Tuesday 14 July 2009

Champak

I was just flicking through an old, really old issue of Champak. For those who need an introduction, Champak is an LS children's magazine. The typos and grammar WILL undoubtedly make you cringe.

But there was something really weird I caught while reading the inane stories, none of which have obvious morals or lessons that kids' magazines generally promote.

The fictitious names that these writers/contributors (who actually take bylines for what they churn out) attribute to their characters -- most of which are animals -- are ridiculous.

Here's a sample:

Kitty Cat (quite obviously)
Bhuro (Also a cat with "very good heart")
Gadru (A "simple donkey")
Chuchu Mouse
Guddu, Bittoo (Both "wrestler pigs")
Cheeku (The "clever hare")
Blacky Snake (None of Blacky Snake's caricatures show him to be resembling a shade even close to black)
Nanu Rat
(And Nanu's friend) Nikki Rat
Nittu Frog
Annu Ant (This is what made me laugh out loud)
Kalu Crow (The cliche disappointed me. Come on, after all that creativity, Kalu Crow is a let down)
Speedo Kite
Fighto Mongoose
Daba (Agarwal uncle's "outdoor" dog)
Roxa (Sharma uncle's "sheer lazy" dog)
Chandan (Reporter with Jungle Times)
Pipi Car (Features in a story involving a four wheeler and a bicycle)
Trin Trin Cycle (Yes the cycle starring in the above mentioned story)

That's that.
My personal favourite, Annu Ant (such alliteration!)

Saturday 11 July 2009

In shambles

I've just about returned from a trip to Kerala, that's where they say my roots lie. And this time around I traced them myself. The process in itself was exciting and enduring and the end, rather anti-climactic.
A long, long drive on the NH47 -- bordered by coconut trees and paddy fields -- from Cochin to Palakkad took me to a small hamlet called Pazhumbalakode. That's where my great grandfather once lived as the village head or the 'adhikari'. It's a village that one is most likely to miss. It's probably meant only to be discovered by wanderers -- ones who've lost their way on a long and arduous journey.
The narrow pathway leading into the village is amplified by the chitter, chatter from the adjoining school. The path remains narrow till it diverges towards the pond/lake to the right. Straight ahead are the homes lined up one after another in a perfect line on both sides.
I was escorted by this lady who claimed to know my grandfather and kept questioning the family's integrity over leaving the village. 'And that too, when you're the adhikari? Unimagineable. Tch tch,' she kept saying. 'And for what? A luxurious life in a big city. Does it suit a brahmin to do any such thing, eh? Tell me, tell me.'
I responded with faint smiles for lack of fluency in malayalam and tact of handling old women who believe they've seen enough life and have the ultimate authority over anything under the sun.
I asked her if she could lead me to my ancestral home. She was more than happy to play my guide. 'Just two minutes ahead,' she said. I followed her. A few more steps and she stopped. Pointing at what was an apology of a house she said, 'That's it.'
No, no, no, I told myself. But that was it. That was what was left of my ancestral home. A 10x15 ft wall. Covered in moss. With a door that seemed to have been shut since at least half a century. It might just have needed a gentle push to see it all come down. But nobody had bothered. It was a wretch. A complete one at that.
I could only imagine what it would have looked like when my great grandparents, grandparents and the rest lived there. Should have made for the house that every villager envied for being the biggest in the village. I would also like to assume that it would have made for the most beautiful home in Pazhumbalakod. Grant me that.
Initially, I didn't know what to feel. I was confused. I then felt saddened by not being able to see an integral part of my heritage in all its glory. Then shame crept in while I stood in front of the shambles.
I stood there gaping at MY home for a couple of minutes, took out my camera, clicked a few pictures and walked along with village lady after being nudged twice.
I turned around. One final look. One final good bye. I then thought to myself -- maybe one day when I am really rich, I could buy the space back and build the adhikari's home again.
Some consolation!

