Pondy Hopping II

I discovered an aspect of Pondy I've so far studiously avoided. And a big part of the motivation was the aspect itself - the people! It is only when you stay there long enough that you realise that the people in Pondicherry have an approach to life that is, most importantly about equality and equanimity. Here are some that surfaced in my six days of wantering there on foot, on bicycle, at restaurants and road side coffee shops, boutiques and beaches.



Limited work hours

Something that a close friend who works there once said rang jarringly this time - it's perfect - you work hard all through the week, because there are no distractions. Over the weekend, you are free to laze, or get out of town to escape to the bustle of the as-urban-as-it-gets Chennai/ Bangalore. However, if you're not a corporate bug in Pondy (far more likely unless you're employed with one of the two or three national or international organizations that bear roots there), it is possible to live the old world or even European life in Pondicherry with absolute ease. Business doesn't start before 10 or 11 o'clock in the morning. Everyone shuts for lunch & siesta, and then it's time to shut shop by 5 o'clock. If you're in the restaurant business, last orders must be wrapped up by 11:00 pm. Even in the 5 stars. That brings me to the next point.

Recreation

Pondicherry might seem dry and sleepy to those visiting, but one look at the notices and flyers at the several watering holes and cafes in the French town and Auroville will tell you that's hardly the case. Yoga, dance, theatre, music concerts, it's all there. The town's people have many a ways to keep themselves entertained and in high spirits.

I can't imagine any other town's municipality blocking their most scenic route for a couple of hours in the morning and some more in the evening for its people to stroll and enjoy the sea's roar and breeze. Oh yes, the people treat their daily jaunt like religion in Pondicherry!

Self sufficiency

Watching women on auto-geared two-wheelers is a common site anywhere in India. On a motorbike too, one might spot quite a few of them across most towns in India. With kids, the week's grocery shopping and a work bag - now that was new. Even if this last peculiarity was only a common siting in Auroville, I'd say the foreigners set a blaring example in Pondy and for the rest of us to rely on our strength ability to multitask.

On a less obvious aspect too, people in Pondy seem to be able to do what they like more easily than the rest of us. There seems to be the exposure to do what they want - I haven;t met so many enterprising people in one town - whether it is starting a little curio corner, a restaurant, a toy shop, a bookstore or a bamboo products boutique (that includes possibly the softest fabric I have ever touched!).

Unbiased by gender

My favourite haunt in Pondicherry still remains the coconut vendor opposite the General Post Office and the Governor's Bungalow. That woman exudes not only confidence, but almost terror in many an outsiders' eyes. For me, she has been the ultimate epitome of strength and ferocity - contained in a cheery smile and flowers that match her saree.

I've seen burly women managing cash counters of cycle repair shops, and dainty ones serving three tables at a time in their own cafes. None looking life threatening, all cheery and ready for the world. There is truly nothing a man can do that a woman can't, it seems in Pondy.

The distinction remains

Pondicherry is a paradox. The French town has none or few living there now - the buildings are mostly government property or ancient bungalows owned by Tamilian locals who choose to live in smaller houses for convenience of maintenance and awaiting a mad occupant to revive it while also paying for the rent. Foreigners in general are mostly a feature of Auroville, where Indians are a minority (48% of the members) even if a marginal one.

And yet, the whites vs browns distinction is clear. For even the foreigners who have spent ages here, or born here (second generation and therefore, I'm guessing eligible citizens) either do not choose to serve in government positions or aren't entitled to (not sure which). They stick to their private jobs or occupations or professions while the Indians go about their business in the allies and marketplaces and offices.

Ironically, when just a couple of weeks ago we were hosting a Frenchman here in Pune - my first encounter with the nationality at such close quarters - I realise there is a striking similarity in the obstinate pride of intellect and opinion between the Tams and the French!

Dignity to profession

A quality that makes even the most menial work force in Pondicherry take pride in what they do, is the dignity of labour. Whether it is masons at a construction site, stewards at a restaurant, vendors at the Grand Bazaar's Goubert Market or elsewhere, people truly serve with a smile.

Love for liberty

I've yet to come across more entrepreneurial individuals in another small town as in Pondy. Everyone seems to be an independent professional - either they own a coffee shop (sprouting at the rate of a dime a dozen!) or are designers, architects, consultants, something this or the other. They seem to need little to start and much less to sustain themselves.

Colourful

Clothes and walls seem to be quenchers of Pondicherry's thirst for colour. And it is everywhere. Whether you are eating out or shopping or at work - it seems to almost personify the town. Bright ochre, parrot green, vermilion, lotus pink, cobalt blue, royal purple... You can't miss colour if you're in Pondicherry! And you have little choise but to immerse yourself in it or it would be hard to believe you were ever even there...

Pondy Hopping I

This time the Pondicherry trip series will have loads of meat in a day 1 to 5 form. I'd written a series of mails to 5 of my favourite people - to have them live a bit of the fun we were having. Here's day one, from the time we were on our way...

So we just got done with our first midway stop to Pondicherry from Chennai. The first thing to hit me, was neither the dark nor the deserted highway cafeteria itself. The strong cool humid breeze is what freshened me up instantly. Add to that the sweet filter kaapi.

Uff...

Some old Tamil music plays on the radio, lovely Carnatic lull to it, the ghatam and mridangam adding the finishing touches to the first experience of the East Coast Road - one of India's most premium connecting routes.

Needless to say, I've been adequately roused from my sleepy hangover of the train journey. The highway is well fitted with direction reflectors, milestone signs, freshly painted road markers and dividers. Lined with foliage, punctuated by palm trees, about 20 minutes into this second lap, we witness daybreak - almost an ominous
welcome for us into the sojourn, as if telling us to sit back and take in the magic that is Pondicherry...

Oh! We just crossed Pearl Beach! And now the cab races right beside the sea - barely a couple of metres from the road is the coast running parallel - we're hoping to see the sun rise on our way...

Later that night...

The view from Seaside

Pondicherry is like a place of pilgrimage. It calls out to you... And then nothing can stop you from walking the path. But until then, it's an elusive idea. I lie on my bed at Seaside Guest House, tired from the evening jaunt, listening to the sea. The waters are choppy tonight. No, choppy isn't the word, aggressive, in rage, at war almost. Yes, the ocean sounds as if a battle ground. It collides against the land, pushing, hauling its sword, shouting in true warrior fashion to instill fear in its sworn enemy so half the battle's won.

I began my day with a visit to the Eglise de Notre Dame de la Conception Immaculee Church or the Church of the Capuchins here on Rue Dumas. We rented out bicycles and loitered around town afterwards. for 75/- bucks a day, the mostly circles and random lefts and rights seemed something of one's childhood's happy return. Add to that, the beauty of a well planned town - you'll never hit a dead end, though I reckon if you're drunk you'll definitely get dunked in the drain!

We intend to exchange our cycles for motorized 2 wheelers tomorrow so we can go visit Paradise Beach and Auroville, both about 6-8 km from the guest house. Rao says Paradise Beach truly personifies the name.
Looking forward.

