Tuesday, December 22, 2009
- A backpack/ handbag
- Shoes/sandals (never enough)
- Earrings (anytime, anyhow, any number)
- Money (I am going on a long trip. You could sponsor a lunch or so)
- Winter Clothes (that includes a whole lot of options, so use your imagination)
- Jewelry (this is a separate point from the earrings, because earrings deserve a separate point)
- Books – Anything else by Malcolm Gladwell other than Blink and by Tim Harford other than The Undercover Economist and others if you feel generous.
PS: All gifts make me happy – some more than the others, but ALL GIFTS MAKE ME HAPPY.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
I have not been keeping well, so I take a rickshaw to work everyday. Yesterday, the driver charged me Rs. 10 less because he kept me waiting at the Petrol pump while he was getting gas. Today, the rickshawwala charged me Rs. 7 less because I didn't have the change.
The generosity surprised me to no end. So did the smiles that followed.
This week has been really nice, I guess.
Friday, November 20, 2009
I see an aged couple stepping out of the rickshaw below my building. I recognize them as the lovely people who fed me tea when I had gone to their place to get a survey filled. They have several shopping bags with them and they are clearly finding it difficult to carry all of them together.
I am slightly dressy as I am heading out for a party. It troubles me that for that moment when I saw them step out of the rickshaw, all I wanted was, to get that rickshaw, take me to Bandra which is where I was headed. For a mini fraction there, I remember me telling me that I should be helping these sweet old people with their numerous bags. But I didn’t. I just smiled, got into the rickshaw and drove away.
On another day last week, I was boarding the train from Kandivali and a heavy plastic bag hit the back of my arm. I turn to see a woman holding a boy of about four years old in one hand and the bag is another. I DO NOT consider her history or her context which I should have. Instead, as I enter the train, I INTENTIONALLY push her.
I don’t know why I am being so cruel. These incidents are etched in my brain because I DON’T do stuff like this. I DON’T.
But I did.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
We play chor chor
Like our house is a fort.
We run around in two teams gleefully
My Ma and I
But at every turn
I find myself
Lodged in the bedroom with Papa.
The door closes
And he zips open his pants
Ramming me under him.
My blue frock is torn
Knickers hanging down my straddled leg
As I scream for my Ma.
She is outside listening
I know my Ma
She cheated again.
I can hardly write
I am overcome
I am floating away in some colourful spectrum
Of no thoughts and no masks.
There is a smile lingering and am continuously finding it
And continuously losing it.
I am playful
On a swing.
Running through sprinklers
Lying on my bed listening to the sea.
You make me so happy.
I am laughing for no reason and all reason
As if on an inside joke.
I am touching a little more
Feeling a little more.
I am more here than somewhere else
Feeling my hair and nails grow.
You make me so happy,
When you are happy.
That is all it takes my friend
Share a smile with me, sometime
The hair like frills on a dressy frock
She powdered her face
As to even the wrinkles
She began to redden her lips
But gave away halfway
Rubbing off the scarlet off her pale face
There was no need to bother
Time was on her side now -
The cherished anniversaries and the running children
The secret kisses and the sunshine
The snow and the smoky cinema halls
The huge family and the loud music
The tattered photographs and the attentive husband.
Her face was a map
Every gnarled fold
Was a brief lifetime
She looked at herself
And could not help but notice
A crimson blush on her smiling face
I was 9 steps away from the TV.
We were watching a show about sharks
The one we were not supposed to.
Abby was slow and purring
The way she gets when I give her all my food.
Suddenly there is knocking
There is not supposed to be knocking.
I want my mummy
Or is it she outside?
I raise myself off the couch
Walk 34 steps towards the door.
At the 14th step I stop
The knocks are getting louder
Like a hammer ramming into my brain
Abby and I know then it’s not mummy.
Foreboding shadows loitering outside the door
Abby rubs herself at my legs, slow and purring
The way she gets when she knows I am afraid
But she struts ahead brave and sure.
I follow her trail
I am 11 steps away from the door
When Abby raises her head
Scratches at the door and roars like a lion.
Its 2:27 pm I clearly remember
When Abby puts me to bed
She licks her paws
And places herself next to my wild beating heart.
in my first black short dress.
Walking three inches higher than myself
I have left my spectacles at home.
I smile broadly at alien faces
until I notice you and her.
I tremble and heave
as you look at me.
You let go of her arm
and walk towards me.
I almost smile
Before you say
“Don’t try so hard,
You are just not as beautiful.”
“Brown or white?” Sujoy wondered. He made a quick call to Anjali. “White bread,” she said nonchalantly as if she were expecting the call.
Sujoy smiled. He was lucky to have a wife who could read his mind. His smile broadened as he decided to get her roses for the first time since their wedding.
