I jumped into the taxi, already running late for my interview. “180 Maiden Lane,” I barked to the driver. This was my second interview of the week in Manhattan and I was keen not to mess it up.
The man sitting behind the wheel turned around and smiled at me as he started the meter and pulled the car ahead. He had a thick white beard that covered a large part of his face and wrinkles on his forehead revealing his relative old age. He gave the impression of a man who had experienced much pain in his life. Yet his eyes were soft and kind, like a child.
There was bumper-to-bumper traffic in downtown Manhattan at eleven in the morning. I twitched in the back seat and shifted from one side to the other. The blaring siren of an approaching ambulance rose above all other sounds. It came from behind me. My taxi pulled over to clear space for the ambulance. I saw that many of the other cars still continued forward on the same road. This was not surprising. In New York, people are always in a rush and sometimes couldn’t be bothered to move aside in spite of the loud sirens.
I glanced at my watch. Only fifteen minutes left for the scheduled interview time, and we were still some distance away.
“Can we go ahead?” I told the driver. The sirens became louder as the ambulance approached. The cars that hadn’t got out of the way obstructed it’s path.
The driver looked at me, but made no attempt to move the car forward.
“Listen, I am very late for an interview.” I explained. “I really have to get moving fast.”
The cabbie continued to stare at me for a moment longer. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Meanwhile, the ambulance roared past us. My cabbie changed lanes and drove ahead.
In a quiet voice, the cabbie said. “What if your mother or brother were in a critical condition?”
“Ha? What?” I didn’t hear him properly.
“What if your mother had an accident and was losing blood. What if she had to get to the hospital quickly and every minute mattered in order to save her life. Then wouldn’t you want all the cars to get out of the way of that ambulance?” His voice was gentle, yet powerful and captured my full attention.
I took a moment to register the question. The image of my mother lying on a stretcher with blood-covered sheets and a glucose drip hanging above came vividly to me. “Yes, I would.”
“Then, what would you think of some twenty-five year old who had an important interview and told his cab driver to refuse to get out of the way? What if those extra seconds delay could cost your mother her life?”
With the scene still pictured in my mind, I responded with anger. “I would think he is an asshole. Who cares about some stupid interview when my mother could die?”
“Right,” The white beard nodded up and down slowly. “Right.”
I took a deep breath, shook away the image in my head and realized what I had just done.
“The person in that ambulance must be someone’s mother or brother or wife, wouldn’t you think?” The driver asked.
I nodded sheepishly. I shrunk back into my seat, despising myself for my self-centeredness and complete lack of concern for the other person’s suffering. My interview was the last thing on my mind, as I spent the rest of the journey in silent reflection.
Compassion is defined as the feeling of deep sympathy for another persons’ misfortune and a heartfelt desire to alleviate their suffering. It stems from a genuine concern for the welfare of others. All human beings no matter how smart or dumb, tall or short, good-looking or ugly, have the potential to be compassionate. It is at the core of our humanity.
Arthur Schopenhauer, a renowned German philosopher from the early nineteenth century posed an interesting question in his paper about the basis of morality. If the most basic human instinct is that of survival, if the primal urge is to stay alive, then how come we hear stories all the time of people who put their own lives at risk in order to save others? We hear such stories during wars, terrorist attacks, natural disasters like earthquakes and tsunamis. What makes people do such selfless acts?
Schopenhauer tells a story to illustrate this. In a small German town there was a hill with tall boulders on either side. A police car drove to the top of the hill. The cop who was driving saw a small boy standing on the edge, leaning forward as though he were about to jump. The cop immediately ran out from the car and grabbed the boy’s hand just as he jumped. The boy was airborne, falling down and the cop was falling with him. Yet the cop didn’t let go off the boy. Then, his partner who had been in the passenger seat, caught him by the feet and pulled them both up. This incident was all over the papers. When the first cop was interviewed, he was asked about why he caught the boy and held on to him, even though he knew he was falling with him.
The cop simply answered “I don’t know, but I just couldn’t let go. If I had let that little boy go, I couldn’t have lived a single day of the rest of my life.”
Schopenhauer asks How come? How is this possible? The boy was a stranger to the cop. He hadn’t seen him before in his life. Yet in that single instant of time, the cop forgot all about his own family, his duties, his aspirations for the future, and everything else. He was right there with the boy, about to willingly fall down the hill to certain death.
Schopenhauer’s answer is that it was the breakthrough of a metaphysical realization that the cop and the boy are one, and that their separateness is only an illusory effect. The truth that was spontaneously realized by that cop was that he and the boy were both part of the same life force, the same universal consciousness. They were like two living cells of the same living organism. Schopenhauer goes on to say that this form of compassion is the basis of human morality.
It is not enough to understand compassion as an abstract concept. It must be embedded in our consciousness and imbibed into our daily lives. This is not easy. The virtue of compassion takes time and practice to cultivate. We have to develop it like we would any other skill.
We can start with a simple exercise, which goes back to the lesson taught to me by the humble cabbie: Think about someone who you dearly love and cannot do without like a parent or a spouse. Now, imagine this person lying on a bed, suffering extreme physical pain. Their clothes are drenched in blood. Several of their bones are shattered. Their face is contorted as they scream in agony at the top of their lungs. Their body has convulsions and the screams get louder and louder.
