30andhappy

2011-08-24T16:33:00.000+05:30

Don't people get it? There's a world out there thats screaming for help. It's on the brink, on the edge of a cliff yelling, hoping someone will notice and stop it from jumping. And some people glance towards it and look away and ask “so what's the gossip from last night?” Meanwhile the world is tottering dangerously on the edge, getting hypnotized by the little specks of sea far below. It's deliciously inviting. A concerned few shout out “hey, don't go that close” between swigs of beer and a joint that's doing the rounds. The world starts singing like a madman. At first its faint, like a distant song, coming from a radio a few house down. And then it gets louder and LOUDER until its at full volume, an anthem at the top of its voices. And the beer drinkers are forced to look over. They sit up, and they like it and they start keeping the beat. But the girls, they get annoyed and shut the window cause, like, “there's too much noise outside, say that again, she kissed who?”

2010-02-11T15:17:00.002+05:30

tick-tick tick-tick tick-tick tick-tick the indicator continues till long after we make the turn. how can he not hear it? does that blinking light not catch his eye? does the ticking not annoy him? its so loud, it sounds like there's a bomb in my head about to explode.

2009-10-14T15:54:00.001+05:30

I’m brave but I’m chicken shit. - alanis morissette

2009-09-23T16:37:00.001+05:30

i always thought (subconciously), that the earth belongs to humans and animals happen to be there too. now i think the opposite.

2009-08-19T15:29:00.002+05:30

sleep
engulfs me

like a warm hug,
like a cozy blanket,
like a sunday afternoon,
like love.

right there in the middle of my meeting.

shameless it is.

2009-08-13T15:49:00.001+05:30

i want.

an iphone

an airbook

3 new acs

a new digital camera

a toned body

great skin

good nights sleep

free time

a nice man

shoes

bags

holidays

happiness

and i want to quit my job.

2009-07-16T18:51:00.003+05:30

kyurious

ripoort

politeesian

why can't the english learn how to speak?

2009-06-03T12:41:00.003+05:30

आज हम हिन्दी में लिखेंगे। पर मुझे माफ़ करना पड़ेगा, क्यूंकि मेरी हिन्दी काफ़ी बेहूदा है। अब मुझे लगता है की बेहूदा शायद ग़लत शब्द है पर में उससे वैसे ही छोरने वाली हूँ।

अब मज्जे के लिए में भाषण देने वाली हूँ।

भाइयों और बहेनो, हम्मे सब साथ मिलकर रहेना चाहिए। हिंदू, मुसलमान, सिख, इसाही, और हर धर्म के लोग में खून जोह बहेता है वोह एक ही है। यह भाषण बहुत बोरिंग है।

ओके बाय।

2009-05-26T14:43:00.004+05:30

do you ever think you were born to do things other than what you do now? to maybe run a school or save the trees or clean the rivers or reduce plastic or find solutions for all of the above.

wouldn't that be more meaningful than writing a jingle to sell hair oil? or toothpaste?

2009-05-25T18:46:00.005+05:30

you think?

you think they'll let him live? you think this time the dream will become a reality? you think the young ones will remain clean and pure? you think the old ones will learn a lesson or two? you think they'll think before taking a bribe? before stuffing their pockets and every available orifice with our hard earned money? you think they'll think and then say no? you think the electricity will finally come and the hunger will finally end and the hatred will finally vanish and the bombs will finally stop? you think that man in budelkhand will finally stop digging the well that yeilds no water? you think?

i think.

i hope.

i pray.

2009-02-02T15:10:00.003+05:30

so many people running on the tread mill.

the thin girl is running from the divorce thats yapping at her heels. its so close now that she can feels its hot breath on the back of her legs. she runs faster and harder, but it never seems to get tired or slow down. that dirty dog.

on the treadmill next to her, the fat lady, running from the doctors. they've jumped into an ambulance and they've got the sirens blaring. they're coming to take her away, to jab needles in her arms and take her blood pressure and pump her with pills. run lady. run. your life depends on it.

in the mirror i can see the gay hair dresser. trying to run like a boy. every now and then, his arms flap a bit, like he's just spotted his favourite rock star, and like he's going to faint, and like, its like, just too much. eeeeeeeeee.

then there's the 40 something woman running from her age.

the israeli body guard running behind the terrorists, running from the terrorists, running with anger, running from fear, running to save his girlfriend, and the rabbi and the wife.

the 40 something man. running to forget. forget the woman he loves. loved. forget that she married someone else. forget the times they made love together. forget. forget. forget.

and then me. i'm just running so i don't get fat :)

2008-03-22T20:47:00.003+05:30

i think someone took away my laughter.

i can't seem to find it anywhere.

looked in my bag, looked under the bed, looked through the heap of mail, behind the sofa, in the kitchen, in my jeans 5th pocket, in the gap where things fall behind the dresser.

can't seem to find it though.

now what'll i do?

2008-02-20T15:48:00.003+05:30

i don't get it.

why are we born?

2008-02-15T17:50:00.003+05:30

some people have the kindest eyes
like my nani
but she died
:(
and i miss her

2007-11-06T20:07:00.001+05:30

The husband who doesn't care. The wife who told a lie. The widow who eats alone. The mother who started from scratch. The father wracked with guilt. The girl who was abused. The woman who's husband strays. The silent sobs at night. The drugs to cut the pain. The alcohol to sterilise the wounds. The laughter to hide the tears. The bravery to cover the wretchedness.

2007-10-16T17:58:00.001+05:30

it was getting dark. a familiar wave of unease swept through her gut. she thought maybe she needed to use the loo, but then it passed. as she looked out of the window, people were returning home. tired, defeated, carrying the burden of the day with them. she tried counting the exhausted shoulders that went by.
to her, their dispair was palpable.
jobs they didn't enjoy.
loans they couldn't pay.
homes they weren't proud of.
wives they has nothing to say to.
children who hadn't turned out like they imagined.
aged parents.
dreams that lay dusty and forgotten, locked in the battered aluminium trunks that they had packed when they left home all those years ago.

city life sucks.

