All in all, you're just a-nother...

(With due thanks to Pink Floyd)

The reigning Hindu deity for the month of November in Delhi must be Vishwakarma. Evidence of his influence is literally strewn all over the place.

In the U-turned iron rods and mounds of sand piled on the road (yes, halfway ON the road, not by the side, so you have to drive at least two wheels of your car over this stockpile), in the deep rumble of cement mixers and high pitched whines of marble saws…even in the well deserved post-prandial naps of construction workers in neighbourhood parks – November is clearly the time to build.

Construction, like all other undertakings in Delhi, is to be approached with a single underlying dictum: If you can save a rupee of your own by inconveniencing everyone else, that’s the way to go.

So most good Dilliwallahs think nothing of piling material (including debris from interiors being torn down) on street corners, working the labourers well into the dark (numerator = fixed daily construction wage, denominator = flexible number of hours you can drive the poor sods to work daily…you do the math,) and extending the new hanging balcony ten inches into the neighbours’ plot (remember how you used to taunt your sibling with “I can poke my finger into the air near your face, the air doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to everyone…,” when you were fighting?)

The fact that winter is just setting in means that everyone suddenly becomes Superman in the hearing department; distant sounds are magnified manifold, become immediate. When you’re still snuggled under the rajai and the industrious Nair aunty three houses away begins to grate coconuts in the morning, you’re pretty sure it’s all happening in your kitchen. You wake up salivating for soft idlis and chutney for Sunday breakfast, but tough luck. Your kitchen only has silence and bread to offer.

The other factor to bear in mind is that Dilli is the city of the refugee, where there is no concept of leaving any space between houses. In almost all of Delhi, people build side walls of homes with single-brick thickness, knowing that the owner of the neighbouring plot will stick his house to yours, with his own single-brick wall. So why spend money on a two-brick-thick wall of your own? Like the refugee fiercely guards what he has fought so hard to win, the Dilliwallah extends his boundaries, as far out on all sides as he dares, lest the neighbour encroach into his space.

So, in Delhi, the walls literally have ears…the neighbours’, to be precise. In Vishwakarma season, what this means is that you know exactly how far the neighbours have gotten in having the old plaster scraped off their walls. Judging by the extend of the din, you can tell whether the guys upstairs have gone in for wooden or marble floors. If you count the sloppity-slop of the broad paintbrush, you can even judge which coat their living room is currently on.

If you live in a DDA flat (built by the government owned Delhi Development Authority, for those unfamiliar), you know that this sort of thing will happen pretty much each year. Designed originally for middle (read lower middle) class families with just scooters, these poorly built apartments have gone up substantially in price over time (thereby proving that s**t really floats).

In this microcosm of Indian urbania, prosperity spreads in an inequal, sporadic fashion. This year, it’s the Kumars upstairs who’re extending their kitchen, re-laying their bathroom floors and covering their verandah in a hideous green acrylic sheet with printed orange flowers. Next year, it will be the Sachdevas – putting up an extra gate and iron fence outside their ground floor flat, to keep Mrs.Sachdeva’s plants in the 20-odd square feet of community space they will stake their predatory claim on. The year after that, the Banerjees will dig out their mosaic floors and replace them with marble…and so on.

Each of them contributes to the mongrel ugliness of the DDA apartment block in installments, as and when their pockets and whims turn favourable.

An agent of Vishwakarma hard at work. His mission: to make this DDA Apartment block uglier.

These ad hoc additions are of course, illegal. But each apartment resident is his neighbour’s keeper, the DDA turns a blind eye, the cops pick their prey as it suits them and life goes on.

So what’s my gripe? After all, Delhi is just behaving in character and I’ve known Delhi long enough. Ergo…I should shut up, right?

Well, I have, for many years now.

And that’s precisely the problem. I just thought it was time I had a rant…at least a realist, fishscreen sort or rant.

I can already feel another one coming up…about the city’s fascination with loudspeakers. I promise I’ll give you audio samples on that one – you can’t do justice to the winter Mata Ki Chowkis without it J

How does your city build itself? How do you take it? Do tell.

Park-a-mudiyuma?

Can I park? (Can I see?)

The perimeter of a south delhi park that I occasionally jog in has suddenly become a MCD Authorised Porking (sic) area.

Men in limp fluorescent orange sleeveless jackets, some swaggering rowdy youth, others, wearing the uniform look of migrant labour whose life force has been sucked out by Dementors, now materialise out of nowhere (just after I've parked and turned off the engine), demanding that I park closer to the car on my left.

In orange life jacket, life force sucked out by a Dementor. - a parking attendant in South Delhi

This time, I get the cocky young kind, sure that he will magically fit another car into the bicycle-only space between my car and the tree on the right. The tree gives me a "yeah right!" look, but the Marshall is already in the rear view mirror, miming directions to get my craft into the bay only he can see. I comply grudgingly, wishing I could simply reverse into him. After a minute of maneuvering back to pretty much where I started from, Marshal bangs the rear windshield in satisfaction.