How does this scene make you feel? Do you feel their grief? Don’t you want to do something, anything you can, to reduce their pain, even if it means that you have to share some of it? Imagine that you take away some of their pain, and it makes them feel better. Their pain is your pain. Experience the sense of lightness and joy that such empathy brings you. Now, repeat this exercise with your larger circle of friends and family, and then your acquaintances and people whom you have met even once. Next, extend this deep feeling of compassion that you experience to everyone in the whole world. After all, every human being wants to be happy and free from suffering.
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. All things are interconnected in ways that we cannot fully comprehend. Every thought, word or action that we direct towards others around us will be reflected back to us. Life is not a solo journey, and we are not separate, disjoint entities. We are all part of the same universal consciousness. The blood that courses through my veins comes from the same source as the blood that flows through yours. Your pain is my pain. Your bliss is my bliss. Whatever happens to you affects me in some mysterious, inexplicable way. Quoting Led Zeppelin in the classic song Stairway to Heaven “If you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last, when all are one and one is all.”
I’ve come to realize that happiness is synonymous with kindness. To be happy, we must first make others happy. Open up your heart and you will be able to make the world a better place. In all thoughts, word and acts, we must remember the Golden Rule: treat others the way we wish to be treated ourselves.
The Explosive Dinner
“Do we have any food to eat at home?” Marvin asked his apartment-mate Naveen, who was seated idly on the couch, reading a magazine. Without waiting for a reply, Marvin opened cupboard after cupboard in the kitchen, to search for edibles. Naveen watched his buddy with a bemused smile. It had been a year since the two of them had arrived in Philadelphia for their graduate studies at the University of Pennsylvania. They had been sharing that spacious two bedroom place in the University District ever since.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marvin asked.
“Always.” Naveen said.
“So, what do you plan to do about it?”
Naveen shrugged his shoulders, and flipped the pages of his magazine. Marvin frowned and continued his search.
“Ah, we have peas.” He proclaimed. “And we have potatoes too.”
"Nice,” Naveen said.
“Let’s cook something.” Marvin enthused. “We even have some onions.”
Naveen nodded, but made no attempt to rise from his comfortable position on the couch.
Marvin got into action mode, bringing out knives and pans. He put the peas in the microwave for thawing and then started to chop the onions.
“What are you just sitting there?” Marvin demanded. “C’mon and do some work.”
“My specialty is eating.” Naveen replied, tongue-in-cheek. “I’ll do a good job at that.”
“If you want to eat, get into the kitchen and work.”
“Fine, fine.” Naveen slowly got up and ambled into the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you boil the potatoes?”
Naveen obeyed and then stood by for further instructions. Marvin was cooking the onions, adding some spices, and cutting tomatoes, all at the same time. Naveen watched him and almost felt as though his apartment-mate had grown an extra pair of limbs.
“Can you get the pressure cooker?” Marvin said. Naveen handed him the bulky utensil that had been imported into their kitchen from India.
Marvin mixed together all the pieces of the food puzzle, such as the peas, potatoes, onions, spices, water, and so on, into the pressure cooker and simmered them for a while. He then shut the lid, put the stove on high heat and stepped back.
“Good job,” Naveen said. He went back to reading his magazine.
Marvin paced back and forth like a caged animal. From time to time, he would lift the top valve of the cooker to release some steam. He kept checking his watch. He tried to increase the heat on the stove, even though it was already on full.
“How much time will this thing take?” Marvin muttered. Naveen glanced up from his magazine, but didn’t offer any response. Marvin continued to stride about and toy with his watch.
“Relax,” Naveen said.
“Dude, I’m hungry.” Marvin said. “This damn thing is not getting done.”
“It’s going on releasing steam.” Marvin said, as the cooker let out a whistle and blew some more steam.
“Yeah, that’s how a pressure cooker works.” Naveen seated himself on the couch.
A few more minutes passed and Marvin hovered above the cooker with a clenched fist. He lifted the valve and let out the steam for an extended period.
“That’s it,” Marvin declared. “I’m done waiting. I’m opening it.”
“I don’t think you should…” Naveen began, but, he didn’t get a chance to complete his sentence.
As soon as Marvin pulled off the lid of the cooker, a loud explosion filled the room.
“Aaaarghhh,” Marvin screeched, clutching his left forearm. Naveen rushed into the kitchen. The sight before him was horrific. There were peas and potatoes everywhere he looked. The little pieces were on the floor, on the microwave, on the refrigerator, on the counters. The gravy had splattered all over the stove, countertops, and some had spilled to the floor.
“Frickin’ hell.” Marvin exclaimed.
“Are you alright?”
“No, I’m not alright. Do I look alright?”
“What happened?”
“I got burned by the frickin’ thing that exploded out of the cooker.”
“Our dinner, you mean?”
“Yea…Yeah,” Marvin stuttered. “Our dinner.”
Naveen was barely able to conceal a grin.
“Stop laughing.” Marvin commanded.
“C’mon, it’s funny, man.” Naveen said, smiling. “Just a look at this place. Didn’t you know not to open a pressure cooker before it releases all the steam?”
“Yeah, but it was just not getting done.”