I think we shall also end up doing the jetty the day after or on Thursday. The availability of so much time and so much to do is such a rare occurrence...

Date a guy who reads

So I realised where the men were given directions to date a woman who's literate, you know, read 'n write 'n god alone knows what else, the women are still rather stupid about it - they are making the same illiterate mistakes! PU comes to the rescue with a broad guide of why the reading man will never make you wanna bang your head on the closest wall!

So it is possible to complain against a guy who reads. He will be the talker on the date so he can never complain that you talk too much. When you thank him for the most trivial things, he will come up with a 'for you, a million times over', from Kite Runner. He will never hurry things up. If anything, a book may become his excuse for lingering longer at your place when you really don't want him to go. It may not even be your book.

He will make the coffee you prepare for him sound like some childlike delight from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He will ask you to tell him a story some night, and disbelieve you. And when you show him the book that the story belonged to, he will read it cover to cover all over again. Whether to verify the contents or to just experience the magic all over again, you will never know.

Date a guy who reads because only a true reader will force a book down your throat and demand it back when you're done, in some way, to let you a bit into a part of his essence. Even if it is sci fi and even if you've never bothered with the genre before, nor will ever again. He will be in full awareness of this fact and yet...

A man who reads will always have a bookshelf in his living room. However rudimentary or unembellished. It may probably be his first piece of furniture. Often, the only one in his house - for a very long time. He may use residual space in it to store knick knacks, but when it begins to constrain, the tidbits go out. May be on another rack or just on the floor, he doesn't care so long as his books are well preserved.

Like you, he will love the smell of yellowed parchment. And your need to sit on the floor, even of a crowded bookstore on a sale day because sometimes book sections do that to you. You may not end up buying any of them and yet he will never hurry you out. He may perhaps state the prelude disclaimer that he shall take longer, but that's what sets the bar for you.

He will also understand your need to buy books especially from the second hand stall or raddiwala beside the veggie market because he knows treasure is not found in obvious places. He will perhaps encourage or at least give you the space to browse through many Dr Seusses for your niece or nephew, either for he knows they should start young, or perhaps because he didn't.

A man with books behind him will chuckle at your most nuances jokes - whether comparing someone to a Wodehousean character or just something from a Scottish folklore. The only curvy women he shall openly lust at for hours will be from his graphic novels or comics. For that matter, the only things he shall explicitly admire will be books. Especially a bargain or an unexpected find. And take it from me, it will make you grin ear to ear.

Most of all though, the image of a man sitting in the morning sun rays beside the window, on a couch, in his night clothes, with a book in his hands makes for not only the most impressive, but the most endearing figure.

It's a small world

The world is shrinking. We all know about the six degrees of separation between us all, but the number of times this coincidence has occurred to me is phenomenal - almost a matter of legend, as if.

When it was Pallaviben's friend in Bombay at Smokin Lee's, I did not pay heed. When it was meeting Rao, I thought we were meant to be. However, today I met a complete stranger - this lady at the Way Down South cash till, whose son I had happened to meet two Decembers ago in Pondicherry.

Only one thread runs through all of these incidents: my innate fidgeting to make contact; talk, converse, know a person on a one-on-one basis, smile and touch a heart.

Very possibly, unlike perhaps the rest of the world, I share just two or three degrees of separation between myself and anyone at all in the world!

Punju Pals

I'm going to come straight to the point, just as a friend recently advised. I've been noticing a lot of Punju or Punjabi presence in my circles lately. And there is a pattern that has emerged: they are all darn warm people and would do anything it takes to help me professionally.

I first met Deepak in Bombay through a friend, at a casual dinner. He was perhaps the only guy on the table who chose to make more than token small talk. A year later, we reconnected and this time, a bond was forged. However, I'm guessing that the fondness had nothing to do with my innate charm (or the complete absence thereof). I had to leave Bombay soon after, but the friendship deepened with Deepak sending work my way. Back then, I cribbed about there being no money in it, but today I'm thanking him for the invaluable experience he gave me in writing corporate film scripts!

My stay in Pune too, has been marked by the presence of some excellent members from the community - both, at work as well as outside. First, Sanjam and later Manish. The first from Pathankot and the latter quite a dapper Delhi boy. Not only have both constantly been around when I needed advice on personal fronts, but when it came time to help, man they were after my life with a whip!

This so called pattern assumed concrete form, though, with Jagpreet Singh Vij, or Bobby, as everyone is expected to call him. [I have yet to understand the Punju fascination for these pseudo nick names - Bobby, Robbie, Bubbly among others - but they somehow seem to personify them with a rather spontaneous ease.]

I had just been given a new script writing assignment (the prior experience for which I am in gratitude to Deepak for). Having received little or no help from my Copy Head or others who had worked on the film, I was pretty much at bay.

That's when Bobby made his grand entry. A few tips here and a little hand-holding there, and I was good to go! Not only did I manage to come up with two original concepts, I was also ready with a rough draft of one script by 2.30 last night.

Sanjam's briefings for every piece of creative copy she extracted out of me were always accurate, concise and simple, without being lucid. Manish's aggressive efforts to find me good openings in Pune were beyond comprehension for me - he hadn't even seen my work!

It wasn't inspiration, it wasn't even spoon-feeding, but all of these people seem to know how to part with just the right amount of wisdom, faith and support to carry one through. And I may not owe my existence to them, but my self-esteem does swell a little when their words and actions convey a high sense of worth they attach to me.

Thanking them on a blog sounds pompous. Then again, it's the least I can do. The overwhelming sense of gratefulness makes me want to promise them a loyalty so blind, they'll probably slap me out of that too!

Yes, that's precisely what I probably adore about them, Without running themselves or others down, Punjus seem to possess this general talent for garnering joint force to produce a certain level of quality. Is it a communal quality of insight or simply my own luck to have bumped into these gems who judge accurately, I do not know, but they seem to have this aura that speaks volumes about their self-confidence, awareness and exposure to the world around. Frankly, I feel rather juvenile in their midst, often.

P.S.: That advice in the first line of this post too came from one of these fab Punjus ;)

Vishrambaug Wada

Where maintenance is forever at Vishram
Laxmi Road, Budhwaar Peth, Pune
Entry: Rs 3 (and a pound of heart burn)
[Built 1803-09; 10 years before the British conquered Pune]

Pune. A history of roughly 400 years. A culture that has absorbed from the fading Mughals, been in loyal servitude of the Maratha rulers, and weathered the peak of British imperialism… but I’m only précising a Wiki page and parroting accounts penned by historians. Stepping on to the other side of the threshold of Vishrambaug Wada, and looking up at the sky from the atrium threatens to erase much of all that background knowledge in an instant. My partner and I try to imprint a preliminary sketch of the sight that we have only seen in several pictures during our individual as well as joint research in preparation for the visit. Our fascination, competitive. Our purposes, different. His was to add a photo document to his portfolio. Mine, another capsule from the city to assign to my memory. Perhaps through the carvings etched in another time, or the wood itself, weathered through the ages.

