p.s.

A new day and a new year. Thank you for saying you love me. Yes, it does make my day. Everytime. And just like the first time it still leaves me breathless enough to go quiet (well you do have a habit of saying it when I am least expecting....so you see it is really your fault!). One of my neighbours are having a noisy bash next door. A moment back the indipop and item numbers blaring since evening were irritating. Now, I actually did a jig with the music. Life is good afterall. And just incase my words got lost in static...I love you.

today

I had this premonition that the year would end badly. Infact the year had started better than last year with the official end of a tag that had lost its meaning long back. But if today is any indication, I am glad the year will end in a few hours.

It begins with Ma not being well. She is the absolute pillar, I mean, the household just comes to a stand still without her being at the helm. Yes. We are a bunch of throughly spoilt housemates who depend on Ma for everything from the oats for breakfast to mosquito repellant at night. It is another matter that she loves her part and would get offended if we ever learnt to fend for ourselves.

So today, thanks to yours truly, the oats got overcooked and the bread under-toasted (yeah!) and all sat sullen quiet at the table. Then since both the cars decided to take a break (one was out of fuel, the other a flat tyre) I began the task of 'hailing an autorickshaw'. Yes. you got to stand at the side of the road wearing a sorry look so that the auto fella might take pity. But no, they don't fall for it. After begging for half hour one of them said yes. Halleluiah! But joy is shortlived. As it turns out he has a mysterious 'starting problem' half way through at a traffic signal. So began the task of 'hailing' one more autorickshaw. Pain doubled. Finally, an old man agrees.

Despite the trouble I reach office early. For once, much earlier than my boss. Someone should have warned me of the explosives waiting in my mailbox.

Day's not over yet....hmmm!

Everyone is asking what's the plan for the evening. Well. I wonder why we make such a jamboree on last day of a year? Tomorrow we are all back at work, groggy and bored. So why bother? Infact my father had planned to take us out for dinner but I thought the crowd will be noisy. He had given me a 'what's wrong with you' look and walked off. Old old old...that's me.

when we get lost somewhere...

there is always a stray piece of lonely cloud that grabs one's senses. At once everything else is momentarily irrelevant.

I watched ‘Dil Kabaddi’ yesterday after scooting from work early. It wasn’t planned (I hadn't even heard of it till I entered the theatre) but turned out ok. The benefit of recession is that at least in Bangalore one can now land up in a theatre and buy tickets unlike earlier. This, despite yesterday being a holiday for most people. The theatre was empty and the popcorn crisp. I had my best pal for company who turned round and said ‘This is about my life!’ every 2 minutes. I agreed and we promised to write a radio script someday soon. Otherwise a forgettable film once you are out of the theatre except that I LOVE Rahul Bose. Eaah. The dark circles and his slow Hindi nothwithstanding.

Two images from Kolkata.

First was the Jethro Tull & Anushka Shankar's concert in Science City Auditorium on 27th Nov 08. Without exception Tull concerts are lyrically enjoyable.

Second one is one of the many reactions to what happened to Mumbai. 'We cry with you, we pray with you, we stand by you'

I love the taste of stale cigarettes in your kiss. We should kiss more often.

I love the silly banter about my school. We should talk more often.

I love losing miserably to you in Scrabble. We should play more often.

just a woman

‘So what do you think of my tie?’ He throws the question at her pinning her with a dismissive look.

Grotesque. She thinks. ‘It’s nice.’ She says trying to smile.

‘Nice? Nice! That’s a bastard of a word!’ He screams. She flinches involuntarily moving back in her chair. Creak. ‘It has no meaning.’ He continues. ‘Rain is nice. Icecream is nice. Sex is nice. Hmmm!’

‘I mean, Sir. It is pretty.’ She trails off, the last syllable inaudible. She thinks of their terrace at home where the ‘achaar’ is soaking the afternoon sun in the ceramic white and yellow jars. She doesn’t want to be in this room with a white haired balding man wearing a red tie with severed horse heads painted in black. He looks at her as one would look at a crawling bug before smashing it with the tip of the shoe. She has never felt so small. He bends towards her waving the tie near her face ‘Is that what you will say to our client’s customers? Buy this Sir. It is pretty?’

