Wondering about Wandering

8 good things about that bane called stability

I heard myself say this last evening to a person I have met recently: 'I love Bombay.'
It's strange that it came out so strongly, so spontaneously. Was I trying to impress him? Was I lying? Did I ever hate it in the first place? I wonder now.

For the first time in a while, I've begun to enjoy the convenience that this city practically brims with. e-Commerce flourishes here and commuting is a no-brainer. Domestic help knows what to do from Day 1 and instructions are usually extended only for really individualist needs - a pet or specifics in food, etc. But I still find it hard to digest the fact that I said it. I love Bombay. What kind of love? And wasn't I disenchanted with this place completely even until a couple of months ago? The stench at KalaNagar, the Rats on the railway tracks, the roaches near the sea faces...

Anything even akin to love is quite unimaginable in the present context. Not because I know some different unlikeable version of it, or because of the chain of big and small events that have shaped my very recent past, but because I have indeed met an exquisite crop of natives and non-natives here at the onset of this third stint. And while some have proved to be sour and/ or bitter, more have found a special place in my heart.

Bombay is indeed like New York, isn't it? Lines from Baz Luhrmann's Sunscreen Song come to mind:

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard
Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel.

The hiccups that ensue moving towns are nothing short of royal pains, especially when you do it at a frequent flier rate. And so, this time I'm in the mood to stay put for just a while, even if, to enjoy what they call stability. Looks like a rather peaceful space to be in and this is how!

1. Paid Leave

Imagine being paid your work pay for 7 whole consecutive days away from your smartphone and laptop and number crunching and deadlines and sheaves of paper and late nights - instead getting a massage on a secluded beach, sipping on a long island iced tea or getting yourself some wholesome family time gorging on your mum's awesome delicacies! I've had the chance only once before, and I blew it by not taking it. Now I'm determined to make use of the mundane perk.

2. Taxes

I did my own taxes this year, and the anxiety and last minute frenzy was far from fun. For a math challenged human being with absolutely no patience for government forms, this was torture personified. Finding an agent at the 11th hour may have been a blessing, but it cost me a stiff fee that worked fairly well as a lesson for life.

3. House Hunt

As a veteran home searcher in Bombay, I may have lived in all kinds of spaces - hostel, PG, rented accommodation, a relative's house, a friend's bachelor pad, and more - but the peace of familiarity and conversation with neighbours, the knowledge of all the provision stores, doctors and salons in the vicinity and being able to walk around without losing your way (very possible when you are me) is beyond compare.

Of course, the task of looking for a place to stay and the irks and pains that accompany - agents, misfits, inappropriate spaces (or the lack thereof), last minute denials - squeeze the life out of you even if for just a few weeks at most.

4. Soaking Local

And by that I don't mean having to be the sponge that must bear the wrath of sweaty co-commuters on local trains. Every place offers its unique flavour in terms of food, people and architecture - India is blessed that way - and getting acquainted beyond your neighbourhood usually takes at least a couple of rounds of the cycle seasons.

5. Weekend Trips

All the three cities I've lived & worked in so far are blessed with fantastic weekend getaway options galore. With a fantastic natural boulder-laden landscape in and around Hyderabad and the ghats as well as beaches around Pune-Mumbai, one should be driving out/ taking off at least once every month if not more frequently. There's so much ground to cover, literally!

6. Phone Number

Changing numbers is such a pain! Letting people know, and then changing the number in all official documents and some forgotten ones complaining on public digital forums about how irresponsible you are as a social animal... no ya.

7. Suitcases...

...and therefore packing and unpacking is possibly one of the biggest and most tiring chores of moving frequently. Instead of a trash-discarding activity, it becomes a matter of how best to pack it all and lug it around. The number of bags begin to feel meagre and stuff just keeps collecting. Often, memories begin to be thrown with what may seem dispensable in the short term.

8. Pets

Anyone who has had them will vouch for just what a source of comfort domesticated animals can be. Whether you have a farm for a few horses or just a little balcony for a guinea pig, and all the beautiful creatures in between, they all require time and love and staying put makes for wonderful time off with creatures other than our own kin.

Of course, there are minor advantages of staying put - the little DIY projects you may take on, hosting Couchsurfers or just old friends on stopovers and catching up or even just a weekly off or holiday with that someone special over a game of chess or scrabble. As a wanderer and pseudo nomad coming of age, I'd say injecting structure into your jaywalking isn't that bad an idea!

