Drinking and emergencies
So the swelling sustained by the concussion went down last evening (it still has to blend seamlessly with my face). But the pain decided to stay on. Evening time, it was hurting like the conscience of a terrorist. I decided to go to the ER.
Seeing these fast paced ads for the show by the same name on TV, I expected to be met by an eager platoon of doctors, who would whisk me away into some room. There would be the rhythmic beating of the life monitor be to accompany me as I was injected with multicolored fluids, some of which might happen to be morphine. But alas!
I had to fill out an unimpressive looking piece of paper and wait in a waiting room for 3 hours. Then I was called to a reception area and taken to another waiting room. After 4 hours a doctor saw me. I am not complaining about the time, though I must admit that the anticlimax filled with inertia was disappointing. These doctors had their hands full. Even though I wasn’t a member of the staff, I had my hands full.
The ER is filled with the dregs of humanity. Save for the girl with the second degree burns, and the chef at the Mercer Kitchen who had cut her hands while cooking, there was one common factor to all the other patients, many of whom used my shoulder to sleep on. This c.f. I speak of was alcohol. Gandhi was right on the money when he said that drinking is the worst vice, as it makes a man forget himself and turn into a beast. I remembered all those occasions when I was drunk and hoped to God that I was nothing like these blokes. There was the guy who tried for an hour to get a can of coke from the vending machine. If he took this long, it was only because he paused in between to ask for a light, to trip and fall down, or shout abuses at Fidel Castro. The there was a young man, who whispered confidentially that he was not mad, but was pretending to be such, so that they would put him away in the psychiatric ward. His parents were wearing him down apparently. Such is life, I said. There was this other man, who was the drunkest of the lot, but didn’t seem to realize it. He kept abusing all the other drinks and shouted, “Drinks will drag you to hell. On judgment day you will have your d()*&^ sucked by the man himself.” This was all very entertaining, but after 4 hours, it got a bit wearing. I told him to put a lid on it. He said, “You know what the problem is man. My clothes. They are wet.” He then removed his shirt, threw it on a nearby chair (it happened to be unseated on at that point in time) and got himself some dapper looking scrubs. If Gandhi was shocked to see “an Englishman under the influence rolling in the gutter”, his eyeballs would have done a double take yesterday. It is enough to make you sober for life.
I saw my doctor, and he gave me these pills to take. I came home and filled up some water to swallow them. I thought of the most interesting people (I didn’t even mention the fat man who…) I had seen. I ran down to the deli to purchase some life saving supplies.
Water wouldn’t cut it. I needed a drink.
So the swelling sustained by the concussion went down last evening (it still has to blend seamlessly with my face). But the pain decided to stay on. Evening time, it was hurting like the conscience of a terrorist. I decided to go to the ER.
Seeing these fast paced ads for the show by the same name on TV, I expected to be met by an eager platoon of doctors, who would whisk me away into some room. There would be the rhythmic beating of the life monitor be to accompany me as I was injected with multicolored fluids, some of which might happen to be morphine. But alas!
I had to fill out an unimpressive looking piece of paper and wait in a waiting room for 3 hours. Then I was called to a reception area and taken to another waiting room. After 4 hours a doctor saw me. I am not complaining about the time, though I must admit that the anticlimax filled with inertia was disappointing. These doctors had their hands full. Even though I wasn’t a member of the staff, I had my hands full.
The ER is filled with the dregs of humanity. Save for the girl with the second degree burns, and the chef at the Mercer Kitchen who had cut her hands while cooking, there was one common factor to all the other patients, many of whom used my shoulder to sleep on. This c.f. I speak of was alcohol. Gandhi was right on the money when he said that drinking is the worst vice, as it makes a man forget himself and turn into a beast. I remembered all those occasions when I was drunk and hoped to God that I was nothing like these blokes. There was the guy who tried for an hour to get a can of coke from the vending machine. If he took this long, it was only because he paused in between to ask for a light, to trip and fall down, or shout abuses at Fidel Castro. The there was a young man, who whispered confidentially that he was not mad, but was pretending to be such, so that they would put him away in the psychiatric ward. His parents were wearing him down apparently. Such is life, I said. There was this other man, who was the drunkest of the lot, but didn’t seem to realize it. He kept abusing all the other drinks and shouted, “Drinks will drag you to hell. On judgment day you will have your d()*&^ sucked by the man himself.” This was all very entertaining, but after 4 hours, it got a bit wearing. I told him to put a lid on it. He said, “You know what the problem is man. My clothes. They are wet.” He then removed his shirt, threw it on a nearby chair (it happened to be unseated on at that point in time) and got himself some dapper looking scrubs. If Gandhi was shocked to see “an Englishman under the influence rolling in the gutter”, his eyeballs would have done a double take yesterday. It is enough to make you sober for life.
