Puneet Gupta's Blog

 

NEW BOOK LAUNCHAuthor: Puneet Gupta
It is okay to be lost. It is okay to not know how to be found. It is okay to be different. It is okay not to meet expectations. It is okay to fail. It is okay not to reach the finishing line. It is okay to just be. It is okay not to be the best version of yourself.

In a world that is obsessed with norms and stereotypes, I have often found myself a misfit. And what has made the journey tougher is my defiance to succumb to recurring demands for conformance. If you have faced turbulence in relationships, the grief of loss, or vulnerability in owning the truth - you have found a kindred soul in me. Poetry has been the means to observe, express and flourish for me. It has given me wings. This book is a collection of poems I have written over the last decade, the years I have spent discovering, even loving, the real me. To say it poetically, this book is:

An ode to all the wizardly wordsmiths,
who preceded this inchoate iteration of me
and laid the facile foundations for,
all the wondrous words I could weave

Note: Along with all the English poems in the book, there are two bonus poems in Hindi too in the book!
Buy on Amazon:  https://www.amazon.in/dp/B0BZCYMW7L
Available worldwide as e-book or paperback on Amazon...

I don't particularly like to read the newspaper or see news bulletins on TV. Its boring. Too factual and often devoid of the truth. Too conditioned and twisted for my liking. So my morning brush with the newspaper is a mere fifteen to twenty minutes. That is for the main body of the newspaper. I do like to read the sports page, although I primarily skim it for news on tennis. Its my favorite sport - the perfect combination of athleticism and technique - and very individual. But I am are drifting. I feel unsettled by the black and white nature of facts - they lack perspective and feel of the context. They are all about numbers - years, locations, names and the likes. There is often no story, no connection, no reflection on their cultural relevance or their history. Like the bare-bodied monks on a journey - they arouse curiosity but not an appreciation for their being.
In this fast-paced world I find it tough to find time for myself or my loved ones. I compromise my hobbies for an extra hour of work. I cook up new excuses to bunk gym. I give up my dreams for a few more bucks in my bank. In this world, I do religiously look down at my phone to sift through new posts. I still make room to study the stock prices and mutual fun schemes. I still keep track of the political turmoil in nations far away. Hope that all these facts are, in fact, worth all what I chose to lose in feel!

Be it theatre, work or otherwise, I have come to adopt a self-devised psychological approach to handle situations that sometimes arise when collaborating with people with different types of personalities. I call it ART.
1. Accept (people the way they are)
2. Respect (for what they bring to the table, for they always bring something you don't have)
3, Trust (that no one is out there to get you)

I believe in it. I practice it. I recommend it. 

It helps me through what could become sticky situations: a heated policy debate at work, an emotionally charged political dialogue with friends, an unimpressive service at a restaurant or a long-winded diatribe from my aunt about why guys should not cook.

It is not perfect, but it works. To be aware of inter-personal differences and self-awareness of my own personality has been a true lesson. One that I hope I never forget!

Copyright (C), Puneet Gupta, 2015


I don't like getting into arguments. I often do. 

Because I have opinions, and oodles of conviction to go with them. But unlike many people I know, my conviction stems more from a sense of morality and ideals rather than hearsay or regurgitated data from newspapers or TV discussions. And that makes these arguments tough. Because its the classic battle of feel versus fact.Most of them are about what is right versus what is wrong, what is ideal versus what is convenient. I argue that its not okay to have a chalta hai attitude about life or about other people. Hordes of people jumping a red-light cannot justify us breaking the rule too. "No one is looking" does not justify throwing trash on the road. I don't compromise on principles - that's how I conduct myself, and that is how I expect others to be. 
But I very well know that I myself err - it is not a perfect picture. My need to do the right thing does take an unbecoming back seat sometimes when I think I don't have a choice. Like when  the inspector from the cooking gas agency came over and refused to issue an NOC unless I ‘took care’ of him. I had all the right papers, documents to support and no real “objections” he could state. But sans the two hundred rupees he managed to swindle out of me, he would not budge. Long after he had left smiling, handing over the NOC to me, it kept gnawing at me. What could I have done? 
Did I have a choice? Yes, I did. An uncomfortable one, but yes. 
So when I, with my strong beliefs and principles can take an easy way out, what right do I have to have such and better expectations from others? Does it then come down to the priorities one has in life - what each one of us holds important, dear to oneself?

