Correspondence

First I said - 

"I will be prowling jnu-ish territory tomorrow... should i deliver your stuff to you?"

To which she inquired - 

"jnu-ish, late-ish? Coz i'll probably be less than human till about four thirty, five when the office closes and all hope for humanity disappears till the next day."

To which i rejoindered - 

"late-ish not likely-ish... need to be at munirka by 10am and will be done by 11am.

am a little iffy about traveling given the bandh tomorrow (yes P, there is a bandh tomorrow)

day after? or day-day after? or day after-after? or day-day after-after...

(this went on for a while)

To which she respondered - 

"any of them sound good, provided I regain my humanity. Bandh? All I know right now is how hilarious early christianity was - it really is like they showed it in life of brian. By the way, after jesus died, his disciples saw him 'eating grilled fish'. It says so in the bible. He also told someone, 'let the dead bury their own dead.' 

Thursday evening or friday or saturday I'm all yours. In fact, I might need to plan an excape 22 and 24th - they're having 'nights' here!

ps. What did st. stephen do? he got stoned. It's pretty much what he's remembered for.

And then I said

"first... stop studying. it appears to be having ugly side-effects.

second... excape... fastly... and into my arms. we'll go for a walk to Mughal Gardens, maybe pluck some flowers... that kind of thing. Had I been a man I would have threatened to piss in the President's premises, but woe is me... I cannot aim my pee.

and stay for as long as you need. I have to go for this wedding thing on Sunday - He's Bengali, she's Punjabi and they're BOTH from Delhi. 

I foresee a massive dearth of bearable company and multiple conversational black-holes. Be my plus-one?

third... so he got a bunch of rocks thrown at him? great. i can feel the pressure to amount to something in this life-time disintegrate... slowly.

love. 

true love, not just the kind that ends e-mails."

*

To P - stay close, you make me feel normal. Hug.

*

Real hug. Not just the kind that ends e-mails.

Inside the Lines – How life pulled a fast one on me

"they love to tell you… stay inside the lines…

But something’s waiting… on the other side…”

John Mayer, No Such thing 

If my childhood were a person, a real-live human being like me, with arms and legs and dandruff… I don’t think we’d be on very good terms. We’d hide our contempt behind superficiality and polite smiles while secretly harboring the urge to sabotage every small chance of happiness in each others’ lives.

At most, I guess, we’d be face-book friends. But that’s about it.

Why? Because my childhood has sabotaged every small chance of happiness in my life.

(This is where the Americans dramatically say – “Period!”)

My childhood won a lot of 1^st prizes. But it’s the 2^nd prizes that can really change you.

One such 2^nd prize was awarded for colouring. You know the standard colouring competition – they give you an outline of some trees and hills and kids with kites and you have to fill in the shapes with colour. Easy enough right? Even a child can do it right? Wrong!

(This is where Americans insert the annoying buzzer sound)

The reason I won 2^nd and not 1^st was because in my enthusiasm, I’d strayed outside the lines (tsk tsk…). I’d then gone ahead and done the unforgivable - make new outlines around the careless scrawling to make it seem like that’s the shape things were meant to be in the first place (tsk tsk tsk…).

So my trees were thicker and greener, my mountains were rockier and browner and the kites were wild and enormous. Unwittingly, I’d given the picture some character. Wrong! Wrong!! Oh so wrong!!!

If only I’d stuck to the script, that damned 1^st prize would have been mine. 

This is how 2^nd prizes change your life.  

So I proceeded to follow the script and as expected - the 1^st prizes followed. Whenever the crayon threatened to breach the sacrosanct boundaries the prospect of a 1^st prize was like a Starship Enterprise type tractor beam pulling it back in.

But you know the funny thing about tractor beams? You get used to being reigned in. And even when they’re switched off you rarely go outside the lines.

And there’s a funny thing about lines. You forget what to do when there aren’t any. So you just make them up.

Then, if you’re lucky, you’ll get really really fucked in the head (tsk tsk tsk tsk… chhee). Because you realize that there are no lines and no tractor beams and the only reason they exist is because you ‘made them up’. Tragically, if you’re like me, you’ll just be angry and resentful and fail to see the beauty of how your life is composed entirely of tractor beams and lines and boundaries – that don’t exist. You’ll fail to appreciate the magical abilities of your own mind in having created this world of illusions.

You’ll take the immature approach… and blame your parents… or something like that.