Asking the guard at the doorway for a sangrahalay does not yield much of a response – no directions nor recognition of the word itself; he does point towards a signboard about 15 feet high. The entrance has two rooms on either side of the door, beyond which is the chowk, typical to old houses around the country. Vishrambaug’s identity, though, lies in the exteriors. Said to be the only surviving Peshwa wada, its meghadambari or curving pavilion at the front entrance is lavishly carved in cypress wood in the kalamdani style. The others were destroyed by fire in the 19^th century for reasons I’m yet to discover. This one too was victim of some minor flames, but was saved and restored in time. The restored motifs are believed to be more akin to the neo-Gothic mould – one finds depictions of a monkey and dragon instead of just the erstwhile intricate flowers and creepers.

The edifice has played several roles, like the recycled others of its grandeur. After the then Peshwa was exiled, Vishrambaug Wada assumed the part of Pune’s first British sponsored educational institution – the Poona Sanskrit College and went onto become the Deccan College. The Pune Municipal Corporation finally deigned to set up a tacky ‘heritage display’ within the premises, on the first floor. The last development is rather recent.

The rooms at the entrance are a handicrafts outlet run by an NGO for women’s empowerment. The rest of the ground floor is some kind of a printing press, devoid of charm or any sense of even monotonous regularity or neatness. A feature that held both our attention is the spiral wrought iron staircase that leads up to the second floor and meets a jammed closed window, overgrown with weed.

This is where you will begin to suffer the full throttle of my lament.

When I mentioned the fires of the 19^th century at the beginning of the write up, I’m sure a disdainful ‘why’ came to your mind, but the present state of Vishrambaug Wada hurt more on our visit recently. The efforts of the powers-that-be to suppress its splendour have borne copious fruit. We climbed up the stairs that led to the permanent display to be welcomed by a polite but fairly bored looking young lady at the ticket counter. Tickets paid for (PMC, I implore you to charge more and please justify the building’s history, if not what is left of it), my partner’s helmet left on the side, we walked on to behold bhwhat made both our jaws drop. We seemed to have disembarked onto another planet. The planet of a primary school local history project abandoned to dilapidate in layers of dust. The ante room of the heritage display at Vishrambaug Wada is created with wood planks from floor to ceiling, vainly camouflaged by lengths of black chart paper, textured with forks to give the feeling of old stone walls.

Yes, please laugh.

The displays conform to the primary school project imagery: low resolution photos blown up and labelled neatly on handwritten notes. Rudimentary hand drawn maps and sketches on more chart paper (yellows, pinks, greens and blues), again labelled in fountain ink, follow. The absurdity does not end there. Dark brown varnish covers ALL of the once-elegant wood carved angles, balustrades, pillars and beams of Vishrambaug Wada. To add to the beholder’s anguish, these cakey fixtures have obviously not been dusted in at least a few months. Now if it was a bachelor’s shack, the present state of affairs would have been acceptable. But we’re talking about a monument, however minor.

To illustrate the sense of the culture, they’ve spread moth-eaten double-bed mattresses and bolsters in the coves, with old style desks for company. These mattresses and bolsters have been wrapped in handloom sheets with cheap orange and brown floral prints. When you peep out into the the market surrounding Vishrambaug Wada, you see identical linen hanging from cabin shop displays. The studied neglect all around amalgamates to corner you into helpless disgust. Much like incestuous rape. Fucked by one’s own kith and kin.

The disrepair gets clearer when I tried to open one of the large low windows (that was me monkeying around) by unlatching the links at the top. Varnish has been so ruthlessly, thoughtlessly and in such haste pasted all over, that removing the links to cover the surface beneath did not occur to them. The pale yellow paint from a previous effort patiently peels away. Furthermore, the musicians’ jharukha in the front (the balcony that you admire from the outside sheltered by the pavilion arc) has been sealed off with the exception of one grilled door open so you can see where they sat. I saw a red plastic bucket and some length of wire eating more dust and rotting more merrily.

Apart from the shocking upkeep, the layout of the display too is quite confusing. You may lose your way! No directions (an elderly solo gentleman asked us how to get out) – somebody’s idea of showing the place to public. Yes, lock away what you can’t have cleaned every day and confuse the visitor to prevent other conceivable damage.

Such action is, (I’m willing to withdraw the opinion if anyone proves otherwise) representative of the attitude of the city’s denizens at large. I speak from not just my visits to the city, but also from observation in my six and a half months of residence in Pune. The city’s façade may portray a certain dispassion. Puneris take this maaz to the next level. They seem to revel in their blind adoration for the status quo; for mediocrity, for what they call balance and outsiders term laziness. Balance or laziness, they have little regard for their architectural legacy. Little wonder then, that their old buildings are either the colleges or left behind in debris and ashes. What remains, is their aggression towards preserving this blindness as if it is the answer to all questions of the universe and their narrow path to salvation.

This aggression manifests itself in many ways: verbal hostility comes first. Masochistic offense and unapologetic defence follow close behind – those are the only remaining elements in their anyway rusty armour.

My disgust though is for this obstinate protectiveness for the long gone. Of which remains only faded memories, guesswork and speculation. This mutual back-patting diplomacy discourages constructive criticism or novelty or both.

Pune’s attempts at the new seem like juvenile gun jumping. Unplanned in its layout, its civic infrastructure is its only saving grace. First it attracts throngs of techies and culture vultures, then it leaves them to forage. Its people endeavour twice as hard as say, a Bong to appear worldly wise. However, like an 11-year-old, Punekars live in the contentment of false, shallow promises without any grasp for posterity. Fancy malls, cafes and chains of bookstores do not a city’s characters make. Where is the human infrastructure to support the service experiences and details for which these brands have stood? Dishevel is ingrained, not studied or striven for in Pune.

My melancholy is for Vishrambaug Wada, but a latent sense of brotherhood between my city of birth (Baroda) and Pune absorbs me more. The former was a key province of the Bombay Presidency; the latter its monsoon capital. Sons of a mother, to use a cliché. The rooted Marathi culture. Cultural capitals of their respective states. Perhaps I should not claim the epithet for Baroda anymore. I have nothing to support it with. But Pune does. And yet its proximity to Bombay, its non-dry status, and heavy cosmopolitan student influx seem to give no momentum to its pace. They continue to start their day at 11:00 am, take their three-hour siesta break from 1:00 pm, return from work at 5:30 pm; their day still ends at 8:30 pm. 11:00 pm is late.

But I stray.

Vishrambaug Wada does not care for frowns – yours or mine. The intricately carved pavilion can eat the dust it is force fed each day. Its age can go live its reclusion in inattention. Its utilised spaces can be spat upon, iron trunks be dragged upon its flooring, and its general state of upkeep can leave as much to desire as it likes.

My reaction to this visit has built upon itself over a period of over a week. I was asked to build my writing upon this criticism even before we visited Vishrambaug Wada, but the dissatisfaction and despair is my own, and runs deep. In hindsight, both, my partner and my own motives for the visit sound not only pompous but a tad misplaced.

Questions surged.

