growing Old

Yesterday, was yet another birthday. It is odd when the first wish is from my mobile service provider at midnight since I had forgotten to keep the phone on silent ! The funniest was from my father who sent a message which read, ‘I just came to know today is your birthday. Happy birthday and sorry for the belated wishes.’ This was at around mid morning. A parent would remember, don't you think? But since I know him, he has  indiscriminately not remembered any birthdays or anniversaries and I hadn’t expected him to remember this time either. But my mother must have reminded him after I left for work, followed by her usual barrage of complaints on how he never remembered any dates. Anyhow, some folks did remember to wish me, despite my inadvertently switching off the social media birthday notification. Some of my school and college friends remembered as did my cousins. However, I was pleasantly surprised when I received a call from someone whom I have never met in person but have been blog buddies for long. It is indeed self-revealing to know how good it makes one feel when someone shares a good wish when least expected. So thank you for managing to surprise even the ever-jaded me. I had planned for a quite, ‘un-celebrated’ evening at home with my family and I did just that while feasting on the goodies my mother had prepared. Such a moment in time is bound to produce some musing of the heart. So I avow once again to live a life full of hope and gratitude and to be able to always have the fortitude to take everything in my stride. It has been many years of clawing upwards from that dark hole and finally I have felt the lightness of just being me.

Happy girls are the most beautiful girls - Audrey Hepburn

She wonders some time, how her life would have been had she lived her life differently. Would she have been more successful in life, like the others whom she knows. A better career, a better relationship, perhaps a more comfortable living. She knows it is not envy, but a transient  wistfulness of what life could have been. If only she did stand up when it was needed the most, if only she had been a little more self-preserving, if only she had stopped hoping things will get better with time, if only she chose not to placate the ones who tore her mind away from her, if only she did not let their words eat away her soul, if only she did not let them shatter her dream, if only she had the courage to break free of the abuse years earlier. If only she could rewind her life.

At times like that, she reminds herself, exactly how far she has come. Her lost years of abuse, had left her in complete hopelessness with a wrecked self-belief and it is from there that she had to first find herself and then build her life with little help from anyone else. Her trepidation at the first job interview, her first independent bank account, her first appreciation note, her first promotion. She did not have anyone to either celebrate her small successes with nor a comforting shoulder when the going got tough. At every little milestone, she hesitantly observed others shinning miles ahead as she lagged a decade behind. But most importantly, in that journey, she found her self-worth rising. She did not shy away from the mirror nor of speaking up, anymore. She rediscovered her wits and her confidence and finally found peace. For all of the successes, this was the most precious of all. She is her own personal phoenix. So she smiles a secret smile and invisibly pats herself on the back promising to celebrate her every private victory, every single day.

And their eyes met

They met, proverbially, at a train station. He with his spiky hair and she with her friends, excited to go on a vacation to Goa. No one spoke. She hoped she would see him again soon. Which she did, once again at the train station, on their way back home. A few exchanged glances were all that was. She had forgotten about him, until several years later, when they meet at a party. He had lost his spikes and some hair, she was that many years older. It took her a few minutes to realize that it was him. She was certain he did not remember her. With introductions done, they got talking. He opened their conversation with, 'You are the girl from the train!' She blushed a bit. Happy that he remembered such a brief encounter from so many years ago. Then he told her about the prank. His friends knew he was smitten by the girl from the train. So they posed someone as her and made him speak over the phone, for a month. By then he was besotted and when he insisted that he wanted to meet her, they giggled and broke the spell. She laughed as he spoke. Life is strange, she thought. She had never imagined that seeing someone at a train station could actually lead to a story. The evening ended pleasantly. But they never met again. Maybe, because they never took a train, anywhere anymore.

the hardest thing

Your heart constricts uncontrollably when in one moment’s distraction you realize you are going to miss someone. In that unsettled feeling you reinvent love. In that suddenness you understand attachment. Then, in that awkward stillness you brace yourself once again, to let go.

I have never been good with goodbyes.

addicted

I have pursued pleasure and I have pursued pain. At times I couldn’t tell one from the other. Now, after so many years they seem like signposts that define my life to me. They have left me hurt, broken and strong. Have made me older, wiser and saner. Given me dreams, dare and scars. So will I pursue them again? Hell, yes. Only this time maybe one more than the other.

No, I don't think so...

The most bothersome part of a hospital stay is the complete shedding of identity that begins the moment you register. You become a serial number on a file and your entire existence there revolves around your ailment and the treatment there of. Here, you are your illness!

