Do you have a bird friend?
One man’s poison is another man’s excuse to avoid it. Tastes exist so that we can defy uniformity on a daily basis. If everybody enjoyed mangoes — yes, believe me, even I am surprised to learn that there are human beings with tongue inside our face who can’t stand mangoes — then we’d be living in a more peaceful world. Our distinct likes and dislikes define us a species. All cats enjoy milk (with their eyes closed, of course) and all jackals enjoy meat. There is no exceptions to these set rules. In our society, things are a bit relaxed. Food-wise, as with everything else that depends on choice, somebody likes something while others resent it. With these dichotomies in place, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that we are in no shape or form eligible to judge anybody else for their taste as long as it has to do with voluntary ingestion. After all, there are folks — including my missus and my dearest friend — who enjoy unsweetened black coffee. One sip of that heinous crap and I’d forget who I am as a person. The fact that there are a lot of people out there who enjoy unsweetened black coffee helps me reconcile with the fact that there are a lot of people out here who drink gaumutra too.
Did you know that Nikola Tesla, arguably the greatest geek of all time, died a virgin? At least that’s what some of his biographical accounts suggest. He had negligible interest in pursuing conjugal relationships. In fact, the closest he got to admitting he was in love was with a pigeon. Yes, true to the curio attached to geniuses, he once wrote how much he loved a bird, emphasizing that his longing for the bird is equivalent to a human longing for another human.
So sweet.
Which brings me to my next question — do you have a birdy friend? I do. Last year, an injured pigeon showed up at our front balcony, quite rattled and ruffled. It was obvious that the ferocious fellow had been in a competitive battle (which he didn’t win) and used to sit all day long on the AC vent pipe outside our apartment. His neck bore a visible wound; a very peculiar beak-peck injury. I used to leave bread crumbs for him and water as usual in the bowl. This recuperative visiting activity went on for about 2-3 weeks. He showed up in the morning and stayed perched on the pipe for hours. Like a fugitive waiting to heal and seek revenge. Later, after fully healing himself, he used to show up sometimes. And then, after a while, he stopped visiting us.
Until last week, that is.
Early morning, here he was at his old spot. I identified him immediately because of his neck — although it’s fully healed, the feathers on the neck aren’t in sync with the rest of its body. So it’s easy to recognize him. I was watering the plants and he landed on the ledge and sat there with utmost confidence. He recognized me just like I recognized him. Usually, the pigeons fly away because they are scared of Ranga and are extra cautious even while drinking water from the balcony bowl. This one, my old nameless friend, wouldn’t move one inch. Just kept looking at me. I smiled at him and watered the plants. Walked past him twice. Didn’t move an inch. If this isn’t the trust of an old friendship, what is?
Tesla would have been envious of us.
When I moved to Gurgaon, to the current apartment that we live in, I was amazed by the biodiversity around. Back home in Navi Mumbai, we had birds visiting us because amma fed them every morning but that’s about it. Here, things were (and still are) different. Mongoose is one of the many creatures that you won’t associate with cities and I was pleasantly surprised when I spotted one in the backyard. This was the spring of 2015. Fast forward to now and there are still mongooses sprinting around under the unforgivable sun. On Sunday, I had my closest encounter ever. Not physically but more intimately. Let me explain. I was standing in the rear balcony looking at the greens that stretch for almost half a mile. The corner of my eye caught this slithery creature running, and guess who it was? Yes, Mr. Mongoose. At one point, he stopped, stood on his hind legs and looked up at me. I threw a grape in his direction, keeping in mind my friend Rinky’s words that I shouldn’t be feeding them processed food (read: biscuits). He looks at the grape that dropped two feet away from him and then looks up at me, as if to say — “Thanks, no thanks.” We are now in this weird staring contest that goes on for at least 15-20 seconds. And then he sprints away. That was the highlight of my week.
When Ben Affleck stared into oblivion during that interview with Henry Cavill, I was the one who could relate to him. Totally. 202%. Because I am known for doing the same all the time during gatherings (personal) and meetings (professional). I zone out. Just like that. Teleportation at its best. Irresponsibility at its worst. I could be thinking of what my next tweet would be or how I can frame an IG story caption better or mulling what I should have retorted to somebody three weeks earlier. Turns out I am vain with words and as it goes, a lot vainer with silence.
