2017 - Our year in review

This year, we learnt that we don't need TV.

As long as we have internet TV. With subtitles. That can be watched on mute. On TV, laptop, tablet and phone seamlessly. How did new parents in the previous generations manage to take a break without all this? Perhaps, they slept.

This year, we learnt that we don't need sleep.

At least, that's what we tell ourselves. As we rub our eyes through the day ploughing through work, trying to get back home for a night of sleeplessness.

This year, we learnt about science.

Empirically. Over a period of ten months. Survival of the fittest, evolution, how humans grow as they grow. No Desmond Morris could have explained it this well.

This year, we learnt that only two things matter.

Scratch it. Three. Nopes. Four. Feed, pee, poop, and sleep. And were immensely gratified even if two of the four happened in a given day.

This year, we learnt productivity.

Prioritisation, efficiency, focusing on the things that matter. All the management and philosophical jargon came alive in front of our eyes, and made so much sense for a change. 

This year, we learnt to entertain.

A one person audience. With stories and singing, dancing and laughing. Who might, as an outside chance, give us a grudging smile in return. Or at the minimum stop crying. And felt very rewarded.

This year, we learnt to execute our longest and most difficult project yet.

We failed miserably. We succeeded immensely. Failed. Succeeded. Mostly succeeded I think. We get smiles, laughter, babbles, hugs, even kisses sometimes. Surely, that's success.

C for Coasters

Have you had a crush on an object? No, don't get me wrong. I am not talking about untoward affections or fantasies for inanimate objects, just plain fondness and liking for things and a want to acquire them immediately.

I have many such crushes. I have a liking for quaint things - colourful, well designed, cutesy, arty stuff. There are times when I have craved shopping in quaint shops and hunted all over Mumbai for the perfect quaint shop that could drain me of my time and money, giving me instant gratification in return. Inordinate are the minutes I have spent at Colaba causeway and the Kala Ghoda arts festival, walking up and down the lanes and by-lanes, if not buying, at least drinking in my quaint little things. Nowadays, however, I just go onto arty websites to ape at 'em stuff and buy a few while I am at it.

Specifically, I love acquiring coasters. I have coaster families of Mumbai (Gateway, CST - the works), of nice paintings, of random flowers and so on. In fact, I once ordered a DIY kit on Flipkart (yeah, I am the poster child for e-commerce websites I tell you) and made my own coasters. Which outputted to a disgusting set of quadrilaterals, as evidenced by the look on V's face though he kept good counsel and reserved his comments, instead of earning my wrath for a lifetime.

So, yeah, acquiring coasters by itself is not a bad idea, as you would agree with me (as long as I don't experiment with DIY kits and expect love-filled reactions from the better half). But, if you are a coaster lover like me, pray answer this question. How extensively do you use the damn things? I always, ALWAYS, forget to take a coaster before keeping my brown tea filled blue mug on the side table or the center table or the dining table or... you must be getting the drift. As a result of this, I don't just get dirty looks from V anymore, but suspiciously questioning ones whenever I am on my laptop or on my phone with a lovestruck look in my eyes. He seems to be dying to tell me, "Can you please not order one more set of coasters? We live in Mumbai and real estate is frigging expensive here."

P. S. This post is the third in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

Mud castles

“All of us ate mud as kids,” she declared with gusto, while narrating a story from her mud-loving childhood. He stared at her incredulously as if she had landed from outer space. Without batting an eyelid, she said, “You must have been a boring grown-up even as a kid”.

It was difficult to ignore her – the constant chattering, the confident laughter, the electrifying presence.

While he feigned annoyance at her occasional juvenility, it took all his self-control to not reach across and pull her close to him with a tight embrace and a long and deep kiss on her lips, especially when she was giving one of her “I-will-convince-you-to-look-at-this-situation-positively” speeches.

“This is an office”, he reminded himself to control his emotions.

Passion, just like curiosity, works in strange ways though. It is most active when you try to suppress it. 