Determined to remove the very last vestige of your dignity, they make you change into those awkward and unbecoming gowns that no one ever thought of adding a bit of cheer to. The dullness of it all is sure to kill you before the illness does.

 

Then of course, the practised politeness of the surgeon and his team. Just get the job done well boys and girls, don’t bother with all the niceties. To add to the misery, you discover that the anesthesiologist is a rather handsome man who insists on smiling charmingly as you lay there butt naked with your senses leaving you in a hurry.

 

Knowingly, he asks, how are you feeling. I have been better Doc, I try to croak through the fogginess. But why bother asking me, if you are going to crank up the IV before I can even shoot a suitable riposte? The truth is - I feel terrible, lying here at my most vulnerable, with tubes poking my arms and chest and whirring machines all around. Yes, I am a bit scared and more ashamed-to-be-scared. And I am embarassed. Since you have seen more of me than any man, lately. I hope never to meet you again Doc. After this indecency, I cannot imagine us sharing a drink to cheer good health. So yes, as I lay here as Exhibit A, please, just do your job and I pray you do it well.

So as Dr.PlayGirl (or maybe the serum makes him look that way!) keeps asking me to relax, I wonder why could we not have met under more pleasant circumstances. Now, I cannot imagine flirting with a man who has seen my innards, literally. Sigh!

perhaps

Another birthday approaching, bro. And we continue to live in our existential void where one day folds into another without even a whimper. Our life seems to have fallen in this regulated rhythm of a life support machine. While it supports life, there is not much living in there. We will again go through tomorrow like we have since you left. Ma’s silent wet eyes, fresh garland on your photo frame and Baba desperately trying to hang on to any conversation that doesn’t mention you. Sometime, I want to shake them up and get them to shriek how much they miss you. Maybe, that will ease my guilt somewhat. Maybe, it will also ease the strain of nonchalance. Perhaps then, I will be able to hold them again and tell them that everything will be ok, eventually.

Pain is like eating a jelly sandwich. Even after you have gulped it all, the crumbs stick to you at odd places, making you look sloppy.

not now

You say the guy you once knew may not exist anymore. The slightly sentimental, never-settle-for-less-than-perfect, sometime-self-flagellant-and-sometime-bratty, brilliantly-witty, scared-of-creepycrawlies-braveheart has changed? What has life done to you my friend? What has life done to us....

Thanks Melody

Yeah, we are at yet another new year. I have been trying to recapture the highlights of last year only to realize the year passed by in such a dizzy speed that there isn’t really time to isolate the highlights.

This year begins with a lot of hope. Unlike many others in the past. And I already see glimpses of it in life’s trivia. Like last evening, out of a whim and in complete aberration to my nature, I requested the RJ for a song while driving back home. Lousy drivers, loud honking and mad traffic do incite unnatural behaviour. Or so I told myself. One would least expect such a request to be played since the cynic in me knows that the radio stations and their RJs pamper only regular listeners who pour out a lot of mush on them. But lo behold. The radio starts grooving my song. And then as the song ends, the RJ mentions my name over the airwaves. There goes my quarter-of-a-second fame. Grin. So one of the resolutions for this year is not to snigger at folks who bare their personal lives over the radio. Like the lovelorn Romeo who begs the RJ to convince his Juliet to forgive him. Like the husband who wants the DJ to play his wife’s favourite song because it is her birthday. You are saying, aww so sweet. But I have always wondered dude, if it is your wife’s birthday, do I need to know? But in the day and age of Facebook and Twitter we are all wannabe rockstars trying to claim our fame by living as public a life as possible.

The couple of other things in my list for the year :

1. Laugh more
2. Read even more
3. Save for a rainy day
4. Stick to the gym schedule
5. Improve my impaired motoring skills

Not an impressive list but this will do for me for now. So Cheers. Here's to another year of living and loving.

Two cups of filter coffee, a boring afternoon and a laptop was all that took two women to decide to ride out of the city over the weekend. Rach and I packed our bags and headed out to Kodai. We didn’t want to drive down and neither have patience to manage a hired chauffer. So bus it was. The adventure began even before we could leave Bangalore. It was a rainy evening and the cab did not turn up to take us to the bus station. The poor autorichshaw driver dealt with two cranky women with much aplomb. We reach the bus station only to be informed that the bus will arrive after half hour from then. So we brave the chill winds blowing though the open bus shed on a late evening and wait. Finally, we board the bus and realize the seats are not as we had desired, the bus conductor has a penchant for ignoring any request, the driver loves loud conversations while driving and the inhouse TV only plays Golmaal 3. Swalpa adjust maadi. We try to adjust as best we could and prepare for a sleepless, backbreaking night. The rest of the night was less said the better. At day break the next day, we had reached the hills of Kodai. The thin drizzle and the lush green slopes made it all worth it. We had decided to book a homestay instead of a regular hotel. From whatever we could gather from the net, it seemed to be a comfortable abode with friendly hosts.

