Chaos Theory

Doesn’t it get on to your nerves when you just can’t decide one goddamn thing? All of a sudden, you turn into an indecisive nincompoop from being the determined, sorted hard-to-crack nut? That there are so many choices, you realise there’s no real choice at all! You stick to a rut just so you can avoid stepping out of line and be pinned down for an injury – whether ‘tis to yourself or another? You find yourself all alone, even though whatever may happen, you’ll still have a bunch’a people to love you and support you?

For every step you take, there’s a pothole waiting to suck you in and spit you out; your energy all drained and left to restore by unscrupulous means – means that you may never have explored, or even known. People from as varied backgrounds as each day in your life, doling advice (or worse yet, shooting questions) to which you may not be prepared or have the intellect to respond.

There is a heightened need within to “verbalise” everything I feel, sometimes to the point of hyperventilating. Like sophisticated melodrama – what an oxymoron! I’ve been told to not “think so much” but the point is, not everything you think needs to be blurted out. Even if someone asks. Even if it may take you somewhere in the scheme of things. All you’re doing is creating a more intricate mesh that appears to be impenetrable.

Verbalising yourself seems to give tough situations rigidity and concrete form that is more difficult to destroy, combat, knock off, mitigate, defy, resolve. Mr. Nilose spoke of clarity coming out of chaos at a conference held early last year for senior executives of the Heavy Engineering Division of L&T. Back then, the chaos was of noise, of what was tangible. This time, the chaos is within, and Mr. Nilose’s thought comes to the rescue.

As Aakash says to Sameer when the latter’s in a dilemma of how to tell Pooja that he loves her, in Dil Chahta Hai, “Mere bhai, kisi ko kuch matt bol! Tera koi bharosa nahin – aaj Pooja, kal koi duja!”

Bad Day

Yesterday was rotten; by far, one of the worse days at office. I wanna thank Mummy here, for bringing the workplace into perspective for me. No, I didn’t speak to her or anything, but it’s something I learnt from her over the period of our acquaintance or a year and a half.


Don’t bring work home.

And of course also thought of her later in the evening.

Here’s an excerpt of my gleeful chat with Neel this morning:


Priyanca: something wonderful happened last evening
Neel: ?
Priyanca: after leaving, i just switched off my cell and was expecting to cry it out or sleep- in the bus and then
once i reached hostel, some more
instead i remembered i had my crochet to finish
so i did that
Neel: so can i see it?
Priyanca: and then i reached hostel and....

[then i rattled off my entire day's crap to the poor chap]

i went to my pal's place
cooked pasta
and we drove all the way to haji ali juice centre at half past 12 and had their strawberry fruit cream (it is yummy personified)
life is too blissful to call even a bitch this morning
:D
Neel: :)
Priyanca: you should try the Haji Ali Juice Centre ka fruit cream man...
it beats any, i mean ANY dessert any day
it's so good it's not funny

I first had the delectable fruit cream at the IT guest house at Somer Villa just a couple of blocks away. I couldn’t do it much justice thanks to the sumptuous food there and the absolute lack of space in my tummy. But all that’s changed thanks to Nishant. When I’m eating with him, my tummy seems to miraculously expand to accommodate everything on the platter. Half a dinner after dinner and then the fruit cream helping to top it. I really didn’t think I’d be able to finish it. But the fresh figs and the fresh strawberries… But for Ma, I’d’ve never ended up sampling the delicacy ever.

I’ve wanted to get back there for ages, but never had inclination, or it just never happened for some reason or another. And the shop’s huge, not missable. And it’s right there at the Haji Ali junction. How can you ever pass the place without either gobbling up some of that godly fruit cream, or at least packing it for a romantic night ahead? They’ve redefined strawberries-’n-cream into a whole new dimension.

The effects of the dessert have been overwhelmingly miraculous. I’ve been thinking so positively and the day’s been progressing on a note of absolute optimism. All of this to result in my raking up courage enough to send some blah draft of a direct mailer to my boss, face him after yesterday after all the shit he gave me, and even coolly hand over work to the department biatch.

Even chocolates that the company union distributed today – which I thought was crazy – cheered me more. The ostentation could kill you; everyone is bubbling with joy about it around here… but that, my dearios, is another topic.

