Friday, February 3, 2023

little space


She took up little space. Home in the day was a 3X3 feet piece of pavement, and at night, the narrow space under a store awning.

She looked over 75, wore thick glasses that had seen so much, and a grimy saree she carried off with quiet grace. I’d been meeting her for close to 7 years.

I didn’t know her name and I don’t think I ever told her mine. There was no need. ‘Aunty’ and ‘beta’ worked well enough for us. We’d become acquaintances in this bustling, heaving, cheek-by-jowl city, and as I’d like to think, something more. I’d see her every day on my way home or when I’d step out to run an errand. I’d even see her when I’d step out for a run - she’d be slowly waking up and would wave a cheery ‘hi’ at me.

Once a week, I’d stop by and slip her a 500 rupee note through my folded hands. Always embarrassed, ever aware that what separated us was a slip of destiny’s wheel. I’d enquire how she was doing, and she’d always ask after our son: ‘Baba kaisa hai? School jaa raha hai? Ab kaunse class mein hain?’ ('How's your son? Hope he's regular at school? Which class is he in now?') If I was unwell or missed our weekly date for some reason, she'd ask as a matter of right when we met again: 'Bahar gaye the kya, dikhe nahin?' ('Were you out travelling? Haven't seen you recently) And I'd smile and make my explanations.

I once asked her about her family. And she told me that she was from Kandivili. That her son had left her here by the side of the road and promised he’d be back soon. ‘Soon’ turned out to be 18 years. That’s 216 months of monsoons, the scorching sun and a Mumbai winter that feels very different on a hard footpath. But there was no bitterness in her. Like most mothers, she was filled with inexhaustible goodness and that indefatigable empathy reserved for their birthed blood. She made excuses for him, said that she understood that she was getting to be a burden and forever believed that he would return one day.

She reminded me of my mum - of mums everywhere - and looking at her broke my heart. So I’d try and do what I could. Fruits, bedsheets, my amma’s old sarees, a soft pillow, an umbrella during the monsoons. All of it felt inadequate and self-serving. And truth be told, she gave me so much more. Every time we spoke, she’d end with ‘God bless you and your family.’ She said this with fierce affection and an earnestness that made me feel bulletproof. She only ever once asked me for something. She’d fallen asleep on the pavement one day, and someone had stolen her spectacles. She was devastated, I was aghast. She was quite dependent on them, and also didn’t know her eye power. I convinced a local optician to let her come in and get her eyes tested. But when I went back to her with this good news, she had something better to tell me. She grinned at me through her old glasses, as she narrated how a security guard from the bank nearby had taken them for safekeeping, afraid they might be accidentally stomped upon by someone.

Life with nonchalance, writes tearjerkers that copywriters strive to craft.

During the lockdowns, I’d step out to see if she needed anything. I told her I’d find an NGO to take her in, but she was clear that she didn’t want to move. ‘I have people looking after me here’, she said, referring to her ragtag support system that included the newspaper vendor who gave her the daily for free, and the quaint next-door restaurant that refilled her tea at no cost. ‘Besides’, she added, ‘My son should find me here when he comes’.

I have no idea if he ever came or even knows. But a few mornings ago, I saw for the first time that she wasn’t at her usual spot. And she hasn’t been around ever since. I asked but none of the regulars know. I hope she’s fine but chances are that she isn’t. At her age and terrifying lack of privilege, Occam’s razor cuts deep and fast.

In this bustling, heaving, cheek-by-jowl city that thrums with frantic energy and desperate purpose, she sat still everyday at the same spot, creating no ripples, just another elderly, homeless, nameless, everything-less human being.

She took up little space. But today, a little piece of pavement in Bandra stares back at me, enormous in its emptiness.

Friday, June 11, 2021

Give till it hurts you.

 



This is not one of those donation ads that tell you to spare what you can. 
That say ‘every little bit counts’. That preach every drop maketh the ocean. This is not an ad intended to make you feel good about pocket change.

You see, the problem is far bigger than what can be fixed by the price of two missed movie tickets or a bar night with the boys. 90 million Indians above the age of sixty are trying to survive on the streets by themselves – without adequate money, shelter or access to healthcare. Without access to love, or even hope. 