In their small apartment, Anjali was tutoring their 18-year-old neighbor Jason who had failed his physics exam again. However, her mind was elsewhere, ripe for another deep-set depression. Her predictable marriage was suffocating her. Her world was dizzy as she moved in to kiss Jason.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
It is a scary feeling. There is a deep hollow in my brain because of memory reprocessing. All my memories were stored believing, confirming, and affirming that I was a shy individual. However, I have come to realize that I am just plain cowardly. What I viewed as being shy, turns out is that part of me refusing to be called cowardly and hence is refashioning itself into an appropriate, innocent and feminine quality, which I have never had and possibly never will.
Such is life, a bundle of bittersweet reality checks.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The jeans crowded the colleges. Books were dropped, butt cleavages exposed. Laces were tied, anal hair exhibited. Elders would roll their eyes and an occasional aunty would mock, “Kids nowadays!”
If that was not enough remorse for the elders, the underwear never caught up with the trend. Or they probably did. Suddenly names of American men were boldly visible on huge waistbands above the dangerously low jeans.
On the other hand, the panties were a little more conscious of the fashion development, and coordinated with the dangerously low producing tiny insignificant underwear which my mom had trouble folding.
The t-shirts got stuffier and tinier. For the kurta-jeans crowd, the side slits got larger and longer. And actually that’s where my story begins.
I am on the yatra sitting with a couple of girls. All of us belong to different age groups and different parts of the world. G is from a Kenya and has a healthy curiosity about anything remotely Indian. A is educating her on Indian marriages. There is great camaraderie and every five minutes someone breaks into giggles.
A is from Coimbatore. She is dressed in a casual kurti up to her hips and jeans (high waist one). She says, “I could never wear this at home.”
G is shocked. She looks at me. I am dressed in a knee length kurta and raggedy jeans (mid rise one). I say, “I always dress like this.”
I am reaching out to the top berth to get some water. Looking at me, A explains, “See, the difference is, I can wear what she is wearing but for that little piece of flesh.”
She is referring to small triangle of skin that shows between my kurta and my jeans at the sides.
The politics of clothing has always amused me. How deep is a deep neck? How short is a short skirt? How short can a sleeve really go without being slutty? How mini is a mini?
Now I am at Govandi station arming myself to get into the train. I notice the woman next to me stare at me two seconds too more. I look at her and smile.
She comes close and says, “tumhaara kurta phat gaya hai.”
I am surprised and worried and as I pull it back and front to see where exactly, she looks at me and points to that little piece of flesh.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
2. Bhaidas hall is hosting the India-Russia Friendship Contest.
3. A neo-nazi skinhead with his bulky bike of red swastikas was traveling down the highway.
how I feel.
I am been down on company lately. Do not want to meet anyone. Anyone means anyone. Given a choice I would lock myself in a room and cry myself to bits thinking about how lonely I am. Self inflicted, yes.
It so happens that this evening at 10:30 pm, as I am trying to get back home from Grant Road station, I have a lot of company. But, just the kind of company I need – strangers.I am sitting in the train, relaxing, for the lack of anything better to do. I make two random phone calls, which I ‘should’ and even secretly wanted to. I was hoping that they would liberate me of my abcness.
M calls and we talk irrespective of the fact that we spent the last 5 hours together. The wind is nice and soft and I raise my legs on to the seat.
Suddenly a man enters. Rapping a huge stick on the edge of the seat, he says - Bandra. I jump fearfully only to realize that the train is now empty and he is animatedly asking me to get off. I mutter a thank you and urgently leave. Turns out this train is not taking me home and the last thing I want is to sit in a dark train at the khar train yard feeling abc.
I hang up on M and get into the next train to Borivali. I get pushed into the train just the way I like it, floating, with no effort, but for a woman ahead of me who refuses to move forward and is holding fort as if we are in a war. I try to reason with her but she refuses to budge and I am amazed at her fierce spirit.
She wishes to get down at Andheri and is following the strict instructions her sister gave her – get in and do not move until Andheri. She persists with a monologue of how she hates trains and crowds and though the buses take longer, at least one does not get pushed around without any respect whatsoever.
Somehow, indigenously as always, everyone gets comfortable even the old koli woman who had been rattling off in her Marathi at the young girl who shrieked at her for her fishy smell and the huge crate she had hosted at the entrance. The koli woman was still muttering and I caught much disdain in her voice for the youth who considered fashion more important than human beings.
I was in a pathetic enough a mood to actually enjoy what was happening around me. Lodged between the crate and the exit, I was looking around humoured and amused. On my right, a woman in bright blue hanging by the door was about to vomit. It was the fish smell. The old koli went on about how a true mumbaikar should eat, sleep, breathe fish and though historically, she is correct being the first inhabitant of this island city, but much has changed since she the 1800s. The vomit woman was told to take deep breaths to avoid puking. She was stationed at the door in such a way that if she did, she would puke outside but at the same point of time, the wind would not carry the puke to the window next to the door.
