The Beginning of a Very Delhi Monsoon

I was witness to a Delhi today that was so different from the usual. It wasn't the burning heat that people curse, it wasn't the bitter cold of December in which natives such unreasonable pride.

It was overcast - the way overcast truly is - an eclipse in broad daylight. The rain drenched everything without boring little holes or lashing the glass panes. It came down sieved through the thick foliage thanks to the trees that line the avenues of Lutyen's vision, which one drove past. It seemed to wait until I got securely into my cab before coming down inevitably, yet never relentlessly, or ruthlessly.

I have always admired the manicured hedges and lawns of the national capital - its well-placed trees and shrubs, and its shower-cleaned-everyday leaves that reveal pure shades of green no matter how scorching the heat, no matter how polluted the air.

I spotted monkeys by the road along the ridge (the real red bummed kinds)! And I thought of my friend from the time we were at undergrad university (though not in the same course, university or even city!), Sajani.

I could fall in love here. Against this setting. Despite the gossipy tweenagers killing time and their closest friends' trust, despite the chooda clanking new bride in hot shorts, almost-South African blonde streaked hair fashionably held together in a messy top bun with Moroccan oiled strays carefully teased out to frame her face (moles surgically removed just before the big day), despite gaping aghast at the sheer entitlement with which men don't even consider the idea of being chivalrous... No no, this trip was not about people at all.

Delhi is actually better suited for recluses than how pseudo Bombay has proven to be so far. It allows you a little bit of open sky and some space to walk outside without being thronged by street vendors to submit to the moat carnal capitalistic need, that is to buy.

Delhi is about space. Space to breathe, space to catch some expanse in one's line of vision, space to  make informed decisions and continue to walk the middle path, space to walk for heaven's sake.

Delhi's middle class has no malice, its poor do not aspire to be rich, its immigrants are not scorned upon for taking away local jobs - see you keep veering me to people, Bombay! Stop it! This is not about people. Your people are finer, happy?

But there is simplicity in people's eyes, in their skin, in their at-least-slightly-imperfect body shapes. There are monkeys by the road! And they coexist with more beastly people. Those monkeys don't need some 100 acre plot in the name of a National Park as an excuse to nurture nefarious activities.

Believers walk all the way up to Gomukh to collect a couple of mud pot fulls of Ganga jal that would be poured over the phallic stone signifying the Vishnu disciple, Lord Shankara, since Saawan is His month (according to the Hindu Vikram calendar).

It brought to mind the several pedestrians one spotted en route to Prabhadevi's Siddhivinayak temple on the odd late Monday night. They think that should do the trick, whatever trick they set out to wield. Then they complain to the elephant God. The only difference, and god, Bombay, will you stop reminding me constantly of - yes, the people?

This piece was written a year ago on a day's "work" visit to Delhi. The day marked the beginning of monsoon (29 July 2016). I was there to meet my then Editor in Chief of a couple of months. Ironically, I post this piece only now, when I'm on a work visit to Bombay (not a moment to look up or breathe) as the rains make their presence felt. I promise I had not a clue the tables would turn so drastically about my city of residence in less than a year!

Up In the Air

I derive some inexplicable pleasure in choosing the emergency exit seat on flights. A lot of people find it restrictive: you can't keep your hand bag on you, you can't shut the window on a sunny afternoon, you can't recline, you can't keep your tray table open for too long, your seat belt needs to be clutched at all times, and the barrage of bondage is endless.

Several others though, especially the particularly long-limbed, count the merits of the emergency seat. 'So much legroom!' they argue to silence the naysayers.

But my reasons, even I do not know.

The standard set of mandatory special instructions arrive in the form of an extra pleasant air hostess - one who will smile, not scold, and almost sympathize with just how many times you must have to put up with this routine, yet lend her a patient ear. She can see that I come prepared: no luggage in hand or under the front seat, no reclining, no fussing about the sunlight. In medical terms, I'd be the ideal patient. Patient, practical and reasonable.

This window seat invariably distracts me from my book, even if I've flown to or from the same airport several times. The colours, shapes, markers of the wider landscape surrounding it, especially those that change rapidly whilst developing the city's outskirts, make me wonder what motivated the change. A farmhouse property outside the city periphery below the wing of my plane still flying rather low on this high visibility Monday afternoon shows chunky wooden garden chairs and a trampoline and a single storey with canopies on all sides widely spread on the property. The colours belong distinctly to the retro circus family - white, red, yellow, cobalt, mint...

I spot another estate not too far away with a remarkably vast lawn and a single white (presumably) cane pool-side recliner in one corner. It presents a picture perfect frame from up here. Of tasteful affluence, of awareness about the good things in life.

The flight climbs higher in altitude. We float above the occasional little bursts of snow white clouds dotting the blue filter, beneath which one can still make out land demarcations rather vividly. Then my gaze stalks the swiftly changing palette from ground to horizon to the sky above.

