The skin was stretched tight, paler than the rest of her body. Like warm honey. Das thought if he licked it, it would taste different from the rest of her. Instead he gently placed one hand over his wife’s belly and continued staring at it.
She sighed from somewhere above his head. “Your hands are cold,” she grumbled.
He took his hands away and repositioned the nightie over her stomach before he kissed it for the third time that morning. Anita sighed again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything. The usual. It doesn’t matter. He’ll come soon.”
“She,” Das corrected.
Normally they would get into a loving tug-of-war over names and gender. But Anita had been growing tired in the last few weeks of pregnancy. She was weary of all the people patting her belly, asking her when the child was due, offering suggestions on pre-natal and post-natal care, giving her oranges she’d craved for through the pregnancy. She wanted to have the baby and be done with it.
Das was a lot more enamoured by the invisible but very powerful being that was kicking his wife’s gut. He almost did not mind that he’d not made love to her in the last few months. They had been married twelve years and had been trying for a baby for eight of those years.
“Biju, I’ve been having bad dreams,” Anita said. She looked up at Das from her hands. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, beside her feet. He placed his hands on her swollen ankles.
“I know. I sleep next to you, remember? And we don’t do much to tire me out anymore, so I don’t sleep as deeply as...” he trailed off, smirk fading, seeing Anita was not going to crack a grin.
“We’ve waited so long, I just think something is....” she trailed off. She looked down at her hands again, which were splayed over her belly.
Das did not say anything. He continued to rub her feet, pressing down and easing kinks in the parts he knew ached most.
**
“Still no news from your parents?” It was more a statement than a question from Das. Anita’s silence bounced off the walls.
“Don’t worry about them,” he continued, “We’ll send them a picture of the baby. It’ll have some grandmother’s nose and one uncle’s unibrow, and they will love it and call us right away.”
“I’m not worrying about them, you are,” she replied.
They’d moved into his parents’ house in Kolkata for the last few weeks of her pregnancy. Das’ parents loved their daughter-in-law and usually she loved them too, but her strain was palpable. As her stomach stretched tighter and the baby kicked harder, the lines on Anita’s face deepened each day.
She missed her mother. Das knew that during their dozen years together, whenever she was particularly tired or unwell and she wept, it was because she wanted her mother. Though the pregnancy had been normal, and a blessing after so long, Anita’s want for her mother didn’t go away. Even when they were desperately trying for a child, there were times when Anita would blame her parents once she realised she was not pregnant. “They cursed our marriage,” she would say.
Das never knew what to say because he knew that she loved her parents nonetheless. His murmured dissent was all he’d offered at those times before distracting her with other things.
Anita was standing in front of the window later that day, watching motorcycles on the road whizz by, the neighbour arguing with the vegetable-seller over the price of aubergines. The older women had both tucked their long, oiled hair into buns held up by black hair-pins, one stood in the blazing May sun, the other in the shadow of her verandah. Anita heard the raised voices squabbling in melodious Bengali. She still couldn’t understand much of the language besides a few vegetable names, the words for love and anger. She promised herself her son would be fluent in both parents’ languages and in English too. He wouldn’t speak the broken English his parents spoke when they’d first met each other.
Anita remembered when she first taught Das how to speak Malayalam. She’d hoped he would impress her Kerala-village-born parents with his grasp of the language and that they would forgive him for sweeping their daughter off her feet. But her parents never understood her falling in love with a circus technician, a man outside their caste, creed and state. She tried not to remember the raised voices, threats and tears, which ended in her mother giving her the most valuable pair of earrings in her cupboard and her largest box to pack, not saying a word or shedding another tear.
Anita sighed. The vegetable-lady had moved on and could be heard complaining to her Mrs Das. Anita’s mother-in-law was a plump, maternal lady with a fierce temper and a great, big heart. Enough to nearly make Anita forget about her own mother. Mrs Das was paying no attention to the vegetable-seller’s mutterings, asking for fresh spinach (“Anita needs some greens you know. And where are those mangoes you gave me last week? No, not the Amrapalli ones, she didn’t like those much”), and checking the consistency of the tomatoes. Das had trotted downstairs to his mother. She could picture them – him grinning at the woman and answering questions about the wife and baby, while his mother sorted through the basket, asking Das whether he would eat his peas that night. It would lead to a gentle exchange, with Mrs Das deciding to ask Anita how she made his vegetables and got him to eat them, with grated coconut and cumin seeds.
Anita felt the baby kicking again. She suddenly heard a faint popping noise before she felt a warm gush between her legs.
**
Anita’s face was blotchy. She’d been crying for hours and refused to eat anything.
Das and his parents tried to calm her down, Mr Das even suggested a mild sedative, but Mrs Das wouldn’t have it. “The girl has tried for a baby for nearly ten years, she finally has one and he... his... he’s not made properly? Of course she will be upset! Don’t you dare put her to sleep, she needs to let it out!” she shouted in Bengali before storming back into her daughter-in-law’s room.
Anita was savagely blowing her nose into a handkerchief the size of a small towel. “When can I see him?” Her hair was tightly bound in a bun, she was wearing her own navy-blue nightgown – one she’d made especially for her breastfeeding days, with a zip that opened the front of the gown down to the top of her belly.
Mrs Das took the liberty to sit on the bed next to Anita, and shook her head. “He’s too weak, daughter.” This led to more tears as Mrs Das expected. She opened her arms and drew Anita into them patting her on the head with one hand, rubbing her back with the other. Through sobs, Anita spluttered, “It’s all her fault... That horrible mother of mine, her drishti ... She won’t... She just won’t accept Biju and me...”
Outside the room, her husband and father-in-law were speaking to a pair of doctors treating the baby.
“I don’t understand... If it is so bad, how did the doctors not see this before? Anita had scans taken through her pregnancy...” Das trailed off.
“This isn’t something scans can pick up yet,” the male doctor responded.
“Wait, so basically his kidneys are compromised and, and his waste is poisoning him and you can’t do anything about it?” Mr Das asked. The female doctor nodded, and noticing how anxious the Das men looked, said, “He’s on dialysis, he’ll regularly need that. He’s also on IV fluids... All we’re saying is that right now he’s too weak for surgery. We can only do that when he’s stronger. Aside from that everything is fine.”
“Aside from his nine fingers and his kidneys pumping poison into him? Forget the fingers, but, his kidneys? FINE?” Das shouted.
The doctors shifted uneasily. Senior Das placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and asked them, “How long do you think that would be?”
The two in white coats exchanged looks. The woman answered, “It could be anything between six months to a year or two. We can’t tell. It depends entirely on the state of his health. Nothing can be done till he is much better.”
***
It was the day after his surgery, and Varun hadn’t woken from anaesthesia. His heart had stopped once during surgery and once after. He’d been revived, but the Das’ remained worried. His doctors argued their case. “The procedure went fine, everything is alright now. He is in good health, his kidneys are functioning normally...”
“Then why isn’t he waking up?” Anita asked them early that morning.
“It could be his heart. After the kidneys poison his system, it could have slowly reached his heart, and it could be-” “Could?” Anita spat.
When they were alone, Mrs Das had gently asked her, “Child, have you had any news...” she hesitated before finishing, “from your parents?” She’d heard her daughter-in-law speak of her parents often, but they were mentioned less and less over the years. She’d never asked about them before.
Anita’s head swirled with thoughts of her three-year-old never waking up again; she did not even notice Mrs Das broaching a taboo topic. “No, Ma. I would’ve told you if they had...” She took a deep breath and put her hand on her mother-in-law’s. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to leave us, he has plenty of time to see his other grandparents.”
Later when Mrs Das was asleep, Anita and the deep bags under her eyes slipped away from the hospital and the smell of antiseptic to send her parents another letter. After slipping the letter into the post-box, she spent a few minutes in the bustling car park, watching other families come and go. Sometimes she wished for a nicotine habit like Das’ that could give her a few moments of peace every day. When she returned to the waiting room, she looked at her family for a moment before entering.
Her husband hadn’t shaved and smelled of sweat and cigarettes. Mr Das had gone home with her the night before, so they were both bathed and fresh that morning. Anita wanted to wash as well, but chose not to leave her three-year-old son’s bedside for very long.
She finally stepped into the room. “Any news?”
“In the five minutes you’ve been away? No.”
Mrs Das hissed at her son’s sarcasm. Anita barely noticed his bite anymore. Both their lives centred around Varun, his frequent trips to the hospital, his dialysis, infections, medications and fevers.
While Das had been with the circus, Anita had also started home-schooling Varun – she began with English and moved to Math while Mrs Das taught him (and Anita) Bengali alphabets.
As soon as Varun was in better health, he was sent off for surgery. Anita was almost disappointed. She’d gotten used to her baby running about their house in Kolkata when he had the strength, speaking in a muddle of languages to his toys, helping in the kitchen. He was a cheerful child despite spending much of his time in the hospital – he didn’t realise that he wasn’t ordinary. It never occurred to him to ask his mother why he rarely met other children at the hospital or why he had nine fingers instead of ten.
**
Some weeks after Varun’s surgery, a letter arrived in the Das’ post-box. It had Anita’s handwriting on it. A letter to her parents that came back from Kerala with a ‘Return to Sender’ stamp.
Amma and Appa,
Varun is not well. I don’t want to take up any of your time so I will just briefly tell you.
He went into surgery for his kidney trouble. It went okay and his kidneys are much better now. But for some reason he is not waking up from his anaesthetic.
That’s all I wanted to say. I’m not sending a picture of him this time.
Your only daughter,
Anita Mammen-Das
Mrs Das saw that the letter had been unsealed and re-sealed, so she did not tell her daughter-in-law about its return. Why upset her even more? She threw it away and returned to her grandson.
Varun had been moved home after many weeks in the hospital, machines pumping breath into his body for the first few weeks. His kidneys functioned and soon his lungs did too, but he showed no signs of waking up, confounding all medical staff who examined him.
Das was distraught, while his wife robotically went about tending to Varun, washing him and changing his clothes everyday, checking that his IV fluids were flowing well. The grandparents were doubly unhappy, over Varun and also their son and daughter-in-law’s downward spiral. One of the two always spent the night on a mat in Varun’s room, while the other cried themself to sleep in the bed meant for them. Das’ regular snipes about his wife’s non-existent family did nothing to solve the matter. Even his mother’s stern reproaches didn’t stop him.
The old lady finally told him one morning over their chai: “Go back to work. There is nothing you can do here.”
Das dipped his biscuit in tea, not replying. He took it out too late – it disintegrated and fell into the milky tea, splashing his white vest. He sighed, finally looking up into his mother’s eyes, which were gleaming.
“That’s what happens when you try to ignore your mother and shout at your poor wife.”
Das looked down again. For the first time there was shame in his eyes. Mrs Das didn’t need to look at his eyes. She reached out and placed her hand over the tanned knuckles tightly gripping the tumbler of tea. “We’ll look after them till he wakes up. And he will. Don’t you worry, puchka.”
Das waited a moment before getting up, his chair grating. His jaw was clenched tight as he headed towards his bedroom, their bedroom, he reminded himself. When he got there, he pushed the door to open it, but it was locked.
Then he remembered that Anita had started locking the door while she dressed.
When Anita stepped out of her room she nearly tripped over her husband. “What are you doing?” she asked. Das stood up and walked into the room, gesturing for her to follow. Anita frowned, opening her mouth to say, “Varun-”
“Is asleep. And your blouse isn’t buttoned properly.”
Frowning, she stepped back into the room, reaching behind, towards her blouse. She hadn’t had the time to wash her regular blouses, and she hated using the ones with buttons she couldn’t reach.
Das didn’t say anything, simply shutting the door and reaching to help her. Anita dropped her hands in shock – it’d been months since Das touched her. She frowned deeper and started to squawk when she realised he was undoing her buttons.
When Anita turned, Das placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he shocked her once more. He continued, “If I hadn’t married you... if you’d married another... you wouldn’t, this wouldn’t...” He trailed off.