If the angry and resentful me met the littler version of me I bet I’d say –

“listen - at first things will be really bad, but you won’t know it – you’ll wet your pants in kindergarten and pretend like it never happened and congratulate yourself for being a grown-up, you’ll reign in the crayons and paints and colour the picture the way you were given it and congratulate yourself for winning everyone’s approval, you’ll do the right things ask the right questions and make the right choices and feel good about being right. And those who are wrong don’t matter. Because they’re wrong”

“then things will stay just as bad, only it actually starts to feel bad, because you know just how bad things are – you’ll see the questions you didn’t ask because you didn’t think they were relevant, the times you didn’t ask for help because you didn’t want to be an inconvenience or worse, seem weak. You see the chances you didn’t take because – who invites uncertainty right? The rewards you didn’t win because you didn’t think you deserved them. And then you start to get uncomfortable… really really uncomfortable… and wonder why.”

If that is in fact what I end up saying, I really hope this is how I end –

“but eventually, you run out of ‘whys’ and things get a little better… or at least stop getting worse. Because you KNOW and strangely, simply knowing can help.”

*

To my good friends – anger and resentment. I’m glad they came. Between the three of us, I’m sure we’ll locate the whereabouts of the button that turns the tractor beam off. And enough erasers to wipe out the lines.

*

"I just found out there's no such thing as the real world...

Just a lie you've got to rise above"

John Mayer, No Such thing 

The thing about scrambled eggs...

"There are roughly two kinds of people who like scrambled eggs...

...the first kind, who actually like scrambled eggs...
... the second, who pretend they wanted the eggs scrambled all along."

*

Don't look at me. I didn't mess with no eggs today.
I made dal. And it tasted surprisingly like dal.
(pats back)

*

SUK and I have decided to get married. Not to each other (sadly).
So we figure in order to get married a few years down the line (which is as of yet a vague, mysterious, nebulous number we haven't really put much thought into) we should start the groundwork with immediate effect.
As per our hypothesis, in order to find a suitable marriage partner we would need to budget time for meeting people, rejecting people, getting rejected by people, getting rejected by prospective parents in law (hey it happens)... getting to know people, several rounds of discussion on likes and dislikes, interests and dis-interests, lifestyle choices... months of hemming and hawing and procrastination... months of parental nagging...

Also said marriage partner should be rich. Really really rich.

Keeping in mind the statistics (another set of vague, mysterious, nebulous numbers we chose to just come up with) and our extreme lack of urgency to resolve the matter, this process of selection, elimination, exploration can at best be covered in - 7 years.

*

7 more years of spinsterhood (ugly word alert!). My mom's not going to like this.

If at the close of these 7 years, SUK and I should find ourselves unmarried and also find that our un-married-ness is mutual we have decided to absolutely NOT marry each other. In fact, if the thought so much as crosses our minds we have promised to shoot each other in the foot.

*

I love my married friends. They have homes, real grown up homes. With clean curtains and clean towels and clean hand towels and clean sheets... and stocked fridges... and geysers.
They are also sufficiently bored of each other to lavish most of their attention on me. Its like being married to them. Muahahaha...
They also glow.

*

Dedicated to L and M and the happy domesticity we all secretly aspire for.

Thanks for letting me enjoy a piece of it. I think you should adopt me. I'll make a great (pick from one of several equally attractive options):
1. live-in maid - I can make scrambled eggs AND dal
2. babysitter - For when the babies come. It doesn't hurt to be prepared.
3. first child - I'm super responsible, I do my homework on time and get straight As
4. sponge - Person who generates no resources or useful services whatsoever for the household
5. poet/ writer/ artist seeking inspiration - see definition of 'sponge'
6. invalid - before your parents get there. It doesn't hurt to be prepared. We could all use a dry-run right?

*

The last one was in slightly poor taste.

*

Dedicated to L and M for loving me for my bad taste and only occasional good taste.
And for the eggs. I really did want them scrambled :)

So… today… before I slip into a cheesy spaghetti carbonara induced stupor… I’ll write…

(And… with that… I have exhausted the statutory upper limit on number of ellipses one can use in a blog-post…)

(… screw that …)

(…)

I chose today to shake things up at blimblop because - 

… I just re-read some things I’d written a long time ago and realized that they weren’t half bad.

… writing is the least unpleasant task on my long list of ‘things to do’. Yes, I do acknowledge the criticality of washing underwear. Also of not exceeding work deadlines by more than two days. But a few more hours can’t hurt… right? Right?

… not one… not two… but yeah actually just two people asked me to resume writing. One of these people is known to me so bribery cannot be ruled out entirely, don’t worry P – you will continue to receive unnecessary gifts from me for as long as I know you.

The other is a stranger.

