'....but deep down she said to herself, Franz maybe strong, but his strength is directed outwards when it comes to people he lives with, the people he loves, he's weak. Franz's weakness is called goodness. Franz would never give Sabina orders. He would never command her, as Tomas had, to lay the mirror on the floor and walk back and forth on it naked. Not that he lacks sensuality; he simply lacks the strength to give orders. There are things that can be accomplished only by violence. Physical love is unthinkable without violence....' - excerpt from Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera.
The lines above i read today.
My last read expressions of higher portrayal of violent physical love belong to Ayn Rand's imagination. Not so much did they seem when i read them, as much as it came as a realization when reading a magazine article several days later (by which time i had grown out of it) which had three literary figures discuss the radical Ayn Rand, whose books my elder sister clearly quoted, and i remember - 'are not for the emotionally fragile'. And my then adventurous age of 19, made it into a challenge. When one of these literary men pointed at the oddity of violent and authoritarian love making, did i clearly see what had earlier remained hidden behind the cloud of hormonal rush.
The question still is what role does authority, pain, selfishness or submission play in love making. What is that fine line of self-respect that has been kept in clear sight by those who do? And if there is a greater past that hides a uniqueness to every individual, that makes each seek a separate balance, a separate combination. Or is it merely an unexplained expectation. It is eventually intriguing to imagine love and pain together, expressed physically, in the same drops of sweat.
These authoritarian expressions may not approve amongst those rooted in the more romanticized tenderness, respectful and free flowing river like chemistry of love making. But it still may belong to a space in their lives where they have carefully kept away everything that is labeled 'Attraction of the damned'.
And it is possible that these intricacies, amongst those who discover, would reveal a new dimension to the concept of mutuality, not necessarily through participation, but certainly by understanding.
More from the book –
'.......Sabina proceeded with her melancholy musings: What if she had a man who ordered her about? A man who wanted to master her? How long would she put up? Not five minutes!.....'
Such, is the human mix…
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Rickshaw Chronicle - But Different
There has been no dearth of tales for rickshaw chronicles. This blog is witness to some of those encounters. I face moments of anger, frustration and helplessness recurring at every ride I take. I doubt my own sanity and luck. The outcome had been consistent. But one case made an abrupt exception to my many experiences.
Somewhere around Juhu I stopped a rickshaw on the move who agreed to take me home. Drunk enough to still worry, I wondered how will I reach home this time? What would be his style? How badly will he speed? And would I take the effort to tell him something. Somewhere I got lost in the ride, a good song, and my thoughts. And then I felt the rickshaw stop. The driver turned to ask me something. I could not hear with my headphones on. So I wondered as I removed the head-phones and waited for him to speak again with a question mark expression on my face.
He was asking me – ‘Sir should we help them?’ I asked him – ‘Help who?’ to which he pointed my glare behind me to the other side of the road where a car had toppled with traffic and people all around. ‘Sahab hamien unki madad karni chahiye, ek minute rukkar dekh aaoon?’ (Sir we should help them, can I stop a minute and check on them?). I replied – ‘Jaao dekh aao’ (go and have a look). He went off, came back in what seemed like 10 beer seconds, and told me that they are fine. They were four men, and they were all fine.
I turned off my music, and in what I thought I ought to do, I enquired with him. Did he once topple his ride? No he said he had not. Then why did he so badly feel the need to help them? He said if he did, someday someone else would, ‘Agar hum kissi ki madad karenge, toh kal koi hamari madad karega’ (if we help someone, someone else will help us). In a statement he showed me the mirror and in it I saw a glimpse of humanity.
After a few more questions about him and a bit to him about me, I asked him where in India was he from. And in a reply that I don’t know why sounded appropriate, he named a city which for reasons I have no idea ‘sounds’ synonymous to certain human kindness. He said he is from Allahabad.
Somewhere around Juhu I stopped a rickshaw on the move who agreed to take me home. Drunk enough to still worry, I wondered how will I reach home this time? What would be his style? How badly will he speed? And would I take the effort to tell him something. Somewhere I got lost in the ride, a good song, and my thoughts. And then I felt the rickshaw stop. The driver turned to ask me something. I could not hear with my headphones on. So I wondered as I removed the head-phones and waited for him to speak again with a question mark expression on my face.