Anita slowly took his hands off her shoulders and stared, expressionless, into his eyes for a moment. Then she reached for the safety-pin that pinned her sari to her blouse and removed it, placing it in her husband’s palm.
Das finally allowed his eyes to tear up.
**
Amma and Appa,
Here is the last picture I am sending you of my son, Varun Das. He is still asleep, but he has grown quite big in the last one year since his surgery.
I’m sorry I’ve wasted yours and my time writing to you the last twelve years. I thought one day you would forgive me. Since that isn’t going to happen, I will never contact you again.
I wish you all the happiness in the world.
Anita Das
**
Das jumped out of the black taxi, yelling to the driver, “Just throw my bags inside the gate, please, thank you brother!” and ran towards his parents’ front door.
The door was open, his mother was standing at the entrance talking to the neighbourhood milk-man about the jump in milk prices.
“Son! Did you get my message about-”
Das was not interested in anything besides getting to his son. “Ma, hi, I’ll come to you...” Mrs Das yelled back the blur that was her son, “Wait, there’s someone in there, come back and I’ll tell you what... Bijoy!”
Das had run up the stairs to Varun’s room by then. The door was ajar, he pushed it open and saw his son, grown since the last time he’d seen him. There were two things that caught Das’ eye – Varun was sitting upright, not quite wide-eyed, but dozing off because his legs were being massaged by a grey-haired woman.
Das realised the smell that had invaded his senses was that of coconut oil – something he’d only smelt in his wife’s hair and cooking before. When the woman looked up at him, hesitantly, he realised why she was lovingly kneading the child’s oily legs.
The eyes he was looking into were identical to his wife’s dark brown eyes.
He stood speechless while Varun squealed for his father and tried to stand up. Das went over to his little boy and wrapped his arms around him. He stood there for several moments before Varun stumbled and the woman told him, in Malayalam, “Sit down, your legs aren’t strong enough yet.” Das was torn between shouting at her for telling his son to stop hugging his own father, or to be grateful she finally came.
Anita broke the silence. She’d slipped in without her husband realising.
“Ma, it’s fine.” There was a long, awkward silence before she continued in Malayalam, “You remember Bijoy.”
Her mother nodded, standing up and wiping her oily hands on her sari. She mumbled about leaving them alone before Das’ manners kicked in. He quickly stepped over to where his mother-in-law stood and bent to touch her feet respectfully. In broken Malayalam he said, “It’s good to meet you again, Mother.”
The woman froze, not knowing how to react. She looked at her daughter with big eyes and fled out of the room stifling a shameful sob.
Anita’s expression changed to one of amusement. “Thank you for rubbing that in.” She embraced her husband, who still had stars in his eyes.
Their son giggled and bounced in his bed. His lengthened frame made the wooden frame creak loudly. Das went and sat by him, pulling his wife and drawing her into their circle as well.
“Want to tell me how that happened?” he asked.
Anita shrugged. “I don’t really know. She just showed up out of the blue some weeks ago. And-”
“Your father?”
Her eyes fell, “He passed away last month... They’ve been with my elder brother’s family. His wife wasn’t good to them and Acha had been unwell. He wanted to see me, but...”
“But he’s a stubborn old coot.” Das corrected himself, “Was. Sorry.”
“Biju!” She gasped.
“It’s true, you know it.”
“Well, the stubborn old coot left us his old house.”
“Coot, coot, coot, coot” Varun echoed.
His father laughed and hugged him again before the boy said, “Amamma kissed me awake. Didn’t she, Ma?” He tripped over the new word he had learnt for his grandmother.
Das cocked an eyebrow, switching to Hindi, which Varun did not understand yet. “Load of crock. What happened, what woke him?”
“Actually...” Silence.
“You’re joking.” Das’ voice was still disbelieving.
“Well, she just kissed him on his cheeks. Both. And she cried. On him. And that night he woke up. We called the doctor, the same one you know, and he came home at 2 in the morning to check him. He said he is fine. That everything is alright. No explanations.”
Varun was whining, pulling his father’s shirt while Anita spoke. When Das looked at him incredulously, the boy said, “I have to go bathroom.”
The parents exchanged looks. “Number two,” the boy added.
His father broke into a huge grin.
**(the end)**
Friday, 13 February 2015
Monday, 12 January 2015
lights
a collaboration with a poet friend. for the passengers of the still missing MH370, victims of MH17 and QZ8501, and all their families.
Wednesday, 31 December 2014
where do we go now?
I’ve realised that I end up taking stock only at the end of the year when it hits me that I need to change the dates on letters and posts yet again. Just when one gets used to writing 2014, it changes to 15. And so on.
2014 was maddening for me. In good ways and in some very, very bad ways. The beginning of the year was not too great and it went on to become horrific for my family and I when we lost my cousin and his wife on Malaysia Airlines jet MH370. I worked on auto-pilot that month till I was packed off by my mother to Beijing to help with my cousin’s two little boys.
Last night a missing aircraft was found in the Java Sea, which brought back memories of MH370 all over again. I’ve had to accept now that we will never know what happened to my two family members on the flight, along with 237 others. It wasn’t so much the incident itself that pushed me over the edge. It was humanity itself. People, their reactions, their inability to leave it alone instead of pondering the million things which could have happened, it all got to me. And while many people (including ones who barely knew me) were surprisingly thoughtful, many were also surprisingly callous.
The world seems to have moved on, but I don’t think my family ever will. Each time we look at my nephews or hear about their nightmares, their fears or them missing their parents, we will be reminded about what happened, or in this case what could have happened.
While the first half of the year seems to have been dominated by this, the second half brought more changes. The shift to a new city, a new part of the country, was something inevitable that I’d been putting off for a couple of years. The capital always seemed a daunting place, especially to someone from a relatively placid south Indian city.
Delhi has so far been everything that people warned me about, but other things as well. Yes, it’s aggressive and loud, it’s callous, ruthless, does everything it can to make you stronger. But it also has options like no other city. It’s hard to be lazy in Delhi. I’d planned a long break, but somehow, even without really pushing myself to find work, I’d got three job offers within three weeks of moving. And all in a new field (after I’d decided the media didn’t do it for me anymore).
The city always has something going on, and for everyone. For someone who doesn’t like noise and big crowds, even Chennai didn’t have too many options sometimes. But the capital is full of old buildings, beautiful monuments, large green parks, and I’ve found book stores to roam in when I’m bored. Dance performances, rock shows, talks and lectures, you name it and Delhi has it. If I feel like going out, I know I can. And yes, you have the large groups of teenagers and couples everywhere, but it’s not unusual to see some lone rangers doing things on their own. For every action here, there *is* an equal and opposite reaction.
It may not be home yet, it may not have a beach or endless options for a cup of good filter coffee, but I’ve noticed a few things not relating to just the aggressive gun-toting Haryanvis and Punjabis here. While Chennai was placid and laid-back, I’ve realised people there are too inert sometimes. If a boy had arbitrarily reached out for a girl from behind and grabbed her at a party in Delhi, it would not go easily dismissed. Whereas I’ve seen the very same thing happen in Chennai in front of a large group (everyone pretended it didn’t happen, including her male best friend and even me). Peoples’ sense of their own rights is very acute here in Delhi. Women’s safety is a big issue, and hence made a hue and cry about. I find changes in my own behaviour in less than two months here. Even jokes made about women are not as easy to forget as before. In a country full of culture, rich in history, people seem to have forgotten about equality and respect. Not just for the opposite gender, but for humans in general. In that sense Delhi is a lot more accepting of different types of people than Chennai.
If I am likely to stand up for myself or another woman in my hometown, no doubt I will now be classified as a pushy Delhi-ite. But in the capital, I would just be normal. And while I was part of a small group in the ‘unmarried girl in late 20s’ section in my hometown, here I’m just a girl, or a woman, depending on who’s looking. The tendency to colour outside of the lines is much more common in this city, which is something I can definitely get used to.
The year has also taught me a little more about myself. Like all other years, I suppose. It has brought me some surprising friendships and bonds, and has allowed me to let go of some surprisingly unhappy friendships too.
I can’t say I have any regrets. Maybe I could have been more patient with a few people, but I’ve become more attentive to time – whom I give it to, and why.
For the first time perhaps, I have no idea where the next year will take me. Physically, I will be in the same city. But emotionally and mentally, I’m completely unprepared for what’s coming. I’ve seen many people come and go, but only this year did I realise just how everything can change in an instant. With a single phone call or text, lives and paths can be altered forever.
I know I’m tough enough to handle whatever is coming. I just hope I’m accepting enough to manage the joys as well, without asking too many questions or wondering how it could turn to ashes in the future.
2014 was maddening for me. In good ways and in some very, very bad ways. The beginning of the year was not too great and it went on to become horrific for my family and I when we lost my cousin and his wife on Malaysia Airlines jet MH370. I worked on auto-pilot that month till I was packed off by my mother to Beijing to help with my cousin’s two little boys.
Last night a missing aircraft was found in the Java Sea, which brought back memories of MH370 all over again. I’ve had to accept now that we will never know what happened to my two family members on the flight, along with 237 others. It wasn’t so much the incident itself that pushed me over the edge. It was humanity itself. People, their reactions, their inability to leave it alone instead of pondering the million things which could have happened, it all got to me. And while many people (including ones who barely knew me) were surprisingly thoughtful, many were also surprisingly callous.
The world seems to have moved on, but I don’t think my family ever will. Each time we look at my nephews or hear about their nightmares, their fears or them missing their parents, we will be reminded about what happened, or in this case what could have happened.
While the first half of the year seems to have been dominated by this, the second half brought more changes. The shift to a new city, a new part of the country, was something inevitable that I’d been putting off for a couple of years. The capital always seemed a daunting place, especially to someone from a relatively placid south Indian city.
Delhi has so far been everything that people warned me about, but other things as well. Yes, it’s aggressive and loud, it’s callous, ruthless, does everything it can to make you stronger. But it also has options like no other city. It’s hard to be lazy in Delhi. I’d planned a long break, but somehow, even without really pushing myself to find work, I’d got three job offers within three weeks of moving. And all in a new field (after I’d decided the media didn’t do it for me anymore).
The city always has something going on, and for everyone. For someone who doesn’t like noise and big crowds, even Chennai didn’t have too many options sometimes. But the capital is full of old buildings, beautiful monuments, large green parks, and I’ve found book stores to roam in when I’m bored. Dance performances, rock shows, talks and lectures, you name it and Delhi has it. If I feel like going out, I know I can. And yes, you have the large groups of teenagers and couples everywhere, but it’s not unusual to see some lone rangers doing things on their own. For every action here, there *is* an equal and opposite reaction.
It may not be home yet, it may not have a beach or endless options for a cup of good filter coffee, but I’ve noticed a few things not relating to just the aggressive gun-toting Haryanvis and Punjabis here. While Chennai was placid and laid-back, I’ve realised people there are too inert sometimes. If a boy had arbitrarily reached out for a girl from behind and grabbed her at a party in Delhi, it would not go easily dismissed. Whereas I’ve seen the very same thing happen in Chennai in front of a large group (everyone pretended it didn’t happen, including her male best friend and even me). Peoples’ sense of their own rights is very acute here in Delhi. Women’s safety is a big issue, and hence made a hue and cry about. I find changes in my own behaviour in less than two months here. Even jokes made about women are not as easy to forget as before. In a country full of culture, rich in history, people seem to have forgotten about equality and respect. Not just for the opposite gender, but for humans in general. In that sense Delhi is a lot more accepting of different types of people than Chennai.
If I am likely to stand up for myself or another woman in my hometown, no doubt I will now be classified as a pushy Delhi-ite. But in the capital, I would just be normal. And while I was part of a small group in the ‘unmarried girl in late 20s’ section in my hometown, here I’m just a girl, or a woman, depending on who’s looking. The tendency to colour outside of the lines is much more common in this city, which is something I can definitely get used to.
The year has also taught me a little more about myself. Like all other years, I suppose. It has brought me some surprising friendships and bonds, and has allowed me to let go of some surprisingly unhappy friendships too.
