Desire and Spritualism

 I enjoy Pablo Neruda’s work, its intensely romantic, erotic and have nostalgic memories. Similar is my love for Allama Iqbal, whose verses exhaust me emotionally for interpreting its hidden meanings. The intensity is absolutely spiritual and fulfills the appetite to be among the learned.

At times I wonder that how possibly one can enjoy both and still keep the sanity. There is no reason that one should not enjoy the soul stirring love verses, moaning the beloved or just plunging into endless copulation.

Spiritualism and passion goes hand in hand. Each complementing the other though not confusing passion with physical lust nor confusing Spiritualism with an extremist.

Here we have two men, each exploring an aspect of human persona. Passion and spirit. There is a strong possibility of them being both, exploring the powerful emotion and penning them down for others to be inspired.

In end, I found myself drawing closer to Iqbal, for the Spiritualism he preaches fulfills the other exposed desires. Here I don’t talk about religion but of the root which lays foundation to the belief. The conviction which is different from where one waits for ones beloved. Even the heart beats in both scenarios differ. The burning of heart for lovers reunion or drinking from lovers lips is different. By being closed to the fire its the moth which is drawn to its annihilation. It’s not the fear of fire but the desire to be consumed by it.

Let’s leave it here, and walk towards the beloved

Iqbal, Omar and Self

Omar, my colleague at work has a poetic bone in him. He always tells me to look beyond Iqbal and not to contain self with unspoken barriers.

To my limited knowledge of Urdu “shayeri”, Iqbal stands tall, so much so that, I fail to see or appreciate the poetic beauty in others.

Here I quote what Omar quoted, I asked him to repeat this couplet many times , finally he asked to write it and memorize.

(Mohsin naqvi)
Tune dekha hai ek nazar shaam ke baad,
Kitne chup chaap se lagte hain, shajar shaam ke baad.
Itne chup chaap ki raste bhi rahe la ilm, choor jayenge kisi roz nagar, shaam ke baad.
Shaam se pehle wo apni mast udano mein tha,
Wo jiske haat mein thei tute hue par, shaam ke baad

Tu to suraj hai, tujhe kahan maloon raat ka dukh.
Tu kisi rooz utar meri ghar, shaam ke baad

Hopefully one day I will read extensively, the work of Iqbal Mian and many others, but for time, I thank Omar and his patience with me and my false claims to the world of Urdu Poem.

Celebrating Eid

As kids we really looked forward for Eid, new clothes, sewai, topi, paan, eidia, and lots of running around.

The best part was claiming the eidi from elders 2 rs mostly and if lucky then a crisp 10 note. Keeping the money safely in the white kurta pocket folded inside ” atar”, sprayed kerchef . Till the pocket got fatter. Spending the small fortune on ice creams, jems, cadburries, and Phantom comics.

Meeting so many cousins, each flounting his, her newly stitched costumes. Playing hide n seek. Or” Dacoits from chambal”.

Now I have these young cousins who once threatened that if I don’t give each a 100, I will be forced to part with my wallet. I looked around and saw four 18 to 20 something, smiling at me with clenched fists. Though a strong man myself, I had few options, either I give them the eidi, take them all down by muscle power or lastly RUN.

Eventually I decided to part with 400 bucks. It was their day, they reminded so much of the rebels, whom I quietly admire.. Saved myself the turmoil of getting beaten by young boys. Not literally. This was also sometime back.

Somthing has happened during the years. I did lost the passion for celebrating Eid, turning into more of religeous ritual, though I enjoy fasting, but something went missing. On the big day, going to Masjid, eating sewai and giving elders a cordial visit or call. This became the Eid, very different from the one I knew as a child. The warmth and passion has gone, from hearts maybe.

This Eid I was at home, went for prayer, hugged my Morrocan friend Mohammed in Masjid while coming back. I did not visited anyone, just few text and calls. Didn’t ate sewai, though I craved for some Qimami. Took a bite of sacrificial meat. I looked at my jeans and the shirt in which I prayed, closing the eyes I imagined if it was the white kurta, pajama and “atar”, doused kerchef.

