In Transit

Bus, Margao to Bengaluru, Scheduled Departure Time: 6:15pm

Status @ 5:45pm

“Bus will be coming at 6:40, you can report by 6:30”

Status @ 6:45pm

“Bus is coming. Just coming”

Status @ 7:00pm

“Actually what happen is they divert the bus. It is coming by long route”

“It is coming, half an hour delay”

Status @ 7:15pm

“Bus is coming. Just coming”

Status @ 7:30pm

“Actually what is happen is bus has broken down. It is gone to garage for fixing”

“It is coming, not later than 8:30”

Status @ 8:15pm

“Actually it is only 15km away. In Verna. They are changing the bus. Transferring passengers.”

“Bus is coming. Just coming.”

Status @ 8:45pm

“What can I do madam? They are there and I am here. I’m also waiting no?”

“I am calling and calling, they are not pick up-ing”

“Madame once bus was delayed by 7 hours. I still remember, Dec 29-30^th type date. 7 hours madam, this is nothing”

Status @ 9:00pm

"*Deep sigh*"

(Roughly translated – “Earth please swallow me whole”)

*

The bus finally arrived at 9:15pm. Only 3 hours delay madam. This is nothing.

The journey will cost us a couple of hours in travel time. We will reach Bangalore 5 hours later than schedule. Only 5 hours madam. This is nothing.

*

*Deep sigh*

*

To a most vague and nebulous entity - Indian Standard Time...

beach bum

a work in progress...

*

pockets full of seashells

beer bubbles in my nose

a mess of wind-blown matted hair

sand castles in my toes

precocious little crab legs

crawled out of an ice-cream cone

to make the salty solitude

seem a little less alone

i’m a royal shade of golden brown

the sea a stately blue

we’ll take over the world some day

soon as this rhyme is through

pockets full of seashells

a belly full of rum

in weight and worth, each reverie

far greater than their sum

*

blistering barnacles, i made a rhyme!

blame goa...

Growing Ourselves Up

SB: Let’s go somewhere, on a vacation… a trip?

MS: Yeah.

SP: Yeah…

SB: Well December’s out right?

MS: Jan is going to be pretty bad for me.

SP: Everything up till Feb is horrible…

SB: Yeah March is good na?

MS: Haan, by March everything will be sorted. More or less sorted.

SP: Hmm…

SB: Hopefully?

MS: Hopefully.

SP: Hopefully…

*

SB: Hopefully…

*

Dedicated to a most beautiful flotation device called hope.

To the monastery for keeping our spirits buoyant and Glowy, for lighting up our lives.

*

To question marks, full-stops and ellipses.

Only in Lucknow

Vikram ki sawari

Conversation

Driver #1: Haan bhai, sab badhiyaan?

Driver #2: Badhiyaan...

Driver #1: Badhiyaan...

(2 seconds of silence)

Driver #2: Aur bhai, sab badhiyaan?

Driver #1: Badhiyaan...

Driver #2: Badhiyaan...

*

Poetry (courtesy SS)

Unse Milne ka Chalan Varjit Hua

Ek Sada Mugdha Jivan varjit hua

Lucknow kis ghat pe Aaye bhala

Gomti ka achman varjit hua.......

*

Words of Wisdom

Exited young man: And I think the most important step the government should take are in the field of Health. After all, sabko pata hai - "Health is the success of key..."

*

bhai sahab bura mat maniye, app nihayati badtameez kism ke insaan hain...

ghaleez... jahil...

bura mat maniye.

*

(Spotted on a Dainik Jagran Hoarding)

Muskuraiye... Aap Lucknow mein hain...

*

Dedicated to SUK and VP.

Itna mat hasiye... koi dekh lega

Cups and Saucers - Half Empty

Once upon a time I was rich and carried a fat wallet. Liquidity makes people do stupid things.

Boredom makes people do stupid things. Boredom… coupled with discounts, makes people do very stupid things.

The idea of a man makes women do a great number of stupid things. Undergo moderate to excruciatingly painful beauty treatment, giggle uncontrollably, stare off into space (also almost always uncontrollably) and purchase impractical underwear.

So there I was – bored, flushed with funds, thinking of men, staring at impractical underwear, which was on discount. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Whatever little good sense the years of a humdrum, middle class upbringing had given me slowly melted to a pile of gooey mush when confronted by rows of flowers, frills, bows and lace. In my defence, they were on discount. Animal prints too.

I chanced upon this most resplendent bra, it was love at first sight. A trial was hastily conducted, a card swiped, a purchase made. Unfortunately as with most objects of infatuation, impulsiveness got the better of me. In my enthusiasm I failed to spot a basic incompatibility – it didn’t fit too well.

