More about Me!

My friend Shreyasi’s post is the inspiration. Its not often that I think of these but they remain in my consciousness at all times. Just that every once in a while I puts words to wrap up the thought.

My best dream

That I am an astronaut (too late for that one!)

My worst dream

To hurt someone I love

I pine for

Solitude

I am uncomfortable with

Hypocrites

Closed minds

Negative gossip

Arrogance

Talking about money (specially when it’s mine!)

I am scared of

Heights

I enjoy

Innocence

Cool fresh breeze teasing my hair

Darjeeling tea

Tiramisu

Snow on the mountains

A good book

Silence

Driving with just the music for company

Listening to a friend

I dislike

Conformity

Lack of imagination

One-dimensional personalities/opinion

Sycophancy

Lies

Good friends think I am

'Sunshine'

Creative

Intelligent

Dreamer

Down to earth

Compassionate

Martyr (!)

Mother thinks am

Stubborn

Idealist

Dreamer

Romantic

(But she wouldn’t exchange me for anything!)

Father thinks am

Optimistic

Multi-directional

Difficult to fathom

Fighting for lost causes

(But he would always support my lost causes!)

I think

I am Confident

I am Generous

I am Trustworthy

I am careless with my money

I believe

Happiness is peace within

Love begins with oneself

There is no absolute truth except death

I hope

To see the world become safer for my children

The forests are preserved

To have a library (of my favourite books and music)

I wish to

Make a difference wherever I am

My greatest fear

To lose my sanity

I am awed by

Nature

Space

I love

Traveling

Sharing a good conversation

Watching kids at play

Holding hands

I draw energy from

Nature

Gyatri Mantra

Believe in God and myself

I want to die

In peace

My Epitaph if I die right now

Miles to go before I sleep

Poila Boishakh 1414

It started off well enough. With just a 15-minutes delay. Which isn’t alarming by our standard. The resident bengalee community was regaling themselves with the splendor of dakais (sarees), kantha-work silk kurtas and enough gold to put fort knox to shame. The evening air was cool and crisp with no threat of rain. Greetings of “shubho nobo borsho” abounded. Most importantly, the ubiquitous screaming unruly toddlers ambled about with no concern for either the entertainment or the excitement that their parents shared. New-age parenting must be.

The cultural program began. The stage wasn’t wobbly. The sound system cooperated. The light guy knew what he was doing. Must mention this is a rarity in itself. Usually the technicians are local and have no comprehension of the language and goof ups because of it, are common. The singers sang surprisingly well and the dancers were well coordinated. Everything was going as planned. Now it was time for the bangla natok (play). Ten minutes into it, I miss my cue. The practiced script went blank. Hell! The others on stage are staring at me. Few seconds and a couple of heartbeats later I manage to squeak something that wasn’t completely out of sync with the scene. Praise the Lord! My ‘stage -brother’ glares at me but the rest of the cast catches on to the improvisation. All’s well. But moments like these are not meant to last.

“Mommy forgot the d-i-a-l-o-g-u-e-e-e !!!”

My six-year-old screams sitting in the front row (and now standing) and pointing a finger at me on stage. At least a dozen pairs of eyes turn towards him. I hear a few loud giggles. Ignore, I tell myself. But he wouldn’t give up till some one acknowledges his opinion. Why did I ever take him to the blessed rehearsals? Last I saw, he was being gently dragged by my mother, who had a hand covering his mouth.

Namesake@fLaT wOrLd

While the world identifies with Gogol Ganguli as he searches for his identity and even promises a possible Oscar, let me tell you, no one was so benevolent with me!

 

Must say, I am fortunate that my grandmother overcame the overwhelming urge to give her brand new grand daughter a complex-intonated bengalee name that would have surely twisted my Grade I teacher. For that I am thankful. Therefore I was saved from the torture of having to spell out and pronounce my name repeatedly whenever I met someone new. Except when someone asked for the meaning where in I would invariably blush and say it means ‘darling’. ‘Oh, how nice!’ my father’s German friends would comment.

School was smooth sailing as far as the name goes and in college it always managed to garner some curiosity among the male crowd since there were atleast a dozen bollywood songs that they could tease me with. This unfortunate trait continues till date.

In Delhi, my cosmopolitan DSE classmates didn’t stumble over my name and most thought the combination of my first name and last name was ‘sexy’. Therefore, I hung in cloud nine when a visiting French prof. I had a crush on back then, rolled my name on his tongue, making it sound very endearing indeed. You got to give it to the French.

Next stop, Mumbai. No problem here either. Though many were surprised to meet a bengalee with a name that was not as elaborate as Sushmita, Anindita, Anusuya, Shashwati, Suchismita or exotic like Ujjaini. Well surprise surprise. Only a friend insisted on calling me Pee-ya and he alone choked at his own joke everytime.

Finally, I was hurtled to Bangalore. Here alone began the fun.

Circa 1996. I am in the queue for my driving license at the RTO office.

What name madam? (that's how we speak here!)

Piya De

Prrrriya Daay? (Damn! They have to roll that bloody ‘r’!)

