You said I have stopped being interesting. That I have stopped to inspire. That time with me was predictable and dreary. It hit me hard at that time like a sudden slap. But once the haze of the initial shock cleared I realized you are right. So I decided to do something about it. First, to surround myself with people who were happy and would be happy to see me. Known company works best.

Friday I met up with D and R at Mojos. D was his quiet self till his pals the other D and his brother turned up. R was his usual funny self and we got talking about Goa, food, fish (yeah!), books, music et al till the conversation got stuck predictably (thanks to D’s pals) on women, at which point his interest dropped sharply and he became the quiet one. Anyway R was gracious enough to drop me home without any cribs.

Saturday, Al invited a few of us to celebrate her recent engagement. She was beaming and gorgeous and finally at peace with her boisterous curls. We all met up in a café and then headed for TGIF. I was happy to meet M after such a long time. She is the calm one in the group and we bitched about work and the lack of it. But AP was the absolute riot. He is one person I would always respect despite him being a decade junior. A chilled out guy with wisdom beyond his years. His enthusiasm is infectious. A tough life hasn’t robbed his zest for life. I met him after many months and it felt like we have been talking everyday. He makes me laugh even on my shittiest day. He fills in for the brother I have lost.

The Sunday brunch with S had to be postponed since S is down with viral. So I had time to watch Music and Lyrics on HBO. I have always been a lyrics person. I laughed when ‘Sophie’ said melody is like sex, the instant attraction, but it is the lyrics that make the story of a song. Yes. Which is why I am never completely convinced till I understand the words of a song. In the evening, I watched Bhoothnath with Ro whose company made the movie enjoyable.

round the mulberry bush...

It has been a while now that I haven’t felt motivated to write. Truth be told I haven’t felt like doing anything at all. Days became numbers on the MS Outlook calendar and the activities stretched to fill the day. I haven’t read anything in the last 2 weeks except for the special edition China NG. I haven’t watched anything except Singh is Kinng in 3 installments. I have been speaking less at work And even lesser at home. My brother used to say ‘this is where she travels INSIDE her head!’ Yes, I have been speeding and spiraling inside for no good reason. Not that all reasons are necessarily good. However, I am back.

I had planned to share some moments with someone faraway over the weekend. Then it didn’t work out, But other things did. Like the standing-ovation show the kids put up for us on Ganesh Chaturthi. Like the forthcoming weekend plan with A celebrating her recent engagement. Then the Sunday brunch with S since her HK travel got postponed.

Life is a basket of goodies. We just have to know where to look for them.

A song in my heart...
anondo loke, mongola loke birajo sotto sundåro. mohima tåbo udbhasito måha gågon majhe bisso jågåto moni bhushån besTito Chåråne.

I woke up with one of my favourite songs buzzing in my head. I was singing while packing Ro’s lunch, humming through my bath and during my drive to work. And suddenly I feel happy. Not exhilaratingly happy but peaceful. A friend of mine often says, happiness and sadness are transient. What is most important is your peace of mind. True true true. I feel happy that I am alive. Happy that I still have so much to look forward to. And, finally, make something out of my ambition. My problems wouldn’t evaporate for sure. My finances need working on. My health needs to be taken care of. My career needs focus and drive. But today I shall park all of it and celebrate for a while. First, I have to train a bunch of kids for a dance recital next week. It would be a whole lot of fun arranging costume, making the props and mostly just letting them enjoy the rhythm. I have chosen a bangla folk song that celebrates the freedom from oppression. The only reason we live is to be happy. Yes, life is beautiful, for now.

and a smile in my soul!

“Don’t you ever shave, Mommy?" said the boy who-just-turned-eight. It startled his mother before she gave in to a bout of mirth. “Women don’t shave silly!” she said light-heartedly. “But look!” he said touching her eyebrows. And yes. Sure enough, her beauty salon appointment was long over due. But she never thought anyone was watching. From any other man, this would have been his death wish. But she has grown aware of her son’s discerning eye as he nonchalantly told her when she looked good and when she didn’t. And he did it with an ease that only children possess.