Naveen handed Marvin some ice, who applied it his forearm, where he had the burn.
“Your arm doesn’t look so bad. You’ll be fine,” Naveen said. He looked around. “All that effort gone to waste. Now, let’s clean this place up.”
So, the two of them proceeded to wipe the gravy and clean away the peas and potatoes from all the tiny crevices that the pieces had managed to find a way into. It was a laborious task that took them nearly an hour before the mess was cleared up.
“Okay,” Naveen said, surveying the kitchen. “I think we got most of it. The place seems back to normal.”
“Yeah,” Marvin agreed. “But dude, I’m still hungry, what are we doing for dinner?”
Naveen doubled over to the floor, laughing.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marvin asked.
“Always.” Naveen said.
“So, what do you plan to do about it?”
Naveen shrugged his shoulders, and flipped the pages of his magazine. Marvin frowned and continued his search.
“Ah, we have peas.” He proclaimed. “And we have potatoes too.”
"Nice,” Naveen said.
“Let’s cook something.” Marvin enthused. “We even have some onions.”
Naveen nodded, but made no attempt to rise from his comfortable position on the couch.
Marvin got into action mode, bringing out knives and pans. He put the peas in the microwave for thawing and then started to chop the onions.
“What are you just sitting there?” Marvin demanded. “C’mon and do some work.”
“My specialty is eating.” Naveen replied, tongue-in-cheek. “I’ll do a good job at that.”
“If you want to eat, get into the kitchen and work.”
“Fine, fine.” Naveen slowly got up and ambled into the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you boil the potatoes?”
Naveen obeyed and then stood by for further instructions. Marvin was cooking the onions, adding some spices, and cutting tomatoes, all at the same time. Naveen watched him and almost felt as though his apartment-mate had grown an extra pair of limbs.
“Can you get the pressure cooker?” Marvin said. Naveen handed him the bulky utensil that had been imported into their kitchen from India.
Marvin mixed together all the pieces of the food puzzle, such as the peas, potatoes, onions, spices, water, and so on, into the pressure cooker and simmered them for a while. He then shut the lid, put the stove on high heat and stepped back.
“Good job,” Naveen said. He went back to reading his magazine.
Marvin paced back and forth like a caged animal. From time to time, he would lift the top valve of the cooker to release some steam. He kept checking his watch. He tried to increase the heat on the stove, even though it was already on full.
“How much time will this thing take?” Marvin muttered. Naveen glanced up from his magazine, but didn’t offer any response. Marvin continued to stride about and toy with his watch.
“Relax,” Naveen said.
“Dude, I’m hungry.” Marvin said. “This damn thing is not getting done.”
“It’s going on releasing steam.” Marvin said, as the cooker let out a whistle and blew some more steam.
“Yeah, that’s how a pressure cooker works.” Naveen seated himself on the couch.
A few more minutes passed and Marvin hovered above the cooker with a clenched fist. He lifted the valve and let out the steam for an extended period.
“That’s it,” Marvin declared. “I’m done waiting. I’m opening it.”
“I don’t think you should…” Naveen began, but, he didn’t get a chance to complete his sentence.
As soon as Marvin pulled off the lid of the cooker, a loud explosion filled the room.
“Aaaarghhh,” Marvin screeched, clutching his left forearm. Naveen rushed into the kitchen. The sight before him was horrific. There were peas and potatoes everywhere he looked. The little pieces were on the floor, on the microwave, on the refrigerator, on the counters. The gravy had splattered all over the stove, countertops, and some had spilled to the floor.
“Frickin’ hell.” Marvin exclaimed.
“Are you alright?”
“No, I’m not alright. Do I look alright?”
“What happened?”
“I got burned by the frickin’ thing that exploded out of the cooker.”
“Our dinner, you mean?”
“Yea…Yeah,” Marvin stuttered. “Our dinner.”
Naveen was barely able to conceal a grin.
“Stop laughing.” Marvin commanded.
“C’mon, it’s funny, man.” Naveen said, smiling. “Just a look at this place. Didn’t you know not to open a pressure cooker before it releases all the steam?”
“Yeah, but it was just not getting done.”
Naveen handed Marvin some ice, who applied it his forearm, where he had the burn.
“Your arm doesn’t look so bad. You’ll be fine,” Naveen said. He looked around. “All that effort gone to waste. Now, let’s clean this place up.”
So, the two of them proceeded to wipe the gravy and clean away the peas and potatoes from all the tiny crevices that the pieces had managed to find a way into. It was a laborious task that took them nearly an hour before the mess was cleared up.
“Okay,” Naveen said, surveying the kitchen. “I think we got most of it. The place seems back to normal.”
“Yeah,” Marvin agreed. “But dude, I’m still hungry, what are we doing for dinner?”
Naveen doubled over to the floor, laughing.
Point of View
The Sufi sage Mullah Nasuruddin was passing by a town marketplace when he saw a crowd of people gathered around two men, who were engaged in a heated quarrel. Each of them argued with an opposing view.
“Calm down.” Nasuruddin intervened in the dispute. “What’s the problem?”
One of the combatants told his side of the story.
“You’re right.” Nasuruddin said, after listening quietly.
“But, you haven’t heard my point.” The other man yelled.
