Moving On

The picture you see used to be the bookshelf at the foot of my bed, in my room, in my house. Now it houses my mother's crockery.

My wardrobe, which used to be stuffed with my clothes now has other clothes that look strange and out of place. I look around me room these days and feel a sense of alienation. I can't complain. I now have a house that will be personalised and made my own. But that doesn't cover up the inevitable sadness of being separated from my childhood.

Consciously walking into a dream

I woke up feeling disoriented, again. It's still dark. Everything is very quiet. The bed feels strange. And yet I could hear the alarm ringing on my phone from some distant space. I spread my palms across the bed and started looking for it. The further my finger inched, deeper the disorientation.

And then I found it. The menacing, monotonous beepbeepbeep - beep beepbeep. And yet it was the relentless beeping that made me realise, I was to give a test to the grade 7 students today; carol singing practices were to be organized; I had to meet the Head Of School to discuss my leave in January.

My leave in January! Weren't the rings suppose to come today? What happened to the bag I had to buy for the trip? Have I called my college friends and confirmed if they have received my invitation?

More than the alarm these thoughts woke me up, nice and alert. I looked around. People were stirring around the house. I was walking to the bathroom door, when I happened to look at the time. 7AM! I'm supposed to be in school in half an hour! And so I scamper around, brushing teeth, picking out clothes, packing my lunch. All the while, mom would probably be rattling on about this and that that needs to be done. Half listening, and half praying that I reach on time, I step out of the house with half worn shoes. I usually finish wearing it in the lift.

Now here I am, sitting in the car with the slightly chilly morning air whistling through my ears and wondering if I'm going to wake up from this dream.

"First you dip your brush lightly in water and make light confident strokes on the paper. Then you dab your brush in colour and follow the water strokes." Your brush caressing the paper like a tender lover; colour swirling on the canvas, dancing to your tunes. I watched as your large fingers guided the small brush around with such dexterity that I thought your hand was shivering.
I watched as the colours trickled through the path you made for them. I gazed as shapes began to appear unwittingly.

I wondered how it would be to be the colour at the tip of your brush; to be gently guided across an empty dance floor. And then I'd dance. And when I'm tired, I'd rest. And as I rested, I'd become part of a beautiful landscape.

General State of Affairs

She sat with her feet crossed in front of her, staring at a blank wall. There was a lot to be done but this blank wall was too attractive. She decided she deserved to stare at the blank wall for everything that was done. Little did she know, the blank wall was built wrong and had been tilting all this while. She doesn't know it yet, but that wall is going to fall. And she won't know what hit her.

PonyTale

Bright round dark globes outlined by long curling lashes stared at me, transfixed. When I looked at them, lush pink lips parted into a smile that melted my heart. I couldn't help but smile back. Hands started flapping. The little pony on top of the head bobbed, resembling a silken water fountain.
"Hi!" I said, instinctively turning on the coochicoo lingo. "whoozis little girl! Such a pwetty fountain you have on your head. Wassyour name, baby?" The mother came into my line of vision.
"His name is Aakash. He's a boy." She smiled at me radiantly.
"Oh!" I said, "but he's got a pony."  "Yeah. It's a genuine mistake."

Talk about gender stereotyping.

A little Reminder

I'm still alive. Recent life events, that took place over the span of two years, have kept me from putting pen to paper...

Ok you know that's a lie. I've just been extremely lazy and moderately self depricating, to be able to write anything. And as always, unless it's perfectly beautiful and absolutely brilliant (in my own opinion of course) I won't put it out there for anybody to read. As a result, I gave up writing altogether because I couldn't begin to write (or complete writing) anything worthwhile.

So as punishment, or practice, as reprimand or redemption, I'm going to write crap. Everyday. Until I'm able to produce what I want to. I'm going to make myself write every little thought I have and read it; torture myself by putting my thoughts out there for everyone to read.

Wish me luck.