Its Piya…no ‘rrrrr’

Waaatttt? (yes, that's how we speak here!)

Its P-I-Y-A

Ohhh! Peeyaa....daru peeya? The officer sniggers, immensely proud of his hindi.

(I am counting backwards from 10-9-8-)

I get my license eventually and for the first time felt foolish about a name that I was hitherto proud of.

As I continue living here, I have gradually stopped being obsessive about correcting one and sundry about the right pronunciation and spelling. In fact, I respond to Priya more readily than I do to the original.

Only regret, thanks to globalization, my collegue Subramaniam has become Sab, my friend Anindya had become Andy, I of course remain where I began. As my mentor says, Your's  is already ‘globalized’.

My grandmother, the wise old lady that she was, must have seen this coming.

Hahazaaro.n Khvaahishe.n aisii ki har Khvaaish pe dam nikale

She looks out of the window. White clouds float in the sparkling azure sky. Her dreams were many. But she has learned to let go. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

He looks out of the window. The brightness hurts his eyes. He lost all his dreams and the pain remains. Why did he let her go?

Lyrics: Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan/Ghalib 27th Dec 1796-15th Feb 1869

Singer: Jagjit Singh

The girl from yesterday

He left her. Just like that.

She kept staring at his picture and the eyes of her unborn daughter he promised they would have. She continued living on the memories they had made.

It has been weeks. But she waits for him everyday.

Her foolish heart didn’t know she had become the girl from yesterday.

Hazards of the profession

My father dreads going to the dentist. It’s a fact well established and accepted. As I see him enter the sterile room I can feel his jaws tighten. The pronouncement wasn’t happy. He needs a RCT (root canal treatment, for the uninitiated). My father of course was already in denial.

“Will it hurt?” he asks the young doctor.

“Not a whole lot and we will be giving LA”

“LA?”

“Local anesthesia”

“Oh”

“Don’t worry, once the crown is fitted it would be like a regular tooth”

“Oh”

“Shall we start?”

“Wait! How will the crown stay? It’s an upper tooth.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s an upper tooth. The crown will fall off because of gravity, no?”, his attempt at humour.

I am looking at him bewildered. This is not my father. I am not here in this clinic.

“Look at the ceiling fan. Is it falling off?” the doc retorts. He is amazingly self-possessed.

“No…”

“If we anchor the crown well it would never fall off”

With that she gags his mouth with a rubber extender.

Learning to let go

Pride is when I watch my 6 year old beaming as he receives his award on Prize Day and then promptly runs to me saying, “This is for you, mommy!” I look at the prize (which is a delightful heap of books!) as he prances off with his friends to have that last dash to the playground and the tussle for the swing. This was his last day in Standard I and the last day at this school. The thought of a new school after the summer holidays, has filled him with excitement and sadness in equal measures. He says, ”I will miss the swing” as his Principal, the affable Sister Aneeta bends to shake his hand. “Such a sweet boy”, his class teacher, Mrs. Philips gushes. He is her pet and she bestows him with affection and attention that he may not deserve at times. Being a boisterous child he could be quite a handful.

In the last few months, since we moved house, I have been waking up real early to drive him to school and taking a break from work in the afternoon to pick him up. It has been hectic and it has irritated me at times. But knowing that I wouldn’t be doing it again, fills me with sadness. I looked forward to our time together in the morning and the long drive back home at afternoon. His continuous chatter about his day. His little joys and hurts.

“Adi pushed me today”

“And did you push him too?”

“Yeah!”

“Is that the right thing to do?”

“You always support him!” he whimpers, close to tears.

Then begins the hugs, the reassurances and the wiping of tears. At the end of the drive we are best friends again.

Oh! I will miss all that. And I realize something else.

As a mother, I will have to learn to let go.

You are beautiful..

Their eyes met across the room. She didn’t look away. He looks leaner, she thought and the beard suits him.

“I will come and whisk you away and never let you go”

“We will have a glass house just like the one in Sleeping With The Enemy”

“Let’s have the little girl you so want”

“You would never be lonely at twilight”

“You are my slut…only mine”

“I love you, I love you, I love you”

She wasn’t a child but she hung on to his every word. He was an artist and she believed him. Finally, he disappeared one day. Just like that. With her heart and a lot more. She had tried to call. She had even tried to reach his friends.

“Congratulations!” she smiles at him.

He stares at her. She looks gorgeous. Amazingly gorgeous.

“You…here…?” he mumbles.

“I work with Anita” she explains.

“Oh” He pauses.

“How have you been?” he asks, when they reach a quite corner. Most of the guests have left.

“Pretty good!” she smiles again.

“How is Rahul?” he asks without looking at her.

“ Oh, he is doing great. Busy with school. All grown up” she beams.

“I am sorry for….”

She reaches out and touches his hand.

“Let it be….” She says softly.

“I never…”

“Let it be, Nikhil. It’s been a long while. Maybe your compulsions were more than mine. Maybe you got bored of me. Maybe you didn’t want to hurt me with the truth. Maybe I didn’t deserve a goodbye. So let it go….”