Memories of Ashfaq Abbu

Ashfaq Ahmed Saheb was famous for masculine looks, which he inherited from his father, Mohammed Ahmed Saheb. In his youthful days, he would swim across river Yamuna and back without break, pushing water aside with the powerful strokes. He would take the plunge, even during monsoon, tearing river’s overflowed belly, at times disappearing in the ferocious current, only to emerge later violating nature’s force.

During leisure days he could be spotted riding heavy duty “Triumph”, or driving the open, low bonnet, left hand drive “Willys”, with hunters net. Sipping coffee at the “Coffee House”.

Ashfaq Saheb was a man of few words and much substance. Had a very exclusive circle of friends, I’ve had the privilege of going through his photo albums, surrounded by many fine admirers, during his college days. Hunting shots at “Chambal” jungles, or at times sporting black glares at few Hill stations.

Ashfaq Saheb got married to the only daughter of” Nawab of Seoni”, Nawab Saheb too had a passion for hunting, and wouldn’t trigger the rifle for anything less than a Tiger. I have heard of Nawab Saheb’s legendary kills and of stuffed tigers at his mansion. The gaming passion was much before hunting restrictions came into force.

Back at our ancestral home “Plot”, there was a section reserved for Ashfaq Saheb, we would rarely get to see the place as Ashfaq Saheb or Abbu, slept all day and was up all night. There was a huge revolving dining table in middle of his Majlis, and we kids would take turns by sitting on top and someone would make it run in circles. Those heavenly “chakkars”.

Sometimes all kids joined together and cleaned up his place, sweeping of all dust, in return Abbu would give each a pack of “mithi supari”. Those days Abbu’s wife “Aunty Begum”, and only child, ” Baba Bhai”, lived in “Seoni”.

After my Father was laid to rest, Ashfaq Saheb, regularly inquired our well being, he was my father’s elder brother. And often showed his concern over our education.

During teenage days I would prepare tea flask for him at nights and tried getting into discussion, asking about my father, his temperament, my ancestors and the blood line. Who else could have given a better narration other than my father’s own brother.

Apart from his countless acres of land in Seoni, Abbu had a Petrol Station on Rewa Road, I visited him there at times . Specially when I was broke. And never hesitated demanding money. We only negotiated the amount, as my demand exceeded few thousands and not hundreds. Eventually, I wrested the money out from him, Abbu never refused. I think he always saw my father in me.

By his order a liter of petrol became my daily bike quota, which was debit ed to his personal account. At times it could even become two.

After Abbu’s wife, Allah E Rehma, Aunty Begum passed away, Abbu and Baba bhai moved permanently to Allahabad. Now Baba bhai is a tall, royal man of 6 “2″. We have our houses built close by and I would spend more hours with Abbu.

When I started working, I bought fragrances for Abbu, and still remember the joy in his eyes. I told him about the work and voyages, in detail. Convincing him probably that I did not wasted myself, that I too inherited the old blood. Proving many failed negative prophesies on self by pseudo relatives. I tamed my anger, “angry young men” look good only on the big screens.

Last meeting with Abbu was heart wrenching and desperately painful, I found him on the bed. I shivered when I saw my once powerful Abbu so weak. He had severe memory loss, and could not recognize me, but called by my fathers name. I sat there holding his hand. Crying. I was too young to mourn my own father’s death. But the thought of losing my noble, father figure was not acceptable. I kissed his majestic forehead and looked into the royal eyes, and sat there asking Allah not to take Abbu, pleading for his health and life, but Allah always has better plans.

Abbu passed away after some time of my visit. I mourned him then and I mourn him everyday. I visit the family graveyard whenever I’m in town. No happiness will ever fill the pain of losing my regal and majestic Abbu. Sometimes I see them all, my father Akhlaq Saheb and brothers Ashfaq Saheb, Mushtaq Saheb, Anwar Saheb, Ishtiyaq Sahib, may Allah have mercy on their souls.

Sometimes I think that Allah has stopped making this noble breed of men. Men like Abbu, pure and true. Men of few words and strong commitments. Men who believed in doing rather than bragging. Men who will not leave your hand during hard days, but hold you firmly, even if hell went lose. Men who could look at devil and bring him to knees.

In our lifetime we meet few people who change the way we see and live life, I’m glad for me Abbu, Ashfaq Ahmed Saheb, is one of them.

