Purely Embedded

So... I looked numerous times out of window to catch a glimpse. For it had appeared the other day out of no where. i had no idea it existed, no idea it would, and when it did eclipse, ...my guard dropped.

...and now something has no idea that He was playing dice......funny how HE plays. Just rolling them randomly with randomness for random people. I never knew that I could feel what I am feeling now. Been through the storm and thought I had shed it off. That emotion that would just never return again.

Don't get me wrong life, i don't want it.... It is already there ... Yeah! ...embedded.. The question is ...now what ?

Anyone or anything that fits in to a small niche deep inside, having slipped in effortlessly, needs to be just kept..
So until He rolls that dice again, I will keep this beautifully pure feeling deep inside..For thats where it appeared first, and thats where it shall remain.

Pure it is...

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…

In Forty Years

Some body asked me, Akshay, where do you see yourself in forty years? Dead I guess, I said. I ask you, where do you see yr self in forty years. Think! Well it got me thinking and I said well lets see.

In forty years I will be 78, which is way long over due for the life style I lead, the food I eat, the smoke I smoke and the drink I drink. I have always been a sucker for getting in and out early. Longevity counts in certain areas and I can hold my own there, but this is another ballgame altogether. I have always been one to live life and wanted to come in sliding sideways in to my coffin. No time for weepy farewells. Be done and be gone. Forty years seems inane. Never worked my mind beyond forty seconds, regretted it some times, but all in all I have done okay.

Forty years means my daughter will be forty seven and still as pretty as she is today, which is natural considering she has my genes. She will have lots of men running after her, for I would have shot each one of the earlier boyfriends. Which is sad too, but I don’t care. My wife, if she is still around, would be senile, or would have given up on me, or would have mastered the art of ignoring me and my constant complaining. Which in a way would also be nice, for I hate it when she answers back. Why can’t the argument ever end with me having the last word? My parents would still be around. Not because they have this magic potion, just because they have always been around. Any way so on the family front; I would be quite a content man. My career would have been over… I don’t have to wait forty years to tell you that, I am told, it’s just a matter of time.

Will I be flying? Yes Sir. You can bet your cute little bottom on that. Not only will I be flying, I’ll be flying in the most exquisite surrounds of the world. You may ask me for a ride and if you are really nice and can ignore that occasional gust of wind, pretending it was the old factory that we just flew over, well I might just consider taking you along. I may repeat one of those old anecdotes that I keep repeating with friends. But then I know you are so nice you’ll always pretend as if it’s the first time. So all you have to do is pretend and I’ll take you on a joyride of a lifetime.

Forty years and I would have retired from my professorship at some fine university. My students would have enthused minds, all because they had this opportunity to have been under my tutelage. Would they cross the road to say hello to this old fart. Who cares? In a world going so wrong, I seldom let stuff like this dwell on my 32 bit RAM. What matters is that we made things count in those forty minutes in class. How I loved my teachers and instructors who did that. In forty years I would have probably written a book or compiled all this stuff that I keep penning down from time to time and found a gullible publisher to do the needful.

Now the challenge part for all my golfing friends out there. I would have won at least one golfing tournament on stroke play and not stable ford. I would have been whacking those balls for so long, it would be time they started ending up in the right places. Will I still be yearning for some thing? I reckon I would want that Peugeot 407 Coupe that I saw the other day. Would never buy it even if I had the money. Would I be earning in dollars and spending in Rupees. That will be really nice. Will my age be past my waist? Yes I think so. I think forty years hence would be nice. Will I still long for a civilized world. I think for that we’ll need many a double score. Yet I hope I can be proved wrong in forty years. When I’ll look back after forty years would I say, Yes I would do it all over again? The answer my friend is blowing in the wind. So we all have forty years to go, starting tomorrow. Karma is what matters. Go live it.

