Pragya Thakur: As a musician can you tell me why a rhythmic cycle of 16 beats is called teen taal?
Pragya Thakur: How does that math work out?
Richa Dubey: well - I hardly qualify as a musician
Richa Dubey: but from what I know
Richa Dubey: the teen tal is divided into 4 sections of four beats each
Richa Dubey: beginning with the sam
Richa Dubey: dha dhin dhin dha
Richa Dubey: then
Richa Dubey: a repeat for the second
Richa Dubey: the third is also called the "khaali"
Pragya Thakur: Then?
Richa Dubey: and thus demonstrated while keeping beat with the hands by timing this particular section with the back of the hand rather than the palm
Richa Dubey: or just leaving it in the air
Richa Dubey: and the bol is dha thin thin ta
Richa Dubey: the last is ta dhin dhin dha
Richa Dubey: essentially the khaali is matras 9-12
Richa Dubey: several taans begin with the khaali
Richa Dubey: as also the sam
Pragya Thakur: Wow! Thanks! And is this easy to spot when listening to classical music that says it's in teen taal? I have a Ravi Shankar CD where he even counts and I still cant keep track!
Richa Dubey: fairly
Richa Dubey: once you attune your ears
Richa Dubey: see - once you figure out the bandish and where he is picking it up from
Pragya Thakur: Ok....stop...two new words - taan and bandish?
Pragya Thakur: I mean..I've heard them but what do they mean?
Richa Dubey: oh dear - I am QUITE the wrong person to be attempting an explanation
Richa Dubey: esp since I am rather unclear myself
Richa Dubey: but anyway
Richa Dubey: a bandish is like a composition
Pragya Thakur: I am so going to save this chat!!
Richa Dubey: with a sthayi (like a refrain)
Pragya Thakur: ok
Richa Dubey: and antaras (stanzas if you will)
Richa Dubey: the way I have learnt it
Richa Dubey: in both ek taal
Richa Dubey: and teen taal
Richa Dubey: the bandish begins with a sthayi played twice
Richa Dubey: and then an antara
Pragya Thakur: ek taal is?
Richa Dubey: and the sthayi played twice again
Richa Dubey: one of the several mind boggling taals
Richa Dubey: 12 matras
Pragya Thakur: Ok.
Pragya Thakur: And again the math beats me!
Richa Dubey: it is maddening
Pragya Thakur: 16 : 3, 12:1 ---How??
Richa Dubey: I keep fumbling
Richa Dubey: see - a bandish in teen taal
Richa Dubey: cannot be played in ek taal
Pragya Thakur: ok
Richa Dubey: though with a bit of chopping and changing and so on, you could attempt it
Pragya Thakur: Maybe they try in Bollywood music
Richa Dubey: (
Richa Dubey: so that was a bandish
Pragya Thakur: I need to save this chat on my blog! (if you don't mind)
Pragya Thakur: My distance learning of music!!
Richa Dubey: most welcome
Richa Dubey: hey - on your blog?
Pragya Thakur: Yes..no?
Richa Dubey: please get someone like VM or someone who KNOWS something about music
Richa Dubey: for all I know I am probably getting the explanation all wrong
Richa Dubey: anyway... a taan has to necessarily keep to the same taal
Richa Dubey: so say if I have a bhupali bandish in teen taal
Pragya Thakur: Yes..
Richa Dubey: which goes S S D P (1,2,3,4)
Richa Dubey: G R S R (5 6 7 8)
Richa Dubey: D D S R (9 10 11 12) - (this is the D in the lower octave which I cannot make the notation for in this format..)
Pragya Thakur: ok
Richa Dubey: G R G _(13 14 15 16)
Pragya Thakur: The - is?
Richa Dubey: _ means the note is extended so teh G is not broken in this case but holds for that beat - stretches to accomodate the space, if you will...