WANNABE

The term “wannabe” might be new, but the existence of this clan has been in being since forever.

From the ancient Babylon, Athens, Roma, Constantiople to the streets of medieval Baghdad, Delhi, Samarkand, to contemporary New York, Dubai or Mumbai. The clan has been active and growing.

I have nothing personal against Wannabe’s. They have all the right of existence and expression, similar or at times better than my own. Its just the curiosity and observation of this clan, which has compelled me to explore the depth.

Next time you are in a high net social party, just observe some loud voices, few empty discussions on Louis Vuitton or Jimmy Choo. On contemporary Arts, Christie’s, Guggenheim Museum or the silk laced Lingerie. Discussion’s could either be tinted at intellectual level minus any substance. You will hear about some fab gadgets, fine joints, loud watches, cars and rare spa’s. Certainly, few might be very genuine conversation but chances are a Wannabe spreading his/her tentacles.

You will find them in most ecstatic pubs, filled with both sexes, high on tequila shots. Hoping to manage at least a Porche 911 smooth drive by an unknown stranger, desirable enough for a quick physical bite.

The clan exists in all social echelon and stratum, it has absolutely nothing to do with money or refined ambiance. Its just the nature of man to be better.[A]. either one develops oneself by the sheer power of will and grit determination, or[B] just emulate the better other, becoming the second hand and cheaper version. The wannabe falls into the [B] category and remains for a period of time. Till realization of reality finally sinks in.

Once I asked an Indian friend absorbing the Roman History, if she has ever read anything on Mughals. Her reply was brutal and honest. ” What for?. Mughals were Indian”, I was so shocked that I just could not react, quietly finished my cigarette and walked out, refusing to take her calls for many months, and poor soul didn’t even knew the reason of my bestial behavior.

Every party or PR event attended related to the work, I fail to see bona fide clients but the same faces, cute hot dolls and clean shaven men, holding almost perfectly the champagne glass, with a touch of fake aristocracy. Wearing replica watches from Bankok with confidence. These faces appear regularly on the decayed social magazines, only events differ. Wannabe’s dig into the social happenings, and surprisingly they manage invites too.

I have seen men, walking and holding Porche key in hand and displaying the logo. Pathetic suckers desperate for cheap attention. Cigar in hand with categorically no idea of make or smoking etiquette. An idea borne by them to be respected and desired has confused many. Getting lost between real self and the desired social strata, too high to reach.

Due to my work, I get to know and meet old and genuine money. Most I found, humble and understated. Cause money has been the way of life, and not taken for granted. I met a 26 years old wearing Journe Tourbillon, and next day again he came wearing a Patek Minute Repeater which cost him Quarter of a million US dollar. He is a simple guy who will open door for you, will never flash his cars or watches at your face, yes, he does call 1000 dollar watches “fun Gadgets” and keeps them for self amusement.

A dear friend stubbornly refuses to get black berry cause its closest one can be on becoming a Wannabe, and keeps reminding me not to keep the berry on table or walk while holding it. He does carry a Vertu though, he was one of the pioneers who bought the hand set. And have been buying since then. Its not about vulgar display of wealth but a sprinkle of taste in chaotic life’s motion. He refuses to be in events buzzing with wannabe’s.

I myself wonder at times if I have already crossed the line and ended up becoming one, whom I resist. The desire to be in parties and sizzling babes gets hauntingly irresistable at times, but its fun to swim the other side of river too. Watching the crowd from far. Devil still waits for my soul. “Hold on”, and he waits for one more Wannabe.

Streets Of Bahadurgunj

Chak Bahadurgunj is planted in middle of old town. Jawaharlal Nehru was born very near from Bahadurgunj, at Meer Gunj, a crowded bustling wholesale market now. Near Bahadurgunj lies Zero Road, where Harivansh Rai Bachan too lived his early teen years.

62, Basu Road Bahadurgunj, was the address of the ancestral house where I was born. Joint families, uncles, cousins living on different floors. The House was known as “Plot”, elders forgot to name the house and everyone would call it “Plot”. It was a big house with 30 odd rooms.