Not Just Another Day

They had to shield their eyes from the scorching sun as they walked out of the college building. They headed towards the bus stop. It had become their latest hangout place.
“I’m not hungry.” She said as she tried to prop herself up on to the railing of the bus stop. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit. But it gave shelter from the sun and it was breezier than the stuffy canteen they had just walked out of. There were trees all along that side-walk that swayed in the hot summer breeze.
“When did you eat last?” He took her hand and helped her on to the railing. She noticed beads of sweat outlining his face and realised she was sweating too. Her hair was frizzy and unkempt because of the humid weather.
“Do you want to go sit inside? It’s really hot here. You’re sweating like hell!”
“I’m fine. You tell me why you’re not eating anything!”
“Arey baba, I ate a lot in the morning. Plus, it’s really hot! I don’t feel like eating now.”
They looked at each other and grinned. The sun was burning down on the street. The recess bell hadn’t rung yet, so there weren’t many people outside the college. He kept his bag between them on the railing and held it there with one hand.
“Do you want to eat my dabba?” he asked.
She threw her head back and laughed, “So this is what this is all about! You don’t want to eat your dabba so you want me to finish it, so that you can take home an empty dabba.” She wagged a finger at him and smiled mischievously.
“No, re! I’m just saying I have my dabba, so we can just sit and eat here. We don’t need to go anywhere. And also, yeah, mom will yell at me if I don’t eat it all.”
“And why can’t you eat it all?” She asked rolling her eyes at him, giggling all the while. She couldn’t stop shaking with mirth. It’s really not that funny! She told herself, stop giggling!
“Because it’s too hot. Ok? There. I said it. Now you can stop laughing.” They gave each other a knowing look and started laughing again. They laughed together till they were both breathless.
“You’re so stupid!” She said, punching him on the arm.
“Hey, I made you laugh. Is that so bad?”
She smiled, “Yeah. It’s horrible. You crack the world’s silliest jokes and I don’t understand how I can laugh at them.”
He smiled at her, bearing all his teeth and blinked at her innocently. He thinks he’s so cute.
“But I make you laugh no? That’s enough.” He said.
“Randolph! What you got in dabba today? I’ve got super boring cabbage bhaji yaar.” A thin voice emerged from behind them, along with a strong scent of perfume. “Hey, Kriti, you didn’t attend Maths this morning?”
“I was sitting right behind you, Pooja” replied Kriti, with a hint of malice in her voice.
“Oh right! Yeah, I forgot.” Pooja turned to Randolph and said, “Anyway, so show na, your dabba!”
Randolph looked at Kriti and shrugged. He took out the dabba from his bag and opened it up.
“Bhindi! You didn’t tell me you’ve got bhindi. Now I want to eat.” Said Kriti. Without waiting for a response, she reached into the dabba and picked two rotis.
“I didn’t know you liked bhindi” said Randolph. He was a little taken aback and yet amused at the sudden hunger Kriti had developed. She polished off the two rotis and half of the bhindi before Pooja had the time to settle down and open her dabba.
When she noticed Kriti gulping down the food, she commented, “Whoa! That’s fast. When was the last meal you ate, Kriti? Last month?” Pooja and Randolph laughed together as Kriti chewed on a mouthful.
She struggled to swallow as she tried to smile and seem aloof. But alas! All that food, all too quickly caused her to get hiccups. She tried to hide it, but it was too strong. This only gave Pooja more reason laugh and Randolph joined in. Kriti glared at him.
“OK, sorry... sorry. That’s not funny” Said Randolph. He looked at her with his eyes wide and said, “Water?”
“Yes” she said, trying not to sound too upset.
He held out his bottle for her with one hand and his dabba for Pooja with the other. Kriti quickly drank some water and returned the bottle to him. She watched as Pooja ate out of his dabba. She was sure Pooja had a crush on him. She was just that type. She smiles too much, Kriti thought. And she pouted too much. I mean, we all know you wear lip gloss everyday to college. You don’t need to take such trouble to show it off.
“Last bite, you want?” Randolph asked Kriti as he offered the dabba to her. She directed her attention back to Randolph. He was holding out his dabba to her. She smiled and reached out. Just as her fingers reached the dabba, Randloph’s finger slipped, inadvertently closing the lid on Kriti’s finger. She pulled it back, instinctively. Randolph stood up in fright.
A small scratch appeared on her finger. He took her finger and examined it, holding it close to his face. “I’m so sorry. Does it hurt?” He pressed the finger, to check if it bled. When a tiny dash of red appeared, he panicked. He involuntarily drew in his breath. She was a little shocked at this reaction and pulled her finger away to examine it herself.
She shook her head and smiled as she looked at it, “It’s just a small cut.” She blew on her finger. “May be I’ll go hold it under water or something. It’s burning a little bit.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Oh don’t fuss over it so much, Kriti. It’s not such a big wound.” Pooja looked a little disgruntled.
“It’s burning a little bit, especially because it’s just below the cuticle.”
“Yeah, you should hold it under water in the basin.” Randolph picked up his bag and took Kriti by one arm and started walking towards the canteen. Kriti did not resist and went along with him.
After she had held her finger under the faucet for a while, she said “I think it’s ok now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll bleed to death.” She said, and laughed.
Randolph wasn’t amused. “Ok, if you say so. But listen,”
“What?”
“I’m really sorry.”
She looked into his eyes and smiled. He was so tense. He looked at her with big, concerned, light brown eyes. She felt a warm thrill run down her spine. The recess bell rang and suddenly there was commotion in the canteen. They stood there in silence. Kriti tried to suppress the thrill she felt, as she took a deep breath and said with a slight shrug,
“It’s ok.”