Sunday 7 June 2009

Back from the Himalayas

I have lost count of the number of times I have visited Manali and trekked the mountains around it. It's become a routine holiday -- I let the summer set in, hop on to the Paschim Express, let it take me to Chandigarh. Then I wait to be transported by road to Manali, bearing witness to the strangeness of a new state. It never seems familiar.
The road journey gets cold by the night, I keep my winter clothes handy to shield myself from the pleasant, teasing cold winds rushing in from the window of the car/bus. Let them brush my hair till I suspect they'd make for a knotty, troublesome morning.
When it's just about dawn, I step into Manali. Breathe the cold, calm air and feel unusually at home. Routine. Routine but equally, if not increasingly, exciting with each passing visit. It was the same when I went this time -- routine yet exciting.
I have a strange affinity to the place. Every time I come to Manali, I see the place worsening -- with its traffic, pollution, congestion, tourism et al -- but there is still something that makes me want to return. It's been three days since I have arrived in Bombay and I want to return. Return soon.
The Himalayas around the city are overwhelming in their stature. But I find their presence reassuring. They are stable -- they have been there for hundreds of years and will remain so for many hundreds to come. It has resisted change in the past and will continue to in the future.
Reassuring to me!

Thursday 14 May 2009

Moment of clarity

It's been about three weeks since I first got to know that I would be away from India for a couple of years to study further. The first week went by dreaming and day dreaming about the winter in Europe, about the relatively emptier streets that I have only spotted in movies so far, about meeting Europeans in their pink skins, about having to cook my own food, about managing new currency and much more.
Till last night I was only excited about what was coming my way. But last night, some alcohol and a couple of good friends quite reversed my idea about the whole deal. For the first time I realised (and I would call it the moment of clarity induced by a bottle of wine) that it would need a lot of getting used to making new friends and more traumatically, missing old ones. I realised I would be missing people more than places. I'll miss the voices more than noises. I'll miss hugs and the kisses. I'll miss the chats and debates. I'll miss all those around me. I'll miss them all. :-(

P.S.: Sadly, there's no way I can miss you all. Borders don't matter to us right?

Wednesday 29 April 2009

Simple complexities

It's been more than 20 days that I have been wanting to get a haircut done and everytime I call my salon, they say they are booked for the next two days. Even my dentist doesn't ask me for such heavy-duty prior intimation of my arrival! Anyways, since I can't decide what I what I would be doing 48 hours in advance I am not comfortable with the whole idea of getting prior appointments with a hair salon.

But then I told myself that it's my problem and the big, complex world of today revolves around appointments and meetings and blah. So, I gathered myself up and tried fixing myself up thrice but got tired of being turned down because they don't work to match my timings! What the fuck! I was just asking them to chop off a little bit of the hair that I thought was redundant! It's not going to take more than half an hour, is it? But there they are, just not interested! Isn't this their job?

So, I gave up on my salon and called up this other guy, who is also really good -- that's what JP old me. And the Other Guy also happens to be an extremely busy hairstylist and asked me to give a call the following week! A whole week before he can touch my hair! That's frustrating! I just want to have my hair cut, damn it!
But I tried being a little patient and called him up the following week, as per his instructions and he asked me to get an appointment at another branch for the weekend!

What the fuck?

What IS with these guys?

Thursday 2 April 2009

Colour, colour which colour?

