Cynnocence

Retro-spection

2009-02-05T01:55:00.000-08:00

Been trawling some sites for 80s stuff, things I used to play with or watch as a kid, and I'm being swamped by nostalgia now. These are from before I started watching music videos on the truly cool MTV, and thinking Madonna was all that I wanted to be!

These are from the days of cartoons, kids' programs, picking my books from the Children section of the library, and of losing myself in them as soon as I got home. The Care Bears from Care-a-lot land, The Worst Witch (whose cover I Googled and posted here), Judy Blume, Ramona the Pest - I miss all my childhood imaginary friends whose adventures I read about.

Come home from the library, take off jacket, mittens, hat, etc (we lived in a cold place then), and sneak off to the last room in the house. It was the coldest room, so nobody hung out there, and I could read undisturbed. And the best part of it was the nest chair that was so famous in the 80s, a huge saucer-like bamboo thing, balanced on a bamboo stand, with a round cushion in it that was bigger than me. It was comfortable for everyone, but as a little girl, I had to clamber in, sway in it for a few seconds to balance it, and then settle down. Usually I'd take a plate of cheese sandwiches with me, and that was it. For the next few hours, the real world melted into a fantasy world where I suffered first-day-at-school traumas, cried about bullying school-mates, and was proud of red coats with blue sashes with the children in the books.

There were no worries about earning money, checking my mail, cleaning the house, getting lunch ready, answering my phone, or paying bills. Just a book, a plate of sandwiches, and maybe a pair of socks.

I miss that now. So much.

Memories of beaches

2009-01-23T03:41:00.000-08:00

That walk we took on a grey beach,
with the clouds gathering in the distance
moving rapidly towards us; do you remember?
Where the wind whipped my hair
and chilled my fingertips
Where there was nobody but us
for miles around
And trees were the only witness
Where you turned to me and held me
Kissed me and slid icy hands onto my waist

That day of sunshine on a golden beach
With butterflies dancing over the water
and warm ripples lapped our bodies, do you remember?
Where you held me up so I could float,
Twirled me in the water gently, oh so gently
When time stretched out like the shore
and water muffled all the sounds
Slid your arms around me to lift me over
Every wave that threatened us
Smiled at me with droplets on your lashes

That night of stars on a dark beach
With the moonlight picking out our path
And I took your arm, do you remember?
Sweeping my skirt off the ground
Where I teased you with my proximity
And danced away to look at shells
Where you looked at me with eyes that hinted
And looked away with eyes that denied it all
When both of us knew where we were headed,
But neither knew how to get there

That midnight on a haunted beach
Where locals warned us not to go
Where I was scared, do you remember?
And you laughed and kissed all fears away
Where we spread a shawl on the ground
And whispered of our dreams and plans
And when the stars grew even brighter
You drew me close and held me tight
And walked me back

Do you remember?

Beam me up, Scotty!

2008-07-04T03:11:00.000-07:00

Monk died recently. My little boy..my majestic prowler and clumsy tripper..I miss him so much, especially now that the monsoon is here. Last monsoon Monk and me used to cuddle up under a blanket and watch FRIENDS. Or at least, I watched it and Monk gazed at the screen with half-shut eyes. This monsoon, Monk is in cat heaven, (I know he is, despite all the crapping and peeing on my mattress/blanket/clothes/shoes/old college notes that I don't know why I saved/feet (yes he did that once when he was angry with me!), etc etc.

Monk didn't die peacefully, he got attacked by a dog. And because he's spent all his life around humans, and being pampered silly by all his mommies and daddies, the silly trusting cat didn't know he was supposed to run from dogs. But I'm not going to dwell on that. I just miss him, that's all.

I miss how he curled up next to me every night, every single night, and took complete possession of my pillow and arm, and slept deeper than me, and woke up only when he absolutely had to. He wasn't a morning person, Monk. He'd sleep late on Sundays with me, even being all cute and warm and fuzzy to get me to stay in bed longer. But he was something of a nocturnal explorer. The slightest sound outside, or even the fridge making a weird sighing noise, and Monk was up to investigate. Then he'd come back, jump up, invariably onto my ribs, and pace about till he found a comfortable spot.

I miss how he'd sit on top of the TV, not bothered by the noise of women screaming, guns firing, wars happening, but would jump if my phone rang. Then after a bit, the moving images used to catch his eye, and then he'd lean over lazily and pat the screen with his paw, completely distracting me from my TV watching.

I miss wrestling with him to get him into the cat-carrying cage when i had to take him to his daddy's house if i was going away for a while. We had a routine going: Open box discreetly out of his sight
Casually walk around room as if looking for something, then grab him
Push him into the box and try and close lid
Gently tuck away random tail, ear or paw that emerged from box
Gently swear when paw reached out and scratched me slyly
Hold bleeding hand to mouth
Swear when cat escapes from basket and runs away to hide in farthest corner from me
start over..

I miss playing games with him; cheap thrill tiny games that we both loved. Rolling up newspaper and playing Beckham and Figo with him. Tying a piece of lonnng string or ribbon to my belt and sashaying about the flat till he was sufficiently enticed to chase after it. My hips have never been that effective with the human boys. Trying to smuggle lemongrass into the flat without him sniffing it out and going crazy trying to get it out of my bag.

I miss having a bath with him faffing around in the bathroom. He raised hell the first time i went in and left him outside, so I finally just kept the door open. Thank goodness i live alone! He used to sit on top of the pot, watching the water going down the drain with complete and utter fascination, or potter about on the shelf behind my shampoos and conditioners, knocking everything down and loving the chaos.

I miss him twisting himself around my feet in the morning when he wanted to be fed and i wanted to be fed. He was always fed first, the damn prince.

I miss the smell of warm cat fur when he came in from sunning himself on the window ledge.

I miss how he'd come pottering in to see what I was up to if I was in another room for long.

I miss how i could talk to him and he'd meow at all the right places. Or just ignore me.

I miss how i could hear him already telling me about his day when i was fumbling for keys outside my door.

I miss how he'd find the safest, highest spot in the room when friends were over, and stare down at the laughing, noisy crowd below with complete disdain.

I miss how all my friends who came over very regularly had a unique relationship with him; how R would pick him up like she picked up her baby nephew and cuddle him and kiss him, how J would grab him and wrestle him, how AJ and Tandon would let him walk all over them and just laugh it off when Monk was antisocial; Monk had a lot of friends.

I miss the comic strip collection that K made of Monk, with perfect one-liners. If Monk could talk English, that's exactly what he'd have said.

I could go on..I know he's in cat heaven right now, with plenty of girl cats around (my Monk somewhat lived up to his name and remained kind of celibate), with plenty of lemongrass, sunny ledges, and a pillow to sleep on at night. The question is, what do i do down here?

I Want You to Know..

2007-10-15T02:14:00.000-07:00

I want you to know about the first morning after your death; the first morning of many more that you will never see. The sun was just rising, and the fields on both sides of the highway that we had travelled were slowly lighting up with golden mellow sunlight. The mist hadn’t lifted fully yet, and there was just enough chill in the air to refresh you and make you breathe deep. The birds were waking up and starting to chirp. It was the beginning of a bright, beautiful day.

After we got the news, we spent a sleepless night, talking about you, battling with our disbelief and our tears. Early in the morning, before the sun came up, we left to catch the first bus out, starting the three-hour journey in silence, partly because we were so tired, and partly because we were all still dealing with the news. I tried so hard to sleep, knowing the day ahead was going to be long and hard, but I couldn't. All I could think of was you, at different times that I’ve known you. Did you know you were the liveliest person I’ve ever known? That I don’t know anyone who had so much pent-up energy, who couldn’t sit still, who’d bite her nails to stubs, who’d laugh with her whole heart and stamp her foot with the fun of it, who’d knock back four glasses of vodka neat, just to get into the mood, and then pass out, who designed daring shoulder-less sari blouses to wear for occasions when there were old relatives and priests around? Did you know that you were the only one who used to cry for corny sad movies with me, and do you remember how we once shared the same handkerchief to blow our noses? Did you know I’ve never had a giggling fit with anyone like I’ve had with you? Do you know that what I’m going to miss most about you is your smile, and how it crinkled up your small eyes, and how you’d slip your hand into mine as we walked sometimes, with your short fingers and dimpled knuckles? Finally when I fell asleep, it was a relief.

At the breakfast stop, only two of us got off the bus to eat something. The morning sunlight slowly eased the stiffness in my body that came from two hours in a jolting bus with the cold night air blowing through it. The breath came out of my mouth in little puffs of vapour, and the tea I drank was hot and sweet. It was such a small pleasure, but it’s one you’ll never have again. I want you to know you could have been there with me one such morning, some time in the future, like you have in the past, if you hadn’t given in to despair. You should know that you were the only person I wanted with me that morning, and the only person I would never see again.

You should know that your mother was shattered, and she’s always been a strong woman. I’ve seen her bring you up with an iron-hand, but I’ve never seen her despair, even though she’s been through some bad times. I want you to know that she is not going to get over the tragedy of having to call a doctor to check if you were still alive, and to hear that you didn’t have a pulse anymore. I want you to know that she had to sign forms to release your body for cremation; her precious little daughter, her little doll. It’s your fault that she had to face the most complete tragic irony of being a parent at her child’s funeral. You could have spared her this moment.

I hope you saw the look on your younger sister’s face, when she saw you for the last time. You should know that you’ve bruised her for life, that she will never fully recover from having to kiss your cold forehead and feeling the chill of your death spread through her veins from that touch.

I want you to know that when we, a group of your closest friends stood around your body, shielding you from the curious stares of people passing by, we felt betrayed. You never told us you were depressed, lonely, upset, angry, and so we had failed to shield you from anything. You didn’t even leave a note telling us why you chose to end it all, so all of us were left wondering. I hope you know that when I cried so much that I couldn’t stop shaking, I wasn’t crying for the sorrow of losing you, I was crying because I couldn’t stop thinking of those last few minutes. How lonely were you then? How did you feel like you had absolutely nobody to turn to, to talk to? Did you fear we would say “I told you so”, or laugh off your fears, your tears? Didn’t you know, after more than ten years of being so close, that we would travel from anywhere to be with you, or to talk to you? Why did you have to cover it all up, with a big fake smile and big plans for the future? Why did you choose to include us in the betrayal? Nothing was worth this. Nothing was worth those few minutes of preparing to end your life - not the man in your life, not any silly fights you’d had recently, not anything that we’ve considered possible reasons for this sudden end to everything.

I hope you know that I’m never going to have answers from you for any of this; that I’m always going to wonder. That for a long time, whenever I’m happy, I’m going to think of you and it’ll make the moment bitter-sweet.

Attempt to Murder

2007-05-15T23:42:00.000-07:00

They sat together watching TV. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was slouched on the sofa, yawning and stretching every now and then. The time was right for her to do what she had been planning all evening. She caressed him casually and got up. His eyes followed her as she walked over to the side cabinet, and then flicked back to the TV. With her body shielding her hands from his view, she picked up the syringe, and gently unscrewed the lid of the bottle of amber fluid. She glanced over her shoulder at him; he was surveying his nails disinterestedly. Smoothly, without a sound, she slipped the syringe into the bottle and filled it with 2 ml of fluid. That would be enough, the doctor had said.

Holding the syringe by her side, she walked back to him and sat down again. He must have caught a whiff of the strong-smelling solution, because he looked at the syringe in her hand and then up at her with a question in his eyes. A shadow of fear passed over his face and he started to get up. With one swift move, she grabbed him, held his head under her arm and forced his mouth open. His legs kicked against her as he tried to escape, but she had not planned this for nothing. Her grip tightened as his nails dug into her skin, and she flinched, but didn’t release him. With the mouth of the syringe, she forced his mouth open and slipped it behind his gums, and pressed her thumb down. The fluid shot into his mouth, and hit the back of his throat. The shock of it forced him to cough, and some of the fluid flew out onto her clothes. She let him go and he leapt off the sofa, trying to spit as much of it as he could out of his mouth. She watched as he crouched in a corner, trying to wipe his mouth, with the medicine frothing out of his lips and down onto the floor.

He looked at her with disbelieving hurt in his eyes. He had trusted her; slept beside her every night, spent days lounging around with her watching TV or reading, and now she had done this. A shudder ran through him as the medicine slid down his throat, and he spat again. He couldn’t move; the fluid must have immobilised him. She was looking at him, and what hurt most was she looked vaguely amused. So this was it; this is how it was to end. All those days of waking up and eating a lazy breakfast that she served him with a kiss and a caress; all those late nights with his head on her lap while she worked at the computer; all the weekends he helped her to move her furniture around or clean the house, although the most he had done was sit down and supervise her efforts; all those times she had brought friends over and he had made his best efforts to entertain them; this is what it would end. The witch!! He had envisioned many more days filled with such love, and she had betrayed him like this. His mother had warned him about girls like this, who lived alone, with nobody to watch them. The medicine ran in sticky furrows down his neck and onto his chest, and irritated him. If he was going to die, she could have at least ensured it was a comfortable death, not one which reduced to a shivering, choking mess on the floor. This was humiliating, and it stung him when she laughed again at him. He tried to wipe his mouth, but was too weak from terror to manage. Suddenly she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. He froze; thinking of the new set of knives she had bought just the previous week. She had shown them to him and had playfully slid the blunt end of one across his throat; he knew now what would happen. A feeble tremor passed through him and he summoned up his strength. He would fight as much as he could, till the last of his strength was used up. His feet kicked at the wall and he slid himself across the floor and closer to the sofa where he felt safer.

She came in, holding a white cloth. He looked up at her, biding his time. He knew he wouldn’t be able to manage leaping at her, and would only be able to use his strength to injure her once she was close enough. He braced himself …. And then she reached down and wiped the medicine off with a damp corner of the cloth. She rubbed under his chin to get the sticky fur back to its softness again, and wiped his mouth. He felt a purr building up in the back of his throat and couldn’t hold it back. Her fingernails scratched gently behind his ears, finding the perfect spot, and he gazed up at her happily, seeing visions of being fed his favourite chicken-flavoured nuggets and playing paperball football with her. Maybe she wasn’t that bad after all.

(This is written for my cat, Monk, who has developed this obsessive belief that I'm trying to kill him each time I try to give him his de-worming medicine!)

