In the lingering hours of twilight...

"About the only thing that comes to us without effort is old age."
_Gloria Pitzer_

Monday mornings kind of became more hectic once I began to babysit two 88-year-old silver-streakers in my neighborhood. Even though it was just an hour job, from 11a.m. to 12p.m., it consumed the whole morning. For, it entailed not only preparing coffee and  breakfast for our family of three and getting myself ready, but also coaxing my eleven-year-old home-schooler son to accompany me. I thought it would be a good way to expose him to the notion of community service.

In my quest for sharing some quality time with the ladies, I took along some magazines from my collection of Birds and Bloom, Reminisce, National Geographic and Smithsonian. I learnt on-the-job that reading aloud articles, while pausing at intervals to discuss and reflect on what had been read,  filled up the hour faster in an interactive way. And it also helped Marcia, who suffered from dementia, out of the same rigmorale in which she tended to fall into, and suck us in as well. Even though she loved making conversation, her ever shrinking repertoire of phrases, coherent sentences and Shakespeare’s poetry couldn’t get anyone of us anywhere.

“My mother was a concert pianist,” she would start, continuing, “then, the Depression came, so we had to tend to the horses ourselves. We were little, but, we did it.” And, “My first husband was killed in action. He was the first one in Belmar to be killed. And the next day, the war broke out. It was terrible…” Every time she narrated this incident, her face welled up with sorrow, which neither age, nor dementia had been able to erase.

Mentally not together, Marcia had however retained her physical fitness. She walked a couple of miles every day. A devout Catholic, she savored the name of the Lord and looked forward to Sunday masses. On the other hand, every day was a Sunday for her, which left her wondering why no one was taking her to the mass.

Lillian was frail and needed the support of a walker to sit, get up and walk around. She often had little control over her bladder movement. Moreover, getting up and hauling herself to the bathroom required stupendous effort. Lillian’s daughter was a Buddhist and well-travelled, and some of her influence had rubbed onto Lillian as well. She enjoyed when I talked about my childhood in India. Marcia, however, seemed curious about how I felt when I arrived to this land of great and free. Did I even understand the language, she wondered. She could never quite comprehend how most people in India were multilingual. “I only know English,” she would say, almost as a confession, looking sadly apologetic.

By and by, as one Monday heaped onto another, the range of topics we covered, widened. I tried to find books/articles, based on what my own receptacles had picked up during our discussions. Knowing Lillian’s interest in Buddhism, I once brought an article on Bhutan, published in Smithsonian. On another occasion, I asked my son, who was then studying the Chinese Art and Culture, to prepare a presentation on the ancient Chinese gardens and the importance of yin and yang in their lay out. Yet another time, it was a book on camels that I had borrowed from the library, that we read together. Now, how exactly did we land on camels, I don’t recall. But, I think it was when Marcia, once again, had started sinking into her “We had horses, and…” soliloquy, that I felt compelled to draw her out of it. “My mom and my uncle used to ride camels through the fields,” I interrupted her in mid-sentence, almost rudely. “I love camels. They are really beautiful, with long eyelashes and dandy legs,” I added. I went on to tell them the story about the time I had bought Paul, my German brother-in-law, a stuffed camel, decorated in traditional Indian patterns, with tussles hanging from its neck. It was a souvenir for him to take back to Germany. He seemed to like it, until, candidly, I let him know that I had bought this particular animal because it so reminded me of him. Of course, I had meant it as a compliment. To my surprise, he was rather offended. Back then, I didn’t know that in the west, camels are regarded as ugly and ungainly animals . In a few days, my sister and Paul returned to Germany, and the camel stayed back – with me. To this day, it adorns the window ledge of our living room.

“Is a camel much like a horse,” Marcia's curiosity knew no bounds. 

I reminded her of three kings who came riding on camels when baby Jesus was born. That clicked. But, a few minutes later, she was on her questioning quest again, as she bombarded me with, “Are they dangerous? Do they bite? Do they eat people? What is their diet like? Can they run…like horses?” etc…etc..I thought it best to enlighten Marcia and enliven Lillian by bringing in some books on camels. So, a Monday later, there I was, with a whole collection of books from the children’s section, reading about these assiduous, hardy, smart ships of the desert. We learnt how they could shut both their nostrils in case of a desert storm. Their eyelashes are designed to keep the sand particles at bay. And what’s more, they can go without water for more than a week! After we had seen some great photographs and made ourselves a bit more acquainted with this amazing humped animal, we all looked gratified and awestruck. “I’ll never think of camels the same way again,” said a revivified Lillian.

“We had horses, and…,” began Marcia.