All her life, she has rarely given appearance any importance. At school she was a hockey-playing pimply tom boy with a hell with the world attitude. At college she changed into a dowdy bespectacled young woman who knew a Moog better than a mascara. First year at university went by listening to head-banging music, smoking pot and sniggering at women who spent money on lipsticks. At the university, she kept a measured distance from her glamorous hostel neighbour GG, the 5’7” slim, husky babe who was also blessed with a terrific brain (she is a top scholar and currently teaches at Harvard). At times she amazed at her ability to ‘live’ in a face pack while discussing the next assignment. GG used to practice strutting in her five inch stiletto up and down the first floor hostel corridor while the rest of the girls watched with admiration mixed with envy. The same GG, one day came into her room and asked her to loan her the black tartan top that she thought matched her black Ravi Bajaj miniskirt. GG’s admirers recoiled with horror. According to them it was a fashion faux pas. But GG went for the photo shoot with the borrowed tartan and apparently was admired and noticed by many happening Delhi couturier of that time. From then on GG would often come over to her room with armful of glam garb and ask for her opinion. “You have a sense of style” she used to say. “Why don’t you try some of it?” she had offered. But she refused politely, cocky in her feminism fired snobbery. The first dent came from an affair of hearts. “Behind all this cultivated retro snobbery you are actually quite pretty” K had quipped, risking a tirade. What ensued was a long sermon on MCP stereotyping and commoditization of women. But somewhere his comment had warmed her and slowly she changed. May be it was love. Maybe it was the fact that he noticed her beyond her wisecracks. First to go were her glasses. While she never transformed into the proverbial swan she caught unknown men staring at her and her male friends suddenly seeking her company and not just for a good conversation. But that was a long time ago. Today, her boy’s remark surprised her. Yes, life has come a full circle. She chuckled at her thought as she made a mental note to drop by the salon after work.

As her hope plummets from the crest, she slides slowly but surely into a self-loathing despair. Once again.
She remembers the excitement and the amazement in the child’s voice, when they had gone to see his unfinished home, in which she had hoped to built her new life. She passed by the concrete structure today. Something sharp hit her gut compelling her to look at the still unfinished high-rise,  whose insides she will never see again.
”Are you crazy? Who would ever love you?” S had said with a cocky confidence in his ability to pull the strings of her life long after they had separated. The divorce left her financially crippled and emotionally stunted. She forgot how to respond to normalcy and became a parodied version of herself, clothing her desperation in excessive exuberance and her hurt in smooth stoicism. It was then that he offered himself. He gave her love and hope and dreams and she grabbed them like a starving child. She had never known happiness the way she had known with him. She gave herself to him, and the future, in their spirited stubbornness of making a life together.
But somewhere in that journey, in her dogged focus on clearing the brambles that clouded her path, she lost her love. She lost that one thing that held her whole. Today, in his cursory calls, in her rising despair, in her injured spirit, in the nothingness of the future, she tries to find a reason to live.

Do you remember the first time we spoke? A hesitant hello. Some static. Then rush of words. My hands shook a little but I hid it with exaggerated swagger in my voice. You were nervous too I am certain. For you faltered over my name once. I blushed till my ears felt hot. Somewhere we fell into native tongue. 30 minutes non stop. Then you said maybe I should get on with my day. It was a Saturday. Same day two years ago.

My house burnt down.

Now I can better see

The rising moon.

- a haiku by Basho -

Seed

Life

Hope

Love

what I am reading right now...

I have just started reading Adechie's book having read Purple Hibiscus before. Hauntingly raw. No, I haven't got to the gore yet. So far it is a tapestry of bare human emotions.

You alone will kill the lunatic in your head that led you to reckless desire.
You alone will pick the pieces and put them back together with glue.
You alone will tell the truth to your parents.
You alone will ask the boss to reconsider the plan to replace you.
You alone will tell yourself not to cry even when no one is watching.
You alone will build that wall. Yes, alone.
You alone will be the key to your survival.
You alone will love yourself once again.

@airport

I just did something that I have never never done in my life. The very thought mortifies me to the core. The questions – how COULD I? - is running repeatedly in my head. Though I have managed the immediate fallout, the fact that I have committed it doesn’t change one bit.