Copyright (C), Puneet Gupta, 2015

Previous Blogisode: http://culture-curry.blogspot.in/2015/12/the-afterlife-episode-1-evening-tea.html 
















He: The tea is good.She: Of course it is. Isn’t it always?He: Yes, precisely. It always is.She: Then why state it?He: You mean it’s redundant?She: One may think.He: But it needs stating that the tea is good. She: Why?He: Well, if I don't you wouldn’t know that it is good. She: But I know it’s good.He: But you don’t know that I think it’s good too.She: But I do know that. Very well. You’ve been telling me for the last four years, stupid.He: And you would not have known if I hadn’t told you. Precisely my point.She starts to smile, and then breaks into a hearty chuckle.He: Why are you giggling? What’s so funny? And why am I stupid?She: Because it is funny - we are fighting as if...uh...He: As if?Oh, as if we are...He joins in the laughter and they enjoy a few silent sips of tea thereafter.She: I heard Bahadur call out for you earlier. What was that about?He: A phone call.She: For you? Who called?He: Adi.She: Oh... Why? I mean...why now?He: He needed...She: Of course he needed something. Why would he call otherwise?He: Don’t get so upset.She: Why shouldn’t I?He: Its okay. Anyways, he was asking me if I would reconsider. She: Really? I thought he had given up.He: I did too. Though, I must admit that I was quite choked to hear his voice, his pleas to convince me.She: Well, it’s your decision. But I wouldn’t...He: You wouldn’t what?She: Don't get angry with me. I am just saying.He: What ARE you saying?She: That you took a decision. He needs to accept that.He: Hasn’t he? All he is trying to do is...is...is to be my son. She: He IS your son.He: And he loves me.She: Like he should.He: The point is - whether I like it or not, whether I admit it or not - my choices affect him. He wants be a part of this. He wants to help. He feels guilty.She: But this is not about him.He: May be it is, a little.She: But he isn’t the one who is...He: Don’t say it! Please. I don’t like to hear it.She: I know. It makes it all too real.He: Perhaps.She: So...?He: So what?She: What did you tell him?He: What I could - I told him I would think about it.She: There is nothing to think about. Do you want to go through all that again?He: I don’t want to. But what if I am being too selfish? He is my son.She: And he has a lovely wife to take care of him. You have done enough.He: But he doesn’t want me to take care of him. You’ve got it all in reverse. He wants to be there...when...it happens.She: It’s not that you can give him an appointment for that.He: Don’t be sarcastic. You know what I mean.She: Oh, I do.She: But he should know that you need a place like this to...to...He: May be.She: May be?He: Yeah. May be. May be not. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if I had stayed with him.She: But you know why you did this.He: He has not seen me in the last three years. He has come so many times, but I never allow him to see me.She: So, he hasn’t?He: No. I doubt if he would even recognize me now.She: You mean without the hair?He: Yes, and the skin. And the walking stick.She: It’s perhaps better this way.He: That’s why I don’t want to go back. He shouldn’t see this.She: Who am I so say?He: Why are you being so irritable today? She: Who? Me? What nonsense? I am fine with whatever you decide. It’s your son, it’s your life.As she says the word life, they both exchange a glance, and smile at the irony of the situation. They resume sipping their tea. He bends to pick up the chudwa. She dips the Marie biscuit into the hot tea and takes a soft bite. They stare into the evening as the sun sets into the horizon.

Copyright (C), Puneet Gupta, 2015

PREFACE
"The Afterlife" is a new fiction series on Culture-Curry. It tells a story where today is seen through the eyes of yesterday. A story where we write a future for what was presumed history. A story when after comes before before. A story where old is the new new and new does not get old. 
AND SO IT BEGINS...




