Fighting Maturity

Caferati Bombay April ,'09 readmeet.

2009-04-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

A credit card for free.

2009-04-02T05:30:00.000-07:00

“ This is for you ma’am, compliments of the store”. The attendant at the cash counter handed me a credit card. I pushed it away as if it was on fire.
“ No thanks. I don’t use them much. And I have one already.”
The attendant looked at me pityingly. I always have this horrid suspicion that attendant kids always pity me.
Next twenty minutes were spent explaining to me, how , with the shop’s own ‘Privileged customer’ card and the additional credit card I was going to save thousands of rupees, not to mention earn brownie points and win free gifts like diamond earrings, DVD players, and a free trip to Goa.
“ And ma’am, it’s free!” That clinched the matter. A free card can’t hurt me much, can it?

After reaching home I pushed the unwanted card at the back of my desk drawer, and forgot about it. One year was over. And I started receiving bills for the never used card. I questioned the shop, and reminded them that they had said – Free card, no service charges.
“ Only for one year ma’am! Now you will have to pay the basic service charges even when you are not using it.”
“Alright! In that case I will cancel the card. I didn’t need it anyway.” Easier said than done as I soon found out. The question was, how does one cancel a credit card. I visited the bank to which the card belonged. I was told, as it was the shop’s promotional scheme, I must get the shop to cancel it. That made sense. The next stop was the shop which had gifted it to me.
“I would like to cancel this card please. I was told I must approach you”.
The attendant looked pained at my ingratitude.
“Ma’am, we can’t cancel it! You will have to send it to the bank which issued it.”
I marched back to the bank. I explained to the lady whose job it was to listen to people like me, that all I wanted was to have the card cancelled and no, it’s nothing personal.
The lady after consulting with a few others gave me a number in Chennai and asked me to talk to one Mr. Muthuswami.
“You see, the card was issued from there, therefore it has to cancelled from there.”
Fair enough, I thought as I dialed the Chennai number. It took me some time to locate Mr. Muthuswami, who when I expressed a desire to cancel my card, took it hard.
“If you have any complaints Ma’am, I will guide you to our complaints department. But please don’t cancel the card!”
After I talked to him for five minutes in a soothing voice, he was mollified.
“Cancellation is a very simple process. Just cut your card in two and mail both the pieces to us in Chennai.”

Finally! I was going to rid myself of the bothersome card.
I cut the card neatly in two pieces, and couriered both the pieces on the address provided by Mr. Muthuswami. Exactly a month later I received a replacement card. Reason? My old one got damaged when I cut it in two pieces!
One more call to Chennai and Mr. Muthuswami. This time I was rather sharp and Mr. Muthuswami was forced to accept the reality of the situation.
“ Ok ma’am, I will file the cancellation papers and do the needful. But are you sure you want to cancel the card?” I banged the receiver down.

In due course I got the intimation that the card was now null and void and I felt like I had stepped out of a long and traumatic relationship. A couple of weeks later I once again got a call, from the same bank, asking me-
“ Ma’am, you are being given a complimentary gold card as an Add on to your old credit card.”

Goa .

2009-03-22T07:32:00.000-07:00

I was in Goa two weeks ago. I had promised myself all sort of things. In reality, I just lazed.
I had carried four books with me for a five day vacation.

When actually there, I lazed in the room, by the pool, in the lobby, in my balcony. My friend was there on business and was on call most of the time, and I would lie on the beach on the deck chair all day long, and couldn't be roused to take any photographs, except this one. Getting the camera out of the case. sitting up on my deck chair, and shooting was just too much trouble. I allowed the sound of sea to fill my ears, the blue of sea in my eyes. No phone calls, except from my friend asking me where I was, and if I would be back for breakfast/ lunch/ tea/ dinner.

This idyllic state was short lived though. On day three the chair boy asked me, in what I considered a rather familiar fashion, if I needed sun lotion rubbed on me. I packed my book, hat, big bag and returned to the resort, and didn't go that way again. So I am a coward. Shoot me!

There was an assortment of guests as always. On day one, as I was celebrating my return to Goa after 4 years, I noticed two very young couples, newly weds of course, from Surat.The boys were posing in front of the bar, trying to look ubercool. I offered the boy my glass of wine. He was shocked and assured me that he didn't drink. But when I suggested, he can just pose with it, whats the point of posing in front of the bar otherwise? He was much struck by the logic of it and borrowed my glass, and later even the bottle. I sort of managed the photo session. By the time all four of them ( yes even the girls) had finished posing with my glass and the bottle, the wine had lost it's chill.

There was a group of mallu men in the hotel. Their interest in all the unattached females as very obvious. My friend, a somewhat conservative mallu babe, observed that, feeling that no one here would understand them, these guys were rather free with their observations and opinions.
With a Mona Lisa like smile on her face she continued to listen in to their conversation. Time and again she would tell me what they were arguing about.
" They are wondering who we are....
They want to ask us to join them for coffee".
" NO WAY !!!"
At one point she giggled, but suddenly sat up as her eyes popped open.
" What ???" I had to know.
" Lets go." she rushed me out of there, and after we reached our room, and she burst out laughing.
" What!" There was a limit to my patience. I was being left out of all the fun.
" These guys are really randy!" my friend announced,
" so ?" I mean guys on a vacation..... one understands.
" They were talking about taking a full body massage. One of the guys had one last night, he was telling the others how good it was. Please don't ask me to translate it."
Later when I came across the group again in the dining hall, I was tempted to ask them if it had been good for them......

Bum bhole!

2009-02-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

( By - Bachi Karkaria )

Indra can keep his corner office. The penthouse of the pantheon belongs to Shiva. Its decor bears the imprimatur of a Fortune-favoured designer, and yet, it's unmistakably bohemian. Shiva knows the rules to break them; he's awesome at shifting the goal posts.

He's comfortable with it;if you've got it, flaunt it; he can swim with the sharks, and still find place in his heart for the littlest minnow. He wears the suit of divinity lightly. Yes, Mahadev is a maha-dude.

We've gone through a mind-churning manthan, through asceticism and socialism which have been sucked to the bottom of the centrifuge, and up has surged the cologned freedom to live life on our own terms. In our new consumerist avatar, Ganesha is invoked to bless the triumphal entry of the Indian Elephant carrying the world in its howdah. We've shed our hypocrisy. Who other then to iconize than the patron saint of iconoclasts? Lord Shiva.

Hinduism's original persona of rinam kritva ghritam pivet loosely translated as 'Njoy'! had for long been suppressed by our pretensions of being an otherworldly, spiritual people who abjured the materialist high rise for the moral high ground.

It cost us dearly on several counts, from delaying the economic miracle to delaying AIDS control. But we've woken up and not only smelled the coffee, but learnt to make a Frappuccino.

Shiva is the original free radical.

Today's zeitgeist is unshackled creativity, thundering-hooves materialism, aggressive hedonism. Unlike the 60's version, it's not confined to the elite. Boley to, Middle India, even Mofussil India has abandoned itself to the multiplex of experience. Shiva is the god who segues most seamlessly into this spirit of our times.

He demands no rigid ritual of his bhaktas. He is propitiated even if you make a funny sound or face.

He lives life to the full. The Skanda Purana tells us of his rampant libido, not thinking twice before seducing even the wives of the rishis, and with no great subtlety either.

Yet, he is the paragon of conjugal devotion. When he went to make love to Parvati, the clinch lasted so long that time and the world came to a standstill. Witness his grief when Sati jumped into the yagna vedi; the entire earth trembled in the paroxysm of his rage.

Before the advent of sexist Manu-ists, Hinduism celebrated gender equality. Consider the deep symbolism of Ardhanarishwara, the fusion of Purush (Shiva) and Prakriti (Parvati). They cannot exist without each other, and together they create the most beautiful dance in the cosmos.

If todays liberalism presupposes a tolerance for the other, Shiva is the original free radical. Shivji ki baaraat is a rainbow coalition of the otherwise marginalized, an all-inclusive procession with the groom dressed in next-to-nothing, to the mortification of his would be mother-in-law. Shivratri is the celebration the wedding day of Shiva who defied convention every which way; look at his fondness for bhang and ganja. But it's really his attitude to boundaries which makes him the ultimate post-millennial god.

The observance of Shivratri says it all. Right up to the present, marriage has remained an alliance of families, not a matter of self-choice.

Unmarried women fast and visit Shiv temples on this night, praying for His intervention to fulfill their dreams even within the circumscribed boundary of parental choice. He is the only deity they can invoke to Thodi si lift kara de.

And married women appeal to Him for a bliss-filled conjugal life. Shiva doesn't subvert the boundary, he just elasticizes what you can do within it. Metaphorical poisons can be contained.

He drank the cosmic poison to save the world, but he did not swallow it and jeopardize himself. He may have been the untrammeled, even indiscriminate, lover, but he destroyed Kamdev who tried to break his samadhi.

His respect for the boundary is also there in the legend of the Ganga, whose hubris he trapped in his matted locks.

No deity offers quite as much with quite as much attitude. Shiva is cool. Linga over him.

p.s. - no wonder no man comes even remotely close to my Mahadude...

Tito and the spirit of Satsang

2009-02-12T22:13:00.000-08:00

Tito and the spirit of satsang.

“You want me to do WHAT?” I asked in a calm voice. Those familiar with that voice, recognize is as the Early Tsunami warning signal. Tito ignored the warning and blithely carried on.
“Why not! After all you claim to be a poet, so I thought, maybe it is more Your cup of tea than mine. I want it by this evening by the way, if you can manage it please.” That ‘Please’ was an after thought I could see.
“There is a difference between writing poetry and writing a Hindi bhajan to the tune of a film song you know! H-how could you even ASK me to do such a thing!” I sputtered. “And anyway, what do you need a bhajan for? If your mom having a satsang, My dad has loads of bhajan cds. Take any one of them. “
Tito looked mulish. His heart was set on a filmy bhajan.
“Ok, so take any bhajan from movies. Like Alla tero naam. That is a good one.
I have the CD right here.” I started to rummage thru my collection.
“ Nooo. That is a boring old bhajan. Everyone has heard it for hundreds of years.
I will look like a beggar singing that. Next, you will ask me to sing that beggar song from Dus Lakh. No way!”
I was a little mortified because that was the next song on my list. I decided to investigate a little. I had not noticed any spiritual leanings in Tito before.

“Tell me a little about it. I am not saying I will help, but call me curious.”

As I had suspected, it involved a girl. Her mom was known to hold a satsang every Friday night. Tito had attended last week and was planning to be there again this week. Realizing it will not be an easy task to dissuade Tito I asked him, what kind of bhajan he was looking for.
“It’s very simple! Do you remember the song from Jab We Met? Yeh ishk Hai, baithe bithaye.” All that might be simple enough, but a bhajan to the tune of Yeh ishk? Mind boggled.
“See, it goes this way, you hum the tune and start adding appropriate words to it. Like- maiyya hamari, sabse nirali, darshan dikha de maa! O rama !!!” Tito crooned the line repeatedly for my benefit.
“See how simple it is? I would have written the whole thing myself but got stuck after the first line, so thought that you, a poet can do it better. Will you? Please?”
“NO I won’t! This is no poetry! I do not know what to call this! Bastardization of poetry perhaps. But not something I would like to do!” I tried to slide out of the whole predicament.
“So what! What is a good song ? Good music and good words. When the good words are devotional, we call it bhajan. It is Your job as a poetess, to give good words. That is how most music Directors work anyway! So... write!. Please write this for me !”
“Oh Well! I will do it just this once. I do not want to see your face next Friday and you better find a girl friend with better taste than this, like Lit circle chicks or someone like them. I will be most happy to write a love sonnet for you.”
I had finally caved in. Tito had won and I was rewarded by a loud WHOOOOPIE! and a bear hug.
Completely ignoring my woebegone expressions, he took his leave,
“ Will come by around 8-ish. Keep it ready. I will need a little time to practice.”
“ Remember- you owe me one!” I shouted to his back.

I sat at my desk feeling mighty sorry for myself. I rued the day I wrote my first poem. Nay- I rued the day I learnt my alphabets! Why did I have to boast about my poems, and all that talk about my writer’s circle! In addition, just see where it had landed me! I strove to forget every word of every poem I had ever read as I kept humming “ Maiyya hamari” to myself, waiting for the spirit to come to me.
It was mortifying to see that this was not a difficult task at all! Within half an hour, my bhajan was ready. I tried humming it and found the words, which fitted perfectly in the tune. With grim satisfaction I messaged Tito” The Deed is done”. He messaged back- “Thankee thankee O bardess.”

Tito turned up around 8-ish as promised. Never before having seen him in a spiritual mode, it took me a few moments to recognize him. I do not remember if I have mentioned it before, but Tito is a good-looking dude and a natty dresser. Today he was his spiritual best. In long kurta and chudidar, he could be modeling for Fabindia.
He walked in, giving me a slow benevolent otherworldly smile. For a second thought I saw a halo around his head. It turned out to be the lamp behind him.
He sat on the sofa and asked me gently, ” Where is it?” In a trance, I walked to my room and got the paper with the lyrics. His mood was rubbing on me. I wondered if he was on some substance. His smile has stared to look eerie by now. He was by this time sitting with his eyes closed, his face serene.

With a slight nod of his head, he took the paper, scanning it started humming the words. The old Tito had emerged again. Sitting up straight, he said-
“WOW! This is GOOD! I never realized just how good a poetess you are! This will knock their socks off!”

“Maiyya maine saare jamaane ko thukra diya,
dekho mai chala aayaa!
Chhode maine moh- maya ke bandhan sabhi,
Hai tuney jo bulaayaa

Dekho na dekho mujhe kya mila hai teri chhayaa mein aakar.
Poochho na poocho mujhe kya hua hai tere charnon ko chhookar

Maiyya hamari, sabse nirali darshan dikha de Maa.
O Ramaa!”

He continued to hum as he put the paper safely in his pocket.

“My advice to you is, that you must start doing this professionally. Forget about the sonnets and stuff. There is a big market for this thing. Every auto and cab will be playing your songs. You will mint money!”
And before I could throw a book at him, he walked off.

Next week I wrote one more bhajan. Tito had become a star of his satsang. The girl and her mom are now his adoring fans. Like a tiger who had tasted blood, Tito kept coming back for more and I kept delivering a new bhajan every Friday evening.

Currently I am working on a little song, which I am sure will become a chartbuster.

“Maa tere charan, hum nahin chhodenge...
Chhodenge dum magar teri bhakti naa chhodenge!!”

Kala Ghoda is here...finally!

2009-02-08T19:37:00.000-08:00

After waiting for years...or so it seems, the Black Horse is back, and how !

I will keep changing the slide shows here as the events unfold.

My celebrity look alikes.

2008-04-29T05:15:00.000-07:00

I happened to stumble upon this website which, among other things helps you find your celebrity look alikes.
Out of curiosity I checked out myself. I am like that, curious ! I always wanted to look like. Halle Berry. Don't ask me why! Maybe its that famous cat suit. Can't resist cats.

It was quite simple actually. One thing I have realized about web. Everything is always very simple. A couple of clicks of buttons is all you need to order something or accidentally send a spam mail to the whole world.

Directions said-
Upload a photo, full front. I did. Then the programme ran a face recognition. It was all very impressive. It gathered my image data and came up with this-

http://www.myheritage.com/collage

I think the programme needs to be fine tuned. A few bugs still seem to be partying in the system. I mean, how else can anyone explain the choice of my look alikes?
Now, I don't mind Julia Robert, Marion Jones is pretty cute too, especially her hairstyle. I have been toying with shaving my head since the mercury has shot up and if I am going to look like her I don't mind. But Ozzy Osbourne ??? Why Ozzy ? Why not Lennon ?

I have been practicing smiling like Julia ever since.

Vendetta.

2008-03-05T03:01:00.001-08:00

( She picked up the gun, and went stealthily towards the barred window, peeking out)

He- Where did you get that thing! Doesn’t look local.

She- I have my sources.

HE- I wish you would change your mind. This has to stop at some point.

She- Shhhhh. Lower your voice. You know it’s not possible for me to be objective and reasonable about this.

He- I understand … but think of the times. Men roaming the streets, in high spirits. You can’t hold a man responsible for what he does in the heat of the moment. So he lost his head! She shouldn’t have stepped out of the house.

She- Lost his head! Oh go and boil your head! Don’t preach me forgiveness.

How the HELL can you defend that man! He could have remembered who he was! Who she was!

He- Listen! All that is over and done with. She said she had forgiven him. If She can, why can’t you ?

She- How can I forget her standing there on the road.. surrounded by THEM .... I tried to go help her... But mom and dad dragged me back, they will barge in they said… don’t open the door they said. We closed all the doors and the windows and sat inside listening to the noise outside. All I could do was watch her from a slit in the window.

( Silence for a while as she waits at the window.)

He- Do you even know how this gun works ?

She – Haven’t you noticed the marks on the trees in the back yard ? My target practice !!! That’s His car parked right in front of our house. He will try to reach it. But I will get him before that.

He- Oh God !! I think you have gone crazy!

She- Shhhh I can see him coming out of his house. He is looking around.

I need to take aim.

( She aims and shoots )

She- (laughing loudly) Did you see that ? A perfect bull’s eye! I have never seen a man looking more surprised or annoyed ! And his face- bright red ! This is a great gun! Let me fill it with green now. He is still within the range! I am so glad he is all dressed up in a suit. Stupid thing to do on Holi.

He- Poor guy. He had an important interview today.

She- I knew.

He- Now he might have to miss it altogether. It’s too big a price to pay for a little harmless fun. All young men do this you know. Tease girls they like on Holi.

She- ( whispers )He is not paying for teasing her. He is paying for ignoring ME !

He- WHAT !

( Slumps against the wall with a sigh )

She ( grimaced ) - You know, I really loved him.

And if you need to know more about me, you only have to ask

2008-02-22T06:45:00.000-08:00

Banno tagged me, so here goes.

A -Available?

Depends on who is doing the asking.

B-Best friend:
Geet.

C-Cake or Pie?
Ice cream.

D-Drink of choice:
White and red wine, coconut water, coffee, hot chocolate, Chhaas, ganne ka juice

and bottles and bottles of ice water..

E-Essential thing used everyday:
My glasses, deo. and cell.

F-Favourite colour:
Black, red, white. All basics.

G-Gummi bears or worms:
None. Hate the chewy things that stick in my teeth.

H-Hometown:
Belgaum.... Benaras....Bombay......

I guess, Bombay.

I-Indulgence:
Sev-puri from the corner chaat guy. I will follow him to the ends of the earth.

M&B on a lazy Sunday.

J-January or February:
February and march. My time :)

All good things happen to me during this time.

K-Kids and names:
I would name them BRATS if I had them.

L-Life:
K.I.S.S. - Thats my philosophy for life.

M-Marriage date:
The date seems to have missed me.

N-Number of siblings:
Two.

O-Oranges or apples:
Oranges.

P-Phobias:
Roaches, creepy crawlies.

Q-Quote:

Anyone who thinks only sunshine is happiness

has never danced in the rain.

R-Reason to smile:
It increases my face value ;)

S-Season:
Winter ( what little we get in Bombay, I love it)

T-Tag three people:

The Blimp, Jugality, The Original Billi

U-Unknown fact about me:
Again.. who wants to know? The answers depend on that.

V-Vegetable you do not like:
Karela

W-Worst habit:
Procrastination, obstinacy

X-x-rays you have had:
A tooth.

Y-Your favorite food:
Italian. Pizza, pasta, the works!

Z-Zodiac:
Pisces.

The gay and lesbian writing in India.

2008-02-16T01:21:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the best session in the recent Kala Ghoda festival was “ Queering the pitch”, a discussion about gay and lesbian literature in India. The panelists were Sachin Kundalkar, R Raj Rao, and Maya Sharma.

R RAJ RAO is a professor in the department of English, University of Pune. He is the author of several works including Nissim Ezekiel: The Authorized Biography and Yaraana: Gay Writings from India.

Sachin Kundalkar is a Pune based, really talented young gay writer and film maker, writing in Marathi.

