the lady on my left is barking (loud) instructions into her helpless phone. her son needs to get from bhayander to mahim. the instructions are clear (loud). the son appears to be lost (an idiot). the instructions are repeated (loudly).

the gentleman on my left is barely there. he is old and quiet and frail. he appears to have lost
most (if not all) of his teeth. this must have happened years ago but his face is still struggling to comes to terms with it. it just droops sadly.

the opthamolmologist (a most unpronouncable doctor) is punctual...
he wears glasses (almost as if to prove a point)...
disappears quickly behind a (frighteningly) spotless white door...
has his spotless (but not quite frightening) nurse call me in...

i sneak a look at myself from the corner of my (one healthy and fully functional) eye...
my eye (the other one) is obscenely swollen...
like a chudail from some low budget (e.g. Ramsey Brothers type) horror movie...
like someone involved in an animated bar brawl...
like a victim of domestic violence...
my eye is twice its normal size... the other one ceases to exist... i am a cyclops... muaahahaha...
it also itches and hurts a bit... and i'm getting late for work... and the hospital smells of a strange cocktail of medicine, phenyl and sick people... and i want my mommy... (sob)

i prepare myself for the worst.
doctor: don't worry it'll go
me: oh ok...
doctor: the eye is perfectly healthy, its probably just an infected eyelash follicle.
me: aaaah ok...
doctor: in some cases aggravated by excessive dandruff
me: oops...

so not only do i have to deal with looking like a circus freak i also have to digest the ignominy of a highly unglamorous condition. sheesh. i can almost feel a kick in the bum from my pubescant self. she's grinning past the pimples and saying - you thought you'd gotten rid of me didn't you? muahahaha...

next stop... chemist...
i struggle with the prescrition...
the shop boy struggles with the prescrition...
the chemist struggles with the prescription...
doctors can be so inscrutable on paper...

and now it decides to rain... i have never been more in need of an umbrella/hug than ever before...
instead i have a swollen eye and Dr. D's hieroglyphics.
*
i dedicate this post to my mommy. i really did miss you today.

What Goes Around

If there is such a thing as Karma, I think its safe to say that I'm covered.
*
A long long time ago, I awoke from a deep deep sleep to find something black, round and prickly attempting to navigate its way up my leg. At least thats what I think it was trying to do. Somewhere along its adventure the said creature stumbled upon the crook of my knee and decided to take a pit stop. At least thats what I think it was trying to do. I don't know much about insects but I imagine if I were one and if I had embarked upon a journey to conquer the leg of some disgusting bi-ped and if I needed to stop and catch my breath I would make sure I do it in the crook of someone's knee. There is something soft and inviting about it.
So anyway...
So there I was staring past the mess of hair that had tumbled on to my face while I was asleep, staring through the dark, my vision assisted by the giant floodlights in the hostel garden and mostly staring through sleep (rather, trying) at this black, round and prickly thing lying lazily in... the crook of my knee.
*
170 people from my company got fired last week. Last Friday to be precise. Some of them new, some experienced. Some young, some old.
*
Too sleepy to care. I grabbed it, wrapped it in my palm, threw it on the floor, went back to sleep.
*
Every day subsequent to Friday has been unbearable.
We take long chai breaks to discuss our predicament. The tragedy that has befallen the sorry lot that is us. It helps a little. But not much. The conversations are predictable and the chai is too sweet.
*
A broom and an old newspaper is all it took. It didn't really put up much resistance as I scooped it up and deposited it into an old flower pot. Beetles can be like that.
Extremely dull, yet highly obliging.
*
Tuesday, we all went out for drinks to commemorate one year of work. It amazes me how people my age can be so incredibly negative. How they can endlessly rue the consequences of their decisions. How they can let this relentless mulling and brooding turn their hair grey and their tummies soft.
Wednesday, we went out to celebrate a year of earning money. Of being all grown up. And we behaved like absolute children.
Thursday, I took everyone out to celebrate one year of my being in Bombay. With salmon and wine. Gnochi and such like unpronouncable things. B sipped from his glass and made polite conversation. M played around with her fish and predicted my imminent rise up the corporate ladder. I waded through his ("please don't forget to make mine") extra creamy pasta and tickled me most inappropriately. N was consumed by a basket of warm bread. It was lovely.
*
But why stop at the beetle. I once let a family of pigeons take over my balcony for the better part of two months, while their putrid progeny made their painfully slow progress from egg-dom to being full fledged birds.
And no one was the wiser. Not even the maids, I'd barred them from cleaning my room. Don't know why though, they'd have been most approving. They always refused to dispose of pigeon eggs. "Paap chadega" they'd say.
*
So I still have my job, still have my money, still have my Bombay. I must be doing something right. Right?
*
N swept it out of her room using her trusty rubber chappals. B preferred the services of a rolled up Sunday Times. Neglected by all and sundry it decided to take refuge in my nondescript little hovel, the least glamorous of the Shamrock suites. I deposited it at the window and wished it well.
*
I dedicate this post to the Messrs. Moon. To C, because the office has never been, nor will it ever be the same without him. And to M of the moon shaped head who turned two today. If I ever end up writing stories for you I promise to make them better than this post.