7 Battles of May

May is not a fun month in India. Or for that matter, any tropical country. The climate is by no means pleasant and tempers tend to fluctuate without little or no warning. Mine may not have been very different from others', however, they had original touches and interesting twists!

1. Moving Base.
   Location: Tier 2 to Big City
   When: May 13, 2013
   Fight: Employment documents; cats; time; LBT strike
2. Cats.
   Location: Western Suburb
   When: May 13 to May 25, 2013
   Fight: To let them go out or not.
3. House-keeping.
   Location: Same as Above.
   When: May 15 to present, 2013
   Fight: Agent says speak to handy man; Handy man does not receive calls; Carpenter loses estimates; Building Secretary raises objection to changing piping for water force improvement (read: some in exchange for non-existent)
4. Commute.
   Location: Western Suburb to South of the City
   When: Mornings & Evenings; First week since joining, 2013
   Fight: Bus or Auto? Bus or Train? AC bus or direct route? Fast Train or Slow?
5. Work Place.
   Location: South of the City
   When: Recently, 2013
   Fight: OfficeBitch on laziness overdrive - I was to replace her old seating and storage space yet to be emptied of her remnants
6. Weather.
   Location: Big city
   When: Yesterday
   Fight: Rains
7. Time.
   Location: Big city
   When: Everyday
   Fight: Work? Socialising? Pets? Groceries? Shopping? Reading? Beauty regime? Dinner? BREAKFAST?! Sleep?

However, I see that as the days go by, the creases are ironing out, and a smile, some patience and irreverent following up does the trick. Then again, you can't control everything. For everything else, as the famous tagline goes, there's MasterCard!

This Day, Every Year

So today is the morning of my sixth Last Day at Work of my career. Sounds skewed and suicidal for any rocket scientist’s career, doesn't it? But it's surprisingly emancipating. There have seldom been interesting last days, but this has been by far the jitteriest. I have yet to receive my resignation acknowledgement email and relieving date officially. Yup, beat that. However that's not what's really bothering me.

A lot of movement is in the pipeline. A lot of changes, and a lot of adjustments.

The last time I was taking this decision, I had a choice - I was asked. This time, I've been told. I am not resenting it, I appreciate the break. The fact that I've been presented with ample time to get used to being truly myself. Not having to think of other people - just the cats.

This time alone has freed me of my fears, hesitation, mind sets, judgement, dependencies... Stimulants, decadent food, loud music, jarring yellow lights, other people - I have lost the need for any of these and realised the stark difference between want and need.

This phenomenon has helped me sort out precisely what gets packed and what goes into the bin, to the maid, or just stay back. I wouldn't say I have lost my sense of attachment, but even the stalest of shirts lose their stench after a few days. All that remains is the physical accumulation of dust on them, and then they must be given to the laundry guy.

As for the last day at work, I foresee a lot of boredom, barring some work here and there - just because most people may not want to accept the fact that I am leaving - and some do not know still that I'm leaving. The latter variety is mostly those who I, nor anyone I know around work, speak to. Last days are strange. There is this sense of emptiness. Of everything snapping in just a fraction of a second. Whether there is disapproval from your employer or complete support, the feeling is always that of having fallen short. Of course, in my case I have almost always fallen short. I put myself in the employer's and the spectators' shoes.

I have always been happiest when I've discontinued working with an organization. The opportunity to revive oneself as a person and as a professional presents itself like a clear slate on which to draw a brand new picture. The relief of not having to see the same old faces of course is unparalleled. Isn't there any job that allows one to meet new people and take in a plethora of experiences each day? I reckon it's a rather superficial and flitting attitude towards work - this not wanting to know people – colleagues –under their skins. Then again, I've never much enjoyed socialising with people at work barring one job. And even there, my eventual pickiness got me quite a bit of scorn.

I wish all of these negative thoughts would leave me. For once and for all. It’s not worth thinking so much. Shouldn’t I be putting all this energy into more positive affirmations? Thinking forward; looking towards how best I shall give myself to my new employer. But how do I do that, when that very idea has come under scrutiny? Will I or won’t I? Both parties will surely make me slog before I make any headway.

It is not time. There’s a bigger plan. It is not right. God always answers a prayer. It may not be to your liking, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t for your best. Surrender. Accept His ways. You shall be more at peace. This has been my greatest takeaway from Goa. That too from a tv programme that I chanced upon in the midst of a disinterested weeping session about my predicament!

