NO POINT SOMEONE -Semiotics?

Isn't it amazing how certain things remind us of things and how every word or 'substance' (as my 6th Std. Science teacher woud love to call it) has more than one connotation and would have a hyperlink to memories old and jaded with gradual updating, yet kept fresh and green with frequent summons. now this is something akin to Semiotics, maybe not exactly what the propounders thought of it to be, but an interpretation of signs and symbols that come to be formed when two individuals in a candidly friendly relationship make it a pasrt of their memories.

Videesh is home today. So is dad. Dad is as usual, helping mom with her chores as homemaker- Saturday being the only day, he can actually market for vegetables, clean them, peel them, dice them and pack them neatly and compactly to accurately house them in the refrigerator. this job done, mother can dish out divine delicacies, which I miss when I depend on vadapavs and samosa pavs to quench my hunger pangs throughout the day.

Videesh keeps prancing between dad in the bedroom cleaning the veggies and me on my table writing religiously. Dad gives him a piece of carrot to munch on and thus completes the picture of Bugs Bunny. i get up to get myself a sip of water and Mr. Videesh bangs into me. I call him Gandhi, referring to his shortly cropped hair, which never seems to grow. (our family always jokes about how Videesh and his brother Shyamal always have their hair readied for a 5-year plan!) Then I call him "Chota Gandhi". I freeze. A big glob of snot and spittle passes through my throat as a whimper is supressed.

Now this cold is a very bad thing. Not that i hate the feeling of the sticky, slimy, salty goo rowing away into my intestines through the initial part of my alimentary canal but only because it leaves me retarded, handicapped with my voice, one of the things i am proud of in myself. The alst time i caught a cold, it went striaight into my respiratory system rendering it as useless as an old vintage model car all set to make a museum exhibit.

Went to the beach yesterday, for the first time after I helped make crack open a relationship before it could even send its roots deep enough to gather strength. HE is punishing now.
wading through the sands, i walked towards the water. there were young joggers and old gentlemen resting their muscles after a tiring morning walk. Far away a man sat facing the sea. his back was unusually straight and had his left hand up his nose, might have been some kind of breathing exercise, i reckoned. There wasn't any breeze. The waves were gently washing the shores. I then saw something like an idol sitting erect in the sand.

I went ahead and picked it up. It was a Ganesh idol. Was it yet another symbolism that the aura behind the idol was broken? Old ideas caught me. They tld me not to take a broken idol home. I shook it away. i said to myself that if i had got this idol, it meant something and i am going to keep it.

As usual, I don't have a point to make. Waiting for the time that I start making points...

NO POINT SOMEONE - I AM ASHAMED

The setting was straight out from some well-made, tightly edited documentary on Mumbai train-life. I boarded the slow Asangaon train from Parel station to avoid the rush at Dadar. I prepared to hoist my bag up onto the mesh stand and did so after taking out my copy of Maximum City- Suketu Mehta.

A middle-aged man was playing his harmonica strung from his neck and rested on his lap as he belted out seemingly thoughtful songs like, "Duniya banane wale, ka tere man me samayi, kaheko duniya banayi..” the train trudged on billowing strong gusts of wind towards the opposite side. I found it hard to concentrate in the book as my mind read the lyrics as my foot tapped and my head bobbed in accordance with the drone of the music box and the deference in the man’s voice. The setting brings to my mind the logo of HMV (His Master’s Voice) with Einstein’s dog sitting in front of a gramophone that played his voice. Peace reigned inside the compartment. Contented eyes shone inside uncomplaining faces, as they seemingly looked somewhere, thinking something, obviously relating to the music. They don’t fight for space now. They don’t argue for the window seat. The song has had a humbling effect on all.

The bookmark inside the book stayed where it was until there came Kurla and the train started filling in, people occupying the fourth seat and requesting the other three to make space for him, others plainly grabbing the space and pushing in with their posterior, provoking noises of disapproval. I notice a Muslim gentleman adorned with the traditional skullcap board on with three burqa clad figures. Once inside, the veil was lifted and thrown above the head, facilitating better viewing and respiration. I, by the time was graced with a fourth seat but graciously sat on the edge without even touching my back against the person behind me. I love the way I behave, sometimes. Like ‘animal specialist’ Dr. Bhatavdekar says, “because even we are social animals”.

One of the Muslim ladies found a seat directly opposite to me. I notice that she is very young, not as young as me, but wouldn’t be more than three years older to me. We looked at each other for a second and my eyes went back to the book. The bookmark had found its way into my pocket, sensing that now perhaps the pages will fly, as words were skimmed through and scanned and registered in the gray. But that was not to be. The lady opposite to me kept gesticulating frantically at her companion, who was still left standing, to come hither.

I sense, she is now, looking at my book and me. I look up to adjust my glasses, which, somehow, keep gliding down my nose bridge like glaciers prancing down icy slopes. She is actually staring. Now, if someone stares at you for longer then the prescribed 2 seconds, it means either there’s something seriously wrong with the way you physically appear or you are looking like a runaway star from Hollywood! I meet her eyes. They seem to be talking to me. They are imploring. I felt cheap. “What am I doing?”

I move my quadrupled eyes away. I just can’t read now. I look up again. She pretends to be looking somewhere else, then glances back and forth, the same warm, implore in them. Abashed, I pretend to read, turning pages faster, much faster than my usual reading speed. The song goes on, asking the Almighty why indeed He had made this world.

A couple enters. The man has a tiny bundle of a human baby in his hands, held ever so lovingly, nestled close to his chest, with his eyes adoring the beauty of their creation. I get up, sensing the obvious discomfort both, for them to hold a baby and stand in a shaky train and for me, who has had the blood in the posterior held in the same position for lack of sitting space. The mother of the child fishes out a bottle of milk and hands it over to the husband. I peek at the contents of the bag where the bottle came from. I see a tin of Farex and raise my eyebrows. The couple doesn’t seem well off. This tin is perhaps the first and last the kid would ever see.

The lady looks at me getting up. I don’t return it. The train is nearing my station. I put the bookmark back in place, resting it until the next time that I travel, that would be the next day, most probably. A few more seats are empty now. The Muslim lady’s companion finds a seat now. They are all happy now. The lines on the brow are gone. They smile and are ready to break into convulsions of giggles and new stories and comments on people nearby. I wait for this to happen, waiting to be happy at my own prediction, to boast to myself about my knowledge of women, all in vain.

They are talking, but with their hands. As I got down from the train, I felt the shock of my life in the form of a bolt of shame and a tear jerk in my eyes. They can’t speak! No wonder her eyes wanted to speak to me. I say, “shit”, noting in my mental notepad to write about it sometime soon. Today I did it. Phew!