And so it did with him. Some days, sitting next to her for lunch was torture. The occasional brush of the hand as food exchanged places, the nudges she gave him when she wanted him to concentrate on something she was saying, the glint in her eyes when she thought they were sharing a private joke, all seemed to be a sign from the Universe. On such days, every moment in office was like walking on a bed of nettles.

But, she was not just all chirpiness and innocence. She seemed to him that quintessential “woman of substance” he had read about in novels by Pulitzer Prize winning feminist authors. She could wax eloquent on existential dilemmas and women’s liberation, while standing up and fighting for what she believed was right, no matter the age or position of the person she was pitted against. And, she had strong opinions on love and marriage, and men’s advances towards women, which stopped him from any overture. He was happier with the occasional brushes of today than with not even a glimpse of her from tomorrow.

However, this evening was turning out to be particularly difficult. They were traveling on work and had to work from a hotel room late into the night. Nothing else could have been more conducive, or perhaps, more heart-wrenching, than this.

The night rushed past, as the deadline loomed over them. There wasn’t time to stand and stare or sit and think, perhaps. 

At 11.45 pm, she excused herself to the bathroom, while he sat there, lost in thought. And then some fantasies. He was wondering whether she had just hinted subtly to him to follow her into the room. He wasn’t able to make up his mind. The clock ticked 11.55 pm and there was still no sign of her. Maybe she was waiting for him, while he was making a fool of himself sitting here like the gentleman he wasn’t.

At 11.59 pm, he made up his mind. Come what may, this was the night. He got up. Just then, the lights went off, and the room plunged in darkness.

As the clock struck twelve, he heard her familiar voice singing “Happy birthday”. His heart brimmed with happiness, as he searched for her. So, she was his special girl after all and this was going to be his most special birthday thus far.

And, then he heard another, more familiar voice, singing “Happy birthday”. The lights turned on, and his wife hugged him.

Kingdom of my dreams

Aye Dil Hai Mushkil Jeena Yahan, 

Zara Hat Ke Zara Bach Ke, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan 

A typical Bombay-based non-Bollywood movie starts with this song, pans across the VT station, gives a bird’s eye view of Marine Drive and closes with the "kaali peelis". That is the city in a nutshell, at least to the awestruck tourist. 

However, as a migrant who has lived in Bombay for almost six years, my home memories of Bombay revolve, not around happening Colaba or around suburban Bandra, but around that indispensable Tam bastion of Matunga East. 

To many, Matunga East is just a land of South Indian eateries fitting a dozen or more tables and chairs in a 400 square foot space and serving endless amounts of rice, saambhaar, idli and dosa. 

A Matunga-ite would know much better than that. 

They would know about that small shop in the gully on Bhaudaji Road that sells ready-made batter for idlis and dosas. They would know about that road parallel to Bhaudaji’s where Mysore Concerns sells authentic filter coffee powder. They would know about the Chheda Stores opposite the railway station that sells every namkeen on Earth – dhoklas, khakhras, chivdas, kachoris, samosas. They would know about the veggies market near the railway station that sells the freshest yellow and red peppers and broccoli and celery. They would know about the empty, by-lane through Hindu Colony that would take one directly to Dadar station. They would know that, no matter what the hustle-bustle, the area goes quiet by 9 pm, letting one take a walk in peace through the empty, tree-filled, well-paved by-lanes of Chandavarkar Road. 

Who is this Matunga-ite, one may ask. I am not, as per traditional definitions. Then again, since living in Matunga is such an exorbitant affair, only BMW owners can dream of becoming Matunga-ites in the traditional sense.

But, the biggest beauty of Matunga lies in the fact that one doesn’t have to live there to be a Matunga-ite. Matunga is a hodgepodge of cultures, filled with Gujju aunties and Tam Brahm maamis, hep girls at Sia’s jewellery shop and traditional ladies in Milaap’s saree shop, South Indian temples and Jain Mandirs, New Yorkers’ and Madras Café. One just has to drop into this place to feel belonged, to become a Matunga-ite. 

