Day 1 of 1

Three and a half years back I’d embarked on a personal project – 112 days of writing on my blog – a simple way of distracting myself from the fact that I had to spend those 112 days away from the Fellow. Little did I know that something as simple as this would bring with it a friend I’ve come to love a little bit more each day.

It began with comments on what I would write each day. And even those came much later, after weeks of stalking and mutual admiration (I would also follow his blog regularly). Somewhere along the way we got to talking away from the blogosphere. And the rest is history - dotted with some crazy lunches, insane amounts of laughter, even more food, weekend getaways and some seriously embarrassing videos on the internet.  

Age difference notwithstanding, I found it very easy to talk to him. Okay, so a lot of the talking involved problem solving and/or gyaan giving. But if you knew the stupid things he’d done and would then tell me about, you’d know I had no choice in the matter really. And it turned out that he gave the best hugs. Definitely a keeper.

As the months passed, he took control of his life, made important decisions, corrected stupid mistakes and didn’t bother cutting his hair or shaving his beard. Somewhere along this path to new awareness and more facial hair I became his therapist, for want of a better word. Of course, telling him to grow up and stop whining like a girl is not a method you’d find in any reference text. But it worked.

Yesterday, he grew up, this friend of mine.

And while I couldn’t be there in person to see this eternal 8 year old make one of the most difficult commitments there is to make, I knew he’d be doing it without a moment of doubt in his mind. After all he’d be crazy not to realise he was lucky to be bound by law and at least 2 different pandits to the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Today was day one of a new life.

And in honour of how we met, Day 1 of 1.

Growing Up. Or Not.

Note: What you're about to read is just my opinion. Please do not inundate me with comments justifying your lifestyle and decisions you make. The internet is not meant to be taken this seriously.

It's in fashion these days to complain. The weather, the prices, our politicians, the economy, public transport, no public transport, parents, traffic, a chipped nail, the neighbour's dog, the boss' wife...

Most of the times there is just cause for complaint. I mean, a chipped nail can be extremely annoying. Everyone knows that. But in most other cases, it's just the cool thing to complain. How else will you be part of a group? Belong? Today, accepting and proclaiming that you're content and happy with your life is extremely uncool. And what is happening because of this, is that people are hoping they have unsatisfactory lives, just so they get to complain about it. Not that people have a problem being fake. But still. 

Everywhere i look, there are people holding onto things they did 10 yrs back, hoping that if they don't think about it, they won't have to grow up. And i personally believe that if, as a 30 yr old, you insist on behaving and thinking like a 19 yr old, you're going to have a hell lot to complain about. Especially if your peer group has evolved over the years and has moved beyond drink fests, casual flings and dissing long term commitments. 

A lot of "free thinking" people might suggest that it's only in India that such pressure exists for people to settle down, as it were. I disagree. It's just that here, we are more vocal about such things and families and relatives are actively involved in the process. Intrusive even. But the pressure exists around the world. 

The latest in trends these days, is to complain about all the people getting engaged/married/pregnant. But if you're 30+, single and complaining about these things, it's simply because you haven't grown up enough to make such commitments. I'm not saying that everyone should be hitched and or ready to be a parent by 30. But if you mock those who are, it says a lot about you and not the other person.

And that's all i have to say.

*end of rant*

In the Air

So jaded and cynical we have become of life that we’ve forgotten to look for the small joys, hidden as they are. It took me an hour long flight to Ahmedabad to realise this sad truth of our allegedly superior city living.

On the flight was a group of elderly women, on their first plane journey. That they were from a village was obvious from their attire and the fact that excitement hung over their seats like a happy cloud with rainbows streaking through. As the aircraft taxied for take-off, most of the passengers leaned back in their seats, eyes closed, preparing for what was a routine experience. Not these ladies. Childish giggling and whispers could be heard from them even as the aircraft picked up speed and leapt into the air. Oh how I wished at that time that it was my first airplane ride, just so that I could share in what those women were experiencing – unbridled pleasure and glee, untouched by the fake expressions city folk have gotten used to, as they saw the city growing smaller and smaller before their eyes and getting enveloped by fluffy white clouds broken only by arrows of sunshine. Of course, they were also the only ones on the entire aircraft who actually heard what the cabin crew was saying about safety procedures, even looking shocked at the idea of emergency landings.

