How air turns into memories
When Charles Darwin proposed his seminal work, On the Origin of Species, his publisher rejected it saying that it doesn’t have the potential to reel in business. He rather insisted that the public would be more interested in reading about pigeons. Mind you, Darwin was 50 years old when Origins of Species was published. He had spent a considerable amount of time under the sun and the (eventual) mad success of his unprecedented book proved his publisher wrong on several fronts. However, what’s very intriguing about this anecdote is the mention of a bird we, the city-dwellers, take for granted. Why pigeons? Why not raven or swan? What makes bobhead such a fascinating creature? Is it because it’s one of the few birds that pretend like it was meant for urban landscapes, not villages? Or is it something else?
In the USA, the military gives away something called the Dickin Medal to animals who have shown bravery during difficult times. In the recent past, dogs have been the overwhelming winners but in the 20th century, pigeons were the favourite to bag this heavy award. In fact, so far, these medals have been awarded 71 times and 32 of them have gone to pigeons. Yes, you read that right. During gruesome wartime — think of WW1 and WW2 — When there was no WhatsApp and even phone call was a luxury, pigeons used to be the mini-James Bonds who used to not only deliver the critical messages but also return back to base safely. There was a phase when pigeons were embedded with tiny cameras too for spying purposes. Is there anything we haven’t made them do against their wishes? Now, in retrospection, it makes complete sense why pigeons go around shitting on cars, streets, places of worship and whatnot. They are being shitty because we were once shitty to their ancestors.
Since we are on the subject of pigeons, let me add one more paragraph: pigeons are bullies of the highest order. As per my observations, they are the only species that visit our balcony for water/leisure and don’t believe in sharing resources/space. There will always be one alpha with pumped up sallu bhai neck who will boss around and get rid of the minions with his aggression. Not just fellow pigeons, even the bulbuls and the mynahs and the babblers don’t mess with this fellow. He wants the whole ledge to himself. Nobody knows for what though. Like a patrolman on Texan border, he will walk to and fro — as if screaming “Parampara, Pratishtha, Anushasan” to himself — and guard his territory as long as he can. He won’t let others drink from the water bowl, knowing very well that it’s me who refills the water at 6.30 am, not him. Fortunately, this week, he finally found his match. An old lean pigeon, with greyish feet — redness implies youth — and off-colour beak, plumes and no shine left on his neck, showed up at the ledge. Unlike other young competitors, this oldtimer settles on the ledge in a position resembling a hen warmly hatching her eggs. It was an indication that he isn’t here to run away. The bully appeared gobsmacked by his master move and kept staring at him, not knowing what to do next. Is he supposed to charge at him and scare him away like he does with younger peers or just avoid confrontation? After a few minutes of crazy eyes, the bully left the ledge and the old guy enjoyed his hatch position for more than an hour or so. Maybe the former realized that the latter has been around longer and must have definitely seen much more. The moral of the story is, it takes a pigeon to bully a bully pigeon.
We planted a lemon sapling last year and it picked up very well. So much so that we had to transplant it to a bigger pot. This month, we noticed that even the biggest of pots wasn’t enough for it. Its branches were shooting out in all directions, making it look like a beautiful ogre in a legion of dainty plants. Finally, we decided that we’ll have to move the lemon tree to our terrace. It’s up there now, completely isolated, away from his green company. When he was on the balcony, he would intrude into his neighbour’s space and disturb their humble rise. As of now, he is all alone and growing pretty well, but at the same time wondering whether the loneliness is worth the growth?
When you say you have a good job, what you’re basically saying is that you are happy with yourself. A job that pays for the bills and keeps you occupied for a reasonable amount of time. However, when you say you have a bad job, what you’re suggesting is you are unhappy with your work. A job that removes you from the picture and places the blame on a non-existent entity. This transformation has something to do with how we perceive ourselves in a happy state as well as a sad state. When we are doing fine professionally, the focus is barely on what we are doing (it’s on us). When we aren’t doing great professionally, the focus is barely on ourselves (it’s on what we are doing). Which is why when you leave a bad job, you feel like leaving a toxic relationship. Which is still OK compared to a scenario when you get sacked from such a job, because that would mean not having the courage to leave a toxic relationship on your terms. Doubly defeated.