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?

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.

Hair

THIS short

Cutting my hair THIS short is always an unplanned affair. The itch begins a few weeks before though, but it almost always ends in this length or shorter. Of course, I've achieved a feat I've striven for, practiced and finally mastered over the past 7 years on several occasions. And while both roomies have been spectators, actively eventually assisted me in getting there tonight, and even applauded the outcome, the happiness is of simply losing it all. Yes, it's true. 

I've seen women cut their hair on film in a few films. One image I distinctly remember is Kalki Koechlin at it in Dev D. That is not to say, of course, that my attempt germinated from some sense of anger or suppression. If anything, it has made me so happy, I could dance all night! 

Not only does the loss of all my midway and reluctant-to-grow-more tresses that much less weight to bother with on myself, but also seems like a metaphorical unburdening from all the stress of having to cover my head and fuss over it all the time thanks to the dry and dusty weather of Pune. 

Social commentators the world over have maintained, as has research established, that short hair is the ultimate sign of confidence among women. Well I don't know about all of that. I know it doesn't make me look horrid, and I know my long and slender neck looks fabulous! 

I finally feel like shopping again! Finally going back to being the 13-year-old who cared two hoots about the frivolous housewives in the neighbourhood who thought my mother was mad not to encourage me to look more feminine (yeah, try growing up with a bunch of ruffians for boys, woman!). I don't know if I shall go back to my long hair. The only time it appealed was when I was so preoccupied with the charm of hyderabad; when I thought I didn't even have time to catch a breath because, oh god! there was so much to be done - classes, plays, concerts, assignments, my journo work, music, hanging out with friends who mattered over midnight cups of tang and elaichi cream biscuits. 

No, I am not that anymore. It was my time of being lazy, and stable. That was, actually, my only truly linear phase of life. Uf. Look at me, analysing phases and connecting nonexistent dots over a blasted hair cut!

And remember, घर की खेती... whatever makes me happy... it ain't yours babay!

On reading

The past week has been a roller coaster. I met a guy through the pseudo-traditional matrimonial site, contemplated marrying him, found out in the nick of time that he and I were not only mismatched, but also belonged to two brilliantly separate worlds. That was interesting. Since when did men become excellent decision-makers?

But i'm still trying to figure out what is worse - that a guy says up front that he doesn't read, that he doesn't manage to find the time to read, or that he finds reading BORING? And therefore, does that make all of us who read lesser mortals or simply redundant?

I mean, here I was, practically changing my wardrobe after Bridges of Madison County's Francesca Johnson because she got to be photographed by a Robert Kincaid. Leave alone the romanticism and tragedy of their love, but merely to be appreciated by that one man, through studied vision... in the most exotic locale... like a modern fairytale without a happy ending. Heck, who wants a happy ending - I want a stimulating conversation! To which I can add something meaningful, or derive learning.

Think about it, after having socialised with the likes of research scholars from the best institutions in the country and abroad, after knowing people who travel the world and know the insides and outs of how the planet functions, oh for god's sake - having been a writer and an editor (and therefore, primarily a reader) myself, how does anyone expect me to tolerate a non-reader?

When there is such limited reading (or the complete absence thereof), where will there be the element of ambition to explore new worlds - in terms of thought, in terms of activities, in terms of destinations? How will he know when to be really nasty I call him a Nazi? Will it even strike him as remarkable when I suggest Berlin or Rome for a vacation? And he will be so lukewarm when I mention a bike ride across the Konkan, or spending the afternoon cooking together or reading poetry at Prithvi!

Uf! no no no no no no no noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

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.

My First Bad Time

I've always found Bombay people extremely easy to tread around. Even late at night - established even in my blogs, right? Broad daylight can be a digression, though.

A couple of Sundays ago, I was out on a solitary outing. Like a date with myself. Movie - saunter from Metro to Marine Drive - a bit of the sea to end the hot afty. It was all great. I didn't mind the tan either. The breeze more than made up for the lack of good company, the recent lows and more. Upon crossing the road from the Pizzeria corner, it suddenly struck me how long it had been since I visited the Drive on a holiday and how crowded it got.

A largish man clad in shades of rust also entered my frame of vision. Haywire yet "set" curls, he stood out without much effort - the air of a "townie". Looking into the distance... Strolling, not walking; not in a hurry.