There's this little girl whom I meet at my gym every day. Well almost every day. There are days when she doesn't wake up on time and there are days when I don't wake up on time. So let's say we meet about four days a week on an average.
Anyway, she might be about eight years old. She's skinny and around four-and-a-half feet tall. I heard her telling the instructor the other day that her mum thinks being four-and-a-half feet tall is terrible for an eight-year-old. And that's what brings her to the gym. So, while the rest of the women (it's an 'only ladies' gym. I think women in Dombs are still very conscious of working out in front of men) sweat it out to lose or add flab, little girl tries growing a few inches taller.
One of these days while I was trying to make sense of parents wanting their children to grow taller than what they can naturally be, little girl diverts my attention towards something I found even more irksome.
"Didi, main itni kaali kyun hoon?" she asks a gym instructor, who has a relatively lighter skin tone.
"Go and ask your parents, why are you asking me?" the gym instructor replies jokingly.
"My mom is very fair. Bahut gori hai. Main kyun aisi hoon?" girls asks.
Gym instructor tries ignoring her volley of questions by telling her that it's important to be tall. Far more important than being fair. She does a good job because little girl gets back to her grow-taller regimen.
Two days later, I hear little girl asking another instructor how to have fairer skin. And that's when it really begins bothering me. Bothering me enough to rob at least two minutes of sleep every night thinking about why little girl is so worried about her colour.
After two nights of thinking, my surmise is she has enough reasons to be fretting.
I am sure the rowdy thugs in her school might have named her kaali naagin or some equivalent of that. Her fair-skinned girl friends might be making her feel ugly. Her teachers might never have chosen her to play a Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty for the school's annual function. Her relatives might have suggested kapuzillion ways for her to grow a shade or two lighter -- drink more milk, try this fairness cream, no, that one's better etc. Her mother and, possibly, father might not be letting her play with other children for fear of little girl growing darker under the sun. Her playmates might be pointing fingers at her, laughing, gossiping and speculating why she can't play along with them -- she is a bad girl, she might have failed in her exams, blah, blah. While little girl might try watching TV to distract herself from the badgering, she would possibly only take notice of all the fair and good-looking women living beautiful lives behind the silver screen.
Phew. Tough life she has. And she is just eight.
Ufff

Wednesday 1 April 2009

Mannat

This one is for one of my very close friends AD, who passed away last October. I am certain she still checks my blog and has a hearty laugh from up there.

A,
You know what I had to do today? Stand outside YOUR Shah Rukh's Mannat from 5 pm to 8 pm in the hope that either Sourav, Buchanan or he would come out to update us, the byte-hungry, demented, jobless media about the ongoing KKR controversy. You know what it is about, right? Yeah. So, there I was burning myself away in the heat and sweating myself away like a pig when I could have been chilling my ass in a pretty cool pool tournament. But such is life.
Anyway, all along I hoped for your SRK to come out to speak because then I could have told you how he looks, smiles, waves, speaks, walks in real life. But that was not to be. Forget Shah Rukh, not even his dog Hippo came out to greet us. We just stood there, saw the sun go down into the sea, saw his house light up and also saw Dada storm away to the airport from Mannat.
If you still carried a phone, I would have called you a hundred times to update you about all what happened and curse your King Khan for being so heartless to not even offer us water. I would have gone on for less than five minutes and then heard you go on for half an hour in his defence. But I couldn't do any of that.
Such, also, is life.

Monday 30 March 2009

Phew!

My designer mate KK just called me and said that the fault is not really ours. It's some technical hitch at the printer's end. That's some consolation.

P.S.: Cycle ends. :-)

Screw up

My mind is pre-occupied. Something went wrong at work. The page that I made yesterday doesn't have a picture in print, instead has a blank grey patch. I don't know how it happened but I am pretty sure I'll have plenty of brash remarks to hear till the end of today and maybe tomorrow and maybe day after tomorrow and the day after that. How could I be so irresponsible? How could I leave it all upto the designer? How could I this and how could I that?
So, I am horribly tense right now. Waiting for a how-could-you message from my boss. And while my finger nails are moving up to meet my teeth, I am keeping them distracted with the keyboard. I'm breathing heavily to calm myself down. Thinking of the peaceful yoga session I had in the morning.
By the way, my mom's begun joining me on my yoga errands. It feels good to have some company to the gym and back. We can joke about the funny accents of our yoga instructor and more importantly discuss breathing styles.
Ahhh... The horror is returning. My mind is really not letting go of the picture-not-on-the-page issue. This is my problem. I take things too seriously when I get attached to them. Yes, I am quite emotional about my work. Silly, but true.
But right now what my conscious mind is telling my subconscious is that it's really not my job to check the page for formatted pictures or lack of them. That's someone else's job and so I need not worry. I am succeeding to some extent. There's some relief.