I can’t say I have any regrets. Maybe I could have been more patient with a few people, but I’ve become more attentive to time – whom I give it to, and why.
For the first time perhaps, I have no idea where the next year will take me. Physically, I will be in the same city. But emotionally and mentally, I’m completely unprepared for what’s coming. I’ve seen many people come and go, but only this year did I realise just how everything can change in an instant. With a single phone call or text, lives and paths can be altered forever.
I know I’m tough enough to handle whatever is coming. I just hope I’m accepting enough to manage the joys as well, without asking too many questions or wondering how it could turn to ashes in the future.
Tuesday, 30 December 2014
457 Oak Wood Circle
I stood outside the house. 457 Oak Wood Circle. How pretentious did that sound for an Indian home? Did I really want to meet the people inside? What if they were having a get-together? What if they told me to go away? Worse, what if they were having a party and invited me in? What would my family say if they knew where I was?
The air was crisp as I took a deep breath. Fresh and a welcome change from my hometown’s heat and pollution. The house was large from the outside, it looked tastefully done with its manicured garden and ornate black lamps hanging from various ceilings. I didn’t hear any voices – what if they weren’t home.
Answering my question, a figure walked through one of the rooms while switching on the lights. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Then I heard a dog bark. My heart jumped. Anyone who owns a dog and is good to it has to have a good heart, even if it’s buried somewhere deep. My friend had laughed when I told her that. But I’d always believed it to be true.
So I opened the gate and shut it behind me, as quietly as I could. I walked up the sloping driveway. Another tiny rose garden on my right and two cars before me – a silver small one and a larger red one. Who was the second car for?
I should not judge a book by its cover, I reminded myself. It had happened very often as a child with my mother. She never married. We were constantly judged. You get the gist.
I tried not to think of my mother. Memories from my childhood, adulthood, from her funeral – it was all too much.
I took a deep breath and looked at some of the other houses. The smell was unlike anything I had ever come across. Fresh, clear, leafy, it cleared my head as I breathed it in. If it had a colour, it would be one of those deep orangey-browns, I decided.
The other houses were as perfect as the one I stood in front of. Spacious lawns, big windows, clean cars in the driveway.
I turned around and looked at the door once more before walking up to it. I wiped my palms on my jacket. My heart was beating so hard that I didn’t hear the doorbell when I rang it.
The door was opened by a older woman, dressed neatly in a sari with her hair tied back in a braid. She smiled politely.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Does Rahul Wadia live here?”
“Yes. Both of them do.”
“Both?”
“Yes, junior and senior,” she laughed.
I swallowed. “Well, I think I’m here for the senior.”
“You think?”
“I’ve never met him before, so...”
Her eyes grew suspicious. “Who are you?”
“I’m his son.”
I wondered if she was going to let me inside.
The air was crisp as I took a deep breath. Fresh and a welcome change from my hometown’s heat and pollution. The house was large from the outside, it looked tastefully done with its manicured garden and ornate black lamps hanging from various ceilings. I didn’t hear any voices – what if they weren’t home.
Answering my question, a figure walked through one of the rooms while switching on the lights. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Then I heard a dog bark. My heart jumped. Anyone who owns a dog and is good to it has to have a good heart, even if it’s buried somewhere deep. My friend had laughed when I told her that. But I’d always believed it to be true.
So I opened the gate and shut it behind me, as quietly as I could. I walked up the sloping driveway. Another tiny rose garden on my right and two cars before me – a silver small one and a larger red one. Who was the second car for?
I should not judge a book by its cover, I reminded myself. It had happened very often as a child with my mother. She never married. We were constantly judged. You get the gist.
I tried not to think of my mother. Memories from my childhood, adulthood, from her funeral – it was all too much.
I took a deep breath and looked at some of the other houses. The smell was unlike anything I had ever come across. Fresh, clear, leafy, it cleared my head as I breathed it in. If it had a colour, it would be one of those deep orangey-browns, I decided.
The other houses were as perfect as the one I stood in front of. Spacious lawns, big windows, clean cars in the driveway.
I turned around and looked at the door once more before walking up to it. I wiped my palms on my jacket. My heart was beating so hard that I didn’t hear the doorbell when I rang it.
The door was opened by a older woman, dressed neatly in a sari with her hair tied back in a braid. She smiled politely.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Does Rahul Wadia live here?”
“Yes. Both of them do.”
“Both?”
“Yes, junior and senior,” she laughed.
I swallowed. “Well, I think I’m here for the senior.”
“You think?”
“I’ve never met him before, so...”
Her eyes grew suspicious. “Who are you?”
“I’m his son.”
I wondered if she was going to let me inside.
She
All I did that night was watch her.
She was attractive, to say the least. But she was a walking cliché I had never met or expected to meet. She may not have been older than the two girlfriends she’d come with, but the way she carried herself seemed more... mature.
I did not know her name. Yet.
She was in a black and white dress with loose straps, that fitted loosely across her waist. It did not reveal much, but it was enough. Slender legs in flat open-toed slippers, a large purple bag across one shoulder, black and white pearls across a neck and her very visible collar bones. She did not smile often at the man with them, but when she smiled at her friends, it lit up the dark pub.
She drank beer.
I was working that night, so it was distracting me that she was at my table. I wondered who she knew from my office, whether she was already dating one of my male colleagues. I hoped she was not that stupid. I wondered why I had never met her during my six years in the city. Although I had a feeling I already knew the answer. She did not seem the extremely social type.
When I saw a colleague go up to her and throw her arms around her, I heaved a sigh of relief. I'd finally find out who she was.
Merin returned and I tried to ask her if she had called friends to the event, but we got dragged into hosting yet another contest to give away some freebies.
Every minute felt like a year, but finally we wound up at the table reserved by our office. The girl was still there; she had asked a friend to take off her beads for her and was in the process of tying her hair. It took all my will power to stop from asking her not to. Her almost waist-length black locks were part of the reason I could not stop staring at her.
Merin finally introduced me to her, over the loud music and beer in our hands. She smiled politely and was about to walk away when she heard my surname. It turned out she was also from my part of the country.
Fifteen minutes later, when the pub was closing and we were all leaving, my mobile was richer by ten digits.
I stepped out and texted her.
“Hey, this is Daniel. Just thought you could save my number ”. I knew it was cheesy, but it had been a long day.
She did not reply.
--
All I did that night was watch her. She was so happy. Fiddling with her brand new Canon, clearing dishes from the table, chattering with her roommate and mother, occasionally bending down to kiss her dog on his whiskered cheek and returning to another friend who was teaching her to use the Canon.
It should have felt like I was coming home when I came to her. But I knew in two days she would be gone. To distant lands, beautiful skies, scenic beauty, snow, festivals and state of the art libraries.
My heart broke a little that night, but she just thought I was feeling tired. It broke when she leaned her chin atop my scruffy hair. She probably thought I was too tired to respond, but I felt something die when I felt her. I knew it could be the last time.
I thought of the first few times I saw her – in her black and white dress, in her orange shirt and jeans, in her night shirt and ethnic looking shorts when she was unwell... that was when her facade first cracked, when I bought her medicines and chicken soup, forgetting she was a vegetarian.
I memorised her face that night, as she bent over the camera. With her grey framed spectacles, black t-shirt and red pajamas. The orange slippers she slipped on when she dropped me home. I inhaled the scent of her as I sat beside her in the car, as she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel along to a song on the radio.
It took everything in my power not to hold her when she left me, as she was sitting in the driver’s seat, brows furrowed as she looked into the rear view mirror. And when she said, “See you on Saturday, dollface,” I tried not to crack and tell her I would not be there to say goodbye.
It was raining that night, but I did not notice. I had to handle another deluge.
She was attractive, to say the least. But she was a walking cliché I had never met or expected to meet. She may not have been older than the two girlfriends she’d come with, but the way she carried herself seemed more... mature.
I did not know her name. Yet.
She was in a black and white dress with loose straps, that fitted loosely across her waist. It did not reveal much, but it was enough. Slender legs in flat open-toed slippers, a large purple bag across one shoulder, black and white pearls across a neck and her very visible collar bones. She did not smile often at the man with them, but when she smiled at her friends, it lit up the dark pub.
She drank beer.
I was working that night, so it was distracting me that she was at my table. I wondered who she knew from my office, whether she was already dating one of my male colleagues. I hoped she was not that stupid. I wondered why I had never met her during my six years in the city. Although I had a feeling I already knew the answer. She did not seem the extremely social type.
When I saw a colleague go up to her and throw her arms around her, I heaved a sigh of relief. I'd finally find out who she was.
Merin returned and I tried to ask her if she had called friends to the event, but we got dragged into hosting yet another contest to give away some freebies.
Every minute felt like a year, but finally we wound up at the table reserved by our office. The girl was still there; she had asked a friend to take off her beads for her and was in the process of tying her hair. It took all my will power to stop from asking her not to. Her almost waist-length black locks were part of the reason I could not stop staring at her.
Merin finally introduced me to her, over the loud music and beer in our hands. She smiled politely and was about to walk away when she heard my surname. It turned out she was also from my part of the country.
Fifteen minutes later, when the pub was closing and we were all leaving, my mobile was richer by ten digits.
I stepped out and texted her.
“Hey, this is Daniel. Just thought you could save my number ”. I knew it was cheesy, but it had been a long day.
She did not reply.
--
All I did that night was watch her. She was so happy. Fiddling with her brand new Canon, clearing dishes from the table, chattering with her roommate and mother, occasionally bending down to kiss her dog on his whiskered cheek and returning to another friend who was teaching her to use the Canon.
It should have felt like I was coming home when I came to her. But I knew in two days she would be gone. To distant lands, beautiful skies, scenic beauty, snow, festivals and state of the art libraries.
My heart broke a little that night, but she just thought I was feeling tired. It broke when she leaned her chin atop my scruffy hair. She probably thought I was too tired to respond, but I felt something die when I felt her. I knew it could be the last time.
I thought of the first few times I saw her – in her black and white dress, in her orange shirt and jeans, in her night shirt and ethnic looking shorts when she was unwell... that was when her facade first cracked, when I bought her medicines and chicken soup, forgetting she was a vegetarian.
I memorised her face that night, as she bent over the camera. With her grey framed spectacles, black t-shirt and red pajamas. The orange slippers she slipped on when she dropped me home. I inhaled the scent of her as I sat beside her in the car, as she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel along to a song on the radio.
It took everything in my power not to hold her when she left me, as she was sitting in the driver’s seat, brows furrowed as she looked into the rear view mirror. And when she said, “See you on Saturday, dollface,” I tried not to crack and tell her I would not be there to say goodbye.
It was raining that night, but I did not notice. I had to handle another deluge.
Day sleeper
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I tried hard but couldn’t reach the itch on my back. Right smack in the middle of my back. Smack.
I growled. A passer-by gave me a strange look and walked away faster. Who cared. Why was he walking the streets that late at night anyway? I growled louder as if to affirm that yes, indeed, I was violent and it was better to walk away from me. I was too bothered by the itch to care.
I tried scratching my back against the wall. Didn’t work. I tried rolling on the pavement. Didn’t work. I gave up, panting, sweating profusely from my pink tongue. Pink. Bubblegum pink. They said it was pink. I don’t know. I can’t tell pink from brown. They said I was brown too. Like Jignesh’s skin. Like everybody’s skin. Not white, not black but deep, dark brown. Not that I knew the difference.
I could smell Jignesh. I waited. And waited. I was going to try scratching myself on the pavement again when I heard his steps. His smell grew stronger. I heard my name. “Murukku!” I broke into a run. I liked running. It made me sweat. And then I could see my tongue hanging from my mouth like an extra appendage. My pink tongue. So-called pink.
I ran and ran and ran. And then ran some more. I began to tire. I couldn’t run too far. He knew that I had only three legs. Where the hell was he? I smelt a million things. Not that it made a difference. Only Jignesh did at that moment, so I kept running in the direction of his smell.
