Kolkata

Spot the Red Flag

Window: Gujarati Samaj

Sepia stages a dramatic comeback in my life. I love sepia!

Afternoon Nap: Cliche resistance powers hit an all time low

Exploring Kolkata real-estate #1

Park Street: Slurp

Growl: Victoria Memorial Museum

Faces

Colours

Coffee House, College Street

Nightcap

Exploring Kolkata real-estate #2

Bad picture, funny story

Baby Bling

Attack of the Red Pagdis

Asymmetry: Victoria Memorial Museum

Words Inc.

I don’t think I will ever muster up enough words (energy, ambition, enthusiasm) to last an entire book. The very prospect of making the transition from paragraphs to pages bores (scares) me. However, I would like to contribute to the world of literature in my own little way. We at blimblop do hereby announce the sale of our services as “Sentence Writers”. We are willing to part with a choice few of our beautifully crafted lines of prose for a nominal fee. So whether you are a) an aspiring writer, b) an established one or c) any miscellaneous variety poised uncomfortably between a) and b) I think you will find our products immeasurably valuable.
Our sentences are versatile and can be customised to accommodate, among other things – rhyme, music, graphic sexual imagery (extra charges apply), jokes, inappropriate language AND long complicated words that only those appearing for the GRE can comprehend.
Best employed in the no-man’s land between one dramatic scene and the other (i.e. the parts that no one reads anyway) or between one twist in the tale and the next (i.e. stuff that never makes it to the blurb) our sentences can slide in unobtrusively between the protagonists’ multiple moments of cathartic self realisation (the more the better) adding considerable girth to your labour of love without necessarily detracting from its worth.

And as if the advertisement isn’t persuasive enough thus far, we are enclosing some illustrations of the creative talents of our editorial team. No one does a simile or metaphor quite like us. First 5 callers get one+one free!
- My helplessness disgusted her. She looked at me pitifully and offered to help. Her words had the forced sincerity of a prostitute’s orgasm.
- Who knew smiles and polite laughter could be so tiring? You’d find more charisma in a head of organic certified lettuce. It was exhausting just to look at him.
- She knew she had made a major boo-boo. The challenge of concealing her embarrassment made her cringe and wring her hands in agony. The very hands that had committed a faux pas as inconspicuous as J Lo’s bottom.
- How mind numbingly boring that town was. A lively conversation was as elusive as politicians in mid-term.
- Everyone tried to talk him out of it. She was a woman of loose morals with a history of infidelity. Expecting her to be loyal was like expecting a banker to be imaginative. (inside joke)
- Their intentions were noble. But there is only so much you can do with someone who has the latent sex appeal of a Zoo Zoo. All efforts to beautify her were to no avail.

We have expanded our creative repertoire with a recent foray into dialogue composition. For eg.
- “Everything has collapsed”, she cried out in exasperation. “I should have known better than to hand over the reins to someone with the intelligence levels of senior management”

.So go on... script that Pulitzer worthy book of yours, craft the storyline, pour in the hours and squeeze out the emotion. Whatever it takes – Blood, sweat, tears, repeat doses of illegal narcotics etc.
Just leave the uncomfortable silences to us. Such trivialities are best outsourced to those adequately equipped to handle them. Isn’t capitalism beautiful?
*
This post is dedicated to anyone who thinks sentences are delicious.
And to PPP on account of being deliciously left-of-centre. Also on account of being delicious.

Girl Next Door: Take Me to your Mother

So about a year and some months ago a nice young man enquired whether or not I was single. Of course he didn't pose this question DIRECTLY to me... that would be too brazen and this man is far too NICE. He chose, as all incurably NICE people would, to find out from a supremely efficient and only very rarely inaccurate medium called "the grapevine". Of course there is only so much information that aunty gossip can get you. Particularly when the subject of your interest is as mysterious, enigmatic and intriguing as Belle Blimblop. But mostly because in the two weeks of Management Trainee orientation I spoke to as few people as is humanly possible and succeeded in making precisely 1 and a 1/2 friends.

Aaaaanyway... the doggedness (and NICEness) with which the investigative small talk was conducted, though touching in its innocence was utterly disappointing in intent. It turns out the NICE man was drawn to me neither for my mysteriousness, nor my enigmaticness and least of all for my intriguingness. When asked to elaborate on the qualities that so endeared me to him he was known to say - "She has a pretty smile" and later "She seems sweet" and later still - "She's very 'take home'". It was in the midst of this sickeningly saccharine "Sooraj Barjatya"ness that my prospective suitor went on to say - "You know I'm 27, and my family feels I should start looking".

Eek..

And again.. Eek..

You can imagine what this did to my dreams of being the hottest Mem in Mumbai. My estimation of my own sexiness plummeted to obscene lows. My unsuspecting parents, fretting over the prospect of finding spouses for not one but TWO highly non-homely daughters: little did they know that my "Renuka Shahane" charms were already at work, attracting NICE young men. Hmpf...