And that figure will be 120 million by the end of this year.


Imagine being hungry day after day while remembering what a full stomach feels like. Imagine sleeping on a park bench or under a flyover with only your own fading memory for company. Imagine the horror of seeing your organs fail you one by one – and the terror of realizing you’re all alone and moneyless and possibly homeless while that happens. Imagine being too weak to live but not weak enough to die. 


The ghastly thing is that you don’t even need to imagine. You just need to open your eyes and look around you. 


But once you’re done seeing, please turn your gaze inwards. Because you can make a real difference. We should know. We’re Concern India Foundation and we’ve been looking after the elderly poor for over 15 years now. We run old-age homes, nursing homes, adult daycares and hospices. And till now, we’ve helped 16,614 aged people across Delhi, Bombay, Pune, Calcutta and Chennai, age with comfort and dignity. We’ve done this with the help of many like-minded Indians. And now, we’re looking for many more.


Yes, this is a pitch for money but we’re asking you to dig deep. This ocean is too big. And to fill it will take more than just tokenism. 


Please give like your own mother were in need. Give like it were your father in the photograph above. Give till you can feel the giving. Only then – and still maybe only then – will you really be helping. 


And should you give till it hurts you, a strange funny nice thing will happen. Instead of hurting you, you will discover that giving does quite the opposite. 


Another little big way in which you can help old people help themselves, is to tear and keep this in your wallet. So that when you come across the next old person in need of assistance, we’re right there with you.


(Art courtesy my good friend and brother, Mark Flory)

Sunday, June 6, 2021

Slam bam thank you Cannes.



26th June 2015.


Ok, so the headline could be way better, but the experience can’t by much. For those of you who have never been before – and for those of you who have been here so many times that the Cote d’Azur has lost some of its blue – here’s what a first-timer feels at the Palais Des Festivals.


What you feel when you arrive, is lost. No, the word is overwhelmed. To begin with, there are just so many, way too many people. To get your Delegate pass requires you to stand in a line for an hour and a half inside a room where the queue snakes and feels like Immigration all over again. 


And then, the well-mannered French people don’t speak much English. And perhaps the only thing they dislike more is your assumption that they do. Which is why it is critical to learn a few basic French phrases, none more door-unlocking than “Vous Parlez Anglais?” To not ask first if a local speaks the Queen’s tongue is like looking a leaky diaper from up close. It stinks. And you can make out by their face that it stinks badly.


But if you do these small courtesies, they will break into a smile that will make your innards grin back. Because politeness will take you places, though I’m not sure it’ll help you woo the women in a way most men seem to want.


For the second impression is that of the bare display of beauty all around. Every third woman is gorgeous, and given that her office has paid for her to be here – she’s probably brilliant as well. So Cannes for a first-timer is also about seeing men try clumsy moves to impress women. High-ranking people with low alcohol tolerance and whiskey-goggled morals trying to be smooth, is another constant sight here. Perhaps they succeed sometimes, but they never fail to amuse.


And then there’s the booze. If the evening parties thrown by your company/client/media agency wasn’t enough, there’s enough free beer at the Connect Bar for you to clink glasses with your inner alcoholic.


But above all – and gladly and gratefully above all – Cannes is first about the work. The pieces on display are stunning, and most of them lose. The bronzes and silvers hardly get a fleeting mention, so fleeting that you can’t photograph your agency’s name on screen when it shows up. So fleeting that you have to check with your neighbor if you really won. Only Gold Lions get called up, and only their work is showcased. 


And then, there are seminars where the best in the business – and often from outside our business – share their learning. It’s like distilled intelligence being spoon-fed to a wide-eyed infant. To see Saatchi and Saatchi showcase 25 new film directors, to see RG/A talk about start-up accelerators, to see Marilyn Manson speak on the consequences of pursuing a brand personality and to see Monica Lewinsky bare herself on what it means to be the first victim of cyber-bullying is mind-bending, spirit-expanding stuff.


It’s stuff that makes you understand what Cannes is really all about. It’s business disguised as pleasure and for anyone with a creative bone (and not just a card) – it’s breathtaking and beautiful.