I saw my doctor, and he gave me these pills to take. I came home and filled up some water to swallow them. I thought of the most interesting people (I didn’t even mention the fat man who…) I had seen. I ran down to the deli to purchase some life saving supplies.
Water wouldn’t cut it. I needed a drink.
The wall of transparency
I woke up to the sounds of the NPR radio broadcaster gently telling me that it was "cloudy in Central Park" and to expect "mild showers for some of the day". I felt elated. After all, there are few better feelings than to walk down any street in New York feeling water drops gently take paths of the contours on your face.
I had to attend one of those management seminars this morning, one of those events where human beings stop talking English. I hastily don my sweater, to cover my unironed shirt and tie my tie in a knot, most school children would feel ashamed to have on their unworthy boots. Still I step out with a song on my lips and the sun in my heart. This frame of mind does not last for very long. For there are no mild showers. Not a hint of gentle water drops. It is raining in buckets, the kind of downpour that would have Noah sit up, take notice and send in his resume. To compound matters, I am running late for this meeting of minds at the temple of synergistic wisdom. I am really running, pushing people and cabs that dared to cross my path, behaving like the stereotypical, though not typical New Yorker.
I arrive at my destination and run for the revolving door. I see a gap in the whirling swoosh of air. I run into it. Unfortunately, the gap is made out of glass. I had seen right through it. I crash head first into hard glass and fall back. My boss takes one look at my lip and the large swelling on my head and orders me to go home, which makes it all almost worth it.
Almost, I say. I write this blog on a near daily basis. I want to be like Gandhi (after having some fun). But to want to try and try are two different things.
Why was my shirt not ironed? Why was there no proper knot on the tie? And wasn't I aware enough to see this glass?
All the above three, my dear Watson, point to but one thing. A lack of discipline. And you know what Gandhi said to soldiers who professed to follow his words, but were lackluster satyagrahis in their day to day lives, totally devoid of any discipline.
He said, ".........." I think you get the idea.
I woke up to the sounds of the NPR radio broadcaster gently telling me that it was "cloudy in Central Park" and to expect "mild showers for some of the day". I felt elated. After all, there are few better feelings than to walk down any street in New York feeling water drops gently take paths of the contours on your face.
I had to attend one of those management seminars this morning, one of those events where human beings stop talking English. I hastily don my sweater, to cover my unironed shirt and tie my tie in a knot, most school children would feel ashamed to have on their unworthy boots. Still I step out with a song on my lips and the sun in my heart. This frame of mind does not last for very long. For there are no mild showers. Not a hint of gentle water drops. It is raining in buckets, the kind of downpour that would have Noah sit up, take notice and send in his resume. To compound matters, I am running late for this meeting of minds at the temple of synergistic wisdom. I am really running, pushing people and cabs that dared to cross my path, behaving like the stereotypical, though not typical New Yorker.
I arrive at my destination and run for the revolving door. I see a gap in the whirling swoosh of air. I run into it. Unfortunately, the gap is made out of glass. I had seen right through it. I crash head first into hard glass and fall back. My boss takes one look at my lip and the large swelling on my head and orders me to go home, which makes it all almost worth it.
Almost, I say. I write this blog on a near daily basis. I want to be like Gandhi (after having some fun). But to want to try and try are two different things.
Why was my shirt not ironed? Why was there no proper knot on the tie? And wasn't I aware enough to see this glass?
All the above three, my dear Watson, point to but one thing. A lack of discipline. And you know what Gandhi said to soldiers who professed to follow his words, but were lackluster satyagrahis in their day to day lives, totally devoid of any discipline.
He said, ".........." I think you get the idea.
Kashmir
Both the state government and the party at the center were voted out of Kashmir. The Abdullahs lost, thus ending many generations of a rule that at the best of times, made many people unhappy. It does not matter, what the world says as far as the fairness of the election goes.
All that matters is the faint glimmer of hope that must have risen in the heart of many Kashmiris today. After all, every Kashmiri wants to live a life of prosperity. The lakes, clear as glass await tourists. People value basic necessities and education for their children more than any ideology.
But if people are angry, there must be a reason. It is the duty of the Indian government to atone publicly and apologize for past misdemeanors. And what better person to do it than our Prime Minister?
