Reflections - A Journey Through Life

Tell me new things She said to me, “Tell me new things”. We say things, talk, converse, gossip. Among friends, with a friend one-to-one, with our dear ones, with colleagues in workplace and with numerous other people like the shopkeeper, fellow traveler, bus conductor, doctor and so on. Usually I couldn’t talk to unknown people about anything other than the immediate need. Some years back things changed. I still remember an evening when strolling on the sidewalk I entered a small watch repair shop to adjust the band of my wrist-watch. The man on the counter had a bandage on his forehead. While he worked on my watch I started the conversation, “How did you get the injury?” And he started telling the history of his hurt as if he was telling to his friend. I reciprocated and the tale continued. Coming out of the shop I felt a glow. The warmth of holding the hand of another human, a stranger. Did we talk of new things? What do we say? Usually? With old friends we revive o...

The Separation It was a sudden trip. Stolen and sandwiched between two heavy work days. I travel lightly with a small overnighter. But I never forget to take a small lock for it even though I take the overnighter along with me as my cabin baggage. All through my life I could accumulate little of material value but still the idiosyncrasy persisted—protecting my mobile phone for a few minutes while it passed through the x-ray check at the airport security sitting smugly inside my overnighter; or, providing a token security to the not so valuable belongings in my overnighter while I left it in my room for work at the distant city. Over the years the overnighter changed but not the lock. It somehow became my companion—a little bit of security traveling with me in this insecure world, giving me an elusive peace of mind. I came to understand early that most locks do not come alone. Almost always they have a key as companion and you have to take care of the key while the lock travel...

Color of life Cars stopped at a red light. I looked around. A couple in the car beside mine. Glow of wealth visible on their skin. A hand rested lazily on the open window sill. The long row of multicolored bangles on her hand stood out brightly. The colors…sign of wealth and happiness. The colors spoke aloud—look at us, we are the symbols of life and joy. Night fell. At a corner of my footpath lay a middle-aged old woman, half reclined. Skin sooty black, wrinkled and ravaged from long periods, maybe whole life on streets. Her sari, though once normal, now had turned blackish just like her skin. On her lap lay a child. Deeply undernourished inevitably. Layers of dirt and poverty covered him from head to toe. Together they merged nicely with the half-lit street corner…except for the shockingly out-of-place row of bangles on the hands of the woman. They tried to tell a story of life, yet untold. It was morning again. Busy hours. My car stopped. Accident scene. I looked out. ...