(1)

He had a cold, the day he died.

The night before, he had felt a little itch on the roof of his mouth, and an irritation in the throat. It’s time I took a day off, he had told himself. He hadn’t had good sleep. He woke up thrice during the night feeling thirsty. And in the morning, he woke up with a heavy head and a runny nose.
“Cad you please bake be somb strog coffee?” he asked his wife “I have ad imported meetig today.”
He liked the way she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead before she got out of bed.

He noticed a light red stain on his left cuff and remembered how he had got it. He was having lunch with his colleagues when the new employee had decided to introduce herself to them. He had unwittingly tilted his plate as he got up to introduce himself. The red oil of the subzi had soaked into his left cuff. He tried not to think of the neckline of her kurta as she leaned across the table to shake his hand. He sniffed hard. He had tears in his eyes. He wished he could take the day off. But he picked up his bag and went in search of his wife.
“I’ve made strong black coffee for you. Also, have that pill before you go.” She was sitting in the living room reading the newspaper.
“Will you be late cobig homb today?” He asked
“I don’t know depends on my boss’ mood” she said and turned to him with a smile.
He picked up his coffee and ignored the pill.
“I wish I could take the day off.”
One of the things he loved about her was her smile. She was spare with her emotions usually. But her smile said everything.
“You’ll be fine. Just don’t work too hard. And come back home early and sleep.”

He wiped his nose thoroughly while he waited for the signal to turn green. He hated driving to work in the morning. Luckily, he didn’t have to do it every day. He carpooled with his three friends from work. They were waiting for him just across the signal. He looked at his watch. He was only 10 minutes late today. He grinned. He started up the car when the people in front of him started up their cars. He put it into gear when he saw some of the cars moving ahead. But as he stepped on the accelerator, he sneezed. It was a loud, energy consuming, nerve shattering sneeze. He lost control of the steering wheel for a split second. It was lucky that he was on the left hand corner of the road. He would only have hit the pavement, if at all. But he didn’t. He gained control again and drove past the signal and stopped at his friend’s gate.
“You’re in no condition to drive today. Chal, I’ll drive.” Good friends they were. He put up no resistance and quietly moved to the passenger’s seat.
As they pulled up at the office building, they noticed a large crowd gathered around the gate. He cleared his throat and sniffed. He wished he had had that pill. Someone came to the car and said, “There was a fire last night. Nothing very big, but the electricity to one side of the building is completely shut.” They parked the car and joined the crowd.
“You look terrible” said his boss, who walked up to him from the crowd. The parking area was empty except a couple of cars, including his own.
“I developed a cold last night.”
“Why don’t you take the day off? Anyway I don’t think the meeting will happen today. Our floor has no electricity.”
“Are you sure? I mbeed I’d really appreciate it.” He couldn’t believe his luck.
“Go home. Get well soon” said the boss. He was grinning and shaking his head as he ran back to the crowd.

May be he will make some nice hot soup for himself, when he reaches home. The traffic was very light on this side of the road. He was going against the rush hour traffic. He was thrilled at how scarcely he used the brake. It would take only half as much time as it took to go to work.

It was almost noon when he reached back. It was scorching hot when he got out of his car but he couldn’t stop sniffling. He walked into the building, barely noticing the watchman who was fast asleep, or the third floor aunty who waved at him, or the two men who seemed to be looking for someone. The lift wasn’t working again. He had to drag himself up the stairs. His head seemed to get heavier and he felt feverish. He pulled up his bag and held it to his chest and sniffed hard. His head was pounding. I think I will take that pill after all, he decided.

If he wasn’t so drowsy with cold he would have noticed the two men walking up the stairs behind him. He would have realised they were stopping on his floor. He would have turned to them and asked them who they were looking for. He would have noticed that one of them was holding something behind his back. As he opened the door to his house, the men pushed past him into the house and kicked the door shut. One held his arms behind his back as the other cupped his mouth and pulled out a knife. Before he had time to react, he felt his flesh being sliced through. A searing pain rose from his gut and into his chest. He felt the cold blade inside his stomach twisting and then being pulled out. He tried to wriggle his hands free. A second later, he was let go. He tried to make some sound but instead, he vomited blood. He couldn’t hold himself up anymore. His knees buckled and let his head fall to one side.