He was asking me – ‘Sir should we help them?’ I asked him – ‘Help who?’ to which he pointed my glare behind me to the other side of the road where a car had toppled with traffic and people all around. ‘Sahab hamien unki madad karni chahiye, ek minute rukkar dekh aaoon?’ (Sir we should help them, can I stop a minute and check on them?). I replied – ‘Jaao dekh aao’ (go and have a look). He went off, came back in what seemed like 10 beer seconds, and told me that they are fine. They were four men, and they were all fine.
I turned off my music, and in what I thought I ought to do, I enquired with him. Did he once topple his ride? No he said he had not. Then why did he so badly feel the need to help them? He said if he did, someday someone else would, ‘Agar hum kissi ki madad karenge, toh kal koi hamari madad karega’ (if we help someone, someone else will help us). In a statement he showed me the mirror and in it I saw a glimpse of humanity.
After a few more questions about him and a bit to him about me, I asked him where in India was he from. And in a reply that I don’t know why sounded appropriate, he named a city which for reasons I have no idea ‘sounds’ synonymous to certain human kindness. He said he is from Allahabad.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Bi-cycle Diaries : Kashid , The 110kms Journey.
It was 4.35 am on a Saturday, and I was sitting at Vikhroli station after two enquires to the few who waited with me for the next local train. I asked them where I should be waiting for the luggage compartment. That was because I had my cycle with me, which needs to be lunged into one, along with me. The cycle’s flickering backlight was on, which explained the constant stares from onlookers while I walked it through the platform, carrying it through the stairs till I reached where I was expecting the 4.38 local to C.S.T. There are obviously other reasons why people will end up looking at a fully geared up cyclist with his fancy blue helmet, and all that, boarding a train at 4.38am. This is India, and it is not one bit normal. I am not normal. To be content with 2 hour sleep and be up at 3.30, packing my little support kit with water, isotonic drinks, money and some energy bars to beat hunger, on my first attempt at cycling long distance, a 100 Kilometers plus.
I was certainly not normal, because I was excited. And excited people defy a lot of normal around us. Excitement defies a lot of normal in us. My excitement defied the reverse odds of the reality, that the last best attempt at cycling I have made is a mere 18 kilometers. I contemplated the impossibility, and I got a dear friend give me some pep talk to make me feel what I wanted to feel, that I could do it. And what is the point of yearning to pushing your physical limits if you first ensure that you would not really be pushing it, which is by slowly building yourself up to it, by training. It will not however be my advice to me or anyone else to walk into an attempt like this one without having ever reached the “I” of STAMINA (or maybe “M”, at worst). I had the stamina; just that I had never cycled beyond 18 kilometers before.
So I took the 4.38 local train, travelling in the luggage compartment, reached C.S.T station, and cycled my way for the first time from C.S.T to Gateway of India passing the best of Old Bombay. I reached there 45 minutes before the first Ferry left and waited for the other few cycling enthusiasts, who had planned this ride, to get together and board that first Boat to take us till Mandwa on a 1 hour long sea ride. From Mandwa we would all start the cycle ride till the beach of Kashid. This would be a 50 kilometer journey one way. An estimated 3 hour ride to Kashid followed by a lunch break and a ride back after some rest. I held off the one hour delay to the start of the entire plan from bothering me, when a few people did not turn up on time, leading us into catching the second Boat at 7.15. It was not everyone’s first exciting ride, so I had to rationalize the relative lack of enthusiasm. It did however turn out that for few of the riders this was the longest ride, just like me. What surprised me though was the big enthusiast who planned the outing had very specifically insisted on leaving on time (on the web site), was also the one who suggested that we wait for the late comers and board the next Ferry. But I guess one has to wait for your good friends. Not to forget that he was the only guy who knew the way, except another, who was late too. With luck and against some continuous suggestions of an alternative plan (if people are late or if the second ferry does not take us with our cycles) we managed to reach Mandwa.
For me going to Kashid was not just another excursion that could be altered. It was symbolic. Symbolic of the times when I had not seen any of a place called Goa; of times when travel with a group of friends was not something I had done much of; of some very exclusive and new memories; and in hindsight, of finding two of the very important people in my life today. Not to forget that it was the only light sand beach I knew of around Bombay, where on a weekend afternoon you would not find more people than what you could not count with your eyes.
