T for Tall Tales

She is crying. Again. It is, in fact, a barely audible whimper that would escape the notice of a less discerning ear, like that of a random co-passenger in a crowded bus. But, she is not in a bus. And, I am not a random co-passenger. Nothing she does escapes my eyes. And her slightest jitters unnerve my very being. For, I love her much more than I can ever express, to her even.

The day I was born was an emotional one; for her, more than for me, as she caressed and kissed me and jumped around with joy. I didn’t mind the love being showered on me. I, in fact, was slowly warming up to all the attention. But the moment she tried to crush me mindlessly, not knowing how to handle me, I got angry. Whoever treats a poor little baby like me so roughly, I seethed. But, in my heart, I knew she was new to this, and was trying to do her best, for me more than for her. As days went by, I would notice her going for hours without food and drink if I were so much as barely touched, let alone scratched.

She has always been emotional like that. I remember the first time she got into a fight over phone, in my presence. She yelled, then cried, and then laughed, only to end up yelling again. I never understood what really the issue was or who she was speaking with, then. But, that agitated self of hers, biting her nails and looking like the world had crumbled upon her, is etched clearly in my memory.

She can be happy too, like when she listens to her favorite music and shakes her hands and feet in joy. It is fun watching her at such times, drinking her in, drinking her joy in, wishing she would remain so, wishing she wouldn’t pick up her phone and get lost in that silly, sad world of hers again.

The last time we went off on a weekend getaway was magical, just she and I, like eloping lovers, without a care in the world; I, because she was there with me, my best friend, confidante, guide; she, because I was there for her, sticking by her, through thick and thin, never giving up, never tiring of her. It was a lovely morning, the road was wide and empty, and early mists were breaking away. As we went, on either side, wild flowers blossomed and bloomed, in pink, yellow and blue, heralding the arrival of spring, and perhaps us, too.

But those memories are all from the past now. I am not sure when we will go like that on a getaway again.

She received a phone call yesterday. I could hear a guy speaking to her, firmly and officiously at first, mellowing down towards the middle, and almost kindly consoling her at the end. She, uncharacteristically, did not respond, except for the occasional ‘Umm’, and hung up with a curt ‘Thanks’. She was very silent after that, as if she were at someone’s funeral. I feared the worst, but I was at a loss as to how to console her. She picked up her phone again, after what seemed to be eons, to call a number listed on her Favorites.

“My boss called me just now, firing me for underperformance. And, during the conversation, he added in a slight undertone – Manage your personal relationship better. I think they know about us and that was the reason I was fired. What did you do? How did they find out?” As she spoke, her voice was dangerously calm, unlike her usual agitated conversations when under emotional duress.

I know who is on the other end of the line. I try avoiding thoughts of her other love, but it comes back to haunt me, at times like this. They have been together for some time now, I learnt much after I myself fell irrevocably in love with her. I am not jealous of their relationship (well, a little, perhaps), but I personally think their association is taking a toll on her emotional well-being. However, she is neither the listening kind, nor the thinking kind. 

They talked for some time; she seemed dissatisfied with the assurance from the other side, but made fake claims that she was and would be fine, and disconnected the call. I wondered how, if this was true love, such a feeble and halfhearted “Love you” from her might have put her girlfriend at ease.

As she went home that night, I had a gut feel it wouldn’t be the same again. In fact, I was worried I would never see her again.

But, now, I don’t know which is worse – not seeing her, or seeing her cry like this. As she wipes away the last of her silent tears, she hugs herself, and then hugs me for much longer than usual. She then puts the seat back, pops a couple of pills in her mouth and closes her eyes. I wait for 5 minutes, hoping she would get up. And then, I start getting agitated. 

Something is wrong here.

‘No, don’t do it. Wake up now.’ I yell at her. But, I know she can’t hear me. Her breathing slowly turns ragged.

For the first time in life, I realize my incapability to do things that living beings can do, for I do have a mind and feelings just like living beings. As I try to pray and hope a miracle would bring her back to life, the carbon monoxide in me slowly consumes what little oxygen is left in her.

I, her beloved hatchback, kill the love of my life, if not through action, only by inaction, and keep watch a mute spectator, as her soul disappears from this Earth, forever. Perhaps, she will find peace finally, whereas I will go to my grave a tormented car, the touch of her last hug lingering in my steering wheel, for long after I am dismantled.