Maya Sharma is a feminist, a lesbian, and is an activist in the Indian Women’s Movement.

The panelists were articulate, came from different backgrounds, and above all, they didn't have an agenda. In fact, they have gone beyond agendas. Creative people, each one of them, they went about their chosen jobs as you are I would, teaching, writing, making films, whatever.

Moderator Vikram Doctor kept the conversational ball rolling

Raja Rao emphasized the need to look at gay literature as literature, and not a propaganda. It has to pass all the tests of a good story or a poem. He will never sacrifice the quality of writing for an agenda. Sachin agreed with him. He also mentioned that unlike straight literature, the gay characters in gay lit. remain unrepentant and happy till the end, without any feeling of guilt, or a desire to change. The songs of friendship always had gay overtones according to Prof. R.Raja Rao. " Yeh dosti, hum nahin chhodenge" according to him sounds like gay love, and it got a strong reaction from the audience which was quite amusing.

The most interesting aspect of this evening were the audience. For some reason they felt compelled to disclose their sexual orientation. “Hello, I am Rahul, I am straight…Hi, I am Nisha. I am straight but I have many gay friends …” etc, which sounded queerer that the queers sitting on the stage. And yes! That’s what they like to be called, and not the politically correct Gay. Its not a derogatory term anymore. According to Maya Sharma, what’s wrong with being queer? She likes being quirky!

I completely agree with Maya.

The festival of lights.

2007-11-25T04:36:00.000-08:00

Walking down the crowded streets of downtown Minneapolis fighting his way among the throng of shoppers didn't do anything to improve his mood. Christmas was almost two months away, they weren’t yet done with Thanks Giving, but the shops had already started their Christmas campaign. Prateek thought of Laxmi road back home overflowing with Diwali shoppers. Pushing his gloved fists deep in his coat pockets he walked on, blind to the people around him.

A star hanging outside a small shop reminded him of a similar lantern he had once made and suddenly he wanted to be back in Pune.

He could picture his little sister looking grown up decked up in a saree, Mother looking a little tired, she must have stayed up the whole night preparing sweets, dad dressed in dhoti and kurta, impatiently waiting for every one to get ready for the traditional breakfast.

The oil lamps would be lit in every window, and lanterns hung up high. There would be the aroma of food and smoke in the air which he would always associate with Diwali. The part he loved best was when early morning his mother massaged his head with aromatic oil before his bath. Sitting sleepily in front of her getting his head massaged made him feel like a baby again. The acute pang of loneliness shot thru his heart, leaving behind a dull ache which he couldn’t reason away. There were always reasons. It was a new job, no leave for another eight months, a position of responsibility, so on and so forth. Tears welled in his eyes as he walked on, isolated in his misery.

Peeking down the hallway, he was thankful to see Brenda’s door shut. Every day she and her sister Marge held court on the landing of her ground floor apartment, talking with every person coming in or going out, asking questions, and passing the time of the day. Every day he snuck in and out of his own place to avoid this rather large and friendly yet intimidating woman who was his landlady.

Everything about Brenda alarmed him. Her tall and large figure, her booming voice, her penchant for wearing colourful wigs, he just wasn’t used to women like her. She used to say cheerfully “we make things big in Texas” and laugh till her hundred and fifty kg frame shook like Jell-O and tears rolled down her eyes. She had once asked him if he had a girl friend and when he had stammered a ‘No’ had suggested gravely that her sister Marge was available. He heard the guffaw of their laughter as he escaped to his own apartment. The last person he wanted to face right now was Brenda or her even larger sister Marge in their multi coloured wigs.

The place he called home was a bare apartment with no furniture of any kind. A sleeping bag and his travel bags were stored neatly in the bedroom, his clothes were in the closet, books arranged in neat piles in a corner. His pride and joy were his new lap top and the music system. He had draped them with a couple of colourful scarves in an attempt to jazz up the place. He could write a book on minimalism, he thought wryly as he looked around.

The phone call home was harder than he had thought. Mom still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he hadn’t managed to get leave for Diwali. Cutting short her litany of ‘Just for a few days’ dad finally took over and asked about his new job, the place where he stayed, advised him to concentrate on his work. Maybe next year… after all, Diwalis come and go, air fare is so expensive, not to spend money unnecessarily. It all was so- so familiar. He could understand their disappointment and shared it. It really would have been wonderful to have gone home for Diwali.

He felt lonelier than before as he hung up, their voices still buzzed in his ears. He wondered what he should do tonight. Maybe call a few friends? Go for a movie? He didn’t want to be alone. For the first time in life he regretted his inability to make friends easily.

Someone tapped on the door. Brenda was outside with a small parcel.

“ Hello Pra-teek, This came for you in the afternoon” she pronounced his name slowly and accurately. “ Is it your Birthday? This looks like a present”

“ No ma’am, I mean-Brenda. Just some sweets from a friend for Diwali. Thank you very much”. He still hadn’t gotten used to the American way of calling every one by their first names, especially some one like Brenda, who must be at least sixty. He tried to close the door but Brenda wasn’t done yet.

“ Oh Diwali! I have heard of that. It’s a festival of lights, right? Where are Your lights? “ she asked as she peered around in the room.

“ Ummm- haven’t lit any here. Family will be celebrating back in India.” he mumbled. Brenda looked closely at him and went on briskly,

“ No no no no !!!! You must celebrate where ever you are! Celebrations are fun! Tell you what. You light the candles, I will go get some food which is just sitting in my fridge, and then we will have our own celebration. Maybe we can invite my sister Marge.”

Prateek felt like he was being bulldozed, but there was nothing he could do. Last thing he wanted was to have Brenda and Marge sitting in his apartment, talking in their loud cheerful voices. But he couldn’t even pretend to have a prior appointment. Brenda hurried away, and he looked around the room wondering where to start.

The candles were lit and the strains of sitar filled the apartment. He arranged the Mithai he had received in a plate with a few potato chips he found in the cabinet. He was actually humming as he got the chilled coke from the fridge. He quickly changed into Chudidar Kurta and went to open the door eagerly to welcome his guests.

Brenda had returned with a large food hamper. Marge ambled in behind her. Brenda was dressed in some kind of a red and green brocade kimono which looked more like a bathrobe and Marge had worn a long purple garment which looked like a silk tent. They both had tied silk scarves on their heads turban style in honor of the occasion. With large red bindis on their foreheads drawn with lipstick, and kohl in their eyes they looked very exotic.

Marge ceremoniously handed him a couple of boxes and a bottle of wine, and said,

“ Here, some chocolates for you, and how do I greet you ? Happy Dee-waa-lee or Merry Dee-waa-lee? I found this little Chinese lantern in my closet. How about hanging it up? Isn’t this a festival of lights? I have never celebrated Dee-waa-lee before. Let’s set the food on the plates, pour ourselves some wine, and then, Pra-teek, I would like you to tell me all about Dee-waa-lee”.

What price Physics ?

2007-10-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

I sold my Dad’s books today. I had lived with those books from the day I was born. Without understanding what they were all about I knew their titles by heart. I pronounced words like Quantum Physics like they were my friends.

The years passed and the books got old along with my dad. When he retired, the books from his office joined the ones at home. Dad found out that after working a life time as a physicist he was happier reading something else for a change and started reading fiction. Espionage, murder mysteries, the works. Physics remained in the book case.

Soon they were wrapped neatly and transferred to the loft. Dad now started saying, let’s just give away these books. When I asked, to whom would he like to give the books. He always said, some one interested in Physics of course! But that person always eluded us.

We explored various avenues seriously. College libraries? Sorry, these are PhD books, not much use to us, we teach only up to M Sc.. University Library ? Not interested. They already had loads of books which no one was reading in the first place. People kept donating useless books. And anyways, they teach different stuff now. How physics can change remained a mystery to me, but I understood the changing times. I still have ten cherished volumes of my Mom’s school encyclopedia which talks about- The Wonder of Radio. It was printed to be sold only in Indian Empire. We are talking a different era here.

I tried to palm the books off to the old college and school books dealer, by saying, these are for M Sc . He was smarter than me and asked, which year? The syllabus has changed 2 years ago. If the books are older than 2 years, he didn’t want them. I couldn't tell him that they were published in 1926.

Finally dad relented and said I may sell them to ANY book shop, but not to the raddiwala who buys old papers and other junk. I nodded dutifully.

Dad sorted the books, saving a few for himself. He saved his PhD thesis, the papers he had published during his thirty years as a physicist. My nephew had asked for them. Now my dad was emotionally free of the books. He asked me to do what I wished with them.

I knew that no book store will accept them. I packed them in a large bag and took them to that forbidden raddiwala down the road. He poured the books on the floor and thirty years of physics came tumbling out. He unemotionally piled them on his scales. I wanted to pull a few out and say, these are nice, in perfect condition. They had stayed on the loft all these years , they can continue to do that for a few more years.

For the first time in my life I was selling a book. Had never sold even my school books. They were always used carefully and passed on to some one, along with the notes in the margins. And here I was selling the books which had sustained us all.

I had to make several trips to the guy with my books. He weighed them all in front of me. The sum total of thirty kilos of physics was 180 rupees, at the rate of Rs. 6 per Kg.

I returned home with an empty bag. Dad asked me how much did I get. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. I said five hundred. Dad cheerfully said, “looks like we got a better deal than Dr Chowdhary. He barely got two hundred.”

The city where you live.....

2007-09-27T22:57:00.000-07:00

They were back as he knew they would be. He felt their restlessness in the shadows, waiting to come out. With a smile, he poured himself another glass. A glass of what, he didn’t know, and frankly he didn’t care. Anything to deepen those shadows. Then she would come. He downed the drink thirstily, some dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped his chin impatiently and filled his glass once again.

She came to him every night, sometimes in the day too. He would take his first sip and sense the familiar flicker in the shadows, a swirl of colour, and a low hum of hundreds of butterflies buzzing. Some times blue, sometimes red, they always seem to accompany her. A few times just the butterflies had appeared. They had fluttered around him and the soft brush of their wings had made him wonder if they would leave a streak of blue on his cheek.

He would lie on the bed with his eyes closed and wait for the wings to brush his lips. Her kisses. He knew that she will not come unless he drank enough. She was there the shadows, watching, urging him with her kohl dark eyes, to have one more drink. He could hear her whisper full of need and wondered whose need it was. His or hers. The butterflies swirled around him, red, blue, yellow...

Just one hour away from her city. One hour had stretched into one day and then one night. He didn’t have the courage to go further. It was so peaceful here, in this hotel by the highway. He stood in his window high above the ground, and looked at the road stretched out towards the city. He could almost smell her in the air. He wasn’t sure why he was here. What exactly did he hope to achieve. He had forfeited the game by quitting half way. Now this was her city, her kingdom. He was an outsider. But since he had left her, he had been an outsider where ever he went. Was he going home? Where was home? He didn’t know anymore.

Then it started to make sense to him. He didn’t have to enter the city. It was enough for him to know that she was just an hour away, or maybe just a bottle away. He poured himself yet another glass. Here He was in charge. She was his to summon, his to take. Her arrogance left behind she will come as a woman desperately in love. This room, this bottle, this glass, it all made so much sense. All he needed to do was to take one more drink.

***

He felt the shadows around him getting darker. He could feel the restless movement of the butterflies, then swish of silks, a subdued tinkle of anklets, her fragrance. He tried to open his eyes, but someone gently closed them, with a soft caress on his cheek. He gratefully surrendered to the knowledge that she was here. He felt the glass touch his lips and drank thirstily. Sinking back with a sigh he was content to feel her fingers on his face, her warm lap cushioning his head as the mists enveloped him……

***

A whisper brought him out of his stupor. She was making her excuses and vanishing as always. He opened his eyes in panic, not today, not now. She will have to take him with her. He implored her, trying to hold her in his arms but she kept eluding him like a dream. Amidst the cloud of butterflies she got up, reached the window and looked back at him mistily as he implored her. He scrambled out of the bed and rushed to her. With a smile she beckoned and holding his hand in a tight clasp stood with him on the ledge. The butterflies exploded in a riot of colours as he felt his toes leave the ledge.

***

[I need help with this one. Don't know if it works. Reader's comments will be most helpful.]

The Captive.

2007-09-17T21:29:00.000-07:00

Then she was roughly pushed into a dark room. The door slammed shut as her head hit the floor. She lay there stunned, eyes smarting with tears.

The floor was cold, hard stone. Lying still for a few minutes she got her wind back. Her forehead throbbed as she sat up and a drop trickled down the side of her face. She wiped it recognizing the smell of blood.

Pushing herself forward, half crawling in the pitch dark room, she reached the wall and sat with her back against it, waiting for eyes to adjust to the darkness. She looked around, trying to see a pattern, a break in the shadows. There was nothing. No up, no down. Wondering if the knock on the head had blinded her she shut her eyes tightly and opened them again. The only difference was the swirl of colour when they were shut.

She took a deep breath and almost gagged. The putrid stench of the room was suffocating. It was the smell of rats, urinals and dark nights. It touched her like unknown fingers, making her flesh crawl. The bile rising in the throat almost choked her and she pushed it down with an effort. It left a foul taste in her mouth. Water… she wanted water. Gallons and gallons of Ice cold water, to drink, to wash and to splash in. She licked the dust on her lips and rubbed her face in an attempt to clean it. Legs buckled under her as she tried to stand. So for a long time, in the tomb like silence, she sat listening to her heart beats. Slowly they came back to normal, well..... almost normal. She tried to stand, seeking support from the wall, and this time she managed. Inching sideways along the wall like a crab she thought, she has to be a crab from now on, hiding in the crevices and under the moldy rocks.

The damp and rotting wall kept flaking at her touch. She kept rubbing her fingers on her jeans to keep them clean and moved on again, feeling her way along the wall. The ground felt uneven in a few places with stone slabs missing. She stumbled a few times but didn’t fall. She pretended she was a cat as she tried to see through the inky night. Her shoes touched something. She gingerly pushed it around, trying to figure out what it was. It rolled away with a metallic clang. She sat down and reached out, feeling with outstretched hand, fingers seeking in the direction of the sound. It had rolled a little farther than she had thought. Hating to leave the security of the wall, with her back still against the wall she reached out and groped around. Her fingers found coolness of metal. It was a light weight and dented metal cup. She searched for sharp edges. Sharp edges are useful, if used properly.

Her eyes kept scanning the darkness. That little patch to her right looked a little less opaque. Could be a boarded up window, she thought hopefully. Little by little she moved along the wall towards it.

She stared hard at it and noticed the lighter patch of darkness high above her. She decided to make a mark on the wall to find the place again later. The cup was still in her grip. With its edge she started to carve a long notch on the wall. The cup kept slipping from her fingers making loud clanging sounds. First time that happened, the sound paralyzed her, but soon she realized that there was no reaction from outside.

She had to keep finding the cup every time it fell. The darkness felt less threatening, now that she was learning to move around. It took her some time to make that notch deep enough to be found easily with the finger tips. The effort had completely drained her. Once again she rested against the wall.

A faint sound outside drove the sleep away from her eyes. A thin shimmer of light shone in the darkness. Crouched like a cat, gripping the cup like a weapon …she waited. The door opened a little more, and two people entered the room. One of them put something on the ground while the other one stood guard. His flash light searched around the room and pinned her down, blinding her. The light beam flashed on the objects on the ground. A cup and a few pieces of bread on a plate. The light beam arced around the room once again, briefly illuminating a grimy commode in a far corner and was switched off. The door slammed shut and once again the room was plunged in darkness.

Little Dancing Girl ( Art under fire)

2007-05-13T23:19:00.000-07:00

The arrest of the art student of Baroda School of arts for having violated the sensibilities of religious fundamentalists seems to have shaken people. But I had seen the beginning of this attitude ages ago. To be more precise, the day the little dancing girl vanished from our history books.
She is the finest example of Mohenjodaro and Harappa sculpture. But today, the educational websites run by the government, while raving about this fine piece, do not display her photos. You can check out this Vigyan Prasarak website as a proof of our academic hypocrisy.

http://www.vigyanprasar.gov.in/dream/august99/AUGUSTArticle1.htm

This sculpture from an ancient civilization says a lot about the technology of our ancestors. The dancer's jaunty little body standing in supreme confidence, the skill with which the sculptor has caught her grace and attitude are irrelevant to the learned people who plan our textbooks. Her nudity has made her unsuitable for our eyes. And this from a land where we worship the union of Linga and Yoni as Shiv Lingam..

Is she really so unacceptable? Can anyone monitor what images the children are viewing on the net? On that background does the nudity of the little Dancing girl seems so terrible that she is banished from our texts and websites?

A terrible rot has set in our thinking. In past few decades this has started happening more and more frequently. When one group protests about something, the other groups, not to be outdone, come up some weirder protests. Then we have public protests over the kiss between Shetty and Gere, protests over the shooting of Deepa Mehta's 'Water', some minor protests over Sania Mirza's short skirts, to name just a few. And along with this religious intolerance is the upsurge of pseudo religiosity which is more like cultural regression.

I had seen it coming the day the little Dancing Girl was removed from the history books, and I can predict where it is going too. Maybe now the artists will be commissioned to paint clothes on the nude sculpture on the walls of Khajuraho temples......
There is enough religious art in India to keep a whole generation of artists in business.

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Crossposted on the Blog- Writers Against Terrorism.

http://writersagainstterrorism.blogspot.com/

By Design.

2007-04-18T08:14:00.000-07:00

We have been declared the Designers of the Year.

It all started this way. The brief said- open office, transparent glass cubicles, soft music etc, the silicon valley techy look. Simple 'nuff, we said. But taking indian Entrepreneur to silicon valley proved to be as difficult as Taking Ramji-bhai to London. We hadn't realized that everyone's hearts belonged so firmly to their Gaon !

The glass cubicles open to sky ( read ceiling ) felt oppressive to some. Some longed for their privacy and were unhappy about glass walls. Some, being more used to the carefree -'Raamu ho! Chaachi ho!!' style of conversation across the office resented the need for the hushed conversations, and communication via intercoms.

Soon it was apparent to us that various people had various issues with the design. So we decided to make a few changes and create a more congnial atmosphere which, while not exactly silicon valley, will be what any overworked indian Entrepreneur craves. An office and resort rolled in one.

The very first thing we did was to give all the cubicles bright red mangalore tiled roofs. Similarly, opaque films were put on the glass walls, to provide privacy to the occupants. A door was added. A small wall fan because the tiled roof now cut off the central a/c. As a good measure we also added a hand fan, for those especially hot summer days. If one craved company, one got up and went over to the village ...umm ...the office water cooler and passed the time of the day. If you wanted chai you can always holler for Raamu bhaiyya, or Durga chaachi.

The atmosphere around the office changed dramatically. People looked relaxed and eager to work, happy to be tucked into their own personal designer huts. The efficiency zoomed up overnight. Water cooler romances flourished, a few even cancelled their planned vacations, saying, "It was much more fun in the office". And last, but not the least, we have been nominated for the prestigious ' Designer of the Year' award for ruralizing the urban corporate design. The style is known as 'Rural-ban' ( to rhyme with Sundar-ban).
We look upon this project as something of a path breaker in the corporate design culture. Keeping in mind our stupendous success we are introducing a few new features. First, we plan to abolish the work desks. Working on khatiya with a laptop will add a new dimention to the corporate stratagies. For those who smoke,the office boys will be trained to handle chillums and hukkas.

Mahatma Gandhi said- India lives in its millions of villages. We are helping the cause in our own way.

The Bungalow.

2007-04-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

The bungalow stood on the street to my school. I used to dawdle while walking down that street, tying my shoe laces, or standing in the shade pretending to be tired, just to take a peek at it. Soon my friends became aware of my obsession and I came in for a fair bit of ragging.
Despite all my attempts I failed see anything beyond it's very high fence, and a tall gate. The bungalow remained completely hidden. No sign that anyone lived there. No maids coming and going, no sounds reaching outside its walls and massive gates. There was a tiny door on the side, and I had once seen a watchman come out to receive mail from the mail man.