I sauntered off to a clearing on the parapet between numerous couples with my back against the sun - the sun still too harsh. All of a sudden, the peculiar man seemed way too close for comfort. For a while, looking in the other direction seemed quite the adequate thing to do. All of a sudden, I hear "I love your neck piece; it's quite nice." "Thanks." Period. No, really, I thought that would be the end of it.

You really think it would be, at least - it was broad daylight, after all. So many people. It was beginning to get onto my nerves. No, he didn't hurl any physical abuse at me, nor words. I said I'd like to be left alone. He began talking about healing and life and freaky things that I'd probably discuss with Nidhi or Neel and NO ONE ELSE EVER.

That was it. My only escape without either attracting any attention or getting the chap into trouble with the police was to get up at once hitch a cab.

One associates intrusion as a "gowti" trait. People being nosy, never letting you be alone and always trying to know what it is that bothers you - as if sure of being the only rescue or resort. For once, I look up to the suburbites as more respecting of privacy, even in public. Letting you be alone. Letting you do your own thing. Allowing you to be in a shell or out as you may please. Incidentally, anyone come across a PG in Bandra, please to be telling moi.

Of Obsessions and Anger Bursts

Have you ever been so angry you wanted to break something? And then you HAVE broken something? Not somebody’s nose or limb or some such atrocity, but incurred loss of some kind all the same, because you couldn’t bear to harm the one who caused it? Because you are so aware of your physical strength?

At the end of the first year of any new situation or a change, I seem to vent out all my frustration on a personal belonging. Is it the impulse and the happening-to-be-around-ness of an object that leads to what follows? Or is it my inability to use sarcasm, a good old slap, or a cab to get out’a the situation?

It's a pattern: the things [three in a span of 10 years] that I detest or am bored of for a while have faced batter. Minor instruments that have lived their lives with me and I’m stuck with after a while, meet their fate at such moments – my first set of spectacles when Lavanya irritated me to the end of my wits; my first cell phone, when I couldn’t stand guilt trip spiels form the ex who gifted the instrument to me, and now my last phone. For a 25 year old, I’ve lived a rich life as far as phones are concerned, a new one each year since the 3rd year of undergrad – after my latest buy, six in all (including one borrowed for a while).

Since a couple of weeks I had been contemplating buying a new piece. But stopping to use the old one hurt – considering Papa got it for me when I first moved to Bombay. A lot of sentimental value was attached. Like the pens he’d gifted. Each one maintained and used with a lot of love and emotion. But the need to change my phone persisted. The tugs of emotion and vanity was beginning to get to me. The silly superstition that the phones I bought myself never stayed with me for long was gluing me to my sleek little brick device beyond imagination – it had begun to hang like a monkey - both literally as well as technically!

not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearing

The mention of a game being the reason for my agitation was unacceptable to quite a few, including he who mentioned it. He’s been following it for as long as I’ve known him and before. And not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearing. All of a sudden though, it began to get to me. Why must it occupy so much of one’s psyche that it is put on the same pedestal as classical music or good weather in a conversation?

In recent times, I’ve been less and less fond of cricket and I’ve even met some who’re are crazy about the game yet find it demeaning in its present state. What’s more, the craze seems to pervade all time slots vulgarly – work, recreation, outing, quiet time, sleep, meals … how do you explain its intrusion into other people’s tired end-of-days that look forward to something less obsessive-compulsive? Why can’t it be kept to oneself? Why can’t it be more understated and unspoken?

Perhaps I’m overreacting. Perhaps I’m touchy. Perhaps I’m one of those who don’t know the game so act uppity about it. Or maybe the idea of pursuing this obsession, even though other than pursuing one's profession, like a habit sounds vanilla boring to me.

Whatever the case, March has been a month of angry moments for me. And the chief cause is that wretched Indienne Parasite Le grande. It may be easy for many to dismiss this sudden outburst as uncalled for or laugh off as something of an eccentricity. But really, are the lines between passion and obsession blurring?

High Street [and while we're at it- Low Space-Little Air-Disparate] Phoenix

Fever barely gone a few hours, cold still lingering, Nishant n Nishant decided the old gal needs an outing. After what seemed forever in the cash line (well, I spent all that time merely sitting somewhere on the shop floor - all tired n dizzy - with a woman who shouldered the mantle of redirecting people to the actual end of the line... which, my dears, is a terrible place to start at a sale).