Yummy Chappals

The day before was supposed to be the first day of my attempt at saving some moolah for the rest of the month. What I ended up doing, was not only unbelievable, but also quite a bargain in hindsight. And though it may not be a significant buy, it's been a possession of complete delight for me every time I look at them!

Alright, alright, I'll cut to the chase - I bought this new pair of footwear off Warden Road. Now what's the big deal about buying new chapps? Women buy chapps all the time and I'm no exception. The delight lies in the brand, comfort and the way the pair looks and the material of which it is made. Moreover, the place I got it from is the most unlikely for great footwear.

Cenzere, the tiny hole I got them from, is known for inexpensive trendy footwear that you can sport to work or college or casually, and pass on to the bai in two months. It is not meant to last. It is not meant to generate sentiments such as envy or scorn. Just fun footwear would be an ideal tagline for the place. Twako picked up a comfortable pair when she was here the first time around.
I was walking down that road to get a new charger for my cell phone. No particular agenda other than that, decided to walk into the shop for some idle time-killing. For those of us who are aware of the comfort of the Dr. Scholl's line of footwear from Bata, I was gonna buy off a copy of something of the sort for a fraction of the price of the original, and quite smart with heels too. Lovely beige. Only, size for us monsters has always been a burning issue. "Nai... Madam ismein toh aapka size nai hai," the sales guy said.
Crestfallen only I was.


Then the chap's stance brightens as he suggests, "Original dikhaoon?" I thought original bandar toh I'm looking at only. What else original you'll show me? I was like..."nai... nai..." nodding my head like a moron, as if to prevent me from entering any deal. I was lured. Pakka. But then this guy unearthed the most beautiful pair of chappals. They're huge. There's nothing feminine about them. BUT THEY ARE SO COOL.
And they look like vanilla ice cream with a dollop of dark chocolate on top! YUMMY.

The most wonderful part of the sales guy's spiel was his honesty! The lower most layer of the sole was lovely soft rubber... I kept trying to punch mini cracks into it with my nails and eventually (at the end of the five minutes of the pitch) began simply using it as acupressure equipment for my finger tips. The middle portion is cork, well glass-papered on the sides unlike the Indian versions and neatly finished with a buff leather insole fitted snugly inside the slight scoop that cover the foot. The funniest part came when the lad was describing the top portion.

"Washable hai yeh, Madam!" I was like... you mentioned leather someplace earlier in your pitch, dude, if this be washable, then how this be leather? "Arre Madam [I love that word, man!], yeh itna comfortable material hai, lekin hum laate hain, humko bhi nahin pata kya material hai!" I wanted to laugh, but his honesty struck me.

That last statement sold the shoe. I haggled a bit - "580 mein le lo, Madam!" he said to my appeal for 500 bucks. Apeal won. He sold a pair of original Berkenstocks for peanuts. Germany to my feet, this pair has had an interesting journey, I want to think.

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.

Pee-hai New Year

Spending New Year’s Eve in Bombay was strange. Didn’t think I’d miss nothing and no one at all. It was exactly how i wanted it to be. The booze was just right; the setting was quiet; the laughter all there; the company was better than the best; and the cold too played its part. Add to this the most important two ingredients - maa ka khana and a comfy bed to retire.

Who made it all happen?

Padma.

To not meet someone for two years; barely stay in touch and not crossing paths simply cuz home was both our calling at the same bloody time. And then when it does happen, it's like the old times. Nostalgia couldn’t have come at a better time. It is not my style, but this was just beyond material worth. The laughter, the randomness, exchanging titbits, letting each other be.

We never realise why we value some people and being with them. They just allow you to be. To exist. Followed up with a drink and some black forest pastry. And koshambari and authentic fresh-off-the-tawa paranthas with the ever indulgent Guptaji-ka-achaar. There is no malice, no criticism, yet they know you like the back of their homes. Or their allergies.

I Googled "fruit diet" and Law and Kenneth, Facebooked and Gtalked and checked all my mail, and burst crackers with auntie and spoke to different people at different times on the phone and even saw the lunar eclipse overhead as it wound up for the night. Just not the things I can do in anybody's home. It is not detachment. It is what I term space. Complete, unadulterated.

Pam n I talked for the longest time the night before last. About everything that's been going right in our lives. She put a lot of my fears at bay. She reminded me I wasn't the only one harbouring them. And in that rain check, I have found out what her place is in my life. Thanks Pam, for being the woman who tells me time and again, "Chal baith ja! You’re not the only one!"