While this physics was at work, a younger koli woman (probably the old koli woman’s daughter) was asking the old koli to shut up about the benefits of eating fish, which was making a mighty lot uncomfortable.
Meanwhile I kept apologizing to a huge woman next to me. My elbow kept running into her full breasts. I kept saying sorry repeatedly but I doubt she had any clue what my sorry(s) were about. On my left, taking the door’s support was a girl dressed in a sober brown salwar kameez. She had deep-set features and spoke a strong Hindi with occasional awkward English. She was chatting away throughout with one hand holding onto the door and the other on the phone. She had all the top phalanges on her hand missing and it was unbelievable how she held on to the phone with such incredible ease.
Andheri finally arrived with me making hesitant conversation with the old koli women in my urban twanged Marathi. I continued to stare at the girl with the missing phalanges and her hand struck me so pretty. I wanted to tell her how beautiful her hands were but she was lost in the crowd as I helped the old koli women bring down her crate.
Strangely, I didn’t feel abc anymore.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
I do not even want to get started on the political aficionados who are so completely jobless and devoid of agenda to give excess attention and mainstream a mere saint’s death in a country which they would not be able to locate on the globe.
There are singletons who are renouncing their newly achieved or consistent singlehood. There are lovers who are fretting over what to purchase for their loved ones. There are the pink chaddis, epic sale of condoms and the fully booked restaurants. There is this electric competiveness of ‘what did you get’ and ‘where
are you going’ etc.
I do not have any of that, nor am I any of those people.
I am but an ordinary girl with small wishes. I live in my tiny little world. The world probably has no use of me. Tomorrow, I just want to be able to say, “I love you” to anyone without being judged, dismissed or distinguished.
If that is too much of expectation, I will just quietly wish a ‘happy valentine’s day’ to myself. Peace.
I hug a tremendous lot. Sometimes, I embarrass people but that is not the intention at all. It just so happens that I love that person and do not how to say that.
I have these rewarding relationships with people built on hugging. There is a squeezie hug relationship, bear hug relationship, warm hug relationship, envelope hug relationship and the grab and hug relationship.
I always seem to have a theory about hugging. I know the mechanics of it all, and I can write a manual of dos and don’ts. There is a breast-breast hug, chest-chest hug, head-breast hug, breast-chest hug and now you do the permutations.
There is also the rest-on-shoulder hug, pat-the-back hug, 2 seconds hug, a lifetime hug, a coming-back-home hug, making up hug, making out hug, sideways hug, i-wanna-take-you-home hug, bless you hug, everything-will-be-okay hug and the destroy-my-ribs hug.
Some hug over the shoulders, some from under your arms, some alternate their hands, some hug you like a bobo doll, some hug you like a disease, some make you conscious,
some make you special, some free you, some bind you and some molest you.
So, coming back to what this note is really about -
This is one of those days, when I have not slept the night, I am groggy and irritated, and M is trying to cheer me up. She says, “blah blah blah, and this is from the Zee school of .. err.. ermm… HUGGING..”
..and I am ecstatic. Yay! I have my own school of hugging. What could be better! And it’s all glee and we hug, for a long time. Oh my god, I have my own school of hugging.
So, if you had to have your own school, what would that be about?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Doubted my gut
Questioned my sex.
Made myself believe
Every passing day
That this is how it goes.
It was never formulaic
Thus I continued to be
To be in love with you.
Now I am tired
A little wasted
I would like to know
How long and how much more
Call me and let me know.
The man was broken. He was sitting curled up at the edge of the road, with his one foot in the drain trying to avoid falling into it completely. His face is contorted with a deep grief that I hadn't felt before or even imagined.
I am waiting for my bus back home, stationary, beguiled by this man’s angst. With a mammoth effort, he moves slightly and I discover a huge gash on his entire foot, running from his knee to his ankle, bleeding profusely. I ask a bookseller nearby about him. I am told that that morning something ran into him and in desperation, he put his leg into the drain for some relief and has been there since.
I am in the train standing in the passageway taking support from the edge of the seat. There is a young boy of about seven in front of me holding onto a Rs. 5 packet of Cadbury bytes. Dressed in a clean shirt and pant, standing politely next to his mother, he is trying endlessly to open the packet until he simply cannot find the strength in himself to do so anymore.
Meanwhile, a slender, tall girl with hip hugging jeans and a Dell bag looks at the small boy. Without a word transacted, he hands her the packet and she with her well-manicured hands tries to open the packet with as much finesse as possible.