What is the state government doing towards this end? Or the city’s municipal corporation. Is it not the responsibility, at least in part, of the keepers of official administration? Where is this city’s own pride of inheritance, however meagre?

I’m not yet entirely willing to write off Pune. मला हि नगरी आवडली, पण लग्गेच नाही . तरी एक दिवशी ती नक्कीच माझी होइल , तश्य भावनेची मी वाट बघते ...*

*SPECIAL THANKS TO Aditya Kulkarni & Ankur Hande for all the editing help with the last two lines in Marathi :)

Duffer @6 Months

Kandivli cat with personality

Settled (Photo courtesy: Aditya Rao)

He gets comfortable anywhere, observed Aditya a few days ago. Truly, he needs little space. He climbs onto our backs when we bend to pick up something off the floor. He perches on the small of a waist when one is lying sideways or just completely against the back. He loves the little space that the top of the cushioning creates with the back of  the bamboo easy chair. He often climbs onto the balcony parapet and crouches on the inner corner.

He loves warm places, the top of the microwave, right next to the naked halogen bulb and underneath the blanket being his favourites. He is himself always a little warm, like a satin quilt with a hot water bottle inside in preparation for bedtime in the coldest month. Like a dash of sunlight one morning after days of thick clouds and rain. That is Duffer: my cat of close to six months now, my constant companion, the only subject of my unconditional adoration.

Closer to camera: Duffer, farther: Raise (right)

Yes, he is adorable. He is gentle, he is trusting and he is extremely clean. Grooming is more part of Duffer’s psyche than a habit. And not only does he groom himself to the elegant perfection that his other name stands for (Jeeves, rightly christened in retrospect), but also anyone who seems imperfect in his eyes. I have often maintained, to his mates, Raise (also Bertie), and Emma, he is a one-tom spa (not much of a man yet)!

A through and through attention seeker, Duffer’s feline instincts are fairly intact, in that, he still ventures to get his own food – no matter where from. Our plates, the kitchen slab, the refrigerator and window sills and grills being his chief climbing haunts. We have probably raised our voices and even shooed him away, but the man persists. His resolve has yet to be broken, and each day, when I return, I see him jump off one or the other of his high resting places and sprint up to me at the door. He is not a dog. He is not a donkey. He is not a bird. He isn’t domestic. Yet he doesn’t merely tolerate the humans around him, he welcomes them warmly. He fools around. With them, as well as food. He’s an instalment eater, but will wipe off every last remnant of fish we offer him every once in a blue moon, at a go!

He has come to be my reason for getting home. He has come to be never late for at least that one date every evening. He loves bags. Chewing them up, or getting right into them. For that matter, he loves narrow places. He’ll even get into the lamp shade at times!

I take care of him. Only just. He takes care of me. In ways I could never imagine.

He’s the tall one. He’s the quiet one. He’s the friendly type. He’s the asking type. He is never angry. He is scared of crackers. Loves people most of the times. He seems a little high all the time. He teaches me something new every day. He makes us laugh every day.

Vodafone-a-rue!

From almost Rs 8k in February to Rs 1.3k this month - the reduction in my phone bill is due to a simple activation of Vodafone’s uniform roaming tariff facility across Maharashtra. Even last month, I experienced the stark difference in the bill. It was only about 500 bucks more than this billing cycle.

Sure, it’s a great facility, but I have problems. And I’m not sure if addressing it to the parent company helps, or is it more to do with the process trickle down in the HR bloodline or the training hands hired. Or is it a pure communication problem?

Unlike most other cities in the country, a Bombay number is treated as an out-of-territory number vis avis Maharashtra. When I first moved to Pune, my bills sky rocketed. I wasn’t sure if it was my internet data usage, or texting or calls. And I hounded several of their contact centers as well as the customer care helpline repeatedly. Of course nothing came of it since each one of them had a different answer, including the website.

One would expect that a company of Vodafone’s size would make sure every face of the company speaks the same language. That, every communication invites interest. Now I have had at least three problems I can list at the tip of my fingers right away:

Outdated form on the Vodafone website, so you end up filling out a second one all over again at the contact centre. If one is in a hurry, or budgets time for several chores in the first week of her or his  arrival in a new city, is this how thou shalt waste her or his time? What a service oriented approach, iSay!

Very poor language at every customer care interaction – whether at their contact centres or on the phone helpline. Logically, if one cannot speak one language, then one switches to another that one is more comfortable with. I understand that most people in this country are short for education, leave alone any level of proficiency in their own mother tongue, English - I won't even get there. What the authorities seem to fail to understand is that the key to solving user problems is clear communications. In whichever language that both parties may comprehend. Why then, are there at least two choices on the electronic auto response system, if your live customer executives are going to neither make sense of what they tell you, nor of what you tell them. Classic case of looking London, Talking Tokyo!

Inadequate information on services, and therefore added inconvenience to the customer. So while on the helpline I am being told that a particular set of documents is valid, either more is actually required at the contact centre level, or worse still, the specifics are not furbished to the last detail.

Dear Vodafone,

I will not be able to dream up your exact documentation requirements.

Yours truly,

The Average Customer-on-the-move

I wish their customer executives would've told me much sooner that it was possible to simply activate this facility! I would not have wasted so much time and energy racking my brains and bothering my dad and friends here to provide me with some evidence of my innocence and banality of citizenship; that I deserved a cellphone connection just as much as the owner of Vodafone. Photocopies of phone bills, bank statements, rent agreements and what not!

Why do documentation requirements keep changing from time to time? Considering the excellent ability of our defense forces to protect us – our intelligence and technological advancement, I don’t reckon adding to the paperwork is going to ensure security to the country in any way. Drugs continue to be peddled; ammunition continues being transported and our buildings and monuments still burn.

It was a fluke call to customer care when a senior executive wanted to know why i wanted to terminate my Bombay number. When I told him I'd found a temporary prepaid connection to solve my expensive problem, he finally came out with the solution! Is that also an indication of our tendencies as a country to not supply those we serve with proper answers?

Or is it the norm at Vodafone to practice the policy of zero-information-unless-dug?

Not your typical day

This is not even a typical day at work. Not that all days at work follow any particular pattern. There is no routine, at least here for me. Especially now that my copy partner has left and I have no one to make a rut with, I do as I feel, I feel the moment and act upon it.

So this morning. It was different in several ways. I am still in the middle of anticipating a boil over from the boss. Which means I’d better watch my moves and make sure I churn out better stuff than usual. Chase excellence and make more effort to understand the nerve of the client and write accordingly. Yes I fucked up royally. But what’s more important and worse is that I had little or no gumption to admit my fault. Was it completely my fault even? I don’t know. Because some of it wasn’t.

Gosh I’m really straying. Back to now. Neither the internet nor the intranet network is accessible. What does that mean? It means neither work, nor the usual play can happen for at least a while. I can’t retrieve work files to continue stuff I may have started yesterday or work I must refer from the past. I can’t listen to the songs I have stashed away in my folder either. It’s all barred.