Breathtaking and beeautiful because it makes you hungry again.


Hungry to go one up next year because the sound of gold is like that of a thousand frenzied claps, and because that saying about all that glitters isn’t gold is a loser’s rant.


Hungry because it reminds you why you joined this damn industry in the first place, before EMIs and beyond designations and above all else.


Hungry for hunger’s sake.


Hungry till you want to make sweet love to the craft like it was the first time. 


So till next year, thank you, Cannes. Or like you’d prefer it, merci.


Ram Cobain (Jayaraman)

ECD Grey Bangalore

There’s a four-letter word in town.



1st Mar 2018


Dear Prime Minister


Even as you spend time sharing a tip or two with school children, perhaps you’d be interested in knowing what they’re actually learning.


Yesterday, my son, a few months over 5, whispered as I went to pick him up from his daycare: ‘Dadda, can I ask you something?’


A routine question, so completely ordinary that I would have replied ‘yes’ without even looking at him. But something about his tone made me glance at him. His eyes were furtive, sneaky but not in the good way of a child who has flicked an extra chocolate. And as when I nodded, he looked around the parking lot, shook his head firmly and said, ‘Inside the car.’


As I strapped him into his baby seat, this boy who is still not grown enough to hold a pencil with any authority, said: ‘I heard you can’t say ‘Beef’ in India. And then he added: ‘I heard that if you say ‘beef’ in India, you can get beaten.’


A Malayalee-Christian girl, his playmate at the daycare had informed him with chilling conviction. A little girl, just a few years older, yet afraid enough to pass her fear on.


Forget the unremarkable fact that we’re vegetarian Hindus (ok, egg-etarian). Take a minute to think about the extraordinary horror that Indian parents in some houses are actually having to coach their children into keeping quiet about their food choices. 


A Prime Minister’s job is no doubt very hard. But sometimes, to be a father is tougher.


I kept the shock out of my face, the outrage out of my voice, and dare say, even managed a smile as I replied: ‘Beef’s not available here, but you can always say it.’


His eyes took something from mine, and his smile returned. And we both said loudly ‘Beef! Beef!’ to each other.


Which is what I’ll also say to you, dear Sir. Beef Beef Beef! See, it’s not so hard.


What’s unpalatable is what’s happening all around us. And for the whataboutery criers, I’m sorry but none of these children were around earlier.


Peace, love, empathy

Ram Cobain

(Image courtesy 123rf.com)

in memoriam



9th Jan, 2018.

time flies. time stands still.


and between these two contradictory truths, you’ve left us in the limbo of the living.


time flies. tears dry up, the months march on. I go to the US on work, extend it by a week and have a family holiday. It’s colder than a witch’s mini-bar, my son plays with snow for the first time and grabs it like it were free ice cream. time stands still. in the middle of a subway ride home, one of your un-returnable hilarious repartees pops into my head. there’s nothing funny about it.


time flies. I go to Prague for a death metal festival, watch my favourite bands from the front row, mark memories in glasses of beer. time stands still. while brushing my teeth, I remember you hurrying me in another lifetime, ‘ramu, jaldi kar, ja chai banaa.’


time flies. I pick up a global award in my new company, watch an old man called Roger Federer mesmerize and pulverize his way to 2 more Grand Slams. I grow a full beard for the first time and even dye it for a lark. time stands still. in the middle of a bad meeting, your smile flashes in front of my eyes – that easy smile full of mischief, bursting with goodness I can almost touch. time stands still. in the middle of a great meeting, our bike ride to Bhimashankar races into my mind. the roar of our Enfields, the glowing silence of a brotherhood in between. time stands still. I go for an early-morning run. And as I grunt past Prabhadevi, the alley to your house glares accusingly from the shadows. time stands still. Pearl Jam plays in a bar, and it’s not Eddie Vedder who’s singing the chorus. time stands still. I eat the tastiest yellow dal I can remember – and then remember the awesome grease we used to order from Mumbai Darbar many moons ago. time stands still. it’s Diwali and the thought of cards conjures the picture of us sitting on the floor, playing teen patti and raking debts we can only pay in unequal-monthly-instalments. time stands still. I curse you often, with real anger and real love, unable to understand, unable to accept the sheer, irreversible frittering away of a life as gloriously-packed with tomorrows, as yours. 