“Su….”

“Nikhil, I have forgiven myself and I couldn’t do that without forgiving you”

“Please…”

“Take care of yourself, Nikhil. You will always be the man who made me feel like a queen” she smiles and squeezes his hand a little before letting go “even if it was only for a while”.

He tries to hold her hand. He tries to say something. Anything.

She walks away slowly without looking back.

Born on Martyr’s day. Martyr she will always be.

Where were you...

He visited last night. Dreadlocks. White mundu and white shirt. Which in itself was abnormal.

“Where were you all these days?”

“In a paying guest”

“What happened to your hair? They don’t have shampoo?”

“No, I like it this way” he smiles, touching his now matted curls.

“And your clothes? What happened to your clothes? There is so much lying in your wardrobe”

“Now, I wear only this. Give away my old clothes”

“Do you get enough to eat?”

“Yeah!”

“Fish?”

“Di, they don’t serve fish there” he grins.

“You know, I miss you”

“You have Ro to bug you now”

“It’s not the same”

“I know”

“I goto go”

“When will you come again?”

“I came today because you were sad”

“How did you know that?”

“Know that I know. Bye di”

He died on 11th September 2004. But in my dreams he lives.

Embarrassed

“The beer is getting to you”

“Naaah!” I slur, a little.

“Come, let’s go home”

As we step out, the maître de calls him aside.

He comes back grinning and whispers.

“Pull up your zip, Pee”

“W h a t?”

“Here, lemme help you” he winks and pulls me close.

The elevator thankfully was empty.

Today at the food court in a mall

I was busy tucking in my red curry rice for lunch when I notice the next table was filling up. Two nymphets clad in paris-hilton-inspired garb and their rotund 50ish mother in rich green kanjeevaram and 1-inch red bindi. They seem happy. The girls seamlessly chatter in english with occasional tamil with the mother, who smiles broadly. I watch with fascination. Then the girls went to get their food, keeping the mother to guard the much sought after table during Saturday lunch hour rush. They return with a tray laid out with masala dosa, rava idli, sambar and coconut chutney.

Oh I smiled, how nice. This must be for the mother.

Once they settle, the mother comfortably pulls out her colourful coin purse tucked in her blouse (a sight that doesn’t embarrass me anymore) walks up to the Subway counter, stands among other minimal clothed younglings, orders a pickled delight in tamil and comes back to the table with easy gait. The girls eat their dosa carefully with forks and knives while the mother unwraps the sandwich with relish and begin to tear pieces of bread with her fingers before placing them in her mouth just like a paratha.

My plate empty, I walk away with one last admiring look at my recent neighbours. Lesson learnt. Never typecast.

You and I

“You didn’t!”

Yep, I did” he smiled.

“You booked five rows for her?”

“I would book the entire theater for you” he smiled again.

“Liar! The show was houseful because of you!”

“I didn’t know you then”

“I would have killed you!”

“I would have kissed you”

“It’s never too late you know” she smiles.

Truth

I

“I have to tell you something”He says slowly.

He leaves the door open and lets her step inside.

“Oh good! Me too!” She beams.

“Tell me…”

“We are going to have a baby!”

She hugs him tight.

He sits down on the sofa with a thud.

She hasn’t seen his packed suitcase upstairs yet.

II

“I have to tell you something”

He says as she opens the door.

She smiles.

“Shall I get you tea?”

“No..”

“ I don’t know how to begin…” he trails off.

“Don’t. I have packed your suitcase”

"What?”

“You can leave before Vicky comes back from school”

“Dia…”

"Yes, I saw her message last night”

Another love turns cold

"She is amazing!"

"Oh.."

"What?"

"I am happy for you, you know…"

"Hey you have to help me with the ring…"

"Ring?"

"Yeah….I wanna surprise her on her birthday!"

"Oh.."

"What?"

"Sure…"

"Thanks pal!"

He gives her a tight hug and walks to his car.

She sits at the café hoping it wouldn't hurt forever.

One morning at work

He picks up and flips through her desk calendar.

Reed thin, long legged models stare back seductively at him.

“So you like models?”

Her sarcasm is evident.

He smiles. The calendar still in his hands.

“But they stay here”He quickly returns the calendar.

Walks away embarrassed.

“Idiot” she thinks.

“I like her” he thinks.

Love in an Elevator

“You are really l a t e ?”

“Your office is really far”

“You should have started earlier!”

“I did! But you know the traffic here….”

“Tell that to my BOSS!”

“ Did you get your BP checked today?”

“Huuuh? I hate you!”

“Really?”

She begins to speak. He bends over and kisses her lips.

Living in your afterglow

Star Movies. Dominick and Eugene.

Mid movie, he turns and says. " We are like that na?"

"Yeah.." she says distractedly.

“We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl…...” he sings softly.

“Oh…not again” she rolls her eyes.

Years later she watches the movie again. Alone. “…wish you were here…” she sings off key.

Blush

He asks gently, " You are in love with a v o i c e?

Then he smiles. Says, " I know exactly how you feel...and it feels good doesn't it?"

I look at him as my eyes fill.