It is not a time to feel satisfied. What the gun could not do in ten years could be accomplished by some genuine, non-violent repentance. Let us not worry about Pakistan. Let us look within ourselves first.
We can deal with Pakistan on March 1, 2003.
Both the state government and the party at the center were voted out of Kashmir. The Abdullahs lost, thus ending many generations of a rule that at the best of times, made many people unhappy. It does not matter, what the world says as far as the fairness of the election goes.
All that matters is the faint glimmer of hope that must have risen in the heart of many Kashmiris today. After all, every Kashmiri wants to live a life of prosperity. The lakes, clear as glass await tourists. People value basic necessities and education for their children more than any ideology.
But if people are angry, there must be a reason. It is the duty of the Indian government to atone publicly and apologize for past misdemeanors. And what better person to do it than our Prime Minister?
It is not a time to feel satisfied. What the gun could not do in ten years could be accomplished by some genuine, non-violent repentance. Let us not worry about Pakistan. Let us look within ourselves first.
We can deal with Pakistan on March 1, 2003.
At the gates of heaven
I stopped outside the gates of heaven. St. Peter wasn’t there. I strutted around proudly. It had been a busy five days. Everyday, I had been appearing on the Fox 5 10:00 O’ clock news, after the bit where they remind you that your children are missing.
St. Peter came into being, out of nowhere. He looked very old for his age, which I put at a few hundred years, at the very least.
“Yes?” he enquired kindly.
“I died, you know. And wanted to get into heaven.”
He didn’t say a word.
“I got shot and all.” I sounded apologetic for dying in such a careless manner.
“How?” he asked.
“With a gun”.
He shook his head, from side to side. “Sorry, I meant, why?”
This was an interesting question. There are many theories, no doubt, doing the rounds down below, but I can venture a guess confidently.
“Well Monday night, I appeared on the news for saving a golden haired child from being run over by a large bus. On Tuesday, I single handedly built homes for 8,000 homeless people in New York. On Wednesday, I nipped a school shooting in the bud. I was on the news everyday. On Thursday, I invented a technique for separating oil from water, thus saving a million seagulls in the latest oil spill. I was being interviewed every night. In every interview, I made it a point of appearing very virtuous and saccharine like. So, somebody got sick of watching the same thing on TV everyday and did me in.”
“So, you are a good person, are you?” he asked.
“Every day of my life has been action filled in this manner. I sweated good deeds. The media just caught on to me very late”
“Get into this room,” he said. A room materialized.
I got into this dark room.
He steeped outside and I heard him locking the door. I was all by myself. I looked around for a light switch and there was none within arm’s reach. So I stepped forward cautiously. There was a squeaking noise and I pressed into something soft. Suddenly I felt something wriggle around my legs. Before I had a second’s pause to tackle this new addendum to my body, I heard a buzzing sound around my ears. It increased by many decibels till I felt many small people playing drums in my head. I started to sweat profusely and wiped it off my forearm. My fingers pressed against thousands of small things that were attached to my skin. The pain entered the physical realm now and I was too overwhelmed, even to cry.
Suddenly the lights came on. I nearly gagged on my saliva as my eyes beheld with wondrous amazement at the spectacle they beheld.
Millions of rats.
Thousand of cockroaches.
Innumerable bees.
Scores of leeches gnawing greedily on my skin.
I vomited and banged on the door. “Help, help,” I cried.
Suddenly the room disappeared.
St. Peter was grim, but I could keenly see that he was trying hard to conceal a smile. “You are a nice man, Mr. …” but I am afraid you can’t go into heaven.”
“The child, the houses, the oil slick…”
“They are of no use. Heaven, my dear Mr. … is a place where there are no dark or negative emotions. In my experience, fear is the first step towards any of the unwanted emotions such as hate or anger. In the world of love, there is no room for fear.”
“But…”
“Surely you don’t believe that there are no cockroaches in heaven?”
I saw his point. For Mr. Bush they might have a room full of Arabs. Or dictionaries.
I bowed my head. And checked the map for my next destination.
I stopped outside the gates of heaven. St. Peter wasn’t there. I strutted around proudly. It had been a busy five days. Everyday, I had been appearing on the Fox 5 10:00 O’ clock news, after the bit where they remind you that your children are missing.
St. Peter came into being, out of nowhere. He looked very old for his age, which I put at a few hundred years, at the very least.
“Yes?” he enquired kindly.
“I died, you know. And wanted to get into heaven.”
He didn’t say a word.
“I got shot and all.” I sounded apologetic for dying in such a careless manner.
“How?” he asked.