After a quick breakfast stop at a small eatery in Mandwa, we set out riding. The idea of distance can be quite disappointing when with every kilometer requires expending your physical energies. Having experienced it on long runs previously, I kept myself occupied and away from that optimistic idea of distance by relishing the fresh air, greenery and the village & small town surroundings. But a young lad reminded me of it when some 9 kilometers into the ride he asked us if we have crossed around 20. That’s what it does to you. It makes you too optimistic of your own effort. But the beauty of a country-side ride is that for all your pessimism you can still look around and have the Nature cure you out of it, and filling you with a sense of purpose without changing anything in your life. This works even better if the best so far you have seen when you sweat are highways.
Road to Kashid could be described in three parts, so could be my effort. One till the time you don’t hit the by-pass, and pass by the most populous stretch of around 20Kms. This is where you see a mini town coping with tourism traffic. This may still be many times better than the city that I leave behind but it still is the worst of the three phases. I was still within my energy limits, controlling my ride, hydrating occasionally and coping with the pressure of keeping up with other riders; and eventually finding my pace while keeping my sight enough on a rider ahead to not lose my way.
The second phase is what we enter into after a few kilometers of taking the by-pass. These roads are winding surrounded by either greenery or villages. In a glimpse I struggle to differentiate this patch of 15 Kms or so with any interior belt of Konkan coast, Goa, or Kerala. The proof of it was that I was uncertain of my recurring dejavu. Coconut plantations, lakes, curling roads, mud roads heading into thick green, fish markets, withered electric poles, kids waving and tanned skinned locals are signatures of any Konkan village. This patch here however was called Revdanda. It also had in it a Fort that was broken in parts to make way for slim roads. The cemented road in this entire patch of Revdanda seemed like a reflection of an electoral promise fulfilled yet spoilt by corrupt construction contracts. My upper-back developed a severe muscle strain and an experienced rider told me that it had to do with the severely bumpy roads of Revdanda. The relative flatness of the terrain ensured I don’t feel a struggle while my body continued to drain. Somewhere on this stretch I also learned ways to stretch myself while still on the ride, and how a sudden rush of speed can hamper your smooth riding prospects.
The organizer of this ride later explained two keys to riding a long ride. First was that a long ride was not about riding fast or at different pace, but about finding a right pace and sticking to it. Secondly, a road terrain ride is all about using the right speed-gear on the right terrain.
The final patch of 17 or so kilometers is also the best and the most tiring of the three. After crossing the bridge and the popular land mark of Vikram Ispat (now known as Wellspun Maxsteel), this island hill landscape is the prize for all the effort put so far. With its steep inclines, ghats, stretched seafronts and its distilled air, I could feel the worth of my effort up-close. However, the struggle to simultaneously admire its beauty and handling your body can be still worsened at the thought of having to return the same way, after a mere hour or two of rest. This was also the phase where a new rider breaks, forces to rest, walks up some inclines & discovers that part he calls legs. The 12am sun did not help much to this.
The final sight of Kashid beach was a promise of rest & food. The beach on a Saturday afternoon did not look the same anymore. I could not count the people with my eyes. For the record I counted around 300. I did not feel like contending with a remark made by someone on its similarity to Juhu beach. For the optimist there was still half the beach that did not have the promise of food and banana boat rides, therefore keeping people away.
We had to make our rest break relatively quick, for it took us nearly four hours to reach, an hour more than estimated. And already having a one hour delay at start meant that we had three hours to head back to Mandwa to catch the 6.15 boat. To finish a return journey in three, what took us four onwards, with having rested lesser than planned. This part of Kashid is not new to me, the pressure of return on time. As much as one never wants to be in it, most travels end this way, in rush, with stress and under pressure. Acknowledging it, I would say, is better than fretting over it. And to our mutual surprise and thrill, we made back in time.
We took lesser breaks, just one actually. We rode with determination. And we rode like a bunch of men chasing a very specific and simple goal – ‘Mandwa in three hours’. Finally we rode like people do when they know that once they are done with this, they can rest and rest some more, because this was the last effort. We actually made it back in 2hrs and 45min. And I had time to sit in our breakfast café and sip a bottle of Thums Up.