An Ode to the Corporate Whore

This was written for me by a dear friend. Someone I love with every fibre of my being (that includes both neutrons and neurons: inside joke).

The little girl who scratched her nose

candy pink bows on striped toes,

here is a bedtime tale,

of a little girl with credit card woes

and her travels and travails

a difference, she wanted to make

data entry, she deeply scorned

no for an answer, she would not take,

her wallet, be suitably warned.

but how to do it? where's the right space?

confused, she scratched her nose

wherever it is, it's certainly not *here

bereft of poetry, reeking of prose

*here stews with credit card data holders

it pays but does not play

those blessed men, an intel chip on their shoulders

just type away all day

there's no talk of woolf or plath

none of the indonesian election

no insight into meanings of life, or this path

or of Vallejo's latest collection!

is it too much for a girl to ask,

for a conversation that's not about sales?

is it too much, a gargantuan task

to move a little away from retail?

"of course not!", the merlion squacks

little one, do not fear

development is the place to be, it rocks

money is overrated, my dear!

come join the ranks of the squalid poor

who try to do good for a living

come let us find, for swine flu a cure

come let us be (for)giving!

let us teach little children, and nurse the elderly

we can't spend, but it will be sublime

let's walk homeless puppies, let us curse the miserly

we can't spend, but we can rhyme!

*name withheld for obvious reasons

***

You'd think asking questions would be, at the very least, half the battle won. Unfortunately, as with most other things, life stubbornly insists on being: a bitch.

***

Ignoring existential questions is that much easier on the weekends.

More so if you live in Mumbai.

Particularly if you are flushed with funds.

It helps if you are beautiful (Hee hee..)

***

So this weekend I have decided to expedite the decision making process by- going to Goa. Undeniably the choice destination for all people who want to indulge in extended contemplation on a series of "serious" and potentially "life changing" questions.

Yup.. That's exactly how its going to turn out..

***

I dedicate this (rather garbled) post to Shru-J (yo-yo-uh-uh) and Big Lips.

All the queen's men

I have decided that when I grow old (it’s about to happen soon, i can feel it in my bones) i will write a book. It won’t be just any book... No siree... it will be... a masterpiece.

And it will be about Men...

Not just men in general or any one in particular. Just the lucky few who get to court me. Yes, it will be an all too detailed account of boyfriends. Of which i plan to very soon be acquiring many.
This hastily planned ambition leaves me in strange predicament. A challenge for the congenitally diffident person that is me. My track record thus far has been fairly lack lustre in the love department. Not that the few (i have chosen to be suitably vague with numbers to avoid public embarrassment, lets just say you could count them on your fingers... the fingers of one hand... ok fine two fingers) who ambled along were not nice... oh no in fact they were lovely. Its just that i feel i should have covered more ground by now. Played the field just a smidge more.

Moving swiftly along, the snail’s pace at which i have gone about boy-friending men has made the road ahead slightly rough. Time is of the essence. I have decided to rule out the younger men folk. This is in the best interest of one and all. I hardly relish the prospect of knocking on their doors years later asking for their permission to publish an “only mildly exaggerated” version of our courtship. They would all have to be older so as to kick the bucket in a timely fashion allowing me to release the book without the ever present threat of defamation charges. That way i can bask in the glory of my superlative literary achievement in the winter of my life. And most importantly decide who gets to play me in the motion picture version (coming eventually to a theatre near you).

Yes older men it is. Younger man with a good sense of humour is also permissible.

So to reiterate. I will write a book. It will be deeply insightful (aren’t i always?) and really really funny.

There have to be a minimum of at least 10 men, else its no fun at all. And though the likelihood of falling for the same kind of man is high, it would be preferable for them to be very very different. We all secretly wish for our lives to be richly peopled. I confess i’m no less immune to this sort of day dreaming than anyone else.

Unfortunately, having to make room for >=10 men in your life (on a sequential basis, multitasking was never quite my thing) necessitates punctuation of the script with at least 9 break ups. But in this too there must be variety. Some tearful and tragic, some dramatic and confrontational. Some mature and amicable and others... well not quite.

Yes... detailed, eventful and funny to a fault. Not to mention frequent wardrobe changes.

I am still undecided as to how the saga will pan out. Whatever will happen to our protagonist? I’m too much of a girl to avoid ending it all with the one closest to perfect man coming and sweeping her off her feet. Predictable, yes i agree... but its a good bet the audience will lap it up. I know i would.