For a change, even if just to kill time, I say yes to the chaiwala, who conveniently forgets to give me change for my tenner. Bastard has a notorious reputation. I have sworn I’m gonna get him barred from coming here. I am.

For a while now, I’ve been feeling less and less sympathetic to these kids who resort to such menial jobs to eke out a living. They’re learning how to steal, not so much hard work as oversmartness there really.

The other day i posted something to the effect on my FB page and all hell let loose. Suddenly i realise opening one's mouth to voice an opinion is next to blasphemy. As if the right wingers didn't already have problem enough, even the non-politicals and idealists have their issues. And so the keep-mum policy works brilliantly. Of course, then no one knows what you think, and those who care just try harder to read you. Eyes, twitches, hunches and finger twiddles.

Rain from Another Time

So I've been told I should enjoy the last few days of the bright sunshine in this city. Apparently Pune monsoons shall soon cloud the sky and take away the heat and singing brightness. And while the days make us all wish the Man Up There would install a gigantic air conditioner to take care of our late morning commutes and midday outings in the sun for meetings, evenings are something of a makeover the city as been through every single day of the summer I've known it to possess.

My intern co-copywriter here at work tells me Pune rains are nothing short of charming. I'd like to see how he means - considering the prospect of the bright blooms and all the tree lined roads being washed clean does sound inviting to me at least. And the carpet of Gulmohars on the ground in their first haul will be nothing short of jaw-dropping for me, considering I've been going on and on about it.

Umbrella called for from home on my parents' visit tomorrow, and rain shoes too, I'm all geared to witness my first monsoon in this city. I was telling Indu the other day, that though I've been around for almost five months now, the place hasn't yet lost it's novelty for me. Of course I keep meeting new people, constantly visit new eateries, new experiences never fail to confound me. But, Indu said something I'll remember just the way Neel's and Hitanshu's words have always stuck. She said, "A place isn't old until you've seen two cycles of all its seasons."

But I reckon Rain in any city is special. while cleaning it up for all to see its crevasses and minutest details in radiant hues, it brings more than respite to parched land. And of course, who can ignore its romance?

To its young and young at heart, it brings yearning. Another kind of thirst. The endless want for the sheer touch of another body. The warmth of a beating heart under your reeling head. The guard of an arm around your shoulder that holds so tight you are assured the most peaceful slumber. A torso to embrace so tight, all the ghosts underneath your bed and all your closeted skeletons vanish in fear, trembling, just as you are, in anticipation of the variety of manifestations his affection will assume.

To the hopeless romantic, it brings to fore that incorrigible feeling of loving without even an object of affection. A comfort for this lifetime. The need for assurance of a crooked reluctant smile. A shoulder that never tires of a hand resting on it when riding pillion. A voice whose granular velvet will always command respect.

One's inability to step out at will, or unwillingness to wade through the puddles and muck are much like shackles to surrender to forever; the bursting-at-seams need to serve and yet find emancipation, to be possessed and discover freedom, to worship and simultaneously turn deity.

Written in the last minutes of waiting outside the board room at a Nationalised Bank rebranding pitch

In the ante room of the board room of Bank of Maharashtra, two ad agencies sit in cold comfort, to borrow a Pink Floyd phrase, waiting to wage a war.

Two women have parked themselves on the two-seater sofa right opposite from where Swati and I have perched ourselves. Leadership representatives of the rival agency resemble watermelons wrapped in gunny bags. Competition is stiff. Our top boss is almost like the human twin of the alien dog-like creature from John Carter.

Busy on their smart phones, it would be interesting to see a Mario Miranda cartoon inspired by the trio. Like two pigeons perched on a live wire and brooding under their breaths as to how best not to look as fat as they do, as two slender young 20-somethings steal furtive glances at them giggling at least internally if not dying of roaring laughter.

The unconscious pout and feathery hair-do are getting you nowhere near the pitch, m'darlings. The John Carter dog's too large a presence in the local advertising market.

Of course, about these two young ladies, the less said the better. One, unprepared for any sort of formality whatsoever, in her pistachio green denim capris and creased sleeveless tunic with vermilion specs and not even an attempt to look presentable. The other, fairly traditionally turned out, yet any hint of professionalism clearly missing from the picture.

The sidekicks are adequately unsuitable to be present as well. Already as though out of skin, discomfiture stricken faces. Clad in struggled formal clothing, both, at extreme ends of their 20s and the size scale, would rather fill dandy hosiery and denim containers than be bogged by the stuffed shirt formal wear - garish gray and boring brown. The rival side is worse off though. The sloppy assistant with his wannabe goatee looks like the worst piece of jewelery at a kitschy corner store in Shaniwarwada.

On the whole, we present adequate variety for visual humour to the client - dressed boringly in their Safari suits and tapered shirts. This is all I can handle this morning man.

Dil Gulmohar

What is with this city?! I’ve visited Pune so many times across seasons, but this is one phenomenon I’m yet to come to terms with! Gulmohar trees. Tonnes. All in bloom. Like a wild forest fire. Everywhere I go! Office, home, drive to the outskirts, commute, East Pune, West Pune, all over the place!

And it's not the first time I'm obsessing over them. There used to be a line of Gulmohar trees outside my landlady, Gayatri's house in Lokhandwala, Bombay, where I lived last. I remember writing about trees in general too a couple of years back, in Bombay again. Yet I can’t get enough of them. And every Gulmohar tree in the city is drenched in the blooms. The skyline's as if set aflame! The leaves seem to have given way. As if in earnest surrender to the forces of Mother Nature.

Something about this flower makes my heart leap. Of course the radiant vermillion red-crossing-saffron would as-if burn up anybody’s vision, but there’s more to it. They seem to have erupted almost overnight one day in the middle of last month. Suddenly all the buds burst open to sprout that flaming orange.

When I had just moved to this city, it was the bougainvillea, then there were the purple-flowered trees (whose name I evidently still don’t know), and now Gulmohar. If you were to walk a random by-lane in any part of this city, it will not be just grey buildings sans any natural façade that accompany you. there will always be trees. Traditional ones. Ashoka, Neem and Gulmohars. Also some Orchids – the large lavender flower variety.

The Gulmohar near my office!

But coming back to those flaming Gulmohars, there is one right outside the gates of my colony and another, about fifty feet from my office - quite visible from our parking lot, with a strategic grey background of the Citiotel's plasticky exteriors at the back, framed between a garage and an old house in which runs a nursery.


Flora interests me - for those who haven't noticed yet. Not just agriculture or horticulture, or trees or gardening. Leaves, petals, barks and branches, tendrils and ariels, dry leaves and new ones attract me. They tell me I'm alive. They acknowledge my presence. That I see them. Them, in their details. In their element. Even whilst constantly judged as someone who awaits that big moment, a gigantic canvas, to show appreciation. They give me heart.

Tyger, Jeeves, Hobbes, Junglee Maharaj... Duffer!

Thaaaaaaaaat's Duffer!

I am surprised that little Duffer doesn't have a whole post dedicated to him yet. Not because he's just so significant an entrant into my life, but for the simple reason that he occupies more head space for at least a dozen people I know already! And he's been in town only a month!