Nasuruddin heard the second man out, and responded with equal certainty, “You’re right.”
“Wait a moment,” said a bystander who had been listening, “They can’t both be right.”
Nasuruddin looked at the bystander and nodded. “You’re right.”
Everyone is right from their point of view. People look at the same thing from different perspectives. One man’s meat is another man’s poison. If a coin is held in between two people seated directly across each other, one of them will see heads, the other will see tails. And they will both be right.
During one rainy day in the midst of the Mumbai monsoon, the compound of my building was covered with puddles and slush, and muddy water all over. I was seated on the steps of the building as I saw one of my friends, Ravi, approaching. He surveyed the scene with a look of disgust.
“Yuck,” He exclaimed, as he gingerly took one step at a time, trying to avoid the puddles. He grimaced. “This is filthy muck. Everything gets so dirty in the monsoons in this country.”
A few minutes later, another friend, Karan came to the compound. He had a broad smile on his face.
“La la la la,” He hummed out loud as he hopped and skipped through the muddy water, unafraid to get his feet wet.
“Don’t you love the monsoon?” He grinned at me.
Two people, two ways of looking at things. Seven billions human beings, seven billion mental perceptions of the world.
This is something to think about the next time you get into an argument where you are convinced that you are right and the other person is wrong. Maybe, the other person is looking at the coin from a different angle. Maybe, from his angle, he is right. Or maybe, there is no right or wrong, just different points of view.
“Calm down.” Nasuruddin intervened in the dispute. “What’s the problem?”
One of the combatants told his side of the story.
“You’re right.” Nasuruddin said, after listening quietly.
“But, you haven’t heard my point.” The other man yelled.
Nasuruddin heard the second man out, and responded with equal certainty, “You’re right.”
“Wait a moment,” said a bystander who had been listening, “They can’t both be right.”
Nasuruddin looked at the bystander and nodded. “You’re right.”
Everyone is right from their point of view. People look at the same thing from different perspectives. One man’s meat is another man’s poison. If a coin is held in between two people seated directly across each other, one of them will see heads, the other will see tails. And they will both be right.
During one rainy day in the midst of the Mumbai monsoon, the compound of my building was covered with puddles and slush, and muddy water all over. I was seated on the steps of the building as I saw one of my friends, Ravi, approaching. He surveyed the scene with a look of disgust.
“Yuck,” He exclaimed, as he gingerly took one step at a time, trying to avoid the puddles. He grimaced. “This is filthy muck. Everything gets so dirty in the monsoons in this country.”
A few minutes later, another friend, Karan came to the compound. He had a broad smile on his face.
“La la la la,” He hummed out loud as he hopped and skipped through the muddy water, unafraid to get his feet wet.
“Don’t you love the monsoon?” He grinned at me.
Two people, two ways of looking at things. Seven billions human beings, seven billion mental perceptions of the world.
This is something to think about the next time you get into an argument where you are convinced that you are right and the other person is wrong. Maybe, the other person is looking at the coin from a different angle. Maybe, from his angle, he is right. Or maybe, there is no right or wrong, just different points of view.
Footrock
Tarragona, Spain.
The sky was clear and as blue as a swimming pool. The sun shone brightly, its rays illuminating every earthly object. The fifth day of our Euro trip was a perfect day for the beach. Soft, white sand stretched out for acres, ending at foot of gentle waves cascading from the vast, expansive ocean. The water was cool and clean. It sparkled in the sunlight.
My old college buddies and I had already had an adventurous trip so far. From football matches to drunken parties, from a backpacker’s hostel to foosball contests, we had a fair share of memories for five guys on what might have been our last bachelor trip before one of us got married.
Before reaching the beach, our lunch at a local restaurant had been another ordeal of communication, as we scanned through pages of a Spanish language survival book and hopelessly attempted to interpret the menu items. The hardest thing was getting something vegetariano. Despite our fast-improving Spanish skills, we could find no better food selection other than the usual Paiea, Tapas and Sangrias, all of which had become our staple diet for the duration of our stay in Spain.
Post lunch, we wasted no time in getting to the beach. The sand was adorned with colorful beach umbrellas, well spaced apart. Groups of people played frisbee, volleyball and various other games. We discovered that on beaches in Europe, the women don’t feel the need to wear a top. They were happy to put their assets on display. And we in turn, were equally happy to behold. After ambling along in sand for a while, taking in the variety of sights and sounds on offer, we finally settled on a spot where we spread out our beach towels and made camp.
“Let’s play.” Someone threw a football at me. The ball was brown like the rocks that lay by the side of the sand. I caught it and kicked it back.
We formed a wide circle and kicked the ball to each other. A few dudes, who had been standing by watching, approached us. They were visiting Spain from Saudi Arabia, and invited us to play a competitive game. We readily agreed. It was five of us against four of them.
Within minutes of kickoff, the Saudis ran through us with a series of rapid passes, before tapping into the goal. They yelled to each other in a language we couldn't understand. Our slight numerical advantage counted for nothing. They blazed past us again, and scored another one. It was 2-0 and time for us to regroup.