The girl continues to struggle. An aged tribal woman dips her hand into her plastic bag and hands the Dell girl her betel knife. The girl reluctantly takes it. The job is done, the boy is smiling, the girl is amused, I am humbled and Andheri arrives.
I am getting out of the rickshaw near my building. As I am paying the rickshawwala, I notice an old raggedy man sitting on the pavement shivering. Between shivers, he is skimming off the upper layer of a food mixture in a transparent plastic bag. He is carefully removing the fungus, so he can eat his fill today.
However, I cannot deny the fact entirely as well. My childhood was never embellished with opportunities like, “If you stop shouting, I will buy you that toy.” Dad thought it set base for a bad habit. I would grow up into becoming one of those people who made stupid, unnecessary instant buys just because they felt like it. I won a quiz in class today – let me buy myself a dress. Or I failed an exam – let me buy myself a pizza. Or something like that. You get the idea.
So, when I would come back home with, “Dad, I stood third in class.” Everyone would congratulate me, my parents would hug and smile approvingly and the matter ended there.
Sometimes, when I come home and mom would be angry that the maid had not come and she would be exhausted by the sudden overflow of housework, she would scream at me for not picking up my clothes, or not making my bed and I would be thinking – “What’s new in that?! When did I ever do it anyway?” –she would calm down later, and say a soft embarrassed sorry and that was it. While my other friends got gifts when their parents messed up, I would get a sentiment.
Friends received cameras and bikes. One friend even got a puppy. In my case, the sentiment never really turned into anything tangible.
In such a levelheaded childhood, one never really celebrated birthdays or anniversaries. If we did, the fête meant the entire family of 12 coming together and having a ceremonial dinner.
Nonetheless, I grew up to have celebrated each of my birthdays. They were more like small get-togethers, but I enjoyed them. I still eat maggi, pizza and brownies when I get
completely hopeless (otherwise, I would never eat this unhealthy stuff :)).
On the other hand, I have never heard, let alone, imagine my dad ‘celebrating’ his birthday. He never casually met with his friends or went out drinking or for a get-away two-day trip. I have always known him to be a self-sufficient man and he is not deprived of happiness, but to my understanding, birthdays are a great excuse to celebrate. To his mind, when you celebrate everyday, who cares about birthdays. He does meet up with his friends, he does not drink but he does go out to have kababs, he does do his two-day breaks although not as often as I would like and he certainly has a fantastic time doing it. When he laughs, there is an inherent echo in his hyena laughter. Even when on the phone, I know the man is having a bloody good time. He is a man of small happiness, my dad.
He turned 48 yesterday. Most people know that I am the official and the chairperson of his ‘fan club’ and because they love me, they love him as well (I know, it is not a syllogism but I would like to believe that).
Most of my friends called him; some texted him, the others mailed him to wish him a happy birthday. It all began with S, who emailed me one day giving me this incredible opportunity of wishing her mother a very very happy happy birthday. Moreover, I remember how good I felt just thinking about doing it and I did it. I mailed aunty and I was smiling throughout engulfed in a wave of a warm fuzzy feeling inside my heart.
I do not know if you felt the same. I thank you for humoring me and making my dad feel confused and crazy special. It makes me believe sentiment is not all that bad after all.
I was brought up in a school, which allowed the use of only pencils up to fourth standard. By fifth standard, our much-awaited dream was fulfilled when we held our first pens. A brown ink pen. Practically organic like my blood flowed from my fingers into the pen and dripped through the nib into a blue- lined notebook. However, that affair did not last too long. We soon dumped our first ink pens for fancy, newer, snazzy looking gel pens.
However, here I was and HERO was back into my life. I spent much of that lecture smiling. He kept me from the professor’s rendition of social markets and I kept him away from M. I had decided I needed to get back with him.
On my way home, I dropped into the local stationary shop and purchased my lost love. The shopkeeper reluctantly gave me the huge bottle of black ink that I had ordered to go along with the pen, as if knowing that I would never use the pen anyway and I was just
satisfying my upper-class whim.
Back on my study table, I tried to unscrew the inkbottle whose metal cap refused to budge. Finally, late in the evening, S came home. I introduced him to my new friend and turns out, we had another friend in common. With his huge hands and wieldy fingers, S opened the bottle. Needing no encouragement, I hurriedly dipped the nib right into the inkpot and the ink overflowed blackening S’s hands. S held the pen up and rubbed it into his hair.
Another old memory instigated. I wanted HERO for myself, into my hair.
I spend that night with him. HERO, not S.
I was sitting in my pajamas lolling on the bed with him. We started with shy nods but slowly progressed into a slow waltz gliding over the white ice of my notebook. We lazed around in bed until four in the morning and the last thing I remember is murmuring, “Thank you for such a good time.”
