Majestic Spook-sion

Majestic Mansion it seems. "BIG SHIT" as Sruti puts it.

Scratch all those paeans I sang about my first house in Hyderabad. Yes it was lovely, yes the balcony was romantic, yes the rooms were big and I had it all to myself, but it’s amazing how tiny a trigger it takes to destroy that feeling of comfort and security in a quiet house by night.

So… how tiny was the trigger?

The size of a palm.

Only two nights after I wrote about my one-woman house party, I heard noises: first in the balcony, and then scurrying in the kitchen. I was petrified, but got up to check. As I approached the bedroom door, I heard distinct scuttle near my bin – not ten steps away. I screamed. I knew I was gonna be dead. I screamed and screamed. It was amazing that for the time of night, the noises were steady enough to wake me from deep slumber, allow me to get out of bed, walk to the living room door, open the latches and unlock the grille.

I screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed my guts out. Called for help. I thought someone had entered the house. How, though still a mystery, was not even my concern. That someone could, was bad enough. And after all those horror stories that mom and Dida had ranted about how people’s homes were broken into, and when nothing was found, the occupants injured or killed, scared me to almost fainting.

When I think of the night, it injects indomitable fear inside of me. I’ve been a rather fearless soul most of my life. The past few years especially have been a relay of one gutsy decision after another. Stepping into that crazy ass place called Bombay and then chucking a perfectly secure committed relationship ka bubble, sacking my boss a year later, taking a four-month break, taking off again to come farther away after almost being determined to stay closer to home… leaving baby and the comforts of home.

But all those steps were taken not out of fear, but a sense of self preservation. This time, I’m fucking spooked. A month before I moved to Hyderabad, Anuj asked me if I was afraid of ghosts. Who’s seen one, was my reply! But voices can send chills of various kinds. One is the fear of losing one’s sanity, the other of losing life.

In the past two years, I’ve never felt the need to exist for a reason – not for others, least of all, myself. Have you ever thought that your being madly cheerful could teach a child to smile? Or that a ringing smile over the phone could comfort your parents a few hundred miles away that you’re happy and healthy and healing? Or even be so super kicked as to club each night for three weeks straight with someone going through a divorce?

But that night brought with it a fear. Of being lost to all these wonderful people. I’m not implying that these people can’t live without me – not for a moment – but they’ve made me realise what I can give them. And I want to give more, not succumb to some desperate petty thief’s frustration at being so penniless.

Coming back to the question – what was the trigger? Well, a tiny ass rat. A rat, yes. Ha ha. Laugh, why don’t you?

It drove me insane – the noise, even from outside in the distance, echoing around the empty hall. I cried and cried and begged friends to let me stay with them till I found another place. I even reconciled to it, thinking it will go away – the fear, the insanity.

I moved into Malaysian Township three days ago. It’s crazy commuting distance everyday, but it’s nice. The drive isn’t junkyard traffic. And the township itself is self-contained. And guess what? It has a pool! A POOL! But most of all, I have friends there. The warmth of having people around to smile or have a cuppa chai or out hangout late talking about crappy Bollywood movies beats all comforts. And this whole proximity to the workplace is a sham.

I used to wonder forever in Bombay why and how people could travel two hours each day to and from work – in the train or bus or even hailing a taxi or worse still, drive! But it’s ok. It’s an urban reality. So the work place is far far away from home. That’s good no? The boss can’t call you in the middle of the night of a super brilliant weekend. And in my case, the commute is also a good drive!

So all those who would laugh at my shift cuz of a tiny rodent, it is NOT FUNNY. And I’m sure you’ll all mock-sympathise and say “ya ya, we understand and fear is completely natural,” but even coKo admitted, “I dunno how you survived even those two months at the Bs’.”

Not a soul around and a House Party

Nights can get rather dull or depressing when you're alone at home and there's no real adventure nor expected guest list each night of the week. The quiet, the lack of company, oh merely the absence of noise can get to you. But yesterday was different.
Abhi n coKo picked me up from work for the 7:30 show. Like forever, the movie was uneventful and the intermission seemed like the best part of the film. लेकिन यह movie review तोह है नहीं! So coming back to the point. Promptly dropped at my doorstep at 10:00, this दुखियारी was left to fend for herself :(

Jesus knew what a task cooking and before that having to clean utensils and afterwards cleaning more utensils seemed. As if that was not bad enough the utility water का time was up, so there was no other choice but to wash them out in the balcony. And to top it all it was COLD!!!!!! After the first round, I gave up.

Having changed into my comfy ol' pyjamas, I finally decided to embark upon the daunting task of cooking. There were no groceries to really write home about. Then I opened my fridge (read: Pandora's डब्बा). EUREKA!!!!!! Boiled-to-el-dente pasta made an appearance. Butter, maida and milk danced in front of my eyes. The morning's leftover mushroom masala jumped out next. And then... and then... muhuhahahahahahahahahaha!!!! The wine bottle apparated into my memory. And with it, the brilliant inspiration to make pasta Indian Style.

अरे no no! The wine didn't go into the pasta. As the white sauce thickened through its ten minutes of flame, I sipped a large goblet of wine with loud, very loud dance music on my iPod. And of course I danced to it all as the several elements of the pasta slowly made their way into the big bad steel bowl.