Get out, fuming, and he's already torn an orange parking ticket from his book, the "Rs.10" printed in the largest font on the cheap thin paper, "MCD" coming in a close second; the first tells me what I gotta pay, the second, ostensibly why.

"Since when?" I ask, keeping my voice a studied pitch lower than normal, trying to convey the quiet confidence of a local.

"A long time," he says, "at least 3 months now."

I chuckle to show my disbelief. "I come here everyday. I've never seen you before."

"I'm here everyday," he says, walking away towards the next car slowing down, "except when I'm on leave." "Beat that, smart-ass" say the subtitles.

I stuff the ticket angrily in my pocket and walk away towards the jogging track. This is not over.

When I return after an hour, a different orange jacket is there, leaning on my car. I get in, not rolling down my window, no intention of paying the thug voluntarily. I start the engine, and raise it just a bit more than needed. They're taught to judge body language very quickly, these guys. But this one is younger than the rest, probably a new recruit. He's a little unsure, and nearly falls over, trying to half-block my vehicle with his body, lest I speed away. He quickly sashays up the front to knock on the window. I roll it down.

He thrusts an eager hand in.

"Since when do I have to pay parking here?"

He tries the standard gambit. "Long time now."

"I'm not paying." I shut the engine. "Go get me evidence that you're allowed to collect parking here."

He points to the "Porking" board. "Everyone pays."

"It takes nothing to put up a board," I say. "Get your owner here."

"He doesn't sit here," he says, his anxiety growing.

"That's not my problem," I say. " If I can't see the MCD papers, you get nothing." I start my engine, raising the stakes.

He stiffens, holding the car door with both hands now. I expect him to call for help from the senior thugs any moment now. The climax will soon play out, the winner to be decided by intricate game theory. Net-net, it's about whether I'm likely to create a loud enough nuisance to incite other car owners to join my protest and if I do, how sure the attendants are, of their bona fides to collect the fee.

But the trainee doesn't call for assistance. "Wait," he says hurriedly, breaking into a nervous smile. He reaches into his trouser back pocket and pulls out a brand new rexine wallet, with a flourish.

I'm surprised. This script has taken an unexpected turn. I'm curious. I relax and sit back, just a bit.

He produces a piece of paper, creased and folded many times over, out of the wallet, an unsaid "Ta Da" ringing in the background . He opens it halfway, then just thrusts it to me, his smile widening.

I open it slowly and try to decipher the smudged photocopy. It's a tender advertisement, copied from a newspaper - The Municipal Corporation of Delhi, MCD, invites bids to manage vehicular parking in the area.

The young man is standing to my right, a few inches taller no doubt, having produced documentary evidence of his right to fleece me.

"Ha!" I think. "He most likely can't even read. The senior goons have put him up to it." I turn, my mind racing to point out the various lacunae in his reasoning - an ad is no evidence that his contractor actually won the bid, or even that the auction was ever held. He doesn't see me turn towards him. He's looking over his shoulder. I follow his gaze, and notice his superiors, who are observing his performance from the distance. I'm about to begin my demolition when he turns to face me.

His expression is not what I expect - of a ruffian gloating his victory over someone he thinks he's got cornered. His goon smile is not fully developed yet; it has no malice... just the excited anticipation of a kid who thinks he's won a game, unexpectedly, but fair and square. That too, with his bosses watching.

I hand him back his piece of paper and a ten rupee note. He grins happily. I smile.

The foot soldier has won this battle. I'll be back to fight the war with the porking contractor another day.

p.s: part fact, part fiction, all for a good cause :-)

The Zen of the Run...

Prologue: This entry concerns an experience that I’ve already shared with some friends, though I've added a few new discoveries to it. For others, some context: for most of my life, I could not run distances. A flutter in a heart valve meant that past 200 metres, I would be gasping for breath. In June 2008, I decided to test this limitation, a few hundred metres at a time. I did this gradually, running for distance, rather than speed. My various running toys - my GPS watch, Heart Rate Monitor and IPod Nano, to name a few, helped me greatly along the way. Before I experienced what I describe below, I had already completed two half marathons (21 km races), in November 2008 and January 2009.

In June 2009, I was training at the Jahanpanah Forest in New Delhi, getting in shape to take part in the Great Tibetan Marathon (I was planning to do the 21k) in July. Out on a routine Sunday long run, a strange peace descended over me, unannounced. No sooner had my breath settled into its rhythm, my hands and legs were moving on their own, at a pace so comfortable, it seemed like I could go on forever if I wanted. Everything was in harmony; the rhythm was perfect, the motion complete, the balance sublime...a state of emptiness (or fullness?) just appeared. I could only taste it, with no comprehension. It lasted nearly 5 kilometers, till I broke my run for a drink of water.

The afterglow stayed for a few hundred metres and then, my mind took over. What might have triggered what had just happened? A new playlist on my ipod? A new item of clothing? Last night's meal? What did my Heart Rate Monitor have to reveal? What was my GPS saying about my pace? And so on, went the rapid analysis, till the gossamer glow of the experience was totally shredded by reason.