Nothing like an old friend to make you happy.
“Ek coupon booklet milega?” I say preoccupied.
“Kyun nahi milega,” he says comfortingly with a casualness one does not see often in railway announcers.
I am humored and charmed and I say, “Kitna?”
He smiles, “Chaalees ka hai.”
I struggle with my pockets and hand him the four notes of ten one after the other. I think I am done and am about to get back to my phone call when he looks at me intently and then questioningly as if measuring me on his mind scale.
He says, “Aap ladies log paisa aisa kyun rakhte ho?”
I am perplexed.
“Oh, bhaiyya woh pocket mein…” and I stop because there is really no good excuse.
We are both now looking at the four notes carefully. They are crumpled pieces of paper almost becoming half their size and Gandhi seems to have visibly gnarled skin. He is trying to iron them so that he can close the accounts.
“Aap ladies log se hi aisa note milta hai. Ek nikalne mein dus girta hoga,” he murmurs
“Sorry bhaiyya. Theek kehto ho aap.” I get back on the phone slightly taken back.
I am wondering whether it is true. I am used to exchanging such notes with everyone. Or
is it just my girlfriends?
Do the men keep their money better? Probably yes. They always seem to have a wallet where they tuck in their money systematically and those wide spread jeans where the wallet finds home. Seems rather convenient and easy.
Whereas, I have no jeans which can accommodate any wallet. I pride myself in buying jeans, which can accommodate my phone. Probably it is a jeans problem. Our jeans do not accommodate wallets. The wallet companies need to speak to the jeans companies.
It is also not that easy for us women. If we dress in a salwar kurta, a sari, or a skirt, I may excuse my kind for I suppose they would carry a purse and they could always keep their money safe and nice. However, if you wear jeans, you are tempted to store quick money in your pockets. The front ones mostly otherwise our asses would look bulky.
My father always said that a person who keeps money carefully respects the worth of money and that was the first thought that struck me when my charmer for the day pointed out those emaciated pieces of paper called money to me. So, I wonder, probably, it is not a jeans problem after all. It is a reflection of my lazy unorganized self. Yeah, that sounds like it. I need some reorganizing. I should tell my railway announcer that.
2. You do not know what you ‘actually’ want to do. Therefore, you decide to buy time by doing a PG.
3. You know what you want to do, but do not feel technically equipped or competent enough to do it without a PG.
4. You are sick, tired and completely bored with the world around you and need a significant change and the PG is a god send excuse to make an escapist trip.
5. You actually want to study the subject in question, meet likeminded people and your life would simply be incomplete if you did not.
Note: Other than a few Bengali friends who have gone ahead to do their PhDs, I know no one including myself, you did a PG for reason 5.
Say your name every time you smile,
And smile for me.
I have been uncomfortable with myself
And had demands, endless killing demands of me,
I would fail and I would pain.
You have held me in distress, in grief and in tears,
Till my kohl-lined eyes looked like blurry dark evenings.
I take the same kohl and make a speck below your earlobe to remind you that it will all be okay.
You are you and I admire that,
The ease you have in being yourself.
Be focused, stay calm but also
Celebrate for there is much to feel.
Your eyes are closed in prayer.
But they pass moments to open up-
To the sweet taste of being.
As for the sour grapes,
They were never for you.
Desire better to deserve better,
For you deserve much much more.
You are, if nothing, a laughing Buddha,
You are, if nothing, my superman,
You are, if nothing, you, and I am proud.
PS: You know who you are.
- Dancing whenever, wherever and however I please.
- My sister, when I come back home tired and often late in the evening
What are the five things that make you happy. Tell me.
We are at the most popular paanwala in Juhu which means the place has eons of history and paan juice probably runs in the blood of the three pot-bellied men with bleeding red mouths who sit there making paans endlessly.
A light green leaf cut at the stalk is stained with chuna-katta and then a little bit of salli supari is placed in the centre. The paanwala looks at S to ask whether there would be a need for any more additions. S, being the man, who was initiating me into the real paan world, suggests a little wet supari in it. S looks at me and says, “The first time I had it, my ears went hot.”
After folding it like the elegant art of origami, he hands it over. I bite into it and eat it rather enthusiastically. It’s like eating rocks and a leaf. I chew, chew like a cow and still the pieces do not dissolve the way normal food does. I am thinking now - how does one swallow this?!
S looks at me struggling and confused. Spit it out, he says.
No, no. no. I am okay.
I am still chewing as I say this. The rocks are now tiny pebbles and I am sure by now I have lost certain capacities of my mouth to function permanently.
Then, I spit. I grab the bottle of water from his hand, gargle and spit. So much for enthusiasm. So much for- ‘No, no. no. I am okay.’