As we flew to Ahmedabad, I don’t think any of these women sat back in her seat even once. All of them kept leaning towards the window, trying to get a look outside. At one point a cramped version of musical chairs happened when the women exchanged seats so that everyone could get a chance by the window. So much fun. And when the food trolley passed by, it was simply hilarious, their expressions, at hearing the cost of samosas and chai. Of course, there were some aware people in the group. They chose to lecture their friends on how to appear cool about prices when sitting in an aeroplane.

And then there was the new experience of going to the toilet in the air. I think they were waiting for someone to go first, all of them being a little shy. But as soon as the first one got up to go, all of them did. And their faces when they came back! I never realised that the cramped tiny space that passes for a restroom in airplanes could be so fascinating. Of course, i think that some of them went into the lavatory only to be able to describe it for years to come.

On landing, the women burst into spontaneous applause and laughter. Unable to control my curiosity any longer, I leaned forward and asked one of the men accompanying them what this was all about. And the answer thrilled me to no end. These women were all from the same village, most of them related to each other. The men accompanying them were sons, nephews, grandsons who’d decided to give them the experience of a lifetime. Since these women had only heard about, seen planes on tv and in magazines, they’d decided to fly them from Pune to Ahmedabad. In fact, the group was scheduled to take the evening train back to Pune the very same day, having had the best time of their life already.

I’m glad I was on the plane that day. Even today, thinking about that journey, I smile. And I remind myself that flying up there with the clouds is something to be excited about, no matter how jaded I might be on ground. 

Once the seatbelt sign was off, they stood up to look at the clouds  

Preparing to get off the aircraft

Group Photo

For the First Time...

...I’ve felt bad for people living in Bombay. Okay, maybe I feel bad for them (and myself) each time I’m stuck in a horrendous traffic jam in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, but today I felt sorry for them. An emotion I’d never thought I would feel.

I say them because I don’t live here anymore. Technically. Yes, I may spend quite a lot of time in this city and Bombay will always be home, but I’ve experienced life outside of potholes and traffic jams and muggy weather that makes you want to kill yourself every other day. And I grudgingly accept that it feels good. Sure, I miss the comforts of having everything at your doorstep, and I definitely miss the food. But I’m beginning to realise these are luxuries one can live without.

But I get ahead of myself here. What inspired such feelings was wanting to assuage the building guilt (of living on mithai for the last 2 weeks) by heading out for a walk. But as soon as I’d decided on resuming my evening ritual, I was faced with the problem of where to go. The beach was too wet and littered with plastic from the sea, the roads near home too full of open manholes, crazy traffic and crateresque (yes, it’s a word) potholes. Not to speak of the million and one construction sites that have left a permanent haze of concrete dust in the air. That left a joggers park with a round walking track of some 200 metres as my only option.

So the grandmom (forcibly taken for some exercise) and I get to the park and I realise that (a) all of the senior citizen population of the area were there and (b) most of the under 40 were there too. Walking the track was like walking on Churchgate station at 5.30 pm, dodging people right left and centre in an attempt to get ahead. Of course, most of the elderly were sitting on chairs provided in the park, content to take in some greenery and fresh air and gossip for an hour or two with friends. Some of them were brave enough to venture out for a walk, making their way around the track slowly and steadily. Then there were those who were obviously there on medical advice. There was also the category of walkers who seemed to have lost their way, standing out in their jeans and fancy kurtis. Which left the serious walkers, children and maids with babies in prams.

And this is when I felt sorry for people living in Bombay. And myself. I missed the luxury of stepping out of my house and having all the space in the world to go for a walk. I missed the fresh air, the absence of traffic, the long winding lanes I could go down without worrying about potholes and open drains. I felt sorry for the people in the park then, who had to search for a patch of green and some place to walk without worrying about getting hit by a speeding car. I felt bad for the children who couldn’t run around carefree and untroubled, restricted by the rules of the park and limited to a pair of swings. And I felt some relief that I wasn’t living in Bombay anymore.

Because I can’t imagine being bound by concrete and traffic anymore.

Musings in the Dark

For the last hour or so, every 20 minutes, we're plunged into darkness. And silence. Except for the beeping of the UPS and the crickets outside the window. Lit up only by my computer screen and the iPad in the Fellow's hands, the house seems seamless. 

