A bus journey gone wrong - and then slightly right!

If you think the corner seat on a bus with bad or no leg room during a 10-hour journey was bad enough, add to it bumpy roads, middle of nowhere, cold weather and claustrophobia. I would have preferred an Iron Maiden. At least death would have been faster.

It was well past midnight and it was getting worse with every passing minute. The guy who sat in front of me had just decided that it was time for him to go to bed. And with the reclining of his backrest, I was off. I had to escape.

There were bodies everywhere. The line might sound straight out of a war movie, but to me it was no less traumatic. Except for the fact that dead bodies did not scream out abuses when stepped on, it was ditto. I stepped on at least a couple of them sleeping in the aisle and received welcome gestures before I reached the driver’s cabin.

“20 kms to the next taxi stand,” said one of the umpteen voices in the cabin. On any other day, I would have been two and half cigarettes down and happily getting down. But this was not just any other day. Out came a string of expletives. I had no choice but to wait. And I couldn’t even smoke. An opportunist next to me took pity on my state and traded his window sill for my seat. 2 minutes later, he was thrown off his seat and was back demanding his two-inches by the window. I did not return the favour. Darwin would agree. After all, I was getting off in another 20 kms!

Hairpins came and hairpins went. There was no sign of civilization as yet. It is so strange how perspectives change with circumstances. These were the same hairpins I got blissfully lost in during the dawn from a day before. And here I was, counting every one of them, with profanity studded between every number.

And then there was light! Houses! People! I was Gulliver. I was Robinson Crusoe. I was almost everyone who has ever been stranded. I was probably the only one who had a phobia though. The bus had reached Manandhavadi, something that resembled a town. To me it looked like a city from the future. Active night life, food on the fast lane and supersonic cars; mainly jeeps.

A bunch of jeep drivers gathered in conspiracy as I downed two glasses of very bad looking water at a nearby pushcart. I walked over slowly as they reached a consensus. A car was available, an ambassador. I did not even bother to bargain as I got into a rickshaw to summon the driver and the car from a few miles away. Rs.14 a kilometer for 400kms was cheap for Alexander Selkirk.

The road to the driver’s house got spookier and spookier. If I were to be murdered on the route, I guess it would have taken another stranded me to ever find the body. But due to the million other options I had in the matrix, I sat with my trap shut. I was prepared for a fight if needed. My mind was quickly beginning to contrive as the road curved into oblivion.

“So where are you coming from sir,” asked the curious driver. I answered. “Anything in particular,” came the next question. “I had gone on an investigative mission,” said I. The man obviously thought he had heard me wrong. But the rickshaw did stutter for a moment. “Are you with the police,” said the slightly intimidated rickshaw guy. With my attire and weight, it would have been very hard to pass on as a cop. “I am with the CBI (central bureau of investigation),” I replied in whatever baritone I could manage amidst the suppressed giggle. If he had any intention of doing anything that my idle mind had cooked up, it evaporated there. The message apparently was passed on to my driver the moment he was woken from his midnight slumber. Because, silence was the only language spoken through the length of the remaining journey. I finally smiled. And I slept with it on.

The masks of sorrow!

It is my second month in the new firm. I have become familiar to a lot of people and they have become familiar to me. There comes a colleague of mine, a familiar and ‘pretty’ woman who shared an hour-long conversation with me in the cab just 12 hours back. I have rehearsed my greeting at least a couple of times over in my head. The smile is pasted neatly from ear to ear. The words are almost off the lease at the tip of my tongue. Eye contact remains the missing link before I pull the conversational trigger. Ten steps away. Five steps. Two steps. Zero steps. We pass. No eye contact. I swallow my words and erase my smile. All I have on my face is a confused WTF expression. Period.

I remember reading in school about a mythological demon named Medusa, into whose eyes if one stared, would turn them into stone. So far, I am not aware of me or anyone for that matter with such powers. I wasn’t around a few thousand years ago, so I can’t take Medusa’s case. But today, I am sure there is no one. If there was, Bangalore mirror would have covered him/her for 3 months with full page reports. So why on earth do people find an eye-to-eye such a tedious task?

The lady in the first paragraph for instance. Had I made a pass at her during that long midnight ride, being a married orthodox-looking woman, she would be completely justified. But all we did was talk about the death of advertising and the rise of PR. And there was nothing gory or unmentionable about it, despite the nature of the industries. So that options is ruled out.

Another theory could be the oncoming person’s face. In this case, mine. Well considering me, I don’t have the most beautiful of faces. Scary is what some define my face as. I agree. But even when scary, won’t you pass a glance, just for the sake of amusement? Just for kicks. Just like when you are walking the lonely road and you are sure that someone is following you. There comes this urge to turn back despite the ultimate fear. Just to kill it. I think there is. In which case, this also can be erased from the list of possibilities.