“We have to defend properly.” Prakash said. “We have to stop them.” He turned to me. “Naveen, you are on defense now. Mark that guy.” He gestured towards the tall, lanky Saudi who sported a goatee, and had scored the second goal. “Don’t let him get away from you.” Mr. Goatee grinned back at me, apparently cognizant of the fact that I had been assigned to mark him.
Play resumed and I stayed close to my target. If he moved left, I followed suit. If he moved right, I was there. I didn’t let him get more than a half-step away from me.
The ball was airborne and flew past to the left of where I was. I dashed towards it. Mr. Goatee was on my heels. But, I was determined to not let him pass me. With my eyes locked in laser focus on the ball, I stepped forward and swung my left foot towards the ball.
“Naveen…” I may have heard a warning cry. But it was too late. I had already made the kick.
Instead of striking a soft football, the side of my left foot connected with a solid brown rock. A bolt of pain darted through my leg.
“Aaaarghhh..” I screeched, clutching my foot and falling to the sand.
People gathered around me. I heard a cacophony of voices.
“What the hell happened?”
“Are you okay, man?”
“The guy just kicked a rock with full force.”
“A rock? Why would he do something so stupid?”
“I think he was going for the football.”
I heard muffled laughter. Blood oozed from the left side of my left foot. I blinked and took deep breaths. The foot was swelling up before my eyes.
“Dude, seriously, are you okay?” I made out Prakash’s voice asking me.
I gingerly touched my foot. I stood up and limped forward a couple of steps.
“Whoa dude, don’t go anywhere. Just stay there.” Prakash commanded. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up.” He emptied a couple of bottles of water on my leg to wash off the blood. The viscous red liquid trickled out from cuts in the foot.
“We need to get stuff from a pharmacy, like antiseptics and stuff.” Prakash said.
“Let me sit down a bit.” I grunted. “We’ll see then.”
So, I parked myself in the sand, with one hand on my foot. I stared at the wound, and didn’t say a word. Meanwhile, the Saudis were getting restless. They politely inquired if we would get on with the game.
“I can’t believe he kicked a rock.” Mr.Goatee shook his head. “Did he not see it?”
“This is foot ball, man.” He told me. “Not foot rock.”
“Yeah,” Prakash agreed. “What the hell were you thinking?”
I started to form a reply, and then stopped myself, thinking better off it. How could I possibly convince anyone that I was too focused on the ball, that I actually didn’t see the rock? Did it help my case that the ball and the rock were both brown? Probably not. A football and a rock aren’t objects that one generally confuses with each other.
They decided to continue playing while I sat there recuperating. It was now four on four. Few minutes later, I came to the conclusion that staring at the foot wasn’t actually healing it in any perceptible way.
I heaved myself up. “I’m going to find a pharmacy.”
The game paused, as my buddies turned to me.
“Are you sure you are up for it?” Suresh asked.
“There should be something back where those restaurants are.” Sohail chimed in.
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Prakash asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I need some money though.”
Sohail, who was our official accountant, handed me a wad of Euros.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Suresh asked again.
I wasn’t sure of that, but I wanted the gang to stay there and get a few goals back against the Saudis. So, I just smiled and nodded.
“If you are going there, can you get us a few bottles of water?” Sohail said casually.
I nodded, and went on my way. I had been demoted from key defender to water boy. My friends watched me hobble off. They seemed uncertain whether to continue playing or to follow me.
“I’ll see you’ll in a bit.” I said, trying to sound confident.
My foot held up remarkably well. I felt sure there were no broken bones. But it was swollen and bloody. It took me ten minutes to reach the restaurants. I stepped inside the first one, and surveyed the scene. There were several circular tables with fours chairs around them, but no occupants. The only customer was making a purchase at a counter.
“Muchas Gracias” Said a lady, after receiving a strawberry ice-cream.
The man behind the ice-cream counter looked like an Indian. I hadn’t expected to see any of my countrymen in the small town of Tarragona.
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I decided to stick to our standard conversation starter.
“Habla English?” I asked.
He beamed at me. “Habla Hindi?”
“Huh?” I was taken aback. He burst out laughing.
I smiled and recovered. “Ha, Hindi.” It was strange to be speaking Hindi to a Tarragona local, even if he was of Indian origin. I explained my dilemma to him, displaying the swollen foot as evidence. He sympathized and directed me to a pharmacy a few blocks away across the train tracks.
I thanked him, and trudged off. Now and again, I would check the status of the foot. I began to think of it as ‘the’ foot as though it was some defective equipment disassociated from me, like a torn shoe. But the throbbing pain reminded me that this was no shoe. It was very much a body part.
I saw a green plus sign up ahead, which I recognized as the global symbol for a pharmacy. As soon as it came into view, I saw that it had a shutter covering the entrance from top to bottom. I cursed aloud. Did the pharmacy also close for Siesta?
I ventured into the bar next door. A plump, middle-aged lady stood behind the counter, wearing a long apron. The bar had no customers, and she was busy cleaning the counter top. She took no notice of me standing there. I hobbled ahead and grimaced, partly from the pain, partly to catch her attention. But, the lady concentrated on her task.
I cleared my throat. “Habla English?”
She frowned, and gestured with her palm in the air. “Little.”
“Pharmacy?” I asked pointing to the wall separating the bar and the pharmacy. “When opens?” She shook her head.