And then the Fellow asks, "What would you do if we were to live without electricity?" I told him we'd light loads of candles and read. Maybe bring out the board games. But he persisted. "Not for a few minutes or hours, but starting now, if you had to go without electricity then what?" 

I told him we would adapt. Like generations before us. Only this time, we'd be adapting to living without electricity as opposed to getting used to it. Adapting to changing times (and technology) is the only reason humans are still around. Otherwise there wouldn't even be a stone age man right? And i'm pretty certain that when electricity  was first brought into the house for things as innocuous as light bulbs, it wasn't received with open, welcoming arms. I'm pretty sure people clung on to their natural light sources as long as they could. 

If today, we're plunged into a world without electricity, I'm quite sure that a lot of us will  cling on to the last vestiges of the battery life on all of our gadgets with as much emotion as Nirupa Roy held her dying sons to her bosom. And then will begin the withdrawal symptoms. But eventually, and i'm guessing it won't take too long, we'll get used to it. We'll adapt. Our grandmoms didn't need a mixer grinder to make the most awesome food ever. We'll learn. We might even start talking to each other over dinner. And trusting the other when a time and place are decided to meet up at, instead of making 15 phone calls in 7 minutes asking where the other person is. 

And then there is all the quiet we'll have. Do you know how much noise all our electrical gadgets make? You realise this only when you have a power cut and you can suddenly hear nature in all it's glory. Yes, even in a city like Bombay. 

But this is all hypothetical. And thought of only because the Fellow was thinking aloud. What do you think? Would you be able to live in a world without electricity?

Not To Jinx It, But...

...life is good right now. And i'm quite surprised by how content i'm feeling. Maybe it's something to do with putting up lamps all over the house and revelling in the soft light every evening that lends itself to a calm and happy state of mind. Or it's the fact that i've been spending quite some time in the kitchen revisiting my love for cooking and feeding people (while knowing that it's not a daily affair). It could also be the fact that regardless of everything i've been through in the past, I seem to have landed on my feet (in your face everyone who thought otherwise. Ha!) and haven't made the biggest mistake of at least a couple of lives. Of course, it might simply be the new medication i'm on. 

Whatever the reasons, i'm not complaining.

Alone

He was envied by his colleagues and loved by his friends. His presence made any party more fun to be at. His was one of those charming personalities you read about in books and success stories. Wherever he went, he left behind a trail of unbridled laughter and fond memories. Everyone he met believed they held a special place in his life. Over the years he'd become, for a lot of his acquaintance, that one constant in their lives. He was their anchor, their shoulder to cry upon, the one person they knew who could be counted upon. 

And yet, he was alone. Disconnected from everyone around him. Sure, he knew a lot of people. But did anyone know him? Did anyone know who he was behind the smile and the one-liners? His fears and hopes? His frustrations and joys? Where could he turn to for support? Who was his anchor? On difficult days, where it seemed like all he ever did was help others through their problems, the weight of the world would descend on his shoulders and envelope him in a shroud of depression. The feeling of loneliness was never more magnified than at such times. Left alone with his thoughts, he felt he was definitely going crazy. The despair, the feeling of giving up, that gnawing sensation of having no one who cared enough. The morbidity of the situation came upon him like a hailstorm in June, leaving him breathless. No sane person would feel this way surely? 

But maybe it was normal to feel this way. Maybe he had to be insane to not want somebody by his side. to know him, not for his fabulous lifestyle, but for who he was once the parties were over and real life began. Maybe he had to feel this way so that he knew what he was missing. The one thing that would fill that void he'd begun to sense more often than before. The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle. The anchor in his life. The shoulder he needed. 

The Anatomy of Pants

The biggest trial in my life is shopping for pants. I avoid it like the plague and i dread having to go buy jeans, linen pants or even formal trousers. Why? Because they don't make them for normal women anymore. And while people may have doubts about the normalcy of my mental state, i'd like to believe that physically, i could be categorized as normal. Whatever normal is. 

So i'm neither thin nor obese. I'm what they call *khaate peete ghar ki* or *healthy* (in the most euphemistic way). That, coupled with the curse of the Indian body type (which was designed, i think, only for sarees), makes it nigh impossible to find that perfect pair of pants. Why?

Because pants have a mind of their own. Which is as messed up as the people designing them.

