Category: Thoughts uncut

Crossed Arms and Teary Goodbyes

I went to bed last night knowing that in less than 9 hours, I would bid farewell to my close friend.

Crossed Arms and Teary Goodbyes.jpg

My parents thought I’d wet my pillow with my tears. They were ready with tissues and shoulders in case I needed someone to console me. They stood by me ever supportive as I stood with my arms across my chest waiting for my friend to leave.

It was around 7 am, and I had had just dragged myself out of bed. I had slept well. So well for someone whose friend was going away to another country altogether.

I wasn’t worried. It was just another time zone. Besides, my friend and I only message each other a lot, and a five and half hours in between wouldn’t change anything much.

Not everyone else saw it the same way.

For my friend’s parents, he was going away for good. It was like he was abandoning them, running away without leaving a note.

As the previous day waned and the time for departure drew near, the father grew quieter and quieter. His voice grew smaller, his face duller, and his tension a little higher.

The mother, on the other hand, was panicking within. It was obvious, but she tried her best to cover it up by sweating in the kitchen instead. She cooked all his favourite foods; from fried chicken and sautéed fish, to stir-fried crabs, she wanted to make sure her son ate everything he could before he left the nest.

Ever since he booked his flight ticket, things had shaky at home. He had to mask his excitement so that his parents wouldn’t feel bad. For an outsider, it was all funny.

But on the inside, the family had broken down. Nothing was as big as the child leaving home to work in an alien country. That’s how parents are. They’re annoying, meddling, and saying things that we don’t like, and saying the right things almost all the time, which we don’t like even more. But they’re parents. At the end of a long day, they’re the ones who stay up all night wondering if the son has boarded the aircraft, and they’re the ones losing sleep because one plane crashed twenty years ago.

And there I was, my arms across my chest waiting for him to leave. I, the friend, didn’t even pretend to wipe away an absent tear. Well, what can I say, I not into public display.

Well, what can I say, I not into public display.

Respecting the Maker

Craft is a wonderful thing. The crinkled eyebrows, the watchful eyes, and the delicate fingers all make a craft what it is: a magnificent and complex piece of art. It demands the maker’s energy and time and unlike any other physical activity. It’s one of those things that drain you just even if you’re just sitting in one place with your head bent low.

To an observer, the craftsman is a scientist; a microbiologist. One who’s got eyes for nothing and no one around them. And that’s the beauty of a handmade object. It’s a part of a human’s life that they give away to someone else.

I saw a craftsman in Pondicherry a while ago. He was a shoe and footwear maker. He, along with the owner of the shop, makes and delivers custom footwear for customers about an hour or two after they place an order. But they also have a gallery of ready-made designs to can choose from.

handmade-footwear

While the owner was busy showing us around his little shop, the craftsman huddled with his tools near the pillar outside the shop. His eyes moved in tandem with his hands that stitched together leather and leather.

While his skin exploded with sweat, inside, the quaint shop exploded with colour. Yellow, red, and green straps crisscrossed with brown, black, and grey soles. I saw straight straps on one shelf and curled straps on the other, plain ones lying about and fancy ones folded up neat. The costs varied, too, from a few hundreds to a few more hundreds.

handmade-footwear-2

My friend raised eyebrows at the prices. It was a sad sight. Because there never is a fair price for the labour of human hands.

It’s human to first look at the product and then flip over the tag to check the price. Whether it’s a shirt or a shoe, we consider the price and weigh its worth.

It’s an instinct, yes. Still, when it comes to handmade crafts, what we think is high is never too high. Though we drool at a craftsman work, every time we roll our eyes at the price, we undermine the maker’s efforts. We need to realise: In this age of our lazy bones and sitting on our asses, it’s taxing to work through hundreds of needles and stitches every day.

craftsman

That’s why we should learn to respect the ones who do, because, in a few years, no one will have the patience to dedicate the scrutiny involved in making handmade pieces.

At Peace

Whether it had been a long day at work or a longer day with no work, there’s one thing that always calms my nerves. It’s coffee, of course.

But when you’re at the Lé Café in Pondicherry, the coffee arrives just as the sun begins to rise. Now that’s more than relaxing. It’s divine peace.

relax

 

What’s the Point of News?

big-news

It was Wednesday, the middle of a wet, clammy, and death-filled week. The sun had almost set outside my window at work and I was too bored to continue. I opened a new tab and typed, “F” — the first letter that came to my mind. And trusty Safari pre-filled my most-visited website, Facebook. Scrolling through weather forecasts, sneaky confessions, Netflix trailers, and random acts of kindness, I paused at one peculiar post.

A news item about the chief minister of my home state. She died a couple of days ago, and ever since, people talk about nothing else, whether at work or at dinner. This post, an opinion piece judging by its title, suggested a conspiracy against the dead CM. And it had appeared on my feed, courtesy of my cousin. I stopped to read the headline; the author believed that one of the CM’s closest allies—we’ll call her S—had turned against her and taken over the party’s reins.

It’s absurd, I know. But for years, our media celebrated their friendship. The friend, S, was the CM’s trusted advisor and remained so until, one fine day, a news channel reported that S was corrupt.

The party’s tables turned too soon for their liking, and the CM cut all ties with her friend. The media went crazy and people wrote articles about how the CM’s decision favoured her in the next election. It was all about winning the election. The friend never came into the spotlight until at the CM’s funeral, where she redefined the word, “weepy.” Sound like House of Cards? Welcome to its creepy Indian version.

All these details rushed into my head as I looked at the article’s headline.

I remember thinking we’d never know the truth about the CM and S. Their friendship was a mystery to everyone outside their circle. Nevertheless, we had news pieces and opinions about them, we heard from young college girls who wanted to be BFFs like the CM and S. And now, a few years later, we have wild theories and 12 things we never knew about the CM’s death.

I felt repulsed. I understand the media’s uncontrollable urge to print sensational news, and yet, I can’t accept their proof-less allegations. All these newspapers flew around me hoping I’d buy the one that features the most exciting gossip.

And that’s why I couldn’t digest the article my cousin shared. My cousin doesn’t understand political talks. I know she shared it only because it has an exciting new thing to talk about over dinner. And that only strengthened my waning interest in politics.

I don’t care who killed whom or who’s conspiring against whom. Because at the end of the day, who knows what’s true? We all live in a society that thinks it knows the truth but knows only what others think is the truth. We may guess, but we’ll never know. There are more than 20 television channels in my state that political parties own. Whichever party (or individual) owns the channel has all the power to create, warp, or kill a news item.

And I don’t see the point of revelling in other people’s convoluted version of reality.

Silent, Suffering

silent-suffering

The block had hit hard.

Poised for the first word in days,

“Martyr,” her hand wrote.