Like every new kid in the family, he's had some specials for him. He has not only been adopted by mommy - PU (me that is), but also has a creche and weekend getaway, a godmother, a granny and a couple of aunts. He must also aspire for the grumpy expression that Sajani's gift to me carries - a ceramic cat face mounted on a copper ring, not to mention toil hard to escape the shadows of a name so cruel.

So it turns out what Hitanshu said about the feelings of mothers feeding their children is in fact, a fact We are indeed orgasmic about it. As I watch Duffer, aka Junglee Maharaj finish his rice-and-fish breakfast, a comforting calm sets in inside of me. I know little about motherhood. Even less about childbirth. But when this closet butler hops about at play, eats to what we may think – his heart’s content, shits the right colour and texture, and sleeps like he were living Lennon’s Imagine, a mother couldn't ask for more.

Adopting a cat away from home had always been on my mind. City hopping more than twice seemed to be a self-disqualifying criterion. And my record was superlatively appalling.

And just then, opportunity knocked. Aditya’s mail brought to life an almost dormant ability. Of course, Sajani made the journey literally, a breeze. Perhaps it had been the wish to take care of another being and give one’s all. Some of us enjoy being depended upon. Even if at times the pressure may get to us, we continue doggedly towards being carers: carers of the sick, carers to the old, carers to our spouses and children. I chose Duffer – my tom cat of about 6 weeks now. Yet, using words like chose and adopt fall flat. It is always the other way around with them felines. They just deign upon us the privilege, really.

In the past month, many lessons have been wielded my way. From the everyday phenomena of worms and gas, to more startling realizations about forced stability, independence and channelling energies and one’s attention.

My hot hangouts and places to meet new and interesting people are vet clinics and pet stores or pet sections in malls now. I bond over felines and canines and read up about food grade diatomaceous earth online.

Feminism, existentialism, communism, cataclysm have all been tossed out of the window. People are judged on the basis of their ability to get along with quadrupeds, not bipeds anymore. Compassion and not sympathy are prized. Education or the lack thereof is completely ignored. All that rules… is instinct.

I am poor today

But I just don;t learn.

I have recorded this on this blog before. That I've been broke. At 24 it seemed ok. at 27, it feels a little beneath dignity. How does one explain such phenomena? Yes I'm on a guilt trip. When the bank account has less money than what you've lent people, and you are yet to pay the month's rent, bai's pagaar, your share of the electricity bill, phone bill, and then your contribution for the month's groceries... yes. I'm poor.

Season of song or song of the season?

My jazz teacher wrote the most wonderful words for me in a mail two days ago. Not like ‘you move like a gazelle, my love’, more the sort that could only come from him. For my poems, for my words, for me.

Allan is on the mailing list of my poetry blog along with only 9 other people since quite a while. From time to time, when my verse strikes a chord with him particularly, he responds on email. I don’t know if the personal note is a conscious effort to not make too much of a footprint on the public web, or just his way of showing he’s not flippant.

Either way, his mails have always been thoughtful. Barely a few lines. Usually one or two, Allan would never end at just one empty word though. 'Nice's and 'good read's are not his thing.

But this time, his mail was not only different from usual, it became something of a short conversation. He asked if I wrote what I felt or just random thoughts. In my response, I told him that usually it's just collated thoughts - ideas of which one may think, thoughts others voice or just words I may have read somewhere.

He replied with appreciation for my 'capture of emotions'. He said they are 'the kind of thought that one thinks, staring at the ceiling or when silent tears soak the pillow' and signed off with this line "Lie, that you want to lay beside me".

When someone writes to you and chooses also to add just one more simple thought, can you help but sit back and recall your favourite memory of such a being?

Allan had taught me my first jazz number. When I was barely quitting teens and in the middle of my first college play (managing music, and still in school myself), Allan and I met a second time and spent much time bonding over my lack of any awareness of Western Classical music and his expertise in it. Not only did he teach me the basics, but also tested my voice right then.

There are few people in the midst of whom I feel rather small. My music teacher is one. Singing to Allan Rodrigues was only the second. And then it happened. He taught me Summertime. I’ve probably heard more versions of the song since than I can remember – Sarah Brightman, Louis Armstrong, a Latino version, and more.

In my following mail, I told him of how this thought keeps visiting me from time to time – I don't see him for such long interims, it's not funny. But I feel honoured that despite his utterly reclusive disposition, he chooses to stay connected – and I don’t mind the seeking of an appointment the previous night on text or early morning on mail. His presence at my sister's wedding, all the music sessions with him at King's Circle...

I also told him how much glee I still experience when I sing my version of Summertime with a Malkauns bandish to those who will care to listen. How much surprised they look, and how thankful I am to him.

Somehow, the line he had signed off with  fit into my poem harmoniously. I felt compelled to weave it in and asked if I could flick it. The beautiful soul that he is to me, here's what he said...

"Your writing moves me and makes me want to respond. Strangely, whenever I am at my busiest, your writing appears in my inbox. Am at a day long workshop and here's the lovely poem...

Sing away. Summertime was my gift to you. Your rendition of it is your gift to me and others who hear it.

And to think that you want to use my line... feels nice inside. Didn't think I had an atom of writing in me.

Remember the time I used your line that said 'And some midnights,/ Many miles away,/ A text stirs you mid-slumber.'

I often hear your voice in my mind and think of songs you'd sing. I'd love to hear you again..."

Here's Lie on Mush Room, my poetry blog, with Allan's line incorporated.

Highway to high way

3 days. A long weekend. Many cat lovers. And a chocolate cake. As soon as I had moved to Pune three months ago, I knew this place had energy in store for me. I began to unlearn all my previous paces: of home, of Nizami thaat, of hapless filth. Even before I had arrived, I had been sold its lures. And the lure didn't lie so much in the monuments, in the food, in the city's chaos, oh no. Just people.
Plain vanilla people. 

Women with pishvis, men in collared tee shirts or bush shirts, young techies with id cards dangling around their necks like nooses, kids in uniform with oil drenched hair, the big cars and their humble drivers, the autowalas and their माझ. Indeed, the rosy winters and the perennial bougainvillas did their bit in making me fall in love with Pune, but it has, honestly, been the people who have visited me or the friends who I've met whilst they were here on business, that have strengthened the heartstrings even more. I am yet to strike out any of the items I had jotted down on my to-do list while I'm here. But no matter. There's a vintage Beetle, ragged and rusty, cobwebbed, with its paint chipped, waiting each day for me to turn right from - a landmark not preempted. A charm that has the power to surprise everyday.

And yet that is also not it. What about Veeram's house? What about my own? What about my favourite restaurant? And its काली दाल and बैंगन bharta that I've yet to savour again?