Pants today look good only on the mannequins wearing them. Which means, that for those same pants to look good on a human, she needs to have proportions like that - extra long legs, almost no ass, a tiny waist. And what do I have? Neither of the above. Suffice to say, it's sheer torture inside the dressing room.

With formal trousers i never know what i'm supposed to look like. Maybe because i still haven't managed to find a good pair in all these years. There seems to be nothing out there that doesnt make me look like a short dumpling with a giant bottom. And if my derriere does look good in a pair, the thunder thighs grab your attention. No, don't visualise it. I can't afford your therapy. 

And don't even get me started on jeans. The problem starts much before the trial rooms. For some reason that i seem to have too much sense to understand, people manufacturing jeans have all decided that wanting a pair of jeans that actually reaches the waist is like asking for the moon and a couple of stars. No really. Try looking for  a pair of jeans that is mid-waist. The sales people will look at you with pity. Almost everything out there (at least in the women's section) is low waist. Straight leg, slim leg, boot cut, all in low waist. And pardon me if i'm being difficult, but i really have no interest in joining the group of women who make you cringe every time they sit, bend or do anything but stand ramrod straight. You know *exactly* what i'm talking about don't you? Yes. That.

So yeah, i hate shopping for pants. They just don't respect fat. Or being healthy as i'd like to call it. And if you're a skinny female reading this, please to not try and disagree with me. I might decide to sit on you and you know you will break. 

An Uphill Task

I love Shimla. It's where the Fellow grew up and I can't help love a place that has so many awesome memories, even if they don't belong to me. It's as different as could be from where i grew up, in Bombay. And so while i walked to school through the gallis in Juhu scheme, the Fellow ran through a forest. My after school activity mainly involved walking back through the same lanes and standing in front of my building gate, gossiping with friends. The fellow would go berry picking, coming back home with a full stomach and a happily juice-stained uniform. I grew up on vada pav, he did on momos (and rajma). My vacations were spent in the land of camels and sand while he went into the snow clad mountains and in the midst of apple orchards. 

But most importantly, he spent his formative years walking. Apparently in the Shimla of 20 yrs back, cars were primarily used by government officials to and from work. Other than that, everyone walked everywhere - to school, to the market, or even across town to meet a relative. Now, of course, cars have caught up with this mountain town. And instead of walking, you simply hop into your car and drive places. Which is a very good thing for me. No, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against fresh mountain air. I even enjoy it once in a while. It's just that i prefer my walking to happen as a dash across churchgate station when there is a minute for the Borivali fast to go. Or as a whole day spent walking around Colaba. What i can't do, is walk around Shimla. No wait. Correction. What i can't do, is walk uphill in Shimla.

Please note that i can walk uphill on a treadmill without too much of a problem (at least it wasn't too much trouble the one time i tried it) It's when the upward slope is combined with a rarity of oxygen my lungs are not used to that i'm in trouble. I mean, i grew up at sea level and here i was, panting my way up a mountain at 8000 ft above that. Obviously i was going to start drawing up my will. Of course, there is that little factor called weight that i carry around, which can only make the uphill walk worse. How? Well, let's just say that  i fear the burn in my lungs will result in internal combustion. That, or i'll just faint where i stand because there is no way i could draw another breath. What? I'm being honest here.

And no. Even if i was 10 kgs lighter (sigh, what dreams are made of), the oxygen would still be super rare and i would still be clutching my chest in pain and agony as i walked up to reach the in-laws waiting patiently on top of the hill for me. 

Being Multicultural

Growing up in Bombay, you take so many things for granted. Especially the food. And the people.

Only when i left Bombay did i realise how homogenous it is, how so many different cultures co-exist seamlessly. I never appreciated the fact that growing up in Bombay gave me an exposure to so many languages, foods and people. When i see the stereotypes that people not from Bombay live with, i have this urge to shake them and tell to not believe in what TV portrays. No, not all gujjus talk like that, just like not all their meals consist of thepla and dhokla. And no, parsis are not foreigners. And i may be marwari, but i dont go around calling people bhai sa and bhabhi sa. There is more to everyone and everything than tv and movies show. And Bombay allows you to be a part of that - of that tolerance and welcoming attitude (i'm not talking of politically driven agendas here, but of the common man in the local train).