Well, I missed my flight. Big deal, you might say. Now, I missed it while loitering inside the terminal after security check. This must be one in a million case. I got up at 5 to get packed and ready much before time. Even reached the airport early. Till security check it was peeerfect. Then without looking at the watch (yes, I have started wearing one precisely for that reason!) I strolled into the book section of the 1st floor departure terminal. Picking up books at random I read atleast 10 back covers. Finally I decided to buy Chariots of God? By Eric Von Daniken completely unaware that my flight has left with my 04A seat vacant. Slowly I amble to Gate 10 and sit down only to realize that the entire bay is empty. Still I didn’t think of looking at my watch. The airline lady at the gate smiles and says “Ms. Bose ? Your flight has left 10 mins back. We called your name repeatedly”. Crash Boom Bang! I have a 20 member team waiting for me at Hyderabad with whom I have a training session! When is the next flight? 1.30pm. What?? 4 hours! "M’am we will check if there is availability for that flight." Airline lady smiles vaguely. I feel she has overdone her face. Too much red!! (panic makes me notice the most irrelevant detail) Anyway, after a bit of running up and down the stairs and easing cash out of wallet I get my fresh ticket and go through security check once again with the lady officer looking puzzled. "Madam you passed the Security sometime back. Didn’t you?" Now it’s my turn to look sheepish. Yes, I missed my flight. She shuts up and smiles. Thank God for small mercies. So here I have parked myself at the cookie shop. 2 more hours to go.

Just now, while I was writing this, I met my ex-boss and his closest crony. They are headed for Pune. Good luck I said. He asked for my business card and said he would be in touch regarding a business proposition. When you become an ex-employee the power equation shifts dramatically. And well what can I say..I am lovin’ it! Now, 1 ½ hour to go…

of reading and reminiscence..

I read the last page and closed Ghosh's ‘Dancing in Cambodia’ and let out a sigh. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath for so long. I found the collection of travel essays as intriguing as they are moving. ‘At Large in Burma’ filled me with nostalgia since like Ghosh I too have heard stories from extended family having old and deep rooted ties with Burma. But unlike him never have bothered to commit them on paper to create a concrete memory. Curiously, reading about Pol Pot made me wonder how distorted psyches like his develop within the framework of civil human society, the effect of libertarian education on ‘radicalization’ and why we repeatedly let genocidal idealists get their way. But one thing, demented as they are, something has to be made out of their unwavering dedication to their ‘belief’. Most of us are too pliable to give in to the rigidity of a belief. If you smell admiration, it isn’t so. Just wonderment at human nature and a reminder that we are all anything but mortal.

I am not sure what hurts more. The notion of losing you or the dread that I might have already lost you. I have always thought letting go wasn’t that difficult. After all, I have had to let go once too often and have always survived. I believed my self to be the ace in handling deception, desertion and defeat. I could swim through it all with my armour of indifference and artifice. Then you happened. With you I learnt to not take myself for granted. I learnt to live a little. I learnt to give myself to a moment without holding back. I learnt to dream again. The dreams that were once laid to rest and the new ones, we dreamt together. Today, I will hurt without healing. Break and wouldn’t mend. Let go without moving on. And I know I will wait. Even if it takes forever. Cause our destinies are together. And one doesn’t fight fate.

you

Watching the rain in the morning, I sit on the unmade bed and think about you. You always said rain in Mumbai looks pretty. So I watch. The silver streaks on the glass wall of my room making patterns of abstract fantasy. The horizon stretching grey sheet that hijacked the blue sky. Weekday morning rush of multi coloured umbrellas on the road far below.

But all I think about is you.

I missed you on the empty seat next to me on the plane. I missed your blissful sleepy face on the pillow next to mine in bed. I missed you cuddling up with me under the sheets while still half asleep. I missed your open-capped shampoo bottle in the shower cubicle. I missed nuzzling my face in your towel that always smells of you. I missed having my clothes next to yours in the wardrobe. I missed our slippers getting all mixed up under the bed. I missed sharing a cigarette with you after making love. I missed the roughness of your stubble and the softness of your kiss. I missed you lying naked next to me and talking about your favourite author. I missed our long calls on silly childhood whims and ghost stories. I missed sharing your ipod ear piece and listening to our favourite songs together. I missed you teasing me till I burst in frustration, that seems to always amuse you. But most of all I miss your smiling eyes that say, I love you.