2007-06-23T05:16:00.001+05:30

the sighs behind the smile

the cry behind the laugh

the scream in your head

the tears you never shed

blah

2007-06-19T19:54:00.000+05:30

The amusement park.

Bright lights. Happy colours. Joyous rides. Pink, sweet, sticky candy floss. The kind that lodges itself in your teeth and can be tasted hours later. Multicoloured balloons.
I want to go in and taste the madness. I want to laugh hysterically and run wildly from one crazy ride to another, undecided on what i like best. I want the wind in my hair and my stomach in my mouth.

But i something stops me. Something tells me this isn't any ordinary amusement park. Its the kind that sucks you in and leaves you craving for more. and more. If i go in, i may never want to come out again. And and something tells me, if i go in, i'll never be happy outside. again.

2007-05-05T17:25:00.000+05:30

The Building AGM

In an unpainted room i didn't know existed, a broken tt table served as the chairmans desk. He was flanked by the secretary, a disgruntled mousey-looking man who used the opportunity to shout at all the neighbours he didn't like. Much like a batty school master, he wagged his finger and raised his voice. He seemed quite ready to throw people out of the class or send them into the corner till they learnt how to behave. On the chairmans right, sat a man who would periodically stand up and shout about how much research he had done into ganiteting/cementing/cable connections/water pipes.

I sat in the back with my brother and watched. this was definately better than reality tv.

2007-05-05T17:22:00.000+05:30

if i wear the wrong contact lens in the wrong eye, will i be cross-eyed?

2007-04-01T19:15:00.000+05:30

i'm fat and i banged my car.

:(

2007-03-21T11:45:00.000+05:30

She walked down the parking lot, the tick-tock of her heels echoing loudly. Her hair was perfectly done, not a strand out of place. She wore a suit and pearl earrings, carried a file of important papers and a no nonsense attitude, and talked on her mobile phone officiously. Tock-tock-tock-tock went her shoes. Tock-tock-tock.
From the other end of the corridor, I half-ran towards my car, already late for a meeting. Fachak-fachack-fichak went my chappals, my hair flew wildly into my face, momentarily blinding me, my t-shirt rode up my growing midriff and my jeans felt too tight. I juggled with my bag, my water bottle, the car keys, my mobile phone, a large bundle of un-ironed dhobhi clothes and my nerves.

2007-03-18T16:35:00.001+05:30

Waiting for the boat to take me across to the other side, i can't concentrate on my book so i glance at the people around me.

A page 3 wannbe, peering disdainfully through her large fake Chanel sunglasses, cursing her useless husband and wishing like hell that she owned one of those zippy little white speed boats. As the locals push past her with their hold-alls and gas cyclinders, she clutches her belongings a little bit tighter. I want to giggle at her discomfort, so i look away instead.

Across from me, sitting on the wall, a guy in white pants, chewing on a toothpick. He has on a thick gold chain, but the locket has disappeared into the thicket on his chest. From his pocket, he takes out a packet of gutka. He spits out his toothpick, empties the contents into his mouth and then causually throws it aside. I open my mouth to protest, to tell him to pick it up and throw it in the dustbin, but then decide against it. Why get into a conversation with him. He doesn't seem the decent type. As i look back at the packet, a wind catches it and takes it to the sea. As it floats, shiny and crude in the water, i get angry at myself for not having said anything.

A woman settles down on the steps beside me. She looks like a simple villager waiting to get back home. She seems to exude a deep sadness. I try to look at her eyes and all i see is a vague glazed look. In her hand is a crumpled piece of paper. As she sits there, waiting for the boat, she opens up the paper and then crumples it up again. In that quick second, i happen to glance at the paper. It says Child Adoption Centre. Now i feel bad for being so nosy.

2006-10-14T13:06:00.000+05:30

THE HOUSE

As you walk past and peep in, you find a story in every room.
An ailing grandmother who talks only to the people she truly likes. In the next, her 98 yr old sister-in-law, who is busy keeping up with the news, of the world and the family.

In the study, a son who's here to meet her, all the way from Washington. He snores lazily after a heavy winter meal.

In the dining room, another son, who visits regularly. Who talks to her even if she doesn't listen or talk back. On the phone, his wife, either councelling her pregnant daughter or listening to the exploits of her talented son.

In the kitchen the scheming servants.

Across the corridor and into the other side of the house, another son, playing card games on his computer and smoking cigarretes, worrying in his head about his mother, his work and his health. But always smiling and always welcoming.

In the kitchen, in the bedroom, in her mother-in-laws room, with the dogs, on the phone, in a charity school, is his wife, always calm.

Under the stairs, a greedy daughter, eats her mother food. The mother barks once and then drinks some water instead.

Thundering down the stairs, the youngest, his hair spiked and geled, late for college, or a date. Music from a radio distracts you and you peep into yet another room. Its the eldest, getting ready for work after an hour long massage. earings? high-heels? do i really have to go to work today? In yet another room, her friend from Finland who's come to India to find herself.

From elsewhere, loud snores. Its a young friend from madras, on a mission to save his family business, exhausted from the pressure of it all.

A door bursts open. Its the middle one. He looks at me blankly and then frowns at the snoring door. Laptop in one hand and cellphone in the other, he looks for a quite corner of the house to settle down in and do whatever it is he does.

The room in the far corner of the house has been strangely silent. Push the door slightly and someone jumps. Its a fugitive boyfriend, hiding from the extended family!

From the bathroom, a servant appears. Her sister killed her own husband because he drank too much. From the laundry room, another maid. Her husband works as the driver and her sister-in-law works in the other side of the house, but they don't talk.