On reaching Kodai, we call our host who had agreed to pick us up from the bus station. We meet Bala, our host and he takes us to his home, Cinnabar, on the quieter part of town, on Chettiar Road. There we meet his wife, the vivacious Vasu. With the casual pleasantries over, I only looked forward to a clean loo and to change out of my crumpled clothes. Only a shower and a change can make us feel human again after the nightmarish bus ride. The guest rooms are away from the main house and allows for adequate privacy. The room we were given, was warm, inviting and comfortable. Wooden floor, slanted roof, terracotta floor in the bathroom – clean, functional with a touch of rustic. Everything inside the room had a personal touch right from the patchwork bedspread, the sundried towels, mishmash artefacts to the coffee table books. This felt so much like home. Over breakfast in their cosy dining room, we heard how everything on the table is produced in their organic farm – the spreads, the granola, the cheese, the herbs and the fruits. The bread is oven fresh too! During lean season, the duo runs cooking classes since both are passionate about organic cooking from local resources. With wholesome food in our tummies it was time to explore the town.

So we head out with our host Bala, who was heading to town anyway. Sweetly, Vasu had drawn out a mini map of the hub with all places of interest. For two women that would mean – shopping hotspots and eateries. We assured her that we are not the touristy types who are here to see the waterfalls and the likes. Map in hand we hit the market area. Five minutes into the sojourn, we get invited to coffee at a cafe (a cafe chain I happen to work for) by two local men in strange clothes and one wearing a Stetson. We politely refuse and move on. We do the rounds of local shops supporting developmental causes – one of them is the Re Gift Shop. Looks like a lot of interesting people have settled in this hill town and doing their bit for the rural economy. One would have missed the history of the people if one was just there for the scenic spots.

We are charmed by a local villager, Gauriamma at a cafe names Potluck, perched on a narrow ledge on PT Road. She makes these amazing pancakes and a bright cuppa of cappuccino. She even takes the liberty to suggest honey over maple syrup as a spread for the pancakes. Who would have expected to be served in Ikea cutlery at a quaint old town in the hills. But such is the charm of Kodai. We visit the local haunts – Re (the gift shop), Potters Shed (where an old man sells local rough finished pottery), Econut (the store that sells health food and non-egg muffins), Shalimar (the shawl store run by a Kashmiri gent who is now lived here for generations), Pastry Corner (the local bake shop). We decided to have a vegetarian lunch at a place called Tava, where they were so generous with chillies and pepper that it was a big turn off. Being a Friday, not many tourists abound. Only the famous Kodai International School has its young students roaming around the streets giggling and doing things young things do. We finally head home to Cinnabar with tired feet and charged minds. Evening was filled with fresh coffee, some vodka and many a tale from far and near. It was no different from gathering at a friend’s home on a lazy weekend and sharing the warmth of the wooden fire in the living room. The dinner spread was continental with garden fresh greens in salad, the meat tender and the corn bread well textured. But the home-made cheesecake was the scene stealer of the night. Filled to the brim, we say our goodnights and head to our room only to find it wasn’t easy to fall asleep with my mind jostling with images and experience of a new place. The comforter was warm and the night passed in silence.

The next morning, we got up late and lazed over breakfast. If one is staying for a long time, the breakfast spread might get a bit repetitive. I am not complaining though, since I like some semblance of familiarity every morning. I have no appetite for experimenting right in the morning. We get dressed to go into town once breakfast was done and Vasu graciously gives us a ride to the seven road junction at the heart of town. We ambled about without much of an agenda and ended up shopping some more. We tried a new eatery called Cloud Street. Avoidable completely just in case someone gets inspired reading about my sojourn in Kodai. The ground floor stank of the ill maintained loo. We climbed up to the first floor restaurant to realize we were the only guests. The menu boasted of continental fare and we ordered a soup, a steak and pasta. The potato and cream soup was good. But the steak came on a steel plate. I kid you not. And the pasta was terribly over boiled. Then it started to rain, lashing on the tin roof while we played Scrabble. In due course the rain abates and we wade through ankle deep puddles and steams that had become the road. We trudge to Potluck for a cup of hot cappuccino and cocoa each to keep from freezing. It was silly to have worn summer sandals in the hills which has a penchant for sudden rains.