He thought of his wife and then he thought of his soft bed. His head started spinning, and he started losing consciousness. The floor was covered with blood and the two men had disappeared. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He dialled his wife’s number and then he let himself sink. He was dying. He coughed and felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He sniffed and felt blood in his nose.

A Book Upon the Sand

Those last rays that struggle to survive, that cool breeze at half past five,
Roasted corn and salted nuts, balloon monkeys, were all alive.

Broken toys and chattering children, frozen hearts and gossiping women
Swollen eyes and the setting summer; over all these passed a breeze silken.

There lay a book upon the sand, a little tattered, scribbled by hand;
It’s leaves fluttering hopeful and exhausted, but on a new page the moon did land.

The Big Uncle with the Big Moustache

I was the first one to call him the Big Uncle. I was afraid of him as a child because of this one incident that had occurred when I was seven years old.

I had developed a boil on my right arm which hurt terribly. Everybody had said that the only thing to be done is to burst it. But nobody had the guts to actually do it. Even my mother refused to do it because it was too gruesome for her. Big Uncle stepped in to do the job. He saw me writhing with pain and knew something should be done about it. He came to me and said, “All it will take is one minute of pain, I promise. After that you will feel nothing. This thing will be gone.”

“What will you do?” I asked him, cautiously.

“Nothing, only burst it.” The thought left me shaking with fear. But Big Uncle said it so cheerfully that I was confused for a minute. I ran, not knowing what else to do.

The sun burnt down on me with a vengeance as I held on to my right elbow tightly. I was running away from the big uncle with the big moustache. My mother insisted that it is for my own good, but my seven year old self refused to believe that a man willing to twist my arm is trying to do me any good. I held on to my right elbow for dear life. The boil that had developed on it the day before, now was the size of a 25 Paise coin and was oozing menacingly. Wedding preparations were going on in Painkulam and there were enough people to hide a little girl like me. I quietly found a little corner in the veranda and sat there for a while.

“I told you, you cannot hide from me!” the voice made me tremble uncontrollably. I knew who it was before I recognized the big moustache among all the million faces swimming above me. His smile looked so endearing yet so frightening! “I’m telling you it will not take more than a minute. You will just feel a prick, that’s all. I promise.” I shook my head wildly. “Come on. I’ll give you lots of chocolate after that.”

I felt my eyes watering. I wanted to be brave and fight him. But I could see him losing patience by the minute. “Come quickly or I’ll have to take your hand forcibly” he said ominously. I shut my eyes and told myself, maybe he isn’t that bad. May be my mother is right, is it for my own good. The gigantic boil on my hand is not going to get any better. Might as well let him do whatever he wants with it. So, I gingerly stretched out my right arm. Instantly he grabbed it and twisted it in order to take a better look at the boil.

As if this wasn’t frightening enough, he took the boil between index finger and thumb and squeezed it hard. The pain was excruciating. I screamed so loud that the entire veranda went silent. It was over in a second. But the memory of the pain is still vivid in my mind.

My hand healed quickly after that and Big Uncle gave me goodies to eat afterwards; for being brave. I would take the jackfruit jams and the juicy mangoes and ignore whatever he said. I was still soar from the pain he had inflicted upon me.

Now when I look back on that day I realize, he was the bravest of all that day. Nobody else could muster up the courage to get rid of that awful boil and make me better. Not even my mother could stand touching the thing. I did not speak to Big Uncle for the rest of my stay at Painkulam that year. It took me a while to get over my fear of him. But I learnt quite quickly that, although he caused me some grief, it was for my own good. Over time, I have grown very fond of the Big Uncle with the Big Moustache and a Bigger Smile.

Forgive me for this post. Out of boredom and ennui, it came... but enjoy

It’s a purple room. But the paint has faded and it looks more like a very light shade of baby pink under the white light. The elongated table in the far corner of the elongated room is animated. The giant computer screen occupies half the space making the other residents of the table press together in the other half. The stacked up cds in one corner is headed by the queen cd holder with a golden crown over her. There is a little stuffed lion hiding, behind a mug pretending to be a pen-stand. The mug is efficient, because it holds several pens without ink, unsharpened pencils some candle sticks and some nail-files.

The lion is now peeping over at the new comers, a stack of papers a colourful book, an empty pouch and a headphone. As if this table top was not crowded enough! The empty plastic bottle doesn’t seem to be pleased about being shoved to the edge. The large green file is also annoyed at being side-lined in this clumsy manner. A little wooden urn, another pouch and some other smaller things wish they had a say in the matter.

But we all know; it is a power struggle. The bigger, the more influential...
Or that’s what you may think, if you don’t notice the carefully placed little box at the centre of the table with a pair of silver earrings awaiting to be worn.