Downstairs, my parents get into the car after a brief stop over. They say goodbye to the man who brought up my father and has cooked for all of us for the past 60 years. He makes the best souffle's in the world.

The watchman waves. Julie the stray barks. Dika her daughter from across the road wags her tail.

I hope they don't sell the house.

10 bedrooms.
3 living rooms.
2 dining rooms.
2 studies.
2 kitchens.

6 servants.
2 dogs.

12 inhabitants and counting...

2006-09-18T21:06:00.001+05:30

In the bright rude lights of my headlamps, i catch unsuspecting moments. I feel like an intruder. An outsider with a very bright torch. Pointing it where and when i please. Impolite. And inquisitive.

I see a man bathing, a boy studying, a woman cooking. I try to imagine that the lights are welcome. Like a beacon. Helping the man see how much water he has left in his bucket, helping the boy to read that important sentence clearly, and the woman see the colour of the daal she's cooking. Sometimes, i'm helping an old lady find her glasses. Sometimes i help a man cheat at cards. Sometimes an old gent on a charpoy doesn't have to strain his eyes to read the paper. Sometimes i catch a laugh. Sometimes a tear. Sometimes the kids find the ball. And the girls find the boys looking. And the boys see the girls eyes. Sometimes the mother sees the boy and girl together. Somebody finds their chappals. Somebody else finds they've lost theirs. Sometimes a little girl gets to see the colour of her shit. And a boy gets to jump out of the way of a giant rat.

From the safety of my car, i wonder if i helped.

2006-09-07T18:47:00.001+05:30

my phone fell into the pot.

there's no other way to tell it than that. plain and simple. it jumped right out of my hand and plopped right into the pot. that too the office pot. not my harpic-clean, gleaming-white, 100% germ-free, cleaned by OCD-me, home pot. but the slightly yellowing, bacteria-infested, cleaned by unclean men, office pot.

as it lay there drowing at the bottom of the pot, its lights flickered hopelessly.
help. it shouted. HELP.
all i could see were bubbles that rose sadly to the surface.

should i put my hand in there? should i use the potty brush to bring it out? or should i just let it go? flush it down?

as i looked down at it, trying to make up my mind, it looked back up at me, its screen pleading, its lights fading slowly...i didn't have the heart to let it die. it had all those numbers of people i loved and hated. it had all those lovely messages i had saved. it had my movie list. it even had my pan number. i realised i needed it more than ever. i couldn't let it go. not so soon. not this way.

i took a deep breath, i held the potty brush and skillfully manuvered it out. with the other hand, i grabbed some tissues and held it firmly. victory!
not a drop of potty water touched me.

when i went home i gave it a savlon bath and then took one myself. actually i took two. and just thinking about it makes me want to take a third.

2006-09-03T13:29:00.000+05:30

One of my favourite books as a kid was Ferdinand The Bull. Written by a Spanish author who gifted it to my Grandma, the faded red cover with Ferdinand The Bull drawn on it, now lies on a bookshelf in my parents home.

Ferdinand The Bull was a young but beefy bull. When all the other young bulls were charging around grunting and hoping to be choosen for bullfights, Ferdinand liked to sit under the trees and smell the flowers. He liked to chase the butterflies as they danced among the petals. He was like a 60's flower-child bull. Like the Mahatma Gandhi of bulls. The other bulls used to laugh at him. Gentle, sissy Ferdinand.

I loved to see the drawings of the show-off bulls. Kicking up dust with puffs of smoke emitting from their angry nostrils. In the background, on the hill, Ferdiand my friend was sitting under the trees, sniffing a rose.

When the men came, they weren't impressed with the bravado of the other bulls. They were impressed with Ferdinand. Shit, this bull was big. He was intense and composed. He wasn't running around like the other foolish bulls. So they took him to the arena.

When he entered, people ooooed. The matador trembled. And then as Ferdiand moved, a hush fell over the crowd.

Ferdinand lumbered slowly and menacingly to the far side of the arena, where he found a lady with a hat full of flowers.

This October i'm going to Spain.

I shall look for Ferdinand my childhood friend.
Hopefully, i won't have to look in the arena.

2006-09-01T15:31:00.000+05:30

in the garden in the winter sun. a bloody mary.
maybe two.
some good kashmiri food. divinely flavoured and not too spicy.
get every bit of the vassi out of the bone.
eat some yummy homemade pudding.
sponge cake with custard.
a homemade paan.
sneak a smoke on the terrace with the cousin.
find a sofa or a diwan near the window, where the sun streams in.
curl up warm and fade into a comfortable nap.
wake up cold. the sun has moved. take the shawl lying on the chair.
fade back into sleep.
wake up to laughter. and tea.
and samosas and hot jalebis.

don't eat dinner.

2006-08-31T15:54:00.000+05:30

I wash my hands after touching money. I wash my hands after signing with the courier guys pen. I wash my hands after petting dogs, and shaking hands with people, I wash my hands after touching door knobs. I wash the tap after washing my hands, before turning it off.
I kick open loo doors. I am quite good with holding doors open with my feet. I don’t really mind when people hold doors open for me. I push elevator buttons with my knuckles and hate when I need to use someone else’s cell phone. I keep wiping my ears after that.
I don’t sit on my bed with my work clothes. Nor can anyone else. I make people take their shoes off at the door. I make my maid wash her hands with Dettol soap when she comes in the morning.

There was a time when I used to put coins in my mouth and suck on them for fun. And once I licked rainwater off the bar of a train window. I guess I liked the way the drop was forming.

Inspired by a post on www.2x3x7.blogspot.com

2006-07-31T19:06:00.000+05:30

Sometimes Anxiety silently creeps up on me from behind and seizes my mind. Struggle as i might, i can't let go, it has a firm hold on me. It then proceeds to seep into every pore of my being. It holds my stomach hostage. It freezes my brain. It thinks It has the last say.