This of course is in startling contrast to prevailing trends. Every other stranger who comments on my blog is usually asking me to -  

1. purchase xanax/ valium/ sports shoes/ Viagra… OR
2. invest in penis enlargement… OR
3. become a nurse/ pilot… OR
4. engage in some rather… erm… questionable… erm… ‘activities’… OR
5. watch other people (specifically Scandinavian women) engage in some rather… erm… questionable… erm… 'activities'

Now that’s a lot of unsolicited advice for just one me to process. I’m just going to listen to the stranger who asked me to stop being a bum and write more often.

*

So a lot has transpired twixt (which is just a fancy, 14^th century word for ‘between’) my last post and this one. I shall now proceed to provide a brief recap -

Shortly after my last post I was diagnosed (wrongly) of being pregnant. It’s a funny story, really -  15 of the most horrible minutes of my life: extremely blog-worthy. The last time I narrated this story I had the audience rolling in the aisles. Watch this space.

Shortly after that I was made an offer of marriage by a reasonably eligible man (which was in no way connected to the possibility of a bastard child). Despite the oh-so-tempting investment banker-ness of the proposer (he was tall too) I promptly refused. In doing so I confirmed my mother’s worst nightmare – that I would willfully condemn myself to a few more years to husband-less-ness, child-less-ness and suffering in general.  

Shortly after that I moved to Rajgarh, a small town in Rajasthan (which was in no way connected to me escaping all possibilities of receiving marriage proposals or producing bastard children). I spent most of July at war with my colleagues - 22 bratty kids who were to, over the course of the next year, become my family. 

August saw me at my Florence Nightingale best - frequent trips to hospitals in Jaipur and way more drama than a human being is programmed to cope with. It rained and rained and rained and things continued to get more inconvenient.

Sometime in September, I wore a sari to work. It created quite a stir.

Sometime in September SUK, PR, SP and I booked a room in a hotel, drank ourselves silly and went for a swim. Even in Jhunjhunu (which is not a word of my invention, it really is the name of a district in Rajasthan) little miracles can happen.

In Rajgarh, there are no Coffee Shops and no multiplexes. With not much else other than work to focus my time and attention to, I did what seemed natural – work some more, in most mule-like fashion. But small town life did have its perks. I managed to meet a history-sheeter, buy over-priced furniture from a local politician, make a speech at a Republic day function in a village school, attend an inter-district daf-pratiyogita. Eat lots of khand, drink lots of chhaas and tear a few kurtas along the way.

On a brief solo-trip to Kerala for friend's wedding I danced in a tea-garden. I really did dance, like in the movies. Just thought I should mention that. Lots of wedding guests suffered debilitating bouts of food-poisoning. I went for second helpings and third helpings and escaped without a scratch. I guess Punjabi stomachs are just sturdier than their Mallu counterparts.

Sometime in November, back in Rajasthan, I addressed a group of 50 government school headmasters to give them a lecture on ‘leadership’. To this day, I have no idea why they listened so closely. I wasn’t even wearing the sari.

Through all of this, I regularly lost my temper a whole lot and received a disproportionate amount of love and respect in return. I became the reluctant matriarch of our charmingly dysfunctional family. I got two cakes on my birth day. One of them was obscenely large and creamy. It came all the way from Hissar.

I learnt to not hate people and actually like children. On the subject of camels - I am still ambivalent.

I visited schools and re-experienced the tyranny of the classroom, the struggle of the student. The malaise of discrimination. I felt awful. I learnt that after years of being detached, I was capable of feeling awful. I didn’t know what to do with the feeling. Years of being detached can do that to you.

Bike rides across the deserted terrain, hitch-hiking on a tractor and a giant wheel ride in Pilani that made me only slightly queezy. I walked… and walked… and walked some more. 

(Am yet to dance on top of a train. But I'm optimistic.)

Skip ahead to March of this year, I escaped from Rajgarh, in true filmy ishtyle, with not much more than the clothes on my back (okay so I carried my laptop too). Something bad happened. So let’s just leave it at that.

Over the course of the next few months I proceeded to spend as little time as possible in one location. Delhi first, then home, then Dharamasala, then Kullu, then home, then Delhi, back to Rajasthan. Somewhere in the middle I attended a meditation course (which is a really good excuse to not speak to anyone for at least 10 days), made a really good friend in Mcleodganj followed by days of long walks and nights of restful sleep in Kullu.

I attempted making conversation with the water-fall at Jaana and rapids along the Beas. Both proved less than charitable. I stumbled and fell, several times and returned home with dirty pants, drenched socks and a sheepish grin.