Matunga is what I remember during Dahi Handi and Ganesh Puja, Matunga is the place I end up in during Diwali and Sankranthi. The colors vibrant, the themes changing in sync with the festivity, the lights, stars, marigolds, Krishna figurines, Ganesha idols – the sight is quite amazing. 

One may argue that only fools will frequent Matunga during the festive season, when Dadar is but a couple of kilometres away. Have you ever been to Dadar? On a normal day, it is a menagerie where bikes, cars, taxis, pedestrians, vendors and everyone else coexist both on the roads and the walk ways. Around the festive season, it is a wild forest with an uncontrollable fire that threatens to consume all that dare walk through it. If Dadar is wilderness filled with commotion, Matunga is a mature peacock carrying herself with panache through the wilds, in rain and sunshine. And that’s why one would like her better. 

So, the next time you end up in Matunga East for a bite, do sample the Khotto Idli at Mysore Café. But, also take a few minutes to walk through Bhandarkar Road up to Ruia college. You will realize that beauty and peace can exist, even amidst the crowds and the jostle.

The curious case of the horn

Have you ever been irritated by that persistent honking from behind you on the freeway, when all you wanted to do was just unwind and enjoy the view while driving at a 60 kmph rate on the right lane?

I am precisely that guy, honking from behind. And, the day I come face to face with you who uses the right lane so pathetically inefficiently, you will be dead meat.

My love for the car horn goes back a long way. Dad used to work late hours, and we didn’t have a security guard at home those days. He would honk from two roads away when he was arriving, so that it didn’t disturb my sleep, and so that mom could unlock the gate from inside. Apparently, I would wake up instantly too. To me, the horn was a sign that dad was home and all was well with the world again.

Years later, when best friend M returned from the US, she refused to use the horn any longer. “I want to reduce noise pollution Kavi”, she said. Her resolution lasted exactly two months. I gave an all knowing smile when she started using the horn again. She grudgingly acceded that it is difficult to handle the pedestrians in India by just flashing headlights (for we don’t leave them with footpaths, and hence they don’t leave us with roads to drive on).

My own driving has involved a lot of honking, as you would have realized by now. It is just easier to press the horn than flash the light, you know. One press versus two or three back and forth movements of the light and all that. Also, largely, people don’t get as irritated by light as they do by sound. The last time I ferried mom’s US-settled cousin in my car, he looked all around to see who the hell was honking, and swore never to get into my car again when he realized I was the culprit.

So, what happens when my favorite car equipment goes for a toss? Does the world fall apart? Do I go mad? Do I stop driving?

Apparently, none of these. I have been negotiating the big, bad Mumbai roads without a horn for two weeks now. And it isn't all that bad frankly.

Who am I kidding? The moment I realized the horn wasn’t working, I felt like I had lost my voice. I felt incapacitated to do anything, angry and frustrated at first, and then resigned to my fate, making do with the resources available at hand. But, with time, that has changed.

There is a strange sense of calm in my driving of late. For, I know that I cannot honk that pedestrian out of my way and just have to patiently drive behind them till they figure out they need to move aside. If that driver ahead of me doesn’t respond to my lights flashing, bad luck, but life goes on. My mom claims I have started driving like an American. Oh, well, I haven’t cracked yet what she knows about American driving, but that is a different story.

For now, I don’t miss my horn as much as I thought I would. And, I have started to believe in M’s resolution of wanting to reduce our contribution to noise pollution.

Oh wait! What’s that happening on the road? Damn! I need to get into that space ahead, and the driver on the left is shortchanging me. Honk! Honk! What? Why is there no sound? Oops! These are the times I miss you most, dear horn. Come back to me soon please. For, I have no say on the road without you after all.

The ordinary... and then some more

It has been a long week, a substantially long and draining week, like one of those high-intensity due-diligence engagements week. It has been a random week of vendor rants, customer cribs, analyst woes, senior management skepticism. However, it has been a strangely fulfilling week.