*

This post is dedicated to the use of “ness” behind every adjective and SAYING THINGS IN CAPSLOCK FOR EMPHASIS.

*

That one experience may not be much to go by though. Just the other day a male friend asked when I was planning to "settle down". The conversation went as follows -

Gtalk: VKK is typing

VKK: so when are you planning to settle down?

Gtalk: SP is typing

SP: why? Are you interested?

Gtalk:

Several minutes of silence later

Gtalk: SP is typing

SP: So, ARE you interested?

Gtalk: VKK did not receive your chat

I'll take that as a sign that all is not lost. I shall now proceed to resurrect my injured oomph.

*

Child Marriage and such like startling trends:

Why the tearing hurry to wrap up the nuptials? Search me. For the life of me I can't understand why people would want to get married at the age of 24. For the benefit of the ignorant I wish to use my blog as a platform to point out a few inalienable truths that I hope will make them think twice about marriage:

1. Women do not have to stop having babies at the age of 27. They're popping out healthy little bundles of joy till well into their 30s.

2. You needn't be married to have sex. God approves of naughtiness if conducted responsibly and WILL NOT PUNISH YOU.

3. Marriage is forever. Say it with me - FOREVER

(ominous whisper) ONE person, the same person - every single day

(ominous whisper+echo) for for the the rest rest of of FOREVER (FOR-E-VER)

*

Me: I saw a cute boy on the bus today

U: Another one?

Me: Yes! Only this one is really actually cute...

U: Ok. Who is he?

Me: I don't actually know him stupid..

U: So why are you so excited?

Me: Because I might see him on the bus tomorrow and the day after and the day day after...

U: And that is a good thing because...

Me: Because... because he carries a cute brown backpack, wears vertical striped shirts and is attractive in a yuppie sort of way and could very possibly be the love of my life...

U: Bu...

Me: And he lives in Bandra... IN BANDRA! Thats where I live!! We may be neighbours!!!

U: So what comes next?

Me: Not much. For now I shall just admire him from afar and try to stare him into submission..

U: And then?

Me: Then we'd go for coffee and icecream, lunches and dinners, movies and plays, lonavala and goa..

U: And your boyfriend?

Me: Oh he's amazing...

U: Huh?

Me: Tell me about it. Such an inconvenience no?

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber: An epistle of love for my wayward ovaries

Dear Ovaries,

For as long as I have known you, you have caused me nothing but agony. In fact, had it not been for the aforementioned trouble I'd have scarcely known you existed within me. Is that the only way you could think of to let me know you're around? A simple "hello" would have sufficed.

So anyway, o1 and o2, I don't quite know how to explain this to you without feeling bashful but... see the thing is... women menstruate roughly once a month. Not twice a month, once in two months, always and/or never. The deviations from this simple schedule that you so gleefully indulge in may serve to make life interesting once in a while. But by and large it makes sense to stick to the 28 day cycle. And though the process is bound to be icky and unpleasant there is no law that compells periods to cause excruciating pain.

At first I was angry, livid even. I mean aren't ovaries just supposed to know these things? Were mine just plain ignorant? Of all the reproductive systems in all the bodies of all the women in the world, they had to end up in mine... Sigh.

Extended reflection made me realise that I may have been unreasonably harsh in my initial assessment of the matter. I figured... we're all human right? After all, it did take me some time to wrap my head around calculus. And periods can be complicated.

I know you're job isn't made any simpler by the cysts (eeeeewww). Its a hereditary condition. Just one of the things I inherited from my mother along with beauty, crippling indecisiveness and the propensity to cry at the end of movies (even happy ones). But guys, work with me. Try. Its not as hard as it looks.

Oh and there's more. The disorder is usually set right after the first pregnancy so you needn't misbehave forever. I secretly think its a cleverly crafted conspiracy to sabotage the whole women's lib idea: impregnate all of them on the promise of curing PCOS, immobilise them and laugh maliciously as they waddle around like cranky penguins. But, love it or hate it, that's the only sure fire cure.

So ladies, we're just going to have to lump it till then (the "then" in question being far far away). It might help to keep a calendar so you know just when to kick in and just when to lie low. Oh and watch this amazing thing I found online. I wish they'd shown us this back in school rather

than sending in that scary nun with her horror-movie like documentary on abortion, chock full of graphic imagery that left us all scarred for life. Things would have made sense. Or at least more sense than they did anyway.

Anyhoo I guess its about time I wrap up this little note. Take your time (just not too much ok). Please know that I love and treasure you and shall do everything in my power to grin and bear it.

Respect,

BB

*

Polycystic Ovaries Syndrome (PCOS) is caused due to the formation of several follicles or cysts (far in excess of the usual number) within the ovaries which may result in irregularities in a woman's menstrual cycle and imbalance of hormones released by the ovaries. The condition could manifest itself in the following ways: Irregular periods, weight gain, acne, hirsuitism (if you don't what that means; look it up) and in extreme cases - infertility.