SOME ASIDES:
Panvel is nothing like it was on my last visit. ONGC's done its bit and there were no giant insects the size of mini Godzillas. The hills make a remote view and the noise is just as consistent as Bombay proper. It is hinterland no more.

Pam was supposed to return my mother's shawl that ma gave her to wear three years back on her way back from our place late one evening. Now I’ve left my cell-phone charger there also. I know, PUppy shame shame!

MY NEW YEAR GIFTS: a pair of LARGE green earrings set in white metal and a chunky neck-piece from a flee-market in Goa, Dil Toh Bachcha Hai Ji from Ishqiya, a set of pictures from Vipul Arora and a loved one arriving from another distant land next weekend.

Hatt Na! ^@#$*)&<~

In the last few years that I’ve been made aware of the importance of right of way on the road, it always puzzled me why a human being’s life was less precious than reaching a business meeting in a swanky BMW. Why couldn’t people put themselves in the patient’s death bed just for a moment and shift a little for the ambulance driver to wangle his way through? In much smaller Baroda, from where my tiny backpack hails, road bullying is even more ubiquitous.

But I recently saw a heart rending sight in Bombay: an ambulance being given way amid jam-packed traffic at the newly restructured (and heavily criticized) Haji Ali junction. Drivers reversed, steered to the side, did whatever it took to save a life. The crossing is a locality that is known for its deafening honking and ruthlessness on the road, after all, how can you expect higher morals as compassion and considerateness when time's at a premium?

A poignant feature of this incident was that there was no pandu to direct the traffic, or even regulate movement. It has been often observed by old timers, or even those who've spent considerable amount of time driving in Bombay, that when there's no traffic police supervising (or pretending or attempting to supervise) the flow of vehicles on the roads, both, road rage as well as accidents are fewer. What's more, the traffic also seems to (though amble) at least get on, unlike when they're doling out pseudo signals.

Having digressed adequately, we return to the psyche of the regular Bambaiyya - whether the Nariman Point headed sophisticated-looking executive, or the more weathered trader hurrying towards Fort or Tardeo - has undergone change. Sure he's scared more than ever before, sure he wants to stay safe as home even under the humidity filtered sun, but he cares. Even if for the selfish reason of what goes around comes around. Either this attitude of benevolence has evolved from the multiple incidents of mass deaths, where thousands, if not millions lost their loved ones, or an awakening has come that the only way to get on in Bombay is to give way…

Chinchpokli

You think Chinchpokli in the same breath as Timbuktu (if you’re all well-read and know it all) or Jhumreetalaiyya (for the desis-at-heart or those who’ve read Kipling). Some strange place with a stranger name so far away you doubt its existence- ha ha, you take it for granted, it doesn’t. But, ladies and gentlemen, it is very much for real.

Yeah yeah, this is probably no revelation to those of you who’ve lived in Bombay forever, but us गओंठीs who got here by the last train from Baroda, साला ये तो कमाल हो गया! It’s like discovering snow in Hyderabad (Snow World- don’t make the mistake of eating it, you’ll hate your tongue for life :D).

When Allan - my jazz teacher, a PR professional and friend - was moving office to the 90 year-old-Velji-Lakhamshi-Napoo-High-School-इलाका, I laughed! And laughed and laughed and laughed. I wanted to say, You’re gonna be so far from every place else! when in fact, he was going to be closer to Town, and it meant we’d be able to meet for practice with more ease and more often.

Even before that great event occurred, the picture etched in my mind was by my hostel mate, Bindi,the Naagar-desperately-looking -for-a-groom. She made Chinchpokli sound like it was Bermuda Triangle! Untraceable on the map and no vehicle went there, or one that did, never returned. I thought, Askilant this place must be, no?

And then I took a cab from hostel to Neena’s place one evening. From memory of the couple of times that Neena had escorted me, I blurted, “Dada, सात रास्ता से ले लेना,” and then every signboard address of all the tiny shops that lined the stretch read Chinchpokli. Such was my shock- I sat agape with my mouth wide open (to let in god knows what sizes of insects and what quantities of dust) and eyes popping out. I bought a Crocin and a Fa roll-on deodorant to make it all a real experience. It was my way of jerking myself out of disbelief (heights of self preservation, pinch, but don’t hurt).