I conjured up theories about the residents. It was Sleeping Beauty's castle waiting for that kiss. After reading Oscar Wilde the garden became a Selfish Giant’s garden. Or perhaps a reclusive aging star lived there a la Garbo. But no star had vanished from Indian horizons. Once, only once I had seen a long sleek black car gliding out of the gate and noiselessly joining the traffic outside. The gates closed as quietly as they opened allowing me a merest glimpse of a well kept lawn.

Then I met a girl who lived in a building adjoining to the bungalow. I asked her eagerly, “Can you see that bungalow from your house? “

“Oh yes” she replied in a tone that implied that it was no big deal.

“Can I come over? I want to take a look,”

“Sure! Anytime.”

I was at her house the next day, before she could forget about her invitation. She took me to her balcony and I took a good look. The bungalow was completely surrounded by tall trees and all I could see was a bit of a roof, a glint of sun on a window pane visible through the dense leaves, and a drive way. Even the front lawn was hidden from our inquisitive gaze, except for a small patch near the gates.

“We can’t really see much from here you know” My new friend confessed.

“Are there people living there? Children? Servants?“ I asked.

“A few people I guess. But not too many. I know there is a dog. I often hear it bark.”

That was the last time I attempted to see the bungalow. I went on to finish my school and my mind acquired other toys to play with. My routes changed along with my interests and I passed that bungalow without giving it a thought. It became a part of the unchanging landscape round me.

I was passing that way again last week. The tall tin sheets surrounding it told a familiar tale. The gates were now wide open. I could see a large house, mostly demolished and the rubble being loaded in trucks parked nearby. Soon a high rise building with hundreds of people will take it's place.

I wanted to see that bungalow just once, to ascertain whether it matched the images my imagination had conjured up.

The science of the ancients.

2007-03-21T11:21:00.000-07:00

A new project was about to begin, the design had been finalized, we had knocked down the walls and dug up the tiles, and the client, a rational man till now, dropped a stinker.

“ I have invited a Vaastu Pandit ( who also doubled as a pyramidologist). Hope you guys work under his advise.”

This was how it began. The man came with a pendulum, a divining rod, and changed our entire design. Put toilets where people were supposed to be, and back door where front door was supposed to be. The colours of walls, the paintings on display, the sizes of tables ( 6’x 3’ ? No! It has to be 5’11 ¾ “ X 2’ 10 5/8” ), the A/C frame ( Rose wood please. Fire energy, you see.). Copper pyramids were prescribed to be buried all over the place, 77 in all, (to subdue the water energies). Crystal pyramids were supposed to be installed later, once the office was ready. And last but not the least, No glass anywhere in the 1400 sft office. We fought over this one till he gave in.
“33 % only!” he admonished us.
By now my fiery partner was ready to sacrifice the Wise man to the Gods " On the full moon nights, under the Pyramids”.
In the end, all parties reached an agreement of sorts, peace prevailed, and came another stinker.

“ Before starting the work, apply a 2 inch thick layer of cow dung all over the place. Just see that it’s the dung of a good cow, and not that of a buffalo or ( God Forbid ! ) a bull.” This was to purify the place.

Now, 1400 sft ( doesn’t matter carpet, built up or super built up) place, meant a lot of cow. And I pointed that out.

“ If you can procure me the dung, I will see that it is spread” I said coolly. The cows in front on the temples seemed like a safe bet. Standing there all day long was bound to make them pious, god fearing cows. I had no idea what was considered ‘Goodness‘ in a cow. No hanky panky with a hunky bull ? Was it a done thing to enquire about her virginity? Anyway, a man was appointed by the client to get some ( plenty ! I reminded them. 2 inch thick layer needs plenty !! ) cow dung asap.

We closed down the work and waited for the dung truck to arrive. One week later, after getting his call, we all gathered at the work site. I looked around for the heap of dung. None could be seen. Then the assistant brought half a bucket of liquid slush which definitely smelt like dung.

“ This is NOT enough! We have to give a 2” think layer on 1400 sft! Bring me more!” I ordered haughtily.

Now it was the assistant’s turn to break down. Clearly the man had reached the end of his patience.

“ This is all I could get. Take it or leave it!” after he cooled down he told us his tale of woes. For a week he chased four cows and their attendants. Two of the women demanded 50 bucks in advance and vanished. Third one yelled at him saying- “the cow is constipated! What can I do ? “
“ This is all I could get, please accept and sprinkle it on the site and start the work."
I accepted the compromise, and the work started as planned.

A fortnight later, the Vaastu pandit arrived with further advise. I reported that the dung thing was done, and asked him, with a genuine curiosity- “ Do you really believe this will work ? That the place has been purified, and the business will flourish because of the cow dung?”

He declared profoundly- “ Yes. I believe in it. It always works. It’s a fool proof science of the ancients. It has to work.” Then a little pause, “ Provided the cow has been good, of course.”

He, as always, had the last word.

Hail the Indian media.

2007-02-14T03:17:00.000-08:00

This is a forward I recieved in my mail today. Even tho I shun forwards as a rule, the sender is not an irrisponsible spammer. So I knew it had to be important. It was.
Originally it was from Bharati Sharma of Sahara TV.

********************

November 29th 2006

This new is not very new or catchy...but the essense of it shouuld be eternal, coz it is a shame on the Indian media (nothing new I would say – unless they cover "trial by media" all is TRPs anyways)

By the time u guys read this news, the body of Major Manish Pitambare, who was shot dead at Anantnag, would have been cremated with full military honors.

On Tuesday, this news swept across all the news channels 'Sanjay Dutt relieved by court'. 'Sirf Munna not a bhai' '13 saal ka vanvaas khatam' 'although found guilty for possession of armory, Sanjay can breath sigh of relief as all the TADA charges against him are withdrawn'. Then many personalities like Salman Khan said 'He is a good person. We knew he will come out clean'. Mr Big B said "Dutt's family and our family have relations for years he's a good kid. He is like elder brother to Abhishek". His sister Priya Dutt said "we can sleep well tonight. It 's a great relief"

In other news, Parliament was mad at Indian team for performing bad; Greg Chappell said something; Shah Rukh Khan replaces Amitabh in KBC and other such stuff. But most of the emphasis was given on Sanjay Dutt's "phoenix like" comeback from the ashes of terrorist charges. Surfing through the channels, one news on BBC startled me. It read "Hisbul Mujahidin's most wanted terrorist 'Sohel Faisal' killed in Anantnag, India. Indian Major leading the operation lost his life in the process. Four others are injured.

It was past midnight, I started visiting the stupid Indian channels, but Sanjay Dutt was still ruling. They were telling how Sanjay pleaded to the court saying 'I'm the sole bread earner for my family', 'I have a daughter who is studying in US' and so on. Then they showed how Sanjay was not wearing his lucky blue shirt while he was hearing the verdict and also how he went to every temple and prayed for the last few months. A suspect in Mumbai bomb blasts, convicted under armory act...was being transformed into a hero.

Sure Sanjay Dutt has a daughter; Sure he did not do any terrorist activity. Possessing an AK47 is considered too elementary in terrorist community and also one who possesses an AK47 has a right to possess a pistol so that again is not such a big crime; Sure Sanjay Dutt went to all the temples; Sure he did a lot of Gandhigiri but then...........

Major Manish H Pitambare got the information from his sources about the militants' whereabouts. Wasting no time he attacked the camp, killed Hisbul Mujahidin's supremo and in the process lost his life to the bullets fired from an AK47. He is survived by a wife and daughter (just like Sanjay Dutt) who's only 18 months old.

Major Manish never said 'I have a daughter' before he took the decision to attack the terrorists in the darkest of nights. He never thought about having a family and he being the bread earner. No news channel covered this since they were too busy hyping a former drug addict, a suspect who's linked to bomb blasts which killed hundreds. Their aim was to show how he defied the TADA charges and they were so successful that his conviction in possession of armory had no meaning. They also concluded that his parents in heaven must be happy and proud of him.

Parents of Major Manish are still living and they have to live rest of their lives without their beloved son. His daughter won't ever see her daddy again. Finally Major Manish, to my generation is a greater hero, someone who laid his life in the name of this great nation.

So guys, please forward this message around so that the media knows which news to give importance, as it is a shame for us since this Army Major's death news was given by a foreign TV channel!!!

Kala Ghoda -Bazaar

2007-02-04T06:02:00.000-08:00

A lovely paper lamp was hanging in a paper goods stall.
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A studio in Pune displayed their funky glass artifacts. In fact this time funk seems to be the theme, as opposed to the traditional wares of past festivals.
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Hand painted glass lamp.
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The handmade paper good stall was one of the most crowed ones. People were going crazy buying notebooks. I saw a teenager begging her mom for this hand embroidered notebook while her mom reminded her of unused blank notebooks at home.
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One of my Fav stalls. This one had great ceramic ware. This laughing whale was so cheerful that I bought one for Divya.
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This was a lovely stall. Real real funky stuff.
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A Dhoom trunk from the same stall. I can see a Babli running from home carrying such a trunck.
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This stall made me wish to be 15 or less :)
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Ceramic magnets for the fridge!

Kala Ghoda- Sonal Mansingh

2007-02-03T23:30:00.000-08:00

I went to Kala Ghoda in severe conflict about what to see and what to do. This was one of the time when you feel like having a few clones and catch the whole show. But friend Ajita won, and we headed for Horniman Circle gardens to attend Sonal Mansingh’s Odissi performance.

The evening was cool and breezy, the gardens were filling up fast. We could see the patron Goddesses of the event, Brinda Miller, Devika Bhojwani and Sarayu Doshi flitting around, getting show started.

The ceremonial Lamp refused to stay lit. Finally the lamp was announced as “lit” behind the shelter of a file, and the show started. And what a show it was!

I was all prepared to give a nod to Culture and then rush over to watch Soparkar’s Troup “Dancing in the streets “. But that was only till Sonal started her first piece, devoted to Goddess Maatangi, the patron goddess of all arts. From now on “Bhavani Dayani” will always look like Sonal.

There was something of a sybil in her whole persona. Her goddess was not an ethereal being, soft and delicate. She was ageless, wise, compassionate, wrathful, powerful and sexy. A Mother personified every which way. She could vanquish the demons, and lift the mountain. The music, the shadows and Sonal’s body language, all added to the effect. I went ahead to sit on the ground right in front of the stage, catching every nuance every expression emanated by Sonal.

Some one had once told me that to understand space one must learn to dance. It wasn’t quite clear to me, till I watched her dance. Spaces kept shifting and changing as a pint size Waman, grew up to cover the earth and the sky in two steps and she effortlessly covered the entire stage.

Sonal took us through the age old stories of Krishna Leela and Geet Govindam. But for me the show had ended with Sonal as the Goddess Maatangi / Durga.

The Battle Royale.

2007-01-25T04:26:00.000-08:00

He is still there, watching her through the open kitchen window, with a reproachful look in his eyes. She is firmly ignoring him. She doesn’t take very kindly to anyone refusing to eat her cooking.

Amma loves to feed birds, and has kept dishes filled with food and water on her kitchen window sill. That is how the crow started coming to our house.

Amma had made something of a pet of this crow who sat in the kitchen window every day, waiting for her to feed him left over food, stale slices of bread, things which crows are supposed to eat uncomplainingly. Even this one did. Till one day he tasted chaklis.

While poking around in the cabinets Amma came across old packets of Chaklis. No one remembered purchasing them, maybe left over from Diwali. And by now the chaklis were several months old, and emanated musty smell of stale oil. We all refused to even touch them, and declared them unfit for human consumption. Amma’s thrifty heart baulked at such a waste, and she hated to throw out the good -well, the Almost good -chaklis this way. Finally she threw one chakli in the bird dish. Her crow was sitting there, waiting for his turn, ignoring the birdseed. He pounced on the chalki and caught it in midair gracefully and was a changed crow from that day onwards.

In the early days it was all fun. We would stand around and watch him crunch the chakli. Amma would say with grim satisfaction, "at least the chaklis were not wasted", and we laughed at the way the crow would call his cronies over. But soon, very soon, the chaklis got over, and then began a battle of wills. The crow refused to eat anything other than chaklis.

At first Amma was amused to see him sitting there, refusing the slice of bread in the dish, and later became exasperated. After that it sort of became a challenge to make that crow eat something. Instead of stale bread he was now being tempted with fresh bread. Instead of leftover roti, he now got freshly made one, warm from Tawaa. But he still held out for chaklis. He would just poke at the food and leave it uneaten. And after giving Amma, what we thought as reproachful look for playing such a dirty trick on him, he would fly away. I am afraid Amma took his rejection rather to her heart.

Days went by; we could see Amma cooing to the crow in persuasive whispers. There were jokes galore. We suggested she buttered the bread, or perhaps some jam? There were solicitous enquiries about the crow's preference in fruit. Will fresh ones do or would he prefer rotten ones. Dad loudly worried about the crow's cholesterol levels, and asked Amma to feed her pet nutritious food. At dinner time he would ask meekly, “Can I have one more roti? If the crow doesn’t want it, that is.” Amma took all this ragging in good spirit, but neither the crow nor she would give in. "I have brought up three children" was her refrain.

But it was clear that something had to be done. Amma was trying to discipline her crow with same ruthlessness she had shown while bringing us up.” Everything in the plate must be finished. There are children starving in the world. Eat up. This is good for you”. Maybe that’s why we loved our crow. My bossy Amma had met her match at last. We were having bets to see who wins. Meanwhile , the crow went on sitting in our window with sad look in his eyes. Amma too had started to look rather frazzled.

Finally this morning, just as I was stepping out, Amma whispered to me, “Get a packet of Chaklis, the broken ones will do. They are cheaper.”

Jaipur Lit. Fest. workshop.

2007-01-24T03:45:00.000-08:00

The writing workshop conducted by Jugal Mody was on the third day of the Lit. Fest. Jan 21^st .We were told by the organizers to 'Be There' at 9 'Sharp':) Sitting in Amchi Mumbai 9 sharp doesn’t sound like an ungodly hour. We are the people who catch 7.52 super fast.

So on the cold morning of 21^st, in the Pink City of Jaipur where even the sun was reluctant to show his face before ten, Rashmi Dhanwani and I marched to Diggi palace- the venue for the workshop. And I am glad we did.

The workshop was planned for anyone above the age of 18. The number of participants was limited to 25 and there were a few complaints about it, as the response to the workshop has been so tremendous that the management had to turn away lot of people. Jugal wanted to keep the number small so there could be time for interaction and feed back. Finally, extra participants were allowed to join, and the final count was 32. I could see a few familiar faces of other caferatii .

We all sat there, huddled under our sweaters and shawls waiting for our esteemed moderator to start.

Jugal- the moderator explained to the participants that he was not planning to teach them anything , but share with them a method of thinking which will help them to write better.

And we launched into the workshop.

For next two hours, we followed the moderator’s directions, pencils flying all over our papers, read aloud for every one to critique. Slowly even shy one lost their stage fear and opened up. The suggestions and comments were flying all around and Jugal running from person to person with the mic in his hand got a good work out. After a while people stopped waiting for their turn or the mic and started giving their comments eagerly. The atmosphere was charged with an excitement of the participants who were discovering that they could write. The moderator had made writing seem easy :)

There were all levels of writers. From skilled ones who had obviously done some writing before, to the very fresh ones, who were still discovering thrill of putting their thoughts on paper.

By now people had started walking in to watch what was happening. A few of them pulled paper and pen out of their bag and joined in. One of them was a French lady who had written her exercises in French but obligingly read it in English for our benefit.

After following up on all the exercises, everyone realized that what we had in our hands was a complete story. All day long I kept meeting these participants on the fest grounds. They now smiled at me like old friends, we had shared something fun an enjoyable.

The workshop ROCKED. Like everyone else, I too am planning to hold on to my notes on the exercises. There is a story in there.

Happy New Year to All

2006-12-29T20:16:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL
HAPPY 2007.

It is that time of the year again. Making resolutions.
There are some I know I am going to break. So won't even bother to make them.
But there are some I am going to work on in this coming year.

I resolve to...
...Learn to Dream.
...Have faith that Dreams come true.
...know that within me I contain a universe.
...Have a better communication with those around me.
...Be appreciative of the contributions Others make in my pursuit of understanding and happiness.
...Be aware of their support and develope an attitude of gratitude.
...Explore my talents to the fullest.
...Learn to look inside me to understand the outer turmoil and negtivities.
...Be aware that Love is all around me and will be open to it.
...Be aware and open to each moment as I live it.
...not to chase the future. It comes soon enough.
...Know that the rewards I seek are NOT in future. They are with me today, here and now.
...not say I want to be happy.
...Say - ‘I Am Happy’.

Have a great Christmas and a great 2007

2006-12-24T05:01:00.000-08:00

We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
And a Happy New Year !

For one more drink.

2006-11-15T09:59:00.000-08:00

( This story is very much a work under construction. I am experimenting with a style I am not familier with.)

Bhiku sat outside the hut and listened intently. It seemed quiet inside. Shouldn’t Rakhmi have started cooking dinner by now? After that thrashing he had given her, she should have learnt not to cross him. He got no respect in this house.

When she fell down after one of the whacks he was a little scared. But had just given her a kick, as if to drive home his point, and left the hut to go find some money for a drink. Saali, natak karti hai. He spat as he thought to himself.

Finding money for the drink was getting to be difficult by day. His credit at the country liquor bar was dismal. He always promised to pay the next pay day. That didn’t make any difference to anyone because everyone knew he had no job. When he was sober, he worked as a labourer at some construction site. But because of his unreliability the contractors were reluctant to hire him. Sometimes, just to get rid of him, the contractor would give him a rupee or two. But he had failed to get a single paisa out of him today. He even wondered if he should sit in front of the temple to beg. They seem to be making plenty of money.

Now he had come back planning to sweet talk Rakhmi into parting with the money which he knew she had stored somewhere in a tin which she guarded diligently.

He sat outside the hut. He scratched his back on the side of the hut, cleared his throat loudly making a lot of unnecessary noise, spat in the dust and waited for Rakhmi to come out. A starved mongrel came over looking for food. In deep irritation he threw a stone at him, and got up. If Rakhmi was not coming out, He was going in. After all, he was the man, and she better not forget it.

He squared his shoulders and entered the hut. Rakhmi was still where she had fallen. He nudged her a little with his toes, wondering if she had fainted. He turned her over to check and saw the deep gash on her forehead. She had hit her head on the iron stove. There was blood all around.

Totally ignoring her, he started rummaging thru the pitiful belongings which Rakhmi set so much store on. Old sarees, mismatched blouses given to her by kind people, glass bangles, a few crumpled photos of their dead child, a torn shawl but still useful in winter, baby clothes, why didn’t she throw them away, he wondered.

There was no money in any of the containers he had searched. Where had all the money gone? He always thought she had plenty of money. He looked at the stuff scattered on the ground and knew they wouldn’t fetch him even a few rupees in the pawn shop. Maybe there was some money in her tobacco pouch.

He looked at Rakhmi, lying on the ground, surrounded by the debris of their thirty years of married life, and felt deep pangs of sorrow at the futility of it all ! She had been such a loving woman. He should have looked after her a little better. She had become so frail lately.

He sat by her and lifted her hand. Such rough hands, but they had been soft once, as they had caressed his body. His hand gently touched her wrinkled face. She looked curiously at peace, laying dead in his arms. He felt grief welling inside him. He didn’t know how to bring it out. Should he let out a loud wail, or beat his chest ? Call the neighbours?

He tried to force a few tears in his eyes, the dryness in his throat increasing by the minute. He tried to remember her as a blushing bride, eager to please, but couldn’t. He held his face close to hers, trying to see it clearly. The wrinkles, closed eyes, thin lips, the little tattoo on her chin, the big round circle of kumkum on her forehead now mingled in blood.

Suddenly he noticed something around her neck. Her Mangalsutra. He quickly pulled it out. Black beads on a dirty thread, and two gold beads.

"Saali! She told me there was no money,and all the while she wore gold!"

The thread broke easily with a jerk, and putting the mangalsutra in his pocket, Bhiku walked out eagerly towards the bar.

Love is Blind, or is it!