I rode most of the return alone, in company of my watch. Towards the end an enthusiastic & confident middle aged man helped me with every stretched finger of his right hand when he told me that Mandwa was exactly 5kms away, before I rode two more Kms to realize that I had 7kms more to go. And there I got a taste of the Indian helpfulness & conviction that merely lacked accuracy.
Like a pre-written script, all the 10 riders found their way back just in time to catch 6.15pm boat, that waited till 6.25pm. I think I was the 5th to finish, which lost in significance to the bigger fact that I finished.
I rode back to C.S.T with a young rider, took the train to Ghatkopar and rode my way further back home, and that was the reason why I called it my 110km ride.
When I finally closed my eyes to sleep, to finish a day that started 20hrs earlier, I had two senses that reminded me of the extra-ordinary day, the clear sound of moving cycle wheel spokes in my head, and an undeniable sensation of the saddle between my legs.
I slept the whole of next day, with an empty head; like there was nothing more I wanted, needed or had the strength to do.
I was certainly not normal, because I was excited. And excited people defy a lot of normal around us. Excitement defies a lot of normal in us. My excitement defied the reverse odds of the reality, that the last best attempt at cycling I have made is a mere 18 kilometers. I contemplated the impossibility, and I got a dear friend give me some pep talk to make me feel what I wanted to feel, that I could do it. And what is the point of yearning to pushing your physical limits if you first ensure that you would not really be pushing it, which is by slowly building yourself up to it, by training. It will not however be my advice to me or anyone else to walk into an attempt like this one without having ever reached the “I” of STAMINA (or maybe “M”, at worst). I had the stamina; just that I had never cycled beyond 18 kilometers before.
So I took the 4.38 local train, travelling in the luggage compartment, reached C.S.T station, and cycled my way for the first time from C.S.T to Gateway of India passing the best of Old Bombay. I reached there 45 minutes before the first Ferry left and waited for the other few cycling enthusiasts, who had planned this ride, to get together and board that first Boat to take us till Mandwa on a 1 hour long sea ride. From Mandwa we would all start the cycle ride till the beach of Kashid. This would be a 50 kilometer journey one way. An estimated 3 hour ride to Kashid followed by a lunch break and a ride back after some rest. I held off the one hour delay to the start of the entire plan from bothering me, when a few people did not turn up on time, leading us into catching the second Boat at 7.15. It was not everyone’s first exciting ride, so I had to rationalize the relative lack of enthusiasm. It did however turn out that for few of the riders this was the longest ride, just like me. What surprised me though was the big enthusiast who planned the outing had very specifically insisted on leaving on time (on the web site), was also the one who suggested that we wait for the late comers and board the next Ferry. But I guess one has to wait for your good friends. Not to forget that he was the only guy who knew the way, except another, who was late too. With luck and against some continuous suggestions of an alternative plan (if people are late or if the second ferry does not take us with our cycles) we managed to reach Mandwa.
For me going to Kashid was not just another excursion that could be altered. It was symbolic. Symbolic of the times when I had not seen any of a place called Goa; of times when travel with a group of friends was not something I had done much of; of some very exclusive and new memories; and in hindsight, of finding two of the very important people in my life today. Not to forget that it was the only light sand beach I knew of around Bombay, where on a weekend afternoon you would not find more people than what you could not count with your eyes.
After a quick breakfast stop at a small eatery in Mandwa, we set out riding. The idea of distance can be quite disappointing when with every kilometer requires expending your physical energies. Having experienced it on long runs previously, I kept myself occupied and away from that optimistic idea of distance by relishing the fresh air, greenery and the village & small town surroundings. But a young lad reminded me of it when some 9 kilometers into the ride he asked us if we have crossed around 20. That’s what it does to you. It makes you too optimistic of your own effort. But the beauty of a country-side ride is that for all your pessimism you can still look around and have the Nature cure you out of it, and filling you with a sense of purpose without changing anything in your life. This works even better if the best so far you have seen when you sweat are highways.
Road to Kashid could be described in three parts, so could be my effort. One till the time you don’t hit the by-pass, and pass by the most populous stretch of around 20Kms. This is where you see a mini town coping with tourism traffic. This may still be many times better than the city that I leave behind but it still is the worst of the three phases. I was still within my energy limits, controlling my ride, hydrating occasionally and coping with the pressure of keeping up with other riders; and eventually finding my pace while keeping my sight enough on a rider ahead to not lose my way.