time stand still. I go to doolally for a beer. I remember that this is where we had our last one together. It was December 2016.


time flies. 2018 comes. 9th January stands still. 


ram cobain

Saturday, June 5, 2021

bravery.


it often starts tentatively

furtively

fearfully even 

at first, a small step

a foot crossing a line

a tiny candle in a gathering

a shout in a chorus

a little fist in a crowd

an arm not raised in salute

a question asked of an emperor

but then soon

this little defiance

this rebellion too insignificant to be quelled

feeds itself

feeds itself with itself

growing not diminishing with each chew

a chomp of courage

a mouthful of mettle

a feast of guts, if you will

all going down audaciously

without a fight, even

till what was once a whisper

finds it voice

and when it speaks it doesn’t

it roars

bravery

a bit of it, bit by bit

becomes habit

(like the adage goes)

but bravery goes beyond clichés

till habit becomes instinct

instinct becomes purpose

and if there’s a lesson to bravery

it is this

bravery cannot be unlearnt

(like learning a bully’s stick hurts only so much

and no more)

and that once you’re truly, really, fully brave

you’ll be brave forever

the Gods know this

verily, it is not that they are silent

they are merely holding their breath

watching rapt

to see you take that first, small step

go cross that line.


ram cobain 


(Image courtesy Getty)


A matter of death and life.


15th Jan 2019.

Last Sunday, I went for the cremation of a young man, Avinash. 36 when he died, from a sudden and massive heart attack. Which was two nights before, on the 11th of January 2019.

I went because he was the older brother of my close friend, Kaushik, who died on the 9th of January, two years ago. Kaushik was 32 then.

Happy new year.

I went because his folks are like my own, like most of our own. Simple, intuitively warm, naturally god-fearing and thoroughly decent.

A parent having to do the last rites of his child is the worst joke the universe can inflict. In the epic movie, Sholay, the geriatric Imaam laments: “Jaante ho duniya ka sabse bada bojh kya hota hai? Boodhe baap ke kandhe pe jawan bete ka janaza.” (Do you know what the heaviest burden in the world is? It’s the weight of an old father carrying his young son’s coffin.)

Now imagine that crushing weight twice over.

This is devastating because it is against the run of nature. Yes, everyone is mortal, but the normal course is to outlive those who birthed you. The expected play of things is for you to sob because you loved the departed, but to smile knowing the person deceased lived a full life. This is eviscerating as it has left two of the loveliest people around – two parents, in their late 60s, shaking and numb. Incapable of comprehension, unable to accept and unwilling to let go.

Truly, how do you move on from something like this?

As a father, I know the abyss exists, but I don’t have the guts to peek into it. It is unimaginable to even vaguely contemplate; I cannot picture the horror of living through it every day.

The brothers also leave behind young wives who must train themselves to look forward, if only because the present is painful beyond compare.

Is there any meaning in this? Can this be explained with ‘The Man above works in mysterious ways’ or that ‘Only the good die young?’ If there is any sense in this cluster-fuck of a farce, it possibly is this: We imbue life with value and worth, and yet it is inherently meaningless; it’s a game of roulette that we’re unaware we’re even playing. The wheel is wide and there are many numbers, but there’s surely one with your name on it. The disc is worn out, the ball hops without notice and without care. And often with glee. The universe is either random or it is deliberate. There are either Gods, or there are none. But in either case, the powers-that-be don’t always play fair or even feel the need to give answers. When your next breath is just the whoosh of the casino ball missing you, perhaps all one can do is to live in the now. To be grateful for this moment. And to appreciate that every moment alive is honestly just chance.

So, smile often. Forgive more people, more often. Be more fearless than you dare to be. Take yourself ridiculously. Gravitas is just gravy.

And go for sloppy kisses, hugs that hurt. Because if not now, then when? When fucking when?

Peace, love, empathy

Ram Cobain

(Pic courtesy Woodinville Florist)

When a nation is in danger of losing its way.