What I hate most is how a condition borne from a decidedly female part of a woman's body can strike at the very root of her femininity. Make her less of a girl. Sophisticated people call that "irony".

PCOS is not a disease and is in fact surprisingly common. Treatment is symptomatic and varies with the severity of the disorder. I'm lucky, all I need to do is take a few pills to set things right. Except that I had to spend a small fortune on medical consultation, blood tests and sonograms. The unpleasantness was mitigated to a large extent by the fact that my radiologist turned out to be quite cute. But there's is only so much you can fancy a man who asks you to drink a whole litre of water, then instructs you to lie down on your back and proceeds to rub some gooey thing on your belly.

The "Public Service Announcement" tone of this post was not quite intended. But if anyone does come across this while reading up on PCOS please note: If you have those awful little things inside you then you are NOT A CIRCUS FREAK and that you are still ALL GIRL. So there..

Issued in public interest

Beauty, The Price we Pay for

Bhakti has declared war on my eyebrows. Steadfast and relentless, she is a woman on a mission. A mission to rid my eyebrow of every seemingly superfluous hair (and some non-superfluous ones as well: even the best get carried away). I may writhe and flinch constantly in agony (you try having your eyebrows plucked... it HURTS) but she remains undeterred. Almost as though feminising me is the sole purpose of her existence, her ticket into heaven, her contribution to world peace. The assiduousness with which she inflicts pain only slightly milder than that experienced during childbirth is truly awe-inspiring.

Let no errant hair be spared!

May those over-enthusiastic follicles be pinched into submission!

Then of course, like any artiste/mass murderer worth his salt she inspects her work and flamboyantly invites others (me, barely conscious) to as well. What emerges from this lengthy PRO-CE-DURE are two emaciated (and/or dainty depending on your perspective on things) eyebrows, mere shells of their former hirsute selves. The poor unsuspecting fools, cruelly robbed of character... Sigh...

I slide off the executioner's chair and flail around helplessly till everything stops coming at me in pairs. And stare intently at the scene of the crime. No visible scars... but what of the ones I carry in my heart? What of the stinging sensation that lingers on my still tender skin? The pain I must carry on face for the rest of my life... or at least the next 20 minutes.

I am instructed to surrender an obscene sum of money into the hands of the owner of this torture chamber. As I mull over the irony of paying someone to be mean to you in the interest of aesthetics I proceed to do what any self respecting woman placed in a similar situation would.

First, I blame my mother.

Then, I blame men.

Mumbai

Lovely Building #1: Mosque near Marine Lines Station

Kandeel #1: Girgaum

Bandra Station: Makes for an artistic picture, but sometimes I wish everyone would just stand still and pose

Bandra Talao: Smells of Poo

King's Kite Centre, S.V. Road: I am deeply in love with this store and can't help but smile whenever I pass it. Am also informed by the owner (a lovely man, easily engaged in random conversation) that a visit here brings good luck.

Bandra: Eunuchs line up for Diwali bakhshish (you go girls..)

Kandeel #2: Kalbadevi

Chogle Building (View from): There's a lovely church next door. Once believed to enjoy the alliegance of the largest

Catholic congregation in Mumbai.

Chogle Building: "Stairs". This unimaginatively titled piece has met with rave reviews (N), much gushing and hysterics (also N) and is widely considered (by both N and me) to be one of my finest pictures yet.

Lovely Building #2: Deutsche Bank office near VT

Shamrock: Flowers on the terrace, M's

Shamrock: Ancient lamp, A's

Shamrock: Guitar, N's

Shamrock: Window sill, Mine

Kashmir

Pahalgam: View from "Betaab" Valley.

Pahalgam: Beetle most bashful

Sonamarg: Thajewas Sanctuary. They let people in.

Back waters of the Dal Lake

Dal Lake as viewed from Nishat: I'm such a tourist

Nishat Bagh: Didn't quite get what I was going for, but I still like this one.

Gulmarg: Painting in the cards room of Highlands Park. Was so tempted to steal it!

Nishat Bagh: Kids celebrate three days of Eid by taking a dip. Mum wonders why I'm taking pictures of young boys in swimming trunks.

Hotel Centaur: Spooky

Dal Lake: Shot from the garden of Hotel Centaur. I love this picture. Partly because its the only aspiring national geographic picture that I actually got right. But mostly because it marks the moment I learnt to adjuct the focus on my camera. Hee hee.

Baisaran: View from the bottom

En Route to Sonamarg: Sindhu river

Shalimar Bagh: Chinar leaves "frozen in time" (actually suspended in supremely mucky water)

Shalimar Bagh: Wooden ceiling panel.

Afarwat: Frozen cobweb. Mum says I have an eye for the disgusting.

Gulmarg: It posed, I couldn't resist

Gulmarg: "Kahwah" at Highlands Park. Mum and I decided to stick to chai in the future.

Dal Lake: On board the "Pakhtoon", flanked by "Helen of Troy" and "Queen Elizabeth"

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.