Pragya Thakur: I see...I think
Richa Dubey: that is the sthayi for a bhupali teen taal bandish
Richa Dubey: now, the same raag,
Richa Dubey: when it is "bound" or "nibaddh" in ek taal
Richa Dubey: changes
Pragya Thakur: How does it change?
Richa Dubey: SSDDP_ GRSRG_
Richa Dubey: that's twelve matras
Pragya Thakur: Ok!
Pragya Thakur: That clearly shows the difference.
Richa Dubey: and often the laya (tempo) will change
Pragya Thakur: So do they even sound completely different in the two taals?
Richa Dubey: yes - in the manner in which the same notes are approached.
Richa Dubey: not completely different
Richa Dubey: but say in this case, the ek taal bandish in bhupali - because it is played in the Drut laya (quick tempo)
Richa Dubey: is more upbeat and even playful
Richa Dubey: while the teen taal
Richa Dubey: being performed in a slower tempo, is more serious
Pragya Thakur: Ok!
Richa Dubey: eg. There is a "meend" or slide on the violin (to extend/ play out/ hold a note)
Pragya Thakur: And do all instruments have something like that?
Richa Dubey: on the Ds in both octaves in the teen taal bandish
Richa Dubey: the equivalent in terms of performance, yes...
Richa Dubey: I guess...
Richa Dubey: at least string and wind instruments
Pragya Thakur: Ok.
Pragya Thakur: Do you play any other instruments?
Richa Dubey: I have both hands full (quite literally) with the violin
Pragya Thakur: (
Richa Dubey: considering I just began recently, I have HUGE amounts of catching up to do...
Pragya Thakur: I should get me a harmonium..that's what VM recommends.
Richa Dubey: and trust me to pick the most difficult instrument I could
Richa Dubey: yes - a harmonium is good for recognising notes
Pragya Thakur: What got you interested?
Pragya Thakur: Yes, recognizing notes is quite a challenge.
Richa Dubey: well - I had done a year of vocal classical as a kid
Richa Dubey: of course it was pretty pointless
Richa Dubey: takes time... I make errors EVERY single time and feel like an utter idiot
Richa Dubey: anyway, I was doing some research on music as relevant to the baramasa
Pragya Thakur: Persistence!
Saturday, June 24, 2006
We'll Be Right Back
People talk about their dreams, they remember them all. Dreams are supposed to be good, full of hope. One says things like, “I have a dream”. No one ever says “I have a nightmare”. Well the games my subconscious plays on me are always nightmarish. They don’t happen frequently. My sleep is either dreamless or I never remember my dreams. The nightmares however, are quite unforgettable, always sending me a message that advises fixing of something that isn’t broken in the first place.
Like the one this morning. I wouldn’t ever consider, even for a fraction of a second, leaving my daughter behind in a car, or a shop or at home, alone, while I did one of those things where people say, “Hang on, I’ll be right back”. I can’t even imagine that. Yet my nightmare had me doing exactly that.
We ended up leaving her at home, telling her we were going out for a couple of hours and that we would be right back. We drove off and reached something that looked like a park. We parked and strolled in, walking through the park trails, gazing at the flora and fauna, the joggers the skateboarders. Many moments seem to have passed in however you tell time in a dream. Then we walked out of the park to the parking lot. We walked toward the spot where we thought our car was, we even unlocked the door before we were rudely pushed to the side. They were yelling at us, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing that’s ours!” Then three or four people clambered in and spurred the carriage on. Yes the car we had been about to enter had turned into a horse carriage that didn’t belong to us. It trotted away as the people turned around to see us standing there. We started walking up and down the parking lot looking for our car, it was nowhere to be found. We suddenly realized we had no way of getting home. I remember hearing or saying, “I think it’s stolen. GAP insurance should cover it”, and then screaming, “OH NO, SHE IS HOME ALONE!!!!”
Just then I woke up with a start, there she was sleeping right next to me, we hadn’t gone anywhere for just a couple of hours saying we would be right back. We were all right there, sleeping peacefully.