December 2019.

Economic slowdowns are tough to digest and terrible to live through. But eventually, the path to recovery is clear as the scars of past recessions make for good maps. But it is when a nation is at the precipice of losing its moral compass, that things can spin off the axis into a place that no one wanted to go or knows how to come back from.

The idea of India is based on plurality. Secularism is more than a word inserted into our constitution’s Preamble; it’s the very essence of what makes us, us. Crucially, it is also not something to appease Muslims with. Fact is, throughout the world, India has wielded immense soft power precisely because our founding fathers were inclusive and chose neutrality as the state’s religion. We are Gandhi’s India, home to all those who chose to stay back during partition. Without any lines thereafter. Which brings us to the hopscotch called the CAA-NRC.

There are many issues with the double whammy of the CAA and the NRC, and here is an incomplete summary of the horrors. Protesters say that the Citizenship Amendment Act is against the spirit of the secular nature of our constitution, as it makes religion a criterion for citizenship. The ‘genius’ legal pirouette is that by itself it might not violate the constitution in letter – its defendants remind us that the constitution doesn’t apply to foreigners. The incendiary potential of the CAA becomes apparent once you combine it with the NRC. If say, a Hindu and a Muslim are unable the prove their citizenship under the NRC, the former might be saved under the CAA while the latter can be rendered homeless, stateless. ‘Less’, in the worst possible way.

Then there’s the petulant-but-pertinent point of the 2019 election results – If de facto, everyone has to prove their citizenship, then how are the votes received valid? Unless it’s the convenient notion that at the time of the elections, everyone was an Indian citizen – and only now, once the power equation has been settled, do they need to produce the proof.

Others draw attention to the fact that the very logic of the Acts is elastic – some countries are in, others aren’t. Persecuted minorities from 3 Islamic countries of Pakistan, Afghanistan and Bangladesh are in, but persecuted Hindus from say, Sri Lanka are out. The government says the CAA specifically addresses the people affected by the partition and hence doesn’t look at other countries. But then it excludes the Balochis and the Ahmadis, who were part of ‘undivided India’ and whose persecution is well documented. Even the idea that persecuted Sikhs, Hindus, Jains and Parsees will find refuge in India presupposes that India is their natural home – but by exclusion, not so for Muslims. Here’s another example – everywhere else, the CAA-NRC combo potentially means illegal Muslims are out – but given the fears that Bangladeshi Hindus granted citizenship will change the ethnic demography of the N.E. states – the government is speaking of ‘tweaking the NRC’ for them.

Yesterday, Arvind Kejriwal, Delhi’s CM, pointed out an irony that would be laughable if only tears didn’t come first: We’re willing to create citizenship documents for those who aren’t living in India, but will deny it to those who have been living here for generations – because they don’t have any papers. And when we can’t create jobs/houses for our own people, how will we do so for these new citizens?

But enough about India for a minute. Let talk a bit more about our neighbours. The CAA-NRC has upset Bangladesh, our one clear ally in the subcontinent – by the presumption that our favoured minorities are being persecuted there. But that’s not all. Tragedy becomes farce when you read articles about how Pakistani Hindus have rejected the offer in CAA. They’d much rather be in Pakistan than come here, they assert. A few anti-nationals there have even had the gall to tell us that the Acts violate our constitution.

Ravish Kumar questioned bluntly the need for any Indian to have to stand in line to prove their citizenship, while Santosh Desai spoke eloquently about ‘a problem of solutions’ – the CAA will benefit a minor few, while the number of people it anguishes far outnumber them.

Others have brought out how implementation with a Type II error rate of just 5%, will mean that

67.5 million people
will face action, equalling the human displacement caused by World War II. In comparison, 8.8% Aadhar holders reported errors in their details.

There is also the unspoken economic cost of implementing the NRC. There are as yet, no figures of the thousands of millions needed to set up booths and hire officers PAN India. In Assam alone, it cost 1120 crores and there are grave doubts over its accuracy. Now factor in the cost in people-hours that will be wasted as a productive populace fritters unaccounted minutes standing in queues instead of putting their shoulder to the wheel and pushing the economy and their families forward. Plus the suicidal business sense of turning productive, revenue-generating ‘citizens’ into cost-generating illegals. Not to speak of the inhuman, unacceptable moral price of the idea and sight of the detention centers themselves – as there is no other country we could possibly send these un-citizens back to.

