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.