So Sajani was here over the weekend. Here only to see me and, on short notice, also to rescue Duffer, my newly adopted tom. Having known Saj for almost seven years now is a tad hard to believe, because really, it was only that first week of spending concentrated hours with each other several times that account for our experience of each other. For our knowing of each other. For our comfort of each other. We have never lived in the same city, leave alone studied or worked together. We come from culturally diametrically variant backgrounds. Our achievements differ from one another's, and so do our losses, but expression has been so liberating with her! And perhaps our judgement and opinion of each other came about painstakingly slowly, but it is only a thing of wonder how often through both our car rides to and from bombay this time, we seemed to have been having two parallel conversations with each other: a verbal one, that goes yaketty yakk, and then there's our eyes that meet almost as often as there is stupidity prevailing. And Saj's talent allows her to speak even with a poker face, where I may be tempted to break into a giggle, roll my eyes or simply hit my palm to my face.

I reckon that our judgement of people comes partly if not entirely, not only from our experience of the world, but also from our mothers. We often don't get their kinks, and yet. For hours, we would lie in our PJs analysing the people we love and hate, and when a third person would enter, suddenly shut our eyes - Eyes, gobs, tolerance too actually.

Bus ride with Sajani, Bombay, 2010

And that familiarity manifests itself in myriad ways. Whether it is her calming me in my own house after an especially tiring trip by articulating my thoughts exactly, whether it is to get chatty with my roommate, whether it is taking a bus ride across town right after a long flight or train journey, whether it is to wait in the lounge area of my office as I get my stuff and swipe out after bunking half the day in my boss's absence, whether it is to tolerate an especially irritating boyfriend for his inane and dated arguments and fielding each one with a hard verbal slap back in the days, whether it is cycling in the hot sun across her university campus. And yet none of these episodes quite define the scope of our friendship. If she were a guy, I'd have probably professed my undying devotion to him. Not only for what he'd've been, but for what he was doing to me.

Her pune trip, like all her visits to all the cities I've stationed myself for a while in, was short, but not meaningless. It was rich in conversation, in experience, in details and in thought. She fished out a teracotta ring for me with a grumpy cat on it from Milan. She took care of Duffer in his most critical first journey across towns. She ate whatever I gave her. And she drank simply. She walked, because she enjoys roads and trees just as much as I do. She warmed up to Veeram simply for the warmth I had for him. She fussed not. She complained not. She remarked. She judged. She dismissed.

She got me a box of strawberries so I could sing for her and we could smoke outside a shut shop sitting on the ledge in Aundh.

To be friends with Sajani is not an ordinary honour. She takes forever to warm up. Her mocking smile is hard to fathom - am I her subject of scorn, and therefore ridiculed, or does she truly respect me? Three years it took me to know what she thought of me, and she chose to bare all one evening in 2009 when all was beginning to look bleak, loss seemed inevitable, and abandonment seemed to look like the only way out for us cats.

There are people we feel the need to understand in order to love. Then there are people we must accept and love.

Diveagar

You must be a sea lover to trudge all the way to a Konkan beach. Not a swimmer
nor a boating or paragliding enthusiast, someone who could listen to the song of
the waves in the mild January sun, or stroll aimlessly picking up tiny red shells and
purple ones…

Diveagar is like that. At the end of a 10-mile diversion from Shriwardhan is this quaint little village. Apart
from a rundown MTDC shack, some clean facilities have come up in the past couple of years in the area.
Most are palm clearings of private land owners, who have erected some absolutely functionary brick
cottages. There are no views, except the one you can walk up to in a jiffy (c’mon, what would you call a
pristine beach five minutes from your stay?). But I’m jumping the guns here.

So the Konkan was on my list of destinations to visit for a longish time. Being a salt mist breather in
the Max City was never enough. But as soon as my guy got himself his first high power bike, I began
prodding him to go do test runs to the outskirts. Little did he know that I’d pounce on the first offer he
made to ride out. Where, was the question we both contemplated. After some discussion about my
aversion to the hills (it was COLD) and his to early morning rides, we zeroed in on Diveagar.


LOST & FOUND

Coordinates were googled. So were directions and things to see. Directions, we found alright, but things
to see, zilch. So when we got lost on the NH7 and couldn’t find the Goa Highway, we had the good mind
to stop for breakfast (we’d packed, please do, no vada pao wala at 7 in the morning, sir) and take in
the sun. Once on the right path (thanks to brilliant directions from a couple of petrol pump attendants
that my lovely man had the brightness of asking), the going wasn’t too tough except the last muddy
patch under construction. The red variants of flame of the forest flowers added to the arid beauty of the
Western Ghats.

Once you take the gala turn towards Diveagar from Shriwardhan, the road is pretty much one straight
path and suddenly you find yourself in the middle of a sleepy sea town. But everything was so dry, that
we doubted just how far the beach would really be.

Typical home in Diveagar

STAY WHERE YOU MUST

We decided to head westwards and found ourselves one of the many cottage stays (@1500/- a night,
I’d say it was a bit steep, but options across these pristines are governed by Mumbai standards). A
comfortable bed, fairly clean and cosy, plenty of storage space and a bathroom as neat, we couldn’t be
bothered more about our accommodation. Having changed into beach gear, we decided to play it safe
on our first day and against our cottage keeper’s advice, drove down to the sea face. Two minutes flat.
Despite asking twice. We must’ve looked like two idiots.


SPARSE SURPRISE

At 4 in the evening, the beach was as crowded as it could be at any given point of the day. 20 people
(give or take a few) on a 5 km stretch. Some firangs and a couple of families, a horse carriage and a

camel. That was all the commercialisation one could see for as far as the eyes stretched.

By the time my partner had parked his vehicle, I had already run about a foot into the waves. We had
been told dolphins frequent these waters at the time of year. We forgot to look out, sorry. The kiss-n-
embrace happy couple was too busy to notice the hours spent lazing there. We promised ourselves an
early morning treat back on the beach. Not ones to rise before 11 on a weekend ever, Mr Boyfriend and
his girl caught each other staring wide eyed at 8 am, in anticipation of the surprise in the waiting.

View from our room

BREAKFAST ON THE BEACH

A giggle later we were already in our beach wear again. But mornings at the Diveagar beach are an even
greater digression from the evenings. A chai wali and a nariyal wala greet you without much ceremony.
We decided to make a breakfast date at the nariyal wala’s – resplendent with impossibly sweet malai
and the water, chilled as I remember it.


SERENDIPITY

The sun was beginning to get hot and we decided to head southwards on the beach. The walk wasn’t
one bit tiring, what with the breeze being a constant companion. Then the ornithology enthusiast in me
spots a mob of birds at a distance. White and gracefully moving in tandem, I decided to move closer.

A half kilometre down on foot and I realise there was water both sides of me. A river (Vashisti, I was to
later discover) met the sea here! Why didn’t anyone tell us this piece of detail, hullo?! On closer look,
we found the birds were migratory seagulls here for the mating season. One also saw another migratory
bird, the ruff, which few people would spot unless they went really close. These birds nest in the sparse
grass that sprouts on the muddy banks near the confluence and run around as if a mini football match
were on.

Only the river bed itself was firm,
everywhere else the feet sank at least 6-8 inches deep!