I am back to eating my meetha paan with the Barbie doll dressing. I am trying to force all of it in my mouth making a complete mess of it with paan dripping at the edges of my mouth which S finds funny. We begin to walk and as we pass another paanwala, S asks, “You want to have a paan?”
I am beginning with the presupposition that I will not remember much. I know of a time when I used to hate any kind of documentation – photos, diaries – any kind of journalistic accounts. I loved the frivolous life I lived and I enjoyed the limited expanse of my memory. I believed that that would ensure that I would remember the best moments.
Well, I was wrong. Every time I embark on one of these finding-self journeys, I am supremely enthralled by the fact that a new place and new people allow individuals to be whoever they want. No one knows you, you can be contentious, you can be mean, you can be childlike, you can be senseless, and you can be downright pathetic. People could judge you but you would not care less. You are not to know them for life anyway. So, this time, I decided to be the best version of myself. Friends suggested that I blog on a daily basis so that I could at every point of time retain the value that this experience would give me. This could be a reference point of who I wanted to become.
Well, I did not follow their advice. Instead, I sit here almost at the end of my stint thinking to myself – "how do I feel about leaving?" and it is this thought that brings me to this commentary.
I am not one of those people who are engulfed by a certain passion and they owe it to themselves to realize it. I am also not exceptionally talented or skilled or smart to be doing that one single passionate thing. Having studied one full year of social entrepreneurship, I often wondered whether I was doing the wrong thing and whether I had it in me at all to be a social entrepreneur. Did I have that singular fervor to madly pursue social change? I figured I did not care enough about anything. I always considered myself to be one of those ordinary souls who can do a decent job at almost anything.
To be brutally honest, I have learnt that I care. I have learnt that it takes 10 women and a rural BPO to have experienced the most rewarding and satisfying chapter of my life.
I have learned listening is a handy skill. Some of the brightest ideas come in the most trying times when one listens to people around them.
I have learned to ask questions. It is the most exploratory method of understanding an issue.
Having studied in an extremely academic and theoretical environment for the last one year, somehow I had forgotten what praxis feels like. In that light, I have learned to make things happen.
I made some new friends in the process. I will miss them to bits. (I am not even the sentimental types)
And I will miss my women -
I will remember Saroj when I think about ambition.
I will remember Rajni when I think about empathy.
I will remember Sarita when I think about cheekiness.
I will remember Vidya when I think about unionization.
I will remember Neelam when I think about youth.
I will remember Sulochana when I think about generosity.
I will remember Anjana when I think about outspokenness.
I will remember Kiran when I think about candid wisdom.
I will remember Shobha when I think about lending a hand.
I will remember all these epitomes.
I will remember the broken relics of Mandawa. Shashank's mad antics on the journey back home on the top of a bus. Ashish's crazy cheering "Watson!Watson!" at the IPL. Pooja's flaky stories of Bihar, UPenn and elsewhere. Manisha's wit and comments spelling murder for Vijaysai. Vijaysai's litigious ardor to make an argument. Kamalji's tree climbing skills. Dharamveerji tryst with food experimentation. Rahul Reddy's fascinating handwriting and endearing Hindi. Saudi's bloody eyes. Neeraj's sleepy eyes. Srikant's sincerity and Rachit's enterprise. Rahul Kaul's (Kaulboy – Thank you Nishant) endearing self-motivated ways. Nishant's Aquarian (read childlike and curious) ways. Akshay Singh's utterly expressive stories. Vijaysai's PITA (Pain In The Ass). Shrot's unknowing (annoying) habits. Gagan's KAKA KAKA. Radhika's looney tunes. Shalin's "NO". Naman's weird music tastes. Radheshyamji's random jigs in the kitchen. Scooby's slow wagging of the tail. The ticks tenacity at sucking doggie blood. The lizard's carcass. The scorpion. The praying mantis. The sheer variety of bug bites – all sizes and colours. The occasional clean toilet. Pabudhaam. Vijaysai Hai Hai. Katherine's thank yous and sorries. Preeti's affectionate tears. The sandstorms and the rains that followed (the best night of this year). The poultry farm. The old maulvi at the dargah. The camel rides. The donkey dicks. The pinkie Bagar boys. Dole Sole and body fit and fine. Andy's vocals. Stephanie's black belt moves and keen sense of humour. Ashish's competitive and warm spirit. The real cool town of khetri. Gaurishankar's Jasmine. Cudlai Mistress. Shrot's next-door chatting. Manisha's Shrot impersonations. Animal sex. Srikant's ant mutilating skills. Andaz apna apna. Sleepwalking into people's rooms. Litchis. To be continued….
There was a time the work was so good, I would have loved to stay. There is a time the people are so good, I would have loved to stay.