I like chaos. In fact, I revel in chaos. It is when I am in the best of moods. There is nothing more satisfying than putting a structure around chaos, and showing the world that life ain’t that bad after all.

It is all about showing the world, showing off rather. I revel in showing off. There is nothing more blessed than showing people that something could be pulled off, making them feel they can’t do without me.

It is an even more blessed feeling knowing that there are people I cannot do without. It means I am still human, even if I run the risk of getting irreparably hurt some day. It is a comfortable feeling, the feeling of being dependent, strange though it may sound.

I am having a cup of hot chocolate, comfortable in my too-small-for-one-and-a-half-people, but just-the-perfect-size-for-one-person apartment.

The chocolate brings back memories – of a housewarming celebrated with hot chocolate, of a master-chef’s real Lindt hot chocolate with lot of love thrown in, of Theo’s spicy hot chocolate with the gang.

It helps forget the month ahead, momentarily that is. The mind traverses gondolas and the bridge of sighs, random images of a wishful holiday.

Eternity is over-rated, or so they say. Me, I would prefer good old eternity, endless evenings of hot chocolate and good time, of love and no longing, of perpetual peace and quiet.

Oh well, I signed up for chaos long back I guess, a chaos so chaotic that peace would seem weird and draining, if only because of the emptiness and silence it would bring along with it. Perhaps then, I will not celebrate, nor will I jump about in joy. I would just heave a long sigh of relief and go visit the bridge of sighs.

Gone with the wind

The charming Southern belle, the battle with the Yankees, the slaves and their loyalty, the dashing romance – Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the wind is my all-time favorite novel and Scarlett O’Hara, my most favorite fictional character.

Many call it the book of the hopeless romantic. I think of it more as a brilliant narrative of survival. 

To read the rest of the article, click here.

Some magical evenings

The bell rings once, an old-fashioned steel-finished bell. The crowd lines up, not so quietly, to be ushered in to the hall. It is a small theater. The seating is uncomfortable albeit cushioned. The middle seats are long taken, by seasoned theater-goers. A stifled silence settles over the crowd, a crowd that is used to banter and chatter, cheering and clapping. Curious looks are exchanged all round, for what else can one do when talking would be looked down upon. The faces look funny, shaded by the dim lights, eyes rolling around, heads bobbing up and down. More people walk in, while the second and third gongs are sounded. The lights go out slowly. Like a classic faux pas, a mobile phone goes off somewhere. Some laughter followed by “shh”s.

It is time for the show to begin.

I am not a habitual theater-goer. And it is not because I don’t like it. It is only because, as many I have told this to, know, “Whenever I am in Delhi, Bombay hosts the English plays and whenever am in Bombay, quite ironically, those plays have gone to Delhi.” In fact, I love the theater. There can be very few things more real than someone performing flesh and blood on stage, with bare minimum props, only witty dialogues to go by.

I remember the first time I had to go up on stage to deliver a speech. The night before, I just could not sleep at all. And till the time the crowd started applauding towards the end of the speech, my legs were involuntarily shaking, if only in my mind. Even today, when there is an important presentation up for delivery, I am a little unsettled the evening before.

That is precisely why I love plays. How very difficult can it be to play up to the gallery, wondering all through whether it is going well or not, whether the crowd likes the show or not, while at the same time trying not to forget any of the dialogues. Effort comes through so apparently beautifully that, be it a good show or bad show, I only remember it as a great effort.

There is another reason I love plays. It is interesting to see how the crowd dresses up, as if for a themed party. The Fab India kurtis and the flowing skirts, the kajal and the silver bangles, the Indian-ish footwear, the whiff of old-worldish perfumes, the South-Delhi disdain, the South-Bombay ‘haught’ – aah what fun!

I no longer shuttle towns every Friday evening. And yeah, V indulges my liking for plays. That should help me watch the show more - both on stage and off stage ;)

In Memoriam

It was the summer of 2007, a summer of friendship, love and heartbreak, not necessarily in that order. This is the story of that summer.