"How is he?"

"He...is amazing"

He notices my blush and says, " He must be..." Pause.

Why do you have to go?

Faith Hill, he and I.

She sings 'I can feel you breathe.....’

I listen to his heart beating another name.

He says, “She never sounded this good before”

“It’s me, you fool”, I tease.

He gets up from the bed slowly.

“Stay, pleeeease”, I cry.

“This is all we can ever have”, he says softly.

Here I am, lost in the light of the moon that comes through my window

“You are crazyyyy!” he says in exasperation.

“Am I ?” she says amused.

Lying in her bed watching the shadow creep over the face of the moon, she smiled. She knew he didn’t enjoy being woken up at 3.30 a.m. to be told about the shadowed moon, specially since in his part of the world there was nothing out of ordinary in the night sky.

“Wish you were here…” she says.

“Mmmn…” he mumbles sleepily.

“We would have laid down together and watched the moonlight play tricks….”

No sound this time. He must be asleep. She disconnects the phone and looks at the sky. Its 4.40 a.m. and the moon is a faint silhouette with a slightly reddish halo. She watches in silence. But her mind is far from quiet. Random thoughts of Hiawatha and her grandmother…what was her name?…yes Nokomis…but why did the moon remind her of that poem? Feeling of melancholy perhaps…She thinks of ‘Chander Pahar’…Mountain of the Moon…but that was goosebumpy adventure….so why does it sadden her? Then the recent Japanese writer she was reading. The story where they leave their aged to the ‘moon mountain’ to die…..

Snap out of it she tells herself. Can’t you think of something joyous? But the moon looks desolate and desperate. She misses her brother. He would not have dismissed her as easily. They have shared many a night in comfortable silence watching the sky from his 6th floor window. She misses her grandfather. He had led them both to watch the sky on stifling summer nights. They used to lay down on the terrace on ‘madurs’ as the night sky came alive in his voice. He told them about Orion and Artemis, about Andromeda and Centaur. In their child’s fancy they would point to a star and shine their Eveready torchlight and he would ask them to calculate how long it would take for the light to reach.

Now, she can’t reach them anymore except in her heart.

It's almost day break and the sky is a pale hue. She drifts into a dreamless sleep as her pillow remains wet.

She

She found me. In the most unlikely of circumstances. Under a heap of snow along the treacherous mountain trail near Bhujbasha. She. Abandoned for being a girl. Me. Abandoned for not being woman enough. I was lost, hungry and freezing. She was nearly lifeless wrapped in a torn red blanket. She barely opened her eyes and I saw hope. When they found us, lead by the spot of red, there was little life left in either of us. But we survived. She and I. Married by fate. Bonded for life. Meet Adia, a gift in Afrikaans.

But..

"Did I disappoint you or let you down?

Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?

'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,

Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won.

So I took what's mine by eternal right.

Took your soul out into the night.

It may be over but it won't stop there,

I am here for you if you'd only care.

You touched my heart you touched my soul.

You changed my life and all my goals.

And love is blind and that I knew when,

My heart was blinded by you.

I've kissed your lips and held your head.

Shared your dreams and shared your bed.

I know you well, I know your smell.

I've been addicted to you.

Goodbye my lover.Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.

You have been the one for me.

I am a dreamer but when I wake,

You can't break my spirit - it's my dreams you take.

And as you move on, remember me,

Remember us and all we used to be

I've seen you cry, I've seen you smile.

I've watched you sleeping for a while.

I'd be the mother of your child.

I'd spend a lifetime with you.

I know your fears and you know mine.

We've had our doubts but now we're fine,

And I love you, I swear that's true.

I cannot live without you.

Goodbye my lover.Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.You have been the one for me.

And I still hold your hand in mine.

In mine when I'm asleep.

And I will bear my soul in time,

When I'm kneeling at your feet.

Goodbye my lover.Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.You have been the one for me.

I'm so hollow, baby, I'm so hollow.

I'm so, I'm so, I'm so hollow."

It’s not yet Good Bye. Not till I forget your smile (when it just starts to creep slowly and your lips curl in a boyish curve and then it lights up your eyes)...the touch of your hands (your beautiful hands, hands of an artist).... your voice (and how it changes from deep to erotic)...your smell (fresh... like after a rain, sweet like a cotton candy and heady like champagne)...the feel of your skin (smooth like a dewdrop....the roughness of your chest while I listen to your heart)...your eyes (when they laugh, when they drill me with anger, when they are moist with hurt and when they shine down on me)....

Today

10.30AM. 91.9FM. ‘Wish you were here’

Parade of people; dead-and-in-touch, definitely-alive-but-not-in-touch, running through my head. It is amazing how one can be dead but be everywhere you want them to be and how one can be alive but not be anywhere when you need them the most. I am being selfish in my expectations. All of our priorities are so very personal. Should it hurts when someone is not available in anyway when all you want is to be there for that someone in everyway possible

Over the last two/three months, I have re-connected with old friends. The result was invigorating. We are back in each other’s lives and catch up on what’s cooking in our kitchens, the age tantrums of our kids who collectively are between 2 and 6 years. We knew each other as rambling schoolgirls. Now, all of us are mothers and managers, and life has changed in more ways than one. But still, it feels like homecoming when we all get together through varying time zones and geographies thanks to worldwideweb.

