Nupur Chaturvedi

Commitment

A simple word. It inspires, pushes, cajoles, scares, disciplines and brings joy. It has made me finally sit down and just write, without structure, without excuse, without thinking where it will lead me. 

What was I waiting for? What made me click this and join? There was something building up, especially since I read this. And then it needed a channel, I suppose. 

Why do I cling to writing? Especially since I write as part of my job as well. Is it because I think it is really the only talent I have? 

I don’t know if I should question this anymore. I should just feed it. I should do it because I want to do it. Commitment comes from love. Commitment comes from the will to pursue something. 

I have committed. A page a day. The journey has begun. 

Music

Written in Kasauli while listening ro Sonam Kalra at the Kasauli Rhythm & Blues Festival

Is the spirit in me without my knowing it?
What moves within when the ears hear music?
Why does the mind want to close itself to everything else?
And what is this magnet that pulls you towards those reverberations?
Can science and rationale explain this unempirical joy?
Am I the sum of my parts or am I more?
What is that more?
Who am I? What are you and what is music?

Removed from reality

An incident this morning shook me. I was driving to work, following the usual route. On one of the traffic signals (which wasn’t working), I saw some cars and cyclists pausing mid-way and then moving on. On coming closer, I realised that there was a man lying right at the intersection with his face down. While I waited my turn to cross over to the other side, I hoped someone would pick him up. Every car, every cyclist, every biker that paused, however, only did so to peer curiously and move on.

For a while I was paralysed by what I saw. What should I do? It was a cold, foggy morning and it would be very easy for someone to overlook him and run him over. He needed to be picked up and taken to the side. There was, however, no one who seemed to be doing that. I wasn’t without my own apprehensions. I needed to get to work. It was cold. What if he was dead? No, he wasn’t–I saw his head move a bit.

Well, there was no other option. I crossed the road, stopped the car by the side of the road and came over to the man. When I turned him over, I realised he was drunk. His eyes, when they tried to focus on me, couldn’t. His cataract-hazy eyes were so fluid and dilated, I almost thought he didn’t have irises.

My next challenge was to try and pick him up on my own, which looked near impossible without coming into very close proximity with him. Now, my good samaritan act had gotten me thus far, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hug a drunk old man, no matter how sorry I was feeling for him. Fortunately, a guy came to my rescue, helping me pull him up. We got him to the side of the road, and after many attempts, had to literally push him to sit down by the railing.

The incident disturbed me at several levels. How insular have we become as a society when a man lies in the middle of the road and no one stops to help him? On the other hand, how voyeuristic, that we look for ring-side views to misfortune, almost extending our hand for the popcorn being passed around.

What could be the reasons for no one stopping? Indifference? Disgust? Fear? Isn’t each of these emotions sad? When I reached office and narrated the incident to a colleague, adding that I was infuriated by the passers-by, his one-line answer was, ‘These things happen all the time. Don’t worry, you’ll get over it.’ And then I felt small. One incident, one help, and I was already in the holier-than-thou frame of mind.

I spoke to another colleague and she was honest enough to admit that she may not have stopped. I asked her why and she said, you never know, in a place like Gurgaon, a person might just turn around and take out a knife. Who knows what might happen.

What kind of scared lives are we living? And the sad part is that this is a very real fear. There are several instances of people stopping to help someone and getting duped, robbed, beaten up, or even killed.

How do we make sure that help reaches those who need it, without fear on the part of those providing it? Secondly, how do we make people more open to those unlike them? There are several who would not touch a man like this purely because he was filthy and drunk. We have shut ourselves away from those who are not of ‘our kind’. For instance, how many of us know about the life of a security guard? Or where our maids disappear to once they leave our houses?

There is a school of thought (and I admit I have often subscribed to it) that says that if we start empathising with everyone, there will be no joy left to experience. But the alternative can’t be to not empathise at all! So how do you decide on the degrees of empathy?

A hurt, drunk, sad man made me introspect all day. Will this introspection stop here or will it go on to another day? I don’t know. But while the feeling lasts, I decided put it down in words.

Delhi…my city?

I’ve lived in Delhi, technically, for about five years, and in Delhi/NCR for over 16 years. That’s longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. With Papa in the Air Force, we lasted no more than 4-5 years in a place, and that too because in my growing years, his posting tenures were longer. When my sister was growing up, he was getting posted so often, she had to be left with my grandparents for a while so that some part of her education could be stable.

Anyway, I digress. In spite of the 16-year-long stint in Delhi, I have never been too comfortable being called a Delhiite. Of course, part of me never really ‘belonged’ to a place. Despite being proud of the place and having very, very fond memories, and for the longest time, the place I could truly call ‘home’, I never felt I belonged to Lucknow either. But then I actually lived in Lucknow only for five years–same as any posting tenure.  Sixteen years, then, is a really long time to build affinity, grow roots and call a city your own. So why this discomfort?

