in warfare has just got over; this tradition of teaching has been handed down in the most honourable way for generations and is a revered assignment. To not be here in a few months is a sinking feeling. To be resigned to a desk, pushing files and lettering notes makes me judder. To not lean on the bar on a hot afternoon, with a chilled beer, drinking with my brethren, makes me insecure. I never want to leave this womb.

Noor-e-khuda

I must have been doing about 70 miles an hour just to keep the sun out of my side of the window. I was making my way back to Pune from my base to meet my family to make up for the many times that I have not been around. I have to make up for a lot of other things but that’s for later. So about half way across the midlands of India, I saw this couple on the side of the road. The man was standing in a white dhoti kurta and the woman in an old worn out sari was sitting on her haunches, tired of waiting for a bus that wouldn’t stop for them. I crossed them and realized that I was to be their ride that hot afternoon. So I stopped, reversed and drove up in front of them. The man thought I was asking for directions and asked me in a rustic way if he could help. I asked him in my broken Marathi if I could take him where he wanted to go. He still didn’t understand since not many of me had stopped their speeding cars on old state highways for elderly couples waiting to go some where. But once I offered again his look changed and I could tell that I had done the right thing to stop for them. He was almost in tears as he knew that both of them were tired making their way just to reach the road head. I helped him with his seatbelt and made the lady comfortable in the rear. His wife of many years looked suspiciously at me once they had settled in to the car. He assured her that I meant well and not to worry. Her husbands’ assurance meant a lot to her since she just wanted to be sure in this unsure world.

I asked him what he did and where was he going. He worked in the fields with his wife and they were going to meet their little girl who had just had a baby and was a mummy now. She was married to a mason in a town just short of Pune. I told him I was also going to meet my little girl and her mummy. He asked me what I did and I told him I flew aero planes. He smiled and said I drove like that too. So I eased of on the pedal and took it easy. They planned to stay there for a few days. I told him I was coming back in three days and I would be gladly get them back. He thanked me for the offer but said he really didn’t know how many days they would be staying. I thought that it probably depended on his son-in-law and his moods. He had a small bundle of stuff tucked in between his feet and I could make out that these were probably clothes or some goodies for the daughter and her baby. I could tell from his talk that they had been meaning to visit their little girl for a while and some how it had not been possible. Now they were finally on the road and inching closer. They had just one girl, no other kids.

Then it dawned on me as to why I had stopped and why this couple were in my car. Something so wonderful about little angels. He was going to meet his and I was going to meet mine. Funny how god manages traffic and carpools like minded people. The next time you think you need to stop…stop. You could be playing a small part in gods huge conspiracy to make ends meet.

always a woman to me...

Been away too long from my lonesome desk. Been away far too long from the guitar that waits for me in the corner, when I get back every evening. Been away way too long from the safari that enjoys me as much as I enjoy her… Been away too long from life…

Why?

Ahh!!! Flying the lady you see. She has this effect on me as if there was never anyone else. No other woman mattered as much as this ageless belle. Its so untrue... there were others, but she makes it feel as if she was always the one with an arm around me... the willing woman. She has a way with me. She undoes everything else, everyone else did or does. She is the witch that haunts me, the bitch that taunts me, the stitch that saves me, the hitch that won’t leave me, the ditch that lobs me… the niche that finds me.

Something romantic, loving, wanting, touching, kinky… just near enough so she can cling to me like I cling to her. Every morning when I want her she is there, fresh, full, waiting…almost wantin. For she knows she is the chosen one… almost sniggering at the others who don’t hold my fancy no more. Every morning… imagine.

She pardons me for my not keeping a date, hardens me to face another day, puts up a face to save mine, acts up to show who is in charge, weeps so I take her up, cajoles me to keep at it, yanks me if I can’t keep up, demands that I twist and turn her...

...She is always a woman to me…