His smell grew stronger as he got closer. I finally found him.
He looked happy to see me. I was overwhelmed with relief. I rubbed myself on his knee, as if I was asking him to scratch my back. He didn’t get the hint. Humans could be so dense sometimes. Ok, so I loved him, ok so he was my so-called master but that wasn’t more important than my persistent itch.
I gave up subtlety. I rolled around madly on the road, whining, growling and making funny noises. He got it. Relief. He scratched my back. More relief. Bliss.
Ah! So now that the emergency is over I suppose I can fill you in on my story. Not that it makes a difference to me but well, I should be polite. After all, a master is known by the dog he keeps.
I say poor because he is poor. Not out of sympathy. He is poor, so I am poor too. We are a pair or poor, brown animals. I say animal because he is one. All humans are animals. They just refuse to acknowledge the fact. Poor brown animals who think they’re smarter than other animals. I’ve heard they vary in colour and that there are many, many more. Not that it made a difference to me.
It was time for some food. I knew the road I was on. Mudaliar Road. I had no idea why these animals bothered naming roads. But then I figured that’s how they identified it. Anyway, I could not read. But I could smell. I could smell which roads had the food, which ones had just trash. This one always smelt good. There was always the strong stench of meat coming from Mudaliar Road. The other dogs knew this too. This wasn’t my turf so I always got their left-overs from the left-overs. If there were any.
There were this time. I silently thanked the people who cooked too much that week. The scratching had made me hungry.
I rummaged around the smelly bin and found what smelled so wonderful. Old dosa and biriyani. Heaven. I loved this street. People would cook too much wonderful food and throw away most of it. What a shame. But it fed us, those who walked the street. The street walkers, the rag pickers, the crows and a whole lot of other animals. It was the essence of our existence.
Even poor Jignesh. He was often reduced to eating out of the same bins that his dog ate from. That would be a blow to most human egos. Most. But it didn’t matter to Jignesh. He was so poor that he couldn’t even afford an ego. It didn’t really make a difference to him. Only one thing did seem to make a difference to him.
Daylight.
He was the only one who stayed at home when it was bright and came out when it was dark. They made fun of him. The other dogs. They mocked poor Jignesh. Not that it made a difference. They were the ones who got beaten up. Not me.
I feasted on the remains of the remnants of the biriyani. It wasn’t enough. I trotted off in search of smellier bins. You see, the smellier a bin is, the nicer the food in it is. It is not the other way around, as the humans think. The stronger the stench from these bins is, the faster they run away from them. They have this strange habit of closing their nose tight with their fingers when they near these bins. I wondered what it would be like to hold your own nose. Anyway, so we survived on food from the bins. So did Jignesh sometimes. I told you he was different.
I couldn’t smell him nearby. I guess he had gone to finish his work. Yes he did ‘work’. He picked up trash. I generally accompanied him and ate what I liked but I was preoccupied today. The itch had disturbed me. I needed some good smelly food in my system before I got back to normal.
Then I saw him. Or rather, he saw me. And he was not alone. No, I’m not talking about Jignesh. I was not supposed to be there. But I hadn’t expected him to be there either. I decided to be friendly. If I ran he would catch up with me and tear me apart. He came towards me, his paws not making the slightest noise even at this time of the night when everything was silent. Or should I say morning. The others followed, obviously following his lead. I knew he recognized me. They all did. I didn’t belong to any pack, I was a nobody. I was the loner, the wounded soldier, the perfect catch for any of them.
He sniffed at me. I sniffed and wagged my tail. He looked at me. I made sure I did not blink. Then he lifted up his head and barked. It was a half bark, half howl. At least that is what I thought it was. Maybe only leaders of packs did that so their bark-howls were different. The rest followed suit. I did too. I liked howling. I did it very rarely. It was fun.
He stopped. He walked away. Relief, for the second time that night. He walked towards the pavement. I knew what was coming. Up went his hind leg.
Marking territory is an art. Some dogs did it with flair. Some just looked like mediocre dogs trying to be the leader of a pack. This one appeared to be in the former category. He seemed dangerous. He let me go this time. I didn’t know if he would allow it to happen again though. I did not know if he was a friend or an enemy. Hence I placed him in the dangerous ‘neither friend nor enemy’ category.
I knew that I only had one friend. Jignesh. I went looking for him. I thought of when he had first found me. On the pavement, very late at night, many hours after I was left for dead. After the dogs had ravaged my body, at least a hundred pairs of legs walked past me. The crows were waiting on nearby trees, waiting for me to stop breathing. But only Jignesh picked me up. He took care of me and gave me everything he could. I was nearly dead, yet he took me home and helped me heal completely. Well, almost completely. My right hind-leg never healed properly.
The city was a cold one. I did not like it. It didn’t seem to care. For anybody. Whether it had two legs, four legs or even three. I wanted to go away with Jignesh. But he wouldn’t leave. He always hid when the sun came out. So I remained there. I didn’t know if people really managed to live in the city. We all just existed there. If some dog chewed your leg off you would die of pain or die trying to drag yourself off to safety. There was only one Jignesh after all and he had done his good deed already. He had already saved one life.
There was also a strong possibility of getting squashed by a vehicle. Squashed like a bug. I’d seen it happen. The animal’s insides would be outside. And nobody but the scavengers gave it any respect. They respected it. They cleaned up the mess.
That was one stench even I did not like. The ‘squashed bug’ stench.
I nearly got run over once; I didn’t want to die like that. Squashed like a bug. I did not want to die at all. I had nearly died once earlier as well, that was enough for me. I was saved by Jignesh the first time. A three-legged stray dog made no difference to the truck that mowed it down. Or the person behind the wheel. But I made a difference to Jignesh. And so I accompanied him in the dark hut during the day from then on.
Being in the city during the day was great sometimes. I missed it. I missed the light. But I realised after a while that I liked it better at night. Silence. I could hear things that weren’t heard otherwise. I saw things that weren’t seen otherwise. And so during the day I was inside the little dark hut. I spent it with Jignesh.
The hut was by the side of the city river. People washed clothes in the river, urinated in it, threw their garbage in it, bathed in it, played in it... They seemed to do everything they could in that greenish-brown muck. We isolated ourselves. Our hut was as far away from the other huts as possible. Of course that didn’t stop others from coming and poking their noses around. In a slum you can never be completely alone. It was obvious that Jignesh wanted to be alone, yet they would not leave him alone. Children would come and barge through the door, hurl insults and even stones at him and leave without closing the door. They would just open the door and leave, with Jignesh trembling and shielding himself from the light in the darkest, coldest corner of the small enclosed area.
I was a smart dog. But in the beginning I was stumped. I figured something must have happened a long time ago. Something which led to Jignesh avoiding the sunlight. But he never spoke about it. I had resigned myself to remaining in the dark when it came to Jignesh’s fear of daylight. At least I knew he would never go anywhere. He was too scared. I had seen him cower when the door burst open. I would try nudging it shut. At first he seemed surprised that I tried to understand his reaction to the light. I wondered why. How stupid did people think we animals were? Maybe he was surprised because nobody else understood it or tried to help him but a so-called ‘animal’ could.
In the beginning, I could not understand what made him act so crazy when it came to something as simple and essential as daylight. But then I sensed his fear, I could smell it. I saw his extreme reactions to the light – the shivering, the fits he would have, the sweating. I heard his cries when the door would burst open. Then I just tried to help in every way that I could. After a point of time I could sense his hunger, some of his essential needs. I would forage for food and bring back something for him if I sensed he was hungry. And I kept the door shut always. Always.
I remember the only time he ever fell ill. I did not know what was happening, but he smelt different. His smell got weaker and he smelt sour. He would shiver and then sweat, even though there was no light in the hut. I brought him newspaper to cover himself when he shivered. I stole bottles of anything I could find. Water mostly. And then I found a shop where those sour smelling people went. They always left with bottles or paper packets. I stole some of those bottles. ‘Medicine’ they called it. I had no idea what it was; I only hoped it would help Jignesh. I dug up the mud around the hut and stuffed it into cracks I found peeping out from under the door and walls. It prevented light from creeping through. I was scared then. But he got better. And then so did I.
How long would it take for Jignesh to get over his fear? How long would it be before he tried to live instead of merely existing? I didn’t even know if he had any family. I didn’t know if that would make much of a difference though
I continued walking through the streets, aimlessly. That’s when I found Mirchi. Quite by accident.
Mirchi was black with a white patch on her long, pointed tail. I didn’t know what friends were but perhaps you could call her my friend. We got along well. I was the only male dog who seemed uninterested in her and she was the only dog I liked. Perfect. She never liked any of the dogs who were interested in her. She just had their puppies.
She pretended to be cold and detached when in fact she had a heart of gold. She had saved me many a time from the jaws of death. Literally. Being an outsider, most dogs thought they had reason enough to kill me. Many had tried. Many had nearly succeeded. Mirchi had rescued me most of those times. Of course she was detached too. She would disappear suddenly for long stretches and reappear as suddenly. She always left her puppies to survive on their own and she never stuck to any particular male.
One would think that most female street dogs were like that. Not true. Leaders of packs did not like sharing. Mirchi was a different case altogether. I suppose she was an outsider too in a way. Like me. But she was hardly ever alone. She was often with her ‘men’ or puppies. This time she was alone, though.
I never asked where she went. I didn’t want answers and she didn’t like questions either. Perfect.
We ran in circles around each other. Detached and alienated we were, but I was happy to see her. I had fun with her…Running across different nieghbourhoods, eating to our hearts’ content. Then I saw that the sun would come up soon. I knew Jignesh would want to get back before... Well, before the sun rose.
I heard Jignesh’s whistle and a distant yell. ‘Murukku!’ I ran. With a limp of course. But I still ran. Mirchi knew about my strange life as a night creature. She never asked questions either.
I used to get bored. I never needed much sleep. Sometimes I would think to myself, why can’t I go out, and I used to slip out while Jignesh slept. I don’t know why I felt guilty about it. It was not as though he had imposed his schedules upon me. He never minded if I left during the day. That day I was bored. I decided to go hunt for Mirchi.
I found her. She was being harassed by some dog I didn’t know. I watched from a distance. It wasn’t long before she got rid of him. We did our usual crazy things after that. Stopping traffic, stealing food from vendors, that sort of thing.
I lost track of time. It was around noon before I realised I should be back in the hut with Jignesh. So I raced back as fast as I could to my ‘master’. I stopped running only when I could see the hut clearly. My tail stopped wagging. The door was open. I went inside careful not to open the door more. But Jignesh was not there.
I looked for him. For days. I went everywhere I could, went to every place I had ever been with him. I asked for help from other dogs. Some laughed, some helped. I couldn’t understand what had happened. Did he finally get better? Why didn’t he take me with him? Did he die? Did he get hurt because I left him alone? But he managed to survive before I was around. I left him only for a little while. The questions and the guilt slowly ate me up from inside. I had let him down.
I never saw him again.
Later I heard from Mirchi that he had died. She had found out from one of the other slum dogs. They were laughing about it; about how it should have happened earlier and how the crows ate him up. I never knew for sure. I checked at the bridge where they said he might be. The Indira Nagar Bridge. But he was not there. I found part of his slipper. Nothing else remained. No sign of him. The smell of him had nearly been wiped entirely from what was left of his slipper too.
I took it home and kept it where he used to sit during the day. The house was soon taken over by other people. I was thrown out and whatever few belongings Jignesh had were left on the side of the road. I did not take anything. I didn’t need to.
Some part of me still thinks that he is alive, but I’ll never know for sure. So I’ll just keep looking.
Coffee
It was the smallest big toe I had ever seen.
That was the first thing I noticed as I was picking up the milk packet.
Crooked toes with veins running like highways and by lanes on a map. Jagged, irregular nails – chipped and twisted.
I stood up, slowly, to bowlegs and thin knees. The kneecap, visible and twitching. They were that thin.
A wrinkled cloth, dripping wet, covered his bony waist that supported a sunken stomach – bare. The water trickled down and into the wrinkles across his stomach. They ran along his ribs, this way and that and cascaded down like a Feng-shui waterfall.