You may have fragments of a memory stuck inside your head. A picture can take you back to the place where you first saw it. A song can allow you to time-travel to the ’90s when things were simpler. A bite of a dish can pull you back to that moment when somebody fed you the same for the first time. But what about fragrances? Or for that matter, a stink? Exactly. Do you ever enter a room and instantly feel like you’ve been there before although there is no geographic possibility of that happening? Although I don’t place a lot of importance on sensory enlightenment, I can recollect at least three such distinct smells that are reminiscent of particular episodes from my past. I remember the aroma of the kitchen of our ancestral house. It’s been over two decades since ajji (grandma) cooked in there but I specifically know how that charcoaled room felt like to a 6-year-old boy. Soothing would be the term. Similarly, I still remember how my hostel room smelled like when I entered it for the first time in the monsoon of 2002. If I were to describe it today, I’d sum up with ‘anxiety’. Lastly, I can totally transport myself to the night I showed up at the gate of my current Gurgaon residence almost 6 years ago. It reeked of raatrani, aided by gentle breeze and knew instantly that I can get used to this. The word was ‘promising’.
The great social reformer Jyotiba Phule once surmised that when you teach a man, you teach only one person, but when you teach a woman, you teach an entire family. That’s how education flowed in the familial tree. He was talking about the Maharashtrian society of the 19th century. Well, things haven’t changed much. The trajectory of education, or even knowledge, remains peculiarly selfish. There is little to no desire to share what we know at a pedagogical level. Which is extremely sad because it proves two axioms:
- Education is sold as a harbinger of change but only at an individual scale
- Knowledge is for sharing but only at the right price
Unlike in more pronounced society, education in India doesn’t inspire reform for these very reasons. When you treat your degrees as a passport for better lives, you’ll obviously be least interested in bettering others. Your aim is to make the most of what you’ve got and once you get more, you want to invest in getting more and more and more. At least that’s the lame funda of the so-called middle class. Think about it. The closest our ‘respected’ class gets to spreading education is through tuition. Yes, I’ll teach your kids for 2 hours daily from Monday to Saturday provided I get something in return. Apart from that, don’t expect me to contribute to the spread of education/knowledge in any way possible. Sorry in advance.
Speaking of not paying it forward, it struck me recently how back in our days — a phrase I can’t get enough of as I am trudging towards 35 — we used to hand down books. One child gets new sets of textbooks and then after the end of her academic year, she passes it down to her brother/cousin/neighbour and the textbooks traveled along, changing hands and shades, as they moved from one timeline to another, one handwriting to another, losing pages and meanings on the way. It was a complete journey of sorts. I wonder whether that happens anymore. At least in the affluent societies it doesn’t. These kids are growing up thinking that textbooks are meant to be recycled, not passed down/around. If only they knew that they are missing an essential part of what it means to be a community. And more importantly, what it means to share without feeling high or low about it.
My friend Ashwin is one of the sorted souls out there. He doesn’t live in a city for more than a year or two. Always on the move, almost afraid to settle down. As opposed to most humans I intimately know, he doesn’t say stuff with the suspense of a water drop leaving the edge of a tap. Perhaps that’s the main reason why I take his words seriously. His theory about me is that I am either bound to be a fabulous writer or I’ll never be a writer. There is no middle passageway. Apparently, since I’ve been talking about writing something solid for years, without actually materializing on any of the built premises due to various practical reasons, I have become a victim of my own design. So, according to him, I must be an imposter for all we know; somebody who leeches on what-should-be instead of what-is. This probability scares me while relieving me a bit. When you dream too much without pulling in the weight, what you are doing is biding (read: stalling) time. I can do something else, something more useful, but no. It’s much easier to keep telling yourself that you aren’t getting old and time is just a psychological construct and Twain/Tolkien started writing after the age of 40 and similar excuses.
Due to some important work, I recently decided to take some time off from social media. As expected, there were some murmurs from my readers who assumed I wasn’t well or something. Ideally, it means that (some) people care. But that’s on the surface. If I am not around for good, nothing would change. People would still carry on with their lives and do what’s required to get through the day. That’s the beauty of life. We look at birds and animals and wonder how they get on their lives despite their tragedies, while conveniently overlooking that we do the exact same thing but in a more nuanced manner. As for somebody who writes, it shouldn’t matter anyway who reads him, or if anybody reads him at all. That shouldn’t be his concern. A writer’s sole commitment is to his thoughts. Everybody else can wait.
Dogs have been with our species for thousands and thousands of years and over time, we’ve copied a lot from each other. They learned how to exaggerate their happiness and we’ve learned how to downplay our sadness. When we are together, it’s difficult to draw a line between who is fond of whom — more. Dogs neither have time constraints nor space constraints. They aren’t equipped to understand that when they want to leave the room, they shouldn’t stand in front of the open door, mulling over the past decisions of their lives. That’s time-wasting. But they don’t get it. Similarly, when you are seated comfortably on the sofa, they will sit awkwardly by your side because in their book, space is what they make of it. Simple beings. Complex behaviour.