P.S.: The horror is returning and cycle is continuing... Boo hooo... I hate the way my brain and my heart work in tandem.

Wednesday 11 March 2009

It's been about 15 days -- I am not sure how many exactly, I lost count after three -- that one of my best friend's (GB's) mother passed away. It was all so horrible and terrible over the past few days that I preferred the quiet around it. Now, the shock has passed us by and what remains is some bitterness, sorrow and a blend of denial and acceptance.
I regret not having said my final goodbyes to Aunty. So here I am, doing just that.

Dearest Aunty,
I am sorry I couldn't make it to Kerala. Feel like a s*** pot about that. I would have loved to see you one final time and told you everything I never told.
Aunty, I would have loved to tell you how strong you were. There was nothing that could bog you down. You went through such trauma -- mental, emotional and physical. When I saw you motionless on the hospital bed some months ago, down with whatever got you down, I was shattered. I couldn't see you -- someone who was so full of life -- lying there lifeless. But you kept all our hopes alive. You kept building yourself up. And with you, all of us were building ourselves up. You were strong and inspirational.
I'd have told you how much I am going to miss your sense of humour. You know aunty, you could laugh with anyone and everyone -- you could laugh with the three (GB, PU and me) of us, you could laugh with our mothers and fathers and their mothers and fathers. And I am sure you could have lived to laugh with our children and theirs.
I would have told you how I am going to miss witnessing your tuition sessions through the pink transparent curtain. How you could handle a bunch of students from different classes in different schools, studying different subjects all in the tiny little room. What surprised me is how you managed to make all of them so deftly. I know you never did it for anything in return. You just wanted them to learn. You inspired me.
I would have told you how I am going to miss your snares and glares every time I came to your house and indulged in loud laughter riots. Reminds me how we stifled all the giggling and laughing and got back to our books or at least pretend to, when your eyes met ours. I am going to miss your work-while-you-work-and-play-while-you-play dictum.
I would have also told you how much I liked slurping up your sambar till there was absolutely nothing left on my plate. I am not sure how much I'll miss it, because your daughter is sure on her way to perfecting the art of making the ideal sambar that you made! Congratulations on that!
I would have told you all this and much, much more. There is so much unsaid and, as cliched as it might sound, life really seems short.

Sunday 22 February 2009

I am drunk

This is to sat rgat iu apolhise for my orevious post. I a m drink. damn drubk]

Drunk, pissed drunk

Ok, I need to accept and acknowledge the fact that I am drunk. Damn drunk. I am at GB's place, one of the best friends in my life. We are with another best friend PU. And we are damn drunk. In fact, I am so drunk that I have just cleaned GB's puke. She puked in her bedroom and next to her bed. Ugh. Hate playing the bai when everyone else is drunk. But someone has to play tje bai. SO, why not me?
Anyways, I am really happy i have friends like GB and PU. They are great people. The best I have ever found in my life. They are the best. They are damn nice. They are cool. They are super duper funny and super duper amazing. Please forgive me if I am not making enough friends. And I am sure LD is going to read this and feel left out. So, this one's just for you -- I love you too. I lonbe you a lot. In fact I lobe you so mych si that I have a kufe of amy owm./ Dure i ma damn drunk.l
Ots fun yhouhj to post when you are drinkl. once spm,epme firehes our what this is post it bnack to me. for is am waitnin. shit,. fuck!
You know i was trying my best to be food at grammar and everythign else when i started odd , buit now, i jsy don't care. I just want to share what i feel
we played soem,in called the sic tiodes game. where we do something what we ffeel we want to do and haven;t veeb abt to di. so we witte tonw what we want to do and pucj uo chits aof what we want to do.
then weh t caemt ot my choiuce. i t so gappened hat u have to specn d a datg fow wmy gra nd man...
\ficj i am not majing sense
bye bye'
I lpbe ou al;l

SHIT SHIT SHIT
i know uou lobe me too

FUCK!