His chest was wet, frail with extended and prominent collarbones that held his bony shoulders up.
Bent back. Arms, bent, that ran down to his long and thin fingers – crooked and shivering. The water ran down along his veins, gathered at his fingertips and awaited gravity.
He saw me seeing him and into him with his twinkling big eyes. The water slid along the wrinkles on his forehead down to his high cheekbones and seemed to form a pool in the hollow of his cheeks. They were that hollow.
His shivers made the water hide down into his thick pedestrian-crossing moustache. The water emerged to line his blackened, thin lips and moved down to his most prominent feature. His jutting and bony chin before the end of which the water stopped… for a bit. To choose which way to take to move on.
That was Madurai – my ‘paalkaaran’.
* * *
With the unmistakable swipe of his ‘veshti’ round his hip and into a knot, holding it tight, Madurai swung the door open.
Madurai – My ‘paalkaaran’.
Barista seemed cold. Aloof.
He shivered at the gust of freezing air. It was cold inside. Already bent at the back, he huddled in. Feeling cold and lost.
Barista – 1. Madurai – Nil.
Today was Match day. The day of the Battle.
Barista beckoned like an adversary’s “Va Da Dai” with its tongue curled downwards and in.
“Yes Sir, how may I help you?” the boy in brown asked as if his mouth was filled with coffee beans.
“Aaaa…. Hmmm.”
Madurai didn’t know English.
Barista – 2. Madurai – Nil.
Already all eyes were on him. All around. All eyes. The tension was mounting.
“We have Café Latte, Espresso, Mocha, Mocha Fizz, Café Italiano, Brazil Berry, Raqhwa, Black Coffee, Espresso Café, Café Margarita, Fizz Italiano, Black… Smoothie… Cooo… ffff…eeee…”
Madurai’s head spun. He was numb. The crowd, all around, waited. Holding their breaths and coffee mugs in mid-air.
“Chudaana Filter Degree Kaapi, Shtanga, Chakarai kami.”
“Uhm… Sorry Sir. I am afraid we don’t have that, Sir. But I can…”
“HmmH… Washt!”
Madurai turned back with a flourish, swung the door open the other way and walked out. Proud.
Barista was stunned.
Perfect Three-pointer shot from nowhere.
Barista – 2. Madurai – 3.
Time-out.
That was the first thing I noticed as I was picking up the milk packet.
Crooked toes with veins running like highways and by lanes on a map. Jagged, irregular nails – chipped and twisted.
I stood up, slowly, to bowlegs and thin knees. The kneecap, visible and twitching. They were that thin.
A wrinkled cloth, dripping wet, covered his bony waist that supported a sunken stomach – bare. The water trickled down and into the wrinkles across his stomach. They ran along his ribs, this way and that and cascaded down like a Feng-shui waterfall.
His chest was wet, frail with extended and prominent collarbones that held his bony shoulders up.
Bent back. Arms, bent, that ran down to his long and thin fingers – crooked and shivering. The water ran down along his veins, gathered at his fingertips and awaited gravity.
He saw me seeing him and into him with his twinkling big eyes. The water slid along the wrinkles on his forehead down to his high cheekbones and seemed to form a pool in the hollow of his cheeks. They were that hollow.
His shivers made the water hide down into his thick pedestrian-crossing moustache. The water emerged to line his blackened, thin lips and moved down to his most prominent feature. His jutting and bony chin before the end of which the water stopped… for a bit. To choose which way to take to move on.
That was Madurai – my ‘paalkaaran’.
* * *
With the unmistakable swipe of his ‘veshti’ round his hip and into a knot, holding it tight, Madurai swung the door open.
Madurai – My ‘paalkaaran’.
Barista seemed cold. Aloof.
He shivered at the gust of freezing air. It was cold inside. Already bent at the back, he huddled in. Feeling cold and lost.
Barista – 1. Madurai – Nil.
Today was Match day. The day of the Battle.
Barista beckoned like an adversary’s “Va Da Dai” with its tongue curled downwards and in.
“Yes Sir, how may I help you?” the boy in brown asked as if his mouth was filled with coffee beans.
“Aaaa…. Hmmm.”
Madurai didn’t know English.
Barista – 2. Madurai – Nil.
Already all eyes were on him. All around. All eyes. The tension was mounting.
“We have Café Latte, Espresso, Mocha, Mocha Fizz, Café Italiano, Brazil Berry, Raqhwa, Black Coffee, Espresso Café, Café Margarita, Fizz Italiano, Black… Smoothie… Cooo… ffff…eeee…”
Madurai’s head spun. He was numb. The crowd, all around, waited. Holding their breaths and coffee mugs in mid-air.
“Chudaana Filter Degree Kaapi, Shtanga, Chakarai kami.”
“Uhm… Sorry Sir. I am afraid we don’t have that, Sir. But I can…”
“HmmH… Washt!”
Madurai turned back with a flourish, swung the door open the other way and walked out. Proud.
Barista was stunned.
Perfect Three-pointer shot from nowhere.
Barista – 2. Madurai – 3.
Time-out.
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
'hindsight is 20/20' - thank you, 2013
This year has been extreme. The first six months were the total opposite of the last six months. And while I do not regret the first six months, I hope I don’t have to go through that combination of things again. A couple of them, sure. All factors put together? Well, I’m fairly certain I’ll never allow it to happen again, and I hope the powers-that-be agree with me.
To say it’s been an enlightening year would be a terrible understatement. I have learnt so much about myself, life, people and so on. In some ways, I have shocked myself and broken some rules. But I'd expected that since, like I’d mentioned, it’s been a year of extremes.
Before I began writing this, I read my ‘year-ender’ from 2011. Then too I was in a good place, but just beginning a journey that year that ended for me this year. The juxtaposition of the younger, more hopeful me back then, with who I am now has helped. I’ve realised that on occasion I've also begun saying things that make me sound like an old woman. Especially to a younger friend of mine who sometimes reminds me of myself when I was younger. All in all, I feel wiser at the end of this year. Far wiser. And happier than I think I’ve been in a while. It’s a bittersweet happiness sometimes; one that comes from a couple of scars and all that drama. But it’s no worse than I’ve already been through in my life.
I found myself telling a close friend that this has been a wonderful year. That every day, I am grateful for the thing that happened mid-June which drove me to another place in my life. I was not exaggerating. It sounds dramatic, and I may have used up my quota of clichés this year. But they’re all true. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, every cloud has a silver lining, oh and my favourite -- everything happens for a reason, and it will all make sense later. Some of these are terribly corny, especially when I say them out loud. But, well. *shrug*
2013 also made me realise one of the biggest cliches in the world rings true for me – that even if we have a plan and it goes awry, it’s usually for a bloody good reason. Even if it makes no sense why some people get away with wreaking havoc thoughtlessly in others’ lives, it’s again for a damn good reason. And that there’s no point caring about other people’s lives if they don't care for yours. People have joked about revenge with me. One asked me if something I did someway through the year was to spite someone who had hurt me. [Of course, this was from a male friend and they can be pretty dense, no matter how much they love me :)] I don't want revenge. I want world peace! Alright, that might be a bit hard. But I'd like to not hate people and also like not to be hated.
There are a lot of ‘I’s in this year-ender. I'm used to noting how many 'I's are there in my writing, scaling down on the subjectivity and all that. But I've spent too much time not thinking about myself earlier. And maybe, the things I’ve been shown and the epiphanies that have happened will all be shared with a friend along the way.
I'm not making any resolutions for 2014. I probably won't stick to them. And I'm seriously lacking in faith in humanity anyway. But I'll try this -- I'll try not to judge people. Or hate them for things they might to. Even if it hurts me. What's another little scar. I'll be bloody fine. =) Some tears, some laughter, it's all just part of a life of one human -- a little speck in the universe.
And if something really bothers me.. well there is always the pool of caramel that I wake up to each morning, which solves most problems anyway. My Labrador's eyes.
Friday, 1 November 2013
-move-
The grey is still fading, but look at that,
For the first time, there’s no mist,
She’s ruling with a sturdy goddamn fist.
Angry, seething, but more about time lost,
We’ll never find it again.
Two letters, two poems and four postcards,
Words put down in paper that we can’t erase
Memories trying to be forgotten,
Nail marks, kisses, caresses, vulnerability,
Tears, texts, a pair of earrings, pieces of skin.
But look at that,
The strange lights in the sky,
She’s alone, but not crying,
Take back what you can,
The earlier girl is gone too,
Look what she’s regained,
What left the earlier one so pained.
Wings sprout in her chest,
They try to take flight.
Remembering to live life for oneself,
Not for the stubbled excuse of a knight.
The life we had is gone now,
The love that wasn’t supposed to be,
The love that was never free,
The love that cut to the bone,
Loving a boy with a heart of stone.
We lived every cliché in the book,
Tried to forget every word we mistook.
It goes day by day now,
Buried deeper under the snow.
We don’t need anyone to bear the burden,
It’s best borne alone,
Sometimes with others too.
Don’t worry, baby,
The earlier girl is gone.
She smirks at the death of old love,
Caresses the promise of new fire.
Fire which will burn it all up
Before she moves to another shape,
Liquid steel, moulding every action,
The ice that steams as it meets the flames.
Nail marks, kisses, caresses,
Shards of glass, smooth surfaces,
Wheels that keep on turning,
A sun that keeps on rising, setting.
Thursday, 7 March 2013
leaving
*apologies for not updating -- it's been a crazy year and I toyed with the idea of doing away with blogging. obviously I decided against it. will definitely be more regular, or more sharing, with the writing now!*
She was seated by the window, looking out onto the horizon of the city she’d made home. One last time. A book lay in her lap
along with the green cardigan she’d taken off. It was warm by Scottish standards. Her eyes hadn’t left the window after she sat down.
When the air hostess came around, the girl smiled politely and declined the snack. She asked for water in clear English. Her nose was bright red, brown eyes watery. A tissue lay on the book she’d tried to read for a few minutes.
The head of black hair turned back to the window. The luggage had been deposited in the aircraft by little vehicles she didn’t know the name of, which had begun to back away from the plane. There were the familiar blue and white signs of Scotland’s bank. Her bank for two years.
The sky was a perfect clear blue with some puffs of perfect cotton. Sometimes Edinburgh’s weather made up for the days of endless grey skies, rolling clouds and gusts of rainy wind. Her eyes grew watery again.
As the aircraft began moving, she held on tightly to her arm-rest, her mind reeling from the things she’d forgotten to tell people and places she didn’t have time to see. And as the wheels left Scottish ground, she stopped breathing.
Soon Edinburgh was miles below her. She tried to look for familiar hills and spots. Then she just stared as long as she could. Before clouds came between her and the view of the city.
‘It’s over,’ she told herself. ‘Let it go. You’ll come back.’ And she promised herself she’d come back. And if she ever had a child, which was unlikely, she would bring him or her too. Somehow, her visions of her future self never included a man. Even if there was a child. Her friends were still in her life, more important than ever. But she didn’t know if she could ever keep a man that long. So it was just her. And her friends. Maybe a child too. Who knows.
When they landed in Heathrow and she had to make her way to another terminal, there were fewer ‘foreign’ faces. And when she walked into the terminal after getting her boarding pass, she stopped breathing again. She was just another face in a sea of cocoa-coloured faces.
Babies were crying, children running around and dropping things, families were talking loudly. Duty free shops were crowded – people bought liquor, cigarettes, picked up chocolate for their lovers. Only the book shop remained deserted. The little W H Smith she spent thirty minutes in.
She looked back at the sea of faces. She didn’t even dress like them anymore. Her English was always without a local accent, now it was even less Indian. She wasn’t ready to go home.
Her phone buzzed somewhere in the recesses of her purple carry-on. Her best friend, the girl who saved her from loneliness in cold, windy Scotland. When Scotland still seemed cold to her.