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

S for Small World

It was another Uber day today, and I was rushing for a meeting to the far north of the city. Bad time estimations, delay in connectivity, overall Murphy was flapping his ugly wings all over me. Mentally preparing for a difficult conversation with the cabbie, I called him once the booking went through. He, surprisingly, seemed to have his wits about himself – the first in a week filled with a string of clueless drivers who didn’t turn up at the doorstep – and reached in exactly 4 minutes as he predicted. I got in and launched into a long list of instructions to get us out of this area, because the average Uber driver has just landed from Mars and doesn’t really understand all this complexity of roads and U-turns and speed lanes and slow lanes. Surprise again. This guy seemed to have everything under control. I just named the area I wanted to get to, mentioning on a side note how delayed I was for a 10 am meeting, and got onto a long telephonic conversation.

In 20 minutes, we were nearing our destination and I was done with my phone call. Now, I told him the office complex I wanted to go to, and he nodded vigorously, also asking me whether I was going to Company XYZ. I laughed and said, “Oh! Not XYZ this time.” He was curious to know whether I work for XYZ, and I said, “I used to, you know. But, in their other office, not this one.” He got all excited and started talking about how he used to drive for the CEO of XYZ, and for some other big shots in the financial world.

Whoa! This is déjà vu, my mind alerted me. I know this guy, I know this guy. Then, I told him, “Hey! Weren’t you driving a rented black and yellow cab a few months back? I was your passenger back from my XYZ office and you dropped me home. And we were discussing how you can make more money by becoming an Uber / Ola driver.” “Yes, yes, yes. I got this car 8 days back and enrolled on Uber. It is going well so far.”

And then, we engaged in some small talk on how small a world it is, wished each other a nice day, and parted ways happy.

This morning, I had spent some confused minutes wondering what I would write on S. Stink? Smell? Stupidity? And now, I am putting my feet up, taking it easy, having a break, and only wondering whether I should name this post “Serendipity” or “Small World”.

Small world sounds better, for isn’t that the most powerful form of the world!

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

R for Redial

I dialed her number and waited. There was the long screeching "engaged" tone that had been bothering me for the past half hour. Cursing all and sundry, I slammed down the blood red phone and waited. Exactly 9 nanoseconds later, I dialed again.

Are you a millennium child? As in, not a millennial, which google informs me is "the cohort spanning children born between the 1980s and the early 2000s". Are you a millennium child, one that was born when I was at my adolescent best, or worst? For you, this will be a nice, new post that oldies reminiscence about, stuff that you can safely include in your ancient history curriculum. For the rest, well, let's revel in some nostalgia.

As a school kid, I was an extensive user of the dial-telephone. We had a red one at home similar to the one in this pic. 

And, I used it under the ruse of homework discussions, a fair bit. Hey, really! I was a diligent kid, having lots to discuss about my math and science homework, and the ghost house next door to school (our own little fairy tale-ish gossip) with my best friend. And my friend used the phone even more extensively than I did, so much so that I was faced with the situation referenced at the beginning of this point quite frequently. My fingers would feel wobbly and sore after the many redials, and I would be ready to throw something at someone, at which precise moment, she would call me back, as if on cue, the red telephone shrilly announcing her re-entry into my life. Was it telepathy, I wonder now.

For, we did not have basics like punch keypads and redial buttons, let alone advanced tech like call waits. And, I am not missing the lack of them. No, that's a lie. I miss the lack of call waits and call logs. Now, there is so much evidence of a call received that I cannot really say, "Oh! You called? I never received it." Sometimes, to hell with technology. 

I don't think we have the telephone with us anymore, what with my mother's obsession with throwing out anything old and useless (which gene she has promptly passed on to me). I keep telling her how we have lost that one chance to make millions (or billions, basis inflation) in the decades to come, passing it off as "precious antique furnishing". While that ship has sailed, I have implored her to keep the typewriter and the ammi-kal well and happy, because those might just make up for the loss of revenue from this one!

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

Q for Quesadillas

Are you a foodie? A gastronomist? A chef? An awesome mommy cook? Yes, you are most probably my friend (I have at least one of each kind), and you know how not into food I am (except desserts, of course). But, I am an experimenter. Of food, clothes, jobs, entertainment. So, I don't always end up going to the same restaurant every single time. And then, there is the travel, when I have to experiment with a lot of things, primarily food (strict vegetarian at that).