Long after the fact was ingrained in my existence, I met another (Allan being the first guy I knew at) Hansa Communications designer (whose name I cannot recall for no fault of his) recently at the Bandra Poetry Slam. Post-fun-mingling revealed the fact. I blurted out, “Oh that’s the office at… erm… screwing my nose - crinkling my eyes CHINCH-POK-LEE?” The guy and his girlfriend practically screamed with laughter. I mean, plenty of case-taking had happened through the evening thanks to my “Townie” status –stepping onto foreign territory and all the fuss that surrounds it. But the fascination for one more strange land has been conquered.

Chinchpokli tee hee is no more some remote place where you head to never return, but more real. I now know it is home to the Kasturba Gandhi Municipal Hospital run by BMC, “reputed for the treatment of contagious diseases.” [Wikipedia] I strongly suggest we should add Patratu to that lexicon of faraway lands, though ;P.

Kya Chutiyapa Hai!

 I’ve spent the last eight years of my life studiously avoiding all contact with the nostalgia of the "good ol’ days" of school, only to ram right into not one or two, but four of my oldest school acquaintances. Twako’s always been a constant so she doesn’t count, but the other four…Gosh!

It began with Mital writing a bulkmail to some of us oldies asking if we’d (be willing to) make it to a reunion cuz she’s coming to India and the woman wants to kill time. “Crap,” I thought. Who the fuck wants to meet so fucking soon after the relief of finally not having to see each other EVER AGAIN? Not realising it’ll be a whole decade in another two years, of bidding goodbye. I made some fuck-all excuse and wiggled out.

 In the meanwhile, I bumped into Anand Mehta in the train! “WOHOW!” I thought to myself. The bugger wanted to have a conversation in the frikkin train. Man! Me crouching on the upper berth (his upper berth) while he conveniently tilted his head up slightly. I made the mistake of not changing my cell number after giving it to him. Every weekend since I’ve had to invent new excuses to avoid meeting him.

 Ujjwal managed to add me to his gtalk list in the interim though. This was two months ago. We’ve chatted ever since, ever fucking day. Barring Sundays, of course. This, after zero contact all through undergrad, PG and more. Incidentally, oh lord, a couple of weeks back I gave in to Anand’s invite, and boy, that was a mishtakey.

 Parin Sutariya’s chat applet popped less than a week back. The choot is so fuckin sweet – he even admits to not knowing what to say, and so not pinging. But it felt good to pick up from nowhere in the air.

 The surprise of all surprises sprung when Kanika Singh’s chat invite broke my afternoon siesta at work last week. We were to meet on Sunday morning. The biatch diatched moi.

But the excitement hasn’t ebbed…

Bombay Teaches 'nuther Lesson in Life

Bombay. A city perhaps second only to the Delhi’s Punju pockets in bling; glamour; loudness, is teaching me a thing or two about restraint: at work, in bursting into tears, in allowing others to swoop me into their impulses, in being swept into a massive blunder, in affection.

Parag and I were discussing Chaos Theory, the Anuvab Pal play I caught on a stray Sunday last month. The essence of our dialogue revolved around why many of us end up tongue tied when it comes to confessing special feelings for someone. For that matter, most of us suck at confessing in general. Parag’s reasoning may not hold true in other situations, but I’m inclined to believe he is quite reasonable in the case of admitting romantic impulses. Parag pins it on respect – the relationship and what has gone into building it that is, if the love evolves from an existing comradeship or a deepening platonic affection.

And nothing and no one can say for sure whether the evolution is mutual or one-sided. Think about it this way: we all know that we’re going to lose our loved ones someday. The elders sooner, by natural elimination. But the thought gives us the trembles – of the loss; of the absence. Even if you haven’t spoken in a long time. Even if you don’t see eye to eye on some matters. Even if they want you to marry by their choice. Even if they want you educated in a stream they couldn’t choose.

Perhaps losing friendship of the object of your affection isn’t as bad as losing him or her to death, but it is still a thought we shudder to allude. What is that situation, wherein you cannot live without a person, but rather not tell for the fear of having to live in the complete absence from your life?

If you’re already wondering what “this” is doing here, here’s why- I’ve met a few men and women my age who’ve been in love a while (in Bombay that is), some heartbroken, some too scarred or too scared to tell. Some live in the endless optimism that they shall find true love (pardon the cliché), some in the hope that their love will return, and some too hopeless to bother – either wallowing in their misery, or so stoned within that they still look for some contrived interpretation of the goddamn word.