They sit quietly looking at the setting sun.
It was their favorite part of the day. A daily ritual. At 4:45 pm, he would drag two cane chairs to the balcony, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he pulled them out one by one. It would take him a good five minutes, but he never hurried. The anguish from the nasty fall he had last year was still fresh in his mind. Since then, he had developed a strange phobia - “the marble is too slippery” he would tell her. His fear had him wearing slippers all the time, even when in the House. While he fussed with the chairs, she busied herself in the kitchen - milk tea with cardamom and a touch of cinnamon set into two white gold-rimmed china cups underlined by matching saucers. She would set the cups along with Marie biscuits and his favorite chudwa into the tray with the grapevine print. By the time she was done, it would be 5:00 pm. She would carry the tray slowly to the small table he would have set in the middle of the two chairs, now set at the perfect angle facing the sprawling greens that marked the empty vastness behind the House. 

The rhythm did not change with seasons - the weather here was quite equable throughout the year. They had followed this ritual every day since they began four years ago, shortly after she came to the House. Except for when either of them was unwell. Over these years, they had grown used to each other’s company, chatting away for hours at end, discussing everything from their children to the afterlife. One thing was sure - they never ran out of topics. 
Today is no different.

(to  be continued...)

Where the mind is without fear
For that utopia, that peace we crave
Away from lies, envy, starvation here
To that land, lead us O Gurudev!

Long live the revolution
With no walls of color, caste or creed
With valor, courage, towards action
Empower us with ideas O Shaheed!

Be the change you want to see
Without excuses, no delays, no drama
Teach us tolerance, to be truly free
Walk with us again, O Mahatma!

The worldly words of wisdom dead
No ray of hope, 'I', 'Me, 'Mine', no 'we'
Nervous, unsure, but I decide instead
To be my own voice, my leader, yes me!

Copyright (C), Puneet Gupta, 2015

Copyright (C), Puneet Gupta, 2015














Driving in a city is a pain. But that’s nothing new. Everyone has been in one of those situations when the road home feels like a huge parking lot - bumper to bumper congestion, cars and lorries chasing the never ending line of red brake lights, fumes clouding the sanity of the few pedestrians who thank God for helping them cross the road with a rare ease and the persistent honking by the driver in the car just behind you. It is a rush towards the finish line, though sans the adrenaline an Olympic athlete would experience. Inside the car, there are only aching joints of the driver and creaking sighs of the co-passengers. For the two-wheeler drivers, it is a different story altogether - their own lanes, their own rules, their own sneaky ways over the footpaths and their own pace. They are unique. Their approach to traffic, even rains is unique. I don’t quite like it, but I am not too sure why. I feel that there is an order being disturbed. An order to the orderly ordering of orders in the world around. Anyways, no one cares about what I feel about the subject. In fact, I really don’t care that much. I turn off the ignition and push my chair back a little. This is unusual for me. Not the turning off the ignition part, but the leaning back of my chair. I almost always have my back upright in the car, being a firm believer of ergonomics and staunch nurturer of my spine. I know it is the backbone (literally) of my whole life. It is a unique organ that way. It is so core to existential sustenance. But one can still live a whole life without a functional spine. Unique.
I am unknowingly drifting into my own thoughts when a tap at the window of my car jolts me back into the real world. A beggar. A child beggar with an infant she is balancing on her hip bone that she juts out using an awkward posture of her right leg. Their clothes are tattered and slimy. The infant’s nose is flowing. His sister, as she claims herself to be, has marks of dried tears below her eyes. Or perhaps she had just washed her face. But then why should she appear so unkempt? Stop it! As always, I am noticing too much. I look away from the kids. It is the only way. Inside me, there is a slight, yet certain squirming, a silent screaming of sorts. I would love to provide these kids with a promise of a meal. Yet, I don’t know if these are two of the many children who operate for the numerous beggary cartels in Indian cities. I don’t want, in any way, to abet those bastards. Slumdog millionaire has filled the mind with more graphic visuals of what could become of the unfortunate ones who land up in those gangs. 
I look intently at the red lights of the car in front of me. As if brought on by my staring, the traffic moves. Only about four feet though. I am getting cramps in my knees and lower back. I wiggle around in my seat, bend down, touch my toes to release some pressure off my back. I flex and point my toes within the confines of the little room my hatchback has to offer. One of the many hatchbacks that flock the road around me. Something quite unique about India - these small cars that are the most successful family cars - unlike in the West where a family car usually means an SUV or a decent size sedan. 
My reverie is again broken by another tap on my window. I don’t turn my head. It is by the size of the shadow that I realize it’s somebody else. I turn my head and my gaze meets that of a hijra on the road. A eunuch. As kids, we were told to never speak with eunuchs. They are different, we were told. Yet, hijras arrive at every function - weddings, naming ceremonies and deaths - to bless the families. You should never risk the ire of a hijra - my grandmother used to warn me. If we ever were to receive a hijra at our door, asking for alms, she would invariably take out her small coin pouch and hand over a few coins to a hijra. From a lady known to be extremely frugal, this was quite unorthodox. I imagine the plight of the eunuchs in India - shunned by their families and shunned by the society - forced to live a life on the outside. Lives that often merge into the shadows of  prostitution and beggary. I slide down the window and hand over a 5 rupee coin. The hijra smiles and blesses me, and steps towards the next car to see if there is more that lady luck had to offer. I am intrigued by this strange tradition, the modern implications of it and the unique heredity to the marginalization of such communities. 
The signal ahead turns green. All the cars whir up in anticipation. I do not turn on the ignition. The counter on the signal counts back from ninety. Car drivers anxiously pray that they finally make it over to the other side. You can see drivers trying to move forward - even if a few centimeters. They do that on the roads here, I had told my American friend's eight year old son who visited me the last month. He felt it was strange. I told him it was normal. The signal is red again.
I have been on the same spot for the last twenty six minutes. My phone rings and I pick it up. A friend is calling. He asks me where I am headed. I tell him I am going to an evening meet with my theater group. It is a weekday, he reminds me. I tell him I realize that. He asks me a zillion questions to ask. I answer them patiently. He rants about his 9-to-9 work-life imbalance. He tells me he does not understand how I can even think of rehearsing a play while working a full-time job. I tell him I just enjoy theater that much. He tells me I am unique. I smile. He hangs up. I close my eyes and sense the world full of quirks around me - my aching spine, the honking drivers, the beggar girl, the opportunist pedestrian, the hijra. And me. The light ahead turns green. It is time to move on!