So used to this multicultural living i am, that i find myself surprised when people don't know what dhaansak is or don't know how to make poha. It's also very surprising that the first thing people do on meeting/hearing about someone is to categorize them as belonging to a certain community and then acting on stereotypical assumptions. In Bombay, this difference in cultural background is just another opportunity to try new foods and celebrate yet another festival. Yes, the stereotypes exist, but just as a round of jokes. So christmas is about my friend's mum's whiskey cake and yummy marzipan sweets while Eid is about going to Mohd.Ali road and trying out everything (something i can't wait to do, now that i'm a meat eater). And come Navroze, all i can think of is caramel custard. My maharashtrian friends are good for yummy prawn curry and the gujjus keep me happy with enough junk food to last me a lifetime. Also, some of the most generous people i've known are sindhis and marwaris. And no, the sindhis dont walk around with a stash of papad in their pockets. 

Today, i'm as comfortable singing Christmas carols as i am humming garba songs. I enjoy roadside anda bhurji as much as i do fancy poached eggs at a popular brunch outlet. I'm perfectly at ease travelling in a local train or bus as i am driving somewhere in a fancy car. Everyday is a learning opportunity, new people, new foods, new cuss words.

And so Bombay may be crowded, polluted, noisy and generally unlivable to an outsider. But for me, it's the best thing that could have happened. 

Of Diwali and Deja vu.

I started typing out what i was feeling earlier today. And then i realised i've already written exactly what i wanted to. 2 years back. Here. 

Enjoy the festivities and the food ya'll. 

I Don't Get It

What do bollywood movies from the black and white era have in common with movies from the, lets say, 60's all through to today, the 21st century? 

All of them have parents of the hero and/or heroine mouthing that one standard dialogue - "times have changed. These days girls and boys find their partners on their own. As parents we only want their happiness, nothing more". 

And then they say art imitates life. Lies. That dialogue is as fictional as the power Dr. Singh has sitting there in Delhi.

Even today, everyday, you hear stories about how parents are objecting to their son/daughter marrying a person of their choice. And while i can't generalise this to all the different communities existing in India, i know for a fact it happens more often than is healthy in that group known for it's dal-baati and chartered accountants.

I went through parental objection myself and am the rare case that actually got what she wanted. But not all girls (or boys) are as stubborn (or rebellious) as i am. Especially when faced with the entire family and the associated guilt-tripping. But the question here is not how firm the girl/boy is in their decision to marry someone of their choice. What needs to be addressed is why should they have to deal with parental/familial objections and refusals in the first place. Why, as a community, have we developed this reputation (not entirely untrue of course) of being anti-"love" marriage (or as i like to call it, self-choice marriage)? Why do our parents, their friends, the entire village all look at choosing your own partner as something that needs to be pointed at and probably burnt at stake with people throwing stones at it?

And this, when the chosen partner is not of the same *community*. It doesn't matter what the qualifications, personality or family background maybe. They may be better than what the parents would probably have managed through the arranged route. Just because he/she belongs to a different community (i hate the word but can't seem to think of an appropriate substitute right now), the relationship has to be objected to. 

Imagine what hell is raised if the person follows a different religion. 

Now, if you've still not understood the level of pigheadedness and ridiculousness parents are able to get to, just think of the young couple, who face extreme parental opposition towards their relationship and the dream of a life together, not because they dont belong to the same sub-sub-community or (shudder) caste, not because they believe in different gods. No. The reason for objecting to the relationship is money. Yes. Look shocked. Not because it happened. That too. But because it's not uncommon. It happens more than you'd like it to, and in more families than one. 

I get that if the parents are looking for a match for their son/daughter, they look for someone in the same financial level as theirs, often disregarding several other factors such as education and class (i've seen it happen). But when a choice has already been made, shouldnt it be more important to know that he/she makes your child happy and that how much money they come from is not really essential? 

How does it matter at the end of the day unless you're a money-minded pig who only wants to know that the wedding will result in grossly over-priced and gawdy gifts for you (this is specifically for the boy's family, who, unfortunately, in our primarily patriarchal society, still have some kind of superiority complex). But apparently it does. It seems to make perfect sense to everyone not of my generation (and to some of those who belong to it too). They've all rationalised this behaviour and thinking down to the last argument and have given it that glossy and irrefutable (in their minds) label called *culture*. Yeah right.