2006-10-30T10:03:00.000-08:00

Goddess! Please help me."

A soul in distress was calling her. She looked around closely, her myopic eyes squinting a little. All she could see were pink clouds. These mortals were great ones for making a mess of their lives with great regularity. Then the prayers for her, The Love Goddess, would start.

She knew the routine. She had helped many with her Advise and at time even with a little discreet magic. The Goddess had a heart full of compassion and eyes which couldn’t see much beyond her nose. In fact she was near blind and that’s what made her a great Love Goddess. She reluctantly put aside her wine, put on her jewel rimmed glasses and the heaven came in focus. Ugh! How she hated seeing things in focus! The pink fog which always swirled around her was so much more comforting.

She arranged her pink robes in an attractive pattern, patted her pink cotton candy hair into some order, and sat up straight on her throne of pink clouds. Pigeons, rabbits and other assorted animals frolicked around her. At her signal the angels struck up the band. She was rather a stickler for right ambiance. Then with her ring adorned fingers playing with her necklace of pink pearls, she waited.

She smiled at a young man approaching her and beckoned him to sit at her feet. He looked around in a confused manner and chose a comfortable looking cloud to sit on. Obviously his first visit to heavens.

The young man was still completely distracted by all the beauty and stared around with awestruck eyes. He had never believed a place such as this existed. The Goddess looked at him with a smile. She loved impressing the first time visitors.

Finally he looked at her benevolent face and his eyes filled with tears as he kissed the hem of her robes.

"Hush!" she whispered patting his head. "Things are never as bad as they look. Tell me all. Who is she? "

He gulped back his tears, and started spilling his tale of woes. As always, there was a girl, a girl who didn’t care. The Goddess suppressed a yawn. Such a familiar tale, and she had listened to all its variations. Why didn’t they try something new for a change? Like loving some one who Did care?

The young man was now trying to describe his love but words kept failing him. Finally, he said a little lamely, "You would understand if you ever saw her. She is as beautiful as a Goddess" but after catching her raised eye brows, he amended hastily, "well, almost….well not really, but she is awfully pretty".

He pointed down excitedly, "There she is, sitting in the garden."

Goddess looked down from the heavens at the view of an earthly garden, where a pretty damsel was sitting. No! There were two in fact. The Goddess thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, as they sometimes did when ever she forgot to wear her glasses. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. There were still two of them.

"They are sisters, twins in fact" The young man explained.

"And which one do you fancy?"

" The one on the left.... no, one on the right, with a basket in her hands."

She looked closely. They still looked alike to her. How can he tell them apart? But that was not her problem and she said briskly,

“Are you sure? Ok then. Young man, I have decided to help you. I will put my spell on the damsel of your choice, the left one did you say ? Okie-doke, here it goes"

She sprinkled the pollen of the flowers in her hand around her and blew at it gently. Slowly the pollen wafted towards the earth as directed by her magic. The youth went away gratefully, with his faith restored in love once again. With a deep sigh of satisfaction the goddess took off her glasses and went back to her wine, glad to have done the day's good deed

………………………………………………………………………………………….

"Goddess, ...." The youth was back.

"What now? Didn't the spell work? Why are you looking sad ?"

"Goddess, pardon my boldness but you have put spell on the wrong one, and now she is following me around where ever I go".

"Wrong one ? Are you saying I put a wrong spell? I am the Goddess, and Goddesses don’t do wrong spells. And anyway, that shouldn't really matter. You said, they are identical twins." Mortals were rather silly most of the times.

" Errr......but Goddess, I love the Other one! I would rather have that one, if you don’t mind".

"LOVE ! What do You know about love! I am the Love Goddess and I am telling you that I have chosen most wisely for you. Now GO, and live happily ever after!"

She said in her most haughty manner, but he refused to be dismissed.

The Goddess was getting rather tired of this whole business and was heartily regretting ever volunteering as a love Goddess in the first place. The Man just stood there with a mutinous look on his face.

"Ok ok, so may be I aimed wrong. My eyes you know. But tell me, what’s your problem with the other one? Is she ugly? Bad tempered? Ill mannered? She is identical to the one you love, but far better in temperament."

"But... what about my love for the first one?" The man gathered courage to ask.

“Love ? What love? Have you even talked to her? Wooed her? Do you know what she likes? Doesn’t like? "

“ Oh No! I never dared to. She doesn’t talk to any guys. I just lay flowers on her path and hide. She is so much above me. Like a Goddess!" he saw the look on her face again and went silent.

The Goddess rolled her eyes, will these mortals never learn?

"Young man, listen to me. I have given you a damsel, who is beautiful, and loving- thanks to my magic, and well mannered. Don't crave the other one. She will make you miserable"

The Goddess tried to persuade him for a long time. Showed him how the damsel of his choice would make him unhappy through her disdain, and uncaring heart. It’s much wiser to accept one who loves him already. But the young man didn’t look convinced. He stood there looking sulky.

The Goddess’s eyes flashed orange flash of lightning in deep irritation, as she boomed in her deep Goddess voice which she saved for just such occasions.

"Foolish Man! My magic once done can not be undone. Now Go Away". Even Love Goddesses have their bad days. Today looked like one of those.

The man moved away, dragging his feet, looking utterly dejected.

The Goddess looked at him worriedly. Will she ever understand mortals and this thing they call LOVE? What makes a man choose one woman and spurn another one identical to her? Why this one and not that one? Is it their aura, which only they can feel? Is it some kind of a magnetic pull or a magical thread which ties them together? Will separating them disturb some divine game plan? She knew she couldn't really change his destiny. His life will be shaped by the deeds he will do, the choices he will make. All she could do was to add a little romance, a little spark, a few memorable moments to his otherwise drab life. It isn't easy being a mortal. Why not let him have his heart's desire? He will live long enough to rue it anyway, which ever girl he chose. But maybe, just maybe, they will actually achieve what mortals look at as ‘Happiness’. Her divine mind couldn’t understand such eventualities.

"Hey! Come back" The man looked back, hope mingled with tears in his eyes.

"Take this. Share this wine with the one you love. Then all will be rectified and you will get the one you want. Just choose wisely. Now Go!"

The youth eagerly took the vial reverently and rushed away.

Her bosom swelled with tenderness as she watched him go. She loved being a Love Goddess, even though she didn’t understand the first thing about it.

Then removing her glasses, took a sip of her wine, and murmured,
"Mortals!", she went back to her deep contemplation of fuzzy pink clouds.

Aug 15th 1986 - The Independence Day.

2006-08-15T07:53:00.000-07:00

The ground was full of people. The Hindustani music filled the air, people were wearing patriotic colors. It was a scene each one of us has witnessed ever since we started attending Pre-school .
The only difference was, it was taking place in Los Angeles -USA.
The Indian community there had decided to make the day a memorable one by organizing a great Arts & Crafts fair with all things indian. I was with a few American friends who wanted to experience Indian event. Our main interest was the food stalls of course. The main event of hoisting the flag was just a formality that needed to be gotten over as speedily as possible.
Every one was waiting for the chief guest to arrive. A few hungry souls had already done a round of food stalls. The fair promised to be a gala occasion ending with a Jagjit concert in the evening which of course we were not attending. There were parties happening with friends, again with Indian themes and more Indian food.

The Chief Guest, The Mayor of LA, arrived amid much fanfare & hoisted the flag. The band struck the National Anthem and the familiar strains of Jana gana mana filled the air.
Automatically my spine was straightened, shoulders were squared, chin went up & my eyes were focused on the flag. My posture would have been envy of any armed force cadet that day.

I felt a surge of emotions rushing through me as I took a deep breath and fixed my eyes on the Tiranga fluttering in an alien blue sky. It looked very lonely up there. The whole event stopped being a mere formality. My eyes were filled with Saffron, white & green as I started to listen to the words of the anthem with my heart.
In the land of red, white & blue I was getting reacquainted with my colours. I sang the Anthem like never before. It was like making a personal pledge, a promise to my flag. The pledge of allegiance that we were forced to parrot in school started making sense.
Till that day I had never thought deeply about what it means to me to be an indian.

From that day onwards I have lived in the awareness that where ever I go, what ever I do, I will always remain an Indian and be proud of it. I consider this a gift which America has given to me.

My Friend Suman

2006-08-05T22:11:00.000-07:00

As a ten year old growing up in secular surroundings I learnt to never judge or question who my friends were. Therefore being friends with Suman was as natural as being friends with a girl next door. Her job of looking after two small children every day gave her plenty of time to play with us. In fact sometimes I felt that she looked after all of us along with those two kids.

Suman was a little older than us. Fourteen to our ten. She was tall for her age and definitely taller than us all . Slim to the point of thinness, she was always neatly dressed. I don't remember if she was good looking. But she had nice teeth and a lovely smile. She was like any other lower middle class teenager you might say. But she had the sharp tongue and pushy manners of a slum dweller when dealing with troublesome boys and we admired her hugely for it.

Being the oldest and ablest she won in all our games and was unanimously elected as our leader. She planned strategies for scaring off the boys from the streets. In retrospect I realized that they didn't really gather around to look at any of us ten year olds. We learnt choiciest swear words from her and tried to spit far like she did. We all were her willing slaves and whenever we all shared any goodies, Suman got the lion's share .

Needless to say this friendship didn't go unnoticed by the family whose main aim in life was to bring me up to be a good girl. The skill of spitting the farthest is not something one requires to be a successful adult. My uncle was at the forefront of the brigade who kept an eye on us when we played hopscotch on the grounds. And if they ever saw Suman with us, playing or just watching, woe betied us. We would be severely pulled up, explained patiently about Suman's undesirability as a friend, be reminded of the positions our fathers, mothers, grandfathers, brothers and uncles held in the society. Any sign of nit or lice in my hair was blamed on the low company I was keeping. I think Mom even got teary eyed once while blaming herself for not keeping a closer eye on me. And all this because Suman was my friend. They didn't understand that it was a natural attraction between the weak towards the strong. She was everything I had wanted in a friend or a big sister. Other friends were also facing similer problems from their families.

The collective siege just strengthened our resolve and we soon became experts at finding places away from the prying eyes, which in a housing society like ours, with large playgrounds was not a difficult task. Time went by and we were engrossed in our little world, playing and squabbling with each other with Suman always playing the mediator.

One day Suman didn't appear. We went to her employer's house to ask for her. We were told that now that the children had started going to school they didn't need Suman anymore. For the first time since we met her we became aware that Suman was not one of us and hated her employer for dismissing her so summarily.
She can still come in the evening to play with us, we thought. Every one plays in the evenings or so we believed. But evenings didn't bring Suman. We didn't have the courage to go looking for her in the slum where she was supposed to live. Bad people lived there we knew, people who drank and beat up their women and walked on the streets talking to themselves loudly and were seen lying on the streets unconcious. I was old enough to be afraid of the nameless things that go on in the slums. So we just waited.

Days passed and then months . We got used to Suman's absence. We by then had learnt to fight boys on our own. We had also learnt to be friends with them. I was presented a badminton racquet and apart from beating a few boys a couple of times, I had no problems with the game.

One evening as we were busy with our game a friend called out-" hey look ! It's Suman ! " We all ran to the gate to meet her. It really was Suman, but a Suman we didn't recognize. She was dressed in shiny pink and green saree, a flashing nose ring, jhoomkas in her ears swaying rhythemically and bangles glittering on her wrists . With flowers in her hair and a tinkle of payal on her feet, she walked on the street. Her thin young body swayed with an insolent grace which shocked us into silence. Suman with her sulky eyes elongated with a long line of kaajal, pouty red lips and heavily reddened cheeks looked obscene to me. I shrank back, feeling guilty for having seen her this way.

My idiotic friend called out- "Hey Suman, You look nice ! Are you getting married ?" We all hushed her up hastily. Suman ignored us in complete disdain. With her chin up she looked straight in front of her as she walked away, leaving behind five confused little girls.

We returned to our game silently. By some tacit understanding, we never ever mentioned her name among us again.

I never saw Suman again after that day.

http:\\mumbaihelp.blogspot.com

2006-07-11T23:29:00.000-07:00

When everything else was failing, Mumbai Help was active and doing a great job, providing information to Mumabikars. There is information available on this blog about
Mumbai Help blog has been providing a marvelous service by giving latest info about conditions outside Hospital addresses and numbers, shelters in the various areas and most imp. connecting with people in Bombay whom the relatives couldn't, from outside and letting them know every one is safe.
Today you will find post blast scenario.

Please check it out. The link is posted on my blog,

A message from an Indian away from home.

2006-07-11T23:21:00.000-07:00

Friends of my family, who are currently away in Australia for a vacation, have been much disturbed to read news of events back home. Here is an e-mail I recieved this morning.

--------------------------------

Dears,
Heared about the explosins in Rails in western side in Mumbai here in 6 am news i.e 1.30am there in Bmy.
What is happening. Bhivandi, Shivajipark and all maharashtra and now BMy railways. Always crowded all the time and during the peak hours. Read Maharastra times web page that almost all in bmy offices have provided place for stay at the working place, schools etc.

Who is doing all this. Why not Military take over administration for some time and free the public from these political fat tummy politicians. They are for making money for them selves and least bothered about progress which any way they know Indian people manage from thousands of years history.
Sorry since stunned wrote this long
Hope the climate will improve.

Prabhu and family

Mumbai Blasts

2006-07-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

I was at college. I had kept my cell on silent, so didn't get the calls warning me about the blasts. None of us knew.

Our principal rushed in and asked the class to be dismissed immediately and sent all of us home. Just then it had started pouring. I took with me three students who lived in my area, and found a cab and left for Chembur. It is a debatable point as to who took care of whom but we felt better just by being together.

Calls within Bombay were not going through, but a cousin called from Pune. I sent message home through him. I knew family must have been trying to contact me franctically.

By avoiding the main roads, bygoing through the lanes of Hindu Colony, we all reached Chembur within an hour. There was a relief about having coped with one more crisis that seems to be a frequent scenario in Bombay.

The unnecessary and totally preplanned and staged riots on sunday, the attempts of the same group to impose Bombay bandh in a few areas on Monday, the blasts on tuesday...Bombay keeps coping with crises.

Bombay has always coped with almost everything. Rains, floods, total breaking of law and order, bomb blasts and still keeps going. But for how long? Common man has no choice but to keep going. Even with seven blasts in the trains today, tomorrow morning, women and men will be at the station waiting for their train, to reach office on time. They have to. They can not afford to not trust the trains.

But they will start distrusting the neighbours a bit more. Start looking suspiciously at any one a little different than them, start getting paranoid about languages they dont understand. The US and THEM thinking which never was part of Bombay till the communal riots on 1993, We are all dividing Bombay into ghettos. This is not my city. Not the Bombay I know

Fifty seven years ago, on this day.......

2006-06-19T21:21:00.000-07:00

Today is my parent's wedding anniversary. Fifty seven years since my Mom entered my Dad's household as a shy bride. She was seventeen, he was twenty six. For her his twenty six was a very wise old age.
She joined a family diametrically opposite to everything she was familiar with, and proceeded to become a part of it. She did it so well, that her mother in law was her biggest admirer. Mom has earned this love and esteem the old fashioned way. By loving and giving.
Mom is a natural leader and an extrovert, while dad is an introvert who loves to be left alone with his books. A man of few words, and even fewer friends, he never clipped my mom’s wings. He hates women who confine themselves to household chores. It was important to him that she explored all her talents and abilities. Even if that meant, being known as 'Mrs. Joshi's Husband'. She had become quite a public figure due to her numerous achievements.

She has hair she can sit on and then some :) Dad would purchase flowers for her every evening on his way home from office. Later I pretended to laugh at it by calling it totally middle class. But I secretly loved the gesture.

My parent's union is the unity of Shiv and Shakti. Dad is like Shiv, a straight forward, emotional, idealistic, blunt, reclusive scholar with uncompromising nature. He is quick to anger and equally quick to cool down. Mom is quintessential Maya and Shakti. Wily,diplomatic,creative, talented, loving and wise, a woman with a thousand faces and ten thousand moods. Only she could have coped with dad. Can’t see any other woman doing that. You don’t believe me? Ask my Grandma, who was fully aware how difficult her son could be. For that reason Mom always remained her favorite.

We have big plans for today. Family will gather together for dinner. I will dress mom up in a lovely saree,then she and dad will be photographed together. Then we too will see fleeting glimpses of a seventeen year old adoring bride and her twenty six year old proud husband.

A day out

2006-06-13T23:50:00.000-07:00

We have to get you a hair cut today. Normally I give you one myself. But today you have made a fuss. You want to go to the proper salon at the corner and get it done, you said. I argued, it looks nice longer. But to no avail. I ran my fingers thru your ringlets, and with a sigh agreed to take you there. After all, it was summer and cropped hair is cooler.
You can't go there alone I knew. There are roads to cross, and vehicles to negotiate. How can you do it alone? Plus you are a little wobbly on your feet…sometimes.

You are looking forward to be going out. You ask me what else can we do while we are out. I suggest having ice creams.
We leave home. You carefully, slowly climbed down the steps. I walk a few steps in front of you. So if you were to take a tumble I was there to break the fall. Offering you my hand was meaningless. You have a mile wide stubborn streak, just like me. Blood will tell, mom always says.

We come out of the building and slowly walk to the gate. From now on you are in charge. I just walk with you to make sure you are ok. You hail an auto, make sure it has well upholstered seats, give him directions and settle back. This was like old times, when you were active and ran the world. Nothing much has changed really. Now I run it for you, thats all.

We reach your regular salon. The barber comes out to greet us. He tells me come back in half an hour and escorts you in. You are one of his favorite customers. I wondered if he still gives out lollipops after a hair cut, like he did in my childhood.

I walk around, finish my three rounds around the park, take a peek in the salon to see if you were done. You are looking happy sitting there, chatting with the barber who was quizzing you about something, like old friends do. You shoo me away impatiently. I smile and go for one more turn around the park. You hate it when I stand over you being a Mommy.

You come out, you have paid the man. We slowly go towards an auto and you stop.
“Wait ! We still have to have our ice creams! “ Do you really want an ice cream or you are just trying to stretch this outing a little longer? But it doesn’t matter. I too am having a good time.
We sit on the bench at the café next door with our ice creams. On a hot summer day it was a welcome relief. Ice creams finished, there was no excuse to linger on anymore. I suggest we head home. You agree readily. May be the outing has tired you more than I had realized.
'Tomorrow we can go to the book store and browse," you suggest, I agree.

We reach home. Again the careful negotiation of the staircase. This time I walk behind you. Later as I look at you sitting in the living room talking to Mom, I wonder when did we reverse the roles?
When had I stopped being your child and become your mother?

Distress of Spices

2006-06-13T23:48:00.000-07:00

Once upon in the far away land called San Francisco lived a drop dead gorgeous young lady who had never stepped a foot out of her shop. She was forbidden. Like the Lady of Shallot, she viewed the world from her shop window, and chatted with her spices for company. Perhaps there speech was easier for her to understand than the assortment of accents floating around.

There were stray customers, ex-pat indians, who were finding it hard to understand why their young grand daughters, born and bred in the USA wore make up, didn't wear a bra and wanted to marry for love. After all THEY had never loved Their wives, and it never hurt them. The girl listened and made pickles for them.

She was also forbidden from touching another skin. In fact this disheartened her so much that she gave up all the attempts at dating as the spice made very effective chaperon.

Every time a handsome hunk passed by the shop on his Bullet, the spices all gathered around the girl, and hissed and booed him away, chilli being the rudest, loudest and noisiest.

One day this situation went too far. The Bullet Dude entered the shop. The girl started breaking rules and hell broke loose in the Spiceland. The Spice sulked. Even after her repeated entreaties, the turmeric won’t look at her, the saffron turned away disdainfully, Cinnamon stuck her tongue out, chilli was the most offensive, and kept muttering rude words under her breath. The Big Brother ( or Sister) Spice just doesn’t like Love.