Like the one this morning. I wouldn’t ever consider, even for a fraction of a second, leaving my daughter behind in a car, or a shop or at home, alone, while I did one of those things where people say, “Hang on, I’ll be right back”. I can’t even imagine that. Yet my nightmare had me doing exactly that.
We ended up leaving her at home, telling her we were going out for a couple of hours and that we would be right back. We drove off and reached something that looked like a park. We parked and strolled in, walking through the park trails, gazing at the flora and fauna, the joggers the skateboarders. Many moments seem to have passed in however you tell time in a dream. Then we walked out of the park to the parking lot. We walked toward the spot where we thought our car was, we even unlocked the door before we were rudely pushed to the side. They were yelling at us, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing that’s ours!” Then three or four people clambered in and spurred the carriage on. Yes the car we had been about to enter had turned into a horse carriage that didn’t belong to us. It trotted away as the people turned around to see us standing there. We started walking up and down the parking lot looking for our car, it was nowhere to be found. We suddenly realized we had no way of getting home. I remember hearing or saying, “I think it’s stolen. GAP insurance should cover it”, and then screaming, “OH NO, SHE IS HOME ALONE!!!!”
Just then I woke up with a start, there she was sleeping right next to me, we hadn’t gone anywhere for just a couple of hours saying we would be right back. We were all right there, sleeping peacefully.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Echoes of Akira's Story: The Ticket Collector
Akira Yamashita, a member of the Shakespeare and Company Network of Writers, wrote a story entitled – The Ticket Collector. The first time I read the story my only reaction was one of complete bafflement. I didn’t know what to make of it. It challenged every assumption an average storyteller ever makes about his reader.
We start out reading stories where good and evil are clearly defined and good always triumphs over evil, throughout the tale “good” suffers and is subject to many misfortunes and treachery. In the end, however, everything is sorted out in his favor and “evil” is punished. I suppose these stories are told to us to gently mold and shape our malleable child brains so we can never stray from being good. Then we grow up to read stories that take on a deeper hue with the introduction of moral ambiguity, tension, ultimate resolution, an outcome that resolves all dilemmas and reaches a satisfactory conclusion, all loose ends neatly tied. The action, the stuff that keeps us engaged and actively involved, is almost always in the middle. We absorb the “middle” as we start building our expectations for a desirable ending.
Many of us, who avidly peruse works of fiction, rarely leave this comfort zone. We seek works where reviewers’ words and analyses, back page or dust jacket synopses, lead us to believe that the ending would satisfy us. Like all things in life, a different point of view is rarely welcome. If we have slightly more evolved tastes or a need for that which is out of the ordinary, we may seek out the works of Kafka or, more recently Dave Eggers. But a glance at bestseller lists and front end merchandising at book stores dispels all misconceptions about what most folks really like to read.
Several of the comments Akira received on the network, I felt, registered confusion and perhaps even annoyance at the way the story ended. It was unconventional in the extreme. It started out in narrative mode and described a relationship between our narrator, a commuter and a fellow passenger who he met everyday and with whom he even developed a relationship that went beyond merely cordial. They exchanged casual conversation, shared books and even developed a mutual awareness of the fears, worries, comfort levels and quirks (the story indicates that the narrator develops this awareness, I am assuming it was mutual). The story ends violently with the suicide of our narrator’s co-passenger, on the train, during rush hour and our narrator’s only reaction is mild irritation.
It has been two weeks since I read this story but it has managed to take a firm hold on my imagination. I had to write about it in order to find an explanation for my unending involvement with it. Perhaps it underscores my life as an indifferent commuter, for whom the matter of getting from Point A to a Point B, 54 miles away, every single day, has become so routine and so programmed that any minor deviation from the routine causes nothing more than extreme annoyance and irritation. I know all the faces and some of the names of most of my fellow commuters. I stand in the same waiting line with them, greet them with a smile and know what their sons, daughters or spouses have been up to. I know about their vacation plans, their work problems, have mentally recorded the kinds of books they like to read and the cars that they drive. Maybe I speak more words to them than to my own loved ones. And yet, there’s a wall of indifference. People sometimes move away, change their places of work, or start taking the train or a different bus, they simply disappear or move on. The very next day they vanish from my memory banks, if I knew their names I forget them, if I never knew their names, well, they might as well have never existed.