To someone who hasn't grown up in and with such a close-minded and oh-my-god-what-will-people-say-mindset, this whole attitude is mind boggling. Medieval even. 

 I did, and i still don't get it. 

Roti, Kapda aur Makaan

The house had a fire.
The clothes were all soot covered.
And we'd been eating out for a month thanks to no refrigerator and functional kitchen.

We've moved into a non-sooty house.
The clothes have all been dry cleaned.
And today, for the first time in a month, our kitchen will be cooked in and homemade food shall be had.

You can't even begin to imagine the happiness we're experiencing. That Maslow sure knew what he was talking about.

My Two Bits

Over the last couple of days I’ve read a lot of brilliant writing and some very poignant pieces on SlutWalk. Some rants, some personal experiences, all of them in support of an idea that needs to be addressed more than any other issue in our country. And proof of this need is the simple fact that there is more than one idiot out there who is still missing the point of the exercise, insisting on it being a publicity stunt and a demand for more attention.

So far I’ve been quiet on the whole issue, not because I didn’t support it, but because I didn’t believe I had anything of consequence to add to the topic. Today I realised that it’s not about how important my contribution is. What is important is that I speak out and stand by SlutWalk.

When people talk about women *dressing to attract* or *asking for it*, I’m taken back to when I was about 12 yrs old, a pre-teen, with the body of a girl and not a woman. It was evening and I was walking to an aunt’s home with my younger sister and mother. I remember I was wearing a t shirt 4 sizes too large for me and baggy shorts. The walk was a 7 minute one and through a busy residential area, never once taking us down lonely, isolated paths. Some 250 metres after we’d left our building, we were walking past a homeless looking man. And just as we crossed him, he reached out and caught hold of my arm, dragging me with him. Thankfully my mother had the presence of mind of scream out and hit him with her bag, after which he ran away. But that feeling of blind panic remained with me. Remains with me. I still remember being stunned and then feeling dirty. On reaching my aunt’s home I scrubbed my hand raw with soap and couldn’t stop crying. Why me, I asked my mother. For years after that every time I passed a man on the road I folded my arms and stepped a few feet away.

What had I done to attract that man? What would have happened if my mother had not happened to be there with me? Just getting my hand grabbed terrified me. Imagine what rape does. Oh forget physical contact. If you’re a woman reading this, just think back at all the times you’ve been whistled at or attracted a comment on the road. Then think of how you feel. I know my heart starts racing faster, in an ugly sort of manner and I hurry to get out of there, pretending to ignore the eve-teasers. And when you think of all those times you’ve been teased, look back at what you were wearing, how you were walking, whom you were with.

To a rapist it doesn’t matter. You could be in a burqa, you could be 12, you could be 60. Just because you’re a woman he thinks he can. Just because you’re a woman he thinks he’s allowed to. Just because our society believes the woman asks for it, he believes he’s not wrong. And because of this, girls are being blinded for resisting an attack on their body - an attack that strips her of every last bit of self, pushing her into a circle of fear, panic and trauma. And for what reason? Because men would rather find a hundred different reasons to defend their animalistic tendencies than accept the fact that they find it difficult to respect women? That men don’t consider this an issue that needs to be raised in every household in the country? Because just being a man absolves them of it all?

To all the men who think SlutWalk is a joke, I ask if you are comfortable sending your sisters, mothers, wives, daughters, girlfriends, aunts and cousins out alone on the roads of Delhi at night. The day you are confident none of them will be teased, touched or raped, then you have a right to talk about such issues with disdain.

To all the women who think SlutWalk is a joke, I ask, what are you afraid of? Or have you never been teased, touched or groped at in a crowd? If you have, then you will know how easy it is to hide behind silence. It takes courage to come out and talk about abuse. If you cant appreciate it, then shut up. Stay hidden behind your silence. Someday you might have the strength to come out and take a stand against something you believe in. I hope that day is soon.

That Elusive Ice-Cream

I talk. A lot. And this is an understatement really. If you know me beyond this blog you will have no problem believing me. And if you don't, well, believe it. Talking was something i've done well all my life. As a 4 yr old, i was introduced to my best friend's extended family as the girl who taught her how to talk. Go figure. And when the family went on a road trip (which, for an 8 yr old me was the hour long drive from the suburbs to *town*), i had a captive audience in the parents and sister.