But little does it know.

I have an escape hatch. And a secret tunnel. I can reason my way out. And I can exile it from this universe. And I can choose to ignore it. And I can laugh at it. And i can not give it the time of day.

So boo to you. anxiety.

2006-07-27T19:39:00.000+05:30

While all the news channels spew hate and blood, body parts and broken lives, there is one oasis of pure delight.

Takeshi's Castle on Pogo.

Japanese adults (i wonder what they do during the day...) dressed in their Sunday worst, try to overcome obstacles on route to Takeshi's Castle (a thermacol castle that can never, never be taken. the last bastion of the Japanese empire is under attack!!!).

The ragged army (could they be accountants and secretaries? i wonder) have to keep their balance in a giant rice bowl that is pushed down a wet slope, into a pond below, by 2 clowns shouting incoherent Japanese (obviously incoherent, since i don't understand Japanese).

Wearing velcro fly-suits, they take turns in swinging from a rope across a muddy moat. The aim is to get stuck to the giant spiders web on the otherside (the creators of this show sure know how to make a grown man look stupid).

Then they run across giant rollers and play the dreaded game: wipe out! Wipe out has a Japanese man dressed as Pocohontas. Oh what a distraction he/she is...The army then makes its way skipping gingerly over real and fake stones, desperately trying not to fall into the muddy water below.

They survive fake earthquakes.
They wrestle fake sumos.
They swing across real muddy water.

They carefully cross a wobbly bridge, holding onto a golden ball, while another set of clowns fires black leather cannon balls at them (sounds kinky, but its innocent, or so i think).

They have a captain who urges them on with incoherent Japanese war cries.
They wear helmets.
They wear knee pads.
They wear lipstick and karate clothes.
They wear kimonos and yellow floral tracksuits.
They loose teeth and sleep when they don't make it.

All this is translated (oh so correctly) for us by Javed Jaffery.

I know it sounds crazy, but its not half as crazy as the war between israel and lebanon, or the war between america and iraq or the war between the terrorists and the innocents.

So i choose, every evening to watch the attack on Takeshi's Castle.

I think it should get an award.
I also think the original creators would die if they knew what Javed was saying.

2006-07-14T12:16:00.000+05:30

i want to move to a tiny island off the Agean Coast. I want to sit by the sea, and string together coloured beads and gold and silver bits to make jewelry to sell to the rich and famous that visit. I want to eat fish and prawns in garlic and olive oil, straight out of the flat earthenware dishes in which they are cooked. I want to spend my days on a boat, sailing from one island to the next. Getting bronzed by the sun, and strengthened by the sea.

i want to not have to think of bombs or blood. Terrorists or communal hatred. Nor do i want to read the morning papers, watch the evening news, see any more sadness, fear, hate or resignation.

i want the world to shut up for a while. just shut up. and sit down.

2006-06-25T18:50:00.000+05:30

My apologies to all, but this is something i have to write.

i have long been facinated by the number of names we have for...er...human waste. Here's my list. Please add to it, i know every household has their own private version. I'm considering doing a thesis on it...

shit
No. 2
potty
caca / kaka
chi-chi / chee (short form)
tatti
goo-goo
Hug /H (for the polite)
Big job
Motions (!)
Stools (i want to laugh everytime a doc says that)
doo-doo

anyone?

2006-06-23T12:20:00.000+05:30

i have become my mother.
its true.

all the things she used to do around the house that used to annoy me, i now do myself.
she'd wake up at seven (or even six) and put away the cutlery. i wake up at 7 and cook.
she'd keep nagging me to hang my towel out to dry. now i nag my brother.
she'd sit down under the fan sweaty and tired after cooking and ask for a glass of cold water. (this didn't bug me, its just an observation) i do the same.
she'd tell me managing the house makes you great with time management. i now believe the same.
she'd always be clearing glasses and bottles and plates. ditto.

it is amazing how much we absorb without realising it.
does that mean that all children end up atleast somewhat like their parents?

2006-06-21T11:04:00.000+05:30

Yes i am obsessed with maids. Sacking maids, finding maids, training maids, talking about maids and even blogging about maids. I have a feeling its on the verge of becoming a slightly unhealthy obssesion. Every conversation i've been having of late, with friends, collegues, and even with the stranger in the lift, ends up with me talking about my maid problems. And most of the time people pour their hearts out too...

My maid can't cook. My maid finishes all the sugar. My maid and the driver are having an affair. My maid never cleans under the bed. My maid gets more phone calls than i do. My maid uses my expensive moisturizer. My maids son spoilt my sofa. My maid refuses to do the ironing...

After movies and cricket, i think the only other thing that binds the people of this country together, is maid problems. The rabid RSS aunty and the jehadi Muslim uncle, the fat middle class bhabhi and the chic page 3 socialite will ordinarily not talk or even look at each other, but if you somehow nudge a maid into the conversation and they'll end up best friends, swapping stories and training techniques.

In the last month, i have fired 2 maids. I have never fired anyone before, and spent many nights wondering how to do it. Luckily it didn't turn out to be too traumatic. Though living without a maid, did. I remember getting annoyed with my mum because she always used to potter around the house doing something or the other. Just sit down, i'd say. Nothing will happen if you don't fold the towels today.

I was wrong. Stuff does happen.

The dishes pile up.
The washing piles up.
The ironing piles up.
The newspapers pile up.
The garbage piles up.
The dirt in the corners piles up.
The dust on various surfaces pile up.
The late marks at work pile up.
Sometimes i feel like i'll drown.
Under all that unattended housework.

So i call everyone i know. Find me a maid who is:
1. hygenic
2. responsible
3. trustworthy
4. cooks well
5. irons well
6. cleans well
7. can answer the phone
8. won't have an affair with the driver
9. or watchmen
10. or the nextdoor neighbours male servant.