'Sky blue', the hue we've all grown up referring to lighter shades of the primary colour, has, one realises from this intimate distance, a perceivably powdery texture. It is not as pale as the chalk in your wax crayons box. It is so much more intense and bright. It has the authority to lay down its cards yet not allow you a varied perspective. It's all the same beyond this point, it seems to affirm. Yet I can't quite pinpoint the particular angle at which one might look and decisively state, from here the sky appears constant.

I also think this preference for the emergency seat comes from my lack of tolerance for bullshit. Can you imagine the hazard someone fussy and idiotic might cause in a situation that requires helping, thinking on one's feet, and exiting from here?

Now I know how I landed the uber leg spaced emergency aisle seat in my last @cathaypacific flight back from HKG! <3 https://t.co/sfsktjXb66

— Priyanca (@BombayChuddies) October 4, 2015

I'd probably end up yanking the person out of the aisle and flinging him or her to a place of no hope. Perhaps even stabbing such an imbecile. I reckon I'm doing a lot of passengers just a huge favour- taking one for the team, as it were.

A perk of extra leg space for the average tall Joe or Jolene, well it just sweetens the deal for this superhero.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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...

Pondy Shondy VII: You didn't do Auroville?!!

Pondy’s like poetry: everyone reads it differently. Every time. Sitting at the granite top study table by the window, as I pen the first impressions about my second visit to Pondicherry, a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road in the middle and its occasional motor vehicle, an adjoining ten-foot pavement and its decorative pedestrians on this sunny morning keep nudging me to look up from my notebook and out towards them all.

A series of seven posts have covered some aspects that kept me preoccupied during the last five days. As the last in line, I can't help but touch upon spirituality as a major element that attracts several to its realms.

So even before we returned from our holiday, the prospect of the refrain has been involving inventive responses in me. While on one level, it has proved to be daunting, at another, it is as simple as “No.”

The last place of worship I did was, yes, on my birthday. You might even call it an overkill, ‘two churches?!” And I was drawn not to their obvious proportions or intricate pieces of beauty, but the subtle peace and mundaneness. The ceremonious silence of every Ashram campus is a little hard for me to fathom (at least here at Baroda and at the one in Delhi). To me it is yet another form of violence. Almost rendering the visitor feeling a little unwelcome.

Why must serenity be so overtly compelled? Why can’t a place evoke the feeling? And if it cannot, then what is the difference between its almost suppressing discipline and the suffocating straight jacket of an imperialist boot camp. Sure, many benefit from the institution’s dicta and generosity, but that at the cost of one’s freedom of expression? I see a problem there.

Take Me Home

Few amongst us choose to return after a longish hiatus outside the comforts of home. Many of us grow so accustomed to being uncomfortable, that home makes us almost queasy. What with that bed whose mattress took our shape even as we grew, and the unending space of our closets, the home provides at least three ways in which we can explore our favourite music and books and food and selves.

I’ve been home about three months now. The first month was one kind of frustration. I was healing told my folks, and therefore was excused from waking up early, helping around with household chores, socialising, and whatever else is associated with being active-member-of-the-family. Quite apparently, the folks have grown accustomed to get by without you, darling. You are no more indispensible. But what’s even more surprising is the drastic change in routines and their and your definitions of discipline. They awaken at least two hours later than they did in the morning. That you STILL have a deadline. And in your mind at least, you protest – but I’m 26, for god’s sake!

Month two: my niece sort of began to get to me. Half the reason I’ve missed home is her. Half the reason I chose to return instead of staying on and finding a new job was her, half the reason home is where my heart is, is her. And now helping raising her began to unsettle me. I realised a few weeks back, that like it or not, I must contribute to it – wash her poo, get her to eat, read to her, dress her up, comb her hair, sit on the swing with her, entertain her, sing and dance for her…

The third month, last four weeks, have been about observation; about learning. My sister’s Diwali holidays cue in a trip for her and the niece to head for her granddad’s house in Surat. We were dreading it. We’d grown so accustomed to being in service of the little princess, that the new found (even if just for a fortnight) freedom seemed meaningless to us. For the first few days we stared either at the walls or at each other. Gradually movies began to be lined up on the DVD. And then, a space for conversation. The emptiness also gave all three of us to exchange notes on how things are for one who lives solo, and what it is to stay away from home.

I had had a brief conversation with a friend recently about training one’s parents to not pass value judgements or be strict moral supervisors on matters of our friends or acquaintances even. That, it is hard, but it is possible. After all said and done, our folks trust our views the most. They never see us as too divergent in opinions from them even if what we might say may sound preposterous.