For a while now, I have known someone and a lot has happened over twilight and several shots of tequila. It felt ecstatic. I felt alive. I felt I had to do something about my life, which was in a limbo for years. So, I picked up courage to break away from an abusive relationship of nine years. I walked away from a life hereto familiar but one in which I was comfortably numb. They say when you love someone you ‘want’ to live. And so the journey began. All familiar equations changed. All that I knew till then, fell apart. All those I had known became strangers. Not only did I change the equation for myself, but also for someone I am responsible for. Was it difficult? Oh yes. It isn’t easy to let go of something traumatic when it’s the only thing you have known for a while. Pain at least was familiar. Bliss wasn’t. But the catalyst had arrived and change was inevitable. The days were no longer a laundry lists of ‘tasks-to-complete’. I began to enjoy the sunshine on my drive to work. I began to linger in the moments when I woke up in the morning. I actually thought of taking a vacation and surprisingly worked on it. I began to long for the familiarity, the terms of endearment, the secret jokes that only lovers share, the little intimate idiosyncrasies and the overwhelming joy of loving someone. It energized my mornings and calmed my nights and it made me fall in love with myself. We shared dreams and fantasies. We shared funny stories and laughter. We shared moments made in heaven. We shared passion and fervor. We shared secrets and fears. We shared all that two people in love can.

But..

Martyr's Day!

It was a rather ordinary 30th January morning. Cool not cold. Breezy but not blustery. Only change was the luxury of getting up at 8 instead of the customary 5.30 on a weekday. Today, the schools are closed therefore the blessed few hours of additional bliss. He comes and hugs me. Big smile on his face. The naughty, impish smile that turns me to jell-o. “Happy Birthday Mommy!” I smile. I am a sucker for charm. So there I was’ jell-oed’ and looking at him with adoration that only mothers can garner. More hugs and sloppy kisses. Wonder if all this is for me or because of the school holiday! The morning routine continues and after the usual trials and tribulations I reach my workplace. My team-mates wish with enthused vigour and even my boss remembers to wish. To my credit my ex-boss-turned-mentor also called to wish : ). Among the misses, my best friend forgot (I actually send a mail saying thanks for not wishing!), as did the significant other who did call but much later than I had expected (expected the call at mid night!). A couple of important friends forgot too but with growing age I find it significantly easier to forgive such negligence : ). Among the surprises, was a phone call from someone I met recently and who under normal circumstances isn’t supposed to know this detail about my life. The day proceeded smoothly. I took some of my colleagues out for lunch and it turned out to be quite pleasant.

Between pending work and numerous phone calls the work-day got over. I head home with thoughts jostling in my head. One more year of crucial failures. One more year of dreams-on-hold. One more year of not being where-I-want-to-be. One more year of getting wiser. One more year of living life. One more year of adding to the list of things-I-have-to-do-before-I-die. I think I am tired.

Took the elevator. Reached home. And there they were. Cake. Australian Merlot. Candles. The works. Between Dad and Ro they have arranged all my’ favourites’. The party for four continued till late. Over dinner, Ro promises to buy me a b-i-g diamond ring once he grows up. We laugh for a while. I miss my brother. I miss not being able to share this with someone important. Even as I watch my ‘truncated’ family, I count my blessings. That ‘promise’ was the most beautiful gift anyone could have given me. Life doesn’t dole out these moments. We earn them.

P.S. My best friend send a beautiful note the next day that I would preserve for life : )

filth

Bright brown eyes staring at me from the window. Her shaggy brown locks unkempt and forms a dirty halo around her face. Nose shining with snot. She was all of five, barely reaching the car window. The front left tooth missing in her otherwise bright white smile. I smile back. She looks at me quizzically. I was in fact smiling at the irony of it all.

She was selling boxes of paper tissues that most of us keep handy in our cars to wipe any trace of filth, real or imagined.

But who, I wonder will help us clean our souls.

The morning newspaper just unveiled the Nithari Killing with relish, assured that they have captive readers for the next couple of days and don’t really have to labour over other news items. The girl taps on the window and points at the pink box she was holding in her other hand. 100 rupees for 5 boxes is her last offer. Yes, she is poor, but she isn’t without her dignity. But how long will we allow her the delusion before we steal her soul and sacrifice it at the alter of one or the other human greed? I buy the five boxes (she gives me three pink and two green ones) without having any idea of where to keep them all. Lord! she has everything against her. To be a woman and if that wasn’t enough, to be born in the third world and then to be poor! Does she even have a right to live forget about decency?

The signal changes and the car moves on. Conflicting emotions. The mother in me wants to hold her little hands and take her home and give her a clean bath. The woman in me is indignant at her exposed future that guarantees a life at best sub-human. The Indian in me is ashamed at how easily we accept such stark depravity.

Isn’t it time we really looked at ourselves and cleaned the filth that we have become?