Who’s table is this?

That first time again

This was it. I had to do this. It has been a while, and I might sound like a horse, but I need to do this. For my self. For my peace of mind. For me to know, that I can do this. I squatted on the floor, placed my hands on my lap, straightened my back, closed my eyes and took a slow deep breath. As I breathed in I took in the ring of the electronic shruti. The amalgam of three basic notes. I separated them, unconsciously and chose my note. And synced my voice with the shruti and sang my first note after a long time. I felt my vocal cords vibrate and my voice surrounded me. I felt myself swaying as if I was swimming in the tone of my note. I was almost out of breath but I held on until the end. Then I took another slow deep breath. The silence was deafening. I sang the next note until my breath gave way. Then the third, and the fourth and the fifth. I was singing again.

Strangers

A single drop of sweat ran down her temple and into the shallow cave under her jaw. The orange street light and the white light inside the bus reflected against that single line of sweat, accentuating her slender, oval face. An angry finger wiped it off clumsily. Little fringes of her hair stuck to her forehead, undisturbed by the rhythmic bobbing of her head. I couldn’t help being thankful for the humidity that day.

I was on my way back from work. On an impulse I had stopped for pani puri at the roadside chaat stall outside my office. Sairam’s stall was as usual swarming with young professionals refreshing themselves from a hard Monday’s work. I had to squeeze and push my way through to reach the panipuri wala. But I was in no hurry to leave. The traffic on the road didn’t encourage me to add my bike to it. I was rolling up my sleeves when the BEST bus came to a halt in front of the stall. It was so close to the pavement that the tires almost brushed against the concrete bricks. The bus was packed with the rush hour crowd. With every lurch of the bus, the crowd inside moved in inertia like a tribal dance.

She was a peculiar sight. I don’t know what was peculiar about her but there was something about her that caught my attention. She was seated in the front of the bus at a window seat. She had earphones on and an elbow stuck out of the window. She had long wavy hair that was tied in a pony tail at the nape of her neck. Tiny fringes of curly hair sprung out on her forehead. She was fair. There was a slight unconscious smile lingering on her lips. I couldn’t tell what her eyes looked like because they were hidden behind fat rimmed glasses. She was singing along with the music playing in her ears. I could see her only between a thickening layer of heads. But I saw that her eyes were shut, her head bobbed and her fingers tapped together in rhythm –

tap – tap tap – tap
tap – tap tap – tap

I suddenly lost my appetite. I asked for a glass of water instead. When the man gave it to me, I made my way out of the crowd around the stall. She had opened her eyes, and looked at the traffic jam ahead as if she had just noticed it. Silly girl, I said in my mind and shook my head as I poured some water into my cupped hand and splashed it across my face. I needed to cool my face badly. As I opened my eyes and looked up at the bus, still stationary. I noticed she was looking at me. She was longingly looking at the steel tumbler in my hand. Her eyes slowly shifted to my face and suddenly my face felt very hot. She looked at me with piteous eyes as if to ask something of me. A strange energy rose up in my stomach, past my chest. But as it reached my throat it came out in a sudden laugh.

I panicked. I knew that was the wrong reaction. And it wasn’t even what I wanted to do. I waited for her reaction. She looked at me one long second and giggled under her breath, a little embarrassed. I relaxed. The bus lurched further and suddenly I realized the bus was going to move. For the wildest second I considered getting on the bus. But I didn’t. And walked to my bike. And left.

The Addiction

A low beep was heard at the end of the room. The silence that followed was tantalizing. They looked at each other. They both knew what it meant. The elder leapt at the sound and ran across the room to grab the coveted seat. The other was left groping at her dress in order to prevent the inevitable. It was a matter of seconds, everything was a blur. All they could see was the cursed seat. Then there was that music, that evil music that can enchant, enthrall and captivate. It lasts for not more than 5 seconds, but it is a clear sign of the pleasures that await as the computer comes alive.

The elder had long seated herself, while the younger stood by the seat sulking.

“Why must you always sit at the computer when I turn it on to do my work?”

The elder gives a gleeful laugh, “Because I’m addicted. Don’t you know that?”

“Mom, come on! Haven’t you played Solitaire enough already!”

Sunday Morning

“There's someone at the door.”

“I’ll get it. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Early on a Sunday morning, fresh sun was streaming in through the open windows in the living room. It brightened up the whole house. The air was cool. She wanted to turn down the fan. Winter was on its way. Not yet, she thought, and pulled up the blanket around her. But sleep had left her. She stared blankly at the curtained window, tracing the yellow lines of the embroidered flowers on the red cloth. She could hear him talking to someone at the door. She wondered who it could be. What time was it? The clock was on the wall above her head. She would have to get up. She groped around the bed for her cell phone. She couldn’t find it. So she gave up and buried herself under the blanket again.