A city that seems to regurgitate Dr. Filmys at every bend has also this face. Once in a while, it sheds the mask of entertainment and reveals this forlorn, alone demeanour. Its fears are fraught with distrust, misgivings, past experience. This city has said to me, “Deal with it,” when I was denied. Like the regular dose of discipline you get from a parent, this one’s training me to grow up once more. All romantic notions dismissed. As Hit recently warned, “Don’t even think of being nice.”

Bombay Heals

Before I began penning this blog, I started with one that was solely meant for the broken hearted. But that didn't last too long. I used to think I felt the pain that many had suffered and that I had suffered often, but  splits, I figured, were just as part-of-life as cell phones and Tantra tee shirts. The calendar ran its course and time worked its magic. However, it was the rush as well as a positive serenity of the old world slumped into the new in the magic that is Bombay, that does not let you wallow in your misery for a day longer than is absolutely necessary.

Ever since I stepped into the city, I've had days that seemed ruinous, almost deadening, making me want to pack up and leave even. The one thing that has held me is the people. Unlike what I perceived initially, it is indeed the people who maketh this city, like any other, considering the cuisine isn't anything distinct and the weather is like a longish March-to-May.

These humans, the special kinds called Bambaiyyas command the pace, the air, the current, the mood of the city. You can have just lost a prestigious poetry contest and yet scream with delight over the phone to a few close friends just because you met the most amazing set of people- smiling, winking, huggable, relatable.

In a conversation with Aditya yesterday, I was told, "Your display picture reminds me of the old you. The you I knew." How, I ask, how can a city considered so ruthless, demanding, swift-to-move-on be such a healing force?

Of Apparel and Apparent Shortness

The novelty of scantily clad women wears off way too soon in Bombay. At ten in the night, on a deserted street such as Babulnath, a woman in a mini skirt is rare. Rarer are three of them, looking to get back home. While a longish stroll home wouldn't harm - not even a mild risk of eve teasing or crime - our bunch decides the occasion calls for an all-out splurge. Small change, the other two consider, the fact that they all seem to have overlooked is that they don't have any.

It surprised me when a pal (visiting from a faraway remote land, far more conservative than apna Bombay) exclaimed, on our walk back to Churchgate station, near a bus stop, at the number of skimpily dressed women who travel by public transport and ogled so lustily and in awe at the bare female human flesh on the little back-n-forth hunt across Pali Naka, though I don't blame him, given the beauty crisis he endures each day.

The ease with which a woman can commute in even starved sections of this cosmo sex-haven, has nothing to do with the men who put up the I'm maha-decent facade. Oh! no sir! It is a simple case of not hitting the kulhadi on the foot. Simple logic: if the "outsiders" did not behave themselves, they'd be either beaten up, or screwed royally by one of the many moral-policing gang bangers. Plus, women's false sense of security comes from this fact, which the men actually use as a means to encourage more women to be less covered up... all for Nain Sukh Praapti!

Of course, some communities are also associated naturally with sexual satiation, or at least the complacency that they can get whoever they want, using slightly more subtle, and even sophisticated means.

The tall and hot bawas have no dearth of nice- NICE women. The Goans are also lucky when it comes to well structured damsels in very little clothing. The Gujju janta (and female jantus) knows how to play around the rules. The bibis live in a different world, and the other locals are a wannabe lot anyway. The greatest benefit from all the men that we women enjoy, is of complete submission and utter helplessness.

It is amusing to walk into a conference room full of Bambaiyya men, raising more than just their eyebrows. While in a less urban setting, women with slightly decent brain power would be ignored or ridiculed or even side-lined, with zero appreciation for the female intelligence, and complete ignorance and neglect of the fact, that instead of concentrating on my obvious assets, they instead of their d**** might want to stand up and take notice. Even in "very professional" Bombay, the d***brains don't really evolve. Only, they know how to conceal better- well, at least they make the attempt. So instead of considering us as dimwitted sex objects, [wo/we]men are a masked as potential threat that our semi-metrosexual boys think will overwhelm their positions at work, in a competitive environment.