It is mostly about the parents, our coming back. Then it is about some other things too. What seemed cultural differences at first now become parts of the landscape. Depending upon how long one has spent in one place, the native rituals – however minute or insignificant locally – acquire something of a magnified prominence when one has decided never to return. Or at least stay put in this ‘new’ old.

Whether you have stayed as away as another town within the country, or flown overseas, you are bound to miss your own sense of discipline and freedom to do what you’ve always done, even if your folks won’t protest. What you’ve grown accustomed to, then, is not yourself, but the lack of anyone else around. Surely as the clichéd social animals, allowing that for ourselves is blasphemous.

It is not time that heals, it is the revisiting of your earliest memory. And for those of us who’re born, bred and bored in a town for at least 20-odd years, that’s not going to change. That ‘town’ could be Baroda, Bombay or Paris. Call me old fashioned or just conservative. I still miss the sea of Bombay, I still miss the nip in the air of Hyderabad, but every time I chuck a job, every time I’ll experience heartbreak, and each time my work overwhelms me into negativity, I shall return only to my little town. Here lie people who shall, surprisingly give me just enough space, accept me unconditionally, and let bygones be bygones.

Moony

I wanted this thought to be in writing as soon as could be because this feeling seldom stays very long. What feeling you ask? This realisation about why I keep returning to base after each hiatus in another city (I talk as if I've travelled the world by now - seriously, the loftiness, doesn't it kill you with mirth sometimes?). I'm filled with glee right this moment... and several before this one, for over an hour now. Considering the past couple of weeks and more have been absolutely tiresome and often downright irritating, tonight was such a return of positivity.

After a gruelling three days of trying to finish editing a boring finance management and accounting paper for a journal, it was time to heave a sigh in triumph this evening. The finish line was finally arrived at, and I was determined to make a celebration of it. Of course, I had forgotten that it was a night of celebration anyway.

In the past four or five years, the times I have missed home the most, right from the first time, have been on festival days. Diwali, Sankranti, Holi, Rakhi,  and Sharad Purnima. The last isn't a very big or significantly happening time in most households - Gujju or otherwise - but here at home, it's a special time.

For as long as I can remember, the family gathers on the terrace for dinner in the moonlight. The high point is the simple almond sprinkled, kesar scented doodh-poha kheer. We've had countless memories of these from the past 15 odd years in this house - the time that my uncle and aunt were here from Jamnagar, when Sriram had come home once, another time that Twara was over... This year too is special - with Maneeti.

The little one had a gala time tottering about on the white mosaic tiled terrace that reflected the moon's regal magnanimity in all its glory. Of course, it was extra neat that we had our favourite Gujarati songs - numbers my parents have reared us on - romantic, playful and upbeat (yes, there are regular songs, other than the regular garba shit in Gujju too). What came back once more, and full throttle, was the fact that I was with family. I may not be one of those घरेलु कुलीन कन्याs who enjoy the home thing very much; we're not even a very enthu or loud let's-socialise quartet at home.

And despite all the massive cribbing sessions about boring food, or the lack of anything to do, or Late Harvest craving or the extreme desire to go hog at Maroosh, I wouldn't trade this time for anything else. Tonight, I'm happy to be home. Tonight's a good night.

Ittefaaq ya What the Faack?!

In October, whilst attempting to churn out a good school book for ToI, I wanted to do a story on private equity investments. My research was meagre, and the resources that came up were either unwilling to talk or rather hush-hush about it – “प्यार भी यहाँ लगे है गाली” types. After innumerable attempts, I had to give up, के हट साला नै हो रहा है. Time was running out, the deadline loomed awfully close, book बंध.

It has been nine months since. The baby is ready to come out. I’ve just read a comprehensive analysis of the K12 business around the goddamn world. साला no one can ace me on it now. And I’d probably be able to vomit out not just a story, but perhaps a whole goddamn pamphlet on it! All this out of an annual report का MDA.

And then I met an old college acquaintance last night! And that was a seriously IYWTF moment. We actually stay just across the street from each other. And that is a scary prospect, cuz we didn’t even bother speaking to each other in college, beyond the passing acknowledgement of a smile to suggest any of the following: 1. You too are human; 2. You exist; 3. Er...; 4. *royal roll of the eyes*

So from avoiding, if we could help it, to adding each other on Facebook and meeting for ice cream last night, we seem to have come a long way – in growing up perhaps, having an hour-long civil conversation – ice cream, and walk, our only companions. In a strange land, it is funny how two people belonging to totally different worlds unite in some ways: noticing the transvestites that dot the street, thinking how funny is all the make-up and beef cake that suddenly spills out post-9 ’o clock on the streets, missing food, adjusting with new company, being slaves of a job that you somewhere have begun to love, and a guy who we both met about two months ago for the same purpose (only his was served and mine, well, I was destined to be his neighbour).