“Its 3 AM. I thought they were going to stay over.”

“What a mess! Come help me clean up.”

“It can wait.”

She smiled at the memory of how his voice tickled her ear. She turned over and closed her eyes. She felt his fingers run down her spine, her skin tingled. She felt him blow a strand of hair away from her face. She took a deep breath in. Last night was the best. She heard the door close in the hall. He was coming. They had slept may be an hour ago. But she didn’t feel sleepy. She felt restless. She wanted to get up and do something. But her body wouldn’t move.

“Bloody milk man. 7 AM on a Sunday! Do these people have no scruples?”

She sat up on the bed, “I’m not sleepy. Do you want some coffee?”

“Arey! You haven’t slept at all last night. Come, get some sleep.”

She didn’t want to resist when his hands pulled her down on the bed. His hands automatically circled her waist and her legs automatically intertwined with his.

“You have to call mom.”

“Shut up” he whispered back.

“We should wake up before noon, I’m not sure when your parents said they were going to come.”

“Will you please shut up and go to sleep?”

The temple bells were ringing for the morning aarti. The sun was trying to peep through the curtains that were fluttering in the wind. She breathed in the comfort and closed her eyes.

“Shall we just order for lunch? I don’t want to cook.”

“hmm”

“I hope my parents won’t land before 4 or something. This place is a mess.”

“hmm”

“Last night, the guys were just...”

“hmm”

He looked over at her face, “You’re asleep aren’t you?”

“hmm”

Home is where the Heart is

The wind was beginning to blow and the air was getting cooler. So, I picked up my sweater and took some money in order to buy coffee. On my way out I looked out the window to check if there was light enough outside to read. It was about 7 pm/ 19 hours and the sun was just beginning to kiss the trees good bye. I quickly made my way out of the dorm, bought a cup of coffee from the kiosk and headed for the little park next to my dorm that had been teasing my imagination for a while. It was a quiet little place, unkempt and ignored. Nobody seemed to go there. I saw a couple of rabbits hopping around nibbling. I tried to approach them but they ran away. So I left them alone.

I found a seat perfectly situated in the corner of the park but with decent sunlight still streaming in from the gaps in the trees. I took out my book and began to read. A little while later I felt a sudden movement under the bench, when I looked behind it was one of the rabbits that had just brushed past my legs. I was amazed. Within just a few minutes the rabbits had gotten used to my presence so much that they didn’t mind hopping past me. I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I sipped my coffee and went to my book.

I felt comfortable. The air was getting chillier by the minute and the light was quietly fading out, but I felt comfortable. As if, I was one of the bushes in the corner, or one of the rabbits. It smelt of damp earth. With the taste of strong German coffee swirling in my Indian mouth, the soft warmth it brought inside me against the chilly wind around me, it felt like home.

Dead Branches

He was sitting on a pile of bricks in a corner, while the others were busy making arrangements for the night. Today, this was their home. A thin wall divided their world from the noisy railway station behind. The make-shift tent with two staffs and a large black plastic sheet was now put up. The woman dragged a small portable stove and some utensils under the tent and began to prepare dinner. A man joined her under the tent and began stitching a tear in his pant.

Trains kept passing by, ruffling the plastic sheet. It created a huge racket but nobody seemed to notice it. He sat on the pile of bricks because every time a local train passed, it made the wind rush over him. It made his long brown curls fly back. It thrilled him. There was a pile of dead branches that lay ahead. He noticed that if he could get on top of those branches he would almost be able to touch the trains that pass by. He jumped off his seat and walked towards the branches. The tar road under his bare feet was hot in the afternoon sun. Nobody saw him walk up to the branches. He made sure he did not catch their attention.

He gripped the nearest branch and shook it. Satisfied with its strength, he reached out for another branch a little further up. He looked towards the man and the woman. They were not looking. He gingerly placed a foot on a thick twig. It bent a little under the weight of his leg but he didn’t notice. He picked up the other leg and was about to place it on one of the branches, when suddenly the twig gave way and his leg got caught among the branches. In a state of panic he let both his hands go and fell backwards on the ground. He felt the twig cut open his skin and he saw the blood oozing out. Before the sense of pain could set in, he felt a cold chill run up his spine. He couldn’t open his eyes because of the sun blazing above him and the searing pain from his leg made it difficult to breathe. Both his legs were up in the air. One stuck between the branches and the other dangling over another branch.