She holds the arms of her chair tight. She tries to wriggle her face away. But it is too late. She feels it gushing out. Aaachoooh! The horse heads are now wet and drippy like they were dropped in a vat of glue. He goes in a paralytic shock his mouth open and looking at what was once a tie. She gets up, pushes her chair back blindly and runs to the door. Three doors later she is on the street. Stops a passing autorickshaw and breathes for the first time after the splatter. That was her first job interview.

Should she head back to her aunt’s place? Her aunt is actually her mother’s childhood friend. She has sometime heard about her from her mother but had never seen her before. When she told her mother she was coming here for the interviews, she had resisted at first. Young girl. Strange city. High crime rate. Etc. But on her father’s insistence suggested that she stays with her old friend at least till she finds a job and a place to stay. ‘But Ma, I don’t know her. I can’t just barge in and expect her to keep me!’ she had protested. A budget hotel was her plan till she found a decent place to stay. ‘No.’ her mother had insisted. ‘In a new city, it is always better to stay with someone you know and trust. Besides, we were like family when we were kids. She practically grew up in my house. She hated her step mother and spent all her waking hours in our house. She will be happy to have you there.’ So it was final. Address given. Phone numbers exchanged.

After the initial awkwardness she found Bela mashi very pleasant. She was very different from her mother of course. Bela mashi stays alone with a maid for company after she lost her husband early in their marriage. She doesn’t have any children and has a whimsical, romantic view of life. Something that she finds immensely attractive and uplifting. Her mother would have never agreed to having ice-cream late in the night nor has she seen her mother ever wear a satin nightdress to bed. In the last three days since she got here she has been very well taken care of. But staying longer would be taking advantage of Bela mashi’s good nature. No, she had to find a place to stay.

chance?

Was it chance that just now when I went to the liquor shop next to my office, I find it filled with women aged 60 to 16? The shop owner is the only man. I had to stand in a queue with babbling women all buying alcohol for their fathers, brothers, 'friends'. The two girls infront are definitely below the permissible age for drinking. The shop owner doesn't blink. Infact, he has his whole family helping him out in the shop including his 10 year old daughter and pretty wife. Ms. Bubbly infront of me orders a list ranging from whiskey to rum with such finesse that I cower in shame. Then finally she says 'a chota smirnoff for me'. Giggles. 'Give me too', Ms. Bubbly's mate cooes. 'The bottle is so cuuuute!' 60 ml of vodka each in their anorexic bodies. God help Goa.

Good news: I am in Goa.

Bad news : I am at a 2x2 office with a stone wall for a view.

Worse news: I have a belly full of fried fish and now barely able to stay awake.

Worst news: I have a meeting in 15 mins by which time I will fall on my desk and snore.

Hells bells news: I am gearing up to write a story for someone special which will be his ticket to Raindance.

in one day

Today has been a very strange day. The morning rush of getting to work was usual. What was unusual was that I decided to wear my pista green ‘dakai’ saree complete with pearls, instead of the Saturday-denim and floaters. All this effort towards the wedding of a colleague in the late afternoon. The church where he was to say his vows, is a stone’s throw from office and therefore it made no sense to trek all the way home to change. Unlike many people I know, I consider it an insult to the host to attend a formal occasion, specially a wedding, in inappropriate clothes. Of course the attention my saree got at work can turn any one vain. After a leisurely lunch we walked to the venue just as the service began. I like church weddings. They are solemn, short and the music is pleasing to the ear. The groom sang soulfully. The bride beamed prettily. They exchanged rings and he kissed her on the cheeks (boring!). It was over. I was tired and my feet ached from cavorting in the high heels. I pictured an easy evening at home with my tea and my mother’s familiar gripe. Ah, the bliss of domesticity.

Half way home, an old colleague calls. I heard that my ex-boss's wife passed away after a tragic accident at home. I agreed to meet up with them and visit his house. Although our professional association had ended unpleasantly, this was not the time to remember that. He had come home to meet my parents when I had lost my brother a few years earlier and later he enquired regularly after my parents' wellbeing. His house was already filled with family and near ones. We heard how on the fateful Diwali night, her saree caught fire from the diyas at home and before she realized the extend, the fire had swallowed her in. He had been outside with the children who were busy with the firecrackers. The noise muffled her cries and when they finally got home, they found her burnt and unconscious in the bathroom. Since then she had been battling for life but just when the doctors gave a little hope of progress, it was brutally extinguished. The two young boys were still in shock. He looked stricken and there was nothing I could say except to hold his hand and nod briefly.