I read a heart-breaking book by a gentleman called Hoshang Merchant, I found out who Anais Nin is. Some people write so well, it is almost unfair.

Work took me to Udaipur, Churu, Mumbai, Ahmedabad and Jaipur. Exhaustion took me to Bangalore and prevented me from going any further. 

The events of the past year could cover several chapters of a book, or maybe even one whole episode of the ‘Bold and the Beautiful’. And you know the best part - I’m not making any of this up.

So… yeah… you can see why I had no time to write. Apparently I am capable of leading a far more interesting life than I had ever imagined. Just not very good at writing it all down.

It’ll all tumble out in good time I suppose… sooner or later. At least the fun, juicy parts. Brace yourselves.

*

In June, I settled on Delhi. At first she was at her inhospitable best and tried to spit me out.

Yet here I am, back in the capital, trying, rather unsuccessfully, to live like a grown-up. Attempting to infiltrate it's vicious social circles. Writing painfully long blog-posts, gorging on cheesy spaghetti carbonara and paying someone to tell me that I am experiencing mild existential depression.

Its good to be home :)

Holy Compatibility Batman!

B moved in sometime in December. And it would seem that 3 is indeed company. Even people as fiercely territorial as M and myself were done in by B’s charms on first contact.

I knew we’d hit pay-dirt somewhere in the midst of my first conversation with B. She asked if it were okay if she let a friend (and boyfriend of said friend) use her room for the purposes of – “Ahem, ahem” (a.k.a “Cough, cough”, a.a.k.a. sexual intercourse).

She said she thought it was okay.

M said he thought it was cool as long as they didn’t “cough” too loudly.

I said I thought it was great because… well… someone might as well be having sex. The closest anyone one in our house was getting to physical intimacy was being frisked at the metro station.

(I then launched into a slightly lengthy {and some claim plagiarized} monologue on how there really weren’t as many people “Ahem, ahem”-ing as there should be. If there were, there would be no war… Duh…

Of course to explain this hypothesis in its entirety and do justice to its various nuances I would need to write another post altogether. I’ll save that for another day.)

There it was – congruency.

Thereafter, the little doubt that remained on B’s suitability for flat-mate-dom was put to rest when B revealed talents of the following nature –

1. 1. The ability to turn pink when inebriated i.e. to be immensely entertaining.

2. 2, The ability to lose her hearing when inebriated i.e. additional entertainment

3. 3. The achieve the above mentioned state of inebriation after consuming remarkably small amounts of alcohol, making the entertainment extremely cost effective

M and I can scarcely believe how perfectly she has managed to blend into our version of happy domesticity (or lack thereof… seriously, we need an intervention. Our home is barely habitable. An army of moms would need to work around the clock for a week at a stretch to set right all the things that are wrong with our house).

As for M, being outnumbered by women seems to suit him just fine. I try to make him feel less left out by consistently keeping my room as messy and disorganized as I possibly can so as to accentuate the bachelor pad-ishness of the place. For his part M is more than meeting us half way. He patiently indulges our (read my) diatribes against men. He has been known to display great courage when confronted by women’s underwear strewn carelessly all over the place (again mine, an old habit I just can’t seem to shake off). Word on the street is he is now trying to grow a uterus.

Dear M,

Please don’t grow a uterus. We love you just the way you are.

XOXO

poem

I came across a poem by one Mr. Edward Robins Richardson as quoted in my latest favourite book in the world: Me Cheeta, An Autobiography (written by one Mr. James Lever, what a guy). What a book and what a poem. I wish I'd written them both... or at least one... or at least something that compares... Eh... Bleh...

So here goes -

Let us with zest drink deep the draught

Of life, and care not if the wine

Is neither nectar nor divine

Elixir, for we have loved and laughed

Amid our tears. If we should fall

In reaching for the big brass ring,

Or if, like Ic'rus, we take wing

Too near the sun... well, then we fall.

At least we flew! At least we chose

To burn! And when our heydey cools

And we're near dust, if we were fools

To hell with it. To hell with those

Who feared to rush dream-drunk, headlong

Into th'dance! Say this, when we set

Out for the realm unconuer'd yet:

Say, They Lived. Judge us right or wrong

We drained our cups.

*

Its the most wonderful time of the year. Just the right amount of cold. I'm working from home... from our balcony to be more precise. In a t-shirt, my arms finally get to see the light of day. To breathe. Its been far too long.

And suddenly I don't hate Delhi as much as I did not so long ago. And Delhi seems to have accepted me too. Like former lovers who reunite and grudgingly admit how incomplete they were without each other. That home was closer than they could have ever imagined.

*

We drained our cups... and made our peace.

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

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