The second phase is what we enter into after a few kilometers of taking the by-pass. These roads are winding surrounded by either greenery or villages. In a glimpse I struggle to differentiate this patch of 15 Kms or so with any interior belt of Konkan coast, Goa, or Kerala. The proof of it was that I was uncertain of my recurring dejavu. Coconut plantations, lakes, curling roads, mud roads heading into thick green, fish markets, withered electric poles, kids waving and tanned skinned locals are signatures of any Konkan village. This patch here however was called Revdanda. It also had in it a Fort that was broken in parts to make way for slim roads. The cemented road in this entire patch of Revdanda seemed like a reflection of an electoral promise fulfilled yet spoilt by corrupt construction contracts. My upper-back developed a severe muscle strain and an experienced rider told me that it had to do with the severely bumpy roads of Revdanda. The relative flatness of the terrain ensured I don’t feel a struggle while my body continued to drain. Somewhere on this stretch I also learned ways to stretch myself while still on the ride, and how a sudden rush of speed can hamper your smooth riding prospects.
The organizer of this ride later explained two keys to riding a long ride. First was that a long ride was not about riding fast or at different pace, but about finding a right pace and sticking to it. Secondly, a road terrain ride is all about using the right speed-gear on the right terrain.
The final patch of 17 or so kilometers is also the best and the most tiring of the three. After crossing the bridge and the popular land mark of Vikram Ispat (now known as Wellspun Maxsteel), this island hill landscape is the prize for all the effort put so far. With its steep inclines, ghats, stretched seafronts and its distilled air, I could feel the worth of my effort up-close. However, the struggle to simultaneously admire its beauty and handling your body can be still worsened at the thought of having to return the same way, after a mere hour or two of rest. This was also the phase where a new rider breaks, forces to rest, walks up some inclines & discovers that part he calls legs. The 12am sun did not help much to this.
The final sight of Kashid beach was a promise of rest & food. The beach on a Saturday afternoon did not look the same anymore. I could not count the people with my eyes. For the record I counted around 300. I did not feel like contending with a remark made by someone on its similarity to Juhu beach. For the optimist there was still half the beach that did not have the promise of food and banana boat rides, therefore keeping people away.
We had to make our rest break relatively quick, for it took us nearly four hours to reach, an hour more than estimated. And already having a one hour delay at start meant that we had three hours to head back to Mandwa to catch the 6.15 boat. To finish a return journey in three, what took us four onwards, with having rested lesser than planned. This part of Kashid is not new to me, the pressure of return on time. As much as one never wants to be in it, most travels end this way, in rush, with stress and under pressure. Acknowledging it, I would say, is better than fretting over it. And to our mutual surprise and thrill, we made back in time.
We took lesser breaks, just one actually. We rode with determination. And we rode like a bunch of men chasing a very specific and simple goal – ‘Mandwa in three hours’. Finally we rode like people do when they know that once they are done with this, they can rest and rest some more, because this was the last effort. We actually made it back in 2hrs and 45min. And I had time to sit in our breakfast café and sip a bottle of Thums Up.
I rode most of the return alone, in company of my watch. Towards the end an enthusiastic & confident middle aged man helped me with every stretched finger of his right hand when he told me that Mandwa was exactly 5kms away, before I rode two more Kms to realize that I had 7kms more to go. And there I got a taste of the Indian helpfulness & conviction that merely lacked accuracy.
Like a pre-written script, all the 10 riders found their way back just in time to catch 6.15pm boat, that waited till 6.25pm. I think I was the 5th to finish, which lost in significance to the bigger fact that I finished.
I rode back to C.S.T with a young rider, took the train to Ghatkopar and rode my way further back home, and that was the reason why I called it my 110km ride.
When I finally closed my eyes to sleep, to finish a day that started 20hrs earlier, I had two senses that reminded me of the extra-ordinary day, the clear sound of moving cycle wheel spokes in my head, and an undeniable sensation of the saddle between my legs.
I slept the whole of next day, with an empty head; like there was nothing more I wanted, needed or had the strength to do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)