My father had built a collection of encyclopedias, literature, renaissance art, fiction. A small library and Reader’s Digest was regularly subscribed. I would spend little time along with siblings reading or just looking at color pictures. Huge go downs on the ground floor were used as short term tobacco and “Tendu” leaf storage, additional underground storages. Garage for cars, with Willys and Mahindras. All belonged to the firm, “Swadeshi Bidi Works Pvt. Ltd. “, of which my father was one of three partners.. Surrounded by cousins and being bullied at times was not always fun. Rashid bhai a self proclaimed “sarkar”, was handsomely built, tall man, with short temper. I would always hear him shouting or beating someone. Since very beginning I learned to avoid him.

Just across the house was the small “Shivaji Park”, where boys played cricket. Crossing the park you will reach the main road, covered by small shops both ways, paan, chai stalls, Munnu Babu pharmacy, Gopal’s “churiya baraf”, Shyam Mohan’s mini mart, Hingu chacha’s paper wholesale, Hafiz ji’s hair saloon, Radha Raman Girls School. My friend Vijay’s father too ran a chai stall.

At the left portion of the street near public water tap you would find the mouth watering “puri kachori from Badri, carts of “Chaat”, Baba’s chai shop.

On the left of our house was the big “haatha” owned by Pandit Chacha, which he rented out to many families who migrated from near by villages and now ran small shops or worked as plumbers, electricians etc. At the back of house another enclosed huge patch of green land, which also housed the Graves of mythical “shaheed baba”. Just across our balcony resided the family of “kite flying”, tom boy girl. Very beautiful and always in man’s clothing.

As kids the streets were “off limits” to us, but later little freedom was rewarded, part of growing up I believe. I made friends with Pappu, small soft spoken man, Nazim, Babu.

In 92, Ammi, bhai and I moved out from the ancestral house to a more quieter place, earlier my father, Late Akhlaq Sahib had surrendered his soul to Allah, it was March 1984. The new house was built by Sarosh Bhai.

“Daira”, in Bahadurgunj was ruled by the powerful “bahubali”, “Rais Raja”, tall handsome man with weakness for fine clothing. Raja was a gangster who controlled Bahadurgunj area of town, collections or “wasooli”, being the main source of income to feed off his small army of ambitious fighters. Raja gave personal protection to small time traders and business men from other thugs. ‘Chand’ and ‘Popat’ were two gang members I knew. Later Chand died in shoot out and Popat got his hand blown from a country bomb. Raja too was shot dead at close range by the rival gang.

Raja’s death came as surprise, few months before his death, I had taken my Tamilyan friend ” Vijay Anand Christopher”, to give a tour of old town. Raja was in Daira and asked us to join him for tea. He looked anything but a criminal, his good manners were quite overwhelming. The only reminder of Raja’s power were his hench men surrounding him. Hard looking men, some I knew as a kid and some new faces. Christopher who was a B’tech student in Agriculture Institute did managed few words with Raja in english and to my surprise Raja replied patiently in broken english.

Though I never liked nor shared the belief, principles of criminals or anti socials, but here I write more on the observation of human nature, irrespective of the occupation, beliefs or ideology.

Bahadurgunj being the center of old town had its own problems, low literacy rate, unemployment among youth, lack of direction or the “Will”. People struggled so much for the day that the thought of future never stricken them. Education was taken as an obstacle from starting work earlier. Hardly a guy would reach university, and english newspaper subscription was rare.

Dusshera, Holi, Muharram and other festivities were celebrated with zeal in Bahadurgunj, during Dusshera, the “chowkis”, beautifully decorated with Ram, Laxman, Sita, Hanuman, Ravan. With heavy and huge music speakers playing scratched tapes in full blast, mostly song from 80’s. And young boys dancing, matching the lyrics with pelvic thrusts.
Guys in baggy pants, with many pleates, thin belts, white shoes, Jackets, Jeans, Kurta. Celebrations meant dressing up, and everyone competed for attention.

In Moharram the horse “Duldul”, would be out, streets buzzing both with hindus and muslims, sword welding boys. And rows after rows of mourners, cutting themselves with sharp objects, daggers, blades. Me n walking with buckets of rose water splashing wounds to soothe pain, girls would throw water from balconies to passing mourners, attempting to wash off the blood. Some mourners I knew would join local gym few months in advance to built muscle, hoping to look good bare chested during Muharram, dreaming to impress girls.