The next one, and a very probable one under any other circumstance, could be that she and I do not speak the same language. Or for that matter, we do not share a mutually comprehensible medium of communication. That is untrue unless we used sign language the previous night (which is quite possible considering that I was drunk up to my eyes and by tolerating me, she proved that so was she). She speaks English. I understand. I speak English. She understands. And then again, there is the universal language called smile.

Now the fourth, the very cynical and hence the very realistic thing. The mask. Everyone these days wears a mask – the mask of insecurity and hence one of indifference. Insecurity due to jobs, and lack of them. Insecurities from relationships and the absence of them. Insecurities due to challenges and walkovers. Insecurities due to the others and strangely due to oneself. The fear of being exposed steals the very essence of being human from each of us. The power of being social. To think of it, it is one small gesture that takes very little effort. As the cliché goes, fourteen muscles are all it takes. Then why bother counting the bricks in the wall when a warm ‘hello’ can keep you the human you were? Why create imaginary Sudoku puzzles in the air and solve them on the move, when a gentle smile can ensure that you have not evolved to the point of no return? Why can’t we just keep the romance alive like the good old days? Why can’t we just keep loving?

The bold line between fantasy and everything else...

The tea was getting cold. An old melody fought to freedom from the dusty Panasonic cassette player. The occasional tap of his feet seemed to acknowledge the fight; and maybe even inspire it. But Vivek’s attention was wandering beyond all that.

The road in front of him lay like a memory from a dream he’d often dreamt. It was a funny road – the road of his dreams. Every dream began at the same spot. Then he walked in the same direction; by the same canal; treading the same red earth. And eventually, he’d end up at one of his ancestral homes. But he had never been able to predict which one it would be - his mother’s or his father’s. But one of them, invariably it would be. If they’d been on separate ends of the road, it would’ve been easier. But they never were. Or probably they were. Even if they were, they looked so alike – both the ends that is. A palindrome of a road, he thought.

It was during one such journey towards the unpredictable that he’d come across the twist in the tale. He realized that he had passed it several times without actually noticing it. The tiny breach on the wall hidden behind a curtain of creepers had stayed hidden from him. If not for the squirrel that disappeared through the opening, he would’ve missed it that time around too. But that was not to be.

He carefully scanned the creepers for spiders before he parted the creepers. Though a renowned killer of the arachnids in his tender years, a close encounter had instilled the fear of the creatures deep in his mind. Apart from the resistance of a grasshopper, the encroachment was peaceful.

He walked through the narrow trail of ground that was the path as if following something unknown. He never wanted to stop. It was as if he knew it was leading somewhere more pleasant than sinister. The way his life had been treating him lately, something more evil was anyway out of question. It couldn’t get worse. In the clearing ahead, he found his answer.

The pond was crystal clear. He could clearly see a couple of sharks settled conveniently at the floor of the pool. And there were only sharks. Of all sizes and shapes. They crowded the pool and splashed water all over. The giant ones swam like whales with the tail fin held high up.

It was wonderful. He thought he would never be able to take his eyes off them. But he was wrong.

She was basking in the sun, on a rock by the bank. It was her. She was a mermaid now. But her it was. Doubtlessly. There was that same smile of nonchalance on her face. She hadn’t seen his prying eyes. Even if she had, she plainly ignored them. Like many a time outside the dream world. She was basking in her new-found, yet unpleasant independence.

Was this his moment? He thought. He hesitated. Would she dive into the depths of the pool and leave him stranded as always? Or would she turn her lazy head, and spare him a cajoling look? “Well, this was a dream. He could dream again. What was the big deal,” he said to himself with a mixture of 20% conviction, 30% apprehension and 50% fantasy. He took a deep breath. “Ziyaaaa,” he screamed. He had done it. He waited. His anxiety almost made his eyes bulge out and fall off. Terrifying seconds followed. Every tick was like the blow of a hammer. The nail was sinking. But then, against all the possible odds of heaven and hell, she turned. She looked at him for a couple of seconds; to him they were a million years. And she smiled. Flowers bloomed. The sun shot up. The seal on a bottle of rum broke. He was immortal.

In the real world however, things were quite different. He knew exactly where the road led. Winding by the thick mulberry bushes and the thorny fence; shouldering the toddy shop at the sharp turn; sliding by the thirsty river, it led to where his eyes were set. He got up slowly, emptied the cup in a gulp and looked at the watch. It was about time.

The Orphan

Spending nights on an empty stomach had become a habit to Pearl. She had been going through the same drill ever since she had joined the organization. She never complained. She just maintained her unwavering candle-like silence. Selfless, nonchalant and unassuming; but deafening nevertheless to the open mind.

The peon had switched off the lights. Darkness. Only dots of light on monitors fought on. They blinked like fireflies that could not fly. Probably they wanted to. But even if they did, they never told her. Nobody told her anything. Not even a word of appreciation. Not even a gesture of gratitude. Nothing. It was not as if she was unwilling to share her frustration or her dreams. But no one bothered.