Unrequited love… yet another instance… sob.

I tried… oh did I try. Short of actually sowing it to my chest I used every trick at my disposal. I adjusted hooks, I adjusted strap lengths. I prayed, I sent out good vibes to the universe. Nothing worked.

Only severe shrinkage on the part of the errant brassiere or a near miraculous alteration on the part of certain parts of me would do. She stared at me derisively every time I open my cupboard to reach for a change of delicates. She mocked me with her lascivious pink and purple-ness. Such awful mammaries… sorry… memories. I knew I had to get rid of her. How would you feel if you had your inadequacies stare you in the face every time you opened up your lingerie drawer?

Ever since my bra debacle I’d been on the lookout for women I could thrust the darned thing on to (figuratively speaking of course). The hunt for the bra’s rightful owner involved a fare amount of impolite “observation” of the kind that is entirely unforgivable if conducted by men. I started sizing up women : friends to start with, then acquaintances and finally on to complete strangers.

Parallel to this search, in an effort to prop up my wounded ego I embarked upon a quest to find “the one”. I promptly found “the one” not to mention “the two” and “the three”. Turns out they were waiting for me, displayed in all their glory along the length and breadth of Hill Road. There they were – colourful, absurd, remarkably inexpensive and most importantly obliging. It would appear that small women don’t need discounts.

Get rid of her I did. But we parted as friends and equals (figuratively speaking of course). I realized she was meant for bigger if not necessarily better things. And I’d like to believe that I rose in her esteem... Well thats about all I could rise in anyway. Oh well...

*

It has taken me 25 and some parts of the 26^th year of my life to love what I see in the mirror everyday.

I dedicate this post to what I see in the mirror everyday.

*

Oh and to A for taking that damned bra off my hands.

*

Turns out it doesn’t fit her either. Apparently her cup(s) runneth over. Eh… bleh… C’est la vie…

Pleasures of the Flesh #3: Nonsense Rhyme of Early Morning Love

I wrote this a really long time ago. I was ashamed of it then and am even more so today. At first it was a question of my convent school girl propriety - who writes so brazenly about post-coital bliss? Later the sheer gooey-mushy-sugar syrupy-ness of what I’d written horrified me. Now, a year (or two?) older, somewhat brazen-er and decidedly less romantic, I am just plain and simple appalled at its quality (or lack thereof). Bleh...

But I know the person who wrote this. I know her well. She’s a good sort. The kind who’d sincerely plod through the better part of the night just to construct a plausible rhyme (and cheat only once in a while – refer to stanza 2). To paint a pretty picture with words. Because pretty pictures need to be painted. Sincerely.

So without further ado, coming to you from the pen of a slightly younger, slightly plumper and slightly more lyrical me –

The lonely Sun performs morning chores

And stealthily through the window pours

Upon a boring pair of apple cores

Wrapped tight in early morning snores

As time chides their belatedness

Inconvenienced by nakedness

The triumphant lazy tangled mess

Steers clear away of awaked-ness

An elaborate jigsaw of limbs now tired

Quietly reflects on all that transpired

Having not long ago been indescribably wired

For the hours are too short when so much is desired

Soon the universe seems to have espoused

The cause: to have this demon roused

So slothfully in its warm nest housed

Asleep... The rapture long past doused

But the beast remains a picture of repose

Twiddling its mildly intoxicated toes

(she hides in her neck his slumbering nose)

Could the elements have had the gall to suppose

They could break a spell that so stubbornly lingers

Far too long ‘twixt the skins of intertwined fingers?

I dedicate this post to Pooch. We seem to have an awful lot of conversations about love and sex and tragically little of either of the two. Sigh... If only cupid didn’t insist on being so indifferent with two charming, engaging and stunningly beautiful specimens.

Who takes care of moms when they fall sick?

just a thought...

Sweet Sorrow

I think "I" and me deserve an award. Heartiest felicitation, accolades.

Applause in most deafening quantities.

Nods of approval, pats on the back.

You see we just broke up... again. And we are friends... still.

We broke up once before. At VT station, on a train headed to Bangalore.

(A previous attempt to board this train had ended in disaster… I was only roughly 12 hours too late. How was I supposed to know that when the people over at the IRCTC said “8:00” they were referring to the AM and not the PM? I promptly declared myself to be the stupidest person I know. In fact I reconciled myself to the fact that if everyone had their own personal “stupidest person I know” awards ceremonies, I would feature on a lot of lists or at least receive heaps of “Honourable Mention”.