Of course, dad would decide to use the opportunity to help me build some character, and of course, learn to hold my tongue for at least a few minutes (if not for the entire drive). What would he do? What any parent with a modicum of common sense would. Bribe me. And so dad would promise to get me ice-cream if i could stay quiet for 5 minutes. Not difficult you say? It's just 5 minutes after all right? Yeah well. Let's just say, 5 minutes is quite a lot of time, and back then, it felt like *ages*.

And now. Almost like the universe is making up for all those 5 minutes i never managed to keep quiet, i find myself forced to keep quiet as prescribed by the doctor. Ok so the entire left side of my face is killing me and not talking is making it better. But still. No one who knows me can imagine a quiet me. Even people who've met me once for a couple of hours are finding it difficult to believe. And my dad is just tickled at the idea and takes immense pleasure in going sshhh if i open my mouth to say anything.

It's been 3 days of no talking (10 minutes in 72 hours doesnt count) and i think i'm ready for that ice-cream now. With interest.

That Bubble

I'm in one those moods today where i can feel the energy bubbling inside of me. And no. I don't want to go for a run. That's not how i deal with my excess energy you know (maybe i should though. At least it would help me solve my weight issues). Anyhoo. What i really want to do right now is draw. Sketch. Doodle. Create. I want to draw the images forming in my head, even though I'm certain something will be lost in translation and it won't look anything i'd envisioned. I want to spend hours with some heavy drawing paper and a black ink pen, watching in satisfaction at the thick and thin lines come together to form a whole. I want to do so much, the ideas in my head are threatening to explode and it's leaving me restless and feeling incomplete.

And what feels worse than that is knowing that if i don't do something about this, and soon, the bubble will burst. Into nothingness. And i'll be left with nothing but this blogpost to show for it.

The Photo

Sipping on her drink, she observed the scene around with interest - especially the mop of hair in the red tee shirt. Even in that crowd, he stood out. Maybe it was the way he sat, feet propped up in the chair in front of him, or maybe it was the fact that he seemed to be the only one not trying hard to impress the girl he was with. Then again, maybe it was his hands, the only bit of him in motion, drumming restlessly on the table in front of him.

And even as she thought it, he leaned forward to pick his phone up. Elbows resting on the table, his hands cradled the phone, surprisingly graceful. And just like that, the restlessness seemed to evaporate. His fingers, as if used to the motion, expressed a purpose, quietly confident. And then he smiled

She quietly reached for her camera. After all, she did have a thing for hands.

One of Those Moments When it’s Just Words. No Sentences.

Marriage.

A new life.

A changed life.

A new family.

A new city.

New people.

Different people.

And somewhere amongst them, friends.

And now, another change.

Another city.

Another set of people, differences.

And maybe, just maybe, friends?

Catharsis

The anger flowed through her like it had a life of its own – taking over like nothing had in several years. It was like all that control she had acquired in almost a decade was being burnt away by the sheer intensity and venomous nature of the rage that coursed through her body. It was all she could do to keep the words that threatened to spill out of her contained. Some part of her brain reminded her that what she wanted to shout out would only end up hurting everyone, her included. Instead, the anger spilled over in the form of tears.

Tears that hurt no one.

And then she wrote.

Of That Smile

I’ve tried writing this post out half a dozen times. And there is just no right way of doing it. I wish I could find the words to express what I’m feeling, but each time I start writing, I don’t seem to be able to end it.

Unlike Rita aunty. Who hung herself three days back.

Rita aunty. The first neighbour I remember, someone who’d seen me as a 2yr old, and my sister as a babe in arms. A lady, who babysat us on numerous occasions and smiled her way through each of them. Someone who came to mum’s rescue when my sister locked the family (and guests) in the house when she went down to play after latching the main door from the outside. Rita aunty. Someone I always associate with ashtmi and halwa, puri – that loaded paper plate with a ten rupee note hidden under the puris which we looked forward to with childish excitement. A lady I never heard being loud, someone who always had a kind word and smile for anyone she met. And even though both families moved, we stayed in touch – weddings, deaths, festivals, random running into each other on the road even.

But somewhere along the way, unknown to family, friends and neighbours, that soft, shy smile became a mask. Something she hid behind. Till one day when it got the better of her and she succumbed to herself.

My sister and I weren’t allowed to go pay our last respects. But mum said she looked at peace. And smiling.