“With a gun”.
He shook his head, from side to side. “Sorry, I meant, why?”
This was an interesting question. There are many theories, no doubt, doing the rounds down below, but I can venture a guess confidently.
“Well Monday night, I appeared on the news for saving a golden haired child from being run over by a large bus. On Tuesday, I single handedly built homes for 8,000 homeless people in New York. On Wednesday, I nipped a school shooting in the bud. I was on the news everyday. On Thursday, I invented a technique for separating oil from water, thus saving a million seagulls in the latest oil spill. I was being interviewed every night. In every interview, I made it a point of appearing very virtuous and saccharine like. So, somebody got sick of watching the same thing on TV everyday and did me in.”
“So, you are a good person, are you?” he asked.
“Every day of my life has been action filled in this manner. I sweated good deeds. The media just caught on to me very late”
“Get into this room,” he said. A room materialized.
I got into this dark room.
He steeped outside and I heard him locking the door. I was all by myself. I looked around for a light switch and there was none within arm’s reach. So I stepped forward cautiously. There was a squeaking noise and I pressed into something soft. Suddenly I felt something wriggle around my legs. Before I had a second’s pause to tackle this new addendum to my body, I heard a buzzing sound around my ears. It increased by many decibels till I felt many small people playing drums in my head. I started to sweat profusely and wiped it off my forearm. My fingers pressed against thousands of small things that were attached to my skin. The pain entered the physical realm now and I was too overwhelmed, even to cry.
Suddenly the lights came on. I nearly gagged on my saliva as my eyes beheld with wondrous amazement at the spectacle they beheld.
Millions of rats.
Thousand of cockroaches.
Innumerable bees.
Scores of leeches gnawing greedily on my skin.
I vomited and banged on the door. “Help, help,” I cried.
Suddenly the room disappeared.
St. Peter was grim, but I could keenly see that he was trying hard to conceal a smile. “You are a nice man, Mr. …” but I am afraid you can’t go into heaven.”
“The child, the houses, the oil slick…”
“They are of no use. Heaven, my dear Mr. … is a place where there are no dark or negative emotions. In my experience, fear is the first step towards any of the unwanted emotions such as hate or anger. In the world of love, there is no room for fear.”
“But…”
“Surely you don’t believe that there are no cockroaches in heaven?”
I saw his point. For Mr. Bush they might have a room full of Arabs. Or dictionaries.
I bowed my head. And checked the map for my next destination.
Genocide
Today work piled up quite unexpectedly on the table and I didn't have any time in the afternoon to write. I have to run for this movie in the evening, which is showing as a part of the New York Film Festival. So I won't have time to let each thought puff up like a cotton cloud and take to flight. I must be quick like a hungry, purposeful butcher.
The movie is called Safe Conduct and deals with German misconduct during World War II. What happened during World War II is horrific and cannot even be put in words. But all I have to ask is this: if the world shed so many tears for the unfortunate innocents, who committed no fault, except that of being born in that era, then why does it not even pause to think of the 1.4 million people who died in less than a week in the Rwandan genocide? Hundreds of thousands of Hindus have lost their lives or forced to leave Kashmir. Equally disgusting is the fact that scores of Muslims were slaughtered in Gujarat. Does the world ever stop and think of them? Don't we have any tears left for Africa or Asia? The same feeling of horror that goes up the spine, when one thinks of World War II, should mimic itself when one sees or hears of any human life falling to hatred. In America. Iraq. Palestine. But it doesn't. I advocate setting up a marketing company , with the best brains in the business, who will bring forth the human side to every death, much in the same manner the American media did after Sep. 11. Only in this manner will we stop thinking in terms of statistics and appreciate the value of human life. Universally.
I really expect Israel to step up to the plate. I would expect out of a sense of humanity, if nothing else that the same people who were the victims of atrocious deeds in World War II do not commit similar actions towards other defenseless people. Negotiations are the order of the day. Heart searching will go a much longer way than moralizing.
1937. 2002. We have the Internet, email and blogs. Little else has changed.
Today work piled up quite unexpectedly on the table and I didn't have any time in the afternoon to write. I have to run for this movie in the evening, which is showing as a part of the New York Film Festival. So I won't have time to let each thought puff up like a cotton cloud and take to flight. I must be quick like a hungry, purposeful butcher.