Wednesday 18 February 2009

Parting ways

I was on the train today. Like every day. And every time I board a train, there's something interesting. Intriguing. Something I make a mental note of and think of penning down later. The later that seldom comes. But today, I am determined to make it happen! So, while I have noted, what I am going to narrate, about a zillion times in more than six years of train travel from Dombs to town and back, tonight is when I write about it.
I was on the train from Elphinstone Road to Bandra on my way to cover some local hockey tournament. At Dadar people streamed into the train, pushing and tugging at each other. Smelling each others' arm pits. Cursing each other. Kicking each other. Mocking each other. And then reconciling.
Oblivious to this tension was a girl wanting to stay at the edge of the gate way. She managed the crowd, managed her luggage and managed herself to stay put there. She wanted to steal one final glimpse at her lover on the platform. The final glimpse that will see her through the night. See her through the times when she would miss him.
She fixed her eyes on him as the crowd settled down. She then whispered something. He knew what she said. He whispered back. I'm not sure what the exchange of whispers meant amidst all the pandemonium. Maybe it wasn't meant for me to understand.
Then he asked her to move inside and take a seat. She denied. He asked her to hold on tightly to the metal rods above. She followed. He asked her to call him when she reached home safe. She nodded. She asked him to rush home. He stood there. He frowned as the train began crawling out of the platform. She wore a consoling smile that read, "It's alright. I'll see you again tomorrow."
Their eyes had this amazing chemistry. Some sort of a bond that didn't let go. For them, the people, the noise, the commotion -- the world -- didn't exist.
She watched him disappear. He saw her till he couldn't. She moved inwards looking for a seat. The little consoling smile disappeared. And she frowned.

And I looked away.

Sunday 15 February 2009

Clot in the throat

I hate this feeling -- the feeling of a clot in the throat. It happens to me when there's a sudden rush of emotions. Emotions I can't handle. Emotions I can't share. Terribly demeaning emotions.
It happens when I want to scream out loud, scream till the world goes deaf, but am forced to keep mum. It happens when there are a million words in my dictionary but I can use none. It happens when I want to cry, cry till the oceans flood, but can't let my tears show. It happens when I want to prove a point but there's nothing to prove. It happens when things I direly want aren't going my way. When what I say falls on deaf ears. When they get me wrong. When they don't respect me. When there's disregard. When they don't draw the line. It happens when I realise I have't drawn the line. It happens more often that I would like it to happen.
It's happening right now.
*Realises water is good for clots*
*Gulps down half a bottle of cold water*
*Feels better*
Ah... *wonders why people prefer alcohol*

Saturday 7 February 2009

Horribly creepy

It was about 11 last night. I was making my way through the Dadar railway bridge. Clutching on to two bags, inconveniently climbing up the uneven stairs. It was dark. The station was poorly lit as always. I took out my phone. Managed to speed dial 5 and talk to JP. Was about say a final good night.
And then, a lanky man stretched his hand out from the crowd on the opposite side and grabbed me by my left upper thigh, trying to make his way up to my genitals. Before I realised what was happening, he was done. He began walking hurriedly to wherever the hell he was headed.
A second later, I yelled out, 'Abey chutiye, haraami. Ruk. Ruk na saale.' He moved faster. He began running. He was too fast for me to grab him by his collar, pull him back, slap the fuck out of him, crack my knuckles against his nose, kick his balls and let him writhe in pain while I had some sadistic relief.
He fled. Fled like a rat scurrying for cover from pest control. I shouted again. I seemed to have raised an alarm amongst the late-night vendors selling their 'foren maal' on the foot-over bridge. They began yelling, chor, chor. One of them came up to me and asked, kya chori hua madam?
I said, chori kuch nahi hua, haath laga ke bhaag raha hai.
The vendor then told me, Accha, accha.
And he stood there.
And I stood there, still abusing the coward, who now seemed to have made his way to the foot of the bridge and onto the roads. I hoped he got caught and lynched by a mob till he bled.
I felt helpless. Like a damsel in distress, needing someone else to act on my behalf. I had this horrendous, creepy feeling. I could still feel the man's hand where he had felt me. Like a nasty after taste. And it stays for a long time. Stays so that you can't experience or think about anything else but what's happened. And then there is the feeling of haplessness that returns at regular intervals.
Horrible. Just horribly creepy.