Will he be pretty? Will he be rich? Que sera sera...

*

I remember a very long time ago, being very certain about the 3 qualifying criteria for being this man.

1. Should help me cross the road (and i don’t mean figuratively, i’m genuinely very bad at crossing roads)

2. Should laugh at all my jokes (non-negotiable)

3. Should display qualities (bare minimum of one) that causes a rumbling in the tummy. Mere display of interest or even mild affection (virtually impossible to not reciprocate) must under no circumstances be permitted to substitute this. This last one is the killer. Loosely translated that means “the guy must be hot in one or the other way. Under no circumstances must you like him simply because he likes you”.

Somewhere in between a few questionable additions were made only to be replaced by other no less absurd ones: must be Russian, must wear spectacles, must be Rahul Dravid (it was true love i tell you) ... must be scruffy and or well dressed... must be a good dancer... must be a wallflower. (When i am particularly angry the demands veer towards the materialistic... must own car, must know everything about income tax saving investments etc.)

Barring the frequent deviations, the 3 points more or less cover the basics. Frills (ownership of vehicle(s), deep knowledge of income tax saving investments) are welcome but not mandatory. In love these sacrifices can be made i suppose.

So that’s that. The broad outline of my love life and a brief character sketch of its prospective cast. A highly plausible (though not necessarily probable) story set against the backdrop of 3 seemingly innocuous conditions.

And an entire lifetime (minus some 24 years) to write it.

Retreat to the Hills: Revisited

(thats my papa!! second from left. the one in the nerdy glasses)

The internet is a fabulously fantastic thing.

My dad (a.k.a. "Pradhanacharya" B.K. Puri) just mailed me articles from local Hamirpur newspapers describing the heroic exploits of the sports contingent from his school... specifically on how they totally creamed the competition ("Jaypee Samirpur ne jamayee dhaak").

Its one of those district sports meets. The dignitaries are made to sit on a stage and everything, given fancy "Gaddedaar" kursis and soft drinks. I don't mean to boast or anything, but I was almost a dignitary at last year's sports meet. Of course shyness got the better of me. I opted instead for a chair along the sidelines and a steel tumbler full of water. Pooch was there too! We were both in full "fish out of water" mode.

Being stared at with such dilligence you'd think we were Martians.

The sports meet concluded with a prize distribution ceremony in honour of which everyone (except the aforementioned Martians) was dressed in their Sunday best. This was promptly followed by a jam session (genuine Punjabi songs... not the shitty Jazzy B. variety). The girls danced on one side of the field and the boys on the other end of its diameter. My dad stood somewhere on the circumference, clapping his hands (in the way that old people do) and tapping his right foot (in the way that dad's do) and ignoring all invitations from his students to join them on the dance floor (in the way that "Pradhanacharyas" do)

The stench of youth and celebration was overpowering. But in a good way.

And what celebration would be complete without a sumptuous meal? The arrangement was sort of like a langar... everyone sat on the ground (dignitaries included) on carpets under a humungous tent. And the food was so so brilliant, made more so by the lack of cutlery.

I remember stopping on the way back home to fill a bottle of water from a little stream in one little corner of a hill. That and coming close to death as Sher Singh drove us back to the Institute in his signature (bordering on Schumacherish) style. My belly was so full of food and happy thoughts I knew dinner was out of the question. Even the thought of Ghanshyam's (the cook) guilt inducing pout could not convince me to eat.

*

I'm glad my father sent me these pictures. There are so many little things I suddenly remember (eg. dirty steel tumbler, the stream of water, near death experiences. The poor man suffering from kidney stones who had to be ferried all across the hills for want of a doctor, the trip to the water source, leopard stories, ghanshyam's killer desi ghee mithai. Una - probably the world's cutest little railway station, the fire miracle at Jwala Ji, the inordinate amounts of time Pooch and I spent taking naps, that terrible Shahid Kapur movie).

And I distinctly recall wanting to preserve each of these memories in the minutest of detail.

*

Such a terrific summer. I'd just finished up with my exams, just got done having my Law term paper ripped to shreds by RS. I'd just gotten a fancy job, in a fancy bank, in fancy Bombay. I was in the process of planning a trip of questionable intentions to Nainital (so delirious with excitement you'd think I was visiting the Alps). Everything was shiny and glowy and round and complete. I wish for everyone I know to experience such bliss at least once.

*

And now here I am in Bombay. Precisely a kajillion miles away from all that. Still shiny and glowy (I am reliably informed that Bombay has improved my complexion) and only slightly rounder. And pleased as punch that despite the distance in space and time from that summer of sheer unadulterated joy its memory is enough to make me happy. All this from a newspaper article that doesn't so much as mention me, a photograph which doesn't feature my face and a trophy I didn't win.

