Inanity thy name

Today, I got out of work in the afternoon and dropped in to my regular beauty salon. My favourite girl (ok…this sounds corny, but she really is a doll!) is tending to one young metrosextual male with blonde streaks (I guess only males are called metrosexual…whoever heard of metrosexual women?) She smiled and asks me to have a seat and wait for a while as she was in the middle of a manicure session. I curse myself for not taking an appointment as I carelessly flip through the latest copy of Femina.

As I look around, there’s this young girl all of 5, having an adult dialogue with the attending hairstylist while the mother watches with pride. Now, don’t get me wrong. I have a huge thing for little girls. They melt my heart and make me desperate for a daughter despite the small issue that a man is required for the process. However, this one is really cute and she knew that. She had sweet-talked the salon girl into putting strawberry nail paint for her. I watch them leave with mixed emotions. At her age, I didn’t even know nail paints existed. But maybe she will grow up more confident than I am even at my age.

Lost in thought I watch a familiar figure loom close. I reluctantly manage a smile.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. Her tone overtly patronizing.

This lady is an old acquaintance. I don’t know her enough to hate her but I know enough to avoid her company. Coming back to her question, what does it mean?

• She doubts whether I can afford this?
• Am I too ugly for this place?
• Did I ever sign a contact with her not to use the same salon?

I run through possible answers in my head.

I come here to letch at the men.

I am an apprentice here.

Ohhh My God! I thought this was the library!

I loveeee the music they play!

“I am doing a sex survey.” is what I finally say with exaggerated politeness.

The metrosextual is clearly smirking. The lady at the counter tries desperately to hide her smile. At last, Her Highness gets it. Turns and leaves without a goodbye.

It must have been my smile.

Now, you can call me a bitch, but my tolerance for inanity is close to zero.

Do you think I need help?

Smoke Signal?

A law to ban smoking in public places could save more lives more quickly than the development of a single new anti-cancer drug - according to Cancer Research UK.

The Indian Government finally seems to have woken up to this reality and has announced a definitive plan to ban public smoking in Delhi and Mumbai by 2009. The announcement is a welcome move. But how far this will be successfully implemented is a matter of debate.

According to the World Health Organisation, tobacco causes one in 10 deaths worldwide which translates to someone in the world dying of a smoking-related disease, every eight seconds.

Overwhelmed?

Consider this.

By 2010, it is estimated that the annual global cost of tobacco use will be half a trillion USD. This is more money than the combined Gross Domestic Product (GDP) of 174 of the 192 member countries of the United Nations.

In India, the cigarette market is growing at around 4% every year, but what is more worrying is that the non smoking tobacco segment, including guthka, chewing tobacco, zarda, has seen 15 per cent growth. The hike in excise duties on both cigerette and bidis in this year’s budget maynot dent either the production or the consumption pattern. Also, it maybe too soon to comment. Just like every-where-else in the ‘developing world’, the tobacco lobby is strong and would have a covet operation plan to counter this move by the government.

Personally, to smoke or not is a matter of individual choice. But in a public setting this freedom of choice need not exist. I am reassured that the Government is taking this into cognizance and taking steps towards smoke-free public space.

Sorry folks. Smoke, if you have to. Just keep your butt out of our public places.

A lot has been written about the Flat World. And as the world stands today, a lot more would be written in the days to come. My CEO, a man I respect immensely both as a professional and as a person, has gone gaga over Friedman for over a year now. Every time I have met him since (and I meet him often) he has mentioned Flat World in some context or the other. He has even loaned me his author-signed copy to read. Subsequently, I have meet new people who live and breathe this phenomenon. This, it would seem has become the unauthorized bible of the new free world. (Amen!)

The gradually unfolding events do make it apparent that the world is indeed getting flatter. My humble opinion is limited to the question, how much flat is desirable and are we geared enough to manage the various dimensions of the fallout. However, we shall leave that for another post.

Niladri’s post got me thinking, personally how have I experienced the Flat World?

I remember my last trip abroaad and my desperate attempt to buy something ‘Made in USA’ for the folks back home, which did not burn a hole in my pocket. But everything that was affordable had ‘Made in Some-where-else’ tag and that left me trifle irritated. My Lee was cheaper in Bangalore. My Godivas were available at comparable rates with my friendly Brigade Road store and where I didn’t have to face the custom officer’s disapproving look at my sinful chocolate pile (If chocolates were sin, I am a sinner many times over!) Even, my Estee Lauders were a whiff away in the city malls.

Therefore I decided to try elsewhere. Finally I was gifted a Dreamcatcher. I was thrilled to find the ‘love’ Dreamcatcher that I had carefully researched. 25 USD. That’s expensive for a contraption of messily woven threads on a wooden frame with a few eagle feathers (!) hanging at the edge. You don't bargain in Reservation Area, I was told.  Moreover, this was a Dreamcatcher! It’s supposed to bring luck. And no one bargains with luck. I feel a shiver down my spine. This is it, I think. The package is wrapped carefully and I treat it like a pirate’s treasure till I unwrap it back home and discover this tiny tag. ‘Designed by local artists in AZ, USA. Made in China’.

I still have the Dreamcatcher hanging in my room over my bed but being of chinese origin, it miserably failed to ‘capture the heart's desire in my dreams’ as otherwise I believe it would have!

Long Live the Flat World!

Take off from an SMS

Celebration means....

