1. The local homeopathy college has their annual festival - Palpitations 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.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Good Samaritan Day
Its just another day on the Mumbai local. I have had a lovely evening with M, but still it has not done much for my overall mood which has been quite abc. Abc because, I don’t know quite know
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.
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
Happy Valentine ’s Day to myself
Ok. I am sick of it. There are the consumerists, proponents of commercial everything who have popularized the gift-buying, chocolate-having day to the extent that they have given birth to the activists, the anti-valentine day crowd who think the day is for losers and that you have to be seriously demented or mushy to believe and celebrate something half as ridiculous.
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 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.
Hugging
I love hugging. I am one of those who know only one way to express affection: touch.
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?
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?
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