Shouldn't be that tough, right. Right? RIGHT???

In the meanwhile, i sweep and swab, i chop and cook, i wash and dry, i hang up and take down, i wash again, i put away, i fold, i clear, i fix, and i get dust allergies. It isn't an easy job.

So heres to my mum and my aunts and all the people i know who run fabulous houses without a frown, a grumble or a sigh. Here's to them for never making a guest feel like a burden. For always producing a delicious meal. For always having a ready bed and fresh towels. And here's to them for smiling through it. Since i don't know if i can ever be like that, CAN SOMEONE PLEASE FIND ME A MAID!

Ps: anyone interested in opening a maid training school?

2006-06-20T11:15:00.000+05:30

THE WORST MAID CONTEST
in random order, feel free to add horrors of your own.

1. My maid and my driver are having an affair.

2. My maid sneezes into the atta.

3. My maid consumes 2 kilos of sugar a month.

4. I caught my maid sprawled asleep on my bed, spit drooling down the side of her mouth onto my expensive bed linen.

5. My maids son plays on the sofa and dirties it.

6. My maid sneaks her lover into the house at night.

7. My maid is an alcoholic. (i swear)

8. My maid is a bar dancer. (as accused by the other help)

9. My maid eats up all of last nights expensive dessert, for breakfast.

10. My maid slashed herself in order to fake a robbery.

Conclusion: Finding Mr Right may prove slightly easier than finding Ms Perfect Maid.

2006-02-22T18:17:00.002+05:30

Childhood Train Trauma

Who's that man?
Why is he standing near my slippers?
Is he going to steal our luggage?
We're the only ones who haven't chained our bags
I told ma the biggest bag should be near the outside

Am i the only one awake?
Are my slippers still there?
Everyone knows my mum has 'hidden' her handbag under her head like a pillow.
What if someone puts their hands through the bars in the window?
Who would want 'chaiyaaa' at 3am?
There's a mad beggar lurking by the window.
That man is staring at me.
Is he thinking dirty thoughts?
Yuck
Asshole
Let me hide under my sheet
But then how will i know if someone is going to steal our luggage
Why am i the only one awake?
I am the family nightwatchman.

i want to do susu
hold it
but its coming
i'm not going alone
psst, wake up
come to the loo with me
ufff
get off the bearth and land in your chappals
eeee cockroach
shhhh you'll wake the train

evil men
with big south indian mustaches and checked lungis
lurk by the dim light outside the loo
they smoke smelly cigarettes
they hang out of the door of the fast moving train
their lungis hitched up like skirts
they pretend not to look at us.
we put on brave faces
hard city faces
huh! we maybe girls
but we're not scared of evil smoking men
in checked lungis

In the loo,
gather your clothes
don't let anything touch anything
hold your breath
pee
tie your pajama
don't let the bottom touch the floor
kick the door with your feet
wash the tap and then shut it
yuck

In the morning
Don't take biscuits from that sweet grey haired aunty
She may be part of the biscuit gang
They drug you and steal your gold
the poster says so
I told mama not to wear her chain
but she hides it like she hides her bag
everyone knows its there

oh no
now that noisy group of men are playing cards
i can smell alcohol
there is a fine of 1000 rs if you drink on the train
or you can go to jail for 1 year
the poster says so
aha
the railway cop is doing his rounds
we'll be safe now
oh
oh no
he's sitting down to play with them
now i'm the family policeman

oh god
now my mum wants to buy omlettes from the station
don't get off the train
no i dont want an omlette
no i don't care if it's fresh and hot
mum the train doesn't stop for long
where'd she go?
can you see her from the window?
there's a crowd at the omlettewala
she's going to miss the train
oh no
the train hooted its warning hoot
mummmy!
everyone is running back
can you see her?
oh no! its started
oh god
where is she
is she on the platform?
no she's not in the corridor
oh god
should we pull the chain?
how much time should we wait before we pull it?
tick tick one
tick tick two
tick tick - my potty is coming
ok i see her
god
thank god

the omlettes are yummy

bombay is coming
so is my potty
will i be able to hold on till we get home?
hurry up train
i shouldn't have eaten that omlette
i can't go back to that loo
oho
now all we can see are people doing potty on the tracks
welcome to bombay
try and think of something else
school starts tomorrow
i haven't done my homework
this is making my potty come even more

are you ok?
you're looking sick
whats wrong?
i tell you,
we enter this city and the kids look ill...
lose their colour in a day

lets get on another train and go off again!

nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

2006-02-08T16:52:00.000+05:30

I remember:

Seeing Santa Claus in blue Bata chappals

An earthquake

A thermometer breaking & the mercury rolling up into little metal balls

Trying to fill the pockets of my green dress with water

A bee stinging my mother’s arm

Walking around the house on tip toes as if I were in heels

Looking for my dog Snowy

Copying UrmilaParmila drink their tea

A fat neighbour

Watching the coconut oil melt in a mug of hot water

Sitting on the pot, waiting for my mum to wash my bum

Malai-cheeni on toast

Somersaults in the grass

Thinking my car-seat steering wheel, actually controlled the car

Playing house-house and doctor-doctor

Being petrified during holi

Watching my mum wax

Running around naked on hot summer days

Sitting on newspaper and eating litchis dripping with juice

I remember having the best childhood ever

2006-01-21T17:02:00.000+05:30

My uncle had a loyal servant of 11 years.
Biharilal.
He cooked for them, he cleaned, he washed, he served them with love and undying loyalty.
They in turn educated his kids, paid all his medical bills and gave him loans whenever he asked. He was like a member of the family.
So naturally, when Biharilal asked for leave, they gave it to him. He missed his wife and kids he said. He hadn't met his mother for a year he said.
They sent him off with clothes for the children, a saree for the wife and some ladoo's for the mother.
They waved as he left at 8 am, to catch his train to the village. 'Have a safe trip' they shouted.