The girl was quite quite upset. Spice was not talking to her! She tried to reason with them and cajole them into accepting the fact that she needed a life, but cumin, tulsi , ginger, garlic, bay leaf, cinnamon and pepper, both black and white variety, turned quite hostile and started doing evil things to her customers, burning their tongues and breaking relationships ( other people’s. The Girl’s own relationship with the Bullet was hunky dory. )

Mean while the hunk on Bullet developed a liking for spice, in spite of the chilly who was busy hissing curses at him meanly ( perhaps she reminded him of his ex ). He didn’t know why he kept coming back. We all thought it was to get yet one more dekko at the girl, but in reality it was because of Tulsi tea. He developed an addiction and had to have his daily fix of the spices. The revenge of the spices was complete.

What happens after this should be seen on the screen or your nearest grocery store. If you can imagine the guy behind the counter as Aiswarya it will be a big help. Just request him to pout and wiggle his bushy eye brows continuously
Or better still, go to your own kitchen, put oil on the fire and make a tadka using every spice imaginable. Make sure you have a hunk standing right next to you touching you seductively. Chillies will hiss, spit and get spicier that way.

Moral of the story- Learn to respect the Chillis.

The unforgettable scene- The girl and the Dude rolling on the bed of red chilli.

e-Classics anyone?

2006-06-02T21:02:00.000-07:00

You know what I did today ? Browsed the web for e-classics.
It was heartwarming to see that so many titles were available for free. I could find free books in all categories, fiction & non fiction. I was thrilled to find a lot more titles available in the selection of Bret Harte's short stories. I thought I had read them all. Same was true about Jane Austin whose 2 more novels are available online -but not in the book stores.

Are e-books here to stay ? I somehow feel it will be a long time before the society becomes truely paperless. The harm this constant reading online is going to do to our eye sight is something that is not difficult to imagine. But a true reader doesn't fear myopia
I remember - when I was young, my father used to scold me that I will go blind before twenty if I keep reading day & night !!! I just doubled the quota of books -Because I better finish as many books as possible before that happens and even toyed with the idea of learning braille !!!!

Where do e-books fit in with the reading habits of people ?

Can you take your e-book to bed at night , keep reading till you feel pleasently drowsy & fall asleep with your e-book on your chest ?

Can you carry your e-book with you & sit on a park bench ?

Can you lend your e-book to a friend with firm reminders to 'return it or else' ?

Can you inhale the smell of a new e-book like I do with every new book I buy ?

Can you go hunting for e-books into old e-book stores- looking for treasures among dusty shelves- trying to read the previous owner's name & wonder why a Miss Julie Fernandes found it necessary to underline every sentimental passage in the book with red ink ?

Some readers even try to help by writing on the inner cover ' Not worth the money I spent ' You don't just buy a book - but also a piece of the previous owners history.

I once found a whole collection of beautiful hard bound books that looked like they came from some one's cherished library. I read the name on the yellowed page- F.R.E. Dadibhoy. & wondered what they were doing on the side walks of Matunga . I wanted to buy them all. That was one of the very few times I wished I was a millionaire !!
By the dates on the cover it was clear that Mr. Dadibhoy couldn't still be around to read the books. But couldn't the heirs to his fortune provide a home for them ?

May be the books were regarded as a 'Nuisance' - taking a lot of space & collecting dust. May be in the place of the bookshelves they now have a giant TV to watch latest DVDs & CDs, & may be a state of the art computer.... on which they now read e-books !!!

May be I am not destined to be loved by the trees :(

( This was written 2 years ago, but the sentiments remain unchanged.)

The face of a revolution

2006-05-30T02:39:00.000-07:00

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. With this one logo Mumbai based graphic artist has given a voice to thousands of protesters all over the nation about the reservation issue. Certain communities and castes are being given seats in all educational institutes, job opportunities in government offices. This policy hits the students badly who can not get in to universities because they do not belong to the favoured caste, while the seats many a times go empty.
In the past too government has implemented policies with an eye on the vote bank. Favouring certain communities and castes in return for their votes. The current reservation policy which has no logical base has been created with similer aims.

Delhi based Vikrant Nath and Bombay based Hemant Suthar got together to create this logo, to be printed on t-shirts to be worn by protesters and any other sympathetic citizens. Logo is designed by Hemant, and the entire cost of making 1000 t-shirts is born by Vikrant nath.
" The logo is based on the 'No Parking' sign. By replacing P with R, we wanted to convey that there is no free parking for the OBCs and the politician."
- Hemant Suthar.

( Note:- OBC- Other Backward Classes.)

A Spam mail.

2006-05-21T21:57:00.000-07:00

( After reading countless spam mails, I just had to try my hand at writing one :))

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Happy Mother's day Malini!

2006-05-14T07:46:00.000-07:00

Malini entered the office and saw her colleagues suddenly hush their laughter as they greeted her with fake cheerfulness,
"Hello Malini, Good Morning".
She had been expecting something of this sort. She waved to them cheerfully and went to her cubicle. The conversation resumed in whispers, and when they forgot to whisper, very audible to her even across the office.This happened around every Mother's day. For one day she was an out caste. She was not a Mother, nor did she look like ever being one.

For past ten years on every mothers day she had listened to the stories about teenage sons buying their mothers flowers and cheap perfumes or trinkets, daughters cooking messy dinners in an attempt to give mom an evening off, husbands taking whole family for an outing. A celebration of motherhood in which she had no part. She heard these happy stories every year. She had tried to tell them she really didn't feel unhappy on mother's day. It was ok not to have a child. But they looked even more sympathetic, as if she was being very brave. Soon she stopped explaining. Lying low for one day seems to be the easy way out.

Later in the evening, as she was getting ready to leave, Ruby came to her table with a big smile.
" Guess what I am doing tomorrow evening ? My Annette is taking me to a disco! She even bought me a sexy outfit yesterday !" she giggled.
Rubes- kindest soul that she was, was never going to launch a thousand ships, but her face glowed, making her look beautiful.

She picked her bag, waved to her friends and colleagues and stepped out of the office. No one called her to ask her what were her plans for the mother's day.

But she too had plans. Same thing that she did on every mother's day.She walked to a park full of children and selected a bench which had a view of the whole park.

A boisterous game of foot ball was going on. Sturdy legs chasing the ball, arms shooting up, boys tumbling over each other, happy shouts filling the air. Occassionally a few squabbles, fist fights as only energetic boys can have. She found herself relaxing. She smiled happily as she watched the game, munching peanuts.

How old must he be now? Her son? Almost fifteen. Her eyes looked at teenage boys engrossed in their game. Some times she caught a glimpse of curly hair, or sparkle in eyes which brought back memories. Was He here? among these boys? Will she even recognize him if they ever met?

She didn't regret having given him up. What choices did she have? Bringing him up alone? No way she and Shibu could have married. Both artists, dreamy and hopelessly in love. It was magical, it was volatile, it was inevitable. But even then
she knew that two people such as them could not have made a go of their relationship. After graduation Shibu went away to Europe on a scholarship to pursue art, and she went home, pregnant. Shibu never even knew.

She was adamant about not aborting the baby. Shibu's and her baby was bound to be special. It must live. She went to stay with her grandmother. Her parents were upset but Gramps was surprisingly understanding about it, as she listened to Malini talking about Shibu. She had decided to give the baby in adoption.The suitable adoptive parents had been found. The complete secrecy about them bothered her a little, but was assured that it was for the best.They too were waiting for the baby's arrival. Baby was born, hugged once and tears were shed as he had been handed over.

She returned to the city, and carried on with her life. Post grad abroad, a well paying job, a few awards here and there, even a whirlwind courtship and a short lived marriage. Life was running it's course. The baby was a distant memory now.
She never had another child after that. But she was content. Her baby lived. Some might call her an unfeeling mother because she gave him up. But allowing the baby to live was the only gift she could give him.

Since then she celebrated Mother day by seeking out the children and youngsters, mingled with them, imagining her son in that crowd, trying to locate a familier smile, style among those faces. Shibu's dreamy eyes and soft voice, her flashing smile, something that will tell her this was her baby.

It had become quite dark by now. Boys were now gathered at a corner bench, chatting happily. She picked up her bag and left the park with a jaunty step and murmured to herself,
" Happy Mother's Day, Malini".

Back to school.

2006-04-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

I was visiting a college after a long time. The aroma of Paav Bhaaji wafted in from the canteen. In my days canteens didn't serve paav bhaaji, not even vaada paav. That came much later. We lived on the staple of Idlee sambar in canteen and paani puri & bhel outside the college. Gastro not yet invented, eating out rarely hurt us.

There were students dressed in their best all around. Young people standing around in groups and chatting. Volunteers wearing various colored badges strode purposefully through the crowds.

I stopped one formally dressed young man, sporting an impressive looking red badge on his shirt, and asked him to direct me to Competition halls.

"You here as a judge Ma'am?" He asked me reverently. "Please come this way."

He took me to a large meeting hall, chilled to the max, respectfully pulled out a chair with super efficient wheels. It tried to escape and roll away like a trapped animal. I had to firmly grab it with both my hands before lowering myself in it. My guide in the mean time had returned with a severe looking girl, who also wore a big red badge, which I had figured by now, belonged to the Reception committee. Both stood on my two sides. Their hands clasped anxiously in front, they talked to me in hushed tones. There was something very theatrical about the whole scene. We were all playing roles we were not accustomed to.

" Tea or coffee ma'am"?

" Coffee please, “ I replied graciously, rather liking being waited upon.

" How about some snacks ma'am ?"

" No, Thanks. Just coffee will be fine".

" Have some samosas Ma'am."

I realized that by saying no to snacks I was veering away from the script. So I played along.

" Sandwiches will be great. I will have coffee and sandwiches"

The girl nodded and the boy vanished. I was left in the chilled hall, contemplating my glass of water, with the girl keeping an eye on me.

Half an hour later the boy arrived carrying Tea and samosas, and I didn’t have a heart to point out that this was not what I had asked for. May be the script had specified Samosas and tea

Soon a delegation arrived to escort me to the competition hall. I felt like the Ganapati idol being taken for immersion as we walked down corridors after corridors. Once I was installed in my chair, I was introduced to the artwork I was supposed to judge..

It was a Face Painting competition. I took one look at the colourful faces before and realized how much efforts the young ones had put into this. My flippant mood evaporated and I got down to business as seriously as they expected me to.

Each of the faces had a theme. And they had used their friend’s faces as a canvas to present their ideas. Difficult as the task was, I soon finished judging, and handed the awards to the winners.

Now I was ready to go. All I needed to do was find a loo. All that water I had been drinking was now protesting for all it was worth. I discreetly asked a girl where the ladies room was.

“Yes Ma’am, this way please.” I was taken to a big auditorium and was asked to take a seat. I said,” I am in a rush, can you just show me the ladies room?”

The girl looked flustered, and mumbled something about, please be seated, our GS is coming.

I sat shivering in that super chilled auditorium. Every time some one entered, I looked up expectantly. But no, GS was still missing. One after other five young volunteers offered me cold drinks.

I started wondering if this was some form of ragging. Give the guests gallons of water and cold drinks, make them sit in chilled halls, keep offering them more drinks, and deny them the loo privileges. This will break down the most hardened criminals, Very effective.

Meanwhile the volunteers had started looking worried. They could clearly see annoyance on my face. I kept looking pointedly at my wrist watch and was now ready to get up and find a loo on my own. But the girl was almost in tears when she said, “Just a few more minutes ma’am, the GS is coming.” I realized that the girl was more worried about displeasing that godlike creature- The GS. I had forgotten how majestic and all powerful a College GS, General Secretary seems to freshers.

In due course the GS strode in, surrounded by his minions. As soon as he stepped in he sent a few juniors to get him a samosa and cold drink, then remembering his manners, He gravely offered to get me a cold drink. I was by now ready to burst. I picked up my bag, stood there looking like a Christian martyr ready to face lions, and announced my resolve to be gone. “ Why am I being detain this way , if I may ask?”

GS looked confused and unsure” I will find out Ma’am, please chill, are you sure you don’t want a cold drink?”

I took a deep breath and lowered myself in the chair again. The GS whispered to some one to go find Sonal, a girl rushed out. Rest of them huddled at the opposite end of the hall, whispering among themselves, and keeping an anxious eye on me. I must have looked pretty irate and fierce. At long last, a girl rushed in making apologies.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting ma’am.”

She thrust a rose along with a small parcel in my hands.

“ A token of appreciation from all of us”. Every one clapped, a few cameras clicked. Sonal had arrived ready with the photographer. GS looked relieved.

I gave Sonal a quick hand shake and asked in a loud whisper,” Now can you please lead me to your bathrooms?”

Fate. an exercise in cliches.

2006-03-25T19:00:00.001-08:00

It looked like a regular day to Pooja as she left her home for her work. What she didn't know was that Fate had some other plans.

She reached the office a few minutes late and was rushing to reach the lift before the door closed.The lift door almost closed on her delicate foot when a pair of strong hands pulled her inside the lift, thus saving her life and her foot. Pooja looked up into a pair of masculine eyes flashing admiration, concern, annoyance and irritation turn by turn.
"Can't you be more careful? That was an utterly stupid thing to do!" He barked at her.
"Sorry" she mumbled as her eyes filled with tears. Why did he have to be so horrid? As it was she was a nervous wreck already. She was going to start working for her boss's son from today. Her new boss. She had been worried about it all morning, And now this.

She took a discreet peek at his face, still stormy with annoyance. He was so handsome! She had never seen anyone like him at such a close range before. She wished she was a tall, beautiful and smart girl, like the receptionist who always knew what to say to men. But now all she could do was try and not stare at him with her soul in her eyes.

Rahul thought she looked like a fresh spring flower with her face dewey with perspiration. Eyes like twin stars though currently submerged in unshed tears, lips like twin rose petals trembling gently, well oiled hair like a long rope coiled down her back, her nose had delicate nostrils. What divine nostrils they were. He liked the way she delicately dabbed her eyes & her nose with her small hanky. He found himself envying that little hanky. Oh How I wish.....He dared not continue with his wish. She was not a girl to be toyed with. She wasn't some painted society doll. She was a working girl, with kaajal in her eyes and gajra in her hair. As wholesome as a home cooked meal. She was the kind of girl Dad married thirty years ago. He didn't know they made them like her any more.

He wondered which office she worked in, would he see her again. May be he should bribe the peon. The subtle fragrance of chameli oil mingled with mogra filled the lift, as he fought hard to resist it's erotic invitation.

The lift reached the nineth floor and stalled. The lights went out filling the lift with darkness. Rahul started pressing the lift buttons in desperation. Ever since he had been locked in the hostel toilet as a child, he had a horror of closed spaces. Help, help, he tried to shout but no words came out of his mouth.

Pooja watched him with growing concern. As a girl who had grown up in a tiny 2 room apartment with 10 people, she had no fear of confined spaces.
She gently touched his arm to offer her support and felt an electric current go thru her entire body at the touch of those muscles. He was so strong !

Looking at her upturned angel face and sympathetic eyes, Rahul grew calmer. He realized he must not allow himself to panic This was different than being locked in school toilet by rowdies.. Here he had HER to look after. He had to be a man, dependable and strong. Some one she can rely on, and look upto. In the dim lit interior of the lift, her eyes shone at him with trust and understanding. He drew himself up and squared his shoulders manfully, and next moment he fainted.

When he came to, he found his head pillowed on her lap and her eyes looking into his with deep concern. She wiped sweat from his forehead with her dupatta, and offered him water from a little bottle she fished out of her voluminous shoulder bag. He drank it thirstily wondering how can water taste sweeter than all the wines on earth. May be the bottle had touched her lips. He quickly got up, squared his shoulders and became a man once again.

Was this love? He had known women, plenty of them. But he had never been in love before, now he knew what it was all about. The same sickness that had Romeo in it's grip now gripped him. He wanted to do impossible things for her. Too bad they were stuck in a lift. Somewhere in distance he heard faint music play. It was she, talking to him in gentle tones. He marveled at the sweetness of her voice. He was ready to keep listening to it for rest of his life.

"Don't worry! I have talked to the people on emergency phone. They will be getting us out of here any minute now."
Getting out? He didn't want to get out! He wanted to spend rest of his life in this lift with her. He knew she would vanish the moment they reached their respective floors.

The lift rumbled, came to life and started moving up. The moment of separation was fast approaching. Both kept looking at the indicator with pensive eyes, eyes longing to look at each other, lips longing to ask the forbidden questions. What is your name? Where do you work? Can I see you again? But propriety forbade any such familiarity. She is so pure. I have no right to defile such divine innocence with my baser longings. He hated himself for wanting her. He squared his jaw in an attempt to control his emotions and scowled at the indicator, She let out a deep sigh, her heaving bosom was the only sign of the storm which raged within.

People had started coming in, going out, but they were oblivious to every one, as they stood there, side by side, hungrily looking at each other. Their eyes had become the windows to their souls and they were timidly peeping out at each other.

On fifteenth floor, they both tried to get out together, then stopped, stepped back and said together,
"You too? getting off here?". Pooja thought this was an omen. They walked upto same office door. This time Rahul spoke first.
He asked her in a voice filled with wonder and hope, "You work here ?"
"Yes" She nodded with eager shyness."and You?"
"Me too! Starting from today. I am the owner's son who has returned from USA."
She couldn't believe her luck. She looked even more soulfully at him and said in a husky whisper,
"and I am your new secretary"

Rahul was now absolutely sure that they were meant to be together. He offered her his hand and said-
" Will you be mine? To have and to hold, in good times and bad times, till death parts us ?"
" Yes my dear! For ever and for ever. I will follow you till the ends of this earth."
"Come my darling, let's look for Dad and ask for his blessings".
And together they entered the office, hand in hand, foot by foot, shoulder to shoulder, never to be parted again till eternity, to live happily ever after.

( When read at the BBY read meet, the listeners came up with a lot many cliches of their choice. I have tried to incorporate as many as I could.)

Sonubai

2006-03-24T18:55:00.000-08:00

This is an under construction piece. all the comments are most welcome. This is an attempt to croniclize every day happening and ironies of small lives. Sonu bai's and mine.

****

"Bai, you tell me what are we supposed to do? Where are we supposed to go? How can he even think such a thing! And I had thought that my daughter will be happy in that house! After all he is my own cousin's son."

Dad & I could hear the conversation between sonu bai who was our maid and my mom in the kitchen. Dad was a bit upset at the tranquility disturbed so early on a sunday morning. He asked me to go in the kitchen to find out what the matter was and warn mom discreetly not to get involved. If Sonubai needs help we will help of course. She was almost family. But this daily soap opera getting rather monotonous. Anything that could go wrong usually went wrong where Sonubai was concerned and then my mother would be ready with medicine, money, clothes, a pat on the back, a kind word, a cup of tea, what ever seemed to be the placibo that sonubai was looking for. To do her justice, there was an amazing lack of greed in sonbai. She rarely asked for anything beyond a kind word. Her salary and my mom's old saris was enough to keep her happy.
One thing Mom is very good at, and that's keeping servants happy. She has realized that there was nothing more precious to a hard working woman than a cup of hot tea, and a long gossip session.
Today looked a little different. I could see real distress on sonubai's face that wouldn't be eased with tea. Mother looked at a loss as to how to consol her. My tentative enquiries opened the flood gates once again, but mom quickly wrapped things up, giving me a concise version while sonubai sipped tea, dabbing at her eyes and nose occassionally.
Sonubai 's daughter Kashi had gotten married to her own cousin eight months ago. Now that she was pregnant, her husband sent her home with an allagation that the baby is not his.
It was a difficult situation for all, and withour really intending to, even my father started having interest in the proceedings. The domestic chaos went on for a while. The long and short of it was- there was another woman in her son in law- Nilesh's life so he very conveniently sent his wife packing with the false allegation. Sonubai brought her pregnant daughter home and Nilesh took that other woman as his wife.

Kashi started coming to work with sonubai but MOm wouldn't let her do heavy chores. Instead she gave Kashi fabric and taught her to make baby clothes. Kashi was a quick learner. In a few months time she not only learnt to sew but also to embroider and knit. With the clothes ready she awaited the baby's arrival eagerly.