I had hardly imagined at the beginning of the day that in the next few hours, I would share someone’s most joyous moment and another’s most tragic. I cannot claim to be a close associate of either but it is only human to be touched in some way by the joy and sorrow of our fellow travelers with whom we share this journey called life.

Reactions during the news broadcast on Chandrayaan launch.

Ma: (with pride) Oh! Good! Now finally we are on the moon…

Ro: (confused) But….we have been on the moon looong back! Why do we need to go again? We can’t live on moon you know…no oxygen…so why send these space thingie?

Baba: Right! 42% of Indians don’t get enough to eat and our roads are as good as on moon! Why spend 280 crores on this? Silly ego!!

Ma: (looks at me for help)

I: I think they both have a point don’t you think?

Inspiration eludes

Muse disappears

Spark dies

Charade crumbles

Faith waivers

Confidence shrivels

Hope dwindles

Commitment falters

Vision clouds

Goals shift.

So we learn to cope

Each day.

With a vacant smile

And blueberry cheesecake.

god parade!

One other highlight of my recent trip to Himachal was the Dusheera mela in Kullu. Rustic and steeped in tradition, it was fantastically intriguing. Way back in mid 1600, the then Raja of Kullu brought back an idol of Ram from Ayodhya and established the Raghunathji temple in Kullu. From then on, every year on the dusheera day, the hundred odd villages in and around Kullu participate in the mela where they bring their village deity and assemble in the central ‘maidan’ to pay their respect to Raghunathji. What follows is a procession of all the deities led by Lord Raghunathji. All the village deities ‘sign’ attendance at Raghunathji temple before ‘they’ are allowed to take part in the parade. For the next one week all the deities are kept under ‘house arrest’ in a designated part of the ‘maidan’ before they are allowed to travel back to their native villages. Of course in the course of the week there are brawls among the villages as to whose deity is more ‘powerful’. Then the deities fight it out to establish supremacy. The police 'bandobast' was tight. Incidentally, HP has the highest percentage of hindus according to the last Census and ofcourse the current BJP govenment encourages participation.

We met travellers from near and far who had come to view the parade. A family from Tel Aviv with a tiny tot in tow, an old couple from Scotland, several families who had driven down from Delhi and a bunch of youngsters who were filming the festivities for Discovery.

call of the hills

I have been traveling in Himachal for the last couple of days. The trip was packed with the usual and sundry like Shimla and Manali and the exciting like Rotang and Keylong.

Shimla was a drab. Too many people, too many houses, too many vehicles and too few locals. It is just like any other congested town in north India. You might as well be sitting in Bhatinda or Hoshiarpur except for the comfortable chill at nights. In fact the traffic is as bad as Bangalore, if not worse.

Manali, is a true blue budget tourist destination. Hotels are mushrooming at an alarming speed as are tourist taxis. And there is cuisine for every palate from macher jhol to sushi. I tried the former but didn’t risk the latter, though the local trout (which are farmed extensively in the fast flowing brooks) were good. And no didn’t get my hands on manali cream. Having a small boy and an old man for company is a sure fire way to deter any dope dealer from approaching.

Rotang at 15500ft is a beauty. Icy and cold. Lofty and majestic. Sharp and threatening. But yeah as usual too many people. Yelling families, bawling babies, teenagers munching away and littering the mountains with empty packets of Lays and Kurkure. Goes to show our value system and education are totally awry.

Keylong, the capital of Spiti and Lahaul (between Manali and Leh) is still pristine. It remains cut off from the rest of the world from Nov to June since the Rotang pass closes in winter. An absolute beauty in its severity and starkness. One has to be there to experience the freezing nights and the silence that cleanses the soul. We had planned to get to Leh (2 days of bumpy bus ride from Keylong) but bad weather thwarted the plan and we landed up spending more time in Manali. If I did not have to worry about a livelihood, I would have settled somewhere in the hills inhaling the thin air and enjoying the quiet.