A phone call disturbs the night. My uncle grumbles sleepily into it. And then is suddenly wide awake.

Biharilal is dead. He fell off the train and got 'cut' by one coming from the opposite direction. He didn't meet his wife or his kids or his mother.

My uncle is in shock. He imagines his loyal Biharilal lying on the tracks, 'cut' gruesomely into half by a big train. He shudders. He doesn't sleep a wink.

In the morning, he tells the carpenter and the watchmen and they tell the neighbours. Everybody talks in hushed whispers and sits togther in silent shock. Some of the neigbhours phone in their condolences. Biharilal was a much loved man.

My uncles makes up his mind. 'i will go to the village, i will attend his funeral. i will find his wife and children. i will look after them now. they are my responsibility.'
The carpenter volunteers to accompany him.

They jump into a hired car and drive all the way to the village. They're not sure of the exact location, but know the district and are determined to find his family. On the way my uncle can't get Biharilal's sweet smiling face out of his head. As he watches the sun set, a tear trickles down his cheek. They drive the whole night, sleeping fitfully.

In the morning they reach the main village. They start asking around and are sent to the sarpanch. As they explain their story, a crowd collects. A bystander knows this mans sister. She lives in a village not too far from there. The man volunteers to take them there. Thats the least he can do for such concerned folk.

As they drive, they cross the railway tracks. My uncle asks the car to stop. He gets down and spends a silent minute near the tracks. His eyes wander, maybe i'll find a finger or something. The carpenter joins him, he puts his arm around him and gently guides him back to the car. 'saab, don't do this. don't look at the tracks.'

They start again. They find the village, they find the sister. She didn't even know yet. She starts wailing and screaming and beating her chest. She opens out her hair and mourns. Someone slaps her.

She takes them to his home, in a village a little while away. On the way she sobs uncontrollably. She didn't even know her own brother was dead. She saw him last at her own wedding, 7 years ago.

They reach the house. the sister starts wailing loudly. The mother and brother rush out.
'What happened? Why are you here and who are these people.'

The sister narrates the story hysterically. The mother looks shocked. She doesn't speak for a whole 5 minutes. The brother puts his arm protectively around her and mutters into her ear. Slowly she breaks. And starts wailing and thumping her chest too. The sight sends shivers down my uncles back. He didn't expect to be the messenger of death.

The brother and the neighbours try and console the women. The children see them crying and start crying too. In the confusion, my uncle suddenly sees Biharilal. He's standing next to his mother, consoling her gently.
My uncle closes his eyes and opens them again. Is he seeing a ghost? And there he is again. My uncle looks at the carpenter. Can he see him too? Am i going mad? Suddenly the carpenter turns white. He sees him as well. And he's not a ghost.

They shout, 'Arey! here is Biharilal!'
The man looks at them and runs away upstairs.

They look at the family and say, 'he was right here. we just saw him. call him down.'
The family look at each other flabbergasted. 'There was no one here' they say. The sister starts crying again. The brother comes down in the same clothes that 'Biharilal' was just wearing. They say, see its the brother, they look alike. You must be imagining.

My uncle walks out of the aangan. He needs air. He needs space. This is all too much for him to handle. He leans against a tree and takes in the clean village air.

Inside, the carpenter is still trying to figure out what that was all about. He tells them, the saab is outside, its only me, i know he's up there, call him down.

My uncle enters the aangan. There stands his beloved Biharilal. Head hanging down in shame. There's silence in the courtyard. My uncle needs to sit and does so on the floor.

The sister starts crying again. This time even louder.

They all look at her strangely. Why on earth is she crying. She explains between sobs...

First she thought he was dead. Then when she realised that he faked his own death, she was ashamed. Her izzat was stolen from her. Her brother had lied and been caught in front of the whole village. They'd have no respect left. And he lied to such a caring saab.

Why? they ask. Why would you do something like this?

He doesn't answer for a while.

'I didn't know how to tell you that i don't want to work with you anymore' he whispers in a barely audible voice.

My uncle doesn't know if he should hug the man or hang him. he's so relieved that he's alive and so livid that he lied, that he just sits there on the floor, silent.

He gets into the car with the carpenter and leaves.

On the way back there's just one thought that haunts my uncle. 'Biharilal thought i wouldn't care enough to attend his funeral'

2006-01-21T15:10:00.000+05:30

I’m outside the door of her house, a minute early.
It’s a big interview and I don’t want to mess it up.
I ring the bell and its opened by a uniformed maid.
I sit on the white sofa, in the stark but stunningly designed living room.
I’m suddenly conscious of a loose button on my shabby cargo pants.
As I wait, I glance around the room. Many paintings, a stunningly simple vase, and an elegant black piano stare at me, asking, “And what might you want?”
I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at them.
Suddenly she appears. Casual, just out of bed, in her printed kaftan.
I sit up and clear my throat, but she’s so chilled, I find myself relaxing immediately.
We chat and then move to another room so she can see my work on her computer.
I sit facing the door, talking her through my work.
She reacts positively, and seems excited.
It’s going well, I can tell.
Suddenly, there’s some movement outside the door.
Distracted I glance up.
There’s a big naked man standing there, a towel barely, barely covering his jewels.
He looks as stunned as I do.
I’m mid sentence, talking about a piece of work I’ve done for some boring bank.
I feel the blood rush to my face and think I’m going to explode.
I avert my eyes, and continue talking as if nothing happened.
In my head I’m screaming and laughing and startled all at once.
From where she sits, she can’t see the door and doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing.
From the corner of my eye I see him scurry away.
The interview over, we walk out to the living room.
On the same white sofa, sits the big man, now dressed.
She introduces me to him, “meet my husband” she says.
I’m turn bright magenta. I can’t even look him in the eye.
I mumble a hello.
And he mumbles back.
I leave.
I get the job.
I’m sure he told her.
She laughs inexplicably the next time we meet.