SINKING SINKING

The sand sinks really deep – almost like quicksand – and it is pretty hard to walk. We still waded the part
to land ourselves into the last bit of river water (do not even THINK of stepping onto the beach on the
other end here – you can spot the carpet of seagull poo from pretty far off). Our trigger happy boy shot
a few hundred snaps before calling it a day.


FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Surprisingly, for a couple who thrives on great food, we weren’t too fussy about the lack of variety.
Diveagar is still a budding destination (and may God keep it that way). For a town so tiny, the take aways
are too many to count. Be sure to leave at a sane morning hour and savour the vada pao around the
bend. A couple of the most melodious and dignified bhajan singers visit in their finery, with a well tuned
harmonium and tabla.

Accident ho gaya rabba rabba

So almost a year after my last right leg injury, a new one decides to make its presence felt. I've always seen accidents as signs. I've now had three fairly major ones with men whilst riding pillion on their bikes. Same leg. Different spots (god's been kind?). Heck I love them. And accidents with a man for company are even better. Not the injury, of course, just the whole follow-up frenzy ensuing the mishap.

The rush to the closest clinic to get the injury checked, being lifted by three men because I’d have fallen otherwise, to be bought and brought a way-too-big bar of chocolate and glucose to prevent me from fainting, the cleaning of the wound, the stitches, the dressing, the affectionate care, buying medicines, getting me to eat (evidently I’m pretty difficult to bring to that at such times), the making me comfortable… The process is much like taking a trip with someone. Suddenly you know so much about him or her. Kind'a in isolation, because he or she takes on the carer's role. And when you're away from home, you can't really take them for granted unlike the mother at home.

I reckon, like anyone else, I too prefer physical injuries to hurt of the heart.

But I think what I’m already beginning to enjoy even more than I did last night, as I told Veeram, is his house. Our Saturday night haunt, Veeram’s house aka The Weekend Getaway (TWG :P) is truly just the therapy one wants at the end of an especially unfavourable week. Of course, when you arrive at the humble 2 BHK abode, the clutter of mattresses, antique furniture, clothes, curios, books, condom and cigarette boxes, rum bottles, sheaves of papers, musical instrument first hits you and you want to flee as soon as. Then a veteran privileged holds your hand and leads you to the sanctum – the shrine of Veeram – and then it dawns upon you  as you take in these extremities, that this house is really beautiful!

To be absorbed into V’s space is a lot about one’s personal fortune. By nature, the man (and one of the most cultured hosts) is a recluse. His space is so his and shut away from all things commercial and dispassionate, that you’d have to be a musician to gain license to enter. And once you have won his approval, you could be a third grade architecture student or even just an ordinary copywriter, and yet be personally invited for successive weekends to spend hours elaborating and exploring the intricacies of Raag Desh punctuated with some Puriya or the dreaded Todi, and gracefully end with Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here.

And yet V’s place is not even about the things in it, or its people. It’s really about him. How warm he makes one feel on the coldest winter nights, how free he can set you from the clutches of where you come from and where you must head afterwards. You might get to listen to staples and a few new numbers. Some classical, some jazz, some baroque melodies.

There is of course, the conversation that meanders with sharp turns and steep falls and sudden heights of passionate discourse about music, love, freedom, values, religion, food (of course!). To most, V would seem something of an idealist oddity amidst compromising commercialization of our time and place. And even that is not what defines his home. One time he might tell you how he egg-napped a pigeon’s egg to teach it a lesson to not hover around his balcony again, and then he would also keep it safe. One of those puppy kidnappers, this.

I have still not managed to articulate what it is about V’s place that elates me each time I’m here. Veeram says, (about the walls in his house) “they have absorbed everything in the past two years.” And why not? The evidence is all over the place. Dates, arbitrary mind-thoughts, caricatures have been graffitied on all the walls of the house – in paint, felt pens, pencils even (like a 4-year-old that’s just learnt to write and draw)!

I have now flown kites here, spent nights, taken in the night’s horizon and the day’s view of the hills, swum, cooked, lay injured, sang and confessed in this house.

Comfort is an understatement for what one experiences here. Let it suffice to say then, that it’s the only place in years where I sleep like a child. For someone who is a light sleeper, it’s like letting a mask slip. Deliberately. In blind trust.

 

Love, of course!

Mushy Bollywood songs galore at the office this morning, and while I was just beginning to nauseate, Paroma laid her cards - I hate all these pink love songs! On impulse I reasoned that the Beatles too wrote them, but then I withdrew it. Not because I was suddenly confounded by the feeling that I was wrong, but because Valentine's day seems to have lost all meaning.

Someone at work asked me a few days back if I was doing anything special. And pop came the answer, "Valentines Day is for love. Not awkward fumblers." And a few days later I was told "I hope you're not expecting something spectacular...(for Val's day, that is)", and of course i dismissed it with all the dust and smoke doing the rounds in the confines of Aditya's 1 BHK.

Subir once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeves. Not so much a cassanova as a दिल फ़ेंक. Back then, it felt like a jab. A jab of judgement. Of being told off. For having just the infinite ability to love someone to bits, to love selflessly. Anyone. Anyone who was willing to receive. Anyone who was willing to acknowledge. Not even return. Just tolerate it. Honor, perhaps. Respect it. Keep it safely, if at all (?), in something of a sealed treasure box so no one stole it.

I even remember when this conversation with Subir had happened. Last January. Or Feb. I wept on the phone as I told him about my decision of leaving town. Almost achingly. That afternoon, because I had finally confronted my broken heart. Like often before. Of all oftens, Subir has known. Perhaps I spoke to him because he too has loved and lost but not stopped out of fear.

Somehow, every time Subir asks me to be careful, I chuckle to myself. What's love that isn't ruthless? What is love that hasn't that element of gay abandon? A certain mad glint in the eyes, a wild ring in one's laughter, some sarcasm, some confession, some forgiveness, all truth and nothing left to the imagination. Love isn't a game of reward and punishment. It isn't even an equal barter or equitably divided. There's no more, or less of it. It's not darts in the dark. It's a law that sees. Understands. And still plunges head first.

So sure, there must be quite a few who weigh the pros and cons in this transaction, but one half of the balance will always be heavier. That half will always demand more or give more or laugh more or forever weep!

So why must one love still, with that complete disregard for hurt and its ancillaries? Well, because that's how it's done. Because without love, February would be January! Because they don't call love a form of madness for nothing. It is not a task that must be carried out with preset steps, milestones and goals. Those are hurdles that cause falls. A fear of loss. And of course, like some people who think tattoos are addictive, love's hurt is no less heady! Distance, space, jealousy, indifference, callousness, abandonment - even if momentary - heck, just sleep.

But man the scar is beautiful. And to admire its story at a later date is nothing short of the greatest exhilaration, the pride of having earned it.

Tonight, I do fear losing. Tomorrow I might even lose; I might or might not be lost. It's 2012. the world is ending anyway. We lost our favourite and one of our first Profs at undergrad university on Sunday. A little bit of love can't kill anyone! So Love... Love... Love...