(Fiction) Copyright, Puneet Gupta, 2014

















Its a fine Saturday morning. I am cozily wrapped inside the many layers of my blanket. Its the typical August laze of the morning that keeps me tucked in long after I have woken up. If I just open the window, the cool Bangalore breeze would welcome me into the day. The wind chime from the balcony just outside my bedroom is swaying gleefully in mirth. I know I should get up. Just five more minutes - I tell myself.

Twenty five minutes later, I am still in bed. My phone rings. Its a friend. I want to talk to him, but cant. My mouth is all bitter and dry, like its on all mornings. This is despite the night brushing and rinsing ritual of every night. Its always been like this. My friends joke about it. If we are on a trip together, they would tease me into speaking when I get up. I never give in. It feels like I would puke if I talk. So, I dont pick up the phone. It rings five times, and then goes silent. I have tonnes of things lined up for the day. I should get up. Ten minutes later, I am still tossing on my mattress. The street outside is getting noisier. I can hear the hawkers with their produce of fish, milk, mint, tomatoes and flowers, calling out to the housewives around. An occasional raddi-waala joins in with cries of "newspaper", "bottles" and "cans". Its a daily ritual. I can make them out even in my current state of slumber. Each of them has a distinct voice, a musical intonation of their cries for attention, and a clientele that is only too happy to benefit from their services at their doorsteps. I envy their early start. I have so much to do. Its a weekend, but my roster is full. Its not that I have to work. There are just things I have assigned to myself. A to-do list of sorts for myself. Nothing that I mind doing. In fact, stuff that I love to do. Its usually fun.

My first stop is at the grocery store. I have a couple of friends coming over for dinner. A trip to a nearby gallery to speak with the curator about an upcoming exhibition. And then picking up some plants and manure for my miniature garden. Between shopping, cooking and phone calls, I need to make time to proof-read and edit a friend's resume (she is applying for a new job), order new books online, pay some bills, check out a new laptop and finalize the colors my parents should paint the walls of our new home in Delhi. The painting I started a few weeks back is craving for some attention too, standing silently on the easel by the side of the studio room in my apartment. And then there is the script that I started writing for a play. I have the plot in my mind and the characters lined up in my mind. But I have managed to write only two scenes so far. My theater group is waiting patiently for the script, eager to start auditioning and rehearsing. I will get to all of it, I tell myself. Thinking about these things makes me anxious, feeling daunted by how much needs to be done. I don’t know where to start. That’s a lie. I do know. But somehow, I am not able to bring myself to starting.