Hundred bucks of petrol.

A rusty old bike.

And an open road.

Celebration means....

Maggi noodles.

A hostel room.

4.25 a.m.

Celebration means....

4 old friends.

4 separate cities.

4 coffee mugs.

1 internet messenger.

To all the Men

You showed me the stars and how to reach them. I lost my coordinates for a while when you died. Want you to know despite all the mess, I will make something of my life. Like you did. I will find my way too. I love you.

You never said you love me. When I slipped, it hurt. But you sheltered me when I was abandoned. You gave me hope when the world shunned me. You took up my cause when I was broken. I never said I love you either. But I do.

You taught me how to love unconditionally. From the blue-eyed stray kitten you brought home when you were five to holding my hand when I wasn’t strong enough. Death cannot take you away from me. In my heart you will always live. I love you.

You made me complete. You wrapped your tiny fingers around mine and we fell in love. When I look at you, I know my life has a purpose. You give me faith. I love you.

You gave me your friendship. You stood by me in my pain. With you I learnt to give myself. My friend. I love you.

You reached out to me. You made me a woman. You made me love myself. You gave me your wisdom and your passion. But fool I will always be. Want you to know that I love you in my fashion.

You gave me the courage to be selfish. You held me and I dared to dream again. You abandoned me when I was most vulnerable. But, perhaps that’s the only way to be. I walk again. I will love again. For that, I will always love you.

Last Night

Driving through blinding rain, she gets mesmerized by the incessant drops falling on the windscreen. Splatter. Splatter. Splatter. Swishh! ‘Get off, you scoundrels’ the wipers seem to be saying. But the drops are defiant. The high beam of the truck opposite, shines on the persistent splattering drops. Pure liquid gold. Falling. Scattering. Disappearing.

Hypnotised.

She barely hears the loud screech. The rain has forced her to keep the windows up. The audio system plays ‘Drops of Jupiter’ loud enough to shut the world out. Suddenly she sees the teary red tail light of the truck. No time for a prayer. She holds the wheel tight. Brakes hard to avoid a head on. The car swerves madly. The rubber slips on the sheet of water and finally comes to a screeching halt blocking the cars on the next lane. The drivers honk with alarm. She looks up apologetically. Her heart beating fast. This was close. Would have been fatal if the others were not alert. She thinks of the child waiting for her at home. She promises to be careful.

The Great Pretender

It was the lie.

She had told him and he believed. Her words. Her voice. Her life. Her joys. Her pain. Her passion. Her dreams.

She found herself. She knew she belonged. She knew she was loved. Across space and time he reached her heart.

She lived.

But. She wasn’t her. That was the lie.

A lie that took all of it from her. His words. His wisdom. His pain. His passion. His joys.

She was left. Alone again.

Janie’s Got a Gun

17/04/07. ABC News Cho Seung-Hui is a 23-year-old resident alien of the United States, a Virginia Tech senior majoring in English and the man who killed 33 people — including himself — on the Virginia Tech campus on Monday.

Over a conversation yesterday with a friend in LA, she expressed that she is scared to send her 5 year old to school since the campuses are becoming so violent. All this when I am hoping the world becomes a safer place for all my children.

Couple of questions:

1. Who will take the social responsibility for the deaths now that the killer is dead?

2. Agreed guns don’t kill people, people kill people but would some body wake up and make access to firearms difficult in the US of A?

3. Is it fair to assume that all consenting adults have the ability to hold reasonable judgment at all times when given easy access to kill another?

4. If yes, then why is US crying hoarse over North Korea’s/any-other-nation’s nuclear program? (I would assume that people taking decisions on nuking another nation have more control over their emotion and judgment and more time to deliberate than the average Joe who have a gun in their back pocket)

5. If the killer had say a switchblade instead of an automatic, the death toll would have been lesser?

6. Is it fair to highlight that the killer is not of American origin? Is redemption easier if he was?

7. Levitt says swimming pools statistically, claim more lives of children below 10 years than do guns. Will extending that argument trivialize the issue on hand?

8. Agreed bold policy decisions often influence ground realities like crime rate (abortion and its cumulative downstream effect on crime rate and here we are talking about US). But are we seriously analyzing the increase in the rate of first-time viz a vie repeat offenders across the various nations? And what are the correlations there?

9. Is it practical to police a campus?

10. Is it practical to do a socio-psychological profiling of all students?

11. Flat world is fine when it is with commodities (I have reservations here too). But the same in case of people/talent brings in socio-cultural challenges. Are we doing enough to address this?

12. Will this affect the immigration laws?

On a more personal note, I went to a school that had the following distinctions:

1. More students per square foot than the written words. (got a Guinness book mention no less)

2. An environment that stifled creativity and encouraged as Niladri said intellectual apartheid.

3. Apathetic teachers with only a few exceptions.

4. And all this in what was supposedly one of the better schools at that time.

Consequently, the level of frustration was high. In fact, my guilt-tripping, value-oriented upbringing did not debilitate me from plotting a plan to blow up the school before a physics test. We plotted and planned (while the blessed lot studied) but eventually it didn’t fructify because of a design flaw (the standby power generator room was too far away from the main building) and the fact that we did not have access to the primary raw materials required for the fire show. At the end, I got 82/100 in the said test. I went on to study in DSE and have a job that I love. If we had access and license to destabilize lives, I would have had a life term in prison.

I am making a limited point here.

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?