I'm at the phoenix mills big bazaar. It's supposed to be the year's most inexpensive 4 days. Kids of mostly middle class folks are picking up absolutely anything they like n the parents look almost powerless-they're succumbing to these childish demands like they can do nothing about it. These kids should be made to earn just a month n then come here n shop. I just saw a TROLLY full of only cold drinks. Crazy litre n 2 litre bottles of coke n pepsi that looked like a tv campaign for the two joining hands or some such rubbish.

There's a man in front of me talking on his expensive HTC phone - he's travelling to singapore tomorrow. Not even a while ago, his wife ranted away about how some kg of rice n sugar is being distributed free with 5 kg of oil. The irony lies here- there are expensive food joints all around, hoping some of this crowd will spill into their traps too. Quite the contrary. We've never had it this easy getting a table at Maroosh. Despite all the Muslim n Parsi junta all around.

And I've never caught sight of so many outsiders - non-bambaiyyas in one ground. All vying to stock up for a couple of lazy months ahead. सब सड़ जायेगा सालों! It'll all pass expiry before you even touch it!

This is the Indian mall.

Doesn't Work for Me

Ever heard of a senior colleague hankering for your attention for no particular reason? Well, at least not on the surface. And in the process, making a royal arse of himself? Or herself, as the case may be. And then behaving uppity about it as if you were at fault for not looking in the right direction because he is "not your friend," but a "senior"?

I am angry. And this post will be my vent. You may call it immature, impulsive, and impish and other IMs, but it has bothered me in instalments the past 11 months and is one of the few things that I want to share for the simple reason that it seems to happen to a lot of us, but most keep mum about it.

No, this doesn't qualify as harassment, but verges on it.

Who authorises this person to call after-hours or on holidays? Why does he need my presence in his subconscious existence? Why does it bother him so much that I don't care a fuck about him? How does it matter that a novice in the profession, not only in the organization, judges him at all, and then harshly?

What defines cordial professional relations? Especially in a set up like ours, which on the ground level is half an agency, and on a parent level, is as blue blooded a corporate as any other? More importantly, who draws the line between professional and working relationship? I have friends form work, for fuck's sake! People more my own than my own relatives. Must we confine ourselves to work, gossip and cribbing alone at work? Is that the extent of a professional association? If one is always allowed to choose one's friends, then why can't one also choose to withdraw from them when things go awry? Why is talking always considered a solution? Why is silence scorned upon?

What are the qualifiers for respect at the workplace? Age? Years in the institution? productivity? Personal relations? Accolades? The ability to impart what you know selflessly and not claim stake in another's achievement?

It is inconsequential to me that this human being chooses to attribute so much importance to a junior - much junior subordinate. What bothers me is his way of dealing with it. irrespective of his personal problems, which I was chosen to be privy of first hand, and which also add to my low opinion of the distinguished personality that he is, I choose to keep my distance from a person who will try to get too close too soon, over alcohol, and say mean things under its effects at bedtime over phone. I think this is perhaps the only human being I’ve had to "deal with" in Bombay. And it feels bad.

Overrated

I actually managed to arrive at the title for this post even before beginning to pen it. Perhaps because I’ve been saying it too often lately about so many things. Though it’s not necessarily about the things and people in Bombay, I guess it gets place on Bombay Chuddies for the fact that it is here that I’ve had these realisations.
So here’s my list (editable and addable) of things overrated:

1. MBAs are top of the list for now. It’s like a done-to-death topic with all my MBA as well as non-MBA pals already, but I just need to put it in writing now. High time. What about them fascinates people to gawk open mouthed and wide-eyed? They’re horny like any other, though have no horns on their heads (or even nose, like a rhino, which would be really something). And they can’t talk about anything beyond… uhm… 5 lines? And their passions are so… lame. I haven’t used that word in ages for anybody, but it’s just erupted out of nowhere. It’s as if their being from a premier b-school makes them superior to intense emotions; as if banalities such as a chhotu yellow butterfly are too frivolous for their over-exploited time. Juiceless.

2. Crowds in the Virar Fast local train. It is not crowded all the time, so stop looking so aghast, for heaven’s sake! I travel in them all the time (ok, non peak hours, but so what?) and I’ve managed to get off everywhere… from Dadar to Bandra to Andheri… Beyond that, of course, I refuse to tread, so I don’t know.

