Beautifully Baffled

To Nowhere..

2009-10-11T01:32:00.000-07:00

A Saturday evening…a bout of self- love. I choose to spend this evening just with myself…
I buy a pirated copy of one my favorite books…I have read, read and re- read this book a couple of times in the past few years. Interestingly… every time I have read this book, I have been in a different city…each time life has been a little different than the last time I read it.

I walk back, not necessarily with an aim to reach anywhere. I let myself walk through the small lanes, not knowing where they will lead me to …
Paths which lead to the unknown, are worthwhile to tread on…

It’s a beautiful night.... The air is crisp and cold… it starts drizzling…the cold rain drops pleasingly pierce my skin. I have reached a divine place overlooking the city which has death- like calm and a life- like vivacity. It is dimly lit..very calm, forlorn….. a place, where I suddenly feel alienated from all the things which I am a part of …It is a feeling of being possessed by everything around and not having any possession of my own..it’s beautiful, almost like a string of magic moments..

I want to scribble a few lines to capture these moments..I do so on the blank pages of the book I just bought. A few lines on the next page attract my attention….it talks of mistakes, of fate…and the mistakes which make our fate...of letting life choose the course by itself ...

I sit here thinking… the last time I read this statement in my dilapidated apartment on a winter night years ago in the city of joy...I had no clue I will read it once again in this city, I never thought I will go to...

My journey from there to here, then to now…it took a lot of strength and a little fragility, a lot of love and a little hatred, a lot of turbulence and a little peace...a lot of "letting- go" and "holding on" ...big errors and little mistakes

I sit here wondering...when we let ourselves on anonymous paths we come accross lots of illusions, apprehensions of what may happen next and a fear of not being able to find the destination again…but I guess that’s the price we all pay for a few magic moments like these..

I bookmark this page…for the next time and the one after that…

Of Doubt & Trust

2009-09-04T05:34:00.000-07:00

It never ends, I wish it never does
These last few moments of doubt and trust…

No more it matters if I win...
And it doesn’t matter if I win a lil less
It is meant to be broken, destined for an end
I see it going…was never mine
It never goes, I wish it never does
The last few moments of doubt and trust…

No more it matters if I will miss it
And it doesn’t matter if I ll miss it a lil more
Yesterday has disappeared, tomorrow will too..
I see this day fading away soon
It never fades, I wish it never does..
The last few moments of doubt and trust…

The dawn is elusive, the dusk is too
A Fathomless abyss between me and you
Where the doubt is charming, and the trust is too!

Beautifully Implicit

2009-07-13T09:22:00.000-07:00

Most things in life are done out of compulsions – few explicit, most implicit. Being punctual to office belongs to the latter (if you are into HR). It’s a usual morning. After snoozing for approx. 20 minutes, I finally push myself out of the bed. As I slowly descend from the astral world, I realize the only thing “usual” about this morning is the eternal internal conflict of “to bunk or not to bunk”. The sky is gloomy, rains haven’t stopped pouring since last night, the air is fresh and cold – it carries a fragrance better than the one trapped in nina ricci bottles….it is ideal – a hot cup of coffee, my bed and day full of “nothingness”…but..

I give in, I have to rush – the corporate butchers do not understand that there’s much more to life than to earn a living….do I?...may be not! none of us do …guess the “implicit compulsions” are more potent than the explicit ones.

At 9 in the morning one of the busiest roads to travel in the city is the “hi-tech”, where thousands of techies drag themselves to work each day – decked up, wearing the rectangular access/ID cards around their necks which reduce each one of them into a number, but does give them some sort of “identity” we all crave for.

The traffic is totally jammed. I am happy as it gives me some more time and a valid reason to reach office late. Still at the same spot as I was 10 mins ago, the music in my ipod starts giving me a headache. I put it off and look around...

A pretty girl in a rickshaw doing and re-doing her make-up with complicated colored pencils…impatiently looking at her watch time and again…An old woman wearing a faded saree in another rickshaw...contemplating in silence, in no hurry to reach anywhere…

A white school bus stuffed with kids- all of them tearing each others clothes apart….a group of younger children happily selling flowers, thanking the traffic jam to give them maximum client exposure.

A black Mercedes (something to die for) and a disturbingly handsome man on the back seat (something to live for: P) …too engrossed in his palmtop to notice anything around… A cycle with 27 chickens on each side tied upside down …the fastest one to twist and turn and make its way out of the commotion...

A “formally dressed” mid- aged man on a pulsar continually convincing someone on phone getting ready for his sales target …. A old bike - 3 friends , adjusting themselves on a red caliber having the best laugh of their lives…

A rainy morning….a standstill corner of a fast paced city made us all look like the “self- absorbed” characters of a similar story – ever flowing , ever moving from someone, something, somewhere to someone, something ,elsewhere. It is few explicit stops in life like these , when I wonder how everything around is indeed beautifully implicit!

May Be...

2009-05-19T01:31:00.000-07:00

When one routine ends ...we simply dive into a new one. As I come back home this Friday night , I take a break from my cellphone ,e-mails and myself. The day I wait for every week is here - Tomorrow ,I can skip everything I hate – Waking up early, forcing my eyeballs accept polymers to see the world better, going through my “To-Do-List” on my way to the office and making it on my way back.

I stare at the city , so well framed by the window of my room - this is where I lose myself everyday amongst the thousands ….it’s still alive …colours, lights, savvy people ,the latest cars …the noise,the rush and the charade.

A New year in a new city, new roomies , new targets and a new role to play ….I wonder how it still is the same old struggle everyday to hit certain life targets that we all are so programmed to achieve - A secure job , a family back home and a hope that the years to come will be better.

I slept off , without managing an answer to the question I ask everyday --What if someone wants to miss the pre-planned targets ? May be one such impulsive Friday night holds the key to my question ….

Some with wrappers ...some without

2009-04-05T23:29:00.000-07:00

A piece of advice: If you are on vacation/ born jobless/ a 2009 B-school pass out - never grant a license to your friends to drag you to places -you don’t want to go . It was one such morning , when my SPF 75 sunscreens could have been put to shame… I was made to travel to a not so nearby hospital , to sign on some papers for an emergency operation of a distant friend.

Under normal circumstances , for normal people this would have been a “good” deed to wash away sins of the past week…but to be frank , I can’t stand hospitals- courtesy : the painful childhood memories of fractured nose and toes .

This day was meant to be cruel. The swanky invitation card resting in my purse, reminded me to wind up as early as I could. I had to attend a “Meet” in a newly opened hotel in the neighborhood….did I say hotel? Anyways More on that later…

We arrived in front of the massive structure; swarming with people …it took us directions from 5 men, 10 signboards and 15 phone calls to reach the corner ,we were supposed to.

I had never been to a government hospital before. This part of the world was non-existent, until today . The feeling was that of being trapped inside a suffocating cardboard box where life was peeling off every second. The overpowering smell of the phenyl, bodies placed on cold steel plates, huge curtains speckled with blood spots - The starkness of this reality was sharp. The white boards reduced people to numbers – some circled, some not….of course If you are circled, you are dead (literally). The strain on the limited resources was evident, the ease with which everything was handled more so. It was complex …it was simple, both at the same time . I walked out …

I was late for my meet. The ornate name of the venue , made me imagine a plush banquet hall. I wasn’t wrong …I was stepping into a new concept - from one of the top brands of Indian hospitality. This wasn’t a hotel…but a star category hospital- set to be the “top-of-the-list” choice for people born more equal than the others.

The exquisite interiors , spotless glass all around, elaborate Ikebana on the reception – I walked carefully on the silk-like aurora marble , so as to not harm its beauty .
The upper floors housed the patients. Each with a glass cabin…in pure white attire. The doctors ... almost models . This place was a treat for your eyes , in every sense.

This was another world. I rushed; I was late for my meet, which turned out to be nothing more than a pathetic lecture on medi-tourism.I chose to float my soul into the fragrance of the potpourri .I munched on the candies wrapped in stylish wrappers. Oblivious to everything around, I kept staring out of the window blinds.

Men and women , old and young -pierced with needles, inhaling life from the steel cylinders … everyone equally helpless .There was no door that led to the escape.The similarity between the two places I visited today was absurd... People in both worlds struggled with the same contents …just a small difference – for some the stylish wrappers were provided ... some managed without them.

An Ideal Women's Day....

2009-03-07T22:38:00.000-08:00

PINK!!! It took me a few moments to realize why my otherwise classy-looking copy of Times Life is giving me a headache. The top left read “8th March, 2009”. Our leading ladies stand there, wearing the designer couture, staring at me…so confident, so perfect on the front page of this edition of “International Women’s day”.

Except for the 50% discount deals at major shopping destinations, nothing really managed to hold my interest. It was the usual – Shoba De’s sharp and acerbic work on feminism, Bachi Kakaria’s attempt to tickle you with “The Pink Chaddi campaign” , Neeta Ambani’s lifetime achievement on “the art of balancing” and some other powerful single women talking about “how being single is not equal to being lonely/unhappy”!!!

Year after year, the same handful of women – tries to create an illusion of how we have “progressed”. I am not a feminist (much against the popular belief), all I can’t do is register the “differences” between two human beings …Something which is so conveniently woven into the minds of many around me.

Celebrating days like these is nothing but an exercise in futility. Days like these are a consolation for some, and a joke for some like me.

As we (me and my girlfriends) embarked on our shopping voyage, we spoke about the concept of women’s day . We gave our grey cells a break….And came up with an ideal(and funny) version of “An Ideal women’s day” …8 points for an ideal 8th March…njoy

1. A day when instead of “kyunki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi” , there’s a demeaning show called “sasur bhi kabhi jamai tha”!!

2. A day when men are supposed to look "fresh" and smell "nice" after 10 hours of work, when they come back home to their wives/girlfriends.

3. A day when we can see men cutting “bhindi” balancing themselves on the fourth seat of the Mumbai local trains, after a long day at work.

4. A day when the mommies of our dear co-bachelors do not have the right to filter the girls photographs for marriage…and instead this privilege rests with our mommies.

5. A day when a 26 year old boy starts worrying about his wrinkles, and pimples, and myopia …in short – a prospective groom. (Oops bride).

6. A day when bachelors wear sherwanis and a façade of being “culturally appropriate” ( and in some cases also sing a song…lol) while visiting a girls house with a marriage proposal.

7. A day when the tradition of serving bed tea at 5 in the morning is abolished by law.

8. A day when guys are not intimidated by girls who are “smarter” than them [:P] .

In The Name of God...

2009-02-24T09:34:00.000-08:00

It was a Sultry Sunday night. She sat by the window of her huge dormitory, staring into the dark void and thinking about the past one week – that had changed a lot in her life . Normally she would have slept by now, but today she had lost the track of time.

Weekends were usually busy. Sundays brought with them the can-be/ would- be parents to the shelter and thus came the hope of a new life for all the orphans. On Saturdays , everyone spent their day washing and keeping their best dresses ready, combing their hair and practicing the “Good Mornings”- to impress their fates the next day .

Adoption , is and was always stigmatized- only except the magnitude of it has reduced over the years. Also, when it comes to picking up a kid – usually the elder ones ,the girls , the dark-skinned and the unpleasant looking ones are conveniently left out of the consideration set….and so she remained invisible to most people visiting the shelter, despite her efforts .

This Sunday was no different, only except for the fact that Mel wasn’t with her.

Mel was the youngest Nun and the most beautiful woman, she had ever met . Despite her grey habit and a tattered apostolnik , she filled colors in everything around. Mel was the one who knew - when someone had skipped dinner, or escaped brushing their teeth. She was the one who plaited her hair and sometimes painted her little pink nails.

On Sunday evenings ,when all the hopes went dim- it was Mel, who told her the stories of Krishna and Ram , of Jesus and Mother …as she dozed off holding onto the rosary under her pillow, besides a colorful picture of the Krishna .Through Mel, She realized God- not religion.

To all of them, shelter was the world and everyone lived in oblivion of the outside tensions (which were quite frequent ). Since a few weeks, there was a clash, between the radical groups over the issue of conversion. An already resource- scare shelter, where getting enough food for the children was a challenge, security was the last thing on the list.

This evening, the huge but weak doors were locked from inside, and the lights were put off. As they heard the mob approaching the shelter with the loud war cry of Har har Mahadev , children clung to each other . The mob had torches and weapons , the furious flames made the saffron coloured scarfs and flags look daunting - as she saw it from the small opening of the window and reported to the others.

The mob approached the room- the heartbeats grew louder, no one moved …held their breath so as to maintain pin drop silence . Each one said a quite little prayer- with clenched fists, which were now cold and almost blue in colour. The noises then moved away …from this particular room , towards the end of the corridor to another one.

She didn’t realize when she fell asleep amidst the chants interspersed with screams . As she woke up the next morning, the shelter was abuzz. She looked outside the window- a huge fleet of ambulance was waiting. The stretchers were not free even for a moment as they carried the dead bodies now covered with pure white sheets.

There were cameras and microphones and blatantly excited bunch of people, who forcefully chatted with each and every person who passed by the shelter . She was confused, and worried. She started walking out of her dormitory; the entire area was now being sealed.
Men in khakis seemed to be doing a stocktaking exercise with hundreds of papers and documents- the only things that seemed important to them. She looked around for Sister Mel, and as minutes passed she became restless.

Suddenly the confusions grew; The noises reached the peak and cameras clicked. A elderly man , dressed in white kurta walked through the corridor, blabbering about peace and unity . She was pushed to a corner and her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Mel.

She never saw her again. Tonight, The saffron color in Krishna’s picture , brought back the fear and the memories . She opened the window next to her bed and let it slip away ...

In the name of god, something was achieved. She converted herself, quietly to a nonbeliever.

And I Shall Miss....

2009-01-28T04:38:00.000-08:00

With less than 2 weeks left for my 2 year B-school journey to end , I wondered how much will I miss these days – and If I will , at all ? How much ever I would like to believe otherwise – I know , I will. There is always something - about everyone, everything and every phase– that is worth cherishing. My two years were no exception to this.

As the DJ played the cliché “yaaron” and “summer of 69” towards the end of our farewell bash, we couldn’t help but become a bit “senti”. As we walked back to our hostel rooms on this chilly winter night ,I was caught between the past and the future . But let the future rest for a while , I will use this space to scribble some moments of the past ….those which I will miss the most..

Ø I Will Miss my friends – who knocked on my door at odd hours , wore their dirty chappals and walked around in my recently cleaned room , borrowed stuff and conviniently forgot about it, also never expected getting their possessions back from me . I will miss those night-long “addas” in our hostel rooms , where hours flew away with the aid of maggi spiced up with “short stories of x, y and z”. The expert opinion of everyone on everything, the hours spent on analysis of the past and plans of the future .

Ø Will miss..Waking up at 12 noon , bunking classes….knowing that a friend is giving proxies .Wiling the time away , mastering the art of doing “Absolutely NOTHING”.

Ø The immense utility derived out of that first paani puri or the first bite of a mayo-filled Mc burger after weeks of “mess(y)”soda rice and mirchi rasam.....sigh!

Ø I will Miss “acting like an MBA”, competing for our GPAs -- saturating every statement (intentionally or otherwise) with our favorite jargons – ROI, competency gaps , Maslow’s , locus of controls , TQM ..and blah blah .. will miss cooking a common recipe to every problem and every case , writing exam papers as easily as writing a blog and still managing a respectable CGPA.( also writing every damn thing in bulleted points like this :P )

Ø Making presentations with the most incompatible group members on a night before, arguing and cursing them- smartly and selfishly avoiding those slides which wouldn’t fetch marks -but still being a “team” rather than a group the next morning.

Ø I will Miss my companion, my virus-ridden laptop and the junk within, where to create that “extra space” for a new movie – we deleted projects crafted by our blood sweat and tears in the last semester.

Ø I will Miss my Nirvana @ 6. To silently view the sunset from the terrace of my high-rise hostel is something to die for- to witness the world change its shade from a serene blue to a feral saffron to a melancholic purple…and finally to the gorgeous black studded with silver stars.

To put it simply - I will miss- “belonging” somewhere ,where I found many things worth missing. Its a new end ...its a new beginning.

Peep Into The Closet

2009-01-12T01:43:00.000-08:00

A lazy afternoon, my Monday started at 12 :D. I decided to clean up my closet, since there was nothing better to do- well that’s not entirely true (with hundreds of assignments and their deadlines impending ), but to stay away from books this was a pretty good excuse.

I am a neat freak , but this only remains a reality till one gets to peep into my closet , as I dump all the mess from my room inside it . This creates an illusion of orderliness in my immediate surroundings: P

I opened a drawer-----long forgotten pieces of receipts ,tattered greeting cards in all colours possible , photographs which I took in the old old times when digital tech. was still far away and in which I stood wearing the then “HS” and now “LS” fashion , junk jewellery and the oversized hoops – now corroded and entangled , just like everything else around , the numerous studs, the anklets , the stick-on tattoos with incomprehensible designs – which were very central to the then incomprehensible phase of my life .

Right at the corner , a bundle of paper was resting - almost yellowish now , a red threadbare rubber band tied around it . It was my collection of letters, and my collection of memories .In Life, I have been lucky to meet a lot of people ,and to make a lot of friends out of those and also to collect a lot of goodbyes. This bundle was a memoir of those people and those goodbyes.

I sat on the floor ,with the floor now as messy as my closet, and I read each one of them. There were “ Why I will miss you ?” notes from my Mgt. Trainee batch of the previous organization – (this was an exercise done to improve our teamwork and people quotient during our training , but it def. had much more significance ….so much of it that after 3 years I still preserved it and cherished each word ). We were a closely knit gang , spent 25 hours of a day together :D
I read each word, remembered each one of my friend and each moment of the most wonderful 2 months of my life.
I smiled and I laughed , I remembered and I missed , and I enjoyed myself on this lazy afternoon in my hostel room . It took me sometime to decipher few signatures on those notes, of those whom I am no longer in touch with - those who were buddies before and now are just another name on my “orkut” list .

Then there were other letters, some even from my school days – "the corny ones", the "I am sorry ones" , "the confessional ones" , the overtly "sentimental and/or hilarious" ones , the ones which were “important” for survival in our teenage, and the ones which were the lifeline of our gossip sessions all night long . I spent an hour going through them – and it was an hour spent well , there was indeed nothing better to do than this , today on this lazy Monday afternoon.

Of Life , In Life

2009-01-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

The most noble truth amongst the 4 , which Buddhism preaches is that 'attachment is the root cause of all suffering' .I can’t decide whether to appreciate the simplicity , or the complexity of this statement. It took me a few years , number of books, a small amount of research, some “enlightened” people and hands-on exposure (ouch ! ) to realize that why everyone from parmhansa to osho invented the same recipe to moksha.Recently, I witnessed something that made me think of a slightly different version of this noble truth .

Waiting for my friend on the station, I was busy preparing a mental list of what to shop , where to shop and plunder as much as possible with my limited resources. An unkempt malnourished middle aged man, stinking of a mixture of sweat and ammonia in oversized clothes came and sat right next to me. My reflex - a disgusted look and an intentionally rude, audible “tch ” , before I occupied another bench nearby. I later noticed that he was a blind fellow and the guilt pinched me hard.

He was holding a yellow/ now black bag close to himself with his two arms wrapped around it – staring into the darkness, closely watching the void with his fictional eyes. He then lit up a beedi , holding it between his third and fourth fingers , thick end inwards , followed by deep drags . He seemed to be in bottomless thoughts, his head tilted in an angle as if sensing everything around him.

He took a half-torn piece of paper, and scribbled something on it, or attempted to do so. To check whether the pen worked - he held the paper close to his nose and smelt the paper, then the tip of the pen- one by one for 20 odd pens and bundled them together .They were cheap plastic pens – fluorescent green and shocking pink – which u and me will never buy.

The train approached, he headed towards it making his way through the crowd. Each individual in isolation would have been keen to the poor guy, but when the same individuals make the crowd – cruelty creeps in. He was pushed and yelled at, was given those contemptuous looks when he brushed against anyone- the same treatment which I gave him moments ago .

He managed to board the train and tried to earn his evening bread through those cheap 20 pens, which he made sure worked, but about which no one really cared. His feeble life, a hopeless one …
I wondered why the effort to cling on to such a fragile life after all? “To attain moksha give up attachment with happiness.” ----In this case where was happiness in first place to be attached to?
Each noble truth has an answer in spirituality, but there needs to be one more truth and one more answer.
Why In spite of utmost suffering, there is utmost attachment? Or is it because of utmost suffering, there is utmost attachment? .I wish there was a recipe to overcome just this only inconvenient truth – of life, in life!

An Eve in Retrospection

2008-12-24T09:02:00.000-08:00

My love for Christmas has been crafted by a mélange of memories. Having done my schooling in a Catholic School , spending a precious teenage year in a church hostel amongst grey habits and growing up with a multi-ethnic group of friends has made this day as much special for me as Diwali or Dushhera.
I can’t think of any other better time for Christmas to arrive - right at the end of the year to make you merry, no matter how the year behind had been. On this chilly winter night, the world drapes itself in beautiful red and green, dotted with the silver and shimmer.
This Christmas Eve, As I sit down to scribble some words , I couldn’t help but wonder about the 20 odd Eves that I have witnessed. Each phase has been different from the other. Each centered around a different set of people and places and around a different me. But if I had to choose the special Xmas Eves – they are the forgotten ones, tucked away in ancient times.
I must have been 8 years old . The school holidays used to start on 23rd Dec and it was ( the one and only ) day on which I never had a stomach/tooth/tongue ache or any such innovative anomaly , and I looked forward to get to the school.
Throughout our lectures , we waited for the Santa’s arrival .Especially after the recess , we grew more and more restless . Finally when we heard the Jingle bells approaching our classroom , each one got ready to run and grab the maximum number of goodies from the Santa. Now these were not expensive gifts – but just any other candies we already had an enormous stock of. But the joy of climbing up the wooden benches , screaming the jingles at top of our voices and seizing the maximum amount of those candies was a big big deal, then..
The real thrill, however started towards the evening, when I used to rush home and s and join my friends – on the terrace to make the wish-list. It was a task which involved a lot of consultation and racking of our little cerebrums.As a principle , we used to write only 3 wishes and reserve the rest for the next year . So after much calculations , I used to neatly write those essentials that I required to continue living – like say , a black pilot pen , a squeezee water bottle , complicated 15-door compass box ,sometimes evil spells for my teachers :P n pink lip sticks. The last one almost always featured on my list. These chits , were then inserted under our pillows.
My mom used to ask me over dinner, what I have jotted down and I proudly declared the list. She pretended to not listen to it very carefully, though.
I used to force myself to sleep off early on the Eve - worried what if Santa missed my home this year !But he was efficient - never missed a thing .Every Christmas morning gave me a reason to cheer . More than the fact that I have received my “pink” lipsticks – the fact that he had remembered to drop by , was my achievement.
As years passed, I realized who Santa was. My mom , who pretended not to hear my precious list used to fill the Christmas stockings with those gifts, every yr. Now that I look back , it feels such a stupid and such a wonderful gesture . Beautiful enough, that I shall remember it for the years to come.
Those were the years ,Xmas was simply beautiful and beautifully simple .Merry Christmas !

Volatile Spirits

2008-12-10T01:59:00.000-08:00

To keep myself going, I visit aamchi Mumbai every month , squeezing some time out of my not-so-busy schedule, which obviously is not very difficult. Being unemployed as of now and given the frequency of my travel, I certainly can’t ask for kingfishers to fly me home and so I often settle for the bhartiya rail. 26/11 , 9 p.m. – I boarded the train from Hyderabad Deccan , and even at an average of 2visit/per month – my excitement remained intact .

Being a single-lady traveler, I always get a separate “women-only ” cell and though this ensures some comfort, the continuous yapping makes my journey troublesome. As a remedy, I was quick to put on my earphones and engross myself into the oshotimes ,I had just bought from the station .

It was hardly 10:15 p.m.; My inbox started overflowing with “where are u “, “are u ok” messages. I guess that the network had just sprung back to life. I wondered what they were for….only to know after sometime about some terror strike at Mumbai ! I felt uneasy but dint bother much, and was back to my business. To be frank after living through the 1992 riots, 1993 blasts and years of travel in those explosive-laden local trains - this wasn’t something new. Inevitable almost .

The next morning, things sounded worse .Usually I don’t encourage anyone to specially come and pick me up from the station, but this time my protests stood in vain. I reached my city. This city with millions looked strangely deserted. I was not used to this Mumbai .I am used to that Mumbai - where you can’t walk without hurting someone or getting yourself hurt , where getting in and getting off a train is a everyday battle - preceded by small rituals like tying a knot with the duppata around the waist or rolling up the sleeves of the shirt, and yes - taking that one deep deep breath before the plunge . Today I missed all of that.

On the TV I watched at the symbols of this city being murdered one by one. The Taj was a place where I had spent evenings- sometimes as a guest and sometimes working in its back areas wearing chef-coats and cravats as part of my HM curriculum. I remembered those nights with friends which were spent, after college at the marine drive looking at the expanse of the dark Arabian Sea bejeweled with the lights of this city. Night-outs with friends on the stairway of the British library - sipping tea , chatting and cherishing every moment …a time when Mumbai was Bombay , and it was as Bindaas as we were.

I spent much time at home , too beleaguered to venture out. But things moved on and they did because there wasn’t an option. I travelled to CST to shop for some junk jewellery from the colaba market . The stations and trains were again overflowing with people. Some may have lost their lives..but it was hard to notice the few missing amongst the thousands. The same rituals were repeated -people pushed , they fought for the “fourth” seat and the little kids who have been begging since years were again on duty with the all time favourite “pardesi-pardesi” on their lips , and their little fingers expertly manufacturing music from two lifeless pieces of flat stones.

But If I say Mumbai was back..I would be dishonest. As the train picked up speed , I felt something was amiss. It wasn’t the Mumbai I have lived in, which even after mishaps, limped back to being itself. People looked at burkha-clad women and any man with a beard with distrust . Any black bag on the steel rack above was looked with suspicion –and some exchanged glances over it .The fruit baskets covered with old sarees by the local bhaji wali (who were always trusted) – now were asked to be exposed by some passengers. People feared each other .Any rumour could have led to an stampede at that moment . I have never felt suffocated even in most packed compartments - it was an expertise built over the years. But this time , I felt my heart pounding so loud that I thought the girl standing next to me would hear it but as I looked around I saw and heard many such hearts. The undercurrent was obvious – though on the exterior we all stood there composed, busy with our mobiles and indifferent towards everything.

In spite of many cancellations on my things to do list, the dinner date with my friends was still on- in a place not so far from my home. We finished late, as always, (almost 1 pm) and my friends dropped me a little distance away from my house. As I walked back, at this hour - the city was alive and kicking . The aroma of fresh butter sliding and melting on the hot tava from the pav bhaji stalls stilled filled the air ,serving customers of all ages, religions and classes . Men and women took a stroll , in their night clothes . People slept peacefully on the cold foothpaths ...

I walked back …confident and casual. In a single day, my outlook in the same city was volatile , just as lives of millions around me.
The irony was I felt safe on the street at this dark hour , perhaps I wasn’t so only in its broad daylight…

SEASON'ed Contemplation

2008-11-17T07:33:00.000-08:00

These days, I unlock my day a little late than usual, and keep bargaining for “just two more mins” with myself. An hour up - still under the duvet, I have to trade-off: either attend the classes or stay back and appreciate the lovely weather outside. I, obviously, pick the latter.

Though I believe every season has its own charisma, winters are special. It manages to create an “elusive calm” in my mind, like none other. There is no harshness of the summers or the melancholy of the rains… and spring though beautiful; you miss it before you know it has set in! Winter comes right at the end of the year (at least in my part of the globe) defeating all the other seasons – to give life a much needed stillness.

After idling around in my bed for another 20 mins, I step onto the terrace, wrapped in my woolens, and it starts drizzling. I drag in as much fragrance of the wet earth as I can- and I wish I had a magic box in which this smell could be kept captured forever. The fog, though not very dense, makes everything appear vague. The only thing clearly visible is a small road speckled with the rain water, on which a brown colored stray dog (lazier than me) is curled up like a ball.

The droplets of water and the chilled air try to pleasantly pierce through the pores of my skin. My palms look pale and the finger nails -light blue. But it’s too mesmerizing a place to leave. I enjoy holding the small stainless steel glass of piping hot tea in my palms, trying to absorb the heat -as I sip it miserly, so that it lasts longer.

The sky is grey and gloomy, the winds disturbingly cold - and then the most beautiful thing I have ever known appears - the winter sunshine. In a moment, everything lights up. The leaves of the trees shine as though an artist has just colored them - and the paint is still wet. The droplets on my black woolen act as small mirrors, reflecting the sunshine and looking like tiny stars. I open my palms, to soak up as much warmth as I can. As I close my eyes and stare at the sky, a golden-yellow warmth seeps into the soul taking me to a place where I have never ventured before –nirvana-(ish) ;) indeed !!

I sit there wondering, about the contrast – of cold and warmth. Each is incomplete without the other, and each derives its meaning from the other-half. Just like I realize the value of home – after being a migrant for 4 years, or , say, we term someone beautiful, only because we know what is “ugly”. Without the ugliness, beauty loses its significance. At a more macro level, I thought, we value happiness only after life gets interspersed with bouts of grief and sorrow.

I thought as I came back to my room…this little contemplation was worthwhile – much more than the classes I bunked this winter morning.

This Corner Of The World...

2008-10-30T02:38:00.000-07:00

Nothing to lose and nothing to gain,
There is no love ,nor disdain.
There is no present , and there is no past ,
The moments are illusions and they hardly last....
A place to forgive , a place to forget,
A place to let go of every regret...
I let go of every thought and
Of every dream I have ever sought.
It’s a corner where I cease to think,
It’s an ocean in which I love to sink…
The numbness is angelic, the intoxication more so,
At this corner of the world my soul lay aglow.
I drop the veil, and I come alive.
At this corner of the world…the world itself futile!

With all due respect....

2008-10-17T04:43:00.000-07:00

If it’s a holiday, I prefer waking up to a “good afternoon” rather than to a “good morning “and tune in to some non-sense on the television for at least an hour, lying there like a lazy lizard on the couch. Relieved to be placed early, this October, I came down to my (now Bangali :)) sister’s house at Bangalore. My plans to fully “utilize” my vacations were all set.

But the very next day of my visit – was the day of “Asthami” of the Durga Puja festival, and the house was abuzz since early morning with a lot of activity. My sis (who is a brave woman, I must say) woke me up at 7, asking me to get dressed up in a costume that looked 5 kgs and actually weighed half a kilo over my estimate. Everyone in the house was decked up in flashy attires and jewellery.

It was futile to argue, at this moment with my family, that such religious events do not appeal to me --and I just gave in to their wishes. As a symbol of my rebel, I put on my 3/4ths and oshos, looking more like a hippie-and set out for the pujas in the car with everyone else.

We started by visiting the pandhals at one of the most plush areas of Bangalore. I must say, the sight was impressive- fleets of flashy SUVs were lined up outside the pandhal looking for parking space. High security and cams all around made it look more like a high risk zone.

Women were decked up in sarees looking more western than Indian and flaunting chic jewellery with faces caked under layers of foundation. To me, it looked more of a fashion parade than a “puja”.

Everyone was in high spirits to have met their friends after a long time. Chats over business, gosspis over somebody’s daughter were on. There were groups all around, with aunties talking and showing-off their “High NetWorth” marriageable sons from IIMs – in search of the perfect ‘bahus”, teenage girls sharing their secrets and “out fashioning” each other, while the young guys obliquely trying to catch a glimpse of the pretty girls , in presence of their momma – dada--it looked like a good platform for unpaid matrimonial service.

The pandhal was beautifully made, with every colour possible finding a place there . In the middle of it all stood the master-piece of durga. It was a beautiful piece of art, with eyes so lively that it could speak. It wore a red saree with mirror-work which reflected the lights around and managed to shine like diamonds . Hats off to the artist who crafted the piece! To my surprise however -this place was not the centre of attraction. It lied somewhere else...

The more popular corner was a separate canopy- where the loudspeakers shouted “ Rock On “ songs and food stalls laid out the bangali delicacies. The entire place smelt of delicious luchi allu , illish bhaja and kosha mansho.The prices were 3 times higher than market rate but nobody seemed to have noticed that -as men are happy to have a break from their wives cuisines and women happy to get a break from their chores.

Suddenly something and Something Spanish or latino ( I don’t know what ) started. Amusing it may sound but -“Kingfisher” had organized “salsa” dance show over here!!! Men hooted as the troupe (esp. when the troupe girls did cha cha) danced to the Spanish tunes. Some of our family friends, I guess, even missed noticing the actual puja area, in all this exciting commotion…

It was quite funny to hear people confirming – if pujo bhog was served free , before proceeding to the next pandhal. The durga idol waited alone in a corner while everyone enjoyed the food spiced up even more with the gossips.

Banter all around, it looked like a page 3 set-up. The day ended …we saw atleast 7 pandhals that day. One thing took my notice was – those pujas were most popular where food stalls and EQ ( entertainment quotient ) was high. In others , where these things were missing- the durga idols stood solemnly waiting for its bhakts.

The last day – Dashami arrived , pople wished each other Shubho Bijoya with a heavy heart and I saw all the glam-babes shedding tears as the idol was brought down from pedestal for Bisarjan (sorry to use lot of “o” as bongs pronounce it ).

While this was happening I wondered – were the tears being shed for the durga? or for the farewell of the fun and frolic that had spiced up the days? Whatever it be- I will look forward to the party next year.

Where Have i Displaced my key ??

2008-09-17T23:06:00.000-07:00

Nobody seems to be in a good mood – Be it Lehman or me ! ;). These days, my mornings start with the daunting newspaper and “(heart) BREAKING” news on the television.
Today was no different, after a “messy” mess breakfast – my soul was craving some “bad” news- Cant blame it , you see its now habituated ! So there I was in the TV room of my hostel…
“Bloodbath at the sensex, job cuts across global cos, political drama over the new “softer” POTA , and so on…”
The turbulence in market has a direct impact on our futures.As the placements season starts - the anxiety here on campus is both visible and natural. The brighter ones can’t stop talk about the correct “strategies” and RCAs of the global crisis (SHOW OFF) , while the not so “bright” ones like me wait in apprehension , keeping our fingers crossed.
As I was watching the news this morning, something else caught my eye. Through the vertical blinds of the French window next to the TV , I could see skinny , mud-spattered children ( of the construction workers) – playing in a mini puddle of greenish stagnant water .

My first reaction was off course – how filthy! But a second look and I saw something we all here on campus were missing – Happiness and contentment. Unaware of the world, and immersed in ignorance , they seemed to be carefree birds .Tanned skin , torn shirts , uncombed hair ..but all with a priceless smile , they made me a little envious .

I am on the verge of becoming an “MBA” and can make some dazzling presentations, talk in a party with finesse and do know all the right etiquettes with fork and knives .BUT….
As I came back to my room , I wondered why do we have to go through all the complexities in life to gain contentment , which could have been achieved otherwise, simply , in that puddle .

The Imbalanced Theory of Balancing!

2008-09-08T05:25:00.000-07:00

There’s no better way to put me off, for a man or a woman both, than to display a male chauvinistic attitude.
I usually do not get into arguments with MCPs (M=male , C=chauvinist ,P=pig) –the reason being – If I do , I end up giving them a flavor of my feminist thoughts – and most often than not , it hasn’t worked wonders to alter their shallow psyche.
However, the world seems to be so overcrowded with these species, that the probability of encountering them is unfortunately quite high!
In one such recent encounter, a so- called friend commented over the dinner table that why taking up Human Resources as a career choice is such a good decision for me. I was flattered initially - as I thought he is referring to how my KSA s (knowledge, skills and abilities) are apt for this career path ,only to realize later that it wasn’t what he meant. His theory states that women must land up in jobs where they can be home by 6 and thus establish

“ balance” ( perceptual error that HR jobs are “wella”) .Another Mr. Know it all had a even more radical theory – that to have a good “quality of life” … the woman of the house shouldn’t be working at all !!!!!!
I will not waste even a word on the second loser here, though the “balance” theory is not bad. As a person I believe in all the “balancing “stuff.
But the question remains -Why is it so ,that the measure for balance is permanently skewed and hence screwed in our society? Isn’t the art of balancing life meant to be practiced by both sexes equally? And if it is not an equal responsibility – why call it “BALANCE” at all!!!
I have grown up in a household where my dad loves cooking ,he beautifully manages all the household errands and my mom is still working !(dad opted for a early retirement ). I adore my dad for all the delicacies he cooks and my mom for the way she handles finances and investments…It was always like that and I haven’t seen any personal disasters and have grown up to be a “normal” person, just for the records! May be that’s the reason that my mind is not conditioned to accept what most people adopt either out of circumstances or otherwise.
Coming back to the dinner table, as I mentioned I choose not to react to my dear MCPs. However many thoughts were provoked in my mind…
The next day our professor asked us to crack a case-study in the class .Ironically , about “women at workplace”. It was based on gender discrimination at certain organizations. The same set of people now talked about thinking “out-of –the –box” , breaking paradigms and cracked the case, quoting Indira Nooyi and Kiran Majumdar Shaw .The most striking phrase used was “ the time has come to break the glass-ceiling” . I couldn’t help but laugh and pity them and their future “balancing partners”.

A Healthy delusion

2008-09-02T23:38:00.000-07:00

I can safely term myself as a “very” rational person…won all my arguments with life with logic and logic alone. Calculative….even “mechanical” as some friends call me.
But there are times when logic fails or we intentionally show it the door. Something similar happened to me lately. The last month wasn’t the best of the times. I believe someone up there planned to shower all the awful things on me at once. Nothing major though but the minor ones were enough to dismantle my life….
As I mentioned earlier -I am far from having any sorts of beliefs in words like “destiny”, and the sciences which forecast or determine them in any way. However , ironically I believe it was my "destiny" that I happened to meet a distant cousin of mine who is incidentally an expert in this numerology (or some astrology , I don’t remember) business.
Just for some free of charge entertainment I asked him to give me some gyaan on the subject …. He instead as a businessman would do….hit right on the nail!!! “As you must be experiencing, your stars are not in the best of their moods”! BINGO! I wanted more ..He went on…. It seemed as if the chap has read my personal diary and this was enough to let my logic and rationality go down the drain.
The option to survive was only one- actually two- expensive stones on my fingers. Each of them with specific weight, colour, clarity quotient..the list goes on.
I spent some few thousands and lots of time and energy searching for my precious life-savers as per the specifications laid down..and finally landed with awkward looking , big stones which effortlessly manage to spoil the look of my manicured, delicate fingers ..
But to tell you the truth …I guess they are doing their work just fine… .(Though I know it’s my figment of imagination which is working..but never mind!). My intellect reprimands me for being unreasonable and my mind wants to believe in this entire drama…I want to consider the latter as of now.

Mumbai Local

2008-08-28T08:45:00.000-07:00

Statutory warning: The piece of writing may not inspire non-mumbaities!!!

Accepted my blogs are becoming too Mumbai-centric now, but the fact that I had just been to aammchi Mumbai should make you guys excuse me for a while. The city has an intoxicating air and an effect so strong that it will take me a while before I start writing about the other roller-coaster rides of my life.
It’s hard to imagine Mumbai without one thing- the local trains. Those who are from Mumbai will agree more on this than anyone else. On an average -a typical Mumbaite travels one hour (at least) everyday in the locals and believe me this monotonous journeys can rarely ever bore you. I remember the time when I used to catch the fast local from Dadar , every day after college around 1800 hrs .
This time when I went to Mumbai, I couldn’t help get the taste of the local train- trek again. Things haven’t changed much. The fast local ( the ladies compartment) is packed with a hodgepodge of women – some have just finished their work-shift at the call centre and occupying the standing area near the door with their expensive i-pods and are decked up for another party .Then there are the gold-laden women wearing blank expressions and with at least 4 kids each doing gymnastics around their bodies , (I think they are returning from some wedding- the only theme around which their lives is crafted) .
The office-going middle-aged ones are who sit down on the floor, cutting bhindi with their knives with the expertise of a chef and they are in a group chatting about their bosses/husbands/neighbours etc.. .you name it and they have an opinion to share! Then there is the juvenile gang of girls who seem to have just joined college, with an awkward sense of dressing as they are now at the experimentation stage after shedding their grey and boring school uniforms. The spark in their eyes while they talk about their new-founded “love of life” is worth a look. There is one more species, the ladies selling bhel-puri , and wada pav – I call them the plucky of all. Their business sense, selling skills and customer service is something to learn from.
The crowd is mind-boggling, and the cat-fights for the seats even more so. Wish I was an artist to capture each colour on to the canvas….but all I can do is write about it.:).
As many stories as the people…To experience the city of Mumbai… travel in its local trains - get a glimpse of the mélange of people here and their lives…and believe me you will never get bored …Its The city that never sleeps and you miss out a lot if you sleep a wink!!

Something Amiss @ Pop-tates

2008-08-18T01:38:00.000-07:00

I have been born and brought up in the city of Mumbai.10 years of my school-life has certainly given me something to cherish- my gang of girls.
We five, come from different backgrounds, culture and value systems. I opine that it is this difference that makes us so special as a gang. Whenever I come back to my hometown, we make sure that we have a revelry at pop-tates .
Now – Pop tates is almost always a certain venue. The reason being its strategic location where all the girls can come after their work-shifts and more importantly – it’s a place where we can ask for our fav. Mojitos and cosmopolitans and be sure that any after-effects there of will not attract negative attention. So this time it was yet again “pop-tates”!
Our conversations are mostly as vibrant as we are…ranging from bitchy gossips to dawn of “new friendships” and extinction of “old friends”(u know what I mean, girls). Tête-à-tête about how we all think of marriage as a social trap with a dash of male bashing off course. However…the mood always has been light and refreshing.
This time however something was amiss. One of our girls arrived late, decked up in a ultra-traditional salwar kameez. This was not unusual. What followed definitely was! The shock::::of late, her parents had started the recruitment process ( pls note there s a difference between recruitment and selection here) for a prospective groom. She just had finished one of the interviews. The worst part: She is not even ready and doesn’t know what she wants in a life partner but has just given in to the entire drama. In her so-called interviews she is acting just as a “good girl” is supposed to act. (I mean the societal definition of good). To me her wickedness is her USP…and something I genuinely love.
Am very sure the poor guy is also equally unaware ! No excitement, no thrill. Its as simple as---A good family wanting a value-ridden girl who can take-care of things (yawn!). It seemed to me as a compromise for life…I could not speak much after that …nor show my happiness (as the suffocation had taken over).
The only thought in mind was….However modern we become, not many of us have the mettle to drive biggest decisions of life…and end up “just giving in”.
I wondered and ordered another mojito …and am still wondering.

The Same Busy Road....

2008-08-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

Memories of childhood seldom fade away. The early years of my childhood were spent at a baby-sitter .It was a period when the demand of baby-sitting services had clearly started exceeding the supply , due to more and more women becoming career-oriented. My mom was no exception! And truly speaking I am proud she is not…
After school, I used to drag myself to this jaded house where amma used to be busy forcing food down some poor kids throats as it was usually lunch time . She used to think I am a well-behaved kid and for this reason the noble gesture was not showered onto me anytime. I still remember rushing to the balcony of the house (which had a black paling so that no one of little devils jump out of frustration) and take my tiffin there which mom used to pack for me before leaving for office.
I have always been petite and used to fit perfectly on the wall of the balcony and hang my legs down on the side facing the busy road. I loved looking at people the entire afternoon, the cars and the stray dogs, the ice-cream vendors, the rickshaws standing on the sides of the road, rag-pickers, men and women always rushing to reach some other part of the globe. ….For me, the road was a world in itself. Childhood is a time when something as immaterial as a road can be the most exciting part of one’s life.
My naani was however a lady with a strong view that children must always be brought up by their mothers and no one else…(traditional inflexible mind). I am glad that my mom never budged and in the end..My stubborn naani shifted from bangalore to our town and adopted me from the baby-sitter. The apartment she took was right across the same road, just parallel to my ex-baby-sitter.
I wouldn’t complain, the days I spent with my naani were awesome. My obsession changed from looking at the road the entire afternoon to the new Colour TV she bought for me . Gradually, the busy road lost all its significance from my life .Naani is a small, fat cute lady with a typical Punjabi accent and is entertaining to the core. I spent 10 years – 12 hours every day of my life with her. I call her “badima” and aptly so.
However after those 10 years , my priorities started changing. Late-night parties and friends suddenly replaced badima. I started spending time after college-hours at the beach with my gang and seldom used to meet her. As I finished graduation, I got a job in Kolkata and being in the exceedingly busy hotel industry, badima’s calls on my cell phone went unanswered most times.
It’s been 3 years I have stayed away from her and the last time I went home …naani was no longer the same. She has grown old and has nothing much to pass her time. I asked her casually so what you do the entire day , she replied ..” I just sit by the balcony and look at the road most times ….its the only thing that keeps me busy”….
The road is still the same…just the spectators have changed and their priorities….i thought.

As different as finger prints

2008-08-09T21:47:00.000-07:00

I am not that old…To be precise I am Just 23 (lol)…but I must admit that I have been opportune enough to travel a lot and meet many people in life. Knowing people has been an adventure in itself.
Come to think about it, every person that I encountered was a product of complex permutation and combination of characteristics and traits, not to forget circumstances. It’s easy at this point of time to draw a metaphor between finger prints and people. Just as two fingerprints in the world are not similar, so are we! The creator sure is a mathematician and a strategist- and definitely a witty one!
I have been so tied up lately with myself that I forgot to enjoy meeting people - and I resolve to correct it immediately. It was a sleepy afternoon that I was roaming in my hostel corridor to fetch some water from the cooler when I overheard my hostel bai (the maid who cleans the rooms) crying in one of the balconies. She is the one who comes and cleans our rooms every Sunday and the corridors everyday. I never even had given her a look, forget about a smile or acknowledgement in these 2 months. Coming back to that afternoon, I went and asked her if she’s all right – she replied in her bungling hindi that she is pregnant and for the third time she is being taken for a foetus-sex determination. (Which I dint know how they managed as its illegal). The first two times, her in-laws had managed her to undergo an abortion since the unlucky life inside her was a girl.
She was worried and trembling with fear. A person who held no meaning in my life made me see the reality of life. We are so comfortable in our nests of life that sometimes we live in a mirage of happiness and content. I made her some glucose, the only thing that is always present in abundance in my hostel room. I was so stunned that I could not tell her any of my “nari atyachar” lecture which I always confidently share amongst my gang of friends. The reality is stanger than illusion.
I could not believe that I said to her “Best luck.I pray It to be a boy” and left. Someone like me , who should have been angry and asked her to complaint against her in-laws walked away without saying much.
The next day she came back, woke me up from my sleep at 0800 and gave me a e-clair . She was beaming and said “Ladka Hai”. I am happy for her.
It’s high time I get back to my favorite sport—appreciating fingerprints as they are!

Journey without destination

2008-08-09T02:39:00.000-07:00

Sitting in my boring lecture today, a thought passed my mind : Is journey more important or is it the destination??
I dont know how this thought made my mind drift to Sealdah station 2 years back...it was my journey to Darjeeling-the queen of hills..The train left at around 2100 hrs from the over-crowded station to start an overnight journey to New Jalpaiguri. I was not very excited as I dint hold any expectations about my trip to darj. I was so absorbed in the journey that the destination hardly mattered. Reading my favourite Paulo Coelho's masterpiece "Veronica Decides To die" , I was immensely inspired to try out "new" things and experiment in life . Non-conformist,I always was!!!
New-Jalpaiguri is a small-town , where one can find cycle rickshaws and dingy eateries. However , I dint waste time , my toy train was waiting on another platform.To be frank,I wasnt particularly impressed with the heritage train(which seemed to impress everyone else), it was one uncomfy place ( as initially i was in the general compartment).The first class was good enough and the chinki TC who arranged for me the ticket for it was even cuter...
Many hours passed in the toy train and finally there it was - First glimpse of Darj. . Some things that stilll starkly stands out in my memories even today were the school girls wearing red short skirts and waving to us.The households selling "momos" with the sichuan sauce , which are just a "perfect" welcome token for anyone coming to darj.And yes the clouds that I could touch with my fingers.
It was a rainy evening whwn I reached Darj. Being a choosy girl that I am, I had a tough time searching for the hotel and more so the view I wanted from my window. Lucky me ! got what i wanted. The window opened to a beautiful glimpse of the town and it seemed as the place where i could stand forever and never get bored.The window opened to happiness of the twinkling lights of the town-houses and also opened to a melancholy of a small light source tucked away from all the other fancy ones - perched at the top of a hill.It opened to the hustle-bustle and also to the silence.
The next day , I could have acted as a tourist jumping around to do some sight seeing--- but I for one, was not pepped up to do that at darj. Instead I treaded on the roads that I dint know will lead to where...However I think wherever they were leading to was surely the way to the heaven , or were heaven themselves...There was beauty in everyone and everything around ..The cosy English pubs , the roadside markets, the temples and the churches...
My journey was not searching for the destination,. but I have to admit that in life I would love to take up many more such journeys without destinations...

P.S. a special thanks to all people i met during the journey , without whom there wouldnt have been any journey nor destination.:)