Reminding themselves the pain suffered by the family and followers of Imam Hussain. Beating blood drenched chests, their movement so aligned as if drums being beaten under open sky. I and cousin Raza did joined the procession once.

During “Shaberat”, muslims found an alternative of Diwali, by burning crackers and deadly “batashia”, which is like a crazy flying machine and follows no fix pattern and might end up entering and burning your basic essentials. I used to help Ahmed Bhai stuffing “batashia’s”, with the mixture he prepared.
And in return he would give me few. Now firing batashia is an art, carefully developed, if a novice tried it without proper guidance, there were chances of getting severe burns.

During Holi, guys kept a huge barrel filled with cocktail of colors and would oblige any one with a dip, even a way farer. Color filled water balloon would become the missile, inspired by the Ramayana TV series. Some would really come up with novel ideas like connecting water force with an electric pump for more power and re connecting with a color barrel. Enough supply to paint houses.

Our house had the advantage of grand view and during celebration many people would come and stay all night on balcony. Chairs, stools and more chairs to accommodate the guests, rounds of “chai”, which I believe is still the best past time in town. If the festivities took place in winter then by morning you will find sack of nut shells, “momphali”, the guys just loved munching.

I would often join Pappu, Babu and Nazim for the “allahabad famous kebab paratha”, in “Gari Serai”, the strong hold of once legendary “Chand Baba”, who was killed some years before, but his stories and associations always found way to the chai stalls. Once a friend said me, “the best way to get stomach infection is to eat kebab paratha for a week”. I did but nothing happened.

There were some great characters in Bahadurgunj, these people always fill up the gaps of a neighbourhood. Drunkards, junkies, street romeos, wanna be’s, school bunking kids, orphans, obselete politicians, each turn and corner had a different story. How I wish one day to write the colour ful details of most.

I have great friend on the streets of Bahadurgunj, some I have not met since a decade, but I do carry fond memories in my heart. How can I ever forget those faces, simple innocent smiles and at times merciless fights. Heartful laughs, and the many streets and allys of Bahadurgunj.

In The Belly Of Time

People ask me that what I do for living, and its the same exciting answer “SELLING WATCHES”. I’ve been taken as a nut case, who the heck on earth sells watches. Some do even empathize with me. What a sadistic career to pursue. ” Selling watches”, I tell my friends, its almost similar to selling a piece of art, which also tells time.

Common dude wake up, look at banking, wealth management, investments, real estate, and what did I chose ” Watches”, I let others sympathize with my decision. Disaster, say few.

Its like asking an art curator that why he works for a museum. Had it not been time pieces, I would have been happy selling Christie’s art work or busy digging lost ruins somewhere in Greece or exploring the Mughal architectural marvels in sub continent.

Though I personally am not an authority on micro engineering but the exposure to high end mechanical time pieces made me respect this delicate balance between man’s quest for time perfection and physics. Finding the right balance wheel and correcting the gravitational discrepancy since the days of Breguet to FP Journe today, has been the quest. Some fine men have dedicated their lives in finding the right time, so we can live without getting lost in the count of minutes or seconds.

If you ever see a Tourbillon escapement, you will be impressed with the miniature complex cage, taking turns and defying the gravity. Its almost as if the artist gave life to a mechanical miracle, I can go on for minutes observing the whirlwind taking mysterious turns, only a watch maker’s loop hanging between the eye and the marvel.

The price of a decent time piece with a Tourbillon escapement from a respected house of Patek, Journe or Lange will be few hundred thousand US Dollars, its a pleasure enjoyed only by very wealthy individuals with weakness for haute luxury, which has risen above wealth.

The Mantra now days is understatement, sometimes a Royal Oak Carbon Concept won’t hurt you. But will take some attention.

High End Complications became the rich man’s fiery desire and to add few in their Zurich safes, when not on wrist, is a passion pursued by feverish collectors. Some have discreetly told me about their excitement when they hold a rare complication, and how they built their many million dollars collection, complementing their luxury yatch and private jet.

To me personally, when I see a woman wearing 40 mm Rolex Datona steel, or an AP Royal Oak 39 mm, I admire her boldness. And, if its Grand Lange or IWC pilot, I will certainly compliment her. Who says diamonds are women’s best friends. This breed of woman is rare and demands respect, head strong and intensely intellectual femme. Once a girl held an in depth discussion on mechanical time pieces and I almost lost the balance.