By the time I was ready to eat, I was adequately drunk. After somehow managing to spoon some morsels of the treat into the right place and not my nose or gouging out my eyes and doing an adequately clean job of dunking the sauce pan and my plate into the kitchen sink, there went tipsy me back into bed. Lights off, music tuned to soft ghazals by Mehdi Hassan, Hariharan and Bhupinder; my madness wasn't over yet. I texted out crazy messages to (so far as I remember) three - no - five friends. Two were girls also. One was at Little Italy. [ok PU you're not drunk anymore so stop ranting]

It's amazing how naked you can be around yourself. The lingerie doesn't have to be sexy or new, the night clothes are warm, the wine glass can lie on the balcony parapet, the tree sways silently, and the music - always your favourite - always end up in a Gita Dutt tadbeer se bigdi hui takdeer bana le. And the songs are suddenly in your own voice. You always have an audience. You become your own entertainer.

And the only message I still have from last night is Kshitij's - "wow and wow. both for the solitude. I envy you"

PU Guide

When i first did the quintessential Bombay walk, Abhishek showed me how. He did not bother selecting or giving me a choice. The itinerary was in his mind. He knew exactly where to stop, where to stroll, where to take it brisk, what to point out and what to gloss over. He knew me and he knew where I'd feel most "at home". Little did he know though, that four years down from the four days he'd known me, this would indeed end up being मेरा इलाका. South Bombay had never captivated me so much as that late [in terms of time as well as date] November evening, considering मासा would often drive us down to Central or Worli seaface or even Marine Drive. Sure, he had shown us everywhere that the crowds flocked, but not where one found peace. Not where even amidst the mob, one could enjoy the scent of the charmer that is Bombay.

Four years down, the walk [almost] replicated itself with [almost] Abhishek. Precious seemed to have been instructed, yet there was an element of new. In that, I was shown the wooden staircase that made you feel 40 years older and truly regal. The film turned out to be shitty. They couldn't have helped it. The crowd, all there only for the experience, and the boy and I - we should've sat away at the parapet across the Taj instead of scurrying back for the film.

But there was more to see. The first time I met NiNa, I also saw a part of very-much-Bombay that occupied the darkest rumours in my head thus far. Some of them were so false I checked with NiNa twice if we really were in a koliwada. Not only because there were no kolis but also because there was an overflowing number of scorching-sizzling-wow Punjabis and Sikhs in the area. It was beauty crisis plunging deep into the negative. When a few Sundays later he suggested we breakfast at Madras Cafe, I couldn't believe my luck! There was a list of things that one must have stricken off before leaving the metropolitan, and NiNa was instrumental in knocking off a lot of them [though the list remains quite unfulfilled yet]. He showed me the wonders of Bandra - Bandstand, Carter Road, Pali Naka, Hill Road, Perry Road, the junction of Shopper's Stop where he n I had that yummy dinner at Sheesha... I figured it was time to pay back.

What began as just an idle wandering across Chowpatty - dinner at Crystal, गोला at the beach, a further drive down to the Point and hanging legs off the broad parapet over the brakers - became an obsession. It was a ritual we followed on crappy days - Mondays usually, or long days. Days when I hated my boss or he hated work or both [and sometimes neither]. We may still not have the perfect Queen's Necklace snap, but we ended up taking many silhouettes and even more lit NCPA buildings. The pendant was at least our's to begin with.

Arunav's trip gave me a chance to explore bit of my now informedness. I knew where to ask for Shack - right outside Jai Hind. And who - Anand Tiwari - a lesser known actor though a strong stage personality, who'd just stepped out'a an auto, still paying, and scratching his head at my question, in a khadi kurta pyjama. I don't think I'll ever reember the roads in Bandra. Whether it was while in an auto with Arunav, traipsing with Priyanka or biking to St. Andrew's with NiNa. Or even heading towards Madhavan uncle's house on Perry Road.

Sajani is a creature meant for South Bombay. Or perhaps its intricately fabricated grilles and meandering streets were created to satisfy her curiosity. To fill her camera with images of the Great Western Building or the traffic lights at Opera House and Mint Road behind Kala Ghoda, or the lovely blue synagogue or for that matter, all the sights that the 122 route could present to her unending quest for streetside sepia.

But it was that little talk on parenting with Subir at Samovar, and then another talk about everything with Fir and then yet another solo to honour the memory of Abhi T - sitting under the poster of Neruda with lines from his poems inscribed underneath. Always chai, always samosa, always always. There is no way one can by pass the art gallery on the right at the Jehangir Art Gallery. But in order to satisfy the hunger of the tummy, the aesthetic hunger must be satisfied first. Or perhaps it is the appetizer to the main course.

And then Anuj happened. Anuj? Arre Anuj! First he mentioned, then I was lugged, then he dragged and finally I tagged along. Our drive from Bombay Central station to Vashi was a long journey through nostalgia. That thing I detest most. A cigarette accompanied us both. He was sleepy, my eyes moist. "It's time you made new memories." Truly, the bike trip back was a memory alright!