It wasn’t until the woman came to examine the scene that he realized that he was screaming his lungs out. He had never felt such pain in all of his five years of life. He held his hands up hoping his mother would taking him into her arms and make the pain go away. Instead she pulled him up by one hand and disentangled his leg from the twigs with the other. Once he was on his feet, she slapped him hard across his face and yelled at him for making mischief. She then left him to tend to his wound and went back under the plastic sheet.

The child learnt an important lesson that day: Never cry for help if you get in to trouble.

The Truth

The string tied to her index finger,
She draws it out of the spool at her will.
She loops it, folds it, stretches it, breaks it,
Then fastens it again to her finger.

I came and she placed me gently
On the wobbly string.
I wobbled. Adjusted. Made my niche,
And then, grew too big for the string.

Now I stand beside her,
Plucking the string she preserves,
Pulling the string from her,
Forcing my will upon it.

And yet the string is not mine
Nor hers, we both know.
But it lies there between us,
Forcing us to hurt each other.

Just Another Day

Rickshaw-walas can be a rather entertaining bunch of people when you are in need of a mood-lift. They drive around their little bug-like vehicles and stop at the wave of a hand and like to think of themselves as the kings of the road. Andheri station is one of those places were they do tend to assume a certain kind of authority. Commuters don’t tell the rickshaw-walas where to go; they go where the rickshaw-wala takes them.

Now, after a killing shopping excursion in Colaba, when one is made to stand in a crowded train from Churchgate to Andheri, one is entitled to be grumpy and have a strong desire to rest the rear end wherever possible. So, when a rickshaw-wala standing right outside the station readily accepts to take you to your destination, you will only thank good heavens for the little mercies He grants.

So here I was walking out of Andheri station, tired as hell with sore feet and having to go to Prithvi Theatre for yet another errand. And there I see a rickshaw-wala waiting for me; who doesn’t hesitate to take me to my destination. I waste no time in bundling into the rickshaw. Rickshaw-wala also sits, turns to me and asks if I could wait for a little while so he can get another passenger. This has now become a common practice in Andheri station, by the way. Now, I know it is rather unlikely that someone who wanted to go to Juhu would be at Andheri station because it is closer to Vile Parle (why was I there? I took a fast train so that I need stand for a smaller time period).

So I tell the rickshaw-wala, “haan haan, theek hai theek hai as long as you let me sit in your rickshaw.” Now, we are waiting for another passenger and to pass the time he asks if I’m an actress because I want to go to Prithvi. I said, ‘No no. I’m only going there to meet someone.”

I don’t think he heard what I said, because he next tells me his brother is also into script writing. “TV ke liye likhta hai. Voh SAB TV hai na? Uske saare shows ke liye mera bhai hi likhta hai.”

I admit it. I’m a sucker for rickshaw stories these days and a brother of a television script writer, who drives rickshaw really caught my attention.

“You know? My sister-in-law – bhai ki biwi… she is a reporter. She comes on TV as that journalist hota hai na? All this News channels na? She comes in them.”

I asked him in Hindi, “Saare News channels ke liye kaam karti hai?”

He insists on speaking in his version of the English language, “Yes! (eyes pop out and lips take on a grave downward curve) She reporter for all.”

I nod, imitating the grave downward curve of the lips. At this point, a couple of younger colleagues of his looked in to the rickshaw and asked him what he was doing.

“Just waiting for somebody else who wants to go to Prithvi Theatre” he replies in Hindi. The two smile at him and look at me with caution in their eyes. They turn to themselves and say ‘Buddha fir shuru ho gaya.’ I smiled.

“I also sing”, he popped. This caught my interest again. “You hear name of Asan some-thing-or-other? Your genrashun don’t know. Ask your mother father” gives me a pitiable look and continues, “You hear movie, Paras Mani?” I shake my head. “Gana toh suna hoga, ‘Hasta hua noorani chehra…’?” Who hasn’t heard ‘Hasta hua noorani Chehra…’! I got very excited.

“My father write that song. He was big song writer in Bollywood.”

It didn’t matter whether he was saying the truth or not. In a city like ours, it is, after all, possible that the son of a song writer, brother of a script-writer and brother-in-law of a TV reporter, could be a rickshaw-wala. I humoured him on. He looked like a middle-aged man with an incredible imagination. He had few teeth, all of which had deep dark paan stains on them. His speech was a little slurred which I attributed to the lack of adequate number of teeth.

It had been a good 10 minutes waiting for another passenger, so I told him to start the rickshaw. He was kind enough to inform me that the ride will be costly and that I wouldn’t be able to bear it entirely. I insisted on going and said I don’t mind paying. He started the rickshaw and we crawled through the heavy rush-hour traffic.

Only after a little distance did I noticed that he had not pulled the meter down. And only after I asked him to pull it down did he care to mention that his meter was was not working and that however long it takes, I may pay him Rs. 50 for the ride. The ease and confidence with which he seemed to state this and all his eccentricities before, should have put me on alert. But I was still nursing my sore feet and Rs. 50 in the kind of traffic we were in seemed like a steal to me. So I agreed.

He was a very good driver. He knew how to weave his way between large vehicles and cleverly change lanes to get ahead. He even managed to avoid a verbal battle with a rather burly and short-tempered young man in another rickshaw. Half way to my destination I realized he had had two large bottles of water in the rickshaw filled to the brim at the beginning of the ride which where both half empty by now. And I also noticed the impossible angle he stretched to, to take swigs from the bottle. But it was not until he asked me for the third time where it was that I wanted to go, that I realized that there was something wrong. Then he began to take me in the wrong direction and told me I am wrong when I gave him the right direction. He did realize he was going the wrong way and corrected himself. He then looked back at me and laughed and only then did I realize that the man was drunk.

I calmed myself and then I calmly told him, with a dry throat, to please stop the rickshaw. He said, “But this is not Prithvi Theatre.” I said, “Don’t worry. Just drop me here and I will go on my own.”

He took offense, stopped the rickshaw, turned to me and said, “No no baby, I know the way. I will drop you.”

I said, “No no uncle, here is your Rs.30 for bringing me this far now I’m going to get off.”

“Paise ki baath nahi hai, beta. Mein chhod doonga. Paise nahi chahiye.”

I placed the Rs. 30 on the seat, got off the rickshaw and said, “Agli baar thoda kam piyoge toh achha hoga” and walked off. I crossed the road and started walking. But I noticed that son of song writer of ‘Hasta Hua Noorani Chehra’ was taking a U-turn to follow me. My hasta hua chehra lost all its noor and I ran to the nearest corner and hid myself. The rickshaw-wala drove past me, waited for a few minutes at the corner of the road and then rode away. Only then did I come out of my hiding place. There was a shorter way to my destination from where I was and so I walked the rest of the way.

Ever since this encounter, there has only been one thing eating in to my peace of mind. Who after all is the song writer for the song ‘Hasta hua noorani chehra…’? It is a great song.

There was a slight chill in the air. A light breeze kept tugging at her dress. The concrete bench at the park felt colder and harder. It was a small park that not many knew of. There was an old couple sitting at another end of the park watching their three grandchildren play in the grass. A boy was walking his dog and a man who sold chana chor garam on the streets was sitting in a corner and counting his day’s earning. She sat at her bench looking at them, her mind somewhere else. Somewhere, in a restaurant, her mind saw him again. He was staring in to the eyes of someone else and he had the smile that used to be reserved for her. They were holding hands.

Her greatest fears had been realized: she felt nothing.

She walked away from the restaurant, feeling nothing. And now here she was, sitting in the park. Why did she feel nothing? The peaceful atmosphere teased her temples. They tortured her ears with happy sounds. She pinched herself, to make herself cry. But her eyes remained dry. She became angry with herself. The wind screamed in her ears. It felt stronger than a storm. She hated herself. She got up with a start and stomped her way towards the gates. She fixedly gazed in to the far distance and told herself that she was lying to herself and him. There was obviously no love between them. She marched along the road and suddenly stopped dead in her track.

“Where are you going? I was just coming to meet you at the park.”

She stuttered and walked a few steps back. She couldn’t think. The world had come to a full-stop. She looked at the woman with him; the same one from the restaurant. She did not know what to do.

“I came to the restaurant” was all she could manage to say.

“You did? What were you doing there?”

“Someone told me they saw you there and I thought I’d come there instead of waiting for you at the park”

“Yeah, we were at the restaurant. Didn’t you see us?”

She didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even seem to care that she had found them!

“Well, we were sitting in a corner. So it’s no wonder you didn’t. Anyway, this is my cousin, Shaila. Shaila, this is my girlfriend, Prachi”

Prachi could barely stretch her hands and shake Shaila’s. She wondered if Shaila noticed how sweaty her hands were or how her legs were shaking. She was sure she was blushing. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

“What happened? Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing…” She turned to Shaila and said, “It’s good to meet you.”

Shaila did not miss the embarrassment on her face. She tossed her head to one side and replied, “You’re not the jealous type, are you?”

Prachi blushed again and buried her face in her hands. It is only then that she felt the little drops of tears hanging from her eye lids.