Finding acco in Bombay

Day1. Ew. Thru broker. Totally trying to shove his dick up my arse. Turned me off instantly. The place itself was like the owners thought it was their last resort. 1bhk. The bedroom had just enough space for the cot, closet n table n chair. The living room was sparse. Obviously the mother and daughter need the money. The daughter works for the hilton at nariman point. They're muslims. If the house were larger I woudn't have minded it. It was constricted though. We'd have kept bumping into each other all awake hours.

Day2. Masi has been trying to 'help' all morning. I'm feeling PMSy. I need to sleep. I need home. I want daddy.
Going to see a house in a while at lokhandwala market. It's a shared 2bhk. There's another girl staying there.
Not bad. Airy, bright, small rooms but spacious. I dunno why the lady's being so dildaar though. She paid a lakh for deposit and expects me to shell out only 25k. Also she negotiated rent. Very fishy. Whatever. I'll give her a call tomorrow after I see Karan's place. That should gimme some clue. It all seems darn bleak right now.
And masa said again this morning, that I could stay here so as long as I liked. Do they not talk? Masa n Masi? One keeps trying to kick me out n the other keeps saying soothing welcomes. There's no consistency, I say.
Today's a hot day. Significantly so. I'd like nothing better than to change into my salwar kameez and sleep. Lunch can go for a hike.
I also considered the hostel as an option, but it's too far n I'll  never end up with dinner. Also an hour's commuting to n fro each, everyday sounds killing. Not my cuppa tea. Tomorrow I go look at a flat that a guy wants to share and one other that an old lady would like company. I'm hoping that'll be different.

Day3. Acco found. Well, escape found. And an ideal one at that. Something ferpect to show the masi and mother and the world at large. Lahar Joshi was wrong. It didn't take me months. Or may be I am lucky enough. Yes, the company of the old lady turns out to be my fate for now, and I'm not complaining. There was warmth. There were smiles. And a lot was left to the winds. So there.

My 'struggle' for a place to crash has not been stretched beyond imagination. I will survive out here after all. Hurdle number 2 also overcome after Hurdle 1 (living in masi's territory). Hurdle 3 - changing numbers now.

Next due: a book on Hyderabadi autos

Why are the auto guys in the city so goddamn dim? The kind'a stupid questions they are capable of asking, makes me believe they'll be the first ones to ask if it's raining when it does, and if the earth's falling apart if that was the case. It seems awful bright that they can even get by with the new charges charts, considering the kind'a damage math can do and looking up can wreak. In fact, sometimes I think the meters read the exact fare for as long as they could sustain them, just so passengers would be spared the fury of having to deal with a total nincompoop first thing each morning or while turning back from a back breakingly monotonous day at work.

Passive anger

Of course everything changed. What took 10 years now took two, so what the fuck was I thinking? This is not the shade under a banyan tree, darling, it's the glare of the igneous. No one can stand it. Everyone's keen to demolish the boulders. To make space for shelter. It's probably the only way there'll be a home for the people as well as creatures in the city.

Until the last day of my MA, I'd never known what KPHB stood for. Today will be my last day here, in its heart. Does it even have one? Heart? I'm sad that I'm leaving Hyderabad, but not because I fell in love with it, but because I had a fallout. All the things I loved about it stopped to exist. The easily approachable locals, the by-meter autos, the efficient public transport, the wide 'n smooth roads, the class, the intellect... Not once did I manage a nocturnal trip to Charminar for that memorable cup of Irani chai, though Geetha's place was a regular feature for so long thanks to coKo.

The one time that biryani happened at Paradise, it was so terrible I wanted to run home. It didn't even remind me of Veeresh or the spin he gave me along hi-tech city and Durgam Cheruvu. When I saw Tumhari Amrita, it had none of the student charm of watching Aapki Sonia at Shilpakala Vedika. There was no one to delight. There was no one to shock.

And the pace! God, many times slower. Painful even. The attitude, conceited, convoluted. The men here have no balls. And while plenty of those will muster up some two ounce of fury to proclaim that it's ''not true'', please keep it for your three-minute ejaculation. Hmph.