She felt bad about her discomfort but knew she could tell her Dutch friend. If they were together she’d have been explaining the similarities in Terminal Four to an Indian airport, accompanied by many loud cackles.
The knot in her chest returned. A long text message told her that she’d left her boots, why, and that a roll of old toilet paper had been sneezed and sniffed into after her departure, that the big bumbling American room-mate had actually made himself useful and cleaned the windows so they could move out and not have to worry about not getting the deposit back. She read that she was missed, and that her boots would be worn to death.
Somehow the prospect of an old boyfriend didn’t make her happy anymore. Nor the tropical sunshine she’d missed for a year, and the home-made food. She knew she’d miss the cheese and milk, sausages, ale, and the tall, charming boys from different parts of the world. Why hadn’t she let her hair down, allowed one of the slurring Scots to take her home? Why was she holding out for someone she barely knew? Where would she walk, the way she did in Edinburgh, up and down the sloping roads that made her legs hurt when she first moved? What would she do wh-
Was someone announcing her flight?
She looked at her watch. Her heart beat a little harder. She’d been waiting months, imagining the day she finally went home. She hadn’t imagined this. She was still excited – to see her family, the people who’d missed her the most, to see that stupid ex-boyfriend, her dog, to be able to walk about with just one layer of clothing and no scarf.
She silently made her way to the gate. It was already crowded. She found a seat beside an old man, in front of a couple with two kids. A young man standing by the windows stared at her while she rummaged through her bag for her iPod. She set it on shuffle and watched the kids, even smiling when they made eye contact. She didn’t like children.
An old song came on. She heaved a massive sigh and looked at the setting London sun, humming softly. She wondered if getting up and moving to the window was a good idea, she didn’t like tearing up in public. Images of her two friends singing the song sitting in the car went through her head. Blonde hair and auburn hair being whipped back by the wind from open windows, riding the highway to a small city in Ireland, while she sat in the backseat laughing at their awful pitch.
By the time she got on to the flight, the sun had set. She wouldn’t get to see the landscape of the country she’d lived in for two years. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t get a window seat this time, the flight was fully booked. She sat in the isle seat, waited for take-off, put her headphones on and looked for a movie to watch.
She tried to stop looking out of the window. She did eventually.
Friday, 9 March 2012
next
Life’s like poetry
Sweeping in an instant,
Grey clouds flashing past seconds,
An image bringing familiarity
Like your mother’s hands,
And hatred like the girl who
Made you cry at school.
A lone slice of apple when the
Others have been eaten,
An empty beach when you
Miss your love.
An overlooked semicolon
Left hanging by itself,
Smudged mascara tears
Becoming ink on paper.
Life’s like fiction
A beginning that has hope
A middle that is lost, too much action
An end that the characters decide
You have no control
Except over punctuation.
Rules are made,
Logic is defied,
Words are written, erased,
Re-written, betrayed,
It will never be a perfect draft.
Life’s like sleep
Wide awake when you
Want to sleep
Lights outside when you’re
Alone, wishing for warmth
Keeping you awake
Flickering like a new life
Waking you up when you
Finally find a warm dream to
Hold on to tight.
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
time watches from the shadows
Dear February,
Thank you for taking a risk with me and dropping so many things into my existence. Maybe you knew I would not stray far from my heart. Or that I would get a little closer to its darkened desires; ones I have blanketed and burned in the daily humdrum that was my life.
Thank you for the people who have brought me closer to myself, who have pushed me and who still push, who encourage me and care enough to put up with my random outburst of love-anger.
Thank you for this place. I’m not sure I want to go back ‘home’ now. My heart lies within myself, it seeks to learn, to create for its own self, but it still beats for others who cannot be here.
Ok, dramatics aside, this has been a fabulous month and went by much too fast – in wisps of writing, fairy tales, strange dreams, windy days, aching stockinged feet, nuggets of cider and laughter, split ends, waitressing, Sherlock Holmes, long discussions, sunshine, cottony clouds and thick accents. It feels like I need more time. Which I don’t have. Tick tock time, like the mute character in my last story said. March, if you could slow time down a little bit for me, that would be nice if not, well, I’ll try to keep up with it all.
Thank you for taking a risk with me and dropping so many things into my existence. Maybe you knew I would not stray far from my heart. Or that I would get a little closer to its darkened desires; ones I have blanketed and burned in the daily humdrum that was my life.
Thank you for the people who have brought me closer to myself, who have pushed me and who still push, who encourage me and care enough to put up with my random outburst of love-anger.
Thank you for this place. I’m not sure I want to go back ‘home’ now. My heart lies within myself, it seeks to learn, to create for its own self, but it still beats for others who cannot be here.
Ok, dramatics aside, this has been a fabulous month and went by much too fast – in wisps of writing, fairy tales, strange dreams, windy days, aching stockinged feet, nuggets of cider and laughter, split ends, waitressing, Sherlock Holmes, long discussions, sunshine, cottony clouds and thick accents. It feels like I need more time. Which I don’t have. Tick tock time, like the mute character in my last story said. March, if you could slow time down a little bit for me, that would be nice if not, well, I’ll try to keep up with it all.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
flying
‘Come fly with me’, she said.
I took her hand. It dissolved into colours – purple, red, violet, maroon, indigo, auburn, orange, amber. The amber of candlelight in my room and caramel, the caramel of hair that did not belong to me. Her hand was still in mine, dark brown eyes speckled with deep chocolate specks that shone. It shone brighter than the candles.
Smooth skin, short breaths, long strokes, she did not utter a word. Neither did I. She was not real after all, it was just a magic trick in my head that I did not want to let go of.
I held on tight, never letting go of her hand. And we flew. Over the polluted skies of the metropolitan city, over the heads banging at an outdoor rock concert, over the speeding lights on the highway, billboards advertising make-up and new movies, over all of the mundane things that made up my life without her.
Hands still clasped, we were back to the beach. This time there was no moon leading the way, it was just her silent feet on the wet sand.
‘Remember?’
Of course I remembered, how could I forget?
There was suddenly the sound of drums, beating consistenly, like a heart. Bu-bup. Reminding me that there was a clock somewhere, I did not have her for very long. The beat got faster.
I turned her around so she faced me. We did not speak. She came in closer, wound her arms around my neck so that one was in my hair, the other was splayed against my back. She smiled that smile of hers, it shone in the dark. And she kissed me. I felt myself melt under her touch, like I always do, and always will, even in my dreams. Now, only in my dreams. The beating of the heart-clock returned.
I was still deep in her kiss, the smell of the sea mixed with the distinct smell of her skin, her conditioner and the lotion she used on her body. The beating got louder, and my arms went around her waist, pulling her in. She was in a dress suddenly, she had been in jeans earlier. The dress flapped against her caramel legs as she stood on tiptoe, smiling into my mouth.
Midnight blue, I then knew why it was called that – such a dark blue, it was almost black, but for purple racing clouds in the sky. She always did love purple. So I did not know whose dream it was, mine or hers. Mine, since she had probably moved into other realms, making new colours elsewhere, with people she never dreamed of meeting.
I did not want to let her go. The sparkling eyes met mine in such joy that they were sad. No words. Our foreheads rested against each other’s.
‘Don’t go,’ I said.
Her mouth pursed, her head lowered, the way it always did when she tried not to cry. I ran my hand across her collarbones, she took my hand and placed it over her heart, then kissed my forehead.
‘Don’t forget me,’ she said, slowly loosening her grip.
‘How can I?’....’Come back soon?’
She had started moving away from me, the coldness gradually set in. First her arms were not moulded to me, running through my hair, fingers gently putting pressure on my scalp the way they did when she tried to relax me. Then her skin became separate from mine, our hips were not touching, her breathing did not match mine. I did not feel every emotion that ran through her. And she moved away.
‘Come back? Of course. Where else will I be except with you?’
‘Always?’ I asked.
‘For as long as you want.’
My eyes flew open.
The air-conditioner was running, it was cold, my bladder was full. I wanted to go back to sleep. No, I wanted to go back in time. I looked at the clock – 2.50 am. My mind raced. Seventy three days or so. 1,762 hours. I nearly started weeping. I could smell her on my pillows, from seventy five or eighty days ago, when she would come over, love me, listen to me, hold me.
I wanted to fly with her all the time. But of course, I couldn’t.
I took her hand. It dissolved into colours – purple, red, violet, maroon, indigo, auburn, orange, amber. The amber of candlelight in my room and caramel, the caramel of hair that did not belong to me. Her hand was still in mine, dark brown eyes speckled with deep chocolate specks that shone. It shone brighter than the candles.
Smooth skin, short breaths, long strokes, she did not utter a word. Neither did I. She was not real after all, it was just a magic trick in my head that I did not want to let go of.
I held on tight, never letting go of her hand. And we flew. Over the polluted skies of the metropolitan city, over the heads banging at an outdoor rock concert, over the speeding lights on the highway, billboards advertising make-up and new movies, over all of the mundane things that made up my life without her.
Hands still clasped, we were back to the beach. This time there was no moon leading the way, it was just her silent feet on the wet sand.
‘Remember?’
Of course I remembered, how could I forget?
There was suddenly the sound of drums, beating consistenly, like a heart. Bu-bup. Reminding me that there was a clock somewhere, I did not have her for very long. The beat got faster.
I turned her around so she faced me. We did not speak. She came in closer, wound her arms around my neck so that one was in my hair, the other was splayed against my back. She smiled that smile of hers, it shone in the dark. And she kissed me. I felt myself melt under her touch, like I always do, and always will, even in my dreams. Now, only in my dreams. The beating of the heart-clock returned.
I was still deep in her kiss, the smell of the sea mixed with the distinct smell of her skin, her conditioner and the lotion she used on her body. The beating got louder, and my arms went around her waist, pulling her in. She was in a dress suddenly, she had been in jeans earlier. The dress flapped against her caramel legs as she stood on tiptoe, smiling into my mouth.
Midnight blue, I then knew why it was called that – such a dark blue, it was almost black, but for purple racing clouds in the sky. She always did love purple. So I did not know whose dream it was, mine or hers. Mine, since she had probably moved into other realms, making new colours elsewhere, with people she never dreamed of meeting.
I did not want to let her go. The sparkling eyes met mine in such joy that they were sad. No words. Our foreheads rested against each other’s.
‘Don’t go,’ I said.
Her mouth pursed, her head lowered, the way it always did when she tried not to cry. I ran my hand across her collarbones, she took my hand and placed it over her heart, then kissed my forehead.
‘Don’t forget me,’ she said, slowly loosening her grip.
‘How can I?’....’Come back soon?’
She had started moving away from me, the coldness gradually set in. First her arms were not moulded to me, running through my hair, fingers gently putting pressure on my scalp the way they did when she tried to relax me. Then her skin became separate from mine, our hips were not touching, her breathing did not match mine. I did not feel every emotion that ran through her. And she moved away.
‘Come back? Of course. Where else will I be except with you?’
‘Always?’ I asked.
‘For as long as you want.’
My eyes flew open.
The air-conditioner was running, it was cold, my bladder was full. I wanted to go back to sleep. No, I wanted to go back in time. I looked at the clock – 2.50 am. My mind raced. Seventy three days or so. 1,762 hours. I nearly started weeping. I could smell her on my pillows, from seventy five or eighty days ago, when she would come over, love me, listen to me, hold me.
I wanted to fly with her all the time. But of course, I couldn’t.
Monday, 9 January 2012
eight days
It was perfectly normal, the last sunrise of the year. I don’t see why everyone was making such a big deal of it – it was like every other day, the sun rose in the east, set in the west, around the same time as the day before.
I watched it from my window, with a cup of coffee warming my hands. “It could be the last, you could get run over by a drunken bastard tonight or go blind and never see another sunrise again,” my roommate remarked as we both stared at it and I voiced my cynicism to her.
“That could happen any other day of the year too, ya?”
“Agreed.”'
And we both went back to sleep for a quick nap before work.
That was a bad idea.
In New Delhi, winter is awful. No central heating, lack of warm water if you share a flat with two women, and one of them washes her hair... the list goes on. Especially for one who has been brought up in balmier weather. Much balmier weather.
According to the BBC weather website, it was 24 degrees Celsius in my home city. Delhi was at nine degrees.
I woke up late, to no hot water, had to heat water just to wash my ass, and brushed my teeth, washed my face and armpits in freezing cold water, cursing the roommate who washed her hair that morning, throughout the painful process. Then I doused myself in Kylie Minogue's latest fragrance and ran.
The normal route to office involved a short auto rickshaw ride, a long ride in the subway, and then I’d have to hop into another auto.
Obviously that morning I did not have time to do all that. And no self-respecting auto driver in the Indian capital wanted to drive from Chittaranjan Park to Gurgaon in peak morning traffic. I couldn’t really blame them.
“We can share this auto if you want,” one creepy dude told me after he’d seen me unsuccessfully try to talk seven auto drivers into getting me to Gurgaon.
“How the fuck will you get an auto to Gurgaon?” I asked him. He demonstrated – the Delhi way. By offering the driver four times the normal amount of money. And let me tell you, even the normal amount of money is obscene.
I declined the scintillating opportunity to share an auto with a dweeb. Yes, I said dweeb.
I even heard another guy laughing at me from a tea shop across the road. He’d been watching me too, and saw the showoff with the money. I made a face at him before setting off on my such-a-brisk-walk-it’s-almost-a-jog to the train station.
I turned up at office an hour and half late. After having left my phone in an auto. Disastrous end to a perfectly normal year, somewhat disproving my theory. ‘No, this also could have happened on any other day,’ I thought.
It got somewhat better when I got a call from a girl who had found my mobile phone in the auto. She must have been the passenger after me. I was so relieved I almost cried. My precious Blackberry, with all my 1,674 contacts, my emails, notes and whatnot would be returned to me later that afternoon during her lunch break.
Since I’d turned up to work ninety minutes late, I had no lunch break. I was still phone-less at 4 pm, missing a ton of “hey, what are you doing for New Years Eve” calls and messages from clients. Strangely I wasn’t in a rush to get it back.
I’d already been wished by my parents the night before. “Jaan, Mrs Mehta’s son is back from Yale Business School... We met him last night, he’s very smart you know, he’s also a little creative like you. He plays the ghatam!....” so on and so forth. Somewhere in there was a new year greeting.
Monisha (of course her name was something pseudo-arty-socialite, I thought to myself) was busy and had asked a very reliable colleague to return my phone to me at Coffee House at 6 pm. I wondered who else was not rushing back to the city for New Years Eve plans and was returning a mobile phone to a stranger at 6 pm – a creepy stalker or someone who believed in karma, had done something really bad in 2011 and wanted to redeem himself. Because good people did not exist in New Delhi, the most corrupt city in the world. The galaxy. The universe. You get my point.
I sat at the designated meeting place, waiting for my king size latte. And the guy, who was obviously was late. What if I had plans, I thought grumpily, and took out the latest Murakami book from my bag.
I looked up when the coffee arrived and saw the guy from the tea shop across the road that morning. He was on his phone. He saw me, grinned and came over, plonking himself in the seat opposite me. I raised my eyebrows.
He put my Blackberry down on the table, while still yelling at someone about a financial transaction gone wrong.
I stared open-mouthed. My hometown was a small city where coincidences happened. Delhi was like the New York of India – these things did not happen.
“I’d ask you to buy me coffee in return for this, but now I’m thinking dinner,” I heard him say after he'd finished his phone call.
I looked at him dubiously. Pat came another line, “You can’t even say no now, I have your phone number.”
He wasn’t really very attractive. Maybe an inch taller than me, in black pants, white shirt, carrying a bag shaped to fit in a laptop and files – not like the dreamy, artistic men I’d dated when I was young(er). Following which I was single for four years.
“Sameer. My name is Sameer.” He held out his hand.
“Gayathri.” I mumbled back, shaking the offered hand.
We spent four hours at the coffee shop while he tried his various witticisms on me. I don’t think I realised what time it was till we were told the store was shutting. 10.20 pm.
I got his number and got company on my way home. Of course he lived in C R Park, he was having tea right across from my apartment in the morning.
I’d like to say something like “....and that’s how I met your father, kids”, but honestly, even though he may have swept me off my feet a bit eight days ago, it’s only been eight days. It could have just been a perfectly normal end to the year, not the esoteric beginning to the story of my times with a man who could be the love of my life.
Though I wouldn’t mind that, he seems to be a pretty good kisser.
I watched it from my window, with a cup of coffee warming my hands. “It could be the last, you could get run over by a drunken bastard tonight or go blind and never see another sunrise again,” my roommate remarked as we both stared at it and I voiced my cynicism to her.
“That could happen any other day of the year too, ya?”
“Agreed.”'
And we both went back to sleep for a quick nap before work.
That was a bad idea.
In New Delhi, winter is awful. No central heating, lack of warm water if you share a flat with two women, and one of them washes her hair... the list goes on. Especially for one who has been brought up in balmier weather. Much balmier weather.
According to the BBC weather website, it was 24 degrees Celsius in my home city. Delhi was at nine degrees.
I woke up late, to no hot water, had to heat water just to wash my ass, and brushed my teeth, washed my face and armpits in freezing cold water, cursing the roommate who washed her hair that morning, throughout the painful process. Then I doused myself in Kylie Minogue's latest fragrance and ran.
The normal route to office involved a short auto rickshaw ride, a long ride in the subway, and then I’d have to hop into another auto.
Obviously that morning I did not have time to do all that. And no self-respecting auto driver in the Indian capital wanted to drive from Chittaranjan Park to Gurgaon in peak morning traffic. I couldn’t really blame them.
“We can share this auto if you want,” one creepy dude told me after he’d seen me unsuccessfully try to talk seven auto drivers into getting me to Gurgaon.
“How the fuck will you get an auto to Gurgaon?” I asked him. He demonstrated – the Delhi way. By offering the driver four times the normal amount of money. And let me tell you, even the normal amount of money is obscene.
I declined the scintillating opportunity to share an auto with a dweeb. Yes, I said dweeb.
I even heard another guy laughing at me from a tea shop across the road. He’d been watching me too, and saw the showoff with the money. I made a face at him before setting off on my such-a-brisk-walk-it’s-almost-a-jog to the train station.
I turned up at office an hour and half late. After having left my phone in an auto. Disastrous end to a perfectly normal year, somewhat disproving my theory. ‘No, this also could have happened on any other day,’ I thought.
It got somewhat better when I got a call from a girl who had found my mobile phone in the auto. She must have been the passenger after me. I was so relieved I almost cried. My precious Blackberry, with all my 1,674 contacts, my emails, notes and whatnot would be returned to me later that afternoon during her lunch break.
Since I’d turned up to work ninety minutes late, I had no lunch break. I was still phone-less at 4 pm, missing a ton of “hey, what are you doing for New Years Eve” calls and messages from clients. Strangely I wasn’t in a rush to get it back.
I’d already been wished by my parents the night before. “Jaan, Mrs Mehta’s son is back from Yale Business School... We met him last night, he’s very smart you know, he’s also a little creative like you. He plays the ghatam!....” so on and so forth. Somewhere in there was a new year greeting.
Monisha (of course her name was something pseudo-arty-socialite, I thought to myself) was busy and had asked a very reliable colleague to return my phone to me at Coffee House at 6 pm. I wondered who else was not rushing back to the city for New Years Eve plans and was returning a mobile phone to a stranger at 6 pm – a creepy stalker or someone who believed in karma, had done something really bad in 2011 and wanted to redeem himself. Because good people did not exist in New Delhi, the most corrupt city in the world. The galaxy. The universe. You get my point.
I sat at the designated meeting place, waiting for my king size latte. And the guy, who was obviously was late. What if I had plans, I thought grumpily, and took out the latest Murakami book from my bag.
I looked up when the coffee arrived and saw the guy from the tea shop across the road that morning. He was on his phone. He saw me, grinned and came over, plonking himself in the seat opposite me. I raised my eyebrows.
He put my Blackberry down on the table, while still yelling at someone about a financial transaction gone wrong.
I stared open-mouthed. My hometown was a small city where coincidences happened. Delhi was like the New York of India – these things did not happen.
“I’d ask you to buy me coffee in return for this, but now I’m thinking dinner,” I heard him say after he'd finished his phone call.
I looked at him dubiously. Pat came another line, “You can’t even say no now, I have your phone number.”
He wasn’t really very attractive. Maybe an inch taller than me, in black pants, white shirt, carrying a bag shaped to fit in a laptop and files – not like the dreamy, artistic men I’d dated when I was young(er). Following which I was single for four years.
“Sameer. My name is Sameer.” He held out his hand.
“Gayathri.” I mumbled back, shaking the offered hand.
We spent four hours at the coffee shop while he tried his various witticisms on me. I don’t think I realised what time it was till we were told the store was shutting. 10.20 pm.
I got his number and got company on my way home. Of course he lived in C R Park, he was having tea right across from my apartment in the morning.
I’d like to say something like “....and that’s how I met your father, kids”, but honestly, even though he may have swept me off my feet a bit eight days ago, it’s only been eight days. It could have just been a perfectly normal end to the year, not the esoteric beginning to the story of my times with a man who could be the love of my life.
Though I wouldn’t mind that, he seems to be a pretty good kisser.
Friday, 6 January 2012
a word with january
Dear January,
The last few times we’ve been together, I’ve been bracing myself for upcoming changes – travel, work, studies. It’s always been logical, practical, rational and well thought out. As I am prone to be.
This time, I’m still in the middle of a big change, things expand and contract constantly around me and within me. Every single day. Which is not a bad thing. If you’d told me last year exactly what situation I would be in the next time we were together, I may have been a little worried. But this can be pretty fun.
I’m not asking you for much, January. I’d just like a little calm, from myself mostly. I can’t always be perfectly rational and unfeeling. The two voices in my head are still at loggerheads, almost everyday. Please make them stop. I know it’s been four months, and my formula hasn’t worked. What can I say? I’m not always right about myself. So let it go this time. And give me a little bit of peace so I can enjoy myself some more. I’m not going to be here for very long. My ass will return to the motherland and fall into a bucket of other people’s words and others’ needs and feelings and advice and love all over again. Which will be lovely, yes, but what about me? Anyhow, point being, please calm the voices in my head a little bit, and give me some respite so I can write and live and feel and drink and make merry in general. I’m tired of being rational. In this case, it doesn’t appear as though I have much of a choice anyway, whether I like it or not. So a little of your magic would be appreciated.
If you’d like me to be logical, I want two things from you – a job, and more writing.
Otherwise, I’m fine, Jan. I’ve managed your coldness before, I think I can do it again (no, I’m not challenging you. Jaipur is a lot warmer than Scotland.) I’m glad I am where I am. It’s lovely. Most people are lovely, the ones who are not, I can handle because I’ve handled far worse. This is child’s play.
The trees don’t have any leaves on them now, but your cousin October was beautiful. I’ve never seen an autumn before. I should have probably taken more pictures, but I was too preoccupied trying to memorise those images and freeze them forever, rather than uploading them onto Facebook.
Sometimes on a clear day, like this morning, I can see the water, far away and cold I’m sure, but it makes me grin like an idiot everytime. And the skies – they’re surreal. Why is Scottish blue so much nicer than Indian blue? Not that I’m complaining.
Cider. Thank you for all the cider. And mulled wine. It’s heaven. No, really. Oh wait, is that the sound of you laughing? I’ve never heard you laughing before, I wasn’t sure. It’s a nice sound, you should do that more often. See, you’re not as cold as people claim you are. I knew we had things in common.
All those pretty dogs on the streets, those endless shelves of books I can pick up and read when I want, the colours of the fruits and vegetables, the smelly blue-veined cheese... I love those too. Thanks for helping me cook. Though I’m not half bad, if I may say so myself.
Right. Thanks for the esoteric bunch of friends I’ve managed to make. They’re really lovely. Normal people are so boring. These ones are as off their rocker as Ma and I are. Sometimes it really does feel like a home away from home. I know, how shockered are you right now?
So yes, I’m quite alright, Jan. Just a wee bit of help in the aforementioned departments of logic vs emotions, me against the rest of the world, etc etc and so on, would be most appreciated.
Your sister February isn’t so bad either, I’m sure I’ll be in good hands in another few weeks too. But I’d rather start working on my sanity with you if you don’t mind. Time and tide sure as hell aren’t going to wait for me.
Hmm, I think that’s all I really wanted to say. Thanks in advance for all the feasts and merry-making, the reunions with the esoteric ones, the writing I will be doing and reading, hopefully the job I will be getting, the clarity and peace I will be finding more of.
See you soon. Yes, sooner than I know, so you say. But next January seems quite far away. I hope things change, and some things don’t, for the better. In other words, even if I’m pining next year, I sure hope you have a damn good reason for making me pine-y and whine-y all over again. I mean, honestly, wouldn’t you be sick of it by next year?
Wait, is that you laughing again? Oh right, I maybe pining for Scotland next January, not sunshine and sambar. Shit.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
thursday
It is Thursday and I write for Tuesday;
I write for sleepless nights, flashing lights,
Themed dreams, days of caramel and cheese,
Calm spirits, bubbles of joy, and tears that stream.
I write for sleepless nights, flashing lights,
Themed dreams, days of caramel and cheese,
Calm spirits, bubbles of joy, and tears that stream.
Measuring reasons, weighing them against each other,
But they do not balance.
Home is here, and home is far,
There will be pieces, little strips
Of myself spread in many places now,
Muscles pulling, hair strung,
Words left behind.
Mostly I write for peace
I can’t seem to find
Till I can smell you again,
Warm myself in your scent and your love.
Words will have to do for now.
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
dreaming of the dark
A December in the not-too-distant future
Fear. Cold fear clawed at me as I stepped backwards.
Bozo was barking, whimpering, not knowing which direction to run in. I called for my mother, but knew even mothers cannot save their daughters from everything.
She saw it too, allowed me cling to her as her brows furrowed. I could see she was scared too.
“We have to leave.”
I nodded, not knowing what else to say, and ventured hesitantly towards the window. It was like it had never been there. I opened the window, touched the outside of it.
It was wet, not with rain. We lived on the second floor of our building, facing the beach.
I remember mostly images now – the wooden spiral staircase I will never see again, the freshly washed entrance to our building, an intricate kolam drawn in plain white on the washed ground. The sun shone bright when I looked from the main door of the building.
Barefoot, walking around the building towards the beach, colours changed radically. Grey and brown. There was almost no water to be seen, the dirty brown, almost sludge-like water that was there was normal, reticent, not coming very close.
I heard voices, and followed them. Volleyball. People were playing volleyball at that time. The only people on the beach. Laughter, screeches, giggling, chastising... they were teenagers.
The wind was what was abnormal before anything else. Almost as bad as the Scottish winds I’d experienced when I had lived there before moving back home.
Then the wind stopped. The sludge-water receded. For a long time.
The teenagers took no notice, raging hormones, bare skin, adrenalin rush and sweat.
But they heard it too, the low rumble as it approached. “It’s making a bigger noise this time,” one of the boys laughed in Tamil. Why were they laughing?
They ran away from the beach, stood towards the edge, close to where I was, and watched the brown sludge crash onto the shore. It was not as high as the earlier wave that crashed against our windows. It rumbled onto the cars in our car park and receded. I waited for the kids to laugh about that before one of them said, “Asha yengai?”
Pandemonium broke loose as they went in search of a lost Asha, probably dragged to sea by the sludge. Only the best of swimmers could handle the muck in that, let alone the strength of that particular wave.
The skies were dark, looming over my head, the wind had returned after the previous wave receded. We still have some time, I thought, remembering the brief tsunami-training we had received at our workplace some months earlier.
I made my way to my dance teacher’s house, which was a few doors down from ours.
Her husband, an ecologist, was sitting in his chair on the verandah, looking glumly at the sea.
“Didi’s inside?” I asked.
“Haan, Sanhita is inside,” he replied, not talking my ear off for the first time in my life.
She was standing on the other end of her house, looking at the sun, which by then had some clouds covering it.
“What are you going to do, Didi?”
“Leave. What else to do?”
We remained silent. Only when she sniffed I realised she was crying. I did not know what to do.
“Didi...?”
It was when I moved closer to her that I saw what she was actually looking at. The hill in the distance. A tiny excuse for a hall that was a little outside the city, towards the airport. It dawned on me.
“How will I take my mother? And Bruno? He’s old, his legs...”
Her mother had had heart surgery recently, a broken hip the year before. The dog had been with them longer than I’d been learning classical dance from her.
My phone rang. It could only have been my mother.
We looked at each other and she said, “Be careful. Call me if she needs any help. I know how scared I am for Sippy now.” “Where is she?” The daughter was never far from the dog, I guessed both of them were frantically packing in the garage.
She didn’t answer.
“I have to go...”
“Yes, please. Go. Be safe.”
I did something I rarely did, maybe after a performance, but never otherwise. She never encouraged obeisance and incessant touch of a guru’s feet, unlike many schools of classical dance. I knelt before her feet in acknowledgement of everything I had learnt from her. When I stood up, there were tears in both our eyes and we hugged.
I turned around in the direction of my home, one I would never see again.
(author’s note: this is a re-telling of a very vivid dream I had recently)
Friday, 30 December 2011
new blog
since this new format is proving to be a pain, I will shortly be moving to a new one.
to be continued.
meanwhile Scotland is cold and windy but provides much fodder for writing I'm sure. now if only I would get to it! :)
Thursday, 29 December 2011
past forward
It is time once again for those narcissistic reflections of the time that has passed – to say “oh, how time flies!” and such. But it hasn’t really flown this year.
It’s been an introspective year, with many, many changes. Not the hop-from-one-job-back-into-another or hop-from-one-department-into-another sort of changes that my life has been centred around the last few years.
I’m now in a new country, which is why I haven’t posted anything decent in a long time. Then again, I’m not sure any of this was decent. And for a change I don’t mean this in a self-deprecating way.
If I had to pick a word to describe 2011, it might be “discomfort”. Not in the gastric or throbbing head sort of way. But for a person who isn’t comfortable moving away from stability and comfort, I’ve done a lot of changing this year. Much arguing with the voices in my head, tussles with logic against emotion, reasoning things out, trying to be patient with others and myself, and I must admit, a lot of fucking growth.
The first few months of the year were boring, normal and I thought it was all going well. Then I did something horrific, which made a very good friend’s life hell for a while. He was nice enough to forgive me, and sometimes I still am unforgiving towards myself (but what’s new) but at least I know not to get too cocky now.
Many rules have been broken. A year or two ago, if I’d broken one of my commandments, well, *gasp*, *shock* and all that. I’ve been amused to step outside myself and watch in moments. Some changes haven’t gone down well with the people I love most either, which has been very hard. Hence the tussles with the voices in my head and whatnot. I can’t say all is well, but I know I’ll figure it out at some point.
Uncomfortable, yes. And a year of extremes – extreme lows because I have been disappointed in myself a couple of times, or in people whom I value the most because I’ve seen new colours in them, but also A NEW COUNTRY. For God’s sake. It’s hellishly cold, but I’ve been told I’m handling it decently for someone in the tropics, one who is used to antibiotics at that.
A friend gifted me a diary this year, one which asks you a different question each day, for the whole year. The supremely exciting part is that it leaves space for five different years so maybe I can actually see the growth next year, or some memories at least. I’ve made some very happy memories this year, maybe because it feels like I fought for them.
One question I found a couple of days back was “when was the last time you were truly happy” and my first thought was, ‘whoa, not for ages’. I thought again and I realised I’m happy everytime I walk on a bridge near my house. No matter how rushed I am or how grey the clouds are, or how different from home, it makes me happy. A person who has negativity flowing through her blood.
It’s been a strange year. I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve had some miserable moments – pining for warm sambar/rasam, idli, my dog’s fur, a friend’s hug, the mother’s TLC when I was ill – but I’m actually very happy as well.
Strangely, I am more myself here than I was at home before I left. There was some turmoil and disapproval, many complicated things running around in my head for a while before I left, while I was trying to keep a dozen people happy and answer all their questions. Though I was happy through that too. (I know, you’re thinking “curiouser and curiouser”.) Eccentric, wonderful friends, independence, doing things for myself on my own much to my mother’s joy I’m sure... if I had a couple of the age-old friends over, the dog and the mother, and plenty of south Indian food, I’d be set forever. Oh yes, and my car. Though walking around here can be lovely when the wind is not blowing a hole in your brain or freezing your nose and digits off.
I’m not sure what I want from 2012. Answers. Many of them. Sometimes I dread returning because I know I have to handle things like a job, a cranky boss, wondering what to do about a boy, handling a mother who misses me, and such mundane things.
I suppose I could do without idli-sambar/Labrador/mother for a while more if it means not having any responsibilities beyond looking after myself. If it were only that easy.
Then again, ease didn’t make great artists I suppose. So no wonder being so uncomfortable and in such alien territory (in more ways than you can imagine) is leading to many growth spurts. And me surprising myself time and time again. In a good way.
Hopefully 2012 will not herald the end of the world as we know it. Sure there’ll be death, there always is – of some habits, some relationships, some people – but that happens all the time. I just hope no more polar bears die (no, seriously, that’s awful). Sometimes I wish I could tell the people I love, listen, there are polar bears dying, relax about the INR dropping or you not getting enough sex or having a bad boss, at least we won’t starve to death or have to eat a furry cute cub. Uhm. I assume that would not go down well. Especially with the mother.
Anyhow, here’s to a good year – I use a shadowy word on purpose because I’m not even sure of what exactly I want because I don’t know which voice in my head to trust sometimes. I wonder when they will come to a compromise. If there is discomfort for any of us, let there be plenty of alcohol and sex all around, but less babies. We’re emitting enough carbon as it is. *chinks glass of mulled wine*. Happy 2012 and end of the world, everyone! Don’t worry, I’m sure the Mayans just ran out of leaves or stones to draw calendars on.
Friday, 18 November 2011
should be loved
It’s as if there’s an unspoken promise – that I will wait.
Why should I wait? Why, when he is off frolicking in new places, meeting new people, learning new things... He didn’t promise me anything. Nobody decided anything except that it should stop once he leaves.
My boss won’t wait for me to be in a better mood before I toss out more ideas for a shitty client, my cat won’t wait to be fed, the clouds won’t wait till I’m home before letting loose all that pent up rain, the traffic won’t wait till I get to work before getting bad, my maid won’t wait for her salary, my colleague won’t wait for an explanation for that teensy mark on my neck, so why should I wait? I could get hit by a car crossing the road tomorrow.
I don’t want to wait. It doesn’t feel right. I haven’t heard from him in five weeks – monosyllabic chats don’t count. And I don’t want to wait. I would like to wreak havoc on boykind before I get hit by a car. Anna has done it with 12 boys, I’d like to get halfway there (I’d honestly like to be in double digits, but that’s not realistic since I’m ticklish with strange boys, let’s face it)... he’s probably doing it with that pretty Mediterranean looking girl I saw in some pictures, drunken eyes, pointy hat for Halloween. I shouldn’t have to wait while he gets into triple digits. We didn’t promise each other anything.
From: Maria Kumar
On Wednesday, 5 November, 6.39pm
To: Paul Cherian
Bcc: Seema Revanoor
Subject: Re: Bad news
Hey Paul,
Sorry it took me a few days to get back to you, work has been insane. And it's fine, once you get a new phone, save my number. It's 9967054549.
It was nice bumping into you as well, and yeah, it’s raining this much because I finally got out of my office and house for a bit!
I’m not free Friday night, but we could do something on Saturday. Dinner sounds good. Let me know where and when. See you soon.
Maria
I hit ‘send’.
Apparently I wasn't going to try and wait.
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