Harder still, is to put a tag on fear. The average Muslim on the street is afraid they will be singled out, despite whatever the government says. The average Muslim has had to prove their patriotism many a time before these bills came into being. Sadly, neither does refuting Jinnah’s two-nation theory nor dying in wars with Pakistan seem to make them Indian enough. From the plumber who comes to fix the taps in our house to our financial advisor to colleagues who work in the industry – if they share something in addition to the same faith, it is the worry of a similar fate.

Now let’s assume for a minute that all of this is a figment of our liberal imagination (no pun intended) or a plot by an Opposition so lame they possibly couldn’t organise a birthday party or a conspiracy by Pakistan who manage to somehow stir up our pot whenever they want to, hoodwinking scores of leather boots and rows of 56” chests. But even if all of this is fanciful hogwash, the question still remains. Is this needed now? Or ever?

Maslow spoke about a ‘hierarchy of needs’ many moons ago, but perhaps his lecture wasn’t part of the course on Entire Political Science. An economy struggling with basics should surely have other priorities – there are gaping primary needs that need our collective, undivided energies before we twiddle with un-necessities. And neither the CAA nor the NRC are the most critical issues confronting us – not today, hopefully not ever.

The PM spoke about ‘Sabka Vishwas’ along with ‘Sabka Vikas’. The latter has quietly slipped away from the ruling party’s lexicon – with employment at a 45 year low and literally all sectors showing a dip, ‘Achche Din’ can be seen only in internet memes. On the question of ‘Vishwas’, the party must ask itself this: Does it really think the optics of this exercise go towards reassuring minorities, whatever its intent and even the facts may be?

The good news is that onus of the fight for India’s soul hasn’t been placed only on the marginal population’s shoulders. Indians everywhere are protesting. #HindusAgainstCAB was one of Twitter’s better moments, and many of those who voted the government in are now saying this isn’t what they voted for.

The ruling party has a penchant for unleashing “bold decisions” and springing “masterstrokes”. But there’s bold and decisive, and then there’s bold and decisive and good. While a bull in the ring is a majestic creature, the same inside a china shop is a different kind of beast. Context is everything, and not all motion is progress.

The CAB was rammed through with brute majority in the parliament, and the protests on the streets (at least in Jamia and AMU thus far) have been quelled with brute force. But for all of the government’s assurances that ‘No Indian citizen needs be afraid’, people are anxious. And contrary to stated belief, urban naxals aren’t behind the protests – only concerned citizens identifiable by their Indianness – with the likes of IPS officers who quit over the issue, and a

94-year-old freedom fighter. 
If the best orator the nation has had in recent memory can’t convince the people, maybe he should be the one listening.

The PM called himself the ‘Pradhan Sevak’ – the prime servant – of the people. If he really means what he said, perhaps he should bow to the roar on the streets and steer India away from the abyss. There is no loss of face in realising you’re wrong. If anything, it’s the difference between a politician and a statesman.

Jai Hind.

(P.S. The views expressed are personal, those of an Indian, a Hindu and someone unaffiliated with any political party – in that order.)

(Image courtesy The Print)

If you think it’s depressing staying indoors, try stepping outside.

May 2020, Coronavirus First Wave.

Beyond the four walls of privilege, is the real world that Coronavirus has really broken.

Young men carry frayed knapsacks and walk around in circles. The city-of-dreams’ belongings on their backs, the nightmare of a weight of something heavier on their shoulders. Aimless. Directionless. Eyes glazed not by cheap booze but by something cheaper. Hunger. Home is too far to walk. Or isn’t it? Is it? Or isn’t it?

A migrant dead on his cycle many hundred kilometres away from his house, would tell you it is. Those mowed down by a train in their sleep would also agree. But if you could revive either, chances are, they’d try for home again. What would be insanity in a sane world, now seems the only rational course of action.

‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in’, Robert Frost said evocatively many moons ago. Warm words, cold comfort.

Others lie on the pavement, too tired to even get up. Human flies swatted away by the heavy hand of uncaring, ineffective or insufficient governance. Too exhausted by the enormity of just surviving the everyday. Their amygdalas taking over, conserving the last vestiges of energy for survival, saving nothing for dignity.

Tired, frail, bewildered Sisyphus pushing up a down escalator.

An old man refuses a hundred rupee note. Asks instead for bread and jam. He might have had the eyes of a madman, only if they weren’t clouded over by cataract. If only I could meet them.

And what of the little ones? The tykes we’re used to seeing at traffic signals are energetic, purposeful and childlike happy as compared to these kids. These waifs have their hands thrust out at you not with a demanding rat-a-tat but with a quiet, desperate silence. While their parents stare on from nearby, believing in advertising’s eternal gospel that children evoke deeper emotions.

No beggar mafia this. Just 7-year-olds fending for their parents. Let that sink in.

Another elderly homeless woman who I’ve befriended these last three years, sits like it is yesterday from a different life. Only now, some kind soul has given her a mask. I tell her about a camp a few hundred feet away, and she gestures to her swollen knees. I check on her as often as I can, but how often is as often?

Indeed, how much is too much?

If the point of privilege is giving it away, then no amount of giving seems enough. Loaves of bread disappear in seconds. More disappear even faster. Donating to one small charity reminds you that there are more. Many, many more. And that usually warm glow of doing something good – now that’s just a burn reminding you that you’re so much better off.

And now, see this from their eyes. A class of people divided by many things, is now divided by a line itself. Those who can queue up vs those who cannot. A serpentine column of people carrying more in their wallets than those outside it will earn in their lifetimes. A human train of chance and opportunity, of a lucky birth to the right parents. Standing restlessly behind their masks. Bored on their phones. Worried that they might end up having to pick up spaghetti over fettuccine, if stores run out. Too self-indulgent for empathy, yet not too unaware to avert their eyes from those asking a question.

And now, see this from the eyes that ask you. Imagine looking at a supermarket filled up with more than a belly can hold, and people bursting forth with bags heavier than they can carry.

So my friends, you see, it’s not depressing to not be able to step out. It is not depressing to not be able to meet friends, buy booze or go to that vacation from last year.

Privilege means these are all only minor, trivial, inconsequential inconveniences.

If you want to see something heart-squeezingly, gut-emptyingly depressing, do this. Break no laws, wear a mask and go out on an essential errand.

It is essential that you open your eyes.

ram cobain

(Image courtesy Economic Times)

Thursday, June 3, 2021

The first full marathon

23rd Jan 2021.

Ran my first full marathon today, in 4.26. it means a lot to me as it's been such a mentally unachievable distance for so long. I'd wanted to run this last year, but injured myself quite badly by running 21k with shin splints. This meant I couldn't attempt the full at TMM 2020 - in fact, I couldn't run at all, for six months or thereabouts. So I'm doubly proud of knocking this off my bucket list. I'm also proud that my splits are so even - ran the first half marathon in 2.13 and the second in exactly the same. I also finished strong without walking at all (nothing wrong with walking, I was in fact prepared to quit at any point as I was running this with a freak abdomen strain). And while a runner runs their race individually, there are always more than two feet that make it happen. To my brothers, Anoop and Rohant, who offered and ran the last 10 odd kms with me - they upped both my spirits and my pace, offering water, egging me on and more importantly - they were there. To my other runner brother and guruji, Amit Ojha, who was always present with his advice and guidance - a deep thank you (it's another thing that us mortals can't implement most of it. To my physio, Rajani, who gave me the treatment and the green light to attempt this, and whose wizardry put my back on my feet last year. To Gayatri, without whose belief and support, the dream of a 42k would have stayed just that. You've held fort beyond just the many Saturdays where I'd disappear; I honestly owe it all to you. And finally, to fellow runners everywhere, you make this insane and illogical pursuit of masochism, more bearable and less lonely

🙏 And now, I've run out of words - and as always, it's time for beer. #shrirampropertiesbengalurumarathon #grateful