A Wrinkle in Time

Colonie Art League (CAL) in upstate New York consisted mainly of people who were in their sixties, and above. While a few  had been career-artists since their adult life, a few others had taken up painting/sketching as a parallel pursuit for decades.  There were also some, who, having engaged in it as a post-retirement activity, firmly battled on, armed with, "it's never too late to learn", kind of attitude. The League,  however,  univocally welcomed one and all: the beginners, professionals and amateurs.

I remember the buzz of excitement when Martha, one of the CAL members, brought in a thick manual  on retirement homes to our weekly get-together.  Pages after pages were devoted to  detailed reports, providing crucial information, such as monthly rent, facilities provided, and minimum waiting period. The write ups were accompanied by attractive coloured photographs of the premises and its surrounding. The buzz gave way to a lot of oohs and aahs, jotting down of notes, forwarding of emails, etc...etc... 

The pro-activeness of the capitalist model, has succeeded in endowing its followers with a mindset which accepts the assembly line regularity of life and plans  accordingly. While this is commendable, it also reflects the quasi macabre edge of such a disposition, brought about by a sense of unrealistic and repetitious certainty, defying the very principles of Life. 

Most of these over-priced complexes  prey on an individual's combined package of pension and social security, and try hard to make hay while the sun shines. However, not all Americans are blessed with a financial security which would allow them  an entry into one of these retirement havens, mentioned in the manual. So, naturally,  they have to seek other, cheaper alternatives.

The apartment building, where I spent a few years of my life, happened to be one  such  option. It was not only centrally  located, but also enjoyed the proximity to the bus-line. The biggest and the most coveted mall  of the area, was just a stone throw away, and so was the supermarket.  Last, but not the least, even Trader Joe's, the only one for hundreds of miles, was at a walking distance. So, for those silver streakers, who could not afford to live in  poche and expensive complexes, this one was the next best possible choice. Besides housing a gym, a boule court, a park, and a swimming pool, it also offered  yoga classes and special courses on aqua aerobics. Even 'meals on wheels' were supplied on request. When the German grocery chain Aldi opened a store in the vicinity, it was prompt to provide an online service, through which groceries could be delivered to your doorstep.

Yet, despite all the conveniences available to the seniors of the community, one could sense their longing for companionship, as they lounged in the common seating area, waiting for a little 'hello' from no one in particular, an escaped smile, an inadvertent lingering of the co-inhabitants. Always eager to indulge in a conversation,  be it about the weather, or about the ongoing sale at  Macy's, or about the greatness of America, they spent hours in the lobby, staring at the framed floral paintings, set against the pink walls.

On summer afternoons, they  could be seen by the window of their tidy apartments, vacant eyes, waiting... For whom? Unfortunately, some of them had themselves forgotten the answer to that question. But, not our eighty-year-old neighbour Lenny. Every Saturday, he would get ready in his finest suit and, with a child's enthusiasm, look forward  to his son drive him to Schenectady plane museum. The son never came.

The following two free verses are dedicated to the Lennys of the world, and are an attempt at capturing the lives of the aging population, caught between two universes.

1.

My words

search for their own meaning
as they come tumbling down
and slide into the receiver.
There is so little
to be really said,
Yet a need to emerge from
the diurnal silence
of these four walls,
to make a connection
with  someone

on the other side
of the window...
before  the incessant chirping
of the birds 

begins to make sense.

2.

Where I live
There are narrow corridors
Running endlessly,
With little red doors
On either side,
Behind which lonely people sit
On huge couches
And watch television
at full volume.

Where I live
There are lamps
Severed in half
Affixed to the wall,
Looking stuck like

 the old men and women
Who live behind these closed doors
Hoping that someone will call
That someone would take them
grocery shopping.

Where I live
You can hear the highway groan
As the cars zoom by
And you can see fragments  of sky,
Clouds, trees and an occasional
Flock of birds
Enliven the shiny vitreous surfaces
of closed windows.

Where I live
There is the eerie echo
Of unspoken silence
And wasted words
And vast spaces of isolation,
Sqeezed twixt
narrow hallways.

A Bridge of Possibilities

Building bridges is not only an engineering feat, but also an art. Is it a wonder then that while some bridges, like the one over river Meles in Izmir, Turkey, have withstood the test of time for almost three millennia, some like the one in Kolkata, collapsed even before completion?

  

A couple of weeks ago, in our community, we too decided to build a bridge: a metaphysical bridge between us and them. 'Us', being the  so-called educated, affluent concerned citizens, living inside a clean, lush, walled complex, and 'them' being the presumed simple, superstitious fisherman community, displaced by the great tsunami of Dec. 2004.  'Us' was battling for cleaning up the neighborhood water-catchment area, driving around to chase authorities, 'them' was indifferent; 'them' was part of the problem, guilty  of dumping waste in the aforementioned water-catchment. Or so we thought. We blamed them,  their supposed ignorance, and their utter disregard for the environment, for our inability to find a permanent solution to the problem.

