happy2fight

When I stepped into the compartment of the train to Belgaum and saw four white co-travellers, I did pause for a moment. They wore printed cotton t-shirts and trousers that came close to pajamas. Evidently they had travelled the previous 24 hours from Delhi and had another 12 hours to Goa, the beaches.

The bald and bearded gentleman was overjoyed to see the book of Mulla Nasruddin's tales in my hand. He was reading Osho. His girlfriend was sketching with crayons in her notebook. They spoke a language I could not make out. Then I started listening to the conversation of the couple that sat opposite. I could make out the English accent. I quite like the twang or whatever they speak with.
The English girl was getting rattled by the constant swinging and chatter of about half a dozen kids in the train. They kept holding the handles and taking swings. The kids were going to Goa after giving their exams and their parents weren't bothered with their antics.

In one such swing, the kid held on to the skirt of the English girl, who had stood up just then. It got pulled down a wee bit and she went white with embarrassment and hid her face in the shawl for some time. I noticed the last part of this momentary tug. My companion- it turned out to be a Russian beauty - did not notice anything. The English girl asked her, did you see what happened? She was relieved that the Russian hadn't seen it. Her irritation with the kids started shooting up. She shooed them away twice.

When meals were served, I asked the girl if they were English. She said yes. I told her I quite liked the accent. She thanked me. Just then another kid came and stood near watching the contents of my plate. I asked him what he wanted. His gaze was fixed on some sticker. Perhaps there was some contest for the kids who collected 10s of these stickers. I gave the sticker to him. The English girl said, "rascals, aren't they?" I said yes. "But children would be children", she was trying to reason with herself. "Yes, but there is a limit to their pranks. Parents have to tell the children how to behave in the company of adults. We keep telling adults how to treat children. That's fine and there is a time for children also to grow up and learn to keep quiet." She agreed. The grandma of one of the kids overheard this conversation, took the hint and called her ward to order and peace.

Both the foreign couples were quite engrossed with what they were doing and with each other as the lights were turned off. I searched for evidence of drug usage, as I placed these people in the Hippies. I didn't find any traces, they were healthy, eating a lot of fruit(the English girl said tropical fruit were very expensive in UK) and did not smoke much. They wore simple and decent clothes, unlike the hippies.

I got in touch with so many of my own preconcieved notions about hippies and the like. When it became too much, I fell asleep.

happy2fight: Friends and poets

It's not important to know, it's vital to touch.
It doesn't matter who you are, it matters what you are.
It's not important to know who you are. It's vital that I am touched by what you are.
It's ok that you work, it's better that you express.
It's fine that you respond, it's wonderful that you care.
That's it : the touch that cares.
Give it to receive it.

I spent an evening with two of my brothers-in-law, who are past 60, who love a drink or two and love poetry. We all share a love for Hindi film lyrics as well. As the evening wore on, we moved from spirit to spirit, floating lightly. As my favourite numbers were sung, they pointed out that these numbers were all set to tune by a musician, who was known for racy music. Surprisingly, my favourites were all soft and romantic numbers, set to very classical tunes by the particular musician. Not many of his fans would recognise these as his creations.

Then the older of the Bil recited the first line of a verse extempore:-

"This tavern turns old dandies into simple souls"

and asked me to complete the second line. My offering was this:-

"And the world calls this intensity by the name of inebriation."

He soon fell asleep. The other Bil decided to stay on. I came home, mortally afraid that my wife Mads would make mincemeat of me. I live for another day!

happy2fight: A poem

I had a peculiar dream this morning. I was on the net and the site was such that whenever I wrote something and clicked, it would give a response and ask me to move on. I cannot remember anything of the site or the words, but can only recall the feeling that the responses were trying to strengthen me in some unknown way. Very strange indeed!

Well, my unconscious mind is telling me something. I don't wish to try and decode it rationally. I am sure I will lose it that way. So may be wait for the mind to calm down and settle down to its slow rhythm, so that it could be at its receptive best. Is that emptying the mind? I have felt rested at times when I have emptied the clutter of thoughts.

happy2fight
I wrote this poem some years ago and was reminded of it when I read a romantic poem this afternoon.
I was a romantic person. Was..?

"Your soft words
like birds flying high
with abandon and joy.
silent spaces shower blessings.
Mists in your eyes
rise beyond hills
inviting souls to hug".

Last week, a young man from the institute died in a road accident while riding a motorcycle. I had known him to be reckless and others confirmed his motorcycle habits to be of the dangerous kind. He was returning from an outing to a nearby dam, when this happened.

I have seen the self destructive tendencies in such adventurers and have been wondering where they come from. They drive themselves crazy, go to the brink and pull back. Some drink themselves out. without the drive to self destruction, they cannot experience themselves perhaps. They feel special when others watch in awe and advice caution.

Can I experience myself in special situations only? I have enjoyed once the simple breeze in the morning, the hot sip of black tea and cool, clear water. Sometimes a puff of tobacco. Other times, the sunset. The pranks of small children. A simple talk with the friend. Also a climb in the mountains and a swim in the river. How is it that thrill arises in courting danger? Is it some kind of show of superiority? Retaliation against hostile rejections?

Walking on the smooth metal
of the concrete road,
I keep looking at the alluring
path in
the wilderness.
I have left the concrete
many times,
to wander into the wilderness
and thrive in the open,
wide spaces, breathing
fully and freely.
But the ghosts always
hurl me back
on the metalled road.
The ghosts that people
the concrete world and I
thought they lived in the wilds.