The business goes like this, let’s say AP launched a series of limited edition in forged carbon, the Alinghi. Within the first week the premium is plus 35 percent on retail price. Thanks to the Russian Business Czars, who would buy anything as long as its limited edition. Then you have Italians, Germans, Arabs, Indians, Brits calling from all over and demanding the time piece to be reserved for them. Requesting, coaxing, bribing or just threatening at times. I have met and observed some genuine desperado.

With much wealth but short on luck. At times even premium can’t buy you a time piece, cause all have been absorved from the market into private safes , or worn inside bullet proof May bach and in party like Palm Atlantis where you rub shoulders with Robert De Niro, Shahrukh, Kylie Mineau, Royalties and Business Mughals.

One doesn’t have to be rich to admire time pieces, its like being to Louvre and basking in Vinci’s Mona Lisa, without taking her home. Or being to Vatican and lose reasoning with Michelangelo’s “CREATION”.

With so much of journal and on line sites, it really has become easier to learn and enjoy the details of time pieces. I see time pieces as a passion, which develops overtime, with lots of patience and only patience, there are few lucky ones who enjoy both passion and work. I think I just got lucky.

So next time my friends doubt my decision, then do refer them to my writing.

Empty

Being alone all by myself was the treat I really looked for, freedom of time, sleeping, shaving, shower or food. Well managed, at will. Except the office.

I can lay on the couch and watch without blink hours of television, jam play station till my hand hurt, or just leave the plates anywhere after eating, not worrying of even my laundry.

Away from the civilization, closing myself for as many hours, at will again. The door bell rings, only if newspaper or the grocery. With enough supply of corn flakes and milk, I can survive many mornings.

Its been a month and I haven’t picked a book to read, convincing self, too tierd to read. And truly, one has to get original ideas and much reading makes you look dumb, how many books I’ve devoured. Where has those hundred of hours of reading have gone. From Islam to Greeks to fiction to bio’s. And the eyes burned.

I did managed to restart the old passion, gym. I hit the gym, and burned the last unwanted calorie, deeply buried in my tummy. Went on doing the monotonous reps of weight till each fiber each muscle ached and begged for rest. But I went on trying to find some balance between absolute FREEDOM and the WILL.

I don’t really care if I manage to get 6 packs.

Once in a while I do boil few eggs for breakfast,cold bread, with layers of berry jam, tea, juice. Tea again. Sometimes when I can’t sleep all night I go early morning to see the sunrise by sea.

Its always refreshing and beautiful, watching millions of colors bursting from sun, and painting every and anything with its warm heat, I sit there till my skin burns. and I’m stuck with all the beauty Allah has created.

Layers and layers of mystery.

The sleeping pattern has gone bonkers, sometimes its only 4 hours in all.

I visit malls when not working and observe people, or go to cinema, alone.
Maybe morrow I will wake up, being more social and reasonable towards mankind. But today the WILL has no mercy,till it stirs the EMPTY SOUL.

Nostalgic november

I’m sitting here at the corniche, sipping mild coffee and chewing donut. The place is anything but quiet.

Thursday evening, 12 am and adding, the town is out. Small toddlers running around, young boys wearing palestine scarf just passed by humming, a song of freedom, maybe.

I’m sharing the bench with probably a jordan ian gentleman, who seems lost in thoughts, or enjoying the cool and refreshing breeze. I did offered him the donut, which he graciously refused. Another sip of coffee and I’m unable to resist the nicotine bar.

My jordan ian friend left and now I’m joined by three Indians, malyali, one just uttered ” oh, so cold”. We are all squeezed on this bench, the conversation is on, one mobile is playing a smooth malyali song.

Well going back to the original idea, November. Since when I fell in love with this month is difficult for me to recollect. I wait full year for this beautiful soothing month and there it goes, running fast. Living November by all means is nostalgic, don’t take me wrong, my girlfriend didn’t left me in November.

My friends from kerala left my boring company, I watched them walking at some length, what lives, what thoughts and those dreams. It would have been easier being invisible.