Fortunately for me the fates had decided that injury was punishment enough and spared me the insult aspect… No witnesses. Just me, "I" and the missing train).

So there we were… two hearts, slightly broken. The sheer simplicity of it would have made you want to empty your tear ducts of every last salty drop. But we were stoic little troopers, not to be done in by girly sentiment. We exchanged polite, stiff hugs and polite, stiff smiles, stiffened our upper lips and went our separate ways. Somewhere in the middle an envelope was misplaced and then successfully un-misplaced. It was beautiful.

We met roughly ten days later. Spent 3 blissful days in Goa. This was our least successful attempt at breaking up.

We broke up again shortly after. Not before a most fantastic week in Bombay (I discovered “paaya”, need I say more?). This time outside Churchgate station on a most un-extraordinary morning. We’d just taken a bike ride down Marine Drive (approaching it from Malabar Hills), which is surprisingly as beautiful in the morning as it is at night. This time unfortunately the flood gates of sorrow opened up with a vengeance… and then some. The tears of course were all mine ("I" claims certain parts of his heart are dead. Moreover he is a boy so lack of tears is apparently excusable) but the grief was shared. The proverbial pall of gloom descended on the three of us (bike, boy, myself). I was left with little choice but to wrap it around me and carry myself back to Bandra and then further away, much much further.

This break-up was the most hurtful. Probably because the permanence of broken-up-ness finally hit home. I searched long and hard for the source of this most debilitating pain. We’d never been great conversationalists, we didn’t read the same books, we wasted time on different websites. What we did do was occupy a certain amount of space in each other’s worlds. He occupied space across from me at a table in a fancy restaurant, I occupied space next to him in a movie hall. We collectively occupied a shapeless blob-like piece of space in bed. I occupied space between lunch at Mahim and a game of poker, he occupied space between lazy Sunday evenings and ghastly Monday mornings. We occupied a year’s worth of space in each other’s lives.

It’s strange how one grows accustomed to the sheer physical presence of another person. That you can learn to love them simply because they make the void around you seem a little less empty. That you can grow dependent on as complicated a piece of machinery as a human body, not for its thoughts, words and ideas, but simply because it is tangible. Because it is there.

I’ll always contend that the break-up took a bigger toll on me. I have a considerably larger void to fill. He’s 6’2”. Trust me to ruin a tender moment with a misplaced joke. No wait, that’s usually his job.

Subsequently, we broke up a few more times. Once (3 break-ups and counting) at smelly Bandra terminus on a most horribly hot day. Then in a slight alteration to the train theme, we broke up at the bus-station opposite Maratha Mandir. This time a phone was momentarily misplaced only to be un-misplaced shortly after. Anything to make a sad ending… well… less sad. We tried another variation (still in departure mode though) - the Delhi airport. And the last one (I’ve lost count) occurred the following week as we drove past Haji Ali. I finally asserted my relationship status.

“But you’ve been single all this while.”

“Yes, but now I’m single single.”

The tragic thing is break-ups no matter where they happen, no matter how many times they happen, no matter how cordial they are, are more often than not upsetting affairs.

And tonight? Well it doesn't really qualify as a break-up in the traditional sense of the word. It was more an acknowledgement of the fact that we are broken up. That we are “single single”. That we have, as per mutual agreement, condemned ourselves to being sad and lonely till we find someone suitable to occupy the space, across the table in a fancy restaurant, next to us in a movie hall.

That we will always be two remarkably interesting people, who if only momentarily added a lot of colour to each other’s universe.

Two hearts, slightly broken.

Dusks, Various

Goa

Donna Paula Jetty, Panaji

As a tourist destination this one tends to be slightly irritating, given that at any given time there will be too many people and consequently too few places to park your bum. The trick is to glare at people occupying the benches till they are forced to leave (owing to extreme discomfiture). This one requires patience but is worth it as it affords a beautiful view of the Maramgoa Port.

(View from) Royal Goan Beach Club, Baga

If you visit ask for room #63. Its quite a trek up - 500 mts. uphill from the gate followed by 4 flights of stairs (I kid you not). As if the physical exhaustion weren't enriching enough there follow 3 minutes of concentrated effort to jiggle the door open (the lock is whimsical). But the minute you walk in and slide open the balcony door you know you're getting your money's worth. The view is lovely and the surroundings oh-so quiet. Tune into the sounds of nature (

after the puffing, panting and wheezing subsides)

- birds, crickets, waves, wind - the whole orchestra's there!