Pleasures of the Flesh #2 a.k.a. Bad Blog Post#3

So there we were... if there were a dictionary of all the feelings a person could conceivably feel you would be hard pressed to find just what we felt. Had our thoughts been facial expressions, they’d be an odd mixture of disbelief, admiration and fear. It happens to everyone doesn’t it? When you see something so beautiful it scares you just a little?


Stuffed like sardines. Elbow room only. You can literally hear your neighbours’ breathing pick up pace when assaulted by an all too candid scene. But only just (you are perhaps pre-occupied with concealing yours?).


Oh G7, how I love you! Cold samosas, stale popcorn, overpriced coffee... all of us 48, collectively seduced by celluloid.


The screen has a row of tiny bulbs all around it. All glowy and festive. Like an absurd PG advised diwali.


Each movie hall has its own private little loo.


The people next to me... how I wish they would find an alternative venue to express their affection for one another. The idea of discretion is obviously alien to their culture. They seem to have a terrible amount of ground to cover during the short span of the movie. They are all passion. And all arms and legs. Its like sitting next to an extremely fidgety octopus. One that makes annoying “puch puch” sounds.


So there we were... we felt our heads swell with ideas. Stuffed to the brim with the stuff of other peoples’ dreams. And to the dreams of these others we entrust two hours of our lives. We argue, make love, start a revolution, become a legend and die. All 48 of us.


And on our way home, just before the magic wears off we all make a little movie in our heads. Mine never gets beyond the opening score. But there are those who have plotlines in place, dialogues penned down, lighting, camera angles... maybe even the odd award acceptance speech.


*


This post is dedicated to Gargoyle and the erstwhile Duke of Puke.

Bon Voyage

I have had to handle way too many farewells during the course of my short Mumbai existence. Everyone seems to leave sooner or later.

First it was Jos. How dare Jos leave?

So I reach Bombay, establish contact, actually manage to corner Jos into meeting me on a regular basis. So Jos plays along, is all obliging when it comes to the rendezvousing, gleefully stringing me along. I taste blood. Jos packs Jos’s bags and leaves. Cheated, betrayed... oh Jos... how could you?

And the mass exodus from work? Don’t even get me started... Am, Sh, K. Now Gargoyle... maybe later even Shr... its too tragic. Everyone seems to have other plans. Bigger, better things to do. One can’t help but feel all left behind.

And now that I’m making a list i might as well add- S, S, ChK. Ok so we weren’t exactly bum-chums, but that shouldn’t restrict me from bringing them up as illustrative examples should it?
More departures are in the offing. B is trying hard to prolong his Mumbai sojourn but the people over at the visa office might have some reservations. He too will soon leave. As will G. And Pooch? My partner in crime, apple of mine eye... she’s all but got her boarding pass in hand. Do these people not realise the extreme inconvenience they are causing me by just up and leaving? Inconsiderate bums...

Now AA is leaving too... which brings the count of interesting people at work dangerously close to zero.

I wish i had the means... the powers of persuasion to convince everyone to hang on in Mumbai for just a shade longer. Why doesn’t everyone appreciate how fantastically brilliant this city is? This lack of perspective seems endemic particularly among people i like. Or is it just that i notice their departure? Zillions of people have abandoned ship but i’ve only been pained by the few casualties that effect my life, make it seem slightly emptier.

(I really don’t wish to process this thought further. Not intending for this to be a particularly insightful post. Just felt like indulging in the odd rant)

Too many parties. With chips and alcohol and songs and a few polite laughs. Too many “fare thee well” presents. Too many last speeches and pictures.

Go ahead, evil people... leave. Leave me to my feigned indifference and my well disguised pout. Leave me to my “so bad at keeping in touch” self to be a sullen spectator to so many “do you remember what so and so used to do/say” conversations. Leave me to my Bombay, without so much as an escape route. And not too much to escape from.

*

13/03/09

Yesterday was Gargoyle’s last day at work. It all happened so fast and i had so much bloody work that i didn’t even have time to grieve. Or for one last extended cup of coffee. Sad.
The best thing about our friendship was that it was a secret. No one knew. We went about our work, noting the idiosyncrasies in people around us, and exchanged notes over long long lunches. We discussed ambitions, dreams, crises and Goa. Books, alcohol, sex, food and movies. Men and women. Boredom, fear, love, marriage and friendship. None of them particularly remarkable conversations. We’re neither of us great thinkers and between the two of us we are only one and a half opinionated people. But there is great joy to be derived from the commonplace. Much juice of life to be squeezed out of it.

My usual sun shiny disposition will sooner or later bamboozle me into believing that every exit makes room for something new and interesting while preserving the charm of that which is gone. Writing this post has helped get me half way there. The other half depends on how soon the “new” and “interesting” manifests itself.