Every single time I walk into a Mexican restaurant, be it in Aamchi Mumbai or far away Croatia, I am STUMPED. Does a quesadilla look queasy? Does a chimichanga look like a chimpanzee? What about tortilla? How is it pronounced (tortiya, turtila, tortila, totiya), let alone how does it look? So many times have I ended up ordering the chimichanga, only to realise that's the queasy little thing I wanted to avoid, while my favorite stuffed paratha look-alike is actually a quesadilla. 

Thanks to smart phones, free wi-fi across the world, and the ever ubiquituous internet, the nomenclature no longer poses a big challenge when I travel outside India. As soon as I walk into any restaurant / cafe, I ask, rather demand, my free wi-fi details (generally ignoring their "we are full now, you have no place to sit" apologies), check that it's working fine, then get the menu, check for vegetarian items while googling them up to confirm the WYSIWYG point, then find a table to seat myself at, and then place the order. In parallel, I also do some mental calculations of quick foreign currency->INR conversions to ensure I don't have to sell my kidney to ingest some kidney beans. As for India, it is pretty simple. I just ask the server / waiter / maitre d'hotel (at the Udipi / mid-market restaurant / five-star cafe) to describe the dish and then place the order. Only that their description is quite off the actual dish that arrives on the table. For instance, I have had paella being described as an exotic yet balanced dish of carbs, green veggies, and original Spanish sauces, only to receive tomato rice as an outcome. But, then, no one in India gives free wi-fi, so Google doesn't get my august presence in its midst, and I prefer the free human interference to the never-working-3G-powered automated support. 

Yes, today's post was written with some extensive assistance from Google baba. I still get confused between those Mexican dishes, but I have it programmed in my mind never to walk into an Italian place and order anything other than pasta / pizza. Because, I have no intention of buying expensive tomato rice or upma, when I won't taste it even if offered free!

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

P for Paris

Well, that's back to back travel posts right here, and I could remember nothing but Paris when P stared out from my desktop back at me this morning.

Paris happened a couple of years back, a fall out of a work trip to Amsterdam. And, I have sworn to myself I will settle down in Paris some day.

What I love most about Paris is that mix of hustle and bustle of daily life with culture and architecture peppered across the city. It is as if the Parisians know that bustle is important, but they think they may as well build a cathedral or citadel or some kind of ornamental building, while on their way to living their busy bee existence. All the press I had read about Paris had made me ready myself for a city where people didn't work round the clock, demanded wages for less work, and whiled away their time otherwise. I realised my naivety and foolishness as I stepped into the Garu de Nord station. There were the people, running about their daily tasks, and it only reminded me of our very own Churchgate or VT stations on a normal day. 

I had really made the trip only for the Louvre, having read so much about the beauty of the Venus De Milo and the Monalisa. Oh, not just that, Dan Brown has imagined and created such a parallel Universe about the Louvre that I really thought I might find clues to secret passages leading me to the Holy Grail. Frankly, the Louvre was strictly ok. It is just too huge and so we had to spend half hour planning and marking out things we really didn't want to see. Trust me, no matter how much you may love museums and art, there is only so much sugar you can handle in a day!

Palace of Versailles was a one day affair. Opulence and extravagance were of course in the face but it wasn't only the opulence of the gilt-rimmed palace and the insides ripe with beautiful furniture, libraries of books and drapes from an era gone past. For me, the opulence actually came through in the large palace gardens, lush green and full of life, despite those early days of winter. The palace grounds stretch for miles around the palace and it is easy to get lost in them, sitting and writing reams and reams of poetry. 

