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 :)

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?

i don't get it.

why are we born?

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

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.

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.

the sighs behind the smile

the cry behind the laugh

the scream in your head

the tears you never shed

blah

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.

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.

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

i'm fat and i banged my car.

:(

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.