My bus was in an accident two days ago. A car that was trying to pass my bus in a hurry got hit by the bus I was in. It was a compact car that was sent into a horrifying tailspin, it got turned around facing oncoming traffic approaching at 65-75 miles per hour. It hit several cars during its backward journey, it had a frontal collision with another car which in turn was hit by a truck. I watched the whole thing from my window seat. Did my pulse rate soar, did my eyes widen in shock and utter disbelief? I doubt it. Our bus driver had to pull over and stop. I glanced down at my watch and observed that it was 8:30 PM at night. I should have been home an hour ago. I was irritated beyond belief. Our cell phones came out as loved ones back home were told about the damn accident and how long we expected to remain by the side of the road. There were some worried glances or were these “embarrassed” glances similar to the ones the passengers in Mr Yamashita’s story had shown when the passenger committed suicide? My irritation was pronounced, this was a wrinkle in my soporific routine, a disruption.
As a storyteller I would have shown considerable lack of skill if I chose to write a story around this incident. Mr Yamashita instead, a gifted storyteller, amplified that sense of anarchy, chaos and modern day disaffection with the sights, sounds and experiences that surround us, in few razor sharp words and succinctly structured sentences, perhaps the sort of story that, in the unforgettable words of Mohammed Ali, can float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.
Well done, Akira-san.
We start out reading stories where good and evil are clearly defined and good always triumphs over evil, throughout the tale “good” suffers and is subject to many misfortunes and treachery. In the end, however, everything is sorted out in his favor and “evil” is punished. I suppose these stories are told to us to gently mold and shape our malleable child brains so we can never stray from being good. Then we grow up to read stories that take on a deeper hue with the introduction of moral ambiguity, tension, ultimate resolution, an outcome that resolves all dilemmas and reaches a satisfactory conclusion, all loose ends neatly tied. The action, the stuff that keeps us engaged and actively involved, is almost always in the middle. We absorb the “middle” as we start building our expectations for a desirable ending.
Many of us, who avidly peruse works of fiction, rarely leave this comfort zone. We seek works where reviewers’ words and analyses, back page or dust jacket synopses, lead us to believe that the ending would satisfy us. Like all things in life, a different point of view is rarely welcome. If we have slightly more evolved tastes or a need for that which is out of the ordinary, we may seek out the works of Kafka or, more recently Dave Eggers. But a glance at bestseller lists and front end merchandising at book stores dispels all misconceptions about what most folks really like to read.
Several of the comments Akira received on the network, I felt, registered confusion and perhaps even annoyance at the way the story ended. It was unconventional in the extreme. It started out in narrative mode and described a relationship between our narrator, a commuter and a fellow passenger who he met everyday and with whom he even developed a relationship that went beyond merely cordial. They exchanged casual conversation, shared books and even developed a mutual awareness of the fears, worries, comfort levels and quirks (the story indicates that the narrator develops this awareness, I am assuming it was mutual). The story ends violently with the suicide of our narrator’s co-passenger, on the train, during rush hour and our narrator’s only reaction is mild irritation.