It took me a while, but eventually, my mind slowed down. Then came a gentle realization. On that very morning, I had hit a wall, with no motivation to run any more. Alarmed that this had happened so close to the race in Leh, I had gone back to what had prompted me to start running in the first place - to discover something new, to experience my body and spirit more fully, by pushing myself beyond my current limits.

Somewhere along the way, especially as I began to get involved with the world of distance runners, I had lost my way and these lofty goals had been replaced by a slew of numbers – lap pace, heart rate zones and negative splits - that I still had to achieve. Each successive goal was exhilarating to reach, but without realizing it, I had slowly succeeded in killing the fun of the run.

With this realization, on that morning, I had decided not to look at any of the many running toys that usually kept pace for me. With no goals to reach, the body had set its own intuitive pace, the mind had decided to relax and the spirit had watched, content to just be.

During my run in Leh, although I did not slip into the same state again, I experienced a more dynamic version of the same fullness, during the last leg (4 kms or so), which I spent literally dancing in parts to the finish.

The Great Tibetan Marathon - a race route of picture postcards strung together

(Picture taken with a crummy 2 megapixel mobile phone camera)

Although this experience was not as "full" as the first one, it was still somehow different from my usual runs. I reflected on it later, trying to figure out the common factor between the Jahanpanah and Leh runs. Once again, it was the absence, during both runs, of any concerns for run timing, heart rate, etc.

I had run from instinct, within my own body, within myself.

I wondered - had other people experienced this harmony? What was their explanation? Was this what they called the "runner's high?" (though I was quite certain that “high" was not be best term to describe what I had felt...) Anyway, I began to look.

One of the things that I found during this search is little gem. It's available as a free pdf download at the link below.

http://www.naturalhealthyellowpages.com/health_ebooks/the_zen_of_running/zenofrunning-672gxrtekj78q2.pdf

It’s a really small book, and the words ring of the truth of experience, doubts and caveats and all. I for one felt the truth of his dance, having discovered it accidentally for myself first.

Some of you may have already read it. If not, you may want to. If it appeals to your spirit, pass it on. And if you feel like it, go for a run. Or do whatever else is your dance.

Epilogue: The zen of the run is not yet predictable…or more importantly, duplicable. The toys still help :-)

Of cats, roots and Anand Bakshi...

At what point do you realise that you've set roots somewhere?

That you've discovered the cat in you and don't want to be disturbed?

A particular sofa, contoured by nights spent watching reruns of your favourite soap. Or a special corner of the study, where the sunlight slants in just so in the mornings.

Or a home that announces the arrival of winter with the smell of alistonia flowers wafting through the bedroom window ?

Or a neighbourhood, where you know which loose pavement slab can suddenly tilt underfoot on the way to the market. Or a city, whose seasons and appearances are etched in the retina of your subconscious. Or a country, whose life breath you've lived in a thousand ways, big and small...

And, if in your own mind, you're the kind who's always traded the comfort of the familiar for the excitement of the new, when do you acknowledge the sudden expression of the feline gene?

When your comfortable corner of the universe is taken away, it can leave an after-image in your brain, like a phantom limb. The spaced out feeling is quite literal, your space no longer yours. It takes you by surprise, and you feel a bit like a refugee, cast out by force.

Your mind rejects the change - the new piece of furniture, or room alignment or venue - as a transit camp, a rag-tag arrangement that's unlikely to last. Stubbornly, it waits for the dull ache to end, believes things can go back to being just so.

Sometimes, you can fix it, move the sofa back to where it originally was. But sometimes, you can't; you're not going to get back the house that the good Punjabi landlord has decided you've 'company leased' for long enough and will now usurp, unless thrown out.

Then, you look closely and realise that what is being missed by the mind is not quite the limb itself, but what it thought the limb was, the role it had assigned to the piece, in the larger scheme of your life.

At this point, if you never intended for a physical space to anchor you, for familiarity to have a hold on you, the truth is inescapable and uncomfortable. Something has changed within you. You could even be getting old.

Human beings are designed to adapt, to move on. Other things will demand your attention and this seemingly irreplaceable construct will soon be substituted by something else. There's nothing wrong with that.

Only, as with all of life, if you're conscious through this process of loss and reconciliation, it can give you unexpected perspective; like moving a potted bonsai banyan from its spot after years, to accidentally discover its hungry roots have burrowed into the parapet wall under it. You should have known better.

That's the end of the deep stuff. The fish screensaver wisdom on this topic comes from Anand Bakshi. Click. Enjoy. Zindagi Ke Safar mein Guzar Jate Hain Jo Maqaam

p.s: Those who wish to give voice to their own experience of being cast out of a nice rented house may replace the last word in the mukda with 'makaan'.

A durian, by any other name...

...is still an acquired taste. So is this blog. The name is a simple lift - from a Dilbert panel. I've scanned it for you.

So, if you think the name stinks, hey, I warned you - its likely your fault. The world wants me to find a cure for AIDS. I can make a fish screensaver. We usually settle closer to me. Only this time, I'm stating it upfront - here are my two bits on stuff I see, hear, read and occassionally, think about. Nothing fancy. It's just a Fish Screensaver.