The Most Selfish Act

2007-05-10T05:14:00.000-07:00

It’s strange, I’ve never thought of death until now, as I lie here, feeling my body giving up on me slowly. I’ve always planned to live, always made plans to make my life better – it’s probably like that for all of us. I just find it odd that something so momentous, so life-changing, as it were, is something we only think about fleetingly. From the window, I can see trees outside blowing in the wind, a whole living breathing world, and inside me, death creeps up slowly but oh so surely. What surprises me is the lack of pain or fear. I don’t feel a thing. The lack of pain is because of all the morphine that’s been pumped into my blood stream, but the lack of fear I can’t explain. In fact, I’m slightly exhilarated. This is something I’ve never experienced before, and I’m going into it at full speed. Around my bed, my family is gathered; my wife, my little daughter, and a couple of my friends who brought me here after the accident. They’re all crying, or standing in silence, unwilling to let go. That’s why I think this is the most selfish thing I will ever do. I am quietly allowing my life to slip away, and I don’t care about anyone else. When I say selfish, I don’t mean in a negative way. It’s more like something I’m doing completely for myself, for the experience, and because it feels so wonderful.

It’s hard to explain to anyone else. Death is such a unique experience, maybe because it can only be experienced once, maybe because the only person who can understand exactly what it feels like is not around to tell the story. I want to try and write, but I know my hands will not move, and I can’t ignore my family right now. My last gift to them will be my last few minutes.

My wife picks my daughter up and places her gently on the bed, saying, “Sweetie, why don’t you kiss Daddy goodbye and go play with your dollies outside?”
Sara clambers up to my face, gingerly avoiding all the tubes attached to me. She looks at me, unsure of what to do. I can imagine how I look, with my face bruised, my head bandaged, and the oxygen mask around my mouth and nose. I watch Sara as she processes everything in her mind and feel a rush of love and pride for her. I would have liked to tell her, but all I can do is show it in my eyes. I don’t think Sara understands, but Lila does, and she starts to cry softly. I look up at her, my wife, with my blood still on her clothes, and wish I could tell her too, how very much I love her. I would say that’s my only regret right now, but even that isn’t strong enough to change how I’m feeling about dying. I know I have very little time left, and will be conscious for an even shorter span of time. There are no regrets, no last minute panicking doubts. I’m going to fill my sight with my loved ones for some time, say all I can through my eyes, and then shut my eyes on them and on life.

The elastic of my oxygen mask had been uncomfortably tight for me a few minutes back, but I can’t feel it now, so either the morphine is doing a good job, or my body is losing all sensation slowly. It’s amusing, how my body can seem so unimportant finally. I’ve spent so much money on it, so much time in my gym, so much time shopping for clothes, and now I can’t even feel it. I’ve lost most sensation in my body, but my mind is still alert, and I’m fascinated by this. I see Lila’s hand holding mine, but because I cant feel a thing, and because the hand lying motionless on the bed doesn’t look like mine, with all the blood and bandages around it, I don’t feel it within me. I used to love the warmth and softness of her hand in mine, it used to make me feel strong. There’s nothing now. I smile up at her through my mask, and she sobs and kisses my hand, telling me she loves me. Her voice starts to fade, and I’m suddenly distracted by a butterfly in the room. It’s yellow and white and is flitting around gently above my bed. It’s strange to see it here in the sterile, closed environment of a hospital. I try to signal with my eyes to Sara that it’s there, because she loves them, but although she looks up, she doesn’t see it, and looks back at me with some confusion in her eyes. I give up; it’s too much effort, and maybe it’s a sign only for me. It’s time to let go. I look around at the room one last time, at my wife and child, one last time, and at life, one last time. Then I shut my eyes and sigh. I’m ready.

It’s hard to describe how it feels. The closest I can get to describing it in human experience is that it’s like parasailing. I’ve done that a few times, and it feels similar. There’s a slight rush of adrenalin as you’re being harnessed to the parachute, and you feel it tugging at you, trying to pull you up and away. I’m past the stage of resisting whatever force is pulling me away right now, and just as a man strapped to a parachute lowers himself into the harness and gives in, I allow myself to loosen up. Vivid images of parasailing flash before me; the sight of my bare feet on the surface of the boat, and then watching them float in mid-air above the water; a glimpse of the parachute fluttering above me, bright and colourful against the blue sky. The movement upwards is rapid, but smooth and very steady. Once you’re up there, miles above the boat, with the shore bobbing in the distance, there’s complete silence. You can hear yourself breathe, and you can hear your heartbeat if you listen hard enough. I feel the same silence around me now; all the sounds of the room and the people in it are muffled. I don’t want to open my eyes to see if they’re there, because I can sense that I’m closer to wherever it is I’m going. I remember the rough texture of the harness straps in my hands, and the lightness of my body as it floats along, high up behind the boat. The memory of the sunshine on my body warms me now, and relaxes me. A shrill mechanical noise suddenly interrupts my reverie, a drawn-out beeping of some machine somewhere. I ignore it and focus on the blue sea below, with white crests of waves breaking gently against the sides of the boat.

James Silver, aged 32, died at 14:45 on the 11th day of August, 2007, read the hospital report. It mentioned in great detail everything that went wrong inside his body. Nothing was said about his state of mind as he died.

Valentine Jitters

2007-02-15T02:07:00.000-08:00

Once again, it’s THAT time of the year, when guys like me can do nothing right! Last year I screwed up just before Valentine’s Day, so this year, the forces that be, (my girlfriend Dimple, that is!) have made it clear I can’t afford to mess up. She gave me such a hard time last year that I almost broke up with her, but then she streaked her hair and looked all sexy, so I sucked it up and said sorry. This time though, I have it all figured out. I’m going to do this perfectly, and I’m going to look like a dude at the end of it. I’m going to do it all, flowers, chocolates, jewellery….and …drum-roll here, please…. lingerie! Lingerie is more important to a girl than anything else, so obviously getting her the perfect present would make me look pretty good, right? Let me tell you how I’ve figured out this little lingerie secret.

It’s not really hard to see, if you think about it. Chicks need to worry about bra straps showing and shit. The other day, me and Dimple were going out partying, so I went to her place to help her choose an outfit. (All I really do is sit back and smoke while she parades around in all her skimpy stuff, and repeat what she says, “You’re right baby, you’ve worn this too often, (here I add my own “but it looks so hot on you, I don’t mind!”) you need new clothes”, “You know baby, you’re right, it doesn’t truly highlight your assets”, etc etc. If you take a bit of time before you answer and look at her thoughtfully, it sounds really genuine too.) Anyway, she was stressing about what colour bra-straps to wear because it was going to show from her t-shirt. I didn’t even know that it was an issue. Although now I do know that they’re detachable, which is fascinating.

Anyway, so this episode got me thinking. And then I saw evidence all around. All the chick magazines have more pictures of girls in underwear than naked dudes, so obviously chicks prefer to look at pictures of other naked chicks….hehehe, now that’s an interesting thought… but we can talk about that later… I mean, think about the guy magazines we get. There’s hardly any naked guys in it, or guys in underwear. Aaargh… it’d be nasty if they started doing that!

But the problem is; what exactly do I get for her? I know there are a whole lot of varieties, and it’s hard to decide. If she’s sporty, you can’t get her something in pink and all frilly and shit, and if she’s classy, you can’t get her something slinky and wicked, and then you have the whole problem with sizes. I don’t even know where to begin. But then, at Dimple’s place, I was reading Cosmo in the loo (dude, don’t look at me like that, it’s the only reading material she keeps in there!), and there was this whole article on what type of lingerie they should wear depending on their body type and taste and stuff. I ripped it those pages out and studied them at home, so I know exactly what to get her. So now I know her body type isn’t Boyish or Athletic, but I still haven’t figured out if she’s the Curvaceous type, or the Hour-glass type, because both the models on the page looked pretty damn curvaceous to me! Very nice!

I’m at the mall now. There’s some department store where Dimple is always going and in the movies, the guys just walk into a store and buy really sexy stuff for their girls, so I’m here. Not sure how to just walk into the underwear section though. There’s this aunty standing there and looking at some really ugly nighties, so I’ll have to wait for her to move. Maybe I should have called some girl to help me, but if Dimple finds out I’ve been looking at underwear with another girl, we all know what she’ll think, right? And she has friends all over the place, dude, so it’s safer on my own.

Okay aunty has ambled off… time to hit the racks! I walk over casually as if I do this all the time, but I feel like everyone in the store is watching me. A quick glance around, and then I start looking through the stuff. The faster I get this over with, the better. Let’s see, the magazine said it should be something delicate, in a pretty colour. Everything seems to be in white, and massive. What the….?!!!Then I realize it’s the maternity section.. no wonder!! Won’t be needing anything from there for a long time yet!!! Hehehe!

The next section is all track pants and pyjamas, with lambs or ducks on them. Why would anyone wear something as unsexy as that?? I guess it’s the married women’s’ section. There are some see-through, ugly, gown-kind of things, with purple feathers on it. No chance! Dimple would look like a hen in those! HAHAHAHA!! Thank god I don’t have to wear something like that. The feathers are soft as hell though. As soft as Dimple’s …. Oh, little group of girls in the next aisle, coming my way. Where do I go? Shit shit shit! I don’t want to be here when they walk in; they’ll think I’m some kind of pervert. Oh god this was such a bad idea! Hey, one is kind of hot though. She’s holding a tiny pair of shorts against herself… oh yeah baby oh yeah!! She turns to the mirror and looks at herself, and I’m grinning to myself. This isn’t too bad after all!

The other girls are giggling like a pack of hyenas, and suddenly one sees me peering at them around the rack. She nudges the other and then the giggling stops. They all turn to look at me, and I’m frozen for a second. I try to smile casually at them like we’re all buying fruit or something, but I guess it comes out wrong because they put everything back and hastily walk away, sticking to each other like glue. Silly chicks! Oh shit… now they’re talking to some store guy and looking my way. Don’t panic, I tell myself; it’s cool. I’ll tell him, man-to-man, that I’m buying something for my girlfriend. I look decent enough, right? I look down at myself. I’m standing alone, holding a purple feathered see-through gown, peeping at girls from behind racks in the lingerie section. I look up and see store guy coming towards me and calling an evil-looking watchman. My decent manhood deserts me and I flee.

So now I’m here, smoking, alone at Barista, and wondering what to do next. Maybe it’s not a good idea to go to a store. The section is separate so you can’t even act like you’re actually looking for something else. I remember seeing guys on Hill Road with roadside stalls of some pretty kinky looking stuff, so I think I’ll go there.

When I go, the shop guy seems pretty okay with me hanging around. It’s afternoon so there’s nobody there, so I start chatting with him. I tell him that I’m looking for a present for my girlfriend, and he nods knowingly at me and clicks his fingers at the assistant and tells him to get the “fancy” stuff out. I’m curious. I’m surrounded by leopard prints, little scraps of lace passing off as thongs, (wish Dimple wore thongs. She calls them ass-floss and refuses to even try one. She can be really uncooperative at times!), and a whole range of colours. And now he’s going to bring out the fancy stuff??

He lifts this ginormous bag onto the counter and unties it, pouring out a pile of stuff. It’s all tangled and has strings and ribbons and glitter all over, but I can’t really make out anything. He shows me a leather thing like Halle Berry wears in Catwoman, which is nice, but I don’t think Dimple would like it much. Besides, it’s too hot here; I don’t want her all sweaty and grumpy when she wears it.

He shows me a couple of other things, some weird stuff that looks really uncomfortable, and I’m starting to think maybe I should just get her a CD or something, when I see a very hot little piece. It’s kind of reddish-pink, and is kind of a corset, which is one of the things the magazine said she should buy, and it has the belt thingy with those straps dangling down for stockings. And it’s transparent. Dimple would look so, so, so hot in that. I just know it! I’m not sure if she’ll like it though. She might think I have the wrong idea of her, because it is really naughty, and I don’t want to hurt her. And certainly not on Valentine’s Day. The shopkeeper tries really hard to sell it to me. Apparently it’s a free size and will fit anyone who isn’t obese, because it’s adjustable and stuff. I gaze at it longingly for a while and then say no, very regretfully.

I look around for something more suitable. I find this silky little thing, kind of a nighty I guess, but with only thin straps holding it up, and no frills and no lambs, ducks or roses. It’s in three colours, white, pink and black. I’m thinking black, but that’s not really a pretty colour, so I get the pink one. I take one last look at the red thing and then leave.

So, it’s Valentine’s Day, and I’ve called her first thing in the morning, and given her Hershey’s Kisses every hour on the hour (got that idea from the Net!), and gave her flowers, and am taking her to a chick flick tonight. I even got tickets in advance. I gave her the ring i bought for her last month after she went on and on about how she loved it. She’s thrilled as hell, but I know she’s wondering about what I’ve got her. I decided to give it to her at her place when I go to pick her up. If I give it to her in college, she might run about showing her friends and that would REALLY embarrass me! Really really wish I was giving her the red corset.

I get to her place early, all dressed up and smelling good (Dad’s aftershave!) and she’s faffing about in an old shirt, putting on her make-up and drying her hair. I give her the present which took me hours to wrap up, and she rips off the ribbons and paper and squeals! I’m watching her anxiously, and it looks like she loves it. Then she bounces over to me, all smiles and hugs me and kisses me.

“Do you like it?” It’s a silly question, I know, but after the ordeal I went through, I want some appreciation.

“I love it, Gooby. It’s soooo pretty! I’ll wear it tonight. It’s sooo pretty. Thank youuuu.”

I’m about to tell her about the red corset, but decide not to. Maybe I should just let it go. Instead, I pat her playfully on the ass (love doing that – I feel so cool and macho!), and tell her to hurry up and get ready.

“Okay, but what should I wear, Gooby? I don’t want to wear red. Everyone will be wearing it.” She gets up and goes over to the cupboard, and I settle down with Cosmo and a smoke. This is going to be a long wait.

Dimple is yammering on about what colour to wear. “But you can’t really wear any other colour on Valentine’s Day, na Gooby? Gooby!!!!”

I look up from Cosmo, a little tired of this whole fashion consultant job of mine. She’s standing in front of me, unbuttoning the shirt a little. I see a peek of reddish-pink transparent fabric underneath.

The heavens clearly heard my prayers.

We missed the start of the movie.