One Fine Day...

I was getting ready to drop Ro to school at unearthly 7 in the morning, which is the usual routine every week day. It was cold and foggy outside. Was making a note to send the car for servicing next week, when I stoped to gaze at the number of black items in my wardrobe. I remember telling someone long back ‘I am a black and white person really but you may never know how much of each!’ Over the years my wardrobe added more black than any other shade. Ma in her thankless effort to get my life on track has arranged all the ‘blacks’ in one row. Too distracted to ponder, I pull out the top-most, disarranging its neat folds. As I hurry to pull it over my head I notice its my old D School sweat shirt. Black. With D School written in white at the top left corner on front and Delhi School of Economics written in monotype corsiva in a semi circle at the back.

The black is faded a little. But the white letters are still bright. In the two years I would have worn it dozens of time but washed it only twice. PGW Hostel didn’t encourage us to have any water intensive rituals! The boys had it worse. They had formed ABC, which stood for Anti Bathing Committee. Hot water was scare and winters were fierce. Which resulted in the popularity of this outfit. The sweatshirt brought back a flood of memories. Friends, crushes (actually only one!), teachers, hang outs, K’nags……two years of jam-packed memories.

On the drive back from his school, I was smiling all by myself. I remember Rashmi and I had met this lad from DefCo infront of the Metro shoe store in K’nags. As usual both of us were in a goofy trip and we were inside the store trying shoes of every possible colour and design and going hysterical looking at each other. There were other shoppers and many were scornful of the rags we were wearing (my sweater was donated by a well-meaning cousin) and our prancing in fashionable high heels. At this point Rush hitchs up her skirt knee high and asks ’Isn’t this sexy, darling?’ She had on a sleek 3 inch black patent leather strappy number that had sequins shaped like a rose near the toes….distractingly pretty pair. Eyes turned and the entire shop was staring, shocked at her utterance and her gesture. The shop assistant asked us to leave in a threatening tone. Anyway by now we were bored so we decided to leave.

Still giggling we step out and bump into this tall guy in a tan leather jacket. We say sorry in unison and he smiles and asks ‘Are you guys ok?’ ‘Perrrrrfect’ Rush says with that drawl. I am admiring his jacket. Now, Rush is a good 4 inches shorter than me…and with her slim body can be classified as petite if not short. We look like two stow-aways in the middle of the hustling kamlanagar market. We turn to head towards the campus. He walks with us. Says, 'Its getting dark will you guys be ok all by yourself?’ No Baby we neeeeeeeed you to carry us both back to the hostel on your shoulders like Hanuman!! Ofcourse I didn’t say it but I really wanted to!! Rush ofcourse is more charming than me and definitely more charitable. She smiles and says ‘Thank you, but we would be fine…’ and turns and hops into the nearest cycle rickshaw before any one of us including the rickshawalla could react. I climb in tamely and this lad is still standing at the edge of the pavement looking confused. Mother Teresa that she was, Rush waves at him and says ‘I don’t know your name but why don’t we meet at Nirulas tomorrow?’ She doesn’t even wait for his reply. The rickshaw moves on. I try hard not to look back to see the fellow's reaction. Half way through we are laughing our guts out and Rush announces ‘Tomorrow we are coming back here at 6’. The thrill has caught on with me too so I was hardly in a mood to contradict.

Next evening, we wear what we considered our slutty best (she in a shoooort denim skirt and a white embroidered top that emphasized her ‘petiteness’ and me in black trousers and green cashmere that clung dangerously tight and I wore heels which I thought made me look sleek!) and turn up in k’nags waiting for Rush’s amour. Rush is right as usual. As we walk down towards Nirulas there he was waiting next to the staircase. (got to admit, he looked quite the stud!) We smile. He is a little flushed. ‘Lets have icecream’ he says. We don’t even know his name! We go inside and find a place to sit. Eager beaver asks what we would have. Rush orders a sundae that looked pathetic. I just wanted a chocolate chip. Holding our icecreams, we start talking. Vishal Saxena. 27. Stays in DefCo. Studied in KMC. Now helping his dad in his export business and yes he drives a Toyota. He tells us about his family, his little sister who looks like me. (he lost me at this point…) How he wanted to study further but his family wanted him to join their business. Except for his medical history his entire life span was out over an icecream. Rush listens without interrupting and I am fidgeting without making any attempt to hide it. He says I have beautiful eyes and anyone can watch me smile for hours. Then he gazes at Rush like a lost puppy and says she has an angelic face and heart to match. We smile. Rush touches his hand and says ‘Vishal you are a great guy but we really have to get back to the hostel or else we would get thrown out’. She says that with the right amount of pathos in her tone. Vishal ofcourse offers to drop us to the hostel, which is about 3 kms away. We get in his Toyota. Rush sits next to him and me behind him. We have a little more of the Vishal-life-story and he suggests that we go to Ghungroo the next weekend. He gives us his card and tells me that he would take me to his house to meet his sister (the one that looks like me). We reach the hostel and get out of the car. Vishal walks till the gate. ‘Call me anytime you need anything’ he says. We nod. Get inside the gate and head for Rush’s room. I had promised to help her pack. She was leaving the next day for our winter break and I the day after.