The assumption is, a hot woman is hot, looks hot, appears and makes efforts to be that way because she has a motive. The motive isn't even to "sleep" her way up, but simply "tease" her way up the ladder. And when the teasing is done the right way, you never commit to giving the "wrong impression", yet the purpose is served. And this purpose at workplace could be anything at all- anything from some leeway from the IT department, to no-fetching-coffee-for-the-boss, to more frequent increments and rewards in kind.

While it hurts some women to do that because either they're just not equipped, or LAZY, some of us are too motivated and dispassionate to care a f*** about what others will say or do as detriments. One just bulldozes one's way through because there's just such a dearth of time. Traditionally, the sex that was perceived as docile and less equipped, is now sly and cunning. Not exactly the vamp, but she knows how to get her way. She will do so without announcing it to the world. And take advantage of the horny, patronising chauvinists who will weave their own intricate traps and get so wound up in them, that they will have no choice but to give in to the demands of the women around them.

All they shall be left with, is delusions of having the final say, the upper hand, and utter cluelessness deep down. And eff the pun!!

M.U.H.U.H.A.H.A.H.A

The Power of Smiles

Last weekend was the most memorable I’ve had so far in Mumbai. Apart from the variety of unrushed fun that the 36 hours offered, the city chose to unleash another human phenomenon to me: the power of smiles.

The action began as I rushed – first to my bus stop, of course – to receive a friend at the airport. What an optimum way to spend two days in Maximum City: Lots’a eating & sight seeing. ALL PUNS INTENDED. But this is not an account of how Arunav Kumar Jha & Priyanca Vibhutiprasad Vaishnav [phew! And no non-South Indian can win with me in length-of-names] spent the 7th and 8th of November 2009. It is a rant about the Power of the Greatest Utility Curve.

When I climbed into the 155, I wasn’t expecting a welcoming empty स्ट्रीयान्साठी seat at 5:15 pm, so I stood near the entry door, beside a wheel-top seat. A mother-son duo was perched on it, with mommy having to instruct her boy (of around 10) not to be so aggressive and grumpy and to stop shouting at passers-by out on the street. The child was uncontrollable. He seemed mentally disturbed, though not entirely “nuts”.

Time soon came for them to get off – it was August Kranti Maidan, I think – so the lady in white-and-yellow salwar kameez urged the child to stand up so they could move ahead to the exit. The kid was obviously unhappy, for his joyride (the little that he was enjoying) was about to come to a halt.

As the Gujju Mom scolded and nudged and prodded the now-completely-aggrieved kid, his eyes and mine met briefly. Never one to fight my habit, I gestured my hands to help him come out through the narrow leg space, and smiled. It also meant I was gonna get to sit now!

Yippee! & Phew!

What followed has stayed with me since: The child tapped on my hand that held onto the seat railing. I looked up. His grey face turned out a smile and a wave to say bye-bye. My worries about reaching not-in-time for Ar’s arrival melted into the oblivion. This moment pervaded me so much…

I told my sister about it last before we slept on Tuesday night. She says it is a sign and a strong one from the Guy-Up-There, that he chooses to bestow me with it. Ages ago, my now-no-more school principal said, “Priyanca’s always got a smile – an honest one, a loving one – a smile that welcomes you into her world.” I hope you’re watching Mrs. Mirchandani. I can still love. I can still welcome. And let go, with a smile. As Mirat once chose to say, I have “so much love to give.”

We all do. And to strangers, even more, because we haven’t given them the power to hurt us. Emotionally, we are still unaccessed territory. What makes us strong is the fact that we ARE emotional (says my daddy).

I have never laughed and smiled and grinned as I did on these two dates. [I laugh like a nutter at work though.] Mirat (again) said, “You throw your head back when you laugh”, when he mimicked Viren and Abhishek. It’s like talking to the stars, indeed. It’s amazing how comfortable you become and make another person when there’s the warmth of that sinking arc with its ends pointing to those stars. It’s like the first rains, or standing in a vast sunbeam in the windy winter of Jamnagar, or when your boss says “Good work” or playing with a Labrador puppy…

The smile works for a pick up line like no other. Try it the next time you spot a cute face at a pub. It is what relieves serious meetings of…well…their seriousness. It is what reminds fellow humans that we’re humans too. That, we are entitled to same treatment; that we can dole out same treatment. It’s what makes us forget and forgive the wrong doings of others, and remember the good that resides in ourselves. It gives us the feeling of

Somewhere in my youth or childhood,

I must’ve done something good

Thank you Ar, for smiling and making me smile so much. :)