Cheap at Half Price

My own version of the Jeffery Archer title.

Bombay freaks me out!!!

I recently committed the crime of being clad in a green kurti and jeans with purple hair clips.  When it was brough to my attention, I casually dismissed it, "Do you actually expect me to care?" The response was both, overwhelmingly daunting as well as ridiculous. "Why the calssy pair of jeans then?"

The word "classy" echoed in my ears like those Ekta Kapoor dialogues - Mai tumhaare bachche ki maa banne waali hoon... maa! maa! maa!

I almost smirked, is this what you call classy?!! Thought it to be pretty tacky.  At some point I'd almost vowed never to put it on again.  No, it has no embellishments or noticeable flaws, except that I thought it was a tad too tight n low at the waist.  Of course, one doesn't mind a 400/- buck spending being stashed away in the dark recesses of my ever undone closet.

Classy.

That word still rings in my head like the last swear word a loved one used for me.

I have religiously worn the pair at least three times a week since then. To office.  In a city I find every next guy in the local train ticket line at the Bandra station to be a glitteratti aspirant, I've been accepted at too low a price.

Not complaining.  Next purchase in clothing: more sasta slim fit black/ gray jeans.

Precious

Bombay's pulled all stops for me, it seems. After seven months of being in this "natural port city", I come across Precious. He is the Quintessential Face of the City. The face that shines in the street light, the feet that hate walking and yet walk a mile a day, the hair-do that conforms to corporate norms of the business district, the thin lips that twitch when they mention the name of an ex yet never fail to mention it every time...

He looks with piercing eyes. As if accusing you of amusing him. He says things the way you'd say it to your English professor: like you don't like yourself much, yet sustain for that is your duty in this world of mindless existence. He argues with his mother, yet wouldn't leave her. He's never asked a girl out, yet the confidence of living in Bombay reeks from every pore in his anatomy. He doesn't care for art, yet knows the art district in Bombay like the back of his palm.

He has, what photographers call, an "interesting" face. The ability to look into space, without gaping at anything in particular, not looking like a doper. The cleft on the chin, the eyes, the jaw, the shoulders (yes, yes, Precious, "Shoulders baby, Shoulders!") all invite you to a glimpse into his genealogy.

After successfully securing all the support systems in the strange place to keep the tear bottle in check, I'm ready - ready to laugh and smile again, unconditionally. And Precious is my partner in that crime called madness. Not the kind that leads you to asylum confinement, the kind that sets you free. Free from fears, free from hurdles, free from yourself. You know how in a partnership, there's often two kinds of investors? The kind who put in the tangible resources and the other who channels the non-tangible energies? We're that kind'a team.

I like teams. There's logic to it. Like marriage, or siblings, or best friends, or a visualiser-writer pair. Precious and I are the he-makes-me-laugh-I-make-him-laugh kind'a team.  And teams of two always rock. Two people are in constant touch not because there's just need, but a sense of harmony engulfs them.  A sort of energy and renewed vigour that then extends up to everything and with everyone they touch.

So why is Precious "Precious" and not just good old Anmol, Maulik or some such what's-in-a-name? Because he's intimidating, do you mind?!?!? He's not one to smile because these are the things that I choose to write about him on Bombay Chuddies, which, about... six (at least?) people read in all. Because there's bound to be more than a name and a face. This is one of those people who've plopped into my world. Like all the people I’m so obsessed about in life.

There are no questions on how long it will last, or will he be bothered. It is like jaywalking. Being a couple of shed feathers that matter not to the bird - the rest of the world. I hope you enjoy this jaywalking trip, my precious.

Sutta by the Sea

I hung back at the bus stop.
No reason.
The rain - no - only a drizzle
Changed it for me.
A chill swooshed in
Mist diffused across my path
And every time it breezed
It diffused some more.

My steps slowed
The angst subsided
Like a puddle dousing a match.
The eyes began to look tonight
At colour like colour was never before.
My feet felt winged
A floating plane ashore
Like the sea itself
Asking for more.

Where's the Devil in Evelyn... Where's the Blood in Bloody Mary?

Bombay hasn't met Bloody Mary. Yes, the famed entity that's supposed to spice up your meals, however plain. Here in Bombay, people make their BMs plain as routine. It lacks the spice. The Tabasco seems amiss. The BM is truly characterless here. It has no body. No zing. No kick. It does not make you wanna finish it n then want some more. It makes you wonder, for a city that rapes and kills its women so keenly, so skillfully, they do a bloody bad job of the ooze. Of what's bound to splatter. Of what separates one's own from others, of what is thicker than water, of why step ones are always loathed.

Food, it seems, is only second to leave its imprint on a city's visitors. In a metropolis as frequented as Bombay, it extends to its drink. Still, in the quest for the perfect Mary. Like a whore, like a lover, like a thief, like some fever, like dope mid-week, like a prisoner with cheek, like dreams gone awry, like a muffled scream.

That'll be my Bloody Mary.

At a Meeting with Boss, Superboss, Parag 'n his Boss

Shit. I've been noticing blackheads and white heads. On the faces of men. I thought I was idle-obsessing over Neenu - jobless as both of us were and distracting as his daane are. Either it is a genuine new 'interest', or my attention span is weaning. Writing poems during meetings, doodling, interspersing long monologues from the three grey-heads with doubts or silly, childish questions... Yawning.

Staring at people's shoes. Shoes, just shoes. Period. And hair. Jairam's is quintessential Mallu curls. Sajeev has happy, wavy "set" hair. Imagine it slightly longer. Almost hippie-like. Mr. Morada's... is crinkly. It's crinkly, thin, long on top and neatly trimmed at the back.

And where Satish's is the neatest, most appropriate, most suitable for his age-position-personality-style, one must see Parag to believe how untidy-yet-cute a guy can look. I have a feeling he puts gel in his hair to make it look that messy. Then there's Vijaya and Yogita who have pan-Mumbai hair-dos. Neat, functional, nothing fancy.

Sanchita's is a standard new-in-Bombay-cut: well conditioned and taken-care-of, but can turn pretty bad given a chance. Oh, and she wears the cheap Nariman Point- inner road- wayside shop-sandals. Thick sole, inadequate heels, all puffy and dusty and plastic. The straps, tacky; broad; out-dated.

Heels. I'm obsessed with those as well these days. Height is highly (pun! pun! pun!) underrated.

Written during a meeting at the Bakhtawar Office

My boss's boss is really just a child. He goes up to others for approval. Professionally or personally. Whether it is a business decision, a doubt in sentence construction, a proposal he must make to the Chairman, a new white shirt he may have recently bought and worn to office, or even a tacky navy blue tie with tiny L&T logos splattered all over, like mud stains on a 3rd standard football player's white sports t-shirt (God knows why schools have white uniforms for PT classes).

He could be easily perceived as young-at-heart, passionate, dedicated, et el. Alas, his height gives away his insecurities, his diffidence behind the heavy facade of aggression and understanding - of knowledge as a weapon of mass control.