We returned post vacation full of stories of home. We met up in her room the day we returned. Vishal’s card was still there on Rush’s study desk. She got rid of it the next day. Somewhere both of us felt a sense of guilt of a prank gone awry. We never saw or discussed Vishal again. Then ofcourse I never saw Rush after I left Delhi...and she went back to her hometown to get married..

tabula rasa?

I saw him today. As he was the day I saw him last. The day he died.

We had been to the new mall near my home. Ro, Baba and I. Three mismatched personalities with equally mismatched agenda. Ro was of course fixed on a crazy contraption called the yo-yo. How is it different from the one at home? This has twinkling red lights that glimmer every time it rolls down. Magnificent men and their equally magnificent machines! So that was Ro. Baba, was carrying a list that Ma had recited in the morning. Spill-proof table cover (both Baba and Ro are legendary spillers….and now with two spillers in the family Ma was finding it difficult to maintain her Martha Stewart standards of neatness), Next was pillow covers (I though she has enough ‘bedding’ to run a cyclone shelter). As it was Baba forgot the rest of the list that had cornflakes and cream-crackers (he of course heard his well-earned share of ‘earful’ from Ma when we returned). Oh he also bought a fake fleece jacket that Ma didn’t have the heart to comment on. Old age does have its luxuries! Though calling Baba old would be an oxymoron of sorts. His inquisitiveness for anything new never fails to amaze me and the only other person who can match it is Ro. So they make a rather odd pair…one with grey hair in his 60s the other with boundless energy and a motor-mouth all of 6…..but both in matching shorts and with competitive enthusiasm for the next mischief. It’s usually Ma who mediates between the two as I politely decline any such position of honour. Her preference for Ro is apparent to all but it is she they seek for mitigation.

Anyway coming back to the much happening mall, I of course picked up some clothes (Ma has been hinting that I have more clothes than I would need in the next 20 years but well they were cheaper than elsewhere and I am very good at soothing my guilt…and hasn’t she heard of retail therapy?) So there we were at the mall…..three disparate generations of divergent aesthetic sense. Ro had his yo-yo and beyblade and Baba had his jacket and other household essentials and me of course had an assortment of things that maxed the bill. At the counter, Baba and I both contended to pay but finally I let him with the assurance that I will pay him my share by cash sometime in the future. Bill settled, we trudged to the basement car park and headed home. I mentally readied myself for Ma’s comments on my ’lux‘ purchases. With the shopping exploits unraveled, Ma immediately categorized them and decided which goes in where. She has this innate ability to categorize, group, organize and store things in a meticulous manner that always made me wonder if, despite her B.Tech, she aspired to be in library science! Or maybe it is a cancerian trait although none of it is apparent in Ro so far.

We talked about the morning at the mall over lunch and being a Sunday we could afford to laze over it and finished with a bowl of icecream! Then it was time for the afternoon siesta. I read a few pages of the Margaret Atwood that I was reading for the past couple of days. Interesting book full of intrigue and deceit. Somewhere in the late afternoon, I would have dozed off with Ro sleeping next to me.

Ok from here on it gets crazy so bear with my incoherence.

Part I

Ro and I are on my bed in our current home, sleeping. And I am dreaming of my old house in Lake Gardens back in Kolkata. There are people I know but cannot remember who they are, in our balcony facing the main road. It was a spacious balcony on the 2nd floor where bro and I spend many an afternoon plotting and planning many of our nefarious schemes that were the high points of our childhood. They are talking among themselves and I don’t want to distract them. I am in the room to which the said balcony is attached. This used to be our bedroom when we were children and had a huge bed that as children we shared. So I am in this room with a man whose face is indistinct but he is tall. He is speaking to me. Endearing words that someone in the recent past spoke. Exact same words. Words that make me happy. Words that make me smolder. He hold my hands and we embrace. At this point, I become aware that Baba is approaching this room, walking briskly through the connecting corridor that was a long passage that connected every room in the house. Baba’s room was on the other end of the corridor and he is steadily crossing the living room, the dinning room. Then my room. I quickly close the door to my room. The man disengages reluctantly and on my insistence hurries off to the balcony. Though how he leaves the balcony perched on the 2nd floor, I never got to find out. Baba enters my room and tells me something to do with how the things are in disarray in my room. Cut.