2006-01-19T18:12:00.000+05:30

I have been away, doing things that make me happy :)

Like eating butter.

The sight of butter in silver foil makes me smile.
It stares at me. Flirting.
Calling my name.
In a trance, my hand moves towards it.
Warnings in my head, scream ‘Butter! Fat! Thighs!’
Yet these go ignored.
I pick it up.
I gently open one corner.
Its perfect. Not too hard, not too soft.
I put a bit on my knife.
And dab it on the corner of my toast.
I wait.
I watch it melt and disappear into the greedy hot toast.
I lift the toast to my mouth

And I am in Amul Butter heaven.

2005-12-27T22:54:00.000+05:30

dodge
the dog shit
the human spit
the open gutter
the shoe eating pavement

dodge em cars

avoid
the 22 yr old on the cycle
the groper
the mobile snatcher
and the potential kidnapper

cross the road if you think u have company

don't look at
the mad man
the drug addict
the man pissing on the wall

don't look into cars with blackened windows

ignore
the begging children
the drunk man in the gutter
the dead man on the street
crude hindi songs

look over your shoulder, hold on to your bag

hold your breath when u pass
garbage
the sulabh sauchalaya
the man with the tb cough
mahim
and love-grove pumping station

i hate the days i don't have my car.

2005-12-25T18:29:00.000+05:30

ok. this blog is going to be an educative one.
for anyone who's interested in saving the world.
alright, maybe its not anything that dramatic, but i really do have to share this and hope some of you will do your bit.

take an empty coke bottle, or any 1 ltr plastic bottle. fill it up with water. put it in your empty flush tank. then let the tank fill. and eureka! you've saved and will continue to save a litre of water with every flush.

And the pot cleans just as nicely.

it may seem small, but you know what they say about every drop...

try it.

2005-12-25T18:26:00.000+05:30

i love to sit in chairs where my feet can't touch the ground.
it makes me feel like a child in a barber shop.

2005-12-08T18:42:00.000+05:30

A relative I can’t remember meeting before, asks us out to dinner.
He’s suave, confident and slightly brash.
And very obviously from New York.

The guy has done it all. Made a big business out of nothing, married a princess, traveled the world, met heads of state, and made heaps of money. And therefore, with good reason, he believes he can do anything! And tonight he’s in Bombay. How hard can that be...

The guy is dying to eat good Indian seafood and after much debate, we decide on Trishna. This awesome no-frills-attached seafood joint is hidden in the filthiest by lanes of Bombay, near the only synagogue I’ve ever been to.

We squeeze our way through narrow gallis and past the remains of the day. Tired people, dogs, heroin addicts and rubbish fight for space with my battered little Santro. Most shops have their shutters down, yet the place is buzzing with life.
The corner paan shop is full of people. Picking up cigarettes, kalkkatta saada kimam and the latest gossip. Old dusty chandeliers throw their dim light on men downing hot mutton biryani in a faded green Irani restaurant we pass.

After a couple of wrong turns, and up the wrong way of a one-way street, there it is. In all its shady glory. If I didn’t know the place well, I’d think it was one of Bombay’s seedy dance bars. With no windows and gaudy neon signs seductively blinking – bar & restaurant, bar & restaurant.

We park, dodge a dead rat, and hurriedly enter the place. Instantly, the delicious smell of spices, garlic and crab hit us. Visions of prawn koliwada, butter pepper crab and hyderabadi fish tikka’s swim before my greedy eyes. Our mouths are watering. As are the mouths of 23 other people waiting ahead of us. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the water gushing, flooding up inside and being swallowed noisily.
Ooh I can’t wait to eat.

You’ll have to wait saar, just 30 minutes, informs the ‘man with the list’.
To call him maitre de would be too up-market for this place.

Don’t worry - says the confident relative - I’ll take care of this. There’s one trick that works around the world.

From the back of the crowd, he makes eye contact. In his hand, there is already a crisp hundred-rupee note folded and waiting. He gestures to the guy, I’ll take care of you my friend he says with his eyes, in his smooth New Yorker way.

The man frowns slightly and looks away. Our friend makes his way to the front. He glides through the people and sidles up to him. He mutters in his ear, and shakes his hand.

By now I’m pink and hot with embarrassment. It can’t be. I live here. I eat here often. These guys know me. He can’t bribe them. What’ll they think of me? It feels very dirty.

Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it.

Our host turns to us with a smile on his face. Oh God no. Is nothing clean anymore? I’ve lost my appetite. I want to stand far away from this guy. I don’t want to eat with him. He can’t be related to us. We don’t do this kind of thing. And then I hear him say - I can’t believe it. It’s the first place it hasn’t worked. Now I’m really embarrassed I tried to bribe him!

I try to keep a straight face, try to stop the smirk. Inside I’m soaring. I want to hug the ‘man with the list’. I want to hug our host too. There’s hope. There are people who can’t be bought. This country may be poor and corrupt but as long as there are exceptions, there is HOPE.

Suddenly I’m ravenous again.

2005-12-05T13:26:00.000+05:30

Who will massage the massagewali bai?
While she presses the ache out of my head
And the tension out of my toes
I wonder
Will anybody do the same for her?

2005-12-01T15:47:00.000+05:30

I recently attended a Chinese/Punjabi/English wedding.
It was in the hills of Mahableshwar, and the weather was perfect. We stayed at the Mahabaleshwar club - an old Parsi 'asli' club with bearers and pudding and high ceilings. And strict notices 'No chappals or mobile phones allowed in the dining room.'