My most favorite memory from Paris though is an unplanned one. We had planned out our days for all the touristy stuff like Eiffel, Versailles, Louvre, Notre Dame etc. A colleague I met in Amsterdam added one more to my list saying, no less in her Italian accent, "It is so romantic! You should not miss it." As a result, one evening found us trudging up a short hill towards Montmartre, that houses the Basilica. Montmartre is an idyllic village up a hill, resplendent with white walled houses and a cafe alternating every house. The lanes are filled with artistes ready with pencils, waiting to draw pictures of you with the Basilica for backdrop. The Basilica itself is huge and beautiful. But, what's most alluring is the life within those cafes. I do not know whether it was the time of the day or the day of the week or whether this is how Montmartre is every single day of every single week. But, there was some beautiful live music coming out of every cafe, mixed with the tinkles of laughter. We finally found one which had some vegetarian options, but we weren't disappointed otherwise. Coupled with the live music was a happy family of father, mother, daughter and grandparents, all singing along with the music and letting themselves go.

Was I a tad jealous? I was, I was. But, I was also happy to experience pure joy, a memory that a visit to no museum can replace.

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

O for Operas

Do you know how the inside of an opera hall looks? Exactly like how they show it out there in 'Pretty Woman'.And, I always thought that scene was a figment of the imagination of a very creative art director!

My first (and only) tryst with operas came about in Prague mid last year on the first leg of our phenomenally lovely trip to Eastern Europe. True to the backpacker in us, we were meandering around Prague with no goal or objective, no plan in place, and a by-then, literally beaten to death, hard copy map. 

We had just then finished a long walk in the hot sun, got into a cafe by the banks of the river to quench our thirst only to be greeted by the spectacle of fully drunk nude young men jumping into the river as a dare to each other(many a picture was being taken, they must have had a terrible sight greeting them when they got sober), and then got drenched in some unsolicited rain forcing us to buy a couple of expensive umbrellas that blew away in the wind. That is when we came across that counter, selling tickets to an opera that evening.

Didn't we come to Prague just to see the opera, we reasoned to ourselves, as we tried hard to identify the cheapest tickets possible. Yes, luck and luck, and there we were, at the theater, shabbily dressed backpackers getting into line behind tuxedo-sporting, ball-gown wearing patrons of the opera. We did think we would be denied entry, but then, no one cared and we were inside in no time, perched on some very uncomfortable high seats in one of the last rows of a ginormous opera hall, waiting for the show to begin. The seats were nothing like the private seating from Pretty Woman, but the view was perfect.

Macbeth, the play, began. We had missed the minor point that the play was in Italian when we bought the tickets, but music has no language. No? The show did have subtitles in English and really, it didn't matter. Known language or unknown, it was extremely boring, and dragged on with people in black, blacker and blackest attires panning out some really soul-stirring music. There is only so much sorrow, grief and guilt that one can take sitting in the audience.

By half time, we were nodding off, and we decided to make a dash for the exit. For, we had come for the experience, and we had got the experience we wanted. Who cares about sitting through the end of the show?

Last month, a friend was advising me that the opera is a must do when I plan a trip to Italy next. I politely nodded, while making a mental note to steer clear of at least 5km radius around the opera area in Italy, wherever that is.

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

N for Night-outs

For most part of my student life, I have been a day scholar, someone who goes from home to school / college and comes back in the evening. And, like every other kid who comes home every day in India, I was on quite a tight leash, with strict schedules for going and coming back.

Then, B-school happened, my hostel room becoming the cliched home away from home, and my friends becoming the family away from my family. While the latter suited me perfectly well (you know how some are blessed with great friends rather than a great family), the former took some time getting used to. After the initial wave of home sickness and withdrawal symptoms from mom food and mom love, things got to normal. However, things truly got normal once the night-outs began.

Night outs were invented by the Universe to have long, meaningless (mostly philosophically meaningful) conversations over endless amounts of chai and sandwich from the midnight canteen and Athicas (our very own 24 hour food mecca) under the garb of study groups or project groups. Not surprisingly, no projects have ever been completed in time, nor has anyone aced tests and quizzes as an outcome to these planned night-outs. 

Nevertheless, if one wants to be a better person in life, someone who can obsess over the world and the self equally seriously, identifying strengths and weaknesses of the political system, economic situation, and one's own capabilities in equal parts, I would recommend a few (rather, many) night-outs as part of hostel life.

Nothing can substitute that uninhibited time and mindspace you get in college (despite the workload) to think, mull over and be consumed by something other than monthly salaries, housing loans and the next big promotion. Nothing can replace the awesome minds of students trying to get innovative and creative about solving the problems of this world. Nothing, nothing can measure up to the value of those friendships formed, over nights of joys in conversations, where impossible is a word unