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.
Showing posts with label shorts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shorts. Show all posts
Tuesday, 30 December 2014
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, 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.
special
You ever know those moments when you’re doing something you *know* you’ll regret later? It’s stupid really, it was just chocolate. But that’s how it starts... you start to unravel with one, tiny chocolate addiction.
You make excuses, yeah, everyone does. Oh it’s winter, oh it’s alright, you need to store up for the cold, you’ll burn it off, and all of that wisdom from everyone. But it makes you feel like shit later and it shouldn’t. And I know I’m not gonna go jogging, who in their right minds will put on their shoes and go running in this cold. The wind would cut your ears right off, it’s not a nice feeling. Then I’d feel worse and eat more chocolate. Totally pointless.
I wish the weight would go to my boobs, but no, it goes straight to my hips. The big hips look good only on JLo, the beautiful bloody bitch.
People look at me strangely, all wrapped up in layers of fur. Like just because I have white skin doesn’t mean I’m from Norway or the bloody Highlands. Once I open my mouth, they exchange looks. ‘Ah these stupid Americans.’ Yeah, we’re stupid, but at least we don’t have mice in our kitchens.
Cheese. That’s my other craving right now. Chocolate, and cheese. So I’m sitting home on a cloudy Friday evening, trying to get cracking on essay # 847, chomping into my cheese sandwich when I heard a bloodcurdling scream. Sigh. The flatmate is back.
I take the sandwich with me.
Hysterics in the kitchen. The tiny, brown creature has disappeared, probably into my room, it being the closest to the kitchen, now smelling of cheese and all.
I’ve had it. With the screaming and the darkness and the wind and all that. I go find my nail polish remover, empty the bottle into that glass bottle (it had Thai curry paste in it) I just washed, and dunk a massive chunk of Red Leicester in it.
I switch off the lights, go to my room and go to bed. When the alarm rings, I calmly get out of bed. I fumble around in the kitchen and go back to sleep.
I awaken to a scream again. I hope she hasn’t toppled the bottle over, I’m not cleaning dead mouse shit up. I left it in front of her door hoping it would make her feel better.
Fuck, it’s 8.30am on a Saturday, who wakes up that early in December?!
I roll over, hug my pillow, pretend it is someone I love and go back to sleep, dreaming of dead mice, actors laying mice traps, writing essays, running down mountains under fat grey clouds.
Monday, 16 May 2011
surrender
“What if I just stop running and give in to all the madness?” I found myself thinking.
After having lived abroad for five years, I missed home. I wanted to come back. And I did.
By that time I was 31. My parents were gentle in their requests for information about my relationships while I had been gone. It seems they were sure I had found someone to settle down with and never worried that they’d have to “arrange” for a boy.
The rest of the north Indian extended family were hyperventilating though. Forget 31, even 28 was nearing an expiry date when it came to the Indian wedding market. And I, having been brought up by fairly open-minded people in an extremely open-minded metro, and living abroad on top of it, was not prepared for the circus that awaited me once I got back.
Picture this: I land in Mumbai after hopping across god only knows how many continents, seas or countries, and my grandmother toddles in at 2 in the morning to ask what my boyfriend looks like. Because she wants to know if her great-grandchildren will be decent looking, she says. I stared open-mouthed before my poor mother ushered her back to bed.
For the next two hours, my parents calmly explain the situation to me – how they have fended off queries for my hand in marriage, how they were sure I’d be against an arranged thing, how they were even surer that I would find someone for myself during my time away. “After all, you’re such a smart cookie, and so pretty too,” my mother smiled at me gently, tucking my hair behind my ear.
I had to pinch myself to check if it was a dream.
It was close to two months after my return, as I was standing by the French windows in my uncle’s house, mulling my esoteric existence in a suddenly traditional set up, when I finally decided. Against all the advice of my equally esoteric friends, I would give in. I would stop running.
Love had let many people down over the years. My own parents had met through their family. So what if I barely knew the man I might marry. Sometimes we think we know people and find we don’t know even the first thing about them. The more I obsessed about it, the more it seemed to make sense.
I find myself today, with a supremely calm exterior, dressed not in my finery, but in fairly normal clothes (to keep at least a part of the typical boy-meets-girl-and-family deal different), sitting across, well, a boy. Or a man. Whatever. I find myself resisting the urge to pinch myself again and check if this is real.
Even before he opens his mouth, I know he is not the one for me. But I am not worried. I’ve stopped worrying and obsessing, I’ve surrendered to the process now. I didn’t expect to find my match in the very first guy I met.
I smiled at him and wondered how to tell Mr Electrical Engineer in a Pink and Blue shirt that well, he wasn’t quite esoteric and strange enough to suit my needs. Then I thought back to the very first boy who had a crush on me, in school, and how till today we remain friends despite the feelings not being reciprocated.
I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to say something.
After having lived abroad for five years, I missed home. I wanted to come back. And I did.
By that time I was 31. My parents were gentle in their requests for information about my relationships while I had been gone. It seems they were sure I had found someone to settle down with and never worried that they’d have to “arrange” for a boy.
The rest of the north Indian extended family were hyperventilating though. Forget 31, even 28 was nearing an expiry date when it came to the Indian wedding market. And I, having been brought up by fairly open-minded people in an extremely open-minded metro, and living abroad on top of it, was not prepared for the circus that awaited me once I got back.
Picture this: I land in Mumbai after hopping across god only knows how many continents, seas or countries, and my grandmother toddles in at 2 in the morning to ask what my boyfriend looks like. Because she wants to know if her great-grandchildren will be decent looking, she says. I stared open-mouthed before my poor mother ushered her back to bed.
For the next two hours, my parents calmly explain the situation to me – how they have fended off queries for my hand in marriage, how they were sure I’d be against an arranged thing, how they were even surer that I would find someone for myself during my time away. “After all, you’re such a smart cookie, and so pretty too,” my mother smiled at me gently, tucking my hair behind my ear.
I had to pinch myself to check if it was a dream.
It was close to two months after my return, as I was standing by the French windows in my uncle’s house, mulling my esoteric existence in a suddenly traditional set up, when I finally decided. Against all the advice of my equally esoteric friends, I would give in. I would stop running.
Love had let many people down over the years. My own parents had met through their family. So what if I barely knew the man I might marry. Sometimes we think we know people and find we don’t know even the first thing about them. The more I obsessed about it, the more it seemed to make sense.
I find myself today, with a supremely calm exterior, dressed not in my finery, but in fairly normal clothes (to keep at least a part of the typical boy-meets-girl-and-family deal different), sitting across, well, a boy. Or a man. Whatever. I find myself resisting the urge to pinch myself again and check if this is real.
Even before he opens his mouth, I know he is not the one for me. But I am not worried. I’ve stopped worrying and obsessing, I’ve surrendered to the process now. I didn’t expect to find my match in the very first guy I met.
I smiled at him and wondered how to tell Mr Electrical Engineer in a Pink and Blue shirt that well, he wasn’t quite esoteric and strange enough to suit my needs. Then I thought back to the very first boy who had a crush on me, in school, and how till today we remain friends despite the feelings not being reciprocated.
I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to say something.
Thursday, 14 April 2011
speed demon
Car horns blared and wheels screeched. If I had stopped I may have even smelt something that always put me off – rubber burning, or rather the smell of tyres when they aren’t built for speed. Mine were, fortunately.
Traffic was a bitch. It always was. And I wasn’t the chief minister or leader of the state’s opposition, or even some inane IAS officer or High Court judge. I was nobody. A common man, albeit married to the most brilliant woman in the world, with a mundane and monotonous job, and a lousy hatchback of a car.
Chennai roads were not built for speeding hatchbacks, even if they had Japanese tyres – potholes, people crossing on a whim, cows, bullock carts, stray dogs that think they’re Superman’s best friend and try to fly across in peak hour traffic, not to forget the millions of two-wheelers and auto rickshaws.
The roads definitely weren’t built for people dying either. Why the goddamn hospital had to be a billion miles away, I wouldn’t know. And the goddamn paramedics had even refused to let me in the ambulance so I had to jump into my trusty hatchback and follow. Sans the screaming siren and all. So people thought I was a freak and mostly didn’t allow me to pass.
The aforementioned brilliant wife was standing by the road, waiting for me to pick her up, when she crossed (the signal was red). Some bastard knocked her down. Right in front of my eyes. A massive 4WD with the ruling political party’s flag flapping away at the front, very proudly, knocked down my 26-year-old photographer wife, gorgeous and intelligent and carrying a shitload of equipment. If she wasn’t, she would have just caught a goddamn auto.
I cursed myself for not leaving office sooner to pick her up and cut through one more red light, screaming at the two-wheeler who tried to overtake me from my left. Moron.
I felt like I was having a panic attack when I saw the next red light. The ambulance managed to get ahead by as much as about 50 feet and I had to get to it. Stat. Of course, traffic wasn’t allowing me to. I turned off the nasal girl on the radio and put on some Pearl Jam and stepped on the accelerator. That was after I took a puff of my asthma medicine. Of course, I didn’t actually have asthma. I just smoked too much and kept it with me in case of emergencies. Like this.
I got to my wife after a couple of minutes. I knocked down a girl on a bicycle in the process, but it was her fault. Women are gorgeous and smart, but they can’t drive to save their lives and they should bloody accept the fact.
It had been 27 minutes already. Twenty seven long minutes since that white monster of a car had knocked her down. And I had no idea what shape she was in. I saw the hospital on the horizon and somehow, I didn’t feel any relief. I think I knew she was already gone. Maybe she was never mine to begin with. I always wondered what she saw in a poor sod like me.
**********
The boys had been glued to their gaming console since early evening, but hunger made them look up around dinner time.
“Where the hell is Samir, dude? I’m hungry. Is he getting pepperoni or chicken bbq?”
“No idea. Both will do. I may even eat mushrooms now, I’m so fucking hungry.”
“He’ll be here soon. He was stuck at office.”
The first guy looks up. “Office? Shit, that’s in fricking another state, dude. He’ll take another hour at least.”
Boy number two groans, but the third interrupts. “Chill, man. The psycho will be here soon.”
“How do you know?? Have you ever driven on that route at 7pm?”
“You know that strange psycho-ass trick he has of following ambulances and pretending he’s the son or whatever of the person inside? He’s probably doing that. He texted earlier saying he’d be here in 20. So shut up and wait.”
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
psycho 27
I’m tired. And sad. Things which I try never to be. Tired means what I’m doing in the first place is not good enough for me. Sad could be because I’m not doing what I want to do, or that I don’t know what I want.
Or it could be more personal, I thought, and took a deep drag on my cigarette. What did I really want? Or was it a who?
Some years ago I had decided not to get too involved with men. I had bad taste in them. Maybe because of daddy issues, or the endless men I had seen in life who let my friends, family and me down. Who knows? Either way, I was always attracted to the messed up ones. Which made life quite difficult. Unfortunately in countries like mine, casual sex was frowned upon. Especially for women. So not only was I deprived of a boy, I was also deprived of sex. I’d like to think that I wasn’t pining for an actual fuzzy, warm relationship, that I wanted just the sex. But though the rest of the world could fall for that act, I knew the truth.
There was only one thing that could cure me of my daddy issues. Or it could make me worse: emotional, suicidal, crazy. “Love”. I hated that word. It was overused, overrated, misinterpreted, pointless, confusing, and a whole lot of other things. But apparently part of me wanted it. The fuzziness of it all. I shuddered.
I had always thought love was biological. Based on sexual urges, unconscious attractions to men whose babies we unknowingly (or in psycho cases knowingly) wanted to bear. And men, well it was simpler with them because there were no emotions there. They were just built to spread their seed. So this whole love business was pretty much a sham, and based on chemistry, science, cells.
Except I was 27 and apparently my cells had started giving in to the psychosis that takes over when you get older and realize what you want is security. A big guy to prove you wrong about men, who will take you out, be suitably overprotective, charm your family, buy you a cat, try and cook you dinner but actually burn it… I cursed loudly and lit another cigarette.
The beach was dangerous at night, especially for women who were alone. But I had made friends with the dogs there. I made sure I carried a weapon, my cell phone, and that I took the car with the bright red POLICE sticker on it. (Fake of course).
I took off my shoes and walked towards the water. It was further away than I thought so I plonked on the sand, halfway across. I saw an actual cop’s car pass. The cop got down and shouted at some guys loitering around their parked BMW. I rolled my eyes. The richer they were, the more arrogant the lowlifes got.
“Nouveau riche,” I muttered.
I lay down with my arms behind my head and looked at the stars, lost deep in thought. I thought about the douchebag I had recently fallen for. Well, he wasn’t all that bad. He was rich and confused, but otherwise quite a gentleman. Most other men would have asked me out on a date, bombarded me with text messages, asked to hear me sing (I had voice training as a teenager but didn’t want to be a lousy pop star) and thrown themselves at my feet if they knew I liked them.
This one was like the type I usually fell for. Messed up. But he probably wasn’t as messed up as he thought. Just weak and confused. Sometimes I felt like kissing him, at other times I felt like beating him to a pulp. I probably could, too. Part of me didn’t even know what he was really like. Whether he was weak or whether I just wanted to see the weak side of him so I could get over him. Not that it helped.
I had tried everything. Travel, singing, taking a break from work, drinking, socializing, but none of it worked. For some godforsaken reason, I wanted the confused, rich boy.
I sighed. I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. It was drizzling so I hesitated before pulling it out. It was my mother. I got up, brushed off the sand and prepared to head home before she called again.
That was when I saw him. He was standing in front of my car, staring at the number plate. I blinked. It couldn’t have been him.
He turned and saw me. But he didn’t move. His hands were in his pockets, he continued frowning at me as I made my way towards my car.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are YOU doing here?”
“I live here. You know that.”
“On the beach?”
“No, nearby.”
I showed no reaction. I did know he lived nearby. I ignored his reply and went to my car, opened the door and turned around to say goodbye.
I screamed when I turned. He was standing two inches from my nose. And he kissed me.
It was a kiss I had imagined many times. I was so busy handling the million thoughts in my head that I forgot to really feel the kiss. When he drew back, I stared at him for ages. Neither of us said anything. Then I asked him to pinch me. He did.
And then I bloody woke up on the beach, soaking wet because it had started raining.
Sunday, 10 October 2010
straw on my back
I always wondered about the phrase, the straw that broke the camel’s back. How could straw possible do that? As a child, metaphors like this baffled me. I never understood the human language. Maybe it had something to do with me never hearing it. It didn’t bother me, not being able to hear. I immersed myself in my art the only time I was ever bothered about being different – when I was a teenager. And since then I had never felt out of place again.
I seemed to be raising a normal child, I was a fairly well to do artist and graphic designer, I was happily married. The second time around seemed to be treating me better. My first marriage was a disaster. He beat me, made me feel like it was my fault I could not hear, he thought I couldn’t tell when he spoke to his mistresses on the phone, in hushed whispers, that bastard.
But one day, I understood the camel’s predicament. That poor, godforsaken camel. When he found out I was pregnant, he beat me till I bled. He did not want a child with "defects" he said. I miscarried.
I left that night with everything in the world I could ever need: my essentials. Since my fourth week of marriage I had always kept a small bag with clothes and my jewellery, ready to make a dash. That, along with my most prized canvas, and a camcorder which had footage of me trying to tell my first husband that the pregnancy was a mistake, footage of him then beating the pulp out of me. I had my lawyer friend on speed-dial. And once she arrived, I left with those three things. Oh yes, and my self respect. The most essential of all.
I seemed to be raising a normal child, I was a fairly well to do artist and graphic designer, I was happily married. The second time around seemed to be treating me better. My first marriage was a disaster. He beat me, made me feel like it was my fault I could not hear, he thought I couldn’t tell when he spoke to his mistresses on the phone, in hushed whispers, that bastard.
But one day, I understood the camel’s predicament. That poor, godforsaken camel. When he found out I was pregnant, he beat me till I bled. He did not want a child with "defects" he said. I miscarried.
I left that night with everything in the world I could ever need: my essentials. Since my fourth week of marriage I had always kept a small bag with clothes and my jewellery, ready to make a dash. That, along with my most prized canvas, and a camcorder which had footage of me trying to tell my first husband that the pregnancy was a mistake, footage of him then beating the pulp out of me. I had my lawyer friend on speed-dial. And once she arrived, I left with those three things. Oh yes, and my self respect. The most essential of all.
Monday, 21 June 2010
small spaces, loud noises
I was sweating. Profusely. And I never sweat. I “perspire” like my aunt says. Women do not sweat profusely. They perspire gently.
Whatever. I was dripping. Drip-drop. That rhymes with tick-tock. It occurred to me randomly. If I suddenly started singing a disco tune sung by a blonde with a bull-ring through her nose, I might have killed myself. Rather than have the director kill me.
I tried not to sigh visibly. My line came. I said it with utterly convincing emotion (while dripping sweat off my forehead on to the tip of my pert nose) and walked off stage. In the wings Hema stood, ready with a powder puff. “What the hell is wrong with you? You *never* sweat!” “I know right? Hell. Gimme that,” I grabbed the powder puff and the compact fell to the ground with a loud clatter. We froze. I’d better kill myself now. Keshav was certainly going to chop off my limbs otherwise and watch as I bled slowly to death. The image came to mind. While I pictured my painful death, Hema picked up the compact, powdered me and sent me back on stage.
I couldn’t see anything in the audience because of the glare of the lights. The performance space was small. It was a weekend and apparently more than a handful of people had heard about the play, so the place was packed. I was either going to be hacked to death by said director or would suffocate. It occurred to me that I should stop thinking about how I was going to die. Especially since every imaginary scenario culminated with a death on the very same day I was thinking it.
After the painful scenes, my heart began racing as we approached the climax. Which involved my death on stage. I said on stage, don’t get your hopes up. The dialogues began to quicken and the pace and atmosphere visibly improved, my heart felt lighter. The momentous death happened. There was pin drop silence. My chest was bursting with delight and I thought “Ah, maybe Keshav will think this stupendous end was worth the sweat and clatter.”
And then I heard it. A loud fart ripped through the not-so-large performance space. And then a roar of laughter. I cracked open an eyelid and saw my fellow actors slowly cracking smiles on stage, and imagined a roar of fury that was my director. And the laughter quickly spread through the entire audience.
Whatever. I was dripping. Drip-drop. That rhymes with tick-tock. It occurred to me randomly. If I suddenly started singing a disco tune sung by a blonde with a bull-ring through her nose, I might have killed myself. Rather than have the director kill me.
I tried not to sigh visibly. My line came. I said it with utterly convincing emotion (while dripping sweat off my forehead on to the tip of my pert nose) and walked off stage. In the wings Hema stood, ready with a powder puff. “What the hell is wrong with you? You *never* sweat!” “I know right? Hell. Gimme that,” I grabbed the powder puff and the compact fell to the ground with a loud clatter. We froze. I’d better kill myself now. Keshav was certainly going to chop off my limbs otherwise and watch as I bled slowly to death. The image came to mind. While I pictured my painful death, Hema picked up the compact, powdered me and sent me back on stage.
I couldn’t see anything in the audience because of the glare of the lights. The performance space was small. It was a weekend and apparently more than a handful of people had heard about the play, so the place was packed. I was either going to be hacked to death by said director or would suffocate. It occurred to me that I should stop thinking about how I was going to die. Especially since every imaginary scenario culminated with a death on the very same day I was thinking it.
After the painful scenes, my heart began racing as we approached the climax. Which involved my death on stage. I said on stage, don’t get your hopes up. The dialogues began to quicken and the pace and atmosphere visibly improved, my heart felt lighter. The momentous death happened. There was pin drop silence. My chest was bursting with delight and I thought “Ah, maybe Keshav will think this stupendous end was worth the sweat and clatter.”
And then I heard it. A loud fart ripped through the not-so-large performance space. And then a roar of laughter. I cracked open an eyelid and saw my fellow actors slowly cracking smiles on stage, and imagined a roar of fury that was my director. And the laughter quickly spread through the entire audience.
Friday, 4 September 2009
the date
There’s only one thing running through my head. Like a chant. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God oh God. I’ve almost entirely convinced myself that you are the key. To it all.
Do you see it? While you’re sitting across the table from me trying to decide what to order, do you see it? Do you see anything bubbling beneath my surface?
No, of course you don’t. I haven’t told you yet. Because you may not be the key at all. All those books on meditation tell me I have the key, that I’ve always had it. So why should I believe that you could give me any joy which I cannot find for myself?
What if I tell you, and you turn out not to be a key at all? Or what if you don’t fit? Because I’ve obviously built you up way too much in my head. Given you too much credit, dreamt of you too much. Of your stupid voice which is far from perfect but gives me goosebumps, and your long, pale fingers, your pretty face and the shock of black hair.
See what I mean?
So maybe you’re the key to everything. Maybe you’re not. But how would I know unless you get your nose out of the menu and allowed me to make the mini-speech I’ve practiced so many times while lying on my bed?
You look up from the menu and catch me staring at you. Those pretty eyes under that pretty hair. Now you’re staring at me half-nervously, half-expectantly. Like you know what I’m thinking.
It’s time for the practiced speech.
Oh God oh God oh God.
Do you see it? While you’re sitting across the table from me trying to decide what to order, do you see it? Do you see anything bubbling beneath my surface?
No, of course you don’t. I haven’t told you yet. Because you may not be the key at all. All those books on meditation tell me I have the key, that I’ve always had it. So why should I believe that you could give me any joy which I cannot find for myself?
What if I tell you, and you turn out not to be a key at all? Or what if you don’t fit? Because I’ve obviously built you up way too much in my head. Given you too much credit, dreamt of you too much. Of your stupid voice which is far from perfect but gives me goosebumps, and your long, pale fingers, your pretty face and the shock of black hair.
See what I mean?
So maybe you’re the key to everything. Maybe you’re not. But how would I know unless you get your nose out of the menu and allowed me to make the mini-speech I’ve practiced so many times while lying on my bed?
You look up from the menu and catch me staring at you. Those pretty eyes under that pretty hair. Now you’re staring at me half-nervously, half-expectantly. Like you know what I’m thinking.
It’s time for the practiced speech.
Oh God oh God oh God.
the date
There’s only one thing running through my head. Like a chant. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God oh God. I’ve almost entirely convinced myself that you are the key. To it all.
Do you see it? While you’re sitting across the table from me trying to decide what to order, do you see it? Do you see anything bubbling beneath my surface?
No, of course you don’t. I haven’t told you yet. Because you may not be the key at all. All those books on meditation tell me I have the key, that I’ve always had it. So why should I believe that you could give me any joy which I cannot find for myself?
What if I tell you, and you turn out not to be a key at all? Or what if you don’t fit? Because I’ve obviously built you up way too much in my head. Given you too much credit, dreamt of you too much. Of your stupid voice which is far from perfect but gives me goosebumps, and your long, pale fingers, your pretty face and the shock of black hair.
See what I mean?
So maybe you’re the key to everything. Maybe you’re not. But how would I know unless you get your nose out of the menu and allowed me to make the mini-speech I’ve practiced so many times while lying on my bed?
You look up from the menu and catch me staring at you. Those pretty eyes under that pretty hair. Now you’re staring at me half-nervously, half-expectantly. Like you know what I’m thinking.
It’s time for the practiced speech.
Oh God oh God oh God.
Do you see it? While you’re sitting across the table from me trying to decide what to order, do you see it? Do you see anything bubbling beneath my surface?
No, of course you don’t. I haven’t told you yet. Because you may not be the key at all. All those books on meditation tell me I have the key, that I’ve always had it. So why should I believe that you could give me any joy which I cannot find for myself?
What if I tell you, and you turn out not to be a key at all? Or what if you don’t fit? Because I’ve obviously built you up way too much in my head. Given you too much credit, dreamt of you too much. Of your stupid voice which is far from perfect but gives me goosebumps, and your long, pale fingers, your pretty face and the shock of black hair.
See what I mean?
So maybe you’re the key to everything. Maybe you’re not. But how would I know unless you get your nose out of the menu and allowed me to make the mini-speech I’ve practiced so many times while lying on my bed?
You look up from the menu and catch me staring at you. Those pretty eyes under that pretty hair. Now you’re staring at me half-nervously, half-expectantly. Like you know what I’m thinking.
It’s time for the practiced speech.
Oh God oh God oh God.
Monday, 29 June 2009
Kamikaze bear
Sizzling. I was sizzling. And I don’t mean in a red-hot, sensuous kind of way. The sun was high – it was around noon. I was already sweating after dance class, now I could feel it dripping down to the small of my back.
Dazed and on the verge of heat-stroke (yes, I tend to over-dramatise things a tad) I blinked blearily when my bus finally arrived. I clambered on, shoving people out of my way, and managed to find myself a window seat. Then I got a ticket, switched on my iPod and closed my eyes in bliss.
I was nearing home when a random, cheeky boy dumped his black backpack on my lap from outside the bus. (Welcome to India, where strange occurrences are common). Now this is normally done when the bus is overflowing with people and there’s not much standing space either, so the ones lucky enough to be seated are dumped with the bags.
I looked around. Not so crowded bus. Not in the least. And where the hell was the cheeky boy. Why the hell did he even pick my lap to dump it on. I was far away from the doors of the bus. The middle-aged lady sitting next to me glanced at the bag and back at me. I shrugged.
Why, why, why. Why me. Then I thought. What if it was a bomb. And visions of me exploding and meeting an early death suddenly bombarded me. Visions of friends not knowing for several days, and of my brother crying in his white kurta, while lighting the pyre on which my corpse had been kept… the middle-aged lady was looking at me again. I tried subtly re-adjusting my posture and shaking the bag to see what was inside. Upon looking around, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had disappeared after planting the bomb. Yellow-hearted, non-kamikaze, fool. And then I thought. What the hell. If some random passer-by dumps his bag on me, why should I allow it. I live in a free country. I can check what’s inside.
So yours truly vehemently tore open the bag. And my breath stopped.
It was a hideous looking creation. Purple in colour, carrying a heart which claimed ‘‘you’re special’’. The teddy bear looked at me with its beady eyes, as if chastising me. And behind him, were a stack of notebooks.
I felt incredibly stupid. Maybe I did have a heat-stroke after all. Or maybe Mr Bear was a ticking bomb.
I thought again. Naah.
Monday, 15 June 2009
chronicles of the absurd
Isn’t it absurd how you can suddenly see old friends in a new light? It’s a class A cliché, I know. But this morning when I met Manu, I thought… why not him? I mean, he has had the hugest crush on me ever since we met. Everytime he comes to town he wants to see me, he’s always saying how nice I look. And look at Zayed. Four years later, I’m wondering what the hell I’ve been doing with him. I think I only remember being happy in the first year.
Isn’t it absurd how I can continue to think these things, but still remain with Zayed. What is it with bad boys? Is there something about the XX chromosome which is drawn only to philanderers and lying nicotine addicts?
And isn’t it absurd how no matter how well you know someone, an outsider ends up having more insight into said person than you do? I never realised Zayed had serious psychological problems till a friend of mine suggested it to me.
It’s even more absurd how people in his life, from his wife to his kids, have never noticed it either. I was wondering whether I should tell my mother about it. But of course, that’s an option only if I want to be branded insane myself. She would ask why, why I thought my father had “psychological problems”. And what could I say. Because he’s screwing his 20-year-old stepdaughter? Mentally and physically? Nope. Definitely not an option. Could I tell him about it? Probably not. Although, perhaps I could blackmail him into seeing a psychiatrist. No more making out or fondling or sex till Zayed visited Dr Nair.
Isn’t it absurd how we always, always hope for the best, though we are too weak to fight the atrocities of life? It really is. It’s ridiculous how I dream of a normal life, but still melt everytime he touches me. It’s silly how the whole world thinks I’m a sensible girl, but every few nights I let my step father do unmentionable things to me. And it is completely absurd how in love he is with my mother, and how she has never noticed anything out of the ordinary.
Life is just plain absurd. Sometimes it’s comic, but most times it’s just terribly tragic for me. I wonder if Manu would want to be with me if he knew just how tragically absurd my life was.
No. I don’t think so either.
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