No, I don’t find him as much of a pain as I did all those juvenile years ago. He even ventured to call me a friend he was out with, to a friend on phone. He was gracious enough to hang up on a call and continue speaking. To me. And listening. Wishing for some quiet. Looking forward to returning to our comfortable grottos in a while.

Takes me back yet again, to that passage we read in school about Tolerance by Forster?

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.

Walk in the Wind

I walked in the cold wind today. It of course ruffled my hair and made me shiver and added a shrill bleat to my voice, but little did I figure, that in its anaesthetic numbness, it was injecting a pain in my left knee that would come alive when my limbs warmed up considerably under the blanket.

The first tinge of sensation entered my toes and base of foot just a few moments ago. I know now, more than I’ve known in years, what the word ‘warm’ connotes. My fingers can type again. Efficiently, swiftly. I can differentiate pain from itch and itch from that physical feeling of unfeeling. I feel the vapour of my breath fill up this little tent propped up on my knees at one end and my head at the other.

The smells come alive. The vague stench of the salwar worn all day, which I’m half lazy to change, the sweat, the faint flavour of my toothpaste, the staleness of my day-old washed hair. They all seem to be in conversation, as if to condemn the contents of the book that lies in my lap – open yet bookmarked.

Thank god the tent is lined with a quilt designed out of my mother’s sari on the inside. It makes the shelter, even if makeshift, homely.

Dialogue in the Dark

For an hour on Saturday evening, I turned blind. Visually impaired, as they call it. No vision, no I could see NOTHING. कुछ भी नहीं. And after my last exchange with the dark, this was a paradoxical experience. It was, to use a cliché (because clichés are true nevertheless), an eye opener in more ways than one. It was literally a walk in the dark. Pitch dark. The kinds in which you can’t see your own hands. And the only thing to lead you is a walking stick. Of course, the banging into each other (we were a group of seven), stepping on someone’s foot and hitting-the-ground you do, are not even a fraction of the amount of assistance that you discover your senses can lend. Your companions become the subjects of most concern.


I’ve always believed that it takes only short of five hours to be physically attracted to any human being, whether or not you like him or her. But to genuinely care for someone takes as little as an hour in the dark! It is a kind of dependence that links the two beings. The dependence to know that all shall be well and al manner of things shall be well.

What may seem like a rant so far, is a mere scratch on the ambience created solely for the ‘unseeing’. I ‘saw’ today the fickle and unnecessarily complex exterior of people who find it hard to simplify. I saw a woman who could not come to terms with the fact that being unable to see does not enable us to be or do the metaphysical. I also sat with another woman to whom it mattered more how our guide lost what he had lost, and not what he had gained. We still hoped to glorify a man who was being himself. Quick to label him “Shahrukh Khan”, we needed a parallel, a precedent, because this was too unique to have happened to us for the first time. The first time in years, or the first time in life.

I smelled the coffee for the first time in ages. I differentiated Cuticura and Ponds talcum powders. I tasted Colgate tooth power for the first time. I swayed in a boat all over again. And sang प्यार की कश्ती में and ओ माझी रे with Upasana. I touched the bark of an Ashoka tree. I shouted, and screamed and ate a packet of chips in there. I used my fingers to sort a fifty from a tenner to pay for it. I felt the spray of the winter winds on Hussain Sagar lake. I held hands and shirt sleeves and shoulders. I followed a voice – in fact, many voices. I recognized them all. I knew where they came from. I knew they were going nowhere. I felt solid ground beneath my feet. I felt a carpet of lawn and pebbles. I felt the steel new seats at the bus stop on Pedder road. A little water wet my shoes too. I felt cold, but not alone. I felt protected. I felt full of purpose. And the dark… the dark was not of the night, or like Kshitij’s “velvet”, but it was definitely “alive... so much that its smoothness could be felt on the back of my hand, around my neck and my ankles...”

“Like silken threads… millions of them… lying as if someone had dropped them in the breeze… scattered… each strand tracing itself on my skin… the strands lay together yet distinguishable.”

My hand holder, the one to lead in a calm voice, the one to challenge my judgement, to ask me what an odd apple was doing amidst another pattern, to get me humming, to say my name, was a voice all of 19! Nasir his name.

When our walk was done, when out questions asked and answered, when our perceptions shaken and when we were allowed to walk 30 times slower than ever, Nasir led us back to our world - the world of light, colour, lines and eyes, with the souvenir of a card with our name written in Braille.

Nasir is really a 30-year-old from Bombay who worked as a tele-caller at TATA Indicom for two years. He lost his vision at 21. Equipped with rudimentary English and working Hindi, our man has been in Hyderabad for the past two months training as a guide at Dialogue in the Dark, which opened to public on Sunday, 9 January 2011, at In Orbit mall, Madhapur on level 5.

Nasir told me something no Hyderabadi will ever be able to: the number of species of flora at KBR Park. Any guesses?

Not a soul around and a House Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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