It has been two weeks since I read this story but it has managed to take a firm hold on my imagination. I had to write about it in order to find an explanation for my unending involvement with it. Perhaps it underscores my life as an indifferent commuter, for whom the matter of getting from Point A to a Point B, 54 miles away, every single day, has become so routine and so programmed that any minor deviation from the routine causes nothing more than extreme annoyance and irritation. I know all the faces and some of the names of most of my fellow commuters. I stand in the same waiting line with them, greet them with a smile and know what their sons, daughters or spouses have been up to. I know about their vacation plans, their work problems, have mentally recorded the kinds of books they like to read and the cars that they drive. Maybe I speak more words to them than to my own loved ones. And yet, there’s a wall of indifference. People sometimes move away, change their places of work, or start taking the train or a different bus, they simply disappear or move on. The very next day they vanish from my memory banks, if I knew their names I forget them, if I never knew their names, well, they might as well have never existed.
My bus was in an accident two days ago. A car that was trying to pass my bus in a hurry got hit by the bus I was in. It was a compact car that was sent into a horrifying tailspin, it got turned around facing oncoming traffic approaching at 65-75 miles per hour. It hit several cars during its backward journey, it had a frontal collision with another car which in turn was hit by a truck. I watched the whole thing from my window seat. Did my pulse rate soar, did my eyes widen in shock and utter disbelief? I doubt it. Our bus driver had to pull over and stop. I glanced down at my watch and observed that it was 8:30 PM at night. I should have been home an hour ago. I was irritated beyond belief. Our cell phones came out as loved ones back home were told about the damn accident and how long we expected to remain by the side of the road. There were some worried glances or were these “embarrassed” glances similar to the ones the passengers in Mr Yamashita’s story had shown when the passenger committed suicide? My irritation was pronounced, this was a wrinkle in my soporific routine, a disruption.
As a storyteller I would have shown considerable lack of skill if I chose to write a story around this incident. Mr Yamashita instead, a gifted storyteller, amplified that sense of anarchy, chaos and modern day disaffection with the sights, sounds and experiences that surround us, in few razor sharp words and succinctly structured sentences, perhaps the sort of story that, in the unforgettable words of Mohammed Ali, can float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.
Well done, Akira-san.
Thursday, June 8, 2006
Writing
I hadn’t written much of anything for sometime. My words were boring me and I kept wondering why anyone would be interested in reading what I had to say when it was so much about myself?
The writers’ forum that is so much a part of my daily ritual these days had invited entries that made a case for winning a “Worst Writer of the Network” crown. Quite the paradox, for in order to make a strong case that you were the worst writer you needed to write well and if you wrote well then how could you be considered a bad writer? Members of the network have been outdoing themselves trying to win the worst writer crown.
Ironically, a while ago when I asked the very same members of this network to choose for me their five best pieces of writing, not a single person responded. We are all very comfortable saying why we’re bad and coy about saying why we felt what we had written was good enough to post for public consumption. Can it be said that we never put our best foot forward or is it that we secretly think we did write our hearts out but it is for others to say? Many of us nurse a secret desire to be published and to be recognized as writers, why then do we not want to say that we wrote well and that the reader was seeing us at our best? And why are we always defensive about negative feedback? Because if we all feel we are the worst then we should feel right at home with negative feedback, shouldn’t we?
That was just an aside to what I started to say earlier, which was, why I hadn’t written in sometime. Like I said, I was sick of how all my writing revolved around myself. I was scrolling through the archives of my blog and was mortified at my earlier writings. The latter pieces show some evolution but the central focus stays unchanged; I am still at the center of my ever-expanding universe. The closest analogy is geometry class and drawing a circle with a compass. You could draw a circle with a small radius and then draw a larger circle followed by a larger one but the center of this circle remains the same. Why for once couldn’t I write from outside or tangentially to this circle? Or write from the vantage point of someone else’s circle? Other writers do it all the time, don’t they?
Those were some of the thoughts that crossed my mind but then my copy of W. Somerset Maugham’s – Summing Up – arrived, a book where he takes stock of his life and his writings. He admits to being a most introspective writer, one whose writings were all about his experiences, his perceptions, his interactions with other people. So if Maugham could get away with this so lucidly, elegantly and euphoniously, perhaps there is hope for me.