Being Cool

2007-02-13T20:32:00.000-08:00

I need new friends, or a new girlfriend! Or both!! This is just not happening! I’m lying here, smoking in my room, since Mom is out at some ladies lunch, and I’m thinking of yesterday. Dude, it was a complete disaster, and it’s all thanks to my friends and my girlfriend! Now the small chances I had of looking cool are all gone, and I’m left here looking like an idiot. Obviously, you’re wondering how someone like me could look uncool. I tell you, I’m wondering that myself!! But I might as well tell you what happened.

Tagore called me last week. He’s my super-rich, super-intellectual school friend. He was back in town for a week and wanted to meet up. Tagore was my buddy when we were kids and we had a lot of fun and all, until he decided he wanted to be like his namesake and get all clever and shit. I was the captain of the football team then, and that was naturally really cool. But Tagore always acted like he didn’t think so, and said it was a brainless game. I didn’t mind him saying all that, because he was obviously jealous. He had no physique, he’s dark, and he wore specs, and I’m…well, I’m really good-looking and play football and stuff.

Last year when he came though, he made me feel like shit. He’s been studying literature in England, and he made fun of me when I told him that I got into Arts because of my sports prizes, as if that was something to laugh at. I’d like to see him getting even one prize. I remember him trying to run a race in the fourth standard. Someone tripped him and he fell flat on his face in the dust and split his chin, and I had to help him up. He was so pissed off with me for helping him, poor little guy!

When he called me, I decided I'd be ready this time. I knew he’d talk about his usual topics: books, arty movies, and current affairs. And of course, his sabbaticals. He’s always taking time off from his classes and going for weird holidays. I don’t know how his dad lets him. I mean, MY dad laughed straight into my face when I asked if I could go to Goa for New Year, and that was DURING my holidays!

His dad was transferred to England after that and I only met him in my last year of school then. He came down for the summer holidays. I was really keen to meet him and wanted to show him all the changes around our school, but he wanted to check out the art galleries and stuff, because he went on about how Indian art is the next big thing. He went on about how building your body and playing violent games is not the sign of a real man and stuff. By the end of his stay, I didn’t really want to hang out with him, because he kind of made fun of everything we used to have in common. But without actually saying anything bad, you know, so I wasn’t sure of how to deal with it. This time though, I thought it'd be different. We’re both in college now, and I have a girlfriend and I smoke.

I told Dimple about him, but mostly school stories. I wanted her to look really good when he meets her. It’s a small thing but it’d be cool if I had a hot girlfriend. I acted like I was interested for once in her clothes, and got her to agree to wear her most sexy jeans and a this top of hers that I really like. She was so flattered and surprised about it that I think I might do that again. Usually when she asks me what she should wear, I can’t really fake an interest in it, and it pisses her off like hell. It wasn’t too bad thought. She modelled a lot of stuff for me, and we ended up doing a whole lot more than wardrobe selection!!

Anyway, he arrived and I was supposed to meet him on Saturday. I already figured I wouldn’t be talking about cricket, and would let him lead the conversation initially. I even dressed in my Raybans and my most funky shirt and stuff. The shirt is really cool, it’s kind of two colours; like a purple and pink, but not the gay kind of pink. Dimple loves it when I wear it, and I know I look good in it. I told him to come to Mocha’s, because you see celebrities there sometimes. He was a bit late, and I quickly lit up so he’d find me smoking when he came in. When he arrived, I barely recognised him. He’s grown his hair and has a ponytail and was wearing this weird kurta and beads and stuff. And there was this babe with him. And when I say babe, I mean BABE!! She was wearing this long skirt that kind of flowed around her, and a scarf around her neck and stuff. It’s not really the weather for a scarf but I see a lot of girls in college wearing it too, mostly from the Lit class. But dude, when the girl has huge sparkly eyes and this glowy skin, although she was dark, nobody is going to tell her not to wear what she wants to!! She looked like an Indian J.Lo, and she had a really husky voice. I didn’t know who to look at first. Tagore has changed a lot in the last couple of years. He’d grown a stubble and looked tougher for some reason, although he still has no physique. The babe, Shyamolie, smiled at me and put her bag down. Her kurta was kind of transparent and I could see the outline of her waist as she put her arms up and did something with her hair. I thought I saw Tagore smirking at me but I’m not sure.

They sat down and we ordered something. I really wanted the Chocolate Avalanche, because I love it. It’s got chocolate brownie, chocolate ice-cream and chocolate pieces in it, and whenever Dimple and me come here, we share one. But Tagore and Shyamolie ordered only coffee, so I couldn’t act like a child. I couldn’t pronounce any of the other fancy Italian names so I just ordered a cappuccino.

We were talking about a trip that they had both taken to France, and how they had been camping, and I was wondering how Shyamolie’s parents let her travel alone with a guy, when she took out a cigarette packet. Tagore was droning on about some place they had visited, but I was completely distracted. Luckily I was still wearing my glares, so Tagore couldn’t see me checking out his girlfriend, but oh god, she was so sexy. She tapped the cigarette on her wrist and her arms glowed in the sunlight, and then she put it in her mouth. I was staring at her lips and her white teeth and when Tagore asked me something, and when I turned my head a bit to answer him, I saw Dimple walking in and looking around for me.

She was wearing the jeans I’d asked her to wear, but they suddenly seemed all wrong. Shyamolie was in dark colours and didn’t have any make-up on and looked so natural and so sexy. And Dimple was the complete opposite. There was this silver butterfly painted on her left leg, and she came in with big jangling bangles, shiny lipstick, a silver bag, and heels, and I hoped she wouldn’t see us and go away. But she saw me just then and I gave her a watery smile. She came over all smiley and talkative and bubbly and I felt a little ashamed of her. It was like Preity Zinta in front of Sushmita Sen. Obviously no comparison!

Anyway, Tagore and Shyamolie were nice to her, and chatted with her, but it felt like they were talking to a young kid. And Dimple was giggling and telling them to go and watch Dhoom 2, like a bimbo. I mean come on, here they are, talking about France and shit, and she was saying they should go just for how Hrithik looks!! As if they’re even interested! It really is a cool movie, but I would never mention it. The stunts are mind-blowing and Bipasha wears a bikini and stuff. I’m trying to grow my hair a little so I can get a cut like Hrithik. All my friends say I look like him from the back.

Then bloody Dimple made Mistake number One. She suddenly turned to me with big glowy eyes and says, “Tell them na, gooby, how good it was”.

Gooby. I didn’t know what the hell to do. “Gooby” is her name for me, and I kind of like it, and she had promised not to use it in public. Then we both got used to it and she forgot and started using it when we were with our gang also, but now they’re all used to it. But in front of Tagore! And Shyamolie!!! Oh Gawwdd!! I just wanted to crawl under the table.

“It was a good attempt at something different” I said quickly, so that I would distract them. “Maybe a few more years and we’ll manage to make something like a Hollywood movie.” I looked at Tagore for his answer.

He just gave me this lazy smile and shrugged. “I don’t really watch much of those either.”

After that, I was stuck for conversation. I’m wasn’t sure what to say about anything anymore. Then Shyamolie, the Goddess, saved me. She must have seen my World Cup keychain that was on the table, and asked me if I was interested in football. I told her that I play it, and we started chatting. I was worried about Dimple getting jealous, but Tagore was talking to her about her subjects in college, and I couldn’t take my eyes off Shyamolie’s arms. She follows football too (this girl is just Too Hot!), and we talked about British football and the players, and finally we were discussing something I know everything about. When she reached out to slap me playfully on the arm because I teased her about David Beckham, I knew I was back in form. I was telling her about how we won our last inter-college match because of my team, and she was listening to me with complete interest and laughing at all my jokes and all when Dimple struck again. In the middle of a description of the winning goal, which I made, I stopped to take a sip of my cappuccino, and then started off again. And THEN, I notice Dimple’s hand fluttering towards me, and she wipes something off my face with a tissue. God knows what it was; it’s usually food. But the timing!! I just sat there in horrified silence! Shyamolie smiled, and then Dimple idly reaches out and strokes my hair. Not the Oh-God-I'm-so-hot-for-you kind of stroke, which is so cool; the look-at-this-boy-he's-cho-chweet kind of stroke. I turned slowly to look at Dimple. I bet she did that on purpose! She was still nodding and chatting with Tagore and absent-mindedly folding the tissue. After that, I just finished up the story quickly and then lit up a smoke. There was no point. Whatever I did, Dimple was going to fuck it up.

Shyamolie and me just sat in silence after that. I didn’t even bother to look at her. Now she thinks I’m a baby who needs his face wiped after a sip of coffee. Through the grey clouds that surrounded me, I heard Dimple laughing. It was her silvery, tinkling-bell laugh, the one she uses to charm someone, and the one she used when we first started seeing each other. Was she FLIRTING with Tagore?????? I watched them suspiciously for a while. They were talking about some book and both laughing. That’s when I got really pissed off. What the hell was she doing? Tagore is my friend. And what the hell was he doing, making her laugh like that??? I looked at them carefully. Dimple was looking pretty good, although I didn’t know if Tagore would think so. I checked out Tagore too. He’s still skinny and all, but with the long hair and the beard and the kurta he looks different. And you never know what girls will like. Dimple was still chatting with him. I told the waiter to get the bill and made an excuse about going home. It was a crappy afternoon.

We all left and I didn’t even offer to walk Dimple to Churchgate station like I usually do. When she called later in the evening, I put the phone on Silent and went back to surfing channels. And now I’ve not spoken to her since yesterday’s coffee. Let her think I’m busy, bloody flirt! Wonder what Tagore and Shyamolie are doing? They must be making out somewhere. Or maybe not. Tagore said something about going for a play. They must be a pretty boring couple to hang out with like that. Plays and art and books and shit Bet they’ve never even been go-karting. I wonder if Shyamolie would like that…

The doorbell rings and I hear Dimple talking to the servant. She comes into my room, wrinkling up her nose at the smoke, and smiling at me. I’m too pissed off to smile back.

“What’s wrong, gooby? Not feeling well? Come on, get up and get dressed. I’ll take you out to the mall and we’ll try out the shades at the Fast Track counter.” That normally cheers me up like hell, but today I didn’t feel like doing anything so childish.

“No. You go.”

Dimple looks at me, trying to look sensitive and perceptive. “Whats wrong? Are you angry with me? Did you fight with your dad?”

“No.” I’m being my uncooperative best, and getting cheap thrills out of it.

She stands there, silently, looking at me. “Are you meeting Tagore and Shyamolie again today? Because then I don’t want to come.”

I’m about to be all sullen and all, but I want to know why she doesn’t want to come. Maybe they make her feel silly and childish too. I keep my stern face and ask, “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

She shrugs and goes to the window to open the curtains. “They’re damn boring, gooby. All they want to do is talk about culture and all. How long can you do that for?”

“Why? I thought you were really enjoying your talk with Tagore yesterday.” I couldn’t resist saying it, I just couldn’t.

She whisks around. “Enjoying it? I was so bored I kept looking at you to tell you we should go. I was just being polite because he’s YOUR friend. And that girl was such a wannabe! All the kajal and the scarf and all. Like Arundhati Roy. What am I supposed to say to her?” Then she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at me. “You thought I was flirting with him, didn’t you?”

“Maybe” I turn my face away and fiddle with my toes. Then I realize it doesn’t look manly so I stop and look up at her.

“But gooby, he was wearing that old kurta and hadn’t shaved for days and looked like a reporter. YOU looked really good though. I saw Shyamolie looking at you, but I knew you wouldn’t look twice at her, such boring clothes and no make-up. And she was too skinny anyway.”

Slowly I start feeling better. I smile at Dimple. It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon. Perfect weather for trying out shades at the mall.

A Day in the Life of a Wannabe Mountaineer-II

2007-01-25T05:10:00.000-08:00

So, I’m sitting there, consoling myself about not being the shining star of the day by thinking that I just have a different skill set. I bet these professional rock-climbers wouldn’t know how to haggle with the shopkeepers on Fashion Street, which is one of my sterling qualities and acknowledged skills! After a while, Boyfriend either decides to play a nasty trick on me, or genuinely wants me to experience the best that the day can offer, (and I believe it was the former!), so he tells the best mountaineer around to force me to try rappelling. One minute I’m gazing around happily, composing this post in my head, and the next, I’m watching a little fearfully as Mountaineer approaches me with determination written all over him. Till now, he’s made polite conversation with me, but has been busy with everything happening around him, and is suddenly very keen that I try something new. It baffles me, until I glance suspiciously at Boyfriend. He’s very busy tying his shoelaces.

Again I try to avoid the issue. Mountaineer is clearly a dedicated climber who believes nothing else is more important than forcing inactive muscles into action, grazing and bruising yourself in the process, and climbing up and down on rocks. He can’t believe I’m turning down a chance to do this, and when he tells me, with a kind of ego-injuring disdain, “You should never lose the opportunity to try something new”, I feel ashamed of myself. I usually follow this motto, and get restless if I’ve not done anything different in a long time, and here I was, refusing to do it because I was scared people would think I’m just a silly city girl who sprains her back after the first baby climb. So, motivating myself with the alcohol ad slogan, “Life is calling; where are you?” I follow Mountaineer, casting nasty just-you-wait looks at Boyfriend who is now industriously untangling ropes.

They adjust the harness to my size, and Boyfriend helps me put it on. I’m about to say something evil to him, but I’m watching the hooks and clamps he fixes on me, and I decide I want him to think how much he loves me, and double-check them all, so I shut up, give him a quick hug and follow Mountaineer up the back of the rock-face I’m about to attempt. All the equipment on me and the ropes I’m carrying make me feel like part of the group, and I swagger off to rappel down like a professional. Just as the excitement starts to build in me, I stumble and break a nail. Obviously I don’t say anything to Mountaineer, (to whom even frostbite wouldn’t be an excuse, I’m sure!), but I’m intently staring at my finger to see if it starts to bleed, and without realizing it, I’m at the top.

I cannot mention my first thoughts when I straighten up and look around, because it’s all swear-words. Me and Mountaineer are at a height of about 50 feet, and I can see for miles around, AND DOWN! We are standing on a ledge about two feet long and one foot wide, not really big enough to make you feel safe. There’s one tree on it, and the two of us, so it’s already crowded. All the bravado deserts me and I try to crack a joke and appear relaxed, but my throat is dry. Mountaineer is completely in his element. By now he approves of me for being brave and so I can’t even tell him I’ve suddenly discovered a paralyzing fear of heights. I suppress the urge to turn and scramble over the rocks and run away. He makes small talk, encourages me to look around, study the rock and plan my descent, and I almost swear at him too. My plan is to clutch the rope and squeeze my eyes shut and let them lower me all the way. I don’t care if anyone thinks I’m a scaredy-cat now, or a city-girl. A 50 foot drop is no place for heroism.

When Mountaineer tells me to turn my back to the drop behind me and listen to him, I almost faint. It’s a sheer drop, and Boyfriend’s yelled instructions seem to be coming from very far below. Finally I’m all strapped and clipped and harnessed and double-checked, and ready. Mountaineer gives last minute instructions: Keep your feet flat against the rock (thank you god for giving me big feet!), hold the rope lightly with your left hand, feed the rope into the clamp-thingy with your right, etc etc. I barely hear him because I can hear my heart thudding in my ears. My palms are clammy and I’m terrified they’ll slip on the rope and I’ll plummet to death. Logic tells me that the rope will hold me, but accidents happen all the time, right?

When I’m ready, Mountaineer tells me, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, to walk backwards over the edge of the 50-foot rock. My ego gets in the way of admitting I can’t do this, so I hold the rope tight and slowly lower my feet, shaking with fear, over the edge. I slip about two inches and the rope tightens, holding me tight. Inch by inch, I move downwards. The first few steps are the hardest, when you see steady ground moving further away from you, and you feel your body being pulled downwards. One of the most difficult instructions to follow is to let your body move perpendicular to the rock, because every instinct tells you to cling to the rock for dear life. But you do it, for whatever strange reason motivates you, and it’s not too bad. It’s just you and the rock then. Nothing else is as important as finding the right place for your next step, and nothing is as intent as your focus on the wall and the movement and position of your body. In some ways, you’re at your most vulnerable, trusting someone else, trusting equipment, and in some ways, you control every movement you make. You can stop walking down the rock and just wait till you catch your breath; you can give up and hang in mid-air till you are lowered to the ground, or you can valiantly summon up all your courage and face your fears, and move with baby steps downwards. I do exactly that.

As I realize I’m pretty good at finding footholds and making sure my knees don’t give way, my confidence returns. Voices come to me through the haze of fear that has deafened me temporarily, and I can hear shouts of encouragement, and instructions telling me to look down and see how far I’ve come. I look down, and see Boyfriend’s face still very far away. I try to smile reassuringly at him, and miss my footing, and that’s the end of it. I drop away, off the wall, and am suddenly swinging, suspended in the air by the ropes, with no rock to walk on. They lower me slowly, and eventually my feet touch the ground. Boyfriend comes to me, beaming with pride, and is about to hug me when my knees give way and I collapse in a little heap on the ground, with adrenalin pulsing through me.

I smile the whole way home and all day.

A Day in the Life of a Wannabe Mountaineer

2007-01-22T23:59:00.000-08:00

Sunday. My day of rest and relaxation. Having decided that we want to do something different than the last couple of weekends of lazing about watching DVDs and going out for a couple of drinks in the evening, the boyfriend and me decide to go rock-climbing. Boyfriend is experienced rock-climber, mountaineer and trekker, and is all geared up and bursting with tips for me. I’ve done my bit of trekking in the Himalayas, Rohtang Pass and Pindari glacier, but am sadly out of practice now. Boyfriend works out at his gym, and does rock-climbing at least twice a month, and is fully fit. I work out at home, just crunches and weights, interspersed with playing with the cat, and will soon discover I’m not as fit as I think I am.

Wake up early on Sunday and efficiently pack bandanna, sunglasses, water, energy snacks, climbing shoes, basic first aid kit, and all other items necessary for a mountaineer. Bag is too heavy, so repack the whole thing. After a couple of attempts, bag is suitably light and we set off. The morning is beautiful, and although now it’s not so early, it’s still exciting to be leaving the city. I’m feeling good, all lively and adventurous, and am thanking god for a not-too-sunny day, a wonderful bike to be travelling about on, and a PLAN for the day. Boyfriend is telling me about the place we’re going to, but through his helmet, and with the roar of the bike, I can barely hear him. Anyway, I’m busy nuzzling my nose into the back of his neck where it’s warm and musky and smells morning-fresh of soap and cologne and toothpaste. Who cares about where we’re going, I think to myself. This is perfect.

We reach the destination, stopping for a light breakfast on the way. As we trek the short distance to the base of the rocks, I look around. The sunlight is streaming through the trees, the leaves look shiny and bright green, and its breezy and pleasant. Perfect weather for climbing, I’m told, as Boyfriend watches me navigate a huge boulder precariously balanced on a smaller one. He’s not too sure of my bouldering prowess now that we’re actually out in the wild, and it’s the first time I’ve come to climb with him. I refuse a helping hand from him, and luckily manage to execute a little example of nimble footwork and he smiles proudly at me and moves on. When I try to perform the same nimble-ness on the next rock, I stumble and almost twist my ankle. He hasn’t seen this so I don’t say anything either.

There are a lot of families out, kids, parents, college groups; all out and tackling the rocks early on a Sunday morning. Most of them are Maharashtrians, singing songs and shouting encouragement in Marathi. I feel a sense of kindred spirit with them and with the whole world at large. Then we meet our group members who have started setting up equipment and have one person already swinging in mid-air about ten feet off the ground. Boyfriend has a group of trekkers and climbers he meets often and travels with, and they’re more serious climbers than even he is, because they do it as a profession too. Since I’d only be in the way, I perch myself on a rock and watch them all.

None of them are heavily muscled or look like they do body-building. Most of them are wiry and agile, and are dressed in no-fuss clothes. No brands and tags, and no fancy brands, except for their equipment, which is world-class. They move like a well-choreographed dance troupe, each one performing their part, without needing to be prompted, and each has a role to play that is as important as the others. Some are sorting out and setting up the ropes and hooks and clamps on the ground, looking up at the rocks every now and then, anticipating what will be needed and making sure it’s all in perfect condition. They move with an economy of motion, which is interesting. There is no flamboyance to any of their actions, as if they’re all preserving their energy for the 50-foot vertical wall in front of them. Even in the city, you see economy of motion: people move only when they have to, or if they do, its in a terrible rush. But this seems different. This has a calm methodical urgency to it, and they’re laughing and ribbing each other in between. I feel a little like an outsider, because I don’t understand half the terms, or the history of most of the jokes, but it's all so fascinating that I don’t really mind.

For a change, I’m seeing a whole different set of people, or at least a different side of normal people, and it makes me want to write. I’ve not been able to write something I like for a long time now, and suddenly I can feel the block lifting, and words flowing into my head and forming sentences in swirls almost in front of my eyes. Then Boyfriend calls me to practice with him for a while. I half want to stay put and look around and am about to tell him this when he is called away. As I watch him idly, I suddenly realize he’s moving the same way as the rest. He normally walks fast and moves impatiently, but now it’s different. Rapid decisive action, nothing impatient, nothing hurried, everything with a reason and a purpose, and no fumbling or slacking. It’s interesting to watch him in the midst of something he loves so much, and when he calls me, I slip off my rock and follow him.

We go to a more secluded patch, with only one group climbing the rock that we are going to practice on, and Boyfriend goes first. He shows me how to find a foothold, how to position myself so that I can leverage my weight and lift myself, and how to catch or support a partner who is climbing. He goes up to the rock, feels his way to the hand-holds and after a moment of studying and judging the rock, he pulls himself up. I watch keenly, learning from everything he’s saying or doing, and then it’s my turn. To my surprise, I find the footholds easily enough, and my arms are strong enough to pull myself up when I have only one inch of rock to curl my fingers around. Once I get to the top, it’s sheer exhilaration! I think it’s a very primitive pleasure, the joy of having achieved something so physical. You feel young and invincible and wild, and everything in between. Boyfriend is impressed too, surprised actually, because he tells me it came naturally to me, that I moved like a trained rock-climber and he hadn’t expected that. I act casual and brush it off, but I’m secretly thrilled. I know I’m pretty tough, but with something new I’m not sure of myself. I hide my grin in his bear-hug, and then we move on to the next rock. With my new-found confidence, this one looks easier than the first, with more footholds and a crevice slanting upwards in it, and only a little higher. I assure Boyfriend that I can do it, and start off with my natural-born mountaineer instincts towards the part that looked most suitable for climbing. I try my left foot on the foothold and my right hand in the crevice. Not enough support for me. I try my right foot on the foothold and my left hand on a handhold. Still not enough support. For some reason, it just doesn’t happen, no matter what combination I try. Boyfriend tries to help me up a little, but I can't even manage from there. Then my arms start to ache a little, and I slither down the two inches that I managed to climb till then. I give up and watch, annoyed, as Boyfriend smoothly climbs up.

I try again, and fail again. Then I stand back and study the rock for ten minutes while other people around me attempt it and succeed. A young boy, about 14 years old, my height and build, offers to show me, and does it. I attempt and still can't do it. By now I'm really pissed off with myself, and have lost all confidence. Also, I have a crick in my back that I've been nursing for the last two days, and it starts to play up. When Boyfriend offers to help me up, I cite the bad back as an excuse and we walk back to the main rock-face. Boyfriend is trying to encourage me, telling me it's fine, and that he's had the same thing happen to him. That's all fine and dandy, I think, but I KNOW I could have done that.

We get back and the group has started proper climbing, with belays and ropes all over the rock. The rock is at least fifty feet high, with an overhanging ledge at the top. I glance at it, and in my current, slightly deflated mood, tell myself there's no damn way I'm going to even attempt it and make a fool of myself in front of all these professionals, who happen to be friends of Boyfriend. I make a sorry face, and sit down holding my neck to put off anyone who asks me to give it a shot. It works for about an hour, and I watch Boyfriend climb a couple of times. Everyone makes it seem so easy. The weather gets a little warmer, and I feel useless, sitting around taking pics on my phone while everyone else pushes their bodies to the limits of endurance. I look up at the rockface again, considering my options. It's so big that it blocks the sunlight and gives shade to the 25-30 people who sit sprawled out on rocks around me. Boyfriend catches me looking at it, and smiles, raising an eyebrow at the rock, asking if I want a go. I smile back and try to act like I didn't understand the look. He lets it go, and I'm so grateful to have a boyfriend who's so considerate about me that I give him my sunniest smile. I don't know that twenty minutes later, thanks to him, I'll be throwing myself off the top of the rock, with just a few ropes to keep me safe.

That's for my next post though.

A Flight of Fancy

2007-01-03T00:17:00.000-08:00

At this time last year, she’d been on the same flight back to Bombay with her mother, a carefree ten-year old with only anticipation of the yummy airplane dessert on her mind. This time, it was different. The death of her mother had taken away a part of her, although she didn’t realize it yet. No longer the petted oldest daughter, she now felt responsible for her three younger siblings and possessed an air of seriousness beyond her eleven years. Yet the girl loved these long flights; loved the time they gave her to immerse herself in her thoughts. And this time, the eager anticipation was for something else. She would look for her mother in the fluffy white clouds. Everyone said Mummy stayed there now, and watched her from above; and would’ve been proud of her. Today she would see that beautiful smile, those kind eyes, and she couldn’t wait.

She’d made sure her brother and sister were neat and tidy; in case Mummy got a glimpse of them through the round windows. By now, though, they looked slightly scruffy; her brother having fallen asleep with his hair spiking up in tufts, and her sisters squabbling for the headphones. But she was sure that her mother would have eyes only for her, and that they would exchange that special look that she’d always treasured.

She scanned the clouds anxiously. It would be difficult to see Mummy since She’d be wearing white angel-clothes, but Her curly dark hair would stand out against the clouds. Distracted briefly by the cartoons being shown on the TV, and by her brother’s intermittent bouts of airsickness, she turned repeatedly to gaze out of the window.

Nothing. No sight of Mummy anywhere. Not even another angel, which would’ve been almost as exciting. As the clouds turned pink in the sunrise, her palms grew clammy; knowing this was a sign of Mummy’s approach. Hadn’t the room She was in always seemed brighter than the others at home.

Her eyes burned from lack of sleep as she kept watch, hour after hour; but she resolutely stayed awake. This was her only chance until next year’s flight, because back home, the clouds were too high for her to search.

Maybe Mummy was talking to God, she thought. She liked that idea, tried to imagine what God looked like. He was a hazy picture in her mind, but he definitely had a voice like Amitabh Bachchan. But would Mummy forget to watch for the plane? She didn’t think so; Mummies never forget. Maybe she was waiting for the wrong plane. She could picture Mummy’s dismay as She realized this; and how She’d look running through the clouds, hair bouncing around her shoulders, to find the plane Her children were on. The plane moved pretty slowly, so she wasn’t worried. Her only regret was that she couldn’t stop the plane and run out into Mummy’s arms. The little ones believed that this was possible, but they were only children she thought, smiling patronizingly at them as they slept.

Popping peanuts into her mouth, she pictured being held tight by Mummy. She’d always race into the house after school in the hot afternoons and press her face against the cool softness of her arms, already blurting out the day’s doings. And Mummy was beautiful. She remembered watching Her dress up for parties, wearing shimmering dresses or delicate saris, spraying perfume on her wrists, and the most interesting part; when She put lipstick on, shaping her mouth into a perfect ‘O’ as She did this, and laughing at her daughter making the same shape unconsciously.

The peanuts fell out of the girl’s salty palms as sleep finally won. When she awoke a few hours later, furious with herself for possibly missing her mother, they were approaching Bombay. The sky outside had turned grey, and the captain’s voice was asking passengers to fasten their seatbelts for the monsoon clouds ahead.

Passing the airsick bags to her woebegone brother since turbulence meant more vomiting, she made sure the little ones’ seatbelts were fastened, and then turned back to the window. There was no chance Mummy would be outside now. There were flashes of lightning and the clouds often blocked her view completely. As the craft shuddered, she had to concentrate on keeping her own dinner from coming up and forgot about her mission for a while.

Once they passed the rough patch and began the descent, she stared down at the hutments near Sahar airport; watching the droplets of rain scurry down the wings of the aircraft. Everything looked dull and gray, and it seeped into her heart too. The edgy anticipation of earlier was replaced by heavy disappointment, and a sense of loss. Her small fingers tightened around the seatbelt, wanting to break or tear something.

As the plane taxied to a halt, her name was called, and she turned quickly to her father. She could see Daddy was already thinking ahead to the inevitable hassles of luggage and routine Customs procedures, with four little children, two of whom were almost green in the face. She smiled brightly, trying to look capable, and pushed her misery aside. There were things to be done, and the little ones would need help. And besides, there was always next year’s flight...

Moonlight Run

2006-09-27T01:08:00.000-07:00

The leaves on the ground muffled the sound of her bare feet thudding as she ran. Rain from the evening had left the leaves slippery and moist. She stumbled a few times, yet kept running. Her arms were stretched out in front of her; to push through the obstructing shrubbery; or reaching out to something? The moonlight silvered her bare shoulders and gleamed in the drops of perspiration shining on her forehead. Her white silk gown tangled around her legs, growing wet and heavy from the raindrops it absorbed, and flapping damply at her ankles. She glanced down as she ran, trying to reach down and pull at it, sobbing with impatience. A twig whipped away from her outstretched arm and snapped up into her face, scratching her cheek and just missing her eye. A gasp, a few faltering steps, “I must keep moving. I cannot stop now” and she was running again. The soles of her feet throbbed with the impact against the ground, her calves ached, and her heart pounded hard enough to burst out of her chest, still she couldn’t stop. Her shoulder ached with the blows she has received during the evening; every step she took jolted it and made her gasp. The coolness of the air burned her lungs and stung her eyes, but with each step she felt closer to gaining control of the pain.

The frenzied screech of an owl pierced the air as it passed close over her head. She shrieked and swerved. A gust of musty air from under the owl’s wing swept over her face as she tripped on the hem of her dress. The last sounds she heard were the ripping of her dress and the dull thwack of her head on the ground. Then silence filled the night.

When Aurelia came to, it was like awakening from the dead; a slow tremor of pain shuddered through her body and came to rest in her head. Her lungs still burned, and she couldn’t move her legs with the pain. She lay there on the ground, her body awkwardly bent, gazing up at the stars. Despite the pain, she felt curiously peaceful. Her thoughts were a slowly swirling mass of images and sounds, hazy memories of herself as a child twirling around in a pink birthday dress on a sunny lawn; the tinny sound of her wind-up music box with the dancing ballerina inside, she watched through an eight-year olds’ teary eyes as her younger brother laboured to write with his left hand after the accident which had crippled his right arm; she saw herself giggling with her friends behind her silk fan during her debut ball, dressed in a white satin gown with an under dress of pale orange sarsnet, and orange blossoms twined in her hair; she felt the warmth of the sunlight through her parasol as she floated peacefully on a boat-ride with Edgar, the first man to ever profess his love for her; she felt the itchy lace of her wedding gown rub against her shoulders as she walked down the aisle towards Lord Arlington. Slowly the images started to distort and spin around faster in nightmarish disorder, the faces blurring from the familiar to frightening exaggerations of facial features, the voices got louder and more discordant, sounding more like animal noises than human speech. Aurelia’s chest swelled with frantic gasps as she felt a panic attack coming on again but her corset bound her ribcage tight and restricted her breath. Dimly, as if through a haze, she wished for her small reticule and the smelling salts it contained. Her fingers scrabbled frantically at her bosom to loosen her stays, and then, as the edges of her vision blurred and darkened, they slowed and fell to her sides. Aurelia slipped into unconsciousness again.

******************************************************

Charles beat through the bushes with the stout cane he held in his good hand. Every now and then he called Aurelia’s name, listening keenly for an answer. His arm ached with fatigue and worry; it always did when he was upset, but he ignored it and moved resolutely forward. From a distance, he could hear Arlington’s voice as he called his wife’s name, and Charles’ face twisted with dislike. Arlington had always treated him patronizingly, with the same overly solicitous manner of the healthy to the crippled. Charles resented that; he had learned to make light of his bad arm to everyone because he could not bear being treated differently. However, what he really hated was Arlington’s attitude to Aurelia. It verged on tyranny, and Aurelia never complained. Charles could not bring himself to ask Aurelia if she was happy. The answer was not something he wished to hear, since there was nothing he could do about it. As a younger brother, with his father still alive, albeit bedridden with gout for the last eight years, Charles had no power to help Aurelia. In addition, he doubted if she herself would leave Arlington. It would be hard, almost impossible, to convince her to bring scandal upon her own family for her own sake. Although now, Charles thought, she may choose that path herself. Her flight last night after the party was indicative of a deep despair and fear, and it wrung his heart to think how much it must have affected Aurelia for her to run away as she did. As a child, she had always been strong and independent, and had borne all her troubles silently, if not with a smile.

“Charles! Have you seen any sign of her?” Arlington came towards him with an anxious frown. Charles looked at him, surprised at the worry in his brother-in-law’s voice. Arlington never seemed like the loving husband, even in the early days of the marriage.
“No,” he responded. “I can’t imagine where to start looking if we don’t find her here. Did she mention anything to you; any hint of where she might have gone to?” This last question was mildly sarcastic. Charles knew Aurelia would never confide in her brutal husband.
Arlington looked up sharply at Charles, but couldn’t read anything from his face. “She didn’t tell me anything. She never does. When I saw her at the party, she appeared to be enjoying herself.”

Charles held his temper with a great deal of effort. At the party, Aurelia had been pale and tense. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere, although she moved about the room, conversing with all her guests cordially. It was only when she danced with Charles that she was quiet. She had brushed his questions aside lovingly when he noticed her wincing as she moved her arm, and had relapsed into silence. That was the last he had seen of her.

“How could Aurelia conceive of doing this? She understands how gravely my position must be compromised by her actions. All the guests yesterday were discussing it, I’m sure. And now I have to ask all the grooms to take the horses out and search for my wife. She will answer for making me appear like a fool.” Arlington scowled and stalked away, his back stiff and angry.

..to be continued..

Sanjay

2006-09-18T00:43:00.001-07:00

My new bride moves about almost thief-like in the room. I can’t see her; can only hear the sound of her heavy jewellery when she walks or moves her hands. I don’t know what to do now. Everything I plan to say seems to melt into irrelevance when she looks at me. This is not because I’m madly in love with her. It’s because of her eyes. I don’t know what it is about them. She makes no attempt to hide the pain I see in them, and it’s almost obscene to see her naked vulnerability and sorrow revealed to me so openly. And sometimes it scares me to see it, because this is what I have linked myself to for the rest of my life; this deep well of intensity that she is. I’m not good with intensity, never have been. And now as I lie here facing the wall, I wonder what possessed me to do this. I’m not the type to doubt my decisions, because I usually think them through completely before making them. This is one of the first times I’ve followed my heart and I’m not sure if it’s led me into trouble.

When I told my mother to look for someone for me, it was because I was finally financially stable, had a house and a car, and wanted to marry and have someone to come home to, someone to have children with, someone to call my own, and because it seemed like the right thing to do. Somehow, it seems like that may not happen with Vani. She’s so disconnected from life, so focused into herself, so quiet and reserved…not the kind of person I expected to marry. But there is some connection I feel, some kind of responsibility towards her, which is strange. She told me about Aashish, the man she loved and lost, and she told me she would never be able to love me, and all this with a strong, almost defiant steadiness in her voice. There was nothing about her that asked for help.

*****************************

Sanjay was struggling to stay awake. He wanted to reach out to his bride, to comfort her, but she had kept him at arm’s distance all this time, and he didn’t think she would talk to him now. Jet lag and exhaustion pulled at his eyelids, making them heavy; and the sound of rain outside his window always made him sleepy. He fell asleep as his mind floated back to the day he had first seen Vani.

*********************************

He had gone to her house in Cuffe Parade with his parents to meet her. The monsoon had not yet arrived, and the heat was oppressive; the kind of heat that shimmers on the bonnets of cars in traffic jams and makes the air feel like warm liquid on your skin. Sanjay’s stomach was churning gently with the rich food he’d been eating for the last few days, and he was tired. The cool air blowing through the A/C vents in the car didn’t help because it contained the smell of the fishermen’s colony outside. The smell of mothballs and heavy perfume emanating from his mother’s heavy silk sari filled the car, and stifled him.

When the car pulled into the building, Sanjay opened the door of the car and groaned silently as the heat washed over him. He felt his shirt stick to his back and hoped that this was one of the last ‘viewings’ he’d have to go to. He had to go back to the States for a month, and then would come back for the wedding, and in the last two weeks, he’d been seeing a new girl almost every day. He was tired of the timid attempts at conversation he’d had to respond to, and the usual questions that had been asked. A few of the girls were nice, but he’d not felt a connection with them. Maybe it’s silly to expect that in an arranged marriage, he thought. How do you feel a connection with a girl when she’s flanked by eager parents and relatives, and his own mother was signaling to his father, with her eyebrows, not very subtly, to hide his scuffed shoes behind his trouser legs?

***********************************

Vani was still standing at the window. He heard the clinking of her bangles from time to time, but otherwise she stood immobile. Sanjay gazed at her back for some time, silently observing the downward tilt of her head and her hand which rested on the ledge of the window. She was tall, and her arms were slim and strong. With sleepy surprise he noted that she had delicately defined muscles in the arm that he could see. Slightly guiltily, because even he felt she still belonged to someone else, he remembered how he’d been attracted to her the first day he met her.

************************************

Sanjay had started regretting that he’d told his mother that he’d finally marry. She had been delighted and full of plans for the wedding, without the girl even being found. And during the time he’d been there, the plans seemed to grow more and more concrete. It was with mild resentment that Sanjay thought he was being drawn inexorably into a snowballing of plans that hurtled him and an as yet unknown girl towards the wedding ceremony, as if he now had no choice in the matter. But he had decided, and this was part of the process of achieving his aim. He had already told his parents he would decide in the next few days about the girls he’d seen.

As he walked up the steps to the girl’s house, he thought of the two other girls he and his mother had discussed that morning. He would have to choose one of them if this one was nothing special. At some level Sanjay was uncomfortable thinking about girls in the same way he would have considered buying a car, but then again, he didn’t know them, and he assuaged his conscience by telling himself that the girls probably thought of him in the same manner.

The parents of the girl came out to greet the Guptas, and Sanjay felt their eyes appraising him discreetly. He knew he was considered a ‘good catch’, both for his family name and assets, and also for his appearance. He presented a look of solid security and stability. He wasn’t sure if girls would like him, since he hadn’t really given it a lot of thought, and since he’d only had one girlfriend. He had more of a sturdy dependable charm about him, not the raffish good looks he’d seen women falling for.

A sense of duty kept him from acknowledging to himself that he was bored, and ascribed his lack of interest to the heat. He let the parents do the talking as they seated themselves, and answered the questions put to him in a polite, but dispassionate manner. Feeling his mother’s glare on him, he deliberately avoided looking at her, and hoped that they would be leaving soon. Then Vani entered the room.

The first thing Sanjay noticed about her was the tiny silver ring in her navel, covered by her sea-green sari, but glinting defiantly through the thin chiffon. A tiny spark of interest flickered in Sanjay, and he couldn’t help letting his eyes skim over her body. She was slim; he could see the delicate curves of her breasts and waist through the sari. She was attractive, but not really the type of woman Sanjay had imagined he would marry. He’d always expected his wife to be petite, fragile and shy, and yet in the last few days, he’d seen women like that but had found them insipid. Vani was tall, long-limbed, and didn’t move in a particularly feminine way. Her eyes glanced over the room and settled on him, and he couldn’t read the look. He looked curiously into her face, having seen inquisitiveness, coquetry, concern, shyness, blankness, but not something unidentifiable. The closest he could come to describing it was vague sizing up, and it intrigued him a little. She smiled a fake smile at him and sat down next to her parents.

Sanjay’s mother noticed the imperceptible sitting-up of her son, and leaned forward to ask Vani questions. Vani spoke in a normal voice, slightly conscious of her observers, but not discomfited very much. To Sanjay, she seemed to deliberately avoid any of the tactics he’d been exposed to in the last few days; there was no posing gracefully and demurely on the sofa, no obedient serving of tea, no knowing looks flicked up at him from downcast eyes, nothing. He wasn’t sure how to react to her. She seemed distant, not very interested in the process, and until now, it had seemed like he was the only one who felt that. He could see her mother trying to prod her into more communicative answers, but with great gentleness, as if she needed special tact. And yet there was nothing of the pampered daughter about her.

When it was suggested the two of them walk in the garden to talk, she walked beside him silently. He was at a loss for words. By now he had discovered different ways of talking to different types of women he met, but this one defied any of the ‘types’ he’d mentally classified women into. Finally he asked her, “So Vani, what do you do?” She looked up at him rather reproachfully at this unimaginative question, and with resigned disdain in her voice, told him she had been working at an advertising firm until last year, after which she quit. She asked him what he did and what his plans were, as if they were actors in a play and she knew the lines by heart. He answered, relieved that she was at least holding up her end of the conversation, but trying to think of something he could ask that would bring a note of interest into her voice. A few more questions about what she did elicited brief answers and then he asked why she quit. She looked away, and clipped out “For personal reasons”. He sensed a sudden shutting down within her, and was surprised to feel it. He had never been particularly perceptive about women, considering them creatures of unexplainable whims and emotions, and this woman whom he’d thought was unreadable was not that hard to figure out after all. Sanjay felt a little surge of masculine pride and turned to ‘handle’ Vani. He skimmed through his head for a question that would be both sensitive and intelligent, suddenly finding himself wanting to make an impression on this girl. Nothing came to his mind except an uninspired “Why?”

**********************
Vani turned and looked at him with some surprise. She was used to being treated tactfully and the distance she had placed between herself and everyone else had always been respected for the last one year. She had not wanted to talk about the hurt to anyone, feeling it would trivialize her love and her grief if she did, and she had refused to speak about it even to her mother and her childhood friends. This stranger, the man who was walking beside her with a heavy step and his prosaic questions, how could he be as tactless as to ask something that when her tone clearly indicated she didn’t want to discuss it further? She looked at him, and he looked back at her, his eyes guileless and open. He didn’t mean to probe or be inquisitive. How could he, when he didn’t know what she’d been through? She decided she would tell him about Aashish, and then decide.
They had been walking in silence, Sanjay awkward and Vani absorbed in her thoughts. Sanjay was searching again for a way to break the ice that had suddenly formed between them when Vani turned to him abruptly.
“Would you like to meet somewhere else so we can talk? I have something I want to tell you.” Vani looked at him with a kind of desperate defiance, and he found himself agreeing. His agreement didn’t seem to lessen the look in her eyes, and he watched out of the corner of his eye as she started toying with her necklace nervously.

When they met both sets of parents, they told them of the decision to meet again. Sanjay and Vani tried to ignore the beaming looks bestowed on them, but neither missed it. As the Guptas drove away, Sanjay discreetly checked in the rearview mirror if Vani was still there. She was, but she was looking blankly at the car that drove off. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but maybe it was just too far.
*****************************************************
For the rest of the drive, Sanjay was quiet and thoughtful. Mrs. Gupta tactfully tried to get him to talk, but he refused, looking moody and preoccupied. His mother, seeing her son like this for the first time, ascribed it to him finally choosing a girl, and liking her. She didn’t want to badger him for more information and wisely decided to wait till he was ready to talk. Instead, that evening before dinner, after he had showered and changed into a comfortable white kurta-pyjama, and was sitting with his father, nursing a drink, she began to talk about how much she had liked the Chawlas. Mr. Gupta played along, discussing how easily and graciously they had been treated, and how respectful their daughter was. Sanjay listened to all this, feeling vaguely dissatisfied with their opinions. There was something more to Vani than gracious parents and a respectful nature, but he couldn’t define it just yet, so didn’t say anything beyond the expected responses.
*******************************************************
The next morning was bright and sunny, as had been the days before, and as they days ahead would be. Sanjay woke up with a sense of expectation and anticipation which he tried to quell by sternly talking to himself while he shaved. When he went downstairs for breakfast, he was clean-shaven and dressed in a casual shirt and jeans, looking calm and serious. His mother fussed over him and again dropped hints about how much they liked Vani.
********************************************************

The few errands he’d planned for the morning were over before he knew it, and it was time for lunch, and time to meet Vani. He drove to Olive’s, where they had planned to meet, and even the traffic snarls couldn’t annoy him.

Vani was waiting at a table for him when he got there. He looked around at the simple Mediterranean décor approvingly, and couldn’t think of a better place in which to meet Vani. The starkness of the white walls and the dark teak furniture seemed to emphasise her delicacy in the pretty blue shirt she wore. Sanjay walked across the floor to her, chiding himself for being soppy, and smiled at her.

Indians Writing for a Global Audience

2006-07-24T23:25:00.001-07:00

Also published on Chillibreeze

They say literature is the most faithful mirror of society, reflecting its zeitgeist, its essence, to perfection. Indian writing has performed exactly this role, with its writers and its characteristics being an echo of all that the country and its people have been through. In the past decade though, Indian writing in English has achieved immense popularity and success. For a writer this may mean more exposure and opportunity and the satisfaction of wider readership, but it also entails understanding new readers and possibly adapting to them. This article briefly explores the recent rise of Indian literature and suggests ways in which it can expand to include foreign readers.
Literature that was written during and immediately after the struggle for freedom is clearly an assertion of the national identity, whether in defiant or muted tones. Across the fiction of this time was pride in all things Indian, and an assertion of a people different from the rest of the world. Some of the common features were rural settings and characters, small canvasses, day-to-day details, and local flavor. This reflected the need to describe the reality of being an Indian in India.
As Indians started moving out of the country and experiencing what it was like to be an Indian out of India, the writing started to describe another reality altogether. Common themes were feelings of being uprooted, culture shock, and the search for self in a foreign culture. For this next generation of writers, who had been away from India for longer, if not from birth, there were feelings of alienation, of not belonging to either culture completely, and of the conflict between the superstition/religion and hard scientific facts.
What writers today should realize is that these issues are no longer valid, or at least, not as valid as they once were. The drama of the Westernized Indian family with clashing values, or the Indian woman/young bride suffering in an immoral, impersonal world are topics that have been explored, described, and detailed ad nauseam. India, as a country and as a community, has been globalized too much to remain within the same scope and topics.
The problem lies in the innate reverse snobbishness about the superiority of Indian culture and spirituality that we all seem to possess. We pride ourselves on our family values, our respect for tradition, our spirituality, the simple high living, etc, and for a while, it worked as the USP of Indian writers. We need to now open our eyes to the new reality, which is that we have moved on from there.
One of the first mistakes: Too many Indian writers write as they are expected to, about topics like spirituality, religion or veiled sexuality. We do not have to pander to a Western impression of India as a country of magic and color, which possesses a pantheon of gods and the Kama Sutra. India is much more than that and should be conveyed as such.
An Indian writer must strike the delicate balance between completely describing what is unique to India without letting it distract the reader from the text. We need to understand that there are many more readers now who do not need explanations, once again thanks to globalization. Rotis no longer need to be decribed as “round flat baked bread”, nor saris as “pieces of filmy cloth draped around the body of an Indian woman.”
Secondly, we should give up the practice of writing with flowery adjectives and the contrived efforts at conveying every detail that we think will appeal to a Western reader. Too much detail and complex sentences make for pretty text, but no substance. An American reader has been exposed to Fitzgerald, Mark Twain, Faulkner, Jack Kerouac, et al, and is more comfortable with less formality and simpler language. Even a colloquial tone is fine, as long as it is not too specific to India, or is adequately contextualized or explained.
All writing is a story of humans interacting under various circumstances and should be written as a human, about humans. The best way an Indian writer can write for an American audience by forgetting that he/she is an Indian, and writing as a human first. Anything else is an attempt at intellectualism, a cover-up for lack of imagination, or a covert pot-shot at the Booker prize.

A Father Speaks

2006-07-13T06:14:00.000-07:00

My daughter. Little girl. Young woman. Vulnerable. Strong. Defiant. Curious. I see so much in the person curled up and asleep. When she sleeps, I see the little girl in her – I look at her fingers curled on the pillow, her tousled curls, her feet poking out from under the blanket. When she is awake, I see the young woman reflected in her eyes, with all the experiences, the wisdom, and the hurt that she has seen.

I sigh and look out of the window. Did I do a good job of bringing her up? Did I succeed in shaping her into a strong free person? Her mother, my darling wife, died almost 15 years ago, leaving behind four children, and me. I didn’t know where to begin consoling them or myself. My eldest daughter, then just a skinny ten-year old is now a 25-year old who prefers to call herself ‘slim’. She’s been a source of worry, joy, pride and concern, as have my other children. I have one son and three daughters, and I’ve brought them up as individuals in their own right. I’ve never discriminated between them, given the girls the same chances and encouragement as the boy. I want my daughters to be as strong as my son, maybe even stronger. For as long as I could I protected them from anything unpleasant, and strove to be father, and mother too. Did I succeed in making them feel loved and cared for to that extent?

My daughter stirs and turns, her eyelids flickering in sleep. In those eyes, sometimes I see defiance, rebellion and anger. We disagree on a number of issues; and have heated exchanges often. She frustrates me with her casual attitude towards things she knows I’m particular about; she infuriates me with her carelessness; I feel like shaking her when I think she isn’t using the intelligence that I see in her. I’m sure I rub her the wrong way too – sometimes I can sense her seething when I vent my wrath, or ‘lecture’ her, as she puts it. It’s always because I see so much potential in her, if only she could harness it. I wish she’d realize this. All I want is for her to be confident, strong enough to take on any challenge, independent and happy. I want her to be successful at her chosen career because I see talent in her that she’s still trying to find an outlet for. I want to help her in this but it’s her own battle and she seems to want to fight it alone. Maybe I succeeded in making her independent, but did I manage the rest too? Little children don’t come with instruction manuals, and I wonder if I’ve assembled the pieces of her personality in the right order.

All four of my children are asleep and I study each one; my tall lanky son, now snoring slightly, my younger daughter curled up like the kittens she loves, and the youngest, still chubby but trying hard to be a lady, when she’s awake, of course. When they come home for their holidays, they all sleep in the same bed in the afternoon, like they did as little children, draped over each other like puppies. Each of them has their own set of problems, but today it’s my eldest daughter I’m thinking about.

Recently she brought a young man home for me to meet. They wanted to marry by next year and I know she’s been thinking of it for the last two years that they’ve been together. It’s hard to accept my little girl deciding to love and marry this man, and it didn’t help that she didn’t seem to care whether I approved or not. I spoke to him, and he seemed decent, well-mannered and from a good background, but that’s not enough for me and I’m angry that she felt its enough for her. What I want for her is the best of everything, all that I never had, all that I wanted to do and couldn’t, for various reasons.

But as I sit here and watch them sleep, it dawns on me that even that isn’t enough. I want her to go further than I could ever go. I want her to do what SHE wants to do. I look at her sleeping and know that I’ll do anything to make her dreams come true, but most of all; I’ll push her to make her own dreams come true. That’s the best legacy I can leave for her: her independence, her belief in herself, her pride and her humility, and her strength. That’s why, when she told me she wanted to marry him, I tried to talk her out of it, but finally gave in. Maybe I didn’t see something in him that she saw; maybe he really would make her happy. I didn’t agree immediately, hoping she would give in with my resistance, and because it was taking time to reconcile myself to saying it out aloud. Then one day she told me she had broken up with him, although it hurt, because she wanted different things for herself, and they would make each other unhappy. She was going to continue her studies, and would worry about marriage and men later. And she thanked me for giving her the strength to take the decision.

It was the proudest day of my life.

The Reluctant Mother

2006-07-13T04:51:00.000-07:00

Madhu got up from the bed slowly, painfully, and walked to the window. The breeze that entered the dim bedroom wrapped her nightdress around her legs and lifted her hair off her neck. Her chin lifted slightly as if beginning to defy the breeze; but then she reached out and pulled the window shut. I can’t let the baby catch a cold, she thought.

THE baby. Not MY baby. A wave of resentment swept over her like nausea, leaving only bitterness in her mouth. It was a terrible, familiar feeling now. Her pregnancy had not been easy, and she had never had the maternal glow that she’d heard about. In fact she’d hated the way she looked throughout – her hair had thinned, her breasts had grown swollen and tender, and her feet, always the prettiest part of her body, she’d thought, had thickened and become unrecognizable. She had stripped and faced her naked body in the mirror and had been repulsed by it. There was something almost alien in the huge belly; and her slender form had seemed dwarfed by the life growing slowly inside her. In fact, her very existence had seemed dwarfed by the baby.

Suddenly her mother-in-law started treating her like a daughter, urging her to drink milk, to eat fruit, to rest during the day, and Madhu had enjoyed the attention. Until she realized every instruction had included, “…for the baby’s sake.”

Madhu sighed and put out one finger to trace the path of a droplet outside the glass. Just beyond the walls of the compound, she saw children laughing and splashing in puddles, and a group of giggling young girls running for shelter. That was me, just a year ago, I was like that. And now look at me. I’m a mother. She turned quickly as the baby stirred and went over to soothe it, more because she didn’t want her mother-in-law’s intrusive presence than out of concern for her child. Her afternoons were precious because it was the only time she had to herself. She used that time to bleach her face, paint her nails, or to skim through a magazine. But mostly she just sat by the window and dreamed.

She lay down next to the baby, patting it absent-mindedly. A framed picture of her wedding day faced her. Both she and her husband gazed out at the world without smiles. Her face was uncovered, but her eyes were veiled, and the crimson smudge of sindoor looked almost vicious in contrast to her pale face. The marriage had been arranged to the satisfaction of both sets of parents. She had been allowed to meet ‘the boy’, which was shockingly forward, but her father had insisted she be given that much liberty. That first meeting and the subsequent wedding was a blurry memory now; but she never dwelt on it for long anyway. She loved her husband as she’d been taught to, but she didn’t like him much. He treated her patronizingly at best and scornfully at worst. To him, she seemed to exist only to serve him his meals and to acquiesce when he groped for her in bed. Their conversations were stilted even now, a year after marriage, and only occurred when necessary.

It wasn’t the way she had planned. Nothing was. She had dreamt of a handsome, laughing husband who brought her flowers for her hair every evening when he came home. She’d wanted to welcome him back and hear about his day in a house that was bright with joy and love. She’d planned to be a charmingly plump pregnant woman who glowed through the nine months, and a warm loving mother to her child.

But they hadn’t been ready to become parents. Her husband couldn’t assume the extra responsibility of fatherhood and didn’t even try. And although she performed all the duties of being a mother, she just didn’t want the baby. It was completely dependent on her, couldn’t raise its head without her; and that scared her. It slept while she had to cook and clean, and cried all night so she couldn’t sleep. But more than anything, it meant that she couldn’t do anything but take care of it. She hadn’t left the house for months; she’d missed Holi and had had to content herself watching the other young people frolic outside. The music from the speakers put up in the colony set her heart dancing – it had always been her favourite festival – but she’d stayed ‘safely’ indoors. The girl of the past who used to run about with her dupatta tied around her waist, flinging water and colour at everyone was now a married woman, and more importantly, a mother-to-be.

The next few months would slide away as she stayed at home, nursing the baby and changing its diapers. There would be no giggling with friends under umbrellas outside her college, no sharing spicy hot samosas and tea in the college canteen as it rained, no more darting from shop to shop with her books wrapped safely under her raincoat, no more long afternoons reading in the college library with the rain muffling all the sounds around her.

Helpless anger flooded her being and her fingers tightened on the edge of the bed. What do I do? I can never get out of this. NEVER. I’ll never be free again. Ill never own my own life. This is the best it can get. As soon as enough time has passed, they’ll want a grand-daughter for the grandson to play with, and then I’ll have two. One more chain to hold me down. I’ll always be someone’s wife, or mother or daughter-in-law; I’ll never be just Madhu again. Tears burned in her eyes and spilled over, slipping down her face silently.

"Post-partum depression", the lady doctor had said. "Happens to a lot of women after giving birth. Due to hormonal changes, you know; nothing to worry about." Madhu had despised both women as she watched them. What did the pretty, rich, young doctor know about being trapped and having no hope for a better future? And her mother-in-law had been nodding and trying to look intelligent, smiling ingratiatingly at the doctor. Madhu knew the older woman was feeling out of place and inferior, and would have even felt sorry for her at a different time. By now though, she knew that her mother-in-law would be more sarcastic once they got back home, as if it made her feel like she was back in control.

The walls seemed like they were leaning in over her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm the violent urge to break or tear something. Instead she reached out her toe and knocked her framed wedding picture face-down. The baby flinched over and woke up with a frown and its mouth already open to cry. Madhu watched it dispassionately as it balled up its fists and started kicking its feet. Its face was turning red with the pressure building in its lungs. And then it started; a jarring loud wail followed by shrieks of anger.

Madhu, hearing her mother-in-law bustling about in the next room, quickly wiped away her tears and picked up the squalling baby to quieten it.

Vani's Story - Bridal Shower

2006-07-10T02:04:00.000-07:00

I hate the rains. They always seem to bring bad luck and depression; and memories, so many memories. Even now, as the darkness of the night is disappearing, it’s not the start of a hopeful new day. It’s just dull grayness, like the rest of my life will be. Without colour, without laughter, without love, and without Aashish.

If I look down at myself, I’ll see the heavy wedding sari that I didn’t bother to change out of last night. If I turn away from the window, I’ll see HIM, my husband, asleep in the bridal bed. I don’t want to see either. Where did you go, Aashish? WHY did you go? This whole circus act that I went through yesterday would’ve been our wedding if you hadn’t gone on that bike-ride. And now look at me, your Vani, with somebody else’s initials in mehendi on my palms.

I stare at the patterns on my hands till a tear-drop falls onto my bangles, and I realize that I’m living out a scene from a Hindi movie. The last one year has been like that; from the day I heard about Aashish’s accident.; the tearful fainting fits that I can’t believe happened to me; the long hours that that I stared out into nothingness, the dry ache in my throat all the time. And yesterday, a fairytale wedding; except that the bride; me; was vacant, and the groom was a wrong man.

He’s not a bad person; I could see that in our last few meetings. But he isn’t Aashish. He’s not tall and lean, he always wears his shirts and t-shirts tucked into his trousers, and he eats slowly and thoughtfully. But he seems understanding and stable, and besides, I’ll move far away from all these memories now. Baba and Ma were so scared I’d ‘do something silly’ that they wouldn’t let me move away even though it killed me to stay here.

But they don’t know what it feels like; they can’t understand the black hole that my heart has become. Even ‘desolate’ doesn’t describe this feeling. Numbness is all I know. It’s as though I’m underwater, and every sensation comes from miles away. It shocks me when I feel my face lifting to the sunlight, because I didn’t think small things like the warmth on my skin would make me happy any more. And it makes me guilty when I roll chocolate around my tongue till it melts because I’m enjoying it when Aashish is dead. The only other emotion I feel is scorn, or mild disdain; when people tell me that I’ve been strong; or when I’ve heard mutters of “Keep an eye on her…you never know what she’ll do to herself.” They don’t realize that I don’t care anymore. The numbness has taken over so much of my life that I don’t care enough to even take my life. And its not strength – it’s just something you do without knowing. You get through one minute at a time; and suddenly a year has gone by. You eat when you’re hungry, or to stop people from bothering you.

The most difficult times were the nights of those first few months. I dreaded them, because the darkness made it possible to dream. I could almost feel Aashish’s presence. The worst dreams were the ones in which he was making love to me. He’d cup my face in his hands and gaze into my eyes while he moved slowly over my body. I’d wake up to find myself reaching out for him or whispering his name, and then I’d see Ma’s worried expression and she put the bedside lamp on and turned to face me. That kind of hurt was physical; I’d curl myself into a ball and will it to subside.

And now I’m married; and will continue to live like this, with this stranger. He’s been good to me, patiently waiting for me to answer a question, or cracking jokes that would have been funny in another time. Last night after we were left alone on our first night as a married couple, all he said to me was “Go to sleep; you look tired.”

And so I lay down in my sari. He fell asleep almost immediately and left me to my thoughts. One side of me is looking at all this, and thinking that it sounds like a movie-script. There should be a ray of sunlight in the horizon outside now, to symbolize the start of a new life for me. I look up at the dawn sky, but the drizzle hasn’t stopped yet. There’s no sign of the sun, no silver lining. I could almost laugh at myself for expecting it. Instead, I turn around and walk back to the bed.

To Be With You

2006-07-07T02:25:00.000-07:00

I have had a terrible day,
Pulled in different directions by people I dont like.
Stressed, nerves worn to a thread,
Too upset to even cry, too tired to think.

But i'll be with you soon.
This thought has gotten me through today.

My boss yelled at me for no reason..
Well, not a big enough reason.
I have been surrounded by idiots all day.
The one nail i hadnt bitten broke against my keyboard.
My tea was cold and had creamy skin on it.
Didnt meet my deadline, am probably PMSing too.
I'm feeling very sorry for myself.

But I'll be with you soon.
My shoe-bitten feet move faster at the thought.

You walk in all hot and sweaty,
Irritable, tired, wanting to be nice to me,
Stressed, cant find it in you to cootchie-coo.
Sweat streaks on the sleeve of your tshirt tell me you've been out in the heat,
(And that you've wiped your face on your sleeve, like a little boy in a galli cricket match!!)
You've had a bad day too.
None of this bothers me.
The sight of you calms me, as you walk through the door.
Tears jump to my eyes without warning.
What the hell? Where did they come from?
I wanted to be pretty and welcoming when you arrive,
Now i'll have puffy eyes and a red nose in a few seconds.
You smile a tired smile, and hug me,
Not realizing in your endearing male way that i'm this close to bawling.
Its all your fault that i start.
Your arms form a little circle only for me.
Your tshirt is a tissue to surreptitiously wipe my nose on.
My face burrows into the warm crook of your neck.
I cant do anything BUT cry.
You move strands of hair off my face.
You kiss my eyes.
You are there for me, without asking me to explain the tears.
You fuss over me a bit, hug me a little.
After a while, I feel silly and look up at you and give a watery smile.

Everything is alright.
I'm with you now.

Youthful Bliss??

2006-07-06T05:08:00.000-07:00

Some months ago, during the Diwali holidays, a young man died of heart failure. He was all of 26 years, and was supposed to be married a few months later. He used to be addicted to drugs at one time; all kinds of drugs – prescription drugs, Benadryl, Ecstasy, etc, but he had managed to quit, had started working and was a new man. All it took was that one last fling with some small pill or one sniff of whatever he took, and his body keeled over and went into seizures. Ajay died on Diwali day, when people around him were laughing and bursting crackers, and celebrating life.

I didn’t know him too well, only as a friend’s friend, but the tragedy and the irony of it all upset me to an extent that I’m still struggling to explain, to myself, and now on paper. For someone who has done drugs for so long, for someone whose body is accustomed to the kind of abuse he put it through, how did it take just that one time to push him over the edge? How could he have known that a substance that had been his lifeline till then would kill him that night?

The next day I watched people dancing on the streets, and traveling to hill stations for their long weekend, and it numbed me. For a while, all I could think of is that it’s so meaningless... all of it. There were people celebrating alongside the ambulance that rushed him to hospital, there were babies born that night, and family members coming out smiling and delighted, and then there was Ajay’s family, his sister, his mother, his father – with only disbelief on their faces and a vague hint of the sorrow that the next few months will bring.

It’s so true when they say, “Youth is arrogant”. We do things everyday that could kill us, or somebody else, and either don’t stop long enough to think about it, or just plain don’t bother. Maybe that’s the magic of our age, when you’re allowed to get away with the flagrant disregard of caution and common sense. But then, when you hear about someone like Ajay, you wonder, how do you know when to draw the line? How do you know when to stop and say, “No more”??

The sense of meaninglessness continued to haunt me, and was intensified when I read the newspapers every day. It just seemed to pervade everything suddenly, and can turn you into a shell of a human being. Then finally, you realize that there’s no point doing that to to yourself. The best you can do is count your blessings, be grateful (in a selfish kind of way) that you have a chance to learn, and LEARN.

Antara

2006-07-06T04:54:00.000-07:00

“I really need to stop seeing this guy”, she thought idly to herself, watching him hop around the room, trying to pull his clothes on in a hurry. “Strange. I don’t like him anymore.” She had been attracted to his aggression and power in the boardroom, but now he was just another man, with his hair tufting up around his head (“Is that a bald patch at the back of his head??? Oh God!!!”) and a pleased-with-himself look on his face. “That’s the problem with married men. They think they’re still studs if they manage to have an affair.” She stared up at the fan, not wanting to watch him primp himself in the mirror, checking for telltale signs before he went home to his wife.

“Antara, do you want a lift back? Its pouring outside.” He looked at her, and was startled for a minute to see something close to…dislike???.... in her eyes. It couldn’t be, not after I’ve made her moan with pleasure, he thought, smiling inwardly. She shook her head, and said something about discretion and waiting for some time after he had left, but he was already thinking about getting home in time. For a few awkward moments, he dithered about in the room, collecting his wallet and keys, and murmuring a few words, “See you at work tomorrow, I had a good time, Thanks, You’re very special, etc etc”.

Antara smiled and waited for him to leave, longing for a cigarette, and solitude. As soon as the door was shut behind him, she locked it and lit up, staring out of the window. The rain has slowed and had left the streets sparkling, and the air smelt as clean as it could for a big city. She hated the rains, hated the way it frizzed her hair, smudged her make-up, and made mud stick to the heels of her sandals. She hated how it made the whole day seem grey and cold, as if there was nothing to look forward to. Most of all, she hated going home, to Ma and Papa, and seeing them wrapped in warm clothes as if it were winter. A look of dislike tugged downwards at the corners of her mouth; she didn’t particularly like going home anytime really.

The rain poured down outside the window, and she stared into the darkness, looking but not seeing. Her mind was miles ahead, weighing all that had happened with Ajay. When she first started working, she had decided he was The One. A smile crossed her lips as she pulled the blanket closer around her. Not the usual One that girls dream about with dewy eyes; the reasons for wanting him were different, and the way to get him would have to be well-planned.

Antara had watched him quietly from her desk, watched him as he paced about in his glass cabin. An impatient man. He would decide what he wanted and go after it aggressively. She had observed him eyeing his reflection in the glass as he spoke on the phone. A vain man. He liked to look his best, liked his surroundings to be clean and beautiful. He would appreciate a well-groomed woman who always looked perfect. She heard about his business decisions. A risk-taker. It would pique his interest a little to play games, although she would have to let him win them eventually.

The meeting had not been difficult to engineer. She caught his eye soon, and allowed herself a few subtly seductive glances. When she met him though, or had to speak to him, she was purely professional, even dismissive. He behaved the same initially, but there was a difference. He let his gaze linger on her for a second longer than it should have, he made up reasons to speak to her alone, even dropped her home once. The air between them seemed to sizzle every time they were together. It wouldn’t be long before things really started happening.

They started talking on the way home. She’d heard all the usual stories, how he didn’t love his wife, how she didn’t understand him, how his parents had married him off to a ‘homely’ girl very early, but she couldn’t live as he did, she felt out of place and awkward with his friends, etcetera etcetera. Antara didn’t believe it for a minute, but had played along. She continued to watch him. She liked the way he dressed, liked the way people jumped to attention when he entered the room, she liked his black BMW and the driver in uniform, but it wasn’t about him. Antara wanted out of her middle class life, and he seemed like the fastest way.

Antara stared out of the window of the bus, and thought about the way things were working out for her. He had seemed detached of late, finding excuses for not going out with her, unless they were coming straight to the cheap hotel they had been using for the last eight months. It didn’t bother her because she didn’t care for his attention, finding it amusing at best, and annoying at worst. All she worried about was his loss of interest before she achieved what she wanted. If she didn’t get him to divorce his wife and marry her, she would have to start from scratch with someone new, and she was growing tired of the game. Besides, it was getting more and more difficult as she got older. Most of the men she’d aimed for ended up with girls younger than her. She looked at her reflection in the grimy glass of the bus window. Both the bad quality of the glass and the movement of the bus distorted her face a little, and if she half-shut her eyes, she could see a sagging chin and cheeks. No, she would have to start making some demands soon.

Things had happened. It didn’t take much effort. She gave in to him the first time he asked. It was in his car on the way home one evening. He was all passion and dominance, and she was all submission and trembling innocence. It was one of those acts she had to put on. If there was one thing she had learnt about men, it was that the way to their hearts (and their wallets) wasn’t through their stomachs, it was through their egos. You make a man feel superior, make him feel like he owns you, and he is yours. For a while at least. And it worked with him. If they were going out, she made sure she was dressed elegantly yet sexily. When the other men looked at him with envy, he felt like the alpha male he read about in his silly men magazines. If she let him feel like she submitted to his every whim, he felt the simple caveman-like pleasure of being master of his woman. Also, she had told him that he was the first to touch her. He seemed the kind of man who would be flattered by that, and she was right.

Antara had reached the door of her house by then. She stood outside for a few minutes, looking at the dingy walls with black water marks that slid down the wall like tear tracks. It was all so bleak and miserable, and her parents would be inside, not making it any better. She took a deep breath and entered, flinging down her purse and scarf, and with them, all the facades of the day. Her mother glanced up once and continued with chopping vegetables. Her father’s eyes didn’t move from the TV that he watched blankly all day. Antara felt the familiar stifling of air around her and hurried to her room. She had made some half-hearted efforts to make it look a little more luxurious than it was. There were bright silk covers on the bed, and richly embroidered curtains on the window that looked out over the local playground and a railway track. She had failed to achieve the intended result, though, despite having good taste, because the walls still looked crumbling and the fan and furniture were old and mouldy.

To be continued…

Confessions of a Bibliophile

2006-07-06T04:53:00.000-07:00

Also published in Times of India, 23 July 2006, Page 16, titled 'How the French Lieutenant's Woman Got Soaked'.

I’m a bookoholic. I have had irresistible urges to read, buy and possess books at the strangest times. I have spent hours when I should have been in college in a bookshop instead. I revel in the smell of old books, new books, paperbacks, hardbacks, bookshops. I love the sensuous pleasure of slowly turning the rustling pages of an old book, of running the tip of my thumb over the edge of the pages of a new book so that it almost but not quite cuts into me. I love the tomb-like silence of libraries in which everyone is united in their cause. I pause to let the feelings of reverence wash slowly over me when I pick up an old classic. A classic, priced lower than the latest ‘item number’ book or a Cosmo, (although I love those too) usually creates mixed feelings: indignation at it being valued so low, and gratitude because it means I can afford an armful of them. One of my favorite sights is a shelf of books bound in old crimson or navy blue leather, with the titles etched in gold lettering into the spine. It is a kink of mine to immediately write my name on the virgin first leaf of a new book, just to mark it as mine. I have collected books all my life, for as long as I can remember.

One day changed all that. 26/7, Mumbai. The day my house sunk. I live on the ground floor and came back after being marooned in office overnight, only to find most of my worldly possessions gone in a flat filled with water. The most painful losses were my childhood photographs and my entire book collection. I lost precious childhood favorites, one-book wonders, eternal classics, books I had bought recently and not had a chance to gloat over, and books that had been companions of my teenage years… it was unbearable. Some were reduced to a pulp; some of them were streaked and stained with dirt, some mutilated beyond recognition, and most just reduced to grimy pulp. My best friend and room-mate came back to find the same had happened to her collection of books.

The ordeal wasn’t over at that. To clean out the house, we had to push all these books into plastic bags and dump them outside the house in the garbage heaps, along with everyone else’s rubbish. Books that had had pride of place, that had been carted from hostel to hostel all my college life, books that had slept on my pillow with me, now thrown in a pile next to somebody’s dirty shoes, covered with somebody else’s monthly supply of rice that was ruined. Wet grains of rice scattered all over my books, crows flew down and pecked at them, slowly making marks in an old edition of Roots. My name stood out on the first page of some books, seeming like a cruel joke amidst all the paper pulp. Someone threw away a carpet that ran purple color onto the cover and pages of my once pristine Lolita, bought just a month ago and only read once. A jar of masala spilt out onto a well-thumbed edition of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, with a rare cover picture of an ivory miniature of a woman with red hair, the Woman herself. I stood there on the heap, soaked and tired; and cried, not for our damaged TV, not for the fridge that had capsized, not for the piles of clothes we had lost, not for our flooded house, but for my books. What really hurt me was I had started earning just a while before and had been buying books that I’d always wanted, and with my own money too.

Anyway, we recovered from all that, sorted out our lives and our house slowly, and started buying replacements for all the losses. Except our books. Somehow, it was too hard to go and pick up the same book that had been thrown away and replace it. It seemed unfaithful and callous. One month passed in a bookless house; until one day, as I walked past a roadside bookseller (no, that’s a lie! I never walk past them. I always stop to browse) and the Woman with red hair caught my eye. I dithered, hugged the book to myself, wallowed in self-pity for a minute, and then bought it. If anything, I owed it to her sister, the book I had previously owned, to pick this one up and look after her like my first one had been looked after. I couldn’t bear to write in it, because it seemed like something might happen to it if I did.

The next day, my room-mate bought a book home. After that, books slowly started gathering on our shelves again, nudging and nestling against each other, and making it a warm familiar place once again, although I still haven’t managed to write my name in any of them. The monsoons are here again, but this time around, my books are wrapped in plastic bags and paper, and put safely away in overhead storage.

Valentine Rant

2006-07-06T04:16:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I have to do this. This is below me, honestly. I guess this is what they mean when they say that love makes you do stupid things. I mean, I have walking talking proof around me that it makes you blind. Everyone around me looks like an idiot; all the girls are in pink or white, some of them have those gross baby pigtails, even though they’re way past that stage, the guys are dressed in red. Red!!???!! I mean, get a life!! You don’t HAVE TO match the festival! There are grown up people all around walking about with soppy grins on their faces and holding cards and flowers and other Valentine crap! I’m going to be one of them soon. Oh god!! I hope nobody I know sees me here. I’ve teased everyone about rushing to Archie’s for cards for their girlfriends…. This will be revenge time for all that!! The thing is, nobody will know that I’m looking for an ‘I’m Sorry’ present, not a Valentines present.

Why am I here, you might ask? It’s a long story. But since I have time, I’ll tell you. I’m being punished for something I said yesterday. Well, its kind of like me punishing myself, being in the middle of this Meg Ryan movie scene. Right now though, what I’m doing is waiting for this friend of mine. Acquaintance, rather. Pankaj. Football star of college. I don’t like him much, but he knows about girls and will know what to get for Dimple. How and why the girls like him is beyond me, but they do. Must be all the Jovan Sex Appeal he uses. But then again, I’ve seen him chatting them up, and he’s got it down to an art. He’s distant, but not too much; mysterious but (fake) sincere; he’ll ask stupid “attentive” questions that seem to work, and the final touch; he leans in and somehow makes his eyes go all deep and dark, and his voice gets deeper, and he says “Would you like to go for a drive? Anywhere you want.” And that’s it. The chicks are eating out of his hands!

Where the hell is he? I need to get this over with and get as far away from this area as I can. There’s sugar and honey and caramel oozing out of everywhere and everyone I see. Plus the more time I take to say sorry, the more of an insensitive fuck Dimple is going to think I am. And I’m not, really. It was a slip of the tongue. Well, not really. I meant to say it, but I didn’t think it through. And with girls you never know. Dimple is actually a cool chick, despite her nasty name. She hates it too, but is too lazy to get it changed and all. In college she’s the only girl I can talk to, plus she’s pretty hot. She’s got these chocolate-y brown eyes and soft hair and the most perfect set of…. Oh, there he is!!

“What’s the big emergency, dude? I was in the middle of the match.”

“Pankaj, I need your advice” I knew that would get him. Always massage egos when you need help.

Pankaj looks slightly resentful. Clearly I have not gotten him. Try again.

“Pankaj, I’m in big trouble with Dimple and you know so much about girls. You have to help” I see the egoistic playboy and the enthusiastic footballer wrestling within him and the playboy wins.
He grins and says, “True, true. What’s up? Problems in bed???” He leers at me, and I try to act unembarrassed and cool. Don’t get me wrong, I have problems in bed, like I’m really worried about the acne on my back. And I have a couple of hairs that sprout out of my shoulder like horse-hair. Wonder if it’s a turn-off? But, to get back to the point, I wouldn’t tell Pankaj about them anyway. The whole college would know by tomorrow. Plus I have an Emergency Situation on my hands. Not time to worry about shoulder-hair and a weird bend in my …. By now we’ve reached a tapri, and Pankaj is looking up from his cigarette at me curiously.

“No no, nothing like that. We had a fight and I want to say sorry to her. What should I get her?”

Pankaj takes a deep drag and arranges himself into the film star pose he usually has when he smokes. He checks out a couple of girls walking past and as they pass, gives a fake deep chuckle for no reason. I look at him wondering what’s wrong with him, but apparently there’s a reason. The girls turn and smile slyly to each other and kind of in his direction. What is it with him and the girls? They actually like that???? Between his posturing and attention deficit problem, I’m never going to get anywhere. Now he’s busy on his phone.

The thing is, I shot my mouth off when I was chilling at Dimple’s place the other day. She stays alone, so I go over very often, “to help her cook”… hehehe.. Anyway, we were lazing about, generally discussing what to do for Valentine’s Day, and I was being the nasty cynic that I fancy myself as and teasing her for being a soppy fool. I could see she was starting to get a bit upset at my refusal to cooperate, but was kind of impressed at how mature I was. Then suddenly she turned on me with an inspired look in her eye. I know that means an idea, or trouble, can almost see the bulb flashing over her head like in the comics. “Lets make a Valentine Resolution. We should do something together. I think it’ll be romantic.”

I cackled. “You know what’ll be romantic? I come over to watch the match and you serve me chilled beer in a waitress’s apron, and nothing else. Hahahaha” It was not received very well. Mistake Number One. Never show you want sex more than romance, especially around Valentine’s Day. In fact, be the first one to show interest in doing something romantic. It doesn’t matter if you’re gagging for it. Friendly suggestion: if she ever asks you what you find most attractive about her, say it’s her eyes.

She sat up and pushed her hair off her face. “I think we should join the gym. Look at us! We’re getting fat! Look at your stomach” She patted my stomach, smiling so I thought it couldn’t have been a life-or-death issue, and smiled back at her. Then I stuck my foot deep into my mouth. I poked her little paunch lovingly and said “you too, fatty”, giggling foolishly. Mistake Number Two. Never poke your girlfriend’s paunch and call her fatty.

As soon as the words were out, I saw her face change and almost leapt off the couch and through the door. Inside I was slapping myself mercilessly. Why did I say that? Why? Why? I know she’s sensitive about it, I’ve learnt the hard way. I stayed manfully where I was and tried to smile, but I know it came out crooked and like a timid mongrel. Dimple’s eyes had turned into chips of ice, and she repeated “Fatty!” in her Jaws voice. When I hear that tone, without knowing how or why, the Jaws theme starts in my head, the one that plays just before the swimmer is ripped apart.

Carefully she stood up and straightened her shirt. “Fatty”. This is a slow painful replay of my home-goal. She looked hurt, and that’s when my manliness abandoned me. I can’t stand tears. I suddenly stood up too and said “I have to go. I need to finish my homework”. Nothing believable, like “I’m shitting bricks so I’m running away”, nothing cool like “I’ll see ya later, doll” as if nothing had happened, nothing chivalrous like “I need to go help Mom to shift furniture at home”. No, the one excuse she would never give me the benefit of doubt for, “I need to finish my homework”. I haven’t done that in years. Then I pelted out of there. Mistake Number Three. Never leave a girl if you’ve made her cry, or almost cry. Grovel abjectly at her feet till she feels bad for you and forgives you, and then run.

I hid in my room all evening, playing Age of Empires, and didn’t try to call her. Mistake Number Four. Always call to say sorry, even if she doesn’t answer. The number of times you call is directly proportional to her readiness to forgive you. I thought she’d be okay the next day, but wore the black shirt of mine that she likes, just in case. After sweating in it all day, and getting cold glares across the class, from Dimple and Friends, I went home knowing I had messed up big time.

That’s when I called this big oaf. And he’s still on the phone. And I’m still up shit creek without a paddle. I fake a phone call and fake that I have to run off, and go back to Archies. There I fake a phone-call again so that I don’t look like a loser in a shop festooned with hearts and roses. I pick up some fat fluffy animal that looks like a bear with rabbit ears, and some chocolate. Still not enough. I can’t handle the nauseous perfume counter so go to the jewellery side instead. Still faking the call, I gesture to the necklaces under the counter and the sales girl pulls them out for me to look at. She’s pissed off that she can’t give her little spiel since I’m busy discussing football statistics with my phone. But now is the tricky part. It’s not easy to buy jewellery for a girl. If she’s the diamond type, and you buy her pearls, you’re in trouble. If she likes chunky jewellery and you buy her a delicate gold heart, you don’t know her after all this time. You have to concentrate. I forget I’m faking a call and focus on the necklaces in front of me, with the phone still clutched to my ear, till suddenly it shrieks, almost deafening me!! I answer it hurriedly and try to avoid the accusing eye of the sales girl. It’s Pankaj, suggesting that I buy chocolates and flowers. Big help! But I buy flowers anyway, then I remember an ad I saw of some guy who takes his girl out and sets up a whole picnic dinner from the boot of the car. Not a bad idea, tiny problem being that I don’t have a car, and I couldn’t possibly carry a table and chairs on the back of my bike. But I can take her out for dinner, tiny problem here being that she may refuse to even look at me, forget jump onto my bike with me and go out.

I try her number a little hopelessly, not expecting her to answer, but she does, and I’m stuttering and stammering because I don’t have a little flowery apology planned. So I say it the best I can, and miracle of miracles, can hear a smile in her voice. She agrees to go out with me at night. I’m guessing I’ll be made to wear the black shirt and that aftershave that she likes, and I know I will cooperate without a murmur this time.

Maybe there IS magic in the air on Valentines Day after all. Still think the hearts are ugly though.

A Review of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita

2006-07-06T04:10:00.000-07:00

Also published on Chillibreeze

One piece of advice: approach this book with as open a mind as you can manage, but remember, you’ll still find yourself pushing at the limits of disbelief as you read. The book talks about an ageing protagonist’s obsession with a young girl, (a nymphet, as he calls her), who is only twelve years old when he first meets her. This is a story of perversion and debauchery, but it is told with such self-deprecating humour and such strange beautiful imagery that you find yourself wanting to read more.

Humbert Humbert (no, this is not a typo!), the central character of Lolita, is a lodger at the Haze house, and finds himself falling desperately in lust with Mrs. Haze’s pre-pubescent daughter, Dolores, or Dolly, whom he calls Lolita. He finds a number of small ways in which to satisfy his longing for her, such as squeezing up against her in the car, or caressing her as he talks to her mother, or even holding her feet in his lap as he achieves ‘the heights of pleasure’. Eventually to ensure that he stays close to his darling, and to assuage the mother’s suspicion, he marries the widowed Mrs. Haze. He plans to kill her throughout the many pages that follow the marriage, but can never bring himself to, until finally she dies in an accident. Humbert rushes off to take Dolly out of summer camp, and then takes her on a long road trip, either spending extravagantly on her or staying with her in cheap motels.

There are a number of fascinating contradictions within the two central characters. Dolly, sometimes childishly amused by her hold on Humbert, sometimes scornful of his slavish admiration, and sometimes resentful of his authority over her, is wonderful as the innocent-knowing young girl. The man himself, though, is the masterpiece. You don’t just see the facets of his personality; you look straight into the ‘tangle of thorns’ that is his mind. He loves Dolly beyond all measure, he is insanely attracted to her child-like body, and he is so fiercely possessive that although he craves her, he does not want to ruin her innocence. (None of this, however, redeems him.)

Nabokov uses every literary device possible, from the usual physical descriptions, to Dolly’s mannerisms and slangy speech to remind us that she is just a child. The horror of it is disguised by Humbert’s dry wit, and constant self-mockery, but it is present throughout. One of the most upsettingly memorable moments of the novel is Humbert’s arousal by the heat of Dolly’s body when she is burning with fever, and the way he rationalizes his subsequent actions.

Lolita, though it deals with themes that have been dealt with before, is unusual in that it makes you see the other side of the story. As a reader, you are always given vivid glimpses of Dolly’s trauma, but more importantly, Humbert’s side is revealed, whether it is the truth, or the story he is telling himself. Searching for a moral in Lolita is futile; by the author’s own admission, there is none. Instead you have dark humour, descriptions of love and sex couched in the most unexpected phrases, and above all, language that sparkles its way through the book.

What you should read Lolita for is the sudden gasping realization that you will feel when you catch yourself empathizing with him at some point. There are very few books that can fool you into believing yourself to be on a moral pedestal, and then suddenly knock you off without warning.