I wished I had brought the Spanish language book. “What time? Medicine place?” She just shrugged and continued to wipe the counter top.
Still, I didn’t give up the effort. I took one step back and pointed to my foot. “Injury…Medicine…” I was gesturing wildly now.
She leaned forward to look at the foot. She nodded. “Si.”
I sighed. “What time opens Medicine place?” I pointed to a clock hanging on the wall, inwardly appalled at my pathetic, broken English.
“Cinco” She replied.
“Cinco?” I repeated, looking at the clock again. Cinco meant five in Spanish. It was only four thirty. I decided it was not worth the effort to go back to the beach, so I eased myself onto a bar stool.
The lady scowled at me. She mumbled to herself in Spanish. I figured I should buy something to justify my presence in her bar. Then, I recalled my new role as the water boy.
“Water?” I asked, pointing to a bottle of mineral water.
“Si.” She replied, handing me the water.
“Cinco” I said. We would need one bottle for each of us, five in total.
“Si, Cinco” came the reply. She continued with her cleaning. I waited for the remaining bottles, but they didn’t seem forthcoming.
I tried again. “Cinco” I pointed to the water bottle in my hand.
“Si, Cinco” The lady frowned, pointing to the clock.
“No, no,” I said. “I know what time the pharmacy opens. I want Cinco bottles.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“Cinco, Cinco water.” I said. I shook my head in exasperation.
“Ok, Cuatro,” I said. “Cuatro water, please.” I would settle for four bottles.
She smiled, finally deciphering my code. She plunked down four bottle of water on the counter, and mumbled to herself.
“Gracias.” I exhaled heavily, and paid for them. I opened one bottle and took a few sips. The television set in the bar was turned off. There was nothing much to do. I examined the foot again. It was swollen, but stabilizing. I sat silently and waited.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” A voice called. I spun around to see Suresh standing behind me.
“You were supposed to go the pharmacy to get medicines,” Suresh grinned. “Not go to a bar to drink.”
“Can you stop thinking of alcohol for once in your life?” I rolled my eyes.
“Vodka, please.” Suresh, ignored me and addressed the bartender. She promptly fixed him a drink.
‘That, she understands.’ I muttered.
“What?” Suresh asked.
“Nothing.” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you, man. You were gone for so long.”
“The pharmacy is closed.”
“Yeah man, just have a bit of Vodka, and you’ll be fine.” Suresh offered me his drink.
“Vodka is not the answer to everything.”
“That’s what you think.” Suresh shot back. “It always works for me.”
“So, how did the rest the match go?” I asked.
“It was awesome, man.” Suresh replied. “After you left, we attacked with a vengeance. Especially, Prakash. He was like, on fire.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I was marking that goatee guy. I didn’t let him do anything, man.”
“So, who won? What was the final score?”
“We won,” Suresh beamed. “4-3”
“That’s great.” I clapped him on the back.
We sat there for a while longer, while Suresh finished his drink, and I waited for the clock to strike five. We stepped out of the bar at five, and I was delighted to find that the shutter had come up and the pharmacy was open.
“Habla English?” I asked immediately, going into the pharmacy.
“Yes,” The lady wearing a white lab coat smiled. “What can I help you with?”
Relieved to be able to communicate with ease, I showed her my foot, and bought bandages, ant-septic creams, cotton wool, scissors, and some other stuff. I paid for the supplies, and thanked her. We turned to leave.
“How did that happen by the way?” The lady pharmacist asked me.
“Well, I…we…umm…” I stuttered.
“We were playing football, and this dumbass kicked a rock instead of the ball.” Suresh said helpfully.
The pharmacist laughed. “Are you serious? Is that what happened?”
I shrugged, and made no comment.
“You actually kicked a rock? What were you thinking?” She asked.
“I wasn’t thinking, I guess.” I managed a smile.
“You are crazy, man.” Suresh said, as we exited. “Kicking a rock. You realize that we are going to make fun of you forever, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get used to it.” I replied.
Being a self-deprecating humorist, I have told this story to countless people since our Euro trip. Now, I’ve told the story to you.
I imagine after reading this, you will want to ask me ‘What were you thinking?’
And I still haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
The sky was clear and as blue as a swimming pool. The sun shone brightly, its rays illuminating every earthly object. The fifth day of our Euro trip was a perfect day for the beach. Soft, white sand stretched out for acres, ending at foot of gentle waves cascading from the vast, expansive ocean. The water was cool and clean. It sparkled in the sunlight.
My old college buddies and I had already had an adventurous trip so far. From football matches to drunken parties, from a backpacker’s hostel to foosball contests, we had a fair share of memories for five guys on what might have been our last bachelor trip before one of us got married.
Before reaching the beach, our lunch at a local restaurant had been another ordeal of communication, as we scanned through pages of a Spanish language survival book and hopelessly attempted to interpret the menu items. The hardest thing was getting something vegetariano. Despite our fast-improving Spanish skills, we could find no better food selection other than the usual Paiea, Tapas and Sangrias, all of which had become our staple diet for the duration of our stay in Spain.
Post lunch, we wasted no time in getting to the beach. The sand was adorned with colorful beach umbrellas, well spaced apart. Groups of people played frisbee, volleyball and various other games. We discovered that on beaches in Europe, the women don’t feel the need to wear a top. They were happy to put their assets on display. And we in turn, were equally happy to behold. After ambling along in sand for a while, taking in the variety of sights and sounds on offer, we finally settled on a spot where we spread out our beach towels and made camp.
“Let’s play.” Someone threw a football at me. The ball was brown like the rocks that lay by the side of the sand. I caught it and kicked it back.
We formed a wide circle and kicked the ball to each other. A few dudes, who had been standing by watching, approached us. They were visiting Spain from Saudi Arabia, and invited us to play a competitive game. We readily agreed. It was five of us against four of them.
Within minutes of kickoff, the Saudis ran through us with a series of rapid passes, before tapping into the goal. They yelled to each other in a language we couldn't understand. Our slight numerical advantage counted for nothing. They blazed past us again, and scored another one. It was 2-0 and time for us to regroup.
“We have to defend properly.” Prakash said. “We have to stop them.” He turned to me. “Naveen, you are on defense now. Mark that guy.” He gestured towards the tall, lanky Saudi who sported a goatee, and had scored the second goal. “Don’t let him get away from you.” Mr. Goatee grinned back at me, apparently cognizant of the fact that I had been assigned to mark him.
Play resumed and I stayed close to my target. If he moved left, I followed suit. If he moved right, I was there. I didn’t let him get more than a half-step away from me.
The ball was airborne and flew past to the left of where I was. I dashed towards it. Mr. Goatee was on my heels. But, I was determined to not let him pass me. With my eyes locked in laser focus on the ball, I stepped forward and swung my left foot towards the ball.
“Naveen…” I may have heard a warning cry. But it was too late. I had already made the kick.
Instead of striking a soft football, the side of my left foot connected with a solid brown rock. A bolt of pain darted through my leg.
“Aaaarghhh..” I screeched, clutching my foot and falling to the sand.
People gathered around me. I heard a cacophony of voices.
“What the hell happened?”
“Are you okay, man?”
“The guy just kicked a rock with full force.”
“A rock? Why would he do something so stupid?”
“I think he was going for the football.”
I heard muffled laughter. Blood oozed from the left side of my left foot. I blinked and took deep breaths. The foot was swelling up before my eyes.
“Dude, seriously, are you okay?” I made out Prakash’s voice asking me.
I gingerly touched my foot. I stood up and limped forward a couple of steps.
“Whoa dude, don’t go anywhere. Just stay there.” Prakash commanded. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up.” He emptied a couple of bottles of water on my leg to wash off the blood. The viscous red liquid trickled out from cuts in the foot.
“We need to get stuff from a pharmacy, like antiseptics and stuff.” Prakash said.
“Let me sit down a bit.” I grunted. “We’ll see then.”
So, I parked myself in the sand, with one hand on my foot. I stared at the wound, and didn’t say a word. Meanwhile, the Saudis were getting restless. They politely inquired if we would get on with the game.
“I can’t believe he kicked a rock.” Mr.Goatee shook his head. “Did he not see it?”
“This is foot ball, man.” He told me. “Not foot rock.”
“Yeah,” Prakash agreed. “What the hell were you thinking?”
I started to form a reply, and then stopped myself, thinking better off it. How could I possibly convince anyone that I was too focused on the ball, that I actually didn’t see the rock? Did it help my case that the ball and the rock were both brown? Probably not. A football and a rock aren’t objects that one generally confuses with each other.
They decided to continue playing while I sat there recuperating. It was now four on four. Few minutes later, I came to the conclusion that staring at the foot wasn’t actually healing it in any perceptible way.
I heaved myself up. “I’m going to find a pharmacy.”
The game paused, as my buddies turned to me.
“Are you sure you are up for it?” Suresh asked.
“There should be something back where those restaurants are.” Sohail chimed in.
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Prakash asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I need some money though.”
Sohail, who was our official accountant, handed me a wad of Euros.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Suresh asked again.
I wasn’t sure of that, but I wanted the gang to stay there and get a few goals back against the Saudis. So, I just smiled and nodded.
“If you are going there, can you get us a few bottles of water?” Sohail said casually.
I nodded, and went on my way. I had been demoted from key defender to water boy. My friends watched me hobble off. They seemed uncertain whether to continue playing or to follow me.
“I’ll see you’ll in a bit.” I said, trying to sound confident.
My foot held up remarkably well. I felt sure there were no broken bones. But it was swollen and bloody. It took me ten minutes to reach the restaurants. I stepped inside the first one, and surveyed the scene. There were several circular tables with fours chairs around them, but no occupants. The only customer was making a purchase at a counter.
“Muchas Gracias” Said a lady, after receiving a strawberry ice-cream.
The man behind the ice-cream counter looked like an Indian. I hadn’t expected to see any of my countrymen in the small town of Tarragona.
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I decided to stick to our standard conversation starter.
“Habla English?” I asked.
He beamed at me. “Habla Hindi?”
“Huh?” I was taken aback. He burst out laughing.
I smiled and recovered. “Ha, Hindi.” It was strange to be speaking Hindi to a Tarragona local, even if he was of Indian origin. I explained my dilemma to him, displaying the swollen foot as evidence. He sympathized and directed me to a pharmacy a few blocks away across the train tracks.