So how does it feel to be leaving?
It feels like nostalgia already. Sweet biting nostalgia.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Bumped my head into his chin.
I met him and knew I wanted to live in his armpit.
He would smell like a spaceship and taste like mangoes.
The red dots of his hands were like an unfinished game,
Which I would connect,
Drawing a line from his arm to my nipple.
I met him and I made a fool of myself.
Fumbling about the pull at my navel,
The technicolor in my brain,
And the pleasing habitat of his armpit.
He walked away cursing,
Holding his chin as if I was a lamppost.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Tell me your stories and I will listen.
Your entire geography and my eyes will travel through it.
The maidens and the villains,
The significant other who gave up on you,
A colorful imagination and a brave mother.
What are your stories,
The makes and breaks of you.
The lines in your hands, where do they say you have been,
What have you seen,
Let me see with my hand.
Tracing your jungle, moving ferociously,
My passion is vulgar,
And my sex perverted.
This care is a sickness,
My love an addict.
Tell me your stories and I will listen,
And hopefully be free.
Friday, January 23, 2009
I think it all began at the age of 14, one stifling afternoon when one of the archaic sounding aunties had come home to meet my mother. I was sitting in my parent’s bedroom doing one of the only two things I thoroughly enjoyed doing: speaking animatedly on the phone or being deeply engrossed in a paperback.
My mom called me in the drawing room where I had to demonstrate how well she had brought me up by saying a polite hello followed by the short-lived salaam.
“What do you want to become after you grow up?” she asked well intentioned.
I replied with spunk, “I will invent my own profession.”
Then, my mother nervously laughed and her friend chimed in as well hesitatingly.
So yeah, that has been an overbearing issue.
I am one of those people who is decent at mostly everything possible including 12th standard physics which constitutes my biggest academic nightmare. I could almost do anything and suitably excel in it.
I could dance, I could act, I could write, I could draw, I could design, I could direct, I could photograph, I could delegate, I could publish, I could research, I could yawn and still survive.
However, I did not want to do any of that. I wanted a deep yearning passion, an innate longing to do what I totally liked doing. I had made my endeavor to find work, not only my life’s mission but life itself.
Then, there were those occasional stories about how the 4th floor woman made customized nail polish colors and was paid a 20,000 rupees creating a color for the copper mauve lehenga that Sussane Hrithik Roshan wore for her wedding.
I thought that woman was cool. She spent only 2 hours of her precious life apparently doing that. I could do that or something like that. Choose to go to yoga class, go travelling, live in an ashram, go scuba diving, and have fun all the time and work for two hours a day.
So after my media degree, when fellow mates chose to become client servicing guys, photographers, journalists and directors, I wondered why would these immensely talented friends of mine chose to do what many of the world are already doing and practically dedicating their lives for it.
I wanted to do something different. It began with different and then went to useful. I wanted to make myself useful. This rather became like my obsession, a crutch. I wanted to find purpose.
In an attempt to be purposeful, I forgot to do what I genuinely enjoyed doing. I forgot to do what I liked. I forgot to write, I forgot to play, and I forgot to lighten up. I was heavily perplexed by this never-ending pursuit of figuring out what to do.
Then, after many months of failing attempts, in a fair-trade snazzy café in Bandra, P said, “Do what you have fun doing.”
Such a simple thing broke down all my multifarious theories surrounding career choices and motivation and incentives and life. Stupid, as it may sound, now I am searching for what I enjoy doing. If you have any ideas, try me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I had just finished eighth std., which means I was 13 year old. There was much to rejoice for, it was summer time and it was “Summertime @ Prithvi.”
I had religiously spent each summer running around like a colored speck in the very colorful premises of the Prithvi theatre. It would be K and me mostly, being our precocious selves, sipping coffee after class to deliberate over the issues in our grownup world.
That summer we were doing an interesting workshop. I do not remember what it was, why it was and why I care enough even right now to proclaim it interesting but I remember one class particularly being “raising up the eyebrow” material.
As part of rudimentary theatre exercises, the ones you do before you actually ‘do’ theater, we had to pair up with a partner of the opposite sex and then stand facing them, close our eyes and touch them all over.
Yes, that is what it exactly was.
So, I was randomly braced with this guy, and we found our little private space under the peering of the million imaginary eyes which probably included my dead grandmother. In our relatively safe cocoon, we stood like statues, surprised at our own lack of moment, considering my heart was beating fast enough to shake the foundation of the building.