The movie is called Safe Conduct and deals with German misconduct during World War II. What happened during World War II is horrific and cannot even be put in words. But all I have to ask is this: if the world shed so many tears for the unfortunate innocents, who committed no fault, except that of being born in that era, then why does it not even pause to think of the 1.4 million people who died in less than a week in the Rwandan genocide? Hundreds of thousands of Hindus have lost their lives or forced to leave Kashmir. Equally disgusting is the fact that scores of Muslims were slaughtered in Gujarat. Does the world ever stop and think of them? Don't we have any tears left for Africa or Asia? The same feeling of horror that goes up the spine, when one thinks of World War II, should mimic itself when one sees or hears of any human life falling to hatred. In America. Iraq. Palestine. But it doesn't. I advocate setting up a marketing company , with the best brains in the business, who will bring forth the human side to every death, much in the same manner the American media did after Sep. 11. Only in this manner will we stop thinking in terms of statistics and appreciate the value of human life. Universally.
I really expect Israel to step up to the plate. I would expect out of a sense of humanity, if nothing else that the same people who were the victims of atrocious deeds in World War II do not commit similar actions towards other defenseless people. Negotiations are the order of the day. Heart searching will go a much longer way than moralizing.
1937. 2002. We have the Internet, email and blogs. Little else has changed.
Questions and Answers
Man is a social animal. That is a scary hypothesis, for the way I feel today, I am either not a man, or a part of society. I have never felt, at any point of my life, my friends and family this far away from me. To get closer to the world is not a question of desire, but one of ability.
Don’t get me wrong. I still like going to beaches. But I think of women looking askance at me as they stroke the necks of their significant others, children kicking sand into my eyes, or the ocean drops wetting the pages I am trying so hard to write on.
There are so many mountains to climb. Not like a trekker, but like a gentle lover of the floating leaf, the twisted blade of grass, or the echo of ones voice over surging streams of water. There will be things of beauty I can attach myself to, and unlike human beings they will not turn away for reasons unknown. But the cigarette smoke on the streets of a city or in my fingers before entering a party makes my system deem this adventure impossible. For if physical pleasure can exceed mental pleasure, so can physical pain. To add to this the expectations of an immediate yet far away world, squelch this endeavor before I have even taken a step. I am scared of loud voices and disdainful silences.
There is this space around me and between everybody, which only I can cross. What keeps me from crossing it? Sometimes it is nothing more than a lack of desire. Sometimes it is fear.
Of expecting something in return again. Or fear of something as trivial as guffaws at a bar or cackles on a subway.
But this is the time to query every fear. To ask “why” when it crops up. Only I, in my solitude, can answer the question honestly by plumbing to the very depths of my soul. To sense, if only dimly through my true self the future, or if only to make me a better writer.
To give myself mindlessly to somebody else now would result in similar, if not worse problems all over again. Loneliness, even if self-imposed is not bad. It is a time to be born again and again and again.
The truth is we are a solitary people, and we must get used to it. So that we can excel at being alone. Not to mention, we would have something to long for, when in the company of other people.
Man is a social animal. That is a scary hypothesis, for the way I feel today, I am either not a man, or a part of society. I have never felt, at any point of my life, my friends and family this far away from me. To get closer to the world is not a question of desire, but one of ability.
Don’t get me wrong. I still like going to beaches. But I think of women looking askance at me as they stroke the necks of their significant others, children kicking sand into my eyes, or the ocean drops wetting the pages I am trying so hard to write on.
There are so many mountains to climb. Not like a trekker, but like a gentle lover of the floating leaf, the twisted blade of grass, or the echo of ones voice over surging streams of water. There will be things of beauty I can attach myself to, and unlike human beings they will not turn away for reasons unknown. But the cigarette smoke on the streets of a city or in my fingers before entering a party makes my system deem this adventure impossible. For if physical pleasure can exceed mental pleasure, so can physical pain. To add to this the expectations of an immediate yet far away world, squelch this endeavor before I have even taken a step. I am scared of loud voices and disdainful silences.
There is this space around me and between everybody, which only I can cross. What keeps me from crossing it? Sometimes it is nothing more than a lack of desire. Sometimes it is fear.
Of expecting something in return again. Or fear of something as trivial as guffaws at a bar or cackles on a subway.
But this is the time to query every fear. To ask “why” when it crops up. Only I, in my solitude, can answer the question honestly by plumbing to the very depths of my soul. To sense, if only dimly through my true self the future, or if only to make me a better writer.
To give myself mindlessly to somebody else now would result in similar, if not worse problems all over again. Loneliness, even if self-imposed is not bad. It is a time to be born again and again and again.
The truth is we are a solitary people, and we must get used to it. So that we can excel at being alone. Not to mention, we would have something to long for, when in the company of other people.
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