Interns are easy to identify, and identify with too. There is a laid-back and unfettered attitude about them, a complete mismatch to their new ties and polished boots and shining folders and lavish laptops. They are revelling in their big city exposure and new found friends, while at the same time fighting head over heels with those very ‘friends’ for that elusive PPO. It is also a time when love blossoms, blooms and sometimes dies, even more hurriedly than in B-school.

Nostalgia hits me as I walk into the same old serviced apartment now, which was home to me for 2 months in 2007.

Back then, I was an intern too, but not the PPO hunting variety. Wide-eyed and awestruck, it took me enough time to take in what would be my first ever corporate experience, leave alone fight for a PPO.

Bombay was unknown, large and looming, talking a language I could not fathom. She was interminably fast, noisy, dirty and over-crowded. Not once did she intimidate me though. I liked her, despite and because of her attitude to life. The weekdays were spent hogging pav bhajis at Chakala. The weekends were spent lazing, shopping and eating at Marine Drive, Colaba and Bandra. Sometime then, I fell irrevocably in love. Little did I know then that this love would prove to be expensive, draining me of my money, time and physical energy, eventually driving me crazy. Bombay, not unlike a courtesan, had begun to employ all her charms to allure me into her folds.

The internship itself was a disaster. “FMCG sales” was not in my breath, blood or even bones. I liked the travel though and unknown even to me, was beginning to form a bond with web check-ins, flights and hotel stays. Perhaps, that was deemed to be my takeaway from those two months. For, I went on to build a career whose backbone lies in travel.

If at all you are wondering whether I made bonds with anything non-inanimate, yes I did. Just like any other intern at that time, I made friends at break-neck speed. Thankfully, not all of them were the “forget-post-internship” variety. The first time V (M’s V that is) saw a photo of M and I together, he thought we are sisters :)

No matter how undeserved it was, not getting the PPO was heart-breaking; and felt then like a failed attempt. Leaving Bombay was heartbreaking too, as if someone had just ripped something right out of my heart’s trenches. Having my biggest fight for this lifetime with V (not M’s V) contributed in no less measure to the heartbreak pool. But, of course, there is no free lunch. If I had my share of fun, I had to have my share of sorrow.

In hindsight, the heartbreak was just as well; for, I can never bring myself to not love the career I eventually found myself in. And, Bombay is back in my life, forever this time, while fights are things of the past.

The summer of 2007 is unforgettable, for more reasons than one. It was a summer of love, heartbreak and friendship, not just mine.

Reminiscing a love long lost

It was the spring of 2004. A myriad of colorful flowers greeted the walkways while there was a perceptible fragrance all around. Youth and its silly banter notwithstanding, love was in the air.

Ah! Those lines sound so beautiful and romantic, I almost want to believe them. However, I, having lived all my life in Chennai and most importantly the year of 2004, would not know. For, have you heard of spring in Chennai, or for that matter “a myriad of colorful flowers”? That part of town I come from only knows a myriad of colorful shops selling even more colorful saris.

However, I do remember the year of 2004 for more reasons than one. The fad then was the Valentine’s Day dress code. Was pink the color of “Yes I am willing” or “Going to propose”? Did black mean “I am against love” or “I have failed in love”? Each of us believed in a different set of rules, and since internet had not seeped into our college as yet (except for half hour a day or some such), we were not sure of which set to follow. Finally, we agreed on the overarching themes. Black could only mean negative, while white just meant “I am at peace with love”. Red could perhaps be termed “Dangerous, but can be tried” and so on. It was much fun, I swear. Many of the girls were scared sick of sending out wrong signals, for, after all love was taboo those days and specially so in Chennai's engineering colleges. I do not remember what I wore, but wanting to test fate, I was planning to wear either a blue or a green. It did not work out all that bad, frankly.

By 2005, I had got bored with the fad and wore pink just to humor someone. By 2006, I wanted to revolt against this ridiculous idea and wore black. I know that sounds more like a rebellious teen than a 20 year old almost engineer, but still.