In due course the baby arrived without much fanfare. 15 days later Kashi visited us with a sturdy looking baby boy, and happily told my dad that she was planning to educate her son and make him a doctor. Dad smiled as he handed the baby a hundred.

Kashi became quite accostumed to her happy state as the rejected woman. Even the pointed queries by some women about her unfaithful husband and his 'Woman' failed to distress her. Her life was complete with her baby.
She had now started stiching baby clothes for all the other women in her locality and earning some money. On the whole Sonubai's and our home life was going through a peaceful period.

Sunday morning peace was once again broken by Sonubai's sobs. Dad looked at me with the question on his face, I went to kitchen to find out what was it this time.

Sonubai told me with great aggravation in her voice.- "That stupid son in law of mine has sent me a lawyer's notice, claiming the son as His !! "

Radha Shrivastava.

2006-03-21T01:20:00.000-08:00

Where is the rascal ?? Hiding under the bed again! Radha muttered to herself, as she tried to look under her bed for her kitten. Her aching joints didn’t allow her to bend much. The age hadn't been kind to her.
Radha went in the balcony to look for the missing cat. She looked out on the street suspiciously. She always looked at everyone suspiciously.
"The only way to rule men was by kicking their ass" had been her husband's favorite refrain. He was a hard man. She thought wistfully. Tall big man with moustache that curled at the ends. How she had loved him.
As she returned to the living room, she glanced at the tall teakwood cabinet which displayed Major's rifles, guns and medals. Most of them were empty, but she always kept one gun ready, just in case.
She opened the cabinet in the living room and tenderly took out his gun. He had taught her to use it well.
She still remembered those lessons. On the ranges in the afternoon sun, sweat getting into her eyes, she had tried to aim at the target. Her shoulders and back aching with strain and two hour's practice session.
" Keep your back straight woman" Her husband's voice had boomed. Any other woman would have left him. But not she. She learnt to toughen up and be a soldier's wife. Hadn't been easy, but it was all worth it. After all, when he won the president's medal she was the one he brought it home to, not those other tramps he was sometimes seen parading at the parties with.

He had hated cats, she thought fondly. But she knew that cats were a much superior species. It was not for nothing they worshipped cats in Egypt. Has anyone heard of a dog being worshipped? Never. But as homage to her husband's fondness for their dog, she called each of her cats, Pirate, after his Great Dane. That way she didn't have to remember how many cats there had been. And there had been quite a few. At least one every couple of months.

She had tried to discipline them over and over again. Simple rules really. Nothing demeaning like fetching papers or slippers. No way. Not a cat. That’s for dogs that have no self respect.
But simple rules. Like breakfast lunch and dinner at given time. There would be a dinner bell they had to obey. But they were getting more and more disobedient. She even tried to take one for a walk, but the cat got scared of the neighbor's dog and climbed a tree and wouldn't come down.
Too bad about that one. She just wanted to scare it a bit by holding it out of the balcony, not throw it down like the neighbor had told the police. Keeps throwing cats from the balcony he had said. What did he take her for ? An idiot ? He can talk to her this way only because her husband was no more there to protect her ! May be she should keep the gun handy , just in case. At least the neighbors will talk with more respect .

Where is that darned cat hiding? "Pirate!!! Where are you? It's time for your Bournvita." It was a new cat. She will have train it all over again. They don't make cats like they used to, she thought rather crossly. But this one seemed different somehow. It had intelligent eyes. Jet black cat with beautiful
blue green eyes and a delicate meow. She had found it roaming the streets. When she had bent to pat it it didn’t run off like cats normally do, but sat down and handed her a paw. She was enchanted . A trained cat!! What a rarity! She picked it up, and the cat came with her without any struggle. It had a thick gold chain round it's neck. Had to be a pet cat and she should notify the police perhaps. But No way was she going to go to the police station, not after what they had said about her. Crazy old woman they had called her. She knew what the neighbors whispered among each other. She didn't need them. Now that she had found this cat, she was content. It's meant to be. They were meant to be together. She will make a lovely collar for the cat, better than that chain.

She noticed the cat enter the room.
"Pirate" She called it sternly. "Come here. Stand there, I want to talk to you."
To her amazement the cat walked over to where she was sitting and kept looking at her with it's head cocked to one side, as if it understood every word.

She sighed as she went in the kitchen to pour herself some wine. It was ten minutes past her bedtime because of that cat. Wine for her and bournvita for the cat. For some reason she never approved of cats drinking plain milk. But cat had other ideas. It jumped on the side table and started sniffing at the bottle of whisky kept there.
" Pirate , you bad cat ! That is NOT for you! That is Major Sa’ab’s whisky! You get bournvita. "
But the cat just sat there looking at her through those emerald eyes very knowingly. Radha felt little uncomfortable. Should she give it a lick of whisky instead of Bourne Vita ? She also wondered bout the previous owners. Must be some well to do family, by the look of the chain around the cat’s neck. Pure gold it was. And the cat likes whisky!!! Hmmmmm. We'll get along quite well boy, she thought with a sudden burst of good humour as she pictured both of them sitting cozily every evening with their drinks. She could see them living happily ever after. There was something about this cat that was different. The way it hovered around the gun cabinet, the way it asked for whisky. The cool stare from those blue green eyes….Has the Major come back? She wondered. Such things were known to happen. Nah! Not Her Major Sa'ab. He will never come back as a cat. A Dog perhaps, but never a cat.

She poured Bournvita for the cat in the cat dish and poured wine for herself. Cat was still sniffing at the bottle of whisky, but later went to drink the Bourn Vita.
She was almost asleep on the sofa when the door bell rang. Who can it be at this time of night?
She looked out through the peep hole. It was that sinister looking man from across the landing. She had never liked him much. She never trusted men who wore dark glasses indoors. He was wearing a long black coat, and black trousers. She opened the door a crack, keeping safety latch on.
"What is it?" she asked in a raspy disagreeable voice.
"Good evening Ma'am" He said in a cloyingly oily voice
She could see he was trying to be pleasant.
"Did you , by chance , happen to see a black cat ? The watchman mentioned you had one such cat with you when you returned from your walk".
"May be I did, may be I didn't. What's that cat to you ?"
"It's MY cat Ma’am".
"No it isn't. It's MY cat now. He came to me willingly"
"It's not He. It's a she. Her name is Julie" The thug with dark glasses insisted.
"He -she - what difference does it make? It's MY cat now. You go away or I will call the police."
Radha could see the man backing off a little.
He bent down and started calling out-
" Pssst Pssst Julie Julie !!!! Here -here !" He cooed, his sharp eyes looking around searchingly.
Like a streak of black lightning the cat jumped up and was out through the door.
The thug picked her up triumphantly and said to Radha,
" See ? It is my cat. My Julie! " And turned to go.
Radha was blinded by rage and panic. Suddenly the world turned red. She felt him take away something that was precious from her. It was HER cat. Her companion. They were going to live happily ever. May be it was even Major Sa'ab. What ever it was, this man had no right to take him away.
In a blinding anger she rushed over to the gun cabinet, took the gun. And running back to the door, shot the man in back.
The man turned around with a look of great surprise on his face, started walking towards her. She shot two more bullets through him, and with great satisfaction calmly watched him turn and fall down. Yes. Her Major had taught her well.
The cat jumped from his arms, and came to her.
"Come on Pirate. Come away from that bad man."
Together they went in the house, she locked the door carefully and thought, may be she would give Pirate some whisky, a celebration of sorts.

Vignettes from my teen years.

2006-03-06T19:43:00.000-08:00

I was 16. A few of us were in a movie hall. In the darkness I felt an elbow poking me in my ribs, it belonged to a young guy in the next seat. I pointed out to him that it is bothering me. He apologized and took his arm away. A few minutes later the elbow was back. Once again I objected to it, once again the profuse apologies, this time accompanied by amused chuckles by his friends. I realized I was a source of amusement to these young studs. The next time that all too familiar elbow came to visit me I was ready. I gave it a gentle jab with my safety pin . There was a surprised ‘ouch’ in darkness and I gently told the young guy that I did not like his elbow in my ribs. I was not bothered by himfor rest of the movie show. I have always believed that actions speak louder than the words in such cases. After that day I never left home without a safety pin in my purse. I have had to use it many times.

A crowded bus. I feel hands behind me pushing me and touching me with an unnecessary familiarity. I look back in surprise and anger. I see a most respectable looking 'Uncle' going home from office. He stares back at me with a 'who me' look.

The guy is standing very close. Too close I felt. I put some distance between us. I see another young girl come and stand next to him. He obligingly makes place for her. She doesn’t know Uncle likes young girls. I call and warn her about him. She comes to stand next to me, giving him evil glares. Soon all the women had alerted each other that Uncle was a lech and all stayed away, keeping a safe distance. Men around us pretended not to notice what was going on. That guy got off the bus on the next stop, almost 15 stops before his destination. Speaking out works.

Harassment from men is a daily experience for girls venturing out in the city, for college or work. We are always told vaguely by parents to’Be Careful’. This 'Being careful' has many hidden warnings. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t dress in attractive manner, don’t catch a man's eye, beware of men, don’t laugh, don’t smile, be home before dark, always move in herds, don’t walk down the dark ally, men are bad, you have to stay good, etc etc etc. But staying home is not the answer. Facing that guy down, is the only way to deal with it. I can not say men should mend their ways. There are no prayers written for that miracle and in any atrocity against woman it's the woman who is blamed, advised, or criticized.

I do not like my freedom curbed. If some one bothers me, I speak out. If something hurts me I hit back. A major part of my teen years was spent in designing jewelry with spikes which every girl should be wearing.
And to this day the most satisfying sound from male lips happens to be that ‘Ouch’ in the dark movie hall.

Summer

2006-03-06T06:19:00.000-08:00

Part one.

Summer was unending this year. Temperature kept rising every day. Every day people looked hopefully at the sky, waiting to see a dark patch which promised rain.

But the days remained dazzling bright and evenings poured bright merciless colours all over the earth, yellow, orange and fiery red. Slowly the green turned yellow and then arid ochre and then brown. Wells went dry, and rivers turned into parched sand filled wasteland. Cattle started chewing dry grass and thorny bushes.

'Too much sin... in high places.', the idiot sitting on the temple steps kept muttering to himself. The flower vendor listened intently and nodded wisely. It was believed that God spoke through the simpleton. The flower vendor made a note to himself to discuss this matter with the priest later. This needs looking into. Meanwhile the sun kept pouring flames from the sky, and air was heavy with dry dust.

Ujhaali sat next to her father's dead body. There were no tears left in her eyes. Her mind whirled with questions about her future. Her husband still had not come to fetch her. She had waited long enough for him. She was sure there were things which must have kept him occupied, like looking after his people to whom he was God. To Ujhaali too, he was God. She must go to him.

She laid her father's body neatly in the centre of the hut, gathered her meager belongings and with a burning torch set fire to the hut and stood there watching it burn to cinders. Her entire existence was going up in smoke before her eyes. She had known no life other than the one here in the forest with her father.

Bidding him farewell with ache in her heart, she asked for his forgiveness. She couldn't afford any last rites beyond these. Then with one last look at the burning hut she turned around and walked down the path that would take her towards the city. She would never come this way again.

***

'What is it that you claim? That You are our king's wife?' The minister from the king's council had asked her with an incredulous look on his face. She stood before the council with her head bowed and told them her tale, unperturbed by the disbelief in their eyes. Her simplicity and sincerity touched a few, but they were soon silenced by cynics in the group.

***

A year ago, in a heavy rain storm, a horse had stood outside Ujhaali's hut in the forest. With her father's help she had brought the rider inside. He had remained unconscious. They had made him as warm as they could. But there just hadn't been enough warm or dry clothes for that. As the fire in the corner had died down, Ujhaali's father had said,

" My daughter, only you can keep him warm."

Ujhaali had stared at her father, stunned and not understanding.

"Your young body has the warmth which will help him live through the night."

And closing the door of the hut he went out, leaving her with the unconscious man.

Looking at the sleeping man's face she had wondered, it is so easy? Giving yourself to a man?

With a sigh she went to a small idol in the corner, prayed deeply asking for God's blessings for what she had planned on doing.

Then removing her clothes she had joined the shivering man on the tattered mattress, engulfing him in her young warm embrace, warming and calming his twitching body.

***

"And what happened next morning? The grateful king made you his queen of course." One councilor asked with a slight sneer in his voice.

"I didn't know he was a king. Not then. He was just my husband. I had married him before God. That was the only way to save his life."

Ujhaali tried to explain in some confusion, not being used to city folk's sophisticated speech, while the councilors watched her intently. She doggedly continued with her story .

***

At the break of dawn, the man had opened his eyes. His colour had come back to normal. He still had shivered with cold, but had been clearly out of danger. He had looked around in surprise and seen a simple girl sleeping next to him. Sensing his movement Ujhaali had woken up in confusion and covered herself with her Odhani.

Ujhaali had told him haltingly about the circumstances which had made her take such measures and the man had been filled with gratitude and admiration. Promising her to make her his queen the King had gone away. He will come back later and take her with him, he had said. She must enter the city like a queen. He had gone away, leaving behind memories of one day of bliss. And that had been almost a year ago.

********* Part Two.

The King sat watching the whole proceedings from the inner chamber. He remembered the whole incident and the generosity of the girl. But make her his Queen? He had rejected princesses who were far more beautiful than her. She was just a young uncouth woman who lived in forest. It was not as if he had seduced or raped her. He had been unconscious for God's sake, where as she had known what she was doing. She was clearly out to trap him. His head was throbbing and he was finding it difficult to think straight. He didn't remember summer heat as bad as this.

The prime minister silently entered the inner chamber to ask him what should be done about the young girl.

" Just see that she doesn't create any problems for us." The king said impatiently. Prime Minister hesitated a little, found himself dismissed by at a wave of hand, and silently went out with a bow.

Outside the councilors were still cross- questioning Ujhaali.

"Girl, this clearly is a trick! Do you think it's so easy to trick a man into marrying you? Are you with child ? Who put you up to this ? Tell us."

" And there are no witnesses to this, of course! Your father is dead, that leaves only God! Do you care to call Him to intervene on your behalf ?"

Outside the window, she could see the dazzling glare of Sun which hurt her eyes, blinding her momentarily. She wiped the perspiration from her face and tried to focus her eyes on the old councilor talking to her in earnest. The words fell on her ears like a buzz. It was like a collective sound of the city, rejecting her.

"Go girl. Go away. Our king is kind. He will give you money if you are in need. Do you need a house? We can arrange for one, with a big garden. If you are in trouble, we will help you find the father. But don't slander our good king."

"You are young and not bad looking if I may say so. With money and a house you should not have any trouble getting a husband," One councilor suggested a little cynically.

But Ujhaali was persistent even as she faced the barrage of questions and insulting suggestions.

" Find me a husband ? But I am married, Didn't you understand ? I am married to the king. He is my husband. Let me meet him. Why doesn't he meet me ? He will tell you that I am speaking the truth." She refused to budge and soldiers were reluctant to use force on a girl.

Seeing that she would not move from the palace, the King emerged from the inner chamber and stood looking at her with haughty, remote eyes. He looked so different from the tender man she had met & loved.

"You do not remember me Sire ?" She asked eagerly.

"No,".

"I am Ujhaali... That night.... in the forest..." She faltered when her eyes met the cold glare from the king's eyes. But she resolved to state her case.

"I have never seen you before in my life and if you insist that I am your husband, you are lying."

Finally after half hour's pleading and cajoling, she ran out of all she had to say. The king stood looking at her with impassive face and watchful eyes.

She stood erect before him, looked him straight in the eye, and said,

"Maharaj, I do not want gold or money from you. Reject me if you wish to. I know now that I shouldn't have come to meet you here. But in front of this august audience of respected councilors, do not make me wrong, nor deny your own promises. It will be a grave sin. Let it not be said, the king broke his word to a humble girl. Just say once, you remember me, and you had made me a promise. Say that and I will go away."

The king refused to remember her and continued listening to her without a flicker of emotion on his face. Finally after ordering the guards to show her the door, he retired to the inner chambers.

***

Ujhaali walked the molten streets bare feet. She neither felt the burning earth under her, nor sun pouring fire from above. Her mind was in turmoil. She realized how unequipped she was to cope with the world and people. It all was so different from the forest she had lived in. That had been His promise and as the old man at the court had said- only God was her witness.

With dry unseeing eyes and numb mind she roamed the city. People looked at her with pity and curiosity. The story of the young girl from the forest who claimed to be the king's wife had spread like wild fire. Even in the noon day heat people followed her to see what she would do, but she was blind and deaf in her rage and misery. No one dared to talk to her or stop her. The simpleton followed her everywhere, muttering to himself.

"Sin... grave sin..." People tried to hush him.

She kept walking all day long unaware of everyone and in the evening reached the seashore. For a long time she stood looking at the sun. People thronged on the shore, curious to see what she would do.

All day long King's spies kept bringing him the updates about her activities. He was secretly worried she would take her case to people, and then he would be publicly denounced. Looked like she had no such plans. Spies brought the news, she was now on the sea shore and could be seen her from the terrace of the palace. The king hurried to the terrace. He could see her clearly.

There she stood, unaware of the crowds around her. She stood there like a statuette, gazing intently at the setting sun. At long last, just as the sun was about to set, she turned around, looked directly at the king standing on the terrace. The brilliant rays of setting sun lit her, turning her briefly into an ethereal being, an avenging angel. The merciless hot wind carried her words to the king clearly.

"My husband, remember, we will meet in heaven three days hence."

And turning around she entered the waves. People watched with bated breath, no one even dared to stop her. There was a murmur of sorrow which was quickly hushed. King wanted to order the guards to stop her, but stood paralyzed by the intensity which she exuded. Ujhaali kept walking till people couldn't see her head above the water anymore and the last rays of the setting sun blazed brighter as a pillar of fire rose from the sea. People gasped as they watched the unearthly scene. They waited for some sign of her, but nothing was left behind except an acrid smell of ashes in the air. Men were silent, women started to weep.

"Sin... grave sin..." the simpleton was chanting loudly now. In the hushed silence only his voice was heard.

The king went to his apartments, filled with dread and remorse. He wished he could undo what he had done. He called his ministers to ask for their counsel. None had any advise for him except - wait and watch. After telling him vaguely to be careful, they all went away.

The king tossed on his bed. Longing for the elusive sleep and dreading it at the same time. He kept seeing that the strange fire every time his eyes closed. The heat was making breathing difficult. He went out on terrace, hoping for some respite from heat and stood looking pensively at the sea.

Next day the king sat on the terrace, staring at the sea. Maids were fanning him, offering him glasses of chilled juices, sprinkling rose water on him, but he still burnt with heat. The sky should have been heavy with dark clouds by this time, he thought as he scanned the sky with anxious eyes. Was there any truth in what the idiot had said? That it won't rain because someone in high places had sinned? Had he sinned?

The raj vaidya gave him medicines to bring down the fever, but finally gave up. For two days and two nights the king lay in bed, tormented by rising fever and heat. All over the kingdom people prayed for the king's recovery.

The king kept mumbling Ujhaali's name again and again in delirium. On the third evening, as the sun was setting, the king breathed his last, his eyes fixed on the spot where Ujhaali had vanished.

And during the night the dark clouds gathered in the sky, with clap of thunder and lightening it started raining, filling the wells, streams and river, soaking the barren fields, quenching the thirst of the earth which had waited for a long time.

Thus spake Kala Ghoda

2006-02-03T04:09:00.001-08:00

They are at it again. gathering around me... having some kind of festival. I wonder what it's all about. They keep talking about Kala Ghoda- Black horse. I think it's very rude. I have a name for God's sake. And a good one too, I can't recall it right away....
I remember days when I used to gallop about, make out with ever willing mares and generally having a good horsy kind of life, till they captured me.

There were days of action, a few battles lost, a few battles won...

And then one day they made me stand on this pedestal in the sun and rain with birds shitting on me. Nobody asked my opinion. Nobody ever does anymore. Such indignities for an old warhorse, who was accostumed to having his own stable and meals on time.