3. Living in South Bombay. It is not always expensive to live in this precious part of the city, unless you’re a spoilt brat who’s had EVERYTHING all his/her life. I mean seriously, how hard is it to alter your life to fit in a 6:00 am to 10:30 pm open-gates hostel lifestyle? You have Lata Mangeshkar, the Ambanis and Rahul Bose in the neighbourhood. The sea isn’t farther than a 10-minute walk. It’s a bargain I’d say.

4. Sex. Yes, sex. It is kissing that needs some serious attention now. Men go about grabbing your jaw, biting, licking, exporting litres of saliva and just don’t know the art of kissing. How the heck are you supposed to get to base 4 if you can’t even get past base 2?

5. Pollution in Bombay. A couple of months back, when I was still at the Bakhtawar office, and when I still hitched a bus from Mantralaya, a woman snubbed me for throwing some plastic in my haste to catch the bus. I mean, what’s the hullabaloo about messing up the air, water, roads, et el? As Abhishek once said, if we didn’t diry, the cleaners would lose their jobs (aside: Steve Jobs didn’t lose his despite long sick leave and despite Apple thriving even while he was gone- saala… as Chintan says it). They say it’s the developed country that can add maximally to environmental redemption substantially. Developed nations must develop, must use, must waste resources and dirty the whole place nicely and become all big and developed and thriving before it can be shaken into eco-consciousness. So, jaa na be!

6. Cell phones. Another over-researched point of contention. When I didn’t have my phone all of last Thursday, it felt so cool to be just living in the here, not just the now. I realised if anyone needs to reach me, they have my landline number. We seem to hate the prospect of anyone but the intended receiver picking up our calls. Why? Are we so important or busy that we cannot waste those two minutes on introducing ourselves to a stranger, making conversation, requesting to be connected? As a species noted for its social tendencies, we’re losing them.
7. Non-vegetarian food. Now I hear a loud murmur about how wrong I am, how Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swaad (which, btw, is ironical), but come on! If you’re a “pure non-vegetarian” – which is such crap, man – you can’t be Indian, have Indian non-vegetarian cuisine and then claim to be pure anything! What about all the hefty amount of spice and ancillary veggies that go into making that aromatic curry or slurp roast or fry… sigh… All there is to it seven different meats for the days of the week, as opposed to a whole new concoction every single day of the month. Variety baby, variety.

8. Poets. I had this conversation with A. last night: so many of us seat poets or even the aspiring good ones on a pedestal for nothing. You understand jack shit of what they write and think, ‘Wow he knows his shit man. He can put so much into a few words/ lines/ verses/ rhymes.’ No, no, no, love! They’re just so bad with vocabulary that they try to fit in everything into short sentences and finish it off as soon as possible. And because it’s all so ambiguous, you think they’ve been born with higher sensibilities. And shit like that.

9. T.V. Need we say 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.

$#&^*(#%+ Rains

She plays hide and seek
Where trees lie mobbed together:
A veil of shower
Or just peek-a-boo.

Her games are an open secret,
Like a burqua that covers beauty
And intrigues the onlooker too.

She dances on the ledge
And climbs in through the window.
When the winds chase her elusive arrival,
She gushes through tiny bylanes
And beckons all on the way—
The myna to sing,
The grass to beam,
The puddles to splash,
And lovers to dream.

The dreams shatter as she lashes about,
The puddles meander into streams,
The grass sinks, stamped upon,
But the myna remains on the brink—

On the brink of madness,
She wades through the fog
Climbs each branch higher
Forks further, flits farther,
The friend catches up, at last.
~ Priyanca, The Rain

The rain in this city has as much shame as its people. It barges into your taxi like it's gonna pay half the fare plus damages for wetting the seats. The pitter patter isn't consistent. It kisses my lips sometimes and at others, just drenches me like it was holi. Zero modesty or sense of timing.

And then the taxi.

Fiats have a distinct smell. A smell very different from other cars. It is the smell of the steering wheel and the dashboard. In the rains, the moss threatens to erupt all day if you don't clean it often. It is probably the stench of that threat that marks all taxis in the rains. You just can't keep the water out. The odour seems to me an inseparable part of the monsoons here. It's like those lines from Hotel California, You can check in anytime you like/ But you can never leave.

Spooky, I say!

And when you try turning up the windows in an attempt at keeping the vaachhant* out, you feel gagged, like the lack of air had taken over from the mold and now that's a menace you SHOULD be scared of.

*Gujarati for the spray of water, especially rains, reflected from a surface because of the force of the water itself.