Shapora Fort

Everyone loves a cliche. Vagator beach to your left, unknown beach (unknown only to me, not the general populous) to your right. And miles and miles of ocean in front. You'll struggle to capture all the colours as the sun flamboyantly plays out its descent on the sky... and on the sea. But I say - take a shot (pun intended). The result will be disappointing but not fruitless. Unless you bought a cheap camera or are grossly lacking in talent, in which case I'd recommend taking a mental picture.

Bhimeswari

The focus in this one's a shade wonky. I blame bad lighting and extreme belligerence on the part of the subject, which wobbled most annoyingly. I stole away from the group to take this one, only to be confronted by a spotted deer. I smiled... it ran. And all I have to show for my 'close encounter' is a picture of a most uncooperative flower. Eh... Ce'st la vie.

One look at this picture and the poet inside me says - "elephant droppings". Only because there is so much of it generously distributed all over the landscape, waiting to be pointed out by bored tour guides and admired endlessly by tourists. Our tour guide proceeded to direct our attention to a rather questionable elephant footprint. Skeptics were known to later say - "I didn't see nothing. It just looked like a whole in the mud to me".

I dedicate this picture to my camera. You did everything. With little or no assistance from me.

Bordi

There is a lot to be said for people who travel 3 hours for a barbecue. Who eat, drink and dance their way into the wee hours of the morning and shrug of debilitating hangovers for a water fight and a game of cricket the next day. More so to be said of the entertainment value of playing antakshari while under the influence. "Macs" are wonderful people.

(Note: The people featured in the picture are not the "Macs" in question. They are just random people strolling down the beach who happened to be photographed by a rude tourist.)

It took us 36 hours to realise that Bordi was not in Maharashtra. Either that or our respective cell-phone companies were wrongly levying roaming charges. Thats why they say - "Don't drink and jive".

Mumbai

Band-Stand, Bandra

If you want to go to one end of Band-Stand ask for Salman Khan's house. If you want to go to the other ask for Shahrukh Khan's house. Not only are these foolproof landmarks, they may also elicit a grin from your auto driver. And if you're lucky (as I tend to be in these matters) he'll chat a bit and tell you a story.

At the risk of being pummeled into sabudana vada batter I must say Band-Stand is highly overrated. It does provide a nice photo-op at dusk though. That is if you manage to look past the scores of frighteningly affectionate couples that dot the length of the promenade, the magnitude of who's amour increases exponentially at sunset. Strictly PG 13.

Kashmir

Dal Lake, Srinangar

What I love most about the pictures I took in Kashmir is the amount of time and effort I put into them despite repeated complaints of breaching timelines and jeopardizing the itinerary. I took this one from the garden of the Centaur hotel while mum was inside hyperventilating on account of my near certain abduction by a terrorist/ miscellaneous evil person. Also because the chai was getting cold.

On the way back from Baisaran we stopped to steal some plants from a field. The "we" in question were two 50 something women, 6 CRPF commandos and me (completely innocent). The sun setting over a vast expanse of yellow proved irresistable and I stopped to take pictures while thievery ensued in the background. Of course, I was blamed for slowing the party down. Life is unfair.

For loyal followers of this blog (4 at last count, author included), this one ought to ring a bell. But then I figure if something is good it bears repetition. What better way to wrap up this post than a picture from the first day of my first grand trip in a long time. The first of many I hope.

Leaving... on a Choo - Choo Train

The next time you meet someone who has just endured a 30 hour train journey – give ‘em a hug...

I wish I had the words/talent to accurately describe how tiring 30 hours of DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING can be. No exercise known to man comes close to causing as much physical exhaustion. And even the cruellest Sudoku cannot compare to the toll that idleness takes on one’s mind.

I thought I had it sorted... I mean I used to travel by train once upon a time. In addition to being invincible in every possible way (gifted at birth you see) I had the kind of temperament that was perfectly suited for combating boredom. I laughed in the face of monotony. I took to long journeys like my erstwhile landlady to glass of single malt whiskey.

There was no dearth of things to do! I could stare out the window for hours at end and not feel the slightest temptation to gouge my eyes out. I would eavesdrop on conversations (which invariably revolved around any of the following riveting subjects – rising prices, corruption in government, how unbearably hot/cold the weather is) without experiencing the urge to tear off my ears. I would read books and magazines, listen to music or just twiddle my thumbs and stare off into space like there was no tomorrow. And when all else failed – there were the naps. Ah sleep... a most calming refuge for the bored mind. If you add frequent trips to the loo, walks along the bogie and counting the minutes that pass between one chai walah and the next – well there’s hardly any time left for being bored!