Last evening, there were earthquake tremors in Delhi and as usual, my Twitter timeline erupted with expected jokes. It’s a common practice amongst our generation to sprinkle humour onto the face of a disaster. Maybe that’s why most of us — unlike our parents/grandparents — can laugh at our lives without any remorse. Before I admit anything else, let me be clear that I am not scared of earthquakes. I’ve experienced several tremors in NCR and never once have I lost my shit. In fact, I have a strong feeling that I will be calm as a lizard if I ever find myself in a serious one. A tsunami can potentially throw me off my game but the tectonic plates? No, not happening. I am saying this based on a hunch; there are no plans in place. If a major earthquake happens tomorrow in Gurgaon, I’d ask myself an important question: what will I save? Apart from two of my closest people — Palla and Ranga — I’d say, my phone. Everything can be survived without. It’d be nice to call/text somebody that we are safe.
Before moving northward, I was one of those who wouldn’t do any promotional stuff. Big brands kept visiting my DM box trying to entice me for one campaign after another. I was so sure about my stand that I didn’t care about burning bridges. Yet, being poor with rich principles doesn’t make sense, particularly when the premise is so weak. Who was I deluding except myself? Thanks to some idealistic notion that content should be free from capitalistic tenets — which is also why I haven’t made a penny from blogging so far — I consciously stayed from ‘extracurricular’ activities. While kids who set up shop in front of me were doing promoted tweets, I was patting my back for sticking to my ideology. This went on from 2011 to 2016. Finally, after talking to Akshar, I realized my folly. In 2017, I said yes to an advertorial tweet and got paid for the same. Easy money. So far, I’ve been a part of seven such activities and I must say I am on the fence about its morality. Earlier, I used to cast aspersions on folks who — sorry for dramatic effects — sold their souls but with time, I’ve learnt that it’s an individual decision. Especially for those who are not earning money from putting out quality content. This is in no way a track to justify the so-called influencers who aren’t influencing anything except their bank accounts. This is more of a nuanced take on those content creators who are reaping some bucks out of some brands who value their work. Besides, just because content is free doesn’t mean that the bills aren’t piling on.
Only one more day to go for the original 21-day lockdown to end. Most probably, tomorrow morning, the prime minister would extend the lockdown given the precarious nature of COVID-19 cases in the country. The past 20 days have taught us only one thing: desis understand lathis better than words. When we were politely asked to stay inside our houses, we still ventured out. But when a policeman thrashed our derriere, we dared not venture out again. Why is this so? Maybe it has a lot to do without a common cultural background. We grew up getting beaten up by our parents/elders and without the continued application of brute force, we pay no heed to kind words. We are a strange subcontinent and our modernity is not a patch on our collective identity.
Most of my nocturnal world features the neighbourhood I grew up in. For better or for worse, I am stuck there. In my dreams, I am still picking up fallen ber/jamuns on my way to maidan where I’ll be playing cricket without getting the chance to bat. It’s a perfect chawl with more-than-perfect people. Leaves me with a warm feeling everytime I visit. In there, I am walking the streets without any worry — no apocalypse, no EMIs, no existential crisis, no nothing — with kids I grew up with: Qasim, Sundar, Babli, Aamir, Dolly, Raju, Suman, Tanno and so on. Of course, it isn’t always so rosy. Many times I find myself in awkward and unsavoury situations too. For instance, last week, I was waiting for my turn to get into the public toilet and after waiting for what felt like eternity, when it was my turn to get in, I slipped and fell in the commode hole. To make matters stinkier, I felt the cold, sliminess of the surface. Childhood horrors never leave you, do they?
Idiot: “What bothers you more — being alive or dying soon?”
Master: “I am more concerned about my loss of not being in the present.”
Idiot: “Why so?”
Master: “Because when we aren’t in the now, we are neither alive nor dead.”
Idiot: “How so?”
Master: “The present doesn’t last long enough because we are obsessed with the future and our past.”
Idiot: “When is the right moment to stop the present from fleeting?”
Master: “Now.”
Idiot: “And where will it lead us?”
Master: “To ourselves.”
If you are more concerned about being seen as a good person and not as much about doing good deeds, then you must count yourself in the majority. Quite a lot of us latch onto the titles than the deeds. You earn the title of “a good person” by doing one good deed but instead of continuing with the mission, you’d start licking our non-existent medal. That’s when our species fails: focusing too much on yesterday and spending too little on today. I think the difference between becoming a good person and being a good person should be a mandatory lesson in our school education system. Kids must learn at a very young age what it means and also why it means a lot.