Part II

I am in a mall not any different from the one that we visited in the morning. It’s not particularly crowded as in there is not jostling. I am holding the shopping cart and its half filled with this and that. I am standing in the middle of an aisle probably trying to decide which section next. Suddenly I see him. I detect something moving towards my right. I turn and there he is walking real fast towards me. He has a harried look on his face. Not one of terror but of panic. Something is following him. He tries to tell me something. Fragments of a second. I remember thinking how can it be him. He is dead and I know that. But he keeps walking fast and closing. Then his face is inches away and I can even smell the slight tobacco breathe. Then we collide. I lose my balance slightly and say ‘Hey watch out!’ But by then he coalesces in. In me. I know I am a sucker for sci-fi. He and I grew up on a diet of Star Trek and then Star Wars…we even were quiet addicted to Jonny Soko and his Flying Robot. As adults, we would watch the Trilogy whenever I stayed over and he would play the Imperial March on his Yamaha with passion and precision. It was something we both loved and we would spend nights laughing over his dreams. He always dreamt of animated cartoon characters (and I suspect his dreams were animated too…). The common theme of most of his dreams were aliens attacking our Lake Gardens house crawling down from the parapet after landing on our terrace in the darkness of the night and he bravely fighting back with his ingenious wit and skill. He would tell me these episodes (and each one was different) with precise details and sincere emotion. To him this was as real as my ‘being-chased-by-a-white-cow-over-stairs-and-terraces’ were to me.

Part III

I am back on my bed with Ro sleeping next to me less than a foot away. I am sleeping on my side turned to face Ro. I feel pressure. Invisible hands pressing me down on the bed. Strong hands on my legs, my hip, my waist and my shoulders. I struggle to free myself but I am unable to move. More I struggle the stronger the force of the hands. I try to scream. No sound. I manage a few low garbled grunts. With the sounds the pressure of the hands lessen slightly but not enough to let me move. My eyes are open I try to scream and wake Ro hoping his screams would make the hands disappear. My voice chokes and…..I hear my phone ring. My hands are free and I grab the phone and flip it open to hear DS cheerfully say ‘hello….afternoon siesta?’ There is static. One heartbeat. Is this still dream?

I am completely awake now. Awake for real. I ask DS about his bus ride. He says he would reach in a couple of hours. I tell him about the dream. I look out of the window at the gloomy and darkening sky. I tell him how much I hate evenings. They leave me melancholy. Something he must have heard a million times already. He tells me to take Ro out and go and have a burger at Mc Donald. Or something that would cheer the both of us. I tell him I need to talk to Ma. I have never ‘seen’ him since he is gone. Not even when I really wanted to. Nights that I spent thinking of our shared childhood. Listening to the music we so passionately collected (we used to fight over it and now they are all mine). Lying on his bed trying to imagine how he would have felt during the last few minutes.

Why was he here today?

Simhasta…shashi shekhara…marakata preksha…his clear melodious voice wafts through the house as he sings unconsciously while twisting the playing clay into an unsightly pink caterpillar.

Last year. Shashti evening. There we were, the entire troupe. Seven of us crowding the stage. He was there too sitting diagonally behind me. White panjabi and pajama with gold buttons dazzling. Dida had given the buttons as ashirbaad when he was born one rainy July evening. The pajama had to be folded and so had to be the sleeves of the panjabi. They didn’t have his size. ‘Itna chota larka ke liye nahin hai’. White panjabi apparently starts from size 7 which are for 7 year old and above and he was only 5 and a thin 5 at that. Get real I tell myself. This is not Kolkata. There they would have white panjabi even for a new born!

The pajama till his knees and the back of the panjabi already sports huge splotches of mud brown. It had rained an hour back and obviously he has made the most of it by running around in the muck that the ground had become. Thankfully it doesn’t show when he is sitting on stage with his legs folded like a pretzel.

For the entire month he has religiously accompanied me for the rehearsals and knew the songs by heart. Most were amazed as how he could pronounce the long difficult sanskrit words with ease but tripped on much simpler bangla. Men irrespective of their age will always remain an enigma to me.

The agomoni is on its way and we concentrate on the sequence and pray we don’t miss our respective cues. Almost towards the end, in the middle of the song I feel a nudge on my back. Ignore. The song is not over yet. Next comes the frantic tug on my sari anchal. Ignore again. I fumble on the words and almost miss the third line of the second last para. Suddenly. All eyes are on the left corner of the stage. I pray. Thank you, Durga Ma. No one noticed my near miss. Except of course for my mother but well she wasn’t sitting there that day. Life was good despite the occasional hiccups. But why is everybody looking at the wrong end of the stage? And why are they smiling? I freeze. There he was, mud splotches and all ambling towards the fore corner of the stage and gesturing to no one in particular that he wants to take a leak. Little finger waving just like they have taught him in school. The light guys are localities and in their inability to comprehend the language thought this must be a part of the show and shine a bright focus light on him. The people sitting on the first row were trying hard not to roll on the floor and I did hear a gushing ‘Oh! he is so cuteeeee!” The rest of the troupe is staring at me and I was hoping I transform into a thermocol cutout that they have decorated the stage with. Why me? I have never been faithless, atleast during the Pujo. Then why me? A family member finally carries him offstage and I can’t pretty much figure what happened after that.

The song got over and so did the program. We clear the stage for the next performers. My face had turned as red as the border of my sari. I find him. Stillness. I am finding it difficult to form words in my head. He runs towards me with a cotton candy in his right hand and a big smile. “Mommy, see this is pink like your face!” Then he hugs me. His hands around my waist. His head nuzzling my stomach. My eyes sting. I look at Ma Durga. Isn’t she smiling? Or it must be the tears…