So I am back here, writing. It is my blog, I say on my blog that I am introspective in the extreme and have also set it up with the lines from a U2 song as an epigram – “…Have you come here to play Jesus, to the lepers in your head?” That is the raison d’etre for my blog. To capture whatever stray, coherent or incoherent thoughts cross my mind. The weight of living takes it toll and sometimes the lepers in the head can only be played Jesus to by words. And since my words are playing Jesus to the lepers in my head, perhaps I shouldn’t care to have a worldwide audience, represented by the red dots on a world map at the bottom of this blog? But wondering whether or not I should care for an audience and being grateful for the presence of the stray visitor or commenter here are two different things; two irreconcilable things. Those red dots are the reason why I don’t pencil these thoughts in a journal and save it away under lock and key.
Perhaps writing for oneself, for ones own peace of mind, is a cherished or vaunted ideal but the desire to be read and heard always rears its ugly head. A point Paul Auster made in his novel – The Book of Illusions – where the subject of his protagonist David Zimmer’s research – Hector Mann, a filmmaker – disappears in 1929 and no one knows of his existence until David Zimmer unearths him in 1988 on a New Mexico ranch. He finds an old and dying Hector who had spent the last 59 years making hundreds of movies that if viewed would have revealed the essence of this man. But his wife had instructions to destroy these films within 24 hours of his death; he had made these movies for himself, for his own piece of mind, not for the world. However, in his last moments of weakness he had had the book’s protagonist – David Zimmer, a college professor and author, summoned to the ranch. He wanted the world to see his creation; he sought remembrance. We all seek remembrance.
We can deny it all we want but we need something out there that reminds the world that we exist, that lets us earn our minor immortality [Milan Kundera’s book – Immortality]. I leave my words here in cyberspace in the hopes that cyberspace will go on beyond me. Even then why anyone would want to read what I had to say is not clear to me, but it will be there to read all the same.
This is just a fraction of what I really wanted to say but this blog isn’t going anywhere. More later. If you read I’ll be honored, if you don’t, well, it wasn’t written with the intention of finding a wide audience anyway. :)
The writers’ forum that is so much a part of my daily ritual these days had invited entries that made a case for winning a “Worst Writer of the Network” crown. Quite the paradox, for in order to make a strong case that you were the worst writer you needed to write well and if you wrote well then how could you be considered a bad writer? Members of the network have been outdoing themselves trying to win the worst writer crown.
Ironically, a while ago when I asked the very same members of this network to choose for me their five best pieces of writing, not a single person responded. We are all very comfortable saying why we’re bad and coy about saying why we felt what we had written was good enough to post for public consumption. Can it be said that we never put our best foot forward or is it that we secretly think we did write our hearts out but it is for others to say? Many of us nurse a secret desire to be published and to be recognized as writers, why then do we not want to say that we wrote well and that the reader was seeing us at our best? And why are we always defensive about negative feedback? Because if we all feel we are the worst then we should feel right at home with negative feedback, shouldn’t we?
That was just an aside to what I started to say earlier, which was, why I hadn’t written in sometime. Like I said, I was sick of how all my writing revolved around myself. I was scrolling through the archives of my blog and was mortified at my earlier writings. The latter pieces show some evolution but the central focus stays unchanged; I am still at the center of my ever-expanding universe. The closest analogy is geometry class and drawing a circle with a compass. You could draw a circle with a small radius and then draw a larger circle followed by a larger one but the center of this circle remains the same. Why for once couldn’t I write from outside or tangentially to this circle? Or write from the vantage point of someone else’s circle? Other writers do it all the time, don’t they?
Those were some of the thoughts that crossed my mind but then my copy of W. Somerset Maugham’s – Summing Up – arrived, a book where he takes stock of his life and his writings. He admits to being a most introspective writer, one whose writings were all about his experiences, his perceptions, his interactions with other people. So if Maugham could get away with this so lucidly, elegantly and euphoniously, perhaps there is hope for me.