Life at B-school was a little different. I had forgotten the whole dress code thingy, and I think most of my batch-mates there would have ridiculed the notion. But, we celebrated V-Day differently out there. “Candle-light” dinners were the norm, where we were served the same food but under dark circumstances so that, one, lost in love, would little worry about what they were eating leave alone whose hands they were holding.

And that was the last time I thought about V-Day, really! :P

At least till yesterday. A chat with my kid sister who is already in college (rolls eyes) revealed that she had no idea about dress codes (rolls eyes even more). So, like a responsible adult taking charge of her education, I taught her what I could and sent her “googled” evidence as back-up, for she refused to believe me otherwise. She has promised me that she will wear black, as she doesn’t want to fall in love. Let’s see how long that lasts, kiddo J

Meanwhile, today, our cafeteria wanted to celebrate V-Day by serving us sour pasta, plastic sandwiched burgers and a very milky chocolate. Well, strange are the ways people want to celebrate the spirit of love. Stranger still that V-Day hasn’t really sunk into me this year.

Perhaps, I have grown old K Or perhaps, the special someone isn’t around K K

The aura that is first love

I was with you for hardly a week, but fell madly in love.

Perhaps not in the same way as I did with your distant second cousin who is a thousand times faster and a million times more attractive.

But, yes, I did fall in love with you. Well, almost; with your bright and lively countenance, with the twinkle in your eyes and the smile on your lips, with the breeze with which you welcomed me in, and the ease with which you warmed up to me.

At this moment, I am compelled to pause and rationalize that this sudden spurt of emotion could only be because it has been a good decade and a half since I set foot on foreign land of any kind. Sadly, I know only too well my rationalization is flawed, if not completely, at least terribly completely.

For, it was not your sky scrapers and impeccably smooth roads that made me fall for you. Nor, was it your dust free pathways and Americanized accent.

No.

It was actually your wonderfully sweet people who would literally slow down their cars to let me jaywalk happily. I am a sucker for sweet people, you know. It was your clear blue sea which, in its purest form, is so inviting I just wanted to plunge in and loll around forever and ever. I am a sucker for the sea too, yes I am.

Well, well! Let’s not get all excited already, shall we? If you think you are all rosy and right and flawless in sight, wait a minute. And, listen to what I have to say.

Though I lost some calories thanks to you, I did not like the fact that you fed me only with leafy salads. Though I am a compulsive shopper (yes, unfortunately :(), your multitude of uber-rich malls ran the risk of making me a pauper had I more time than the paltry 2 hours I did.

Alas! I am also painfully aware of the fact that that these two points do nothing to weigh down your radiance.

How I wish I had spent more time with you, how I wish I could come back to you and spend the rest of my life in your loving hands.

But, you know what? I think I spoke a little too soon. I can never spend the rest of my life with you, Philippines.

Unfortunately for both you and me, I fell madly in love with your distant second cousin, much, much more madly, and much before I set foot on your soil. He is noisy and crowded and swift to a fault. He does not have your lane discipline, he does not have your sense of cleanliness in him. He has little or no regard for people who cannot keep up with his pace. But, he has a vibrancy that makes me fall for him all over again every time I see him - truly, madly and deeply too!

Great Expectations

He was an amazing driver. I used to get floored by his driving every time I got into the car. He was so passionate about driving that I suspect sometimes he loved his car more than he loved me. I would be lying if I said I didn’t mind it much. I used to get mighty jealous of 'em cars, oh yes I did.

He hated the times he was forced to be the cause of jerky turns, screeching brakes, inconsistent accelerations. He loved ‘smooth driving’, as he would call it. He hated drivers who overtook from the left, constantly honked (half-baked honking, he would say) with no rhyme or reason, had their headlights turned on to an irritatingly unnecessary proportion of brightness.

He did not mind any road; I don’t remember ever having heard him complain about roads. He could manage bad roads brilliantly, avoiding the potholes by centering the car over them with no lasting damage to either the tyre or the car or me.