I had once been told, ''that was British style Bombay, enjoy hospitality in Hyderabad Nizami style.'' No thank you. Quite apparently the Nizam had no sense of punctuality, priority nor heart. I'm disenchanted with Hyderabad, and I shall make no bones about it. I also know that I'll probably boast how broad were the roads or how authentically Tam the food and ambience at Minerva or even how well maintained and accessible the amenities in my township.

I found a big fat rat scurrying out of the dustbin downstairs. I wonder what Priyanca has to say to that!

And while I'm all upset and giving an old acquaintance a second shot, neither of us are doing each other a favour. None of the parties will pay more than her share this time. They will all be exact transactions. However cut and dried. Better anaesthetised than numb, no?

I hope the cheque deposited smoothly, Mr. New.

Power-food

Aditya Roy Kapoor says food makes him feel sexy. Except the fact that I knew I was adding another mm, on both sides, to my now-showing love handles, I know what he means.

The friend I met last evening went on and on about how hot some girl or the other was, yesterday. Then it happened. I caught hold of the long-handled spoon on the side of my frappe and dipped into the mound of cream. The steel emerged with a nicely peaked curiosity. His eyes followed the brevity of my fingers' grip, from the tall glass to the tip of my lips. I couldn't help but chuckle inside, how not only his nasal yakkety yakk ceased, but even his eyes fell silent.

And it was only after the cream melted in my mouth, that conversation resumed.

Not for long, of course. I like the power that food has over people. Whipped cream. Melted chocolate. Cookie crumbs. :D

Shantamma

Think of waitlisted admissions and small numbers in classes with alternative teaching methods and you’d think the principal of thie school has to have a waiting lounge, an ante room and must make you wait at least the Hyderabadi 15 minutes before inviting you into her chamber.

Snap out of it. You’re meeting Vidyaranya’s founding Principal, Mrs. Shanta Rameshwar Rao. The Fabindia-clad frail frame is home to one of the most determined educationists of Hyderabad. After my preliminary apologies of turning up late and being told (I still don’t know if it was sarcastic), “Pretty women are allowed to be late,” I was asked to be the silent spectator to a conversation between a volunteer parent, who conducts assembly for Classes 5 and 6, and Shantamma.

Without any pretensions of minding the flash of my camera or that an outsider was privy to a conversation about the school’s goings-on, Mrs. Rao displayed her many moods – amusement, concern, intent listening and approvals.

As we launch into the interview, one of the first things that comes to fore is Mrs. Rao’s devotion to education. That her ideas have arisen from the ideologies of Maria Montessori, MK Gandhi and J Krishnamurti is anybody’s guess, but to start one’s own school, is quite another ballgame. And a much bigger deal it must have been 50 years ago.

Vidyaranya is not the success story of one woman, but the will of one, definitely. What’s more, Shantamma is selfless about it. An atheist, the veteran educationist speaks plainly whenever confronted with ‘what after you?’ “It seems everyone wants me to die or is waiting for the eventuality! What after me? The school’s plumbing is managed by the plumbers and the teachers are doing their jobs. I think the school will go on even without me.”

“Even if it doesn’t work, what of it? At most they will turn it into a hospital – a children’s hospital, or even a hotel! We think too much about the future. We lose sight of the present.”

Shantamma is quick to dismiss the suggestion that her school is a women’s initiative. “It is just a co-incidence that most teachers are women – predominantly the mothers of students. But we are being supported more and more by male parents as well.”

Mrs. Rao comes across as a firm believer of gender equality. When quizzed about how she encourages the girl students at Vidyaranya High School for Boys and Girls, she allows one of her colleagues to respond. To them, having to especially encourage them would, in itself, be the first step towards proving them inferior. “Boys damage property sometimes,” she remarks, “There are just one or two in each class that cause a chain reaction. Girls are usually cooperative – we probably scold them for being talkative, but they’re never destructive,” says Shantamma.

"I trust you to return this book," (she's lent me a copy of 50 Years of Vidyaranya to look up basic factoids) she finishes, "I will sue you for 700 rupees."