Finally, a few brave souls from our walled community decided to reach out to the fishermen folks and see if they were ready to co-operate in cleaning the water-harvesting area of  plastic and other pollutants. 

To our surprise, they were very much aware of the situation, and more than willing to co-operate. The realisation that despite our superficial differences, we were all on the same page, and therefore united in our mission to restore the water-catchment to its pristine state, brought us closer together... building the first link in the construction of that invisible bridge. 

Having relied on the  municipal authorities to do the job for too long, with the new bigger and stronger team, we felt more confident to undertake the cleaning task ourselves. The next day being a weekend, it was decided that 6a.m would be a good time to start the work. And, at 6a.m., it did. At least 20 volunteers turned up from the tsunami quarters, mainly children and women. In the five and a half hours that ensued, the team had extracted and bagged at least one ton of garbage. The enthusiasm of the kids, some just seven years old, as they dug out the buried waste, was contagious. A few residents, who could not partake in this labour-intensive exercise, brought tea and snacks for the crew. At the end of the day, medals were awarded to a few children for their outstanding performance.

The work had begun.We were a team now, of crusaders, battling for clean water, our basic right.  

The bridge was built: a bridge of possibilities.

Where do we go from here?

In the wee hours of  July 6th, 2019, three thefts worth lakhs in cash and kind took place in MMCT Rajkot-Mumbai Duronto Express, Train no. 12268. Yet, no newspaper reported it. When I ran a Google search on 'Duronto train theft', I was shocked to find that this is the second incident of robbery on Duronto Express  which has transpired  in the year 2019 alone; the first being in January on its Delhi-Jammu run. While the one in January was widely covered by different publications, the media has remained quiet over the recent one. I can't help but wonder why.  Is it the administration's and our own amnesia towards such acts of felony  that has  aided and abetted them to become  part of the mundane?

"My wife woke up in the middle of the night, to find her purse missing. She then shook me awake. We both looked around to see if it had fallen or something, but there was no trace of it anywhere" recounts a traumatized Ramachandran, an executive working in Gift City.   

Following the sounds of commotion in the next compartment, Ramachandran soon realised that they were not the sole victims. Two other thefts  had taken place that same night. The TC Sandip Chowdhary was contacted, who quickly sent out an SOS to Mumbai railway police.  In the meanwhile, the deputy TC took down the details of the thefts, which included, gold jewellery, cellphones, wads of money, and credit cards. A search operation was carried out which lead to the open doors of compartments G1 and G6, a clear indication that the miscreants had escaped in the dead of the night. Further investigation revealed that the thieves must have carried out their clandestine operation between 1:30 a.m. and 2:30 a.m., subsequently, pulled the emergency chain, and escaped. 

The husband of one of the victims succeeded in getting through to an officer on 1512, the IRCTC distress number. However, the officer-on-duty was apt to inform that even though as per the timings of the thefts, they must have occurred between Vadodara and Bharuch Stations, the FIRs could only be registered at Mumbai Central, which was the next stop. "In the meanwhile,  we managed to go online and register the theft of the ladies’ hand purses  with the Mumbai Central Railway Police Force (RPF)," recounts Ramachandran, disappointment still audible in his voice.

However, to the dismay of the  complainants, on reaching the station in person, they were informed that since the theft took place near Vadodara, the case falls under the jurisdiction of Vadodara Police station and should rightfully be followed up and examined by them. 

While one of the victims, who  was accompanying her husband to a wedding in Mumbai, was in tears for  her stolen hand purse contained cash, gold chain and gold rings, the second grief-stricken woman informed that hers too held gold earrings, and her husband's wallet with cash and phone. The third one had lost cash, credit/debit cards, Aadhar card, driving license and a mobile phone.

 Despite the fact that one of the stolen  cell phones, on being dialled, returned a ring, and could have easily been tracked, the RPF in Mumbai Central insisted that only  Vadodara police station was authorised to follow up with the procedure. "They had washed their hands off, leaving us  all in the lurch, and the pilferers at large, to play the chasing game," concluded Ramachandran, just beginning to come to terms with the way the system works in our country. "Until one actually comes face to face with a situation such as this, one lives in the Utopia of 'Mera Desh Mahaan'..." philosophises one of the victims.

It is unfortunate that a premium express service like Duronto, from being associated with hygiene, speed and punctuality, should now be paired with western-movie-style train robberies. Strangely, despite recurrent occurrences of such nature, the authorities have not stepped in to take action in terms of manning the trains with security personnel.  Call it a blind faith in humanity, indifference towards the safety of the passengers, or unwillingness to invest in a sector which does not offer tangible return, the complacency of the concerned authorities is nothing short of appalling. 

 However, it is to be hoped that  the new railway budget's ₹5,000 crore  slot  assigned solely to Railway passenger safety, will set in train appropriate measures to prevent such untoward incidents.