He never got tired of long drives, never got tired of my constant looping of the same songs on the CD player, never got tired of the constant chattering. In fact, he is one of those few men I have known who could multi-task brilliantly – drive, talk, analyze music, observe everything on the side roads and comment on them. Perhaps, driving was so much a part of him that it never amounted to being a ‘task’.

He was a stickler for symmetrical parking. However, I never had to get down from the car to check how much space there was to fit the car or whether the angle in which the car was getting in there was right enough. He was way too intuitive about it. And, he almost always got it right first time around.

Someday, I would own a car and drive it too. Someday, I would have his favorite songs looping on the player while I attempt the task of driving. Someday, I would drive smooth irrespective of ‘minor’ externalities like roads.

Never would I be as perfect as him. But someday, I would have this undying and un-fulfill-able urge to ask him, “Dad, do you think this qualifies to be in your league of driving?”

Why I love you as I love you..

I was having a long argument with P (who loves having long arguments over everything on Earth), about why everyone should love Mumbai. Ok, that is a tall claim. Not everyone can love Mumbai because, like he says, it is too crowded and too expensive!

P says that I love Mumbai only because I have good memories from there, because I have had the right set of people there. I vehemently disagree.

P says that we have a Marina for a Marine Drive, we have a substitute in Chennai for everything we have there! Again, I vehemently disagree.

And, I decide to list down why I actually love Mumbai, beyond just hanging out with friends, walking along Marine Drive and shopping till I drop down dead.

Here we go, all over again, about Mumbai Meri Jaan.

• The crowd thronging VT station and Elphinston bridge, focusing only on the train, not caring about what you are doing and where you are going ‘cos it is just too busy running on its feet.
• The city that never sleeps, literally! The sheer independence and security that Mumbai gives its dwellers at 2 in the morning – I have no more words!
• The infectious spirit. In my Manager’s words, “I land at Mumbai airport and something gets in to my blood. The adrenaline rush is faster, the mind asks for challenges. I just want to keep going, on and on, unmindful of the road blocks and the speed breakers.” He stole the words from my heart totally!
• I take a rickety cab from Lower Parel to Matunga, the meter shows 3.5. The cab wallah is old, he is wearing a pair of really old looking, dull spectacles. He flips out a card slowly from the dashboard and we check how much 3.5 is. It says Rs. 48.50. I give him a Rs. 100 note, apologetically stating, “Bhaiiya, mere paas change nahi hai”. He says, “Koi baath nahi Beti”, takes out his wallet gives me 5 ten rupee notes and a one rupee coin. I take it and turn around to leave when he says, “Ek minute beti” and fishes out a 50 paise coin.

I rest my case.

Unrelated Arbit, really!

Written under extreme levels of no enthu; prone to be energy sucking and gloomy in general
What if there were a Ctrl+Z option in life?
Life would be so much more peaceful. We could check each of our options like in a decision tree and track back every time it did not work out and choose the right one.
What if everyone could get to live with everyone they liked without ever having to convince everyone else as to why they should or should not?
We would not have to see people who are special to us suffer and whither right in front of us, incapable of doing anything but crying silently
What if miracles do happen in real life, really?
Like in commercial cinema, we would walk away happier people, for the hero would have run to the railway station at the last moment and scooped up the heroine in his hands
What if life were as arbit as arbit itself, with no semantics and no protocols to adhere to, with each one of us living it on our own terms?
Maybe it already is; everything is in the mind after all.

....

A thing of beauty it was
Happiness was in the air
Every day was new and fresh
Everything around a feast to the eyes
Thoughts never before dreamt of
Became the essence of life and the universe
Joy multiplied by leaps and bounds
With each subsequent act
Of nature and man, in sync with one another
Life is beautiful, said I
Over and over again
And felt and lived it too
An unrepeatable phase of life it is
But, nevertheless,
A thing of beauty is a joy forever!

My soulless soul

As days go by
It gets scarier
And then the pain creeps in
The pain of fight
A fight for life
A life I want
A want, a wish
A wish of peace
That peace with myself
A self that contradicts
My emotions, my soul