So I am back here, writing. It is my blog, I say on my blog that I am introspective in the extreme and have also set it up with the lines from a U2 song as an epigram – “…Have you come here to play Jesus, to the lepers in your head?” That is the raison d’etre for my blog. To capture whatever stray, coherent or incoherent thoughts cross my mind. The weight of living takes it toll and sometimes the lepers in the head can only be played Jesus to by words. And since my words are playing Jesus to the lepers in my head, perhaps I shouldn’t care to have a worldwide audience, represented by the red dots on a world map at the bottom of this blog? But wondering whether or not I should care for an audience and being grateful for the presence of the stray visitor or commenter here are two different things; two irreconcilable things. Those red dots are the reason why I don’t pencil these thoughts in a journal and save it away under lock and key.
Perhaps writing for oneself, for ones own peace of mind, is a cherished or vaunted ideal but the desire to be read and heard always rears its ugly head. A point Paul Auster made in his novel – The Book of Illusions – where the subject of his protagonist David Zimmer’s research – Hector Mann, a filmmaker – disappears in 1929 and no one knows of his existence until David Zimmer unearths him in 1988 on a New Mexico ranch. He finds an old and dying Hector who had spent the last 59 years making hundreds of movies that if viewed would have revealed the essence of this man. But his wife had instructions to destroy these films within 24 hours of his death; he had made these movies for himself, for his own piece of mind, not for the world. However, in his last moments of weakness he had had the book’s protagonist – David Zimmer, a college professor and author, summoned to the ranch. He wanted the world to see his creation; he sought remembrance. We all seek remembrance.
We can deny it all we want but we need something out there that reminds the world that we exist, that lets us earn our minor immortality [Milan Kundera’s book – Immortality]. I leave my words here in cyberspace in the hopes that cyberspace will go on beyond me. Even then why anyone would want to read what I had to say is not clear to me, but it will be there to read all the same.
This is just a fraction of what I really wanted to say but this blog isn’t going anywhere. More later. If you read I’ll be honored, if you don’t, well, it wasn’t written with the intention of finding a wide audience anyway. :)
Sunday, June 4, 2006
This Bus Is Too Hot
Is there a sense of entitlement that recent immigrants or newer citizens of the United States of America lack? Is there a comfort level that needs to be achieved before we start acting in a certain way? The “certain way” that seems to want to bend the world to ones needs, to change things in ones own favor by making a conscious effort?
There was an incident in my bus during my morning commute on Friday. The bus that picked us up was an older model. Most of us were happy to see it because the seats are more comfortable and the air conditioning more bearable (an early June morning is still chilly). So we all got settled in our favorite seats with our books, iPods, or found ourselves the best snoozing positions. The bus made its journey eastward and as it was about to enter the Lincoln Tunnel, suddenly a passenger in a starched white shirt, wired to the tee with gadgets all around his belt, his ears etc. walked up to the driver and started screaming about the malfunctioning air conditioning in the bus. He asked the driver to fiddle with the various knobs on the dashboard to try to make the air come on. When that didn’t work he said he couldn’t believe he was being subject to this treatment. He said he was sweating profusely and that the back of the bus was like an oven. He asked the driver to call the dispatcher and have him send over a new bus.
Wide awake now I was stunned as I observed the driver pulling over to the side of the road. I tried to see the reactions on other passengers’ faces. I shrugged, I tried to make eye contact and exchange incredulous glances with others, I just couldn’t believe what had just happened! Ten minutes away from the city the bus had come to a complete stop. The passenger who had complained got off the bus and stood outside with his hands on his hips. A couple of other men walked out and stood with him.
The rest of us started questioning the driver, “Are you telling me this bus isn’t going anywhere?”
“Yes, ma’am. Can’t take it anywhere. They want me to bring it back to the terminal.”
“So how are we getting to work?”
“They be sending another bus.”
“But I don’t understand! This bus was running fine!”
“This gentleman didn’t want us going any further!”