MY DRIVE TO WORK

The fact that I am here writing this piece means that a lot of stuff went right while I was left alone. I drive to work each day, 19 Km one way, and reach my office, which has 7 phones. On an average a phone rings at least 42 times each day. My Math is no good and I know yours sucks too, so let me put it simplistically. It means I don't need to visit the AC gym in my society for I am working on my biceps everyday, during working hours, on government expense. See!!! That’s why they say a government job is the best thing to have. Coming back to my morning drive, I leave home at 8 am and take the Dwarka Expressway to the IGI Airport. At the same time, as if in perfect synchronisation, 10000 (ten thousand, in words also, since some one might try to remove or add a zero) other cars from the neighbourhood leave with their owners. We all love to race each other since that’s the only sport half of this city indulges in. The others, the pedestrians, indulge in hop skip and jump. They like to see which one of them can out do the other by crossing the road, or darting across it, just when your car is in ideal super cruise conditions. They love to sugar your speed. It’s an art that has been handed down from one generation to the other. Every one in the family must know it well enough, before they are allowed to procreate. All this up until the day the family car arrives. Thereafter, the sport changes and one gets to play racing. The progression is a much talked about event in the community, usually sweets are distributed by the car dealer who also clicks a photograph of the new team with their chariot. A small religious ceremony also may mark the event.

Well, I go past IGI on the newly constructed flyovers all the way to Rao Tula Ram Marg. Don’t try and look for the road sign, you may hit some one and then your sport will change to Boxing. On display I can see at least 3-4 accidents each day. An accident scene is typical. Both parties flash their oversized phones and try and reach their distant uncle in Delhi Police (every one here has a relative in the police) who if not suspended or under forced leave or if in a sane state to comprehend the issue, may react in a myriad of ways. Usually, by the time the police arrives, the Dilliwalahs have figured out status, power, money, position, connections, cast creed, etc and the guy with the most ticks to the above criterion gets away and the other guy makes gestures that may not be described here and pledges to take revenge on some other car in days to come. No car and let me repeat, no car in Delhi is not dented. All cars are dented, or have been dented or will get dented today. Period, that’s the Delhi rule. Why do these accidents occur? Simple all because the racing guys and the hop skip guys are all looking at half empty low cost airlines that have aircraft coming in to land at Delhi’s new runway at the same Airport. So here you have people racing, hopping, skipping and jumping across all trying to catch a glimpse of the perfect approach and landing.

The Director Civil Aviation doesn’t need black boxes to investigate a mislanding. All they need to do is give out a five digit number for half of Delhi to sms to. I forgot to mention, that both categories of people, that is the racing ones and the hopping jumping ones are all busy sending text messages while they do their thing. It’s called Multi Tasking. A buzz word we heard when the economy boomed. Now that the economy is bombed, the buzz word is still multitasking. Some things are always here to stay. Just so you know, as if this was not enough, the racing types are also changing channels on the FM radio. After all, no one wants to miss anything on the dozen channels that Delhi has to offer. The RJz are amazing. They make up their own HINGLISH and that’s how the racing types and the hopping jumping types get their lessons in public speaking.

While I make my way through this carnival, I observe the traffic and try to figure out who lives where and is going where. Are there more people in Delhi working in Gurgaon or are there more people in Gurgaon going to Noida. Is the entire country attempting to congregate at some place in the capital? Just then I come to a screeching halt. One of our many politicians is also going to work. This early you may ask. Some one has to open the damn doors of the circular parliament also. So all traffic is stopped, occasionally the pedestrians may be told to turn around and face the other way, if they are too close to the motorcade, which incidentally has graduated from the white ambassador car to silver metallic Safaris. Once the motorcade has crossed to a safe distance that translates to a couple of light years, traffic is allowed to flow once again. During this entire ride, all parties exchange frowns, signs, gestures, and abuses with fellow racing types. Occasionally, one might go astray to the hopping skipping types and share a few words. Some of them will remember sisters while other will remember their mothers. It’s a close knit family you see and this is what has been taught to us by our forefathers. So in a nut shell, this is the excitement I get just going to work. No wonder everyone wants to come to Delhi. Who says Delhi is bad. I love Delhi.