The familiar sound of the creaking glass door was unmistakable. The peon was leaving. She let out a subtle sigh – one audible only to those blessed with that fast vanishing emotion called empathy. Like everyone and everything else, he’d also left without acknowledgement. It was one of those rare moments when she felt the urge to stray; to let go of her noble principles. Why serve such people, with utmost commitment and receive indifference in return. But why? It was probably something in her genes. Some sort of karma. Something she could do nothing about. She sighed again. The same old sigh.

As loneliness slowly overpowered her cynicism, she began to feel better. Her gaze slowly turned towards herself. She could see her reflection on the glass pane of the nearby cubicle. She looked at her sturdy frame. It was not completely devoid of beauty. It was firm. Though not as shapely as some of the new entrants in the office, she still had a thing or two left in her. The neat white cap, her only accessory, still reminded her of her glory days.

She was not the only new entrant on the day. But she was different. She was trendy and classy. As she treaded down the corridor, there were quite a few eyes on her. She had loved most of the attention. But a part of it, planted a fear in her mind. Those eyes green with envy. The ones that knew she was there to take their place. The realist in her realised that one day those eyes would be hers. But the optimist decided to enjoy the glory of the moment. An attractive young man who took more than a fancy towards her, decided to make her his. And as he carried her in his arms, she felt fulfilled; and wanted. And she felt all that beyond those eyes that had turned greener.

Sadeep, her new patron, was a tall, lean man. He was also her first. Beads of nervousness trickled down her spine as he approached her. As it turned out, he was also gentle. He treated her with utmost care and possessiveness. He would not let anyone else near her. She felt safe with him near her. They ate together. They went out for a smoke together. There were even times when they went home together. She loved his home. Home. It was a new world to her. Confined in the insides of giant walls since birth, the office was the only glimpse of the outside world she’d had. Home, with its warmth and peaceful, but not-so-lonely nights, was a perfect getaway. She loved Sadeep for taking her there, and opening a new dimension to her. And in return to all he gave her, she quenched his thirst, through day and night.

Sadeep did not come in the next day. Might have fallen sick, she thought. She could hear whispers. Jealous bitches, she uttered under her breath. But as the whispers in the office remained whispers no more, she realised with a shock that it was sympathy, and not jealousy. Sadeep had left the job. Her formless heart broke into a million formless pieces. She felt pain – in an inexplicably excruciating way. She later realised that it was her heart breaking. But at that time, it was new. It felt as if her virgin innocence had ruptured. The peon had left her by her patron’s desk. She was full and brimming as she waited for him. All for nothing. Then, it began to sink in. The same damned feeling. Déjà vu. Again. Without a word. She looked around. She felt like an orphaned zombie as she sat on his desk. And then, she noticed. Those eyes; they were not green anymore.

A cigarette's role reversal!

Over time, we have explored and identified every possible damage that a cigarette can cause to one’s health. As a result of constant research, we have run out of hazards and more importantly, the world has heard and had enough. So, do we give up now? No. A big blatant NO. Why? Because we are TBWA. We don’t give up. We disrupt.

I am new to TBWA and hence unfamiliar with the intricacies of the disruption process. However, I know the basics. And therefore…

Convention: Cigarette Kills
Disruption: Cigarette Saves

How can a cigarette save a life? First guess. A smoker’s desperate last effort to convince himself that smoking isn’t all that bad. The truth. A smoker at TBWA’s Bangalore office spends an average of three and a half rupees on a single cigarette. We have 40 employees here, among which 16 are smokers. If each smoker, gives up one cigarette a day, and drop that money in a drop box, we will have Rs.56, come the end of the day. Rs.1120 a 4-week month. Now comes a strange coincidence; or maybe even a sign. The Rs.1120 that can be saved a month by us smokers is exactly the amount of money Salima jaan direly needs. And you say – “Salima who?”

Well, not many of us know Salima jaan. It is probably because we fail to notice her amidst our own traumatized lives. Bad deadlines, unreasonable servicing guys, weird clients, egoistic writers, and artless art directors. Goodness. Amidst all these life and death situations, who has time for an ugly old woman, who cleans the ashes, mutters something to herself, and passes us.
After all she earns a whopping Rs.2000, out of which more than half is spent on treating her eldest son – a victim of an accident, medical negligence and money. She is also holds the title of the sole breadwinner for a family comprising an old man, two daughters, a widow and a few little kids.

So fellow smokers, let us unite for a cause. If I say there is nothing in it for you but prayers, you might shrug it off. But I saw her pray for one of our colleagues today. He gave her some money. And she cried and she prayed. There was so much conviction on her face that made the atheist in me want to believe in god just for once.

Drop in a cigarette (monetary equivalent) in the drop box provided. It reads ‘Salima Humari Jaan’.

Thank you.

Note: For non-employees, the box is placed at TWBA, 4th floor, A1 Tower, Golden Enclave, Airport Road.