I think I asked him to start. I closed my eyes and waited. He started at my hair, both his hands moist and light travelling down my face, his fingers feeling like fleeting tears going down my cheek to my chin, resting at my neck, stopping and then moving again to my shoulders, pausing, pausing and halting completely. I hear him breathe. Inhale. Exhale. His hands moving down my arms, holding my palms and then just when I thought he had gained momentum, he stops again briefly, confused, nervous and scared, he reaches for my tummy and then my hips and quickly shifts to my thighs and calves and feet. It is done. For him.
The idea of the exercise was to be comfortable in one’s skin, to rid oneself of the self-consciousness, shyness and the occasional vanity. So that we could interact with each other, free of our baggage, our ego and our bodies.
Honestly, I do not remember where I touched him, how I laid my hands of him and whether I touched him at all. I just remember that I followed the instructions to the dot and embarrassed him. I hope he was not scarred for life.
I remember this episode often followed by how progressive and fun I thought it was. How brave and fearless I felt after it.
Strangely, I go through this episode every single day now. Only this time, instead of a lone boy, I have at least five women stuck against me at every angle from calf to ear, sweaty and smelly. Such is the morning Mumbai local if you have every traveled in it.
If nothing, that experimental afternoon in the faraway past sufficiently prepared me for several crowded, busy mornings to come.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
To begin with, I know two things about Archimedes: The golden crown anecdote and the fact that he was from Syracuse. I think it is good to know less because he would be no role model if I knew about his secret affair with his pet horse or something like that.
Anyway, right now I am all love for him. I love the idea of him. I want to be him.
When I was young, I believed, in fact I knew, that there would be a moment in my life which would be an epiphany, a breakthrough, a path breaking discovery of the all knowing accompanied by this immense clarity and meditative focus. My existence would be a singular static in the pasts and futures of the times and spaces. It would be meaningful and meaningless at the same time, that moment would bring forth a divine unifying energy, and I would be free, free like the way one farts when no one is in the room or the way one dances when no one is looking. The walls of convention broken and the self-limiting beliefs dissolved. ..
.. and I would run on the roads. I dreamt of that as a kid. The narrow road below my building with its golden light and empty souls. I would run naked and there would be phosphenes everywhere as if I have just woken up from deep slumber. I would run, run and shout, “Eureka. Eureka,” and everything would be okay. Pure, liberated and shining.
Archimedes, thank you.
Monday, January 19, 2009
As a kid, dad and I did a lot of walking. Through the cloth market of Dhobi Talao, century-old hardware shops of Null Bazaar, our old retail outlet at Mohammad Ali road, the perspiring crowds at the stationary hub of Abdul Rahman street and the bohri mohalla of Bhendi Bazaar. Dad and I walked through it all.
He walked swiftly and boldly. Like an English Lord. When he would cross the road, he would just cross the road. He would hold his hand up and the vehicles would stop like his crossing the street was destined and the raising of his hand had called upon the stars to create a karmic protective bubble around him. He always crossed safely.
Me on the other hand, I was slow and meek. I would prance like Bambi on the busy streets just to catch up to him. I still do.
It is unfortunate that I inherited none of my dad’s confidence and gallantry or his delusions of supremacy. Whatever it is. When I cross, I run. I do reach the other end of the road but I am awkward and flustered. It is always a battle.
Is it just me or crossing is tough?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
M is trying to emphasize that he does not need to return any change and we have paid as much as was the required amount.
He, on the other hand, very causally so, hands her a visiting card and drives away.
It’s a Max New York Life Insurance’s agent’s card.
Mumbai surprises me every day.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The rickshaw takes a sharp turn and leisurely arrives at where I am standing.
“8th floor,” I say.
“Madam, kidhar jaana hai?”
Moral of the story:When you think the rickshawwala is your liftman, you are stuck in an everyday rut. Get out.
I see several bikes zipping past me, one after another, but that does not deter my frantic waving. I am not going to spend the night in another unknown village.
After much of waiting and watching, a small carrier pulls into the teashop. The hopeful me shouts out to it and two young boys half my age pop out of the seats. After a brief spill of irrational kannada, they say, “Hindi?”
I say, “Yes yes, haan haan. Anegundi jaana hai.”
The taller one pauses briefly and states, “200”
“50”, I retort.
The one with the half tooth says, “Aap ka aadmi kahan hai?”
Eyebrows contorted I utter, “Kaun?”
Two blank incredulous faces stare back at me.
“Aap ka aadmi kahan hai?”
“Oh accha, aadmi nahi hai. Chalo abhi.”
While they look at each other, I plunk my backpack onto the vehicle. In a couple of minutes, we
are good to go.
K and I are walking past the Shivaji Park ground trying to catch another one of those meetha paans we love so much at the Sharda Panwala, when we see an old man mounted on skates.
He is learning to skate in one of those dim yellow parking lanes. A young chap holds him by the hand every time he begins to slip. Yet he tries, slow and steady.
Whoever that man is, I love him.