Lately, I have been thinking about the city a lot. There is context for it. A colleague (Sunil Raman) has written a book on the Delhi Darbar–the event 100 years ago when King George V was coronated, after which the new monarch declared Delhi the new capital of the country. Today marks the century of this event. There isn’t much that is being done to celebrate it. The Associated Press says it is a sign of the country’s ambivalence. There have been some sporadic events sponsored by a leading English daily. Yesterday I went to Baba Kharak Singh Marg, where the area in front of the state emporia had been cordoned off to hold a street food festival. Largely, though, there hasn’t been much noise around this event. And there hasn’t been much noise about it in my mind. Not just because I feel that this is just one more rebirth of the city with nine lives (borrowed phrase, but so apt!), but because somewhere I don’t feel connected to the city.

Okay, forget about the centuries and the history, etc. The Commonwealth Games should have been a proud moment for any city’s…er…citizen, right? Well, didn’t do anything for me. I am not in love with the city’s past or with its development. I do love the Metro, but then, which Indian doesn’t.

There is a sense of connection with Bangalore (a city whose outskirts I lived in for 4-5 years, some 30 years ago). There is a strong sense of connection with Lucknow. But Delhi and Gurgaon…nope, nothing. And yet, I can’t imagine uprooting myself from here. Most of my friends are here, quite a lot of my extended family is also here.

So what does/will it take for me to feel that I belong here? Should I leave it to the city or should I do something about it?

You
Yes you
What dreams have you for me?
What lives under that sheen?
Will you reveal yourself to me?
Or
Like a silent seducer
Are you, waiting for me
To drop my defences against your games and your illegitimate wares?
But
Why do I resist?
Am I not ripe for your love?
Will your wily caress not soothe my high-strung nerves?
Divulge your secrets so that I can fool myself.
I wait.

The experiment begins…

Words are all I have.
But if words are all I have then I am sitting on a goldmine, right? Well, sometimes words are not enough.

My writing struggles have not been so much with form as with content. That is not to say that I have perfected form. I’ve taught writing skills in my organisation and I usually put forth the editorial power triangle, which comprises of grammar, style and content. I have the formula down pat. I know where and how to improve grammar. I even have the route map set down for style. But content? That is the heart, isn’t it? So what do you write about when you are not clear what the heart wants?

Whenever I have chosen a medium of self-expression–photography, theater, music, writing–I have picked it up and then let it go. Yes, attention span has something to do with it. So does a general laid-back attitude.

What I have realized over time, however, is that there hasn’t been any compelling reason to make me stick to any of them. Form or medium, for its own sake hasn’t been enough for me. (I am sure there are many for whom that is not true, for whom honing their skills in a particular form is a pursuit in itself.) If you give me a reason to write, commission me to write something, I will. Leave me in a room, however, and ask me to come up with a topic for writing, and you’ll have to give me several days’ worth of ration to survive. I can sing fine, but ask me to come up with a song, and my mind freezes. It’s like saying you have the money to book tickets and hotel, time set aside, leave sanctioned, but you don’t know where you want to travel to!

Take this blog, for instance. I signed up on WordPress, inspired by another friend and also motivated by own conviction that if you are a writer, you must have a blog. And yet, for months, I just couldn’t conjure up a post. Another blog I began years ago sits unattended, a repository of my poems and short stories, written in a previous lifetime.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say. It’s not even that I don’t have any interests. My problem is quite the opposite actually. I am interested in everything. I am interested in technology. I am interested in culture. In history. In community development. In economics (okay, maybe I am exaggerating to make a point!).

The issue is to zero down on that one area, and then within that to one sub area, and then within that to one topic. Who wants to read stuff written by li’l ol’ me on everything in general? My friends, family? Well, I talk to them directly when I want to. If self-expression has to happen at this scale, where I am expecting people to read, I need to respect my readers and give them something worth reading, right? And so I mentally pick topic after topic and discard it. Maybe I should write film reviews. Maybe food. Maybe technology. The maybes continue but no writing comes out. And meanwhile I am ghost-writing blogs for others.

Anyway, long story short (yes, I know, too late for that!), I am starting an experiment. I will just pick one of the topics that even vaguely interests me and write whatever that inspires me to. Let’s see where this goes. I could continue to meander, but I would have practised my writing. Or I could find something that holds my interest for longer than one post. The idea is to post.

So, ready, set, go!

On blogging, senior citizens and my grandfather

If I look back at my surroundings six years ago, the Internet was nowhere in my horizon, there was nothing called a blog, even e-mail was barely there. It is interesting to see how being connected and having an almost uncensored platform for expressing yourself has shaped people’s personality, mine included.
Back then, I used to write in bits and spurts. The thought of ever taking my writing seriously never crossed my mind. Everything I ever wrote is lost in the various dust-laden notebooks, loose sheets of paper and other such unorganized media.
Today, I write for a living. The dream of writing a full novel, compilation of short stories, film script, children’s books, etc., doesn’t seem merely a dream–just something I have to make time for some day. I have joined writers’ groups on the Net, send my stories to my friends over e-mail and, well, have started a blog.
As it is for me, I am sure others (several times better than me, I’m sure) too have found a platform. The number of people in their 60s and 70s who are blogging amazes me. They are finding a whole new meaning to their lives and have found a place to document the legacy they plan to leave for their children. I wish my grandfather were around to experience this. Maybe I will start a blog exclusively for him–is there something called a ghost blog?