We get to Cinnabar as the mist envelops the hills. Another evening of vodka and deep thoughts (!) and we get to enjoy the Lebanese fare cooked with love by Vasu and Bala. There was hummus and pita bread along with other goodies. All healthy and super tasty. We retire to bed making plans for the next morning.

Our bus was to leave in the late evening and therefore we had time enough to get to town in the morning, post breakfast. Our first stop was the local market from where we bought carry bags. We needed them to carry the ‘treasures’ we bought in Kodai. Then we walked across to the Carlton Hotel. We prayed for the sun as we parked ourselves in their sprawling velvety lawn. Their property hugs the lake and offers an amazing view of the hills that surround the vale. Mid afternoon the sun peeped out of the clouds and we go shutter happy like two teenage bumpkins. With the sun still playing hide and seek we walk into this dingy looking eatery called Rasoi. Surprisingly they boast of and open kitchen and apparently make their food from scratch after the order is placed. We meet Charlie the head ‘chef’. I have never before seen someone using a pair of pliers as tongs. Charlie kindly allows us to photograph him in action, in return for a promise to send him a copy of his photo when we return to Bangalore. The food that was served was very well made and reminded me of home. Everywhere I go there just has to be one bong connection. The man serving the dishes happens to be from Bengal and we exchanged words in our native tongue with much mirth. There is a secret pleasure in finding someone in a foreign land who speaks your language. Or maybe, I am just getting old.

Towards the afternoon we head back to Cinnabar to finish packing and maybe catch a bit of sleep as we prepare for another sleepless night in the bus. We get done with the packing, somehow managing to squeeze everything in our modest overnighter. Then Vasu gets us tea and we get going with the camera.

Vasu’s garden has avocados literally falling off the trees. Yes, they taste as good as they look. Done with the outdoors, we get Vasu to ‘pose’ for us. We didn’t miss the kingfisher sundial either.

Around 6.45pm we realize the bus would leave in another 15 minutes. Vasu and Bala both came to drop us to the bus station. Vasu, god bless her, thoughtfully packed a goodie-bag of apples and homemade multigrain buns for the journey. She really didn’t have to do that since they were to host us till the breakfast on that day. They also graciously let us keep the room till the evening. All of these thoughtful gestures added up to make this a memorable trip. All was not over yet. The hellish bus ride had to be done yet. The downhill ride at breakneck speed made us sick to the core. Late night the bus stopped at a dingy eating joint and an adjoining dirty loo with red light for illumination. Imagine that. We live through that desperately hoping to get to Bangalore with our sanity intact. The rest of the night remained uneventful and we reach Bangalore at the early hours of the morning. Home and a clean bath later, I head for office munching the apple from the goodie-bag.

come as you are...

Nothing like a large dollop of Nirvana on the way to work. Despite the gloom-doom lyrics, it never fails to make me feel alive. It must be because it reminds me of you. The gigantic boom box that occupied a large part of your room and from which emanated the most distorted cries of obscure rock legends. According to Ma these were screamathons. According to us this was elixir after being raised with genteel, soul stirring, peace loving music of our parents. Therefore, these angst soaked mayhem appealed at a very different level. I remember how we would shut ourselves in your room and listen to our gods and escape to a world of our own. Ma was certain we would impair our hearing sense before we finished college. We both finished college, however, with our hearing intact. She still doesn’t know about the weed we smoked in abandon, inside. On hind sight, those pots of weed kept us so thin and on the go, that it makes me wistfully look at my college pair of jeans and wonder how ever did I get into them! Mind numbing or not, one could not ignore the sheer forceful energy of the music. It is this energy that is infectious and makes you want to scream along and yes, live. Well, Kurt Cobain is no more and neither are you. But the music lives on as does the memories.

midnight moonlight

There is a certain pleasure in waking up in the middle of night to discover everything bathed in silvery moonlight. Then to watch the moon float across my window to hide behind a sinister grey cloud. I keep the curtains open at night, to be able to fall asleep while watching the night colours play across the wide expanse of the heaven. It is my communion with the world outside of me. I have always hated closed spaces and restrictive geography. Apartment living allows for little space but the thing I love the most is the big window that lets me star gaze lying on my bed. It reminds me of our summer nights when we slept on the terrace of our grandfather’s house. The feeling is the same now, but minus the mosquitoes!

why

At this crossroad life overwhelms her. She has no lust for money, fame or youth. Only an uncomplicated desire to belong and the security of being understood. At mid life she stands bereft of either thinking she might as well then have pursued what was arguably easier.

p.s.