Well now I am back in Bangalore and back at work. Groan!

last evening

A conversation between two men I live with, who are at opposite ends of the generation gap. The prompt was my arrival home last evening, with two tickets for today’s show of The Last Lear which I picked up to surprise my parents. (Ma is a Bachchan fan)

Ro: (runs to Baba) Dadu, Mommy got movie tickets and you and Didun are going on a date.

Baba: So we all will go..

Ro: No, it’s for you and Didun. You are going on a date. (smiles mischievously)

Baba: (looking surprised) Date? What is date?

Ro: (laughing hysterically) Mommy, Dadu doesn’t know what date means!!

Baba: Ok. So you tell me…

Ro: When a boy and a girl goes out alone.

Baba: (messing with his head) But if two of them are together, how can they be alone?

Ro: Uuff! Tumi kichhu bojho na! (you don’t understand anything!)

the vain and the vile

Pheww! It has been a while. Crazy travel schedule that got screwed up, viral attack that came from no where, family that chided unnecessarily, friends who distracted with attention, all plotted to keep me away from here. So feel free to castigate each and one of them for their misdeeds and ill judged enterprise. But well you can’t keep a loony too long in the bin, can you? So here it is.

Imagine. You in a strange wet city. Work piled up till over your head. And suddenly, The Viral lunges at you and despite your bravado you fall flat like the clumsy Humpty Dumpty. Now there is little you can do except for surrendering to a kindly friend’s hospitality. Like the legendary ‘kabab mein haddi’ you lodge between the husband and wife trying to blend in to the woodwork. In about 2 days The Viral gets bored and decides to surprise other unsuspecting victims. And you limp back to your life. Halleluiah!

Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's.

The only good thing that came off my recent trip to Pune was that I got to watched The Last Lear on the Friday it released here in India. I had gone with my workmates and most of them were shifting in their seats in discomfort and boredom and the only thing that kept them there was the fact that they couldn't desert me. But I ignored all their silent pleas and stayed on till the credits rolled. I liked what I saw. infact I liked it immensely. I confess, I am not an Amitabh Bachchan fan. But I came back impressed. Also, I watched Arjun Rampal on screen for the first time. He held his character well specially in scenes with 'Harry'. I have always liked Shefali Shah. I was surprised with Preity Zinta blending so well with the rest of the cast. Though I thought Divya Dutt stood out in the trio of women. Some of the dialogues were in bangla and there were no subtitles so the rest of the viewers in the near empty theatre missed some of the subtle flavours. But passion was the running theme of the movie. Each character had their own story of passion and the emotions that drive us beyond ourselves.

It’s raining in Pune. Just a drab down pour. Not dancing and joyous streaks like Mumbai. Nor exciting and adamant rush like in Bangalore. Nor comfortable and reassuring like in Kolkata. Here it has no character at all. Nothing that would tell it apart.

I would head for my rented room soon and seek company in Unconsoled which I have finally started reading. I miss you. Your lighthearted banter. Your unhurried restlessness. Your sudden concern. Your quirky humour. Your spirited arguments. Your unabashed simplicity. Your childlike smile.

Yeah, heartbreak ain’t easy. Neither is letting go of desires and dreams. But after the juvenility of the sad song routine, the constant craving, the endless post mortem and mostly, the depressive self blame, the hurt settles into a dull ache. The sharpness of it smoothened by wisdom and reality. It still hurts when we pass our memories. But it doesn’t make us dysfunctional. Life, at the end of the day, is bigger and better. M shared her learnt wisdom with us over coffee.

Today while driving to work I saw a trio of a father and two young sons parking their two-wheeler at the side of the busy Hosur Road and relieving themselves on the compound wall of the Roman Catholic Cemetery. If you live around here, this sight is more common than cattle dung on the road. While we do lack adequate public toilets, as a nation we also have limited or negligible bladder control. And of course once you are dead you don’t mind who pees on the wall like you would when alive if someone unzipped in front of your house to give Niagara a competition. Reminds me of this raunchy horror story where a lewd spirit trapped in a WC would yank off private parts of men who went in the public lavatory to unload.