This is November now, mid night and out on my berry, typing what ever I can, thoughts have the audacity to run faster than I can key em. So few thoughts missed, some typed wrong. Will I ever be able to send the message out.

A guy just passed by, riding a girls cycle, arabic girls walking, their inexplicable beauty and the fragrance, was it Chanel COCO. The bench has been taken now by the bangladeshi dudes, three young afghans passed by singing SRK’s number.

Water ahead of me is so soothing. It has seen it all, many fine young people have come here, looking for little solace and the water, the salty water has given everyone something to take back home, some memories, probably.

At last I’ve surrendered to the smoking urge., More people passing by, some genuinely judging me as a video game freak, constantly keying. More people next to me, kerala again. Once again we are all squeezed in, I wish I knew malyali, some funny conversation is on. With lyrics of hindi song and again back to conversation.

Little far from us a young couple in a deep conversation, discussing life, maybe. Not so distant future, a warm home, beautiful and lots of naughty kids, or maybe the next months home installment.

Sometimes I wish if November could be spread in two months time. One to observe and another to reflect. Air plane buzzed by overhead, starry clear sky. More people passing by.

What life would be without November, no romance, no philosophy, just living. Automated humans, bidding both life and time. Its my time to leave the company of my friends, the malyalis, bench and the corniche.

Walking away I can see a long strech of grass which runs few miles in semi circle, completely inhibited by people, men, friends, lovers, families. Is it the love of November.

Knowing, Shariq Niaz

My first memory of Shariq playing mouth organ on roof top was quite questioning. I wondered who on earth, would play mouth organ on a roof top, probably a creative and artistic genius. I was 16 then.

As usual Shariq became pal of my older brother, and we got introduced, he looked interesting with many hobbies under his belt, had a huge collection of music, books and” santa banta” jokes. He was an engineering student then and loved breaking down gadgets and fixing them.

Shariq had an opinion on every and any thing, how ever hard I tried with my limited logic, shariq always had better plans and would like the art of war’s general, over rule the ideas with his better and proven ones. That’s the price one pays to hang out with Shariq bhai.

After Sarosh bhai left the town Shariq found a new friend in me, once while sitting on a bench he demonstrated a not so known kung fu hand and I found myself hitting dirt. Well, that was his kung fu expertise talk for days which I half heartily bore.

Somehow who ever met Shariq ended up calling him Shariq Bhai, probably the way he communicated and certainly his rock solid reputation of a bank able man, young but mature. So we had fiftish plus dudes calling him bhai.

The term “impossible”, was not literally coined for Shariq but for weak mortals like me. Shariq could get any job done, so was the rumor. Any thing legal, in right pretext and content. He was more of a social man, believing in a helpful hand, interest free.

Those days guys in Allahabad really looked forward for the new years eve, so did we. Allahabad being a conservative town then had the typical system of “might is right”, which exists even very much today. Well, to cut the story short, we got ourselves into a street fight and I ended up breaking the hand bone, just an hour before 1994 welcomed us. The hand healed fast and cemented my relationship with Shariq much firmly. We were men, tested now, confident enough to challenge even the Greek Gods. Youth gives the power and recklessness to risk it all, without considering the outcomes. I get chills recollecting the impossible adventures, but that was then. Drunk in the wine of youth. Good looks and strong fist, what else a guy could ask for.

Nasir had also joined the club sometime earlier, late night movies, philosophical discussions, little gym, so much was going on. Shariq got married early but nothing changed, we did hanged out as usual. Winter is the best time to meet Shariq, always dressed in customized hand made Jackets.

We differed greatly in ideas and view on as how the life should be. You can’t expect friends to think evenly, that’s the essence of being friends. I always wanted enough air to breathe and couldn’t stomach the idea of bearing unwanted responsiblities, Shariq could hold the world and its worries in his great heart. The idea of getting tied into worldly chaos would take my breath away. The pleasure and urge to rebel against the man made principles, haunted and encouraged me to forge a new path.

Shariq has been very much around, fighting, advising, bullying. He’s a tall guy, standing six feet against gravity. Big eyes, genuine big smile. He’s a father of two great kids. There is much to write about the man, but we leave some thoughts for future too.

If you are ever in Allahabad, do look for Shariq, he’s the man.