If they want festivals, I could tell them about the kind we used to have, with jousts and trots. We would dress in the brightest fabrics lined with golden lace. And we had personal attendants to shine our mounts. Now all I have is a government worker who scrubs my back with a rough, soapy brush once in a while.

I can still put up with all that. It's not so bad you know, looking at the world go it's own way, from this vantage point, untouched by it all. They seem to be having a great time.
I wish they would give me a chance to tell them about my life some day. I will need some prior notice of course...memory not being what it used to be .... But I am sure they will make a thrilling narration.

I generally accept life without any complaints, I just have one question for you all.
Who the heck is that guy sitting on my back ?

The Messenger

2006-01-31T19:59:00.000-08:00

'Gopi! What is that sound? Can you hear a clip clop?"
….just a branch tapping on the window pane I guess…

At eighty even a cold can keep you in bed, but I am not ready to go. Not yet. There is still work to be done. Builders are trying to get their hands on my lands. They will raze down the Haveli and chop down the orchards… I am alone…last of my line….

What am I living for? Wife and sons… gone. How many more deaths do I have to see? What is it that I haven't done yet?

Clip clop, clip clop…..I can hear it…a faint sound in the distance, but very clear…

The legend said, when the master of the house was about to die, he heard a clip clop of a Black horse, the messenger of Death. Have you come for me this time? Not yet….not yet!

“ Gopi wake up ! Call two servants. I need them as witnesses. Give me a paper and pen”

Clip clop,, clip clop….is the sound a little closer?

……All my worldly goods, I bequeath to my servant Mr. Gopichand Parmar and his children. I wish them to carry forward my work and look after the legacy of my ancestors…..

“Sign here please.”

….The sound is very close… outside… under the window…I can feel its echo in my heart …
clip clop ..clip clop….clip clop..

Wait! I am not done yet!

“Ah! Gopi, my never acknowledged son, forgive your weak father, but how could I accept you and your mother as mine? She forgave me. Will you?”

Clip clop …clip clop… clip clop…
Come my friend. I am ready for you now.

Black Merlin

2006-01-30T20:43:00.000-08:00

Faster and faster she and Merlin flew... she could feel the wind in her hair, her body moving in perfect sync with his gallop. This was what she loved most, Merlin and her, riding together, his black body glistening in the sun and dark mane flying like a cloud. Black Merlin, as she called him.

In a bustling house Merlin was the only one who belonged to her, her best friend. She had no other and had needed no other. When she was younger she used to tell every one that he was her brother. Her mother, growing red in face, had tried to hush her.

She was allowed to ride him only in a slow trot and with a servant who kept begging her to slow down. She had taken a bad fall when she was just a baby. The doctor had been worried about her concussion. Speed was not good for her. Keep an eye on her, she is fragile, he had said.

How could she make them understand that Merlin and she were made for galloping across the hills and valleys, unrestrained, free as wind? When she rode him, she became a beautiful princess flying high in the clouds on her magic carpet.

She could feel the dampness on her face. Was it sweat, tears or the dampness of the clouds?

" Meenu !! Where are you Darling? Come inside. It's getting dark",
She could hear the concern in her mother’s voice, and getting off the garden swing, with her feet dragging, went inside.

Just what I always wanted to do.

2006-01-21T09:48:00.000-08:00

" Ma'am, how would you like to win a free gift ?" He asked me in a tone a game show host uses on unsuspecting participants.

I was visiting Shopper's Stop. I had lost my friend at the cosmetic counter somewhere among the young bubbly girls spraying perfume on passers by. I was looking around for her and I became aware of a young man addressing me. One overly cheerful, overly respectful and overly friendly young man was looking at me with a winning smile on his face.

" NO, thanks.” I said curtly.
That man must be earning good bucks to put up with people like me. He continued with an annoying persistence.Finally I relented and said,
'Yes, I would LOVE to win a free gift , what do I have to do ?"
He jubilantly thrust a microphone in my face and said
" Just laugh in the Mic please."
" Excuse me ? " I was taken aback. His smile widened as if he had seen this reaction before.
" Today is The Laughter Day Ma'am! Yes!! That's all you have to do to get a wonderful gift from us. Free. Just laugh in this mic."
I tried to shoo him away. But he persisted persuasively.
" Just once Ma'am. One little laugh."

I stared at the mic as if hypnotized. I remembered my long forgotten wish. I thought it was gone and forgotten, buried in the debris of childhood. Something I always longed to do.

" Just laugh ? " I whispered to the young man timidly.
" Yes ma'am. Just laugh, and this gift will be yours". He waved a silver foiled package.

I took the mic in my hands, held it close to my lips, cleared my throat, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let it RIP !!!!

" Heeee heee heee heee heee Haa Haaa haaa haaaa haaa haaaa !!!
Heeee heee heee heee heee Haa Haaa haaa haaaa haaa haaaa !!!"

The demonic cackle of my evil laughter reverberated on all five floors of Shoppers Stop through the PA system and the entire shop stopped shopping. People rushed to see who it was, the bubbly girls froze in terror and my poor unsuspecting young man was looking at me with wide eyed horror.

And with my angel smile back on my face I walked out with my free gift.

Meeting with my Angel.

2006-01-05T19:39:00.000-08:00

He walked away from me, jumped off the boulders with an agility of a mountain goat, looked back to wave at me, turned the corner and vanished.
I had realized by this time that in these mountains anything was possible. Maybe it's the air, makes everyone a little light headed, a little other worldly.

Let me begin at the beginning, as all good stories should. Like, how come I was sitting on a mountain alone, looking at the valley below me and wondering if it was real.
I had come to Kullu valley as part of a trek group. For past week I had been sleeping in damp tents, walking up to twenty kilometers per day and eating food that didn't agree with me.
Just before we reached Malana I had suffered a nasty fall which made it impossible to continue forcing me to leave the group. The relief on the Leader's face hurt a little. No, it had hurt a LOT. Not one person had spared a thought on how I was planning to walk those seventeen kilometres with a busted knee, so keen they were on getting on with their trek. They just advised me to walk through Malana village to the hilltop and to reach Malana Dam in the valley which I will see from the hill top. I will find the cab from there to the base camp.
I had nodded faking confidence.
"When the going gets tough, tough get going" I reminded myself of that cliche as I heaved my pack on my shoulders.
3 kilometres through a very hostile Malana village and I was on top of the hill. On one side I could see our camp. On the other side, in a valley much deeper, Malana river glistened like a silver ribbon. My eyes followed the river till far away on horizon I could see the Dam. I took a deep breath. So, thats where I have to go. Okay. Lets just take it one step at a time, shall we?
I kept clambering down the path. Who ever called it a path had a weird sense of humour. It was just a rocky trail almost vertically down from the top to the base of mountain. No doubt created by goats and goat herds. And now a girl from Mumbai was trying to attempt it.

After a descent of an hour I decided to take a break.The sun warmed rock felt good againt my back. I closed my eyes and felt an unfamilier sensation. The Total silence. Only mountains have a silence such as this. And then slowly I became aware of other sounds, the lub-a-dub of my heart, faint rush of blood in my veins, the sounds felt unnaturally loud. I took several deep breaths and for the first time since last few days, felt completely at peace. Pain in my knee, pain in my heart, a sense of betrayal that had haunted me, all was forgotton as I sat there soaking the sun. I even closed my eyes for a few minutes for a catnap. When again was I going to get a chance to sit alone on a mountain this way ?

Suddenly a shadow fell across me. A young man was standing on the rock just above me. To say that this was a most unexpected meeting would be an understatement. After an open mouthed stare at each other I was the first one to speak.
"Hello! Where did you come from? Are you with a trekking group?" I had noticed his trekkie boots, jacket and a light backpack.
He had a slight frown on his face.
" I work up there. Who are you with?" He replied looking past me, his eyes searching for others. I was a little surprised to find such a good english in these mountains. Just my city girl snobbish attitude I guess.
" I got hurt during my trek, so I am going back to base". I explained
He looked worried. "Are you alone? It's very far to Jhari. Almost fourteen - fifteen kilometres".
" Oh I will be OK "
" You can walk with me if you wish. I am going to Jhari too."
" Thank you, " I said, a little relieved,"But if you are on a schedule I might slow you down. I walk slow."
" I am sorry, but I have to catch the five o clock bus from Buntar" He looked distressed, undecided.
I said with an inward sigh,
" Please carry on. Or you will miss that bus. I will be fine. Really", I even smiled, trying to look unconcered and cool.
He nodded and left me. I felt even lonelier than before. People seem to be leaving me rather easily today. May be there really was nothing to worry about. But I had enjoyed that brief encounter. Now fifteen kilometers stretched long before me.

I looked at the dam on the horizon and picked up my backpack once again, strapped it on carefully and started.
I walked on. Around the bend, I found him, waiting for me. I hid the surge of joy and relief I felt and said "Oh ! what happened to you ?"
He looked at me and said in very measured tones,
" I don't think you should be walking alone in these mountains". He waited for my protests, but I offered none. I was busy beaming at him.
" But won't you miss your bus?"I felt I ought to offer a tiny protest.
" It's ok. I will give you company till the river. After that the path is comparatively easy."

We started walking down in silence, clambering down the rocks and boulders. He offered to carry my pack, which I refused. he offered his hand as a support a few times, which I scoffed it with a curt "I can manage, Thank you!" He stopped offering any help and walked on in silence. I was like a wounded animal I guess. I needed to be tough.

Soon we started talking. He wanted to know where I had come from, why, where will I go from here, and where from the base camp. He listened to my breezy, casual replies with growing concern. He listened to me with a slight frown of concentration, looking puzzled and asked next question, as if the replies really mattered to him.
Finally he asked in great amazement and slight exasperation,
"Isn't there anyone in the whole world who is worried about you?", I assuered him that I come from a large and doting family, but he didn't look very convinced.

His voice was very soft, just above a whisper, I had to strain to hear his replies. I found getting him to talk about himself raher difficult. The conversation was a little stilted, not keeping to a pattern or flow. He talked like a person not used to social interaction. He loved reading and confessed to owning hundreds of books.
By now bond had been developed between us and I had started accepted his tentative offers to help me over boulders and under the fallen trees gratefully.
He was a teacher in the school up there. He also told me in same breath he had 200 sheep which seemed to be a thing of some consequence. A real sheep farmer! This was getting interesting!
"Why aren't you with the sheep then?" I asked.
"My mother had decided her sons won't run after the sheep. She made us study and go to college." His mother seemed like a remarkable woman.
"So why not go to Delhi after graduation? Why not Simla, Chandigadh, Manali? There are schools there. Why Malana? It must be a difficult life."
He made me stand facing the valley, spread my hands, and inhale deeply. As I exhaled, he asked me, "Is air in Delhi as pure as this one?" I had no reply for that.

We continued our descent. Conversation flowed with the ease of old friendship now.We even bickered abount silly things, like old friends do. I felt a rare kinship with him. It felt natural to be walking this way on a lonely, rocky tarrain, help1ng each other. We could be the only people on the entire planet. Even our silences were comforting. Do soulmates exist? What is the definition?

He walked a little ahead of me, turned around to look at me and said a little apologatically,
" Just follow the river and in a few hours you will reach the dam." I realized with a shock that the time has come for him to go!! We had climbed down the entire five kilometers of mountain.
"Wait !" I said urgently, "I don't even know your name. Here, keep my card, call me some times, do you ever come to Bombay? Please do. What's your name ?" I was babbling, afraid he will run away without giving me a chance to thank him.

He was reading my card and name with intrest and said softly " I don't know "
" You don't know ? You don't know what ? when you are coming to Bombay or your name ?" I joked.
" I don't know who I am", he softly added.
"what do you mean " I repeated stupidly "You don't know your name? "
"No. I still have to find out" He said a little stubbornly. " when I do, I will tell you".
I was having none of it. I dropped my backpack, ran to block his path and demanded to know his name.
" Everyone has a name. What's yours? "
He must have realized that I was not going to let him go till he gives the information I was seeking.
" People call me Naresh P. But I am still trying to find out who I am".
What was good enough for people was good enough for me. I had to let him proceed,
I stood aside to let him pass, we shook hands. I wanted to hug him, but didn't know how to. I felt very fragile and circumstances demanded that I be strong once again.

He walked away from me,jumped off the boulders , turned the corner and vanished.
I watched him go away, and bending down to pick up my backpack got ready to trek those unending kilometers once again, this time alone. Only 9 more KMs to go, I told myself as I stepped on those rocks to follow the path I had seen him take.

I turned around the bend as I had seen him do few minutes ago. The river bank was streched in a long curve before me. I could see the winding path till perhaps half a kilometer. But he was nowhere to be seen. Can he walk all this distance in such short a time? Or may be he had vanished? Or may be he just didn't exist?
Adjusting the pack, I started walking the uneven rivar path towards Jhari.

It was the night before Christmas

2005-12-18T10:41:00.000-08:00

The Elf sat in the van, wrapping presents briskly. There were many more to go, she had just begun in fact. The radio was playing carols in a low volume. She dared not raise it . It would have woken up the children. She hummed along with the radio. Carols always made her feel warm inside.
The Children had hung up their stockings by the fire place. Put cookies in a plate for reindeers and glass of milk for Santa. The elder one made sure no one lit the fire that day as it would have scorched Santa's red pants as he came down the chimney.

As soon as the children were done waiting for Santa, and were put in their beds, her job had begun. She rushed through each present, wrapping it with her usual efficiency.

Muttering to herself- hmmmm....the older one had been a good boy I guess...Nice raquet'. She was about to put a bow on the first present, and stopped. Should she ? may be she shouldn't. It might reveal her identity to people. She was an elf, who lived on earth as 'Aunt' to two adorable boys.

No one knew her secret, but during the month of Christmas she had extra chores to perform. Being Santa’s helper demanded high level of commitment and skill. It also took all her time. Baking cookies, nurturing and decorating their live Christmas tree 'Nigel' which lived in the back yard thru the year, and was brought in for the twelve days of Christmas. She had to make sure the decorations were done just right. Last year Nigel had complained about the weight of the ornaments. It had made him shed his needles. He had felt quite bald after New Year. And it had taken him a whole year to grow it all back. It won’t happen this year, she had promised him. This year it would be popcorn strings.

She was still contemplating the bow. A red bow on green package will look marvelous. Very festive. But last year The Little ones had exclaimed - "Hey!! Santa has tied the bows just like Aunty does." Trust them to notice that. The boys were growing up so fast, she thought sadly.
Bows will have to go. She picked up the next present.

This job was just a part time one. Just during her winter vacation. But she enjoyed it hugely. Christmas was more than presents you know. It was about being together as a family, loving and giving, trying to knit a crooked scarf for brother, watching children in the school pageant dressed as shepherds or angels, taking their pictures and later trying to figure out which of these 25 dots on stage were our little ones. It made all that slogging worth it.

She wrapped up last of the presents, tidied up the van. Then tip toeing around in a half lit house put the presents under the tree, filled the stockings with smaller packages and candy, ate the cookies from reindeer's plate, drank from Santa's glass of milk, put the milky glass and plate with cookie crumbs back near the fire place where the children will be checking up next morning.

The lights on the tree cast a mellow glow in the family room. She inhaled deeply the fresh scent of pine The decorations glistened. The star on the top shone like a promise. The base of the tree was full of gaily wrapped presents, just the way it ought to be. It was going to be yet another great Christmas.

With a heart full of love and a stomach full of cookies she went to bed, grateful to Santa for giving her a chance to be his helper. After all, that’s what being an aunt is all about- isn’t it ?

"What ever happened to Boris?"

2005-11-24T00:25:00.000-08:00

( This is a trinket from my Keepsake Box. )

"‘Have you heard from Boris?" I asked my big bro, trying to sound casual, knowing full well what the answer was going to be.
"Nope. Somewhere in the South America, last time anyone heard from him, which was four years ago".
My brother didn't seem too disturbed about it.
" I asked his brother once, but he doesn’t seem to know".
Now I was visibly agitated. "How can his brother not know where he is?" For me, who was virtually my big brother's shadow, and a constant companion, such a lack of family feeling was beyond comprehension.
"Oh, they are not very close, Boris and his brothers. And now they are scattered all over the globe. So meeting once every five years for a family Christmas is quite normal." Said Bro.
I stopped probing. Didn't want Big Brother to be suspicious, or worse still, amused.

I met Boris when I was fourteen. Big Bro was in IIT and would bring home friends every vacation. I was the envy of all the girls in the neighborhood. It was considered cool to have a big bro, and to have a big bro who would bring home his friends was supposed to be answer to every girl's prayers. Except mine.
To me, these young studs were nothing more than a nuisance.
They meant, noise, countless cups of coffee, and curbs on my freedom as mom needed help looking after these 'growing boys' who seem to be forever hungry. They hogged the bathroom, my mom's dressing table, the whole house and when not hogging any of these things, they just hogged. And it was I who had to make coffee, tea, sandwiches, and iron clothes, run their errands, post their letters, and be the general dog’s body around the house for one month of vacation.
I didn’t think it was cool at all. I wished these guys wouldn't descend on us like a swarm of locust. I saw no charms in their awkward leggy pimply persona. But other girls still envied me.

And one day I met Boris.
I was home alone. Bro had to go out, he left strict instructions about some one coming over. I was supposed to be nice and make tea, and ask him to wait till bro returned.
The door bell rang. I donned my habitual scowl, reserved especially for bro's friends, and opened the door. He stood out side. I scowled a bit more and said more fiercely than necessary-' He is not at home, any message? ".
He smiled. Shook his head. And said-"Just tell him, Boris had called."
At the sight of his cheerful face, my scowl deepened.
He suddenly lifted my hand with great flourish and kissed it. I stood there, stupefied and stared at him. I was sure my mouth had fallen open. He smiled and winked and was off. I called after him-" you can wait if you like...." But Boris had left.

I couldn’t wait for my bro to come home that day . I jumped on him with the big news. ‘Boris had called'.
He didn't seem much impressed or interested. "hmmmm...did anyone call?'
" Boris had come over. Was he the one you were waiting for? The one you asked me to make tea for? “In my anxiety to know more I was babbling. Bro didn’t seem to notice.

That whole summer was spent waiting for Boris. I joined the chatter of guy talk in hopes of finding out more. And I did. Boris was a friend of Bro. Twenty one, and IIT student. He had dropped out to join merchant navy. Now he was roaming the world. That day he had come to take his leave.

Every word I heard added to the Legend of Boris. His aura became brighter day by day. For me who had grown under pressure to excel academically, quitting IIT and joining navy seemed like the ultimate rebellion. Boris and his cheeky charm became the stuff fairy tales were made of. All heroes looked like Boris after that day, medium height, crew cut hair, blunt nose, eyes that crinkled and devil's own grin. I couldn't decide whether he had dimples or not. Some said that he had settled in Italy, some said he was in Spain. But always in some exotic country.
I was surrounded by guys, summer after summer and it took one Boris to transform from me a gauche teenager into a woman. I even took my first manicure. A girl should have pretty hands. One never knows.

Boris didn't appear that summer nor any other summer after that. That was the first and last time I saw him.
Even then, when ever bro and I get together and the queries begin about where about of our friends,
I involuntarily ask- "What ever happened to Boris?"

Vande Mataram

2005-08-15T10:55:00.001-07:00

August 15th seems different this year. Something is missing. I had purchased my mandatory flags yesterday. No paper flags in market, all plastic. Shiny, bright, and indestructible. I wondered if they were made out of the required 50 micron recyclable plastic. The snotty nosed urchin pushing it in my hands couldn’t tell me the price. In fact, he looked barely old enough to walk –forget about talking. I looked around for his older sibling, a street savvy youngster with a gleam in his eyes. He recognized a sucker. Instead of handing back the change for my ten bucks he handed me five flags. His cheeky grin disarmed me completely.

So today I have five flags fluttering in my balcony. In my white kurta – chudidaar, draped with saffron and green dupatta, which I wear only twice every year, I felt ready to greet the day. My bro remarked rather unkindly that they should forget the flag and hang ME instead.