There was a sangeet, a Chinese tea ceremony and a Hindu ceremony at her house (a little way away from Mahableshwar proper).The fun part of the wedding was that there were sweet, polite Chinese relatives, raucous drunk Punjabi relatives and proper tea drinking and beer guzzling English ones in summery dresses.And while the Punju women drank and smoked and sang naughty songs in husky voices, the Chinese ones, sipped and bowed and shyly whispered into the mike.
The English ones of course, sang off key.
Tara, the Bollywood sister taught us all to dance...and by the end of it, everyone thought they were little Bollywood divas when actually we'd probably just about pass off as extras.

Her dad (the erstwhile playwright, Pratap Sharma) didn't lose a chance to make a speech. About how the marriage was making the world a smaller place…and how the tea in the Chinese tea ceremony had the fragrance of love or something like that and about the history of the music he played and on and on...but really sweet and touching.

On the wedding day, we had to climb into buses and head to the house, through narrow, curvy, hilly lanes. We reached a particularly narrow stretch and the bus driver refused to go any further!
He said his bus would get stuck and wouldn't be able to turn and navigate its way thru the narrow roads.
He did what all good Indian bus drivers do – he went on strike!

So what do we do? There’s a wedding to get to after all…so we get off and start walking...in our chiffon sarees and high heels and delicate brocade outfits. Carefully tip toeing our way down a kachcha rasta, slapping mosquitoes and ooohing at the stunning view.Anyway. We get there, and Pratap Uncle has invited the whole village to the wedding! So there they are, the Maharashtiran villagers in all their finery, with band and horse, attending a Chinese, Punjabi and English wedding! Along with a Bollywood star thrown in.

The villagers take over. The groom, does as is told and gets onto the horse. The drums start. The horse panics. It rears up on its hind legs and throws the groom off. And then loses its balance and falls on top of the groom, kicking and denting a friends car on the way down!So there was the groom, battered and bruised, there was the bride, worried about her husband, and there was my friend, wanting to sell her car then and there!

But I have to say it was one of the most relaxed, and entertaining weddings I've ever been to. Real good solid fun. Namu was so relaxed and carefree as was Andy, that no matter what happened, everyone had a really good time. That’s the way to get married! Or one of the ways I guess.

2005-12-01T06:21:00.000+05:30

Some more co passenger woes...

On my way to Baroda, i got a window seat at the back of the plane. I smiled. I shall be alone and undisturbed. I shall be able to stretch across three seats and read my book. I shall be able to go to the loo without apologizing to people...

ha ha ha

An old lady in a wheelchair gets the aisle seat. She can't move by herself at all and has to be lifted into the seat. There go any bathroom visits i may have planned. Then comes her son with a million plastic bags. He climbs over her and settles down, carefully arranging his plastic bags around him. I lean away from him and hide in my book.

Before the plane takes off, he opens his tray table and pulls out a large purple thermos. I tell him, he can't have it open during take off. Luckily he listens, cause the thermos is full of steaming hot milky tea. He is very agitated and keeps checking his watch. He needs to drink tea from his thermos before sunset. He's taken a mannat. And the plane is late and the sun is dipping and he can't 'take' anything after it vanishes over the horizon, he explains.

i wonder what he'd do if we were flying westward, and it got light after it was dark!Anyway, so we take off, and within minutes, with the plane still banking sharply, the hot tea is poured into steel glasses and sipped noisily with the appropriate "aaahhh" to follow.

I think of what a friend said to me after my last travel experience "you must have strange co passenger karma" and i giggle into my book.

But that is just the beginning. out come paper plates. and a big steel box filled with soft white idlis. and smaller one with freshly grated coconut chatni. He serves his mother and encourages her to eat, ignoring the glances and smirks from the young airhostesses. He then makes her wash her hands in the glass and empties it into the paper plate. It slops all over his tray table and gets very messy. I squirm in my seat and look away embarrassed...

Bizarre and absurd as the situation seemed, i found myself thinking and hoping that i would be able to serve my parents, family or any loved ones with such care and complete abandon. there was no sense of apology, no embarrassment, no excuses as to why he needed to carry food and plates when the airline serves you anyway.

he knew he needed his mother to be comfortable and thats all that counted.and when i thought of that, it made me feel small that i had giggled.
and proud that i was sitting next to him.

And it made me think for the hundred millionth time, how we just can't and shouldn’t judge people.

2005-12-01T05:53:00.000+05:30

A man suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorders walks onto the plane and sits down beside me. A man suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorders walks onto the plane and sits down beside me J ok jokes apart; I think this guy has a serious problem.

Before the flight takes off, he asks for 2 bottles of water. And 2 pillows.
He quickly gets rid of the newspapers (there are far too many for his liking) in the seat pocket in front of him, drinks 2 glasses of nimbu pani, takes 2 imli sweets from the basket the airhostess brings around and closes his eyes the moment the plane takes off.

At breakfast, he asks for 2 packets of sauce, 2 packets of sugar and eats 2 pieces of sautéed potato. He puts aside the tomato cause its 1.
Poor tomato.
I almost offered to eat it.

He slices his bun neatly in two, smears pink strawberry jam on both halves. He cuts his omelette neatly down the centre into two equal pieces. So now he has two mini omelettes.

The moment he finishes eating, his eyes close again. Abruptly.

I wonder what would happen to him if one day he can’t get 2 pillows. Or two packets of sauce. Would he still sleep? Or be able to eat his omelettes?
Maybe he has two wives.
And two children.
Maybe he’s wearing two pairs of socks.
Two chaddis.
Maybe he’ll fill out the contest form in duplicate.

Or hey…maybe, he’s one of a pair of twins. And needs two of everything he does in his life. Maybe the twin died and he’s making up for it…

The plane lands and I’m glad to get away. So glad that I don’t wait to count how many bags he’s carrying.