The bitterness in my mouth is now becoming intolerable. I give in and reluctantly get out of my bed. I drag myself into the bathroom and start brushing. My eyes are still held closed, droopy and drowsy. After a few minutes I decide it must be enough. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. The sudden shock of cold water stimulates my senses. I can smell the aromatic waft of sambhar from the apartment next door. I can feel my stomach grumbling. I go back to the bedroom and make the bed. I go to the studio and pick out a post-it pad. With a steady hand, I jot down my itinerary for the day. I get my backpack out and check my wallet for cash. I take a quick shower and a quicker breakfast. Armed with a bottle of water, my sunglasses and the post-it pad, I set out to my assignments for the weekend. Back in my empty apartment lingers on my wish for a day off. 

Copyright, Puneet Gupta, 2013
I find it hard to look at him. I am unable to look him straight into the eyes without looking away every few moments. Its like a blazing brightness of a hot May sun which makes your eyes find it impossible not to dance around. I look at him one moment, intent on meeting his gaze when our eyes meet, but I fail. Again. Why is it so hard, I ask myself. You are an actor, I tell myself. Just pretend, I cajole myself. All in vain. He continues to talk for about ten minutes, and I alternate between looking at my hands, the ceiling, the carpet, the table and my shoes. I am aware of what he is saying. I bring myself to nod at the right times, shooting a flirting gaze occasionally his general direction, lest he should suspect anything. He continues to talk calmly, in a very patronizing and paternal manner. I express my agreement, even ask some leading questions - consolidating my alibi in a stone cast. He does not realize a thing and carries on merrily. He is too eager to say what he has to say. Its been like since I have known him. Although he is just six months older than me, something makes him feel that he has about twenty more years of wisdom in him. I have not bothered to break his myth. It does not matter enough to me. My dealings with him are far and few and I don’t mind suffering through an afternoon of uncomfortable sermons on life and lectures on his vision for a better tomorrow. After all, I have been brought up in a democratic country where freedom of speech is granted to all - and is in fact taken for granted by all. All my friends have an opinion about the city traffic and corruption, elections and football clubs, marriage and money. Then why should I deny my present company the delight of having opinions of his own, on a topic that he believes could change the course of what is to come. Its quite a treat when you are not expected to say much in a conversation. So I just sit there idly, looking at the enlightened one on the other side of the table rattle off one philosophical theory after another. As he ventures into the karmic implications of our actions, I catch the eye of a pigeon which sits silently on the window sill just on the opposite side of the room. Its the perfect cover up for me. I fix my gaze on the pigeon and even dare a mild smile. That is brilliant because he perceives it as my silent approval of his postulation of the cause behind the current crisis. I ignore the misappropriation of my appreciation. I am still intrigued by the pigeon which has now spread its wings as if to soak in the sun. It must be nice, I think, to be away all by yourself. I wish that his words are over.
He hovers over to my side and takes the chair next to me. He fakes a smile, pats me encouragingly on the shoulder and asks me what I think. I simply tell him that it all sounds good. It assures him that I understand his unique perspective and acute insight into the human psyche. I do not correct him. I do not tell him that I barely know what he talked about for the last seventy five minutes. I don’t shrug his hand off from my shoulder. I let him believe that his opinions matter. I do not burst his bubble of self importance. I do not let on that his theory has an aura of nonsense written all over it. I fail to impress my cynical lack of belief in his words. I don’t. Instead, I take his hand and give it a firm shake. He cracks a joke at my expense and erupts into a lopsided, gargle-like laughter. I amuse him by joining in with a tentative giggling. He is satisfied with our discussion in which all the words were his. He leaves and I get back to watching the pigeon. It circles on its feet twice and takes off, leaving behind the confines of the sill into a free sky of limitless opportunities.