I sipped coffee, still trying to figure out what is missing. Then it suddenly occurred to me. There was no blaring sound of patriotic songs in the air. The basti near our house took it upon themselves to keep every one’s spirits high. Usually I cursed them. Today I missed the cacophony of sounds.

Our maid arrived. I demanded to know why there were no songs, no festivities ? She told me that the person who used to play them had lost his cassette player in rain floods. It brought me back to earth. No wonder Aug 15 is different this year.
May be I am different too. More grown up, dragged into maturity, kicking and screaming, unlike that urchin who is selling flags at the age of three, who takes responsibility for granted.

I switched on the TV and watched the glass encased Prime minister for a while. Then I stepped out of the house, feeling a little lost. The slight drizzle had made the streets wet. There was a soggy flag hanging on the flagpole in the square near my house.

A group of children in school uniforms stopped me. As they surrounded me, I wondered if I knew them as looked for a familiar face. One of them pinned a flag on my dress and they all wished me Happy Independence Day in a loud and cheerful chorus. Their faces shiny, happy and bubbling with youthful energy. I felt my spirits lifting as I returned their greetings.
Nothing had changed. The spirit of the Independence Day was still alive

The Day Bombay went under water

2005-08-04T00:26:00.000-07:00

The Terrible Tearful Tuesday

(Written Jointly with Hemant Suthar)

The Deluge

It was Tuesday morning. Of all the days on our calendar we had to pick THIS one to go shopping. JL was visiting Bombay from NY and had to visit new malls in the Mills. My heart was NOT in it. I kept thinking of rains and the possible inconveniences it can cause.

As we stepped out of the shop, we started having a feel for what was in store for us. The cab had a tough time getting out of the waterlogged compound. It got stalled on Parel Bridge and the cells were not working. I suddenly managed to get Hemant on cell, and barked out - "Get ready we gotta leave asap! The city is flooded."

Back in the office, all sane ones were gone. Insane ones like us were still there arguing "So what if the trains have stopped - But we have the car." We all have this weird notion that if we have a car, we will somehow manage it never realizing that there will be no road for that car to travel on.

We set out - the four of us. The road looked ok. No water so far. May be a little under Parel bridge, we said indulgently. ("My Honda can take a little water!" Hemant said fondly. He also calls his car 'Black magic Woman'!) We all sat with our noses glued to the window.

Fifteen feet down the road- water. And water. and then more water. Hemant accepted the gravity of the situation, "Just keep looking at the tires of small cars. If a Zen can go thru, we can too."

Soon it was clear to us that Zen was NOT going to make it thru this and neither was our Honda. That was the time I suddenly felt water in my shoes. We all kept quiet about it, hoping it will go away if we just pretended it's not there. Feeling the water climb up a half inch at a time was a nerve raking experience.

We concentrated on the disaster outside and felt a bit better about being inside. Water level was alarmingly high and rising higher. Children going home from school, old women negotiating the traffic, people every where, young men ready to help push a stalled car.

Even in this chaos there were few couples completely oblivious to their surrounding and enjoying a cozy walk huddled together in an umbrella.

I suddenly felt something icy cold creeping under my butt and the realization dawned!! Gits, JL and I looked at each other in wide eyed amazement. Now it was difficult to ignore the water anymore. JL decided it was time for action and started to bail out the water with an empty water bottle she found in the car. She urged us to do the same. Gits joined the action. I reminded them of the laws of physics and warned no amount of bailing was going to help. I am a great believer of conservation of energy, especially my own. I have noticed that in times of crisis, Action, how ever futile, gives us a feeling of being in control of the situation. JL and Gits feverishly poured the water out - till one man testily requested them not to add more water outside, as there was enough already.

Totally we had traveled about a hundred yards. Hemant decided to abandon the cherished car under the Parel bridge. We all felt that sooner we are done wading in the water the better and it was getting dark. We had been battling the elements for 2 hours already. When we stepped out in the water, it was almost waist high. Slowly we started walking back. It is difficult to describe this journey. We crossed roads, vehicles, people, side walks, holding on to each other, hoping with each step we
don't step in a man hole. A few time something long slithered and coiled around my ankles. Soon we were in knee high water and could walk without holding hands.

Rain was still coming down in buckets. Hemant remembered the camera in my bag. I agreed to click photos only if some one held the umbrella over my head. I refused to let the camera get wet. So there I was, standing in the middle of the road, in knee deep water, with an umbrella over my head- clicking away merrily, No wonder most of them thought I was the Press. There were requests to shoot their photos too, and people stopped and posed happily.

We walked down some more, boys in ragged clothes had formed a circle around an open manhole invisible under water and were warning pedestrians away from it. This is the Bombay I know and love.

Gits spotted a Bombay Dying showroom and decided we need towels. She and Hemant marched in while JL and I stood outside in the water and rain. 10 mins, 15 mins, 20 mins- they were still at it. JL asked loudly – what's the matter ? if they refuse to sell towels just drip all over their shop.' Hemant came out to inform us that Gits was looking for the right shade. The right shade to what I never quite found out. But in that surrealistic moment even this explanation made sense. We reached Hemant's office which we had left 3 hours ago. There was shelter for us, warm food, steaming coffee, telephones that worked, internet connection, clean toilets, even automatic hand driers which that evening dried much more than hands. It was Heaven.

Our stay there till next day and our return back to civilization - that's another story.

Critique Please !

2005-07-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

I am learning that praise stagnates. I would rather have a harsh criticism than a friendly pat on the head. Recently I received a blistering critique for one of my poems from a person whose opinion I value tremendously. Others defended me, praised my work, refuted his charges. His charge was that with first half the poem raised expectations, which I had failed to fulfill in second half. A serious charge indeed. Friends advised me to ignore him, the poem was good, as a poet it was my right to stick to my words.

I re read the poem, understood exactly what he meant, re wrote the second part- which totally improved the poem. It added a closure that the poem badly needed. When I mailed the revised poem to him, he loved the new version but what he admired even more was my ability and willingness to self critique.

When we write it shouldn’t be for a pat on the back, or even instant adulation. We must learn to assess our work dispassionately, comparing it only with the best. If I want to write Humour Let it be compared only with the best humour literature has to offer. My Dad has that attitude. Anytime I make him read my words, his cryptic comment always is- "I have read better".
At first I was hurt by it. I told him "Dad, it’s by ME ! I wrote it" demanding that pat.
He just said – "So ?"

Mediocrity in any form should feel like DEATH to a creative mind.
I realized that to gain my Dad's appreciation I better be in the same league as Mr. Twain or Leacock. A tall order? Of course, but how else will I improve?

My Keepsake Box

2005-07-21T23:22:00.000-07:00

My friend's elderly aunt had, what she called, a Keepsake Box filled with vague, unrelated things. Only she knew the significance of things treasured in there. When questioned about any pieces in it , she used to gently take that thing out of my hands, put it tenderly back in the box and give a mysterious smile.’ Just something a friend gave me”she would murmur. We all thought her a bit crazy but I was in love with that box. It stored such exquisite junk . I still remember the faint smell of old 'Attar' which wafted out every time she opened it.

I have seen a lot of ‘Keepsake Boxes ‘since then, filled with of truly fascinating and weird stuff.

Old letters, notebooks of poems, diaries, photographs yellowed with age, dried roses, handkerchiefs, are easy enough. But I really get curious about a bit of pencil, a button, a bit of ribbon (wrapped around a present I suppose), a sea shell, shiny wrappers of chocolates, only ONE earring, truly useless stuff- precious only for the memories attached to them. But the owners of these treasures can spend Hours going through the box and reliving each moment.

I find it difficult to relate with this passion to relive your past through keepsakes. I am a person who merrily throws away old letters, presents, greeting cards, travel mementos to the acute dismay of my more sentimental friends. As soon as the moment is gone, keepsakes become junk. I am generally known to have the sentimentality of a block of granite. In fact, friends have even stopped giving me any presents, even on my birthday.

Of late I have discovered words. I am still very new to this game. What fascinates me is the stories that are inside my head. Now that I have the eyes to see thing, like the boy in the movie Sixth Sense- ‘I can See Stories’!!! People, situations, events which I have witnessed long ago, people whom I have met and forgotten completely have started emerging through these stories. Whenever I write, I like to figure out WHO the person is. Then a shadowy face or a name comes out from my memory.

Recently I wrote about a Character called Tito. Every one liked that story and wanted to know who Tito was. I didn’t know where he had come from. But soon realized that Tito was a cousin, who was something of a Don Quixote with me playing his willing / unwilling sidekick. Then there was Suman, and Father Lobo and Boris.

It’s almost like sitting with my keep sake box. Names, faces, event, incidents, I am learning to mix and match them and create a character. The stories about neighbors, friends, stories I heard from my grandparents, suddenly I realized that I have been surrounded by story tellers all my life.

In the twilight hours with grand mother, pressing and massaging her tired feet and listening to her stories was a daily ritual. I can still hear her soft whispy voice telling me story after story. The family lore was passed on to me this way. Some day I would love to write about the time when dacoits attacked my great grandfather’s haveli, and how he saved the day thru sheer ingenuity.

Or the time when, to teach my gold crazy great grandma a lesson he had a large stone covered in gold and hung on a sturdy chain, and called it Bombay style necklace. She wore the heavy stone around her neck uncomplainingly till her chest started aching. My great grandpa was one smart man with a wicked sense of humour.

And the old parsee man we met on the way to Bordi who gave us a slice of bread each, because it was good to feed dumb animals. An old man with a twinkle in his eyes, he was exquisite. I will always remember him.

…..So many people, so many faces, waiting to have their stories told. I never feel alone with them around.

Now, time and again, I sit with MY keepsake box, remembering, smiling that mysterious smile, or at times feeling a lump in my throat and eyes going misty. Not all stories can be written down.

Tito and the Call girls.

2005-07-09T11:45:00.000-07:00

"See, one more girl has gone in" Tito whispered to me urgently. I tried to take a look over my shoulder, but couldn’t. As the nature hadn't designed my neck to turn in 180 degrees, I had to depend entirely on the faint reflections in the glass door opposite me and Tito’s dramatic narration.

We were sitting in a fancy downtown restaurant. as we were meeting after a long time there was a lot of catching up to do. Right in the middle of ‘what happened to ...’ Tito broke off to exclaim in a shocked tone .."I say- these girls look like hook- I mean... call girls. Is this THAT kind of a joint?"

I was a little surprised to find this puritanical streak in Tito. I wasn't sure if I entirely approved.
In this metro city of ours I have stopped worrying about who does what for a living. From Barrister to Bar girl, each has to battle on the same turf every single day.

"Hmmmm ….May be they are" I mumbled into my wine. Having wine for lunch made me feel deliciously decadent. The heavenly aroma of the Balinese Pasta was causing a tingle in my nose. I was finding out that unusual though the combination might sound- Thai food and Merlot was a match made in heaven.

Tito was still focused on the call girls.
"Are they bothering you or something Tito ? Maybe we should talk to the management." I said.

"No-no-no … they are not bothering me. But just look at them! Such gaudy, skimpy, sequined clothes at this time of the day!" The girls had apparently violated not just his moral but also his sartorial conventions.

"It could be a private party you know- girls like to dress up." I tried to reason.

"Party? with Just girls? I don't see any guys! Why would they dress up if no guys?"-Tito's irrefutable reasoning.
So One dresses up only for male approval. Hmmmm. The day was turning out to be quite interesting. Tito was revealing a chauvinistic side which I had not noticed till now.

I swallowed the suggestion that they could be lesbians and uttered a thoughtful ‘Aaaah‘ with a wise nod.

"There is something awfully fishy going on in this place. They keep going in through THAT Door and come out after some time."

I could see that Tito was working up a fine steam. He always did fancy himself a Super Hero on a mission.
"May be some kind of an audition for a show". I felt compelled to offer some explanation.
"Ever heard of the casting couch? It could be THAT racket!" Tito said darkly. "A young girl could be in dire trouble even as we speak. I think I even heard a few shrieks."

I took a good look at the bevy of bubbly girls flitting around like butterflies, each one of them shrieking merrily.
"Naaah, no casting couch happening here, NOT with so many of them around."

I saw a girl disappear through that mysterious door. Now even I had started paying attention. Things were really looking interesting. As Tito had described,they were vanishing and reappearing like magician's assistants. I looked closely at them. None looked like they needed Tito to protect them. I told him to chill and enjoy our lunch in peace.

Suddenly there was a loud cheer of ‘Happy Birthday’ With all girls clapping and waiters striking up the music, it Was a birthday party after all. An All girl party ! I envied those girls. I was tempted to dump Tito and join THEM. The only reason I didn’t was because I wasn’t wearing a glittery-skimpy sequined dress.

We finished lunch, the bill was paid. Tito was now in a generous mood.

"Lets go and wish the B’day girl" He said magnanimously, his good cheer completely restored.

The B’Day girl was busy dancing with the cake platter on her head, so we decided not to bother her. We waved to the group as we left the restaurant.

And that mysterious Door? That turned out to be the Loo.

A New pair Of Glasses

2005-07-02T20:24:00.000-07:00

I went to purchase a new pair of glasses. Alone.
Normally having friends along for selection of frame is a given. My friends-superior beings with creative temperament- have very exact and rather fixed ideas about what my face should look like. Don’t blame them really- after all, They are the ones who have to do the ‘looking’ where as I am safely Behind it- looking Out-so to speak.

The moment some one screams - Go get a hair cut, you are looking pathetic- I head out to the stylist,of THEIR choice of course.

So I went to purchase a new pair of glasses. Alone-as it was a working day.
I felt abandoned.
I entered the fancy showroom where I had been ‘Requested' to go.
I cleared my throat and mumbled-‘ I want new glasses’.

A guy- terribly smart in a jazzy pair of glasses- looking suave like the heroes of bygone era smiled kindly at me and reached for the glasses perched on my nose. I couldn’t have been more shocked or surprised if he had reached for the top buttons of my shirt.

I backed off – ‘Hey !’ and glared at him through my glasses.
‘Sorry Ma’am. Just wanted to look at the power.’
‘No need- My doctors prescription is here-‘ I waved it at him.
‘Just show me some good frames- and make the glasses.’
He again made passes at me. He needed the size this time.
I relented.

I stood blinking at a blurry world like a surprised owl.
People with 20-20 vision will never understand how a myopic feels without his glasses.
World gets blurry, you feel that every one is looking at you. Somehow you start talking a little louder as if you are hard of hearing. In an attempt to look 'Normal' your eyes either widen or squint.
You feel helpless like a baby.
The man left with my glasses leaving me alone in the dense fog.
I looked at the street scene. Something bright yellow went slowly past the shop window, could be yellow car, or a fat woman in yellow saree. Even the sales guy had started looking vaguely like young Cary Grant.

The man came back. He had several very trendy looking frames which he kept pushing on my nose, and showing me the mirror.
Now –if I could see myself in the mirror- why the Hell would I be in that shop buying glasses ? I selected a few by size and fit. I soooo missed my friends  And here I was faced by a smug sales person beaming at me ! Of course he was smug. HIS WORLD WAS IN FOCUS!
I tried one frame after the other with a growing feeling of helplessness.
I finally asked him ‘which one should I choose ? ‘
He was clearly taken aback, I don’t think any one ever asked him what he thought.
All he had to do was put frames before people and stand there looking like a moronic Cary Grant.
But he understood my dilemma and got in the act.
He put frame after frame on my nose, looking thoughtful, scurrying off to find a few more frames.
I was fast losing my confidence in him. I looked around. There were a few more guys standing around and watching us with what I thought 'pitying looks'. I invited Them to join us. Now there were 3 people helping me choose. I appealed to the girl at cash counter for a woman’s perspective. She strolled over to the counter and picked a few more, looked at my face , announced in a bored tone that they were all ok and left.
Bitch with an Attitude !!!

Just then one sales guy stepped forward. Why hadn’t he joined the action earlier I couldn’t guess. May be he was waiting to be needed, like now. He took a look at all the frames scattered on the counter and started rejecting them one by one. I could hear him give directions to the other guys. ‘Get that brown one… No not the square one… A one slightly curved…. Too large.. Get smaller frames…She has a small face…’.

I relaxed. I was in safe hands. The other guys started zipping out wonderful frames from the collection which they had kept hidden all this while. He kept pushing then on my nose one after the other. I liked the masterful way he handled my glasses- put them gently yet firmly on my nose, looked keenly and say softly‘ ok lets try this one now.’

I felt like a lamb who had found her master !
Finally we settled for one pair, I looked at Him for approval and got it. I looked around and saw beaming faces of other sales people- who were clearly relieved to have me finish my business.

I put my old glasses back on and the world was back in focus.
I was all business now, as if to make up for my earlier stupidities .
I briskly opened my wallet, zipped out my impressive credit card, handed it to my benefactor, guide and guardian angel and asked ‘When do I come for them?’

‘Oh ! I don’t work here. Just waiting for them to deliver My glasses.’

A Battle Won

2005-07-02T20:06:00.000-07:00

My friend’s mom was diagnosed positive for the cancer of breast.I could relate with the trauma the woman must have gone through.The dreaded ‘C’ word-Countless stories about the dread of chemotherapy. Loss of hair, more than that, the loss of a breast .

My friend, a male, was confiding in me about his mother’s condition. Both he & his father were distraught at the thought of the operation, & the subsequent loss of a woman’s prized part of anatomy- her sign of ‘womanliness’- The Breast ‘!!! He wanted to know about the operation- how much damage will it do to her breast, will they carve carefully & remove only the malignant cells or cut it off completely?
Do they have to ??? Isn’t there some way The Breast can be saved?
To me, this was a prime indicator of universal male attachment & preoccupation with The Breast.

I answered patiently, as well as I could. It seemed to me that the fear was more within these two males in the family, the lady was fairly composed. I told him that with the fear of cancer recurring & spreading in future, it’s better to remove the breast completely. According to me, at 60 the woman had outlived the need to have a functional ( ?? ) breast. Her baby was now in mid thirties.

We had gone through a similar scenario in my house just a couple of years earlier. My mom had to go under the knife for the same reason but it was my Dad who told the doctors to remove the breast & further spread of cancer completely. A woman needs such an support from her man .

I felt my friend & his father shouldn’t have agonized over the loss. That must have made her feel even more incomplete and damaged.

Fables & Myths talk about Amazons, the race of warrior women who chose to remove a breast for easier & accurate archery. These one breasted women were a force to reckon with through out the world. I see a newly emerging race of urban Amazons around me, Women who have fought & won Their battles with cancer. Victors -each one of them.
It’s high time men too learnt to salute their courage.

The Tao of Windows.

2005-07-02T05:31:00.000-07:00

( This is an entry from my old Blog. It is carried over in this one because my hopeless Inaptitude about all things windows still remains unshaken. )

Creating this blog was not an easy task. You may not believe me- but after creation this blog was lost....twice……Geeta will vouch for that.

Let me get one thing off my chest, I am just not a computer savvy person.
I went to the shop to buy a book to learn how to work with the windows. There were big – colorful books , Some were illustrated with pretty cartoons & what not. I admired the pictures, liked the glossy pages of the books – even managed Not to flinch when I read some of the prices …… but the problem came when I had to choose between ‘Windows for Idiots’ & ‘Windows for Dummies’.
I thought for a long time .. but couldn’t make up my mind where I fit in- Idiots or dummies. I even thought about taking a poll with my friends on this matter – but the names THEY usually call me by– nobody has written any books about Them yet !!!! At least, not pretty glossy ones with pictures.

Over the years I had learnt to live with computers, from an uneasy truce our relationship has progressed to actual affection & tolerance. But that doesn’t mean I understand my buddy. The words –‘ fatal error’ used to make me want to rush to call for an ambulance – we are all conditioned to fear some words- fatal is one of them. The only time I like that word is when people describe my charms as ‘fatal’ ;)
Then there is HTML & there is ‘Flash ‘. There was a time when ‘Flash’ had a different meaning. My way of spring cleaning is deleting every crucial file on my hard disk :P I am the sort of person who deletes the original program because there already exists a short cut on the desk top :P

Till this day I am unlearnt in the ways of the windows. The best use for them I think is for jumping out …………