“Well, why can’t we just leave him here and move on??”
“Can’t do that ma’am.”
And so we waited for a new bus to pick up all the passengers from our bus and take us into the city.
I still can’t get over how easily one man had succeeded in bending a bus full of passengers to his will. He was feeling hot, so the rest of us had no choice but to fall in with his plans!!
Would I ever do such a thing? I doubt I would ever do this. It wouldn’t even be a question of not having the guts, the nerve to do it. It just wouldn’t occur to me to do this. Is that because I feel timid? Is it because I have been conditioned to accept my lot in life to a certain extent? Is it right to work toward the most comfortable situation for yourself showing utter disregard for others? Or is there an assumption here that what was the perfect solution for this man would be acceptable to many others as well? If this was indeed the assumption, was it arrogant? Does it come from feeling more settled and confident in this nation than I do? I go on thinking about it, still incredulous and a little angry about the time we wasted waiting for another bus to pick us up right outside the city, a bus that wasn’t even going to take me to my normal stop, a bus that was freezing inside, a bus where my new seat wasn’t as comfortable as the seat I had left behind in the old bus. All because some guy had the nerve to improve things for himself at the expense of everyone else!
There was an incident in my bus during my morning commute on Friday. The bus that picked us up was an older model. Most of us were happy to see it because the seats are more comfortable and the air conditioning more bearable (an early June morning is still chilly). So we all got settled in our favorite seats with our books, iPods, or found ourselves the best snoozing positions. The bus made its journey eastward and as it was about to enter the Lincoln Tunnel, suddenly a passenger in a starched white shirt, wired to the tee with gadgets all around his belt, his ears etc. walked up to the driver and started screaming about the malfunctioning air conditioning in the bus. He asked the driver to fiddle with the various knobs on the dashboard to try to make the air come on. When that didn’t work he said he couldn’t believe he was being subject to this treatment. He said he was sweating profusely and that the back of the bus was like an oven. He asked the driver to call the dispatcher and have him send over a new bus.
Wide awake now I was stunned as I observed the driver pulling over to the side of the road. I tried to see the reactions on other passengers’ faces. I shrugged, I tried to make eye contact and exchange incredulous glances with others, I just couldn’t believe what had just happened! Ten minutes away from the city the bus had come to a complete stop. The passenger who had complained got off the bus and stood outside with his hands on his hips. A couple of other men walked out and stood with him.
The rest of us started questioning the driver, “Are you telling me this bus isn’t going anywhere?”
“Yes, ma’am. Can’t take it anywhere. They want me to bring it back to the terminal.”
“So how are we getting to work?”
“They be sending another bus.”
“But I don’t understand! This bus was running fine!”
“This gentleman didn’t want us going any further!”
“Well, why can’t we just leave him here and move on??”
“Can’t do that ma’am.”
And so we waited for a new bus to pick up all the passengers from our bus and take us into the city.
I still can’t get over how easily one man had succeeded in bending a bus full of passengers to his will. He was feeling hot, so the rest of us had no choice but to fall in with his plans!!
Would I ever do such a thing? I doubt I would ever do this. It wouldn’t even be a question of not having the guts, the nerve to do it. It just wouldn’t occur to me to do this. Is that because I feel timid? Is it because I have been conditioned to accept my lot in life to a certain extent? Is it right to work toward the most comfortable situation for yourself showing utter disregard for others? Or is there an assumption here that what was the perfect solution for this man would be acceptable to many others as well? If this was indeed the assumption, was it arrogant? Does it come from feeling more settled and confident in this nation than I do? I go on thinking about it, still incredulous and a little angry about the time we wasted waiting for another bus to pick us up right outside the city, a bus that wasn’t even going to take me to my normal stop, a bus that was freezing inside, a bus where my new seat wasn’t as comfortable as the seat I had left behind in the old bus. All because some guy had the nerve to improve things for himself at the expense of everyone else!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)