Somewhere between those sanguine journeys of yore and today two irreversible developments took place –

1. I became rich (which, as I am having to painfully accept, is not exactly irreversible)

2. I got old and fussy

Between them, reasons 1. and 2. pretty much explain my inability to cope with the harsh realities of long train journeys. I’ve lost my childish enthusiasm for staring off into seemingly endless landscapes and imagining a simpler life – one look at vast expanses of depressing nothing-ness and I start to understand why so many farmers commit suicide. Agreed, the view from flights is infinitely more boring (I mean how many clouds can one admire before they all start to look the same? Provide me a view of two aeroplanes {other than the one i’m travelling in} colliding in mid-air, now that’s entertainment!!). But factor in travel time and we have a clear winner in the boredom sweepstakes –1 hour of fluffy white clouds vs. 20 hours of khet, majjan te gavan (i.e. – fields, buffaloes and cows). You decide...

And those “thrilling” trips to the loo... well they aren’t all that exciting any more. I still remember having perfected the art of relieving myself in an under-sized, smelly metal box that wobbles almost constantly. The challenge lies in doing all of this while simultaneously avoiding contact with anything inside the toilet compartment. Everything has to be nudged with an elbow, a hip, a knee or in extreme cases sheer willpower. Its the truest test of a human being’s motor skills. And as if the whole loo experience isn’t horrific enough there is the prospect of walking past and in some cases being attacked by a host of appendages dandled carelessly from upper berths... a kick in the shoulder here... a slap in the forehead there... makes you wonder how careless human beings can be with parts of their own body. Chhee...

Ownership of a laptop or i-pod only exacerbates travel woes. The railways, exhibiting a most twisted form of benevolence have provided charging points in most bogies – only there are never enough (damn the unbridled expansion of mobile telephony!) and the few that exist are either defunct or... well... temperamental. So you’re stuck with a hard disc full of FRIENDS or Family Guy or Russell Peters – whatever suits your fancy - and only 2 hrs of running time... and 28 hours of NOTHING... its the kind of frustration that makes you want to crawl into the highest berth and weep yourself to a quiet death.

About the only thing I don’t miss about flights are Flight Attendants. They scare me... I kid you not. All that smiling and courteousness? It’s just not normal human behaviour. The Train Attendants (I’m assuming that’s what they’re called) are refreshingly real – they grunt and complain and never have change for a 500. You gotta love ‘em.

In the midst of all this suffering I tried my absolute level best to day-dream about my exciting new life in Delhi... but before long the rainbows disappeared only to be replaced by far grimmer thoughts.

“First of all – I am poor again, which is never a good thing to be. Second of all I am single, which means having to find something to do on the weekends. I may even have to start reading again! Or blogging!! Sheesh... What a loser...”

“Having a rich boyfriend would go some way in solving both problems. But that would necessitate meeting new people... Crisis! And a lot of smiling... eeks. Going to places would require haggling with evil auto-wallahs... Nahiiiin!!!!”

A deadly combination of cabin fever and fear of the outside world... add a couple of large (double emphasis on the word “large”) geriatric women who take forever to navigate their bulk through the aisle and you have a neurotic on your hands.

But what is a girl to do? When she has foolishly volunteered for a life of penury. When wallet woes compel her to stop being a brat and “slum it” (3 tier AC is hardly slumming it – so i guess i’m still a little bit of a brat. Hee hee). When monetary constraints force her to trade in the comforting swoosh of the in-flight toilet flush for a rather questionable steel mug chained to a tap for fear of being stolen. Having to forego the dulcet tones of Yana’s voice as she coaches me through the safety routine on that cute little T.V. (I’ll miss you Yana... Sob). And instead, being treated to a symphony of farts and sighs and snores.

So I’m travelling on a choo – choo train

Don’t know when i’ll be sane again

In other (less dramatic) news -

I’m back home in Chandigarh with a lot of time on my hands and very little to do with it. Look forward to more gripping prose from the stables of Mademoiselle BB (ok I know prose can’t come from stables but its one of those nonsensical things you really don’t feel like deleting). Her pen is slightly fractured due to a year and ten months of bombardment by uninspiring excel spread sheets. But she’s looking to come back – newer, sharper, edgier and slightly more regular-er.

Coming attractions –

- Marry Rich or Die Tryin’

- Love, Sex aur Dhokla - The Way to a Man's Heart

- The Art of Cordial Breakups

- Cryptic Titles for Boring Blog Posts

- Book4.xls: A Labour of Love

... and much much more...

on toes

ten perfect diglits

as pink as new born piglits

delectable little giblits

intoxicating gimlits