I am reading Murakami’s ‘Kafka on the Shore’. I am reading it despite the popular reviews agreeing that this is not Murakami’s best. In fact some go on to say it is disappointing (while searching for the image in Google today, I read a few reviews). But as with the rest of the books that I read, I never read a review/research a book before reading it. Usually I am led by instinct. Obviously not a very rational way of going about buying books. But then I am not very rational even otherwise. For most of my life I have been led by instinct. I am still reading the book and I am not disappointed. Probably because I started it with zero expectations. But any way the running theme of the book is Fate and how we are led by it and there is nothing called free will with dark shades of a Greek tragedy loom large. The book begins interestingly enough. A mysterious WWII incident, talking cats who adore Puccini, a curse that ties the fate of all the characters, an alter ego dressed as a whiskey brand, a ‘spirited’ pimp who is the KFC guy, a painting that inspired a song track and of course women who are all nubile and pretty. Yes, it is dragging a little towards the middle albeit ‘metaphorically’. But there is a kooky sense of unrealism that draws me to it which makes me wish I could read the original Japanese. (Cheesy translations like ‘Jeez Louise!’ is as un-Japanese as it can get’).

How can you not love a man who is willing to bear your heavy cross without even a question?

How can you not love a man who finds you beautiful when you know you are at your worst?

How can you not love a man who has made your happiness his mission?

How can you not love a man who inconspicuously slips in a wad of money in your hand when you are out shopping with his family, at once indulgent and protecting your pride?

How can you not love a man who reaches out and holds your hand gently every time you cross a road together knowing you are capable of crossing it alone anyhow?

Finally, how can you not love a man who finds your noisy snoring cute? Yeah he said so.

no answers

Is it wrong to choose your life over others? Even if the others are whom you owe your life to? Does it make you a pathetic self seeking pervert? Is it wrong therefore to take control of your own destiny without being at the mercy of time and circumstance? Is it so hateful an act to seek what is forbidden to you? Is it wicked to take a chance at happiness? Is it treachery to try to change the course of your life through grit and hope instead of fate? Is it audacious to demand more that what is destined? Who sets the boundaries and who makes the rules?

What she must do:
Focus on her work. God knows she needs the money.
Pay more attention to her responsibility.
Get her finances in order.
Have a plan to cope.
Build that wall.
What she wanted to do:
Retire.
Build a home.
Love unconditionally.
Belong.
Learn how to paint.
What she does:
Gets misty eyed during an office meeting.
Prays for strength.
Blames herself.
Promises to never tempt fate again.
Tells herself to keep faith.

All she ever wanted was that little place in someone's heart where she belonged.

She was drowning. The swirl of sparkling green salty sea water was all around her. And the silence. Deafening and final. A moment ago, her father was holding her and nudging her to jump with the oncoming wave. She was with her family, visiting Puri for their summer holiday. A moment later she was underwater. Her father wasn’t holding her anymore. At seven, one doesn’t really get scared of dying. But she felt lonely, for the first time. Suddenly all alone. The water around her was filled with froth and bubbles whispering eka eka eka.

The protagonist from her favourite author says, ‘You don’t know which way to turn to climb out of loneliness. So you turn which ever way you can.’

of breaking

As the glass shattered with a soothing clink into innumerable twinkling pieces on the cool granite, she wondered what heartbreak sounds like. Is it like the unimpressive thud of a heavy stone sinking in the opaque green of a eutrophic pond, silent and easily forgotten? Or does it shatter like an expensive crystal chandelier crashing majestically, regal even till the end? Or does it rip silently like a scalpel slicing fresh cadaver on a post mortem table, neat and almost bloodless? Or does it sizzle like butter on a heated frying pan, at once pleasant and enticing? Or does it break like the frightening crack of bones while burning at the cremation pyre, loud and defying? She has never been able to decipher the sounds of frozen hope, broken dream and an aching heart. The euphoria of last week seems to evaporate like finely ground camphor till all that is left is the nothingness of reality.