Thursday 29 January 2009

Plain bored

In office. Damn bored. People around are typing away stories on their computers. Others just pretending to be busy, me included. A group of ladies is holding intense discussions interspersed by hearty giggles. Wonder what they are talking about. Wonder if I could join them. But again, I am really bored right now and rules of boredom state that indulging in any interesting activity might steer one away from the state of boredom. So, I shall just stay put where I am -- typing inanities on my blog post.
*Looks around to spot anything worth a mention here*
The terminal on my right is empty, the one on my left is unoccupied, so are the ones ahead of and behind me. That wasn't worth a mention, you may say. And I'll reply, that's all what's happening around me, and that's what makes me bored!
The TV is switched off for lack of a worthwhile sporting event. Two colleagues just walked in. They are scrounging over the remnants of some Butterscotch-chocolate cake that was ordered to celebrate our boss' birthday. Can't spot my boss. Guess, he's down stairs making important calls on his phone, getting some inside dope, drinking some hot chai and munching on some crisp, salty and very addictive pea nuts.
The landline phones in office are constantly ringing. As soon as one stops, the other begins. I am beginning to believe there is some strange, uninterrupted cycle they follow.
Ah, have been given some work! Will be right back.

Ah, where was I? Anyways, boredom has gone. Listening to some System of A Down songs. My colleague DT has been very kind and generous to lend half his I-pod!
So, bye bye....

Thursday 1 January 2009

New Year and all that...

Well, it's the beginning of a new year and my Inbox is full of greetings -- both on my phone and e-mail. While I have been avoiding answering these wishes from my well-wishers/acquaintances, it became increasingly difficult to ignore them. So, while I was semi-drunk (yes, I am the kinds who has ego issues in conceding my full-drunkenness!) this morning after a quiet evening with my family, I had nothing better to do, but classify these greetings into different categories. And from whatever intelligence I could generate from within my intoxicated brain cells in the semi-drunken state, I have 5 broad categories. Here we go...
1)There are some greetings which are plain and simple -- just Happy New Year from XYZ and family or Wish You Luck from ABC -- Thank You.
2)Then there are the ones that are intensely poetic -- It's time 4 (yes, 4) new resolutions, new beginnings, new visions. It's a new life, afresh. It's time to remember and thus wish a Happy New Year -- Thanks, Wordsworth.
3)There are also people who believe in keeping their humour quotient up despite alcohol getting the better of them -- To all my friends and relatives who sent me love, prosperity and best wishes for 2008... it didn't work. Please send me cash for 2009 -- No sorry.
4)And when there is such festivity around, there are some who find the urge to stay "glued" to their culture, their language and not get swayed by the winds of westernisation. So, there are customised messages for them, in their own languages that send out heartwarming messages to their "cultured" clan -- Thanks, but no, thanks.
5)But what amaze me the most are the ones formatted on some mobile software by some geek, who doesn't have a life on new year's eve and finds designing forwarded messages the most interesting aspect of his/her time on earth. The designs -- all made out of a thousand commas and semi-colons, brackets and hyphens form the "cute" teddies or "sweet" flowers -- Amazing.

So, I shall have a great year after all, with so many people in the world wishing the same for me. I'm glad!

P.S.: If you defy my skills of categoristaion (yes, in semi-drunkenness) you must get back to me. I might consider your suggestions and apply them next year. :-)