When a relationship hits expiry, all that remains are fragments of happy memories, some shared laughter, a fleeting desire for the warm shoulder on a rainy day, a parched rose inside a long forgotten book, an old dinner bill at the bottom of the purse and a small guilt of not having tried hard enough.

you found me

Is the pain more when someone she loves hurts her, or, is it when she hurts someone she loves? She can deal with her hurt. That has never been the problem. In her entire life she has never told anyone in how many ways they have hurt her. In defence, she built a wall. Only a chosen few were allowed in. They were chosen because she chose to love them. And by doing so she allowed them to hurt her. But that mattered little to her. Life has taught her to give more and expect less. So in love, she gave more than she took, and more she gave, more came her way. Sometime it came in form of reciprocation and most other time in form of peace.

But life hasn’t taught her still the ways to deal with the pain when she hurt someone else. She lives her apologies. She means her I love yous. And then she waits patiently for the ache to ebb.

moment of weakness

Sitting in the cramped economy class seat she considered the emptiness welling up inside. The random loneliness that engulfs her at moments like these never fails to surprise. It’s been many months and a year now. She thought she packed all her hurt and longing with a neat little bow and pushed it far away from her everyday reality. She doesn’t miss him in any way. She can listen to their song on radio and enjoy it without the lead dropping in her gut. She eats his favourite dish without feeling the bile rise. She has long stopped rehearsing the conversation they might have if they meet by chance. She has been getting through her cleverly sculpted day for months without ever thinking of him. Infact the regular day leaves her tired enough to sleep through the night without ever having to wonder what he would be up to. She knows she doesn’t love him. He had made it easier to sever him from her life. She knows she doesn’t hate him either. Hate takes effort and she had decided long back not to waste any emotion on him, ever.

In her sterile world, each day folds into the other in a regular rhythm without any disturbing crosswind. She has quietly and methodically killed it all. For the better she knows. This has helped her to be the funniest mom a 10 year old could have, a sensible friend always full of good advice, a witty co-worker reputed to be cool, and a non-interfering daughter who never nitpicks. She has managed to live her life outside of herself where there is no hurt and only a few disappointments that can be shrugged off easily. Thus this stray need to belong, jolts her. Was it that unconscious touching of hands, the tender look and the lingering smile that only lovers know so well. Right now, she likes the sanitized orderliness of her life cause it assures a safe passage. And that assurance gives her comfort. So it frazzles her nerves to suddenly feel this needy. But she knows by the time the aircraft touches down, all will be well again. She will return once more to embrace her tidy world of harmony and yes, peace.

Christmas time...

This Christmas has been special. This year, Ro decided to grow up. I was part shocked and part pleased when he had told me last week that he hasn't made any wish nor is he expecting any gift this Christmas. To humour him, I asked why. To which he said Santa was for babies and the promise of gifts is to mislead gulible children into behaving well which isn't their natural disposition anyway. This infact was a ploy by parents to fool the poor children and he was sorry that he fell for it all these years. That settled he went off to decorate the tree.

may it rain...

Today I wished for the rain from a few mornings ago. The sky had been a canopy of grey stretching endlessly and the rain fell in a soft spray, settling on my lashes, in tiny glistening beads. On his head, the infinitesimal dewy drops shimmered like liquid crystal. We had both turned up our faces and closed our eyes to feel the soft caress of the wet wind. Then we smiled. At each other. Secured in the knowledge that this moment was ours alone. The unusual morning rain prompted the others to scamper for the forgotten umbrella and pull their jackets a little tighter for warmth. The two of us, only had each other. He squeezed his hand in mine and we stood smiling till his bus arrived. When he left, I realized I was still smiling.

Paint the next phase of your life with the colours of your mind - says the prediction for the day. First, I am not a 'predictions' person. And I am hardly predictable considering my mood swings. However, this caught my attention. Yes, I would like to paint my life. A vivid shade of blue if possible please. But how the hell do I go about it? Buy paint as a friend would advise. But something tells me it isn't that simple. Right?