I thanked him, and trudged off. Now and again, I would check the status of the foot. I began to think of it as ‘the’ foot as though it was some defective equipment disassociated from me, like a torn shoe. But the throbbing pain reminded me that this was no shoe. It was very much a body part.
I saw a green plus sign up ahead, which I recognized as the global symbol for a pharmacy. As soon as it came into view, I saw that it had a shutter covering the entrance from top to bottom. I cursed aloud. Did the pharmacy also close for Siesta?
I ventured into the bar next door. A plump, middle-aged lady stood behind the counter, wearing a long apron. The bar had no customers, and she was busy cleaning the counter top. She took no notice of me standing there. I hobbled ahead and grimaced, partly from the pain, partly to catch her attention. But, the lady concentrated on her task.
I cleared my throat. “Habla English?”
She frowned, and gestured with her palm in the air. “Little.”
“Pharmacy?” I asked pointing to the wall separating the bar and the pharmacy. “When opens?” She shook her head.
I wished I had brought the Spanish language book. “What time? Medicine place?” She just shrugged and continued to wipe the counter top.
Still, I didn’t give up the effort. I took one step back and pointed to my foot. “Injury…Medicine…” I was gesturing wildly now.
She leaned forward to look at the foot. She nodded. “Si.”
I sighed. “What time opens Medicine place?” I pointed to a clock hanging on the wall, inwardly appalled at my pathetic, broken English.
“Cinco” She replied.
“Cinco?” I repeated, looking at the clock again. Cinco meant five in Spanish. It was only four thirty. I decided it was not worth the effort to go back to the beach, so I eased myself onto a bar stool.
The lady scowled at me. She mumbled to herself in Spanish. I figured I should buy something to justify my presence in her bar. Then, I recalled my new role as the water boy.
“Water?” I asked, pointing to a bottle of mineral water.
“Si.” She replied, handing me the water.
“Cinco” I said. We would need one bottle for each of us, five in total.
“Si, Cinco” came the reply. She continued with her cleaning. I waited for the remaining bottles, but they didn’t seem forthcoming.
I tried again. “Cinco” I pointed to the water bottle in my hand.
“Si, Cinco” The lady frowned, pointing to the clock.
“No, no,” I said. “I know what time the pharmacy opens. I want Cinco bottles.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“Cinco, Cinco water.” I said. I shook my head in exasperation.
“Ok, Cuatro,” I said. “Cuatro water, please.” I would settle for four bottles.
She smiled, finally deciphering my code. She plunked down four bottle of water on the counter, and mumbled to herself.
“Gracias.” I exhaled heavily, and paid for them. I opened one bottle and took a few sips. The television set in the bar was turned off. There was nothing much to do. I examined the foot again. It was swollen, but stabilizing. I sat silently and waited.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” A voice called. I spun around to see Suresh standing behind me.
“You were supposed to go the pharmacy to get medicines,” Suresh grinned. “Not go to a bar to drink.”
“Can you stop thinking of alcohol for once in your life?” I rolled my eyes.
“Vodka, please.” Suresh, ignored me and addressed the bartender. She promptly fixed him a drink.
‘That, she understands.’ I muttered.
“What?” Suresh asked.
“Nothing.” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you, man. You were gone for so long.”
“The pharmacy is closed.”
“Yeah man, just have a bit of Vodka, and you’ll be fine.” Suresh offered me his drink.
“Vodka is not the answer to everything.”
“That’s what you think.” Suresh shot back. “It always works for me.”
“So, how did the rest the match go?” I asked.
“It was awesome, man.” Suresh replied. “After you left, we attacked with a vengeance. Especially, Prakash. He was like, on fire.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I was marking that goatee guy. I didn’t let him do anything, man.”
“So, who won? What was the final score?”
“We won,” Suresh beamed. “4-3”
“That’s great.” I clapped him on the back.
We sat there for a while longer, while Suresh finished his drink, and I waited for the clock to strike five. We stepped out of the bar at five, and I was delighted to find that the shutter had come up and the pharmacy was open.
“Habla English?” I asked immediately, going into the pharmacy.
“Yes,” The lady wearing a white lab coat smiled. “What can I help you with?”
Relieved to be able to communicate with ease, I showed her my foot, and bought bandages, ant-septic creams, cotton wool, scissors, and some other stuff. I paid for the supplies, and thanked her. We turned to leave.
“How did that happen by the way?” The lady pharmacist asked me.
“Well, I…we…umm…” I stuttered.
“We were playing football, and this dumbass kicked a rock instead of the ball.” Suresh said helpfully.
The pharmacist laughed. “Are you serious? Is that what happened?”
I shrugged, and made no comment.
“You actually kicked a rock? What were you thinking?” She asked.
“I wasn’t thinking, I guess.” I managed a smile.
“You are crazy, man.” Suresh said, as we exited. “Kicking a rock. You realize that we are going to make fun of you forever, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get used to it.” I replied.
Being a self-deprecating humorist, I have told this story to countless people since our Euro trip. Now, I’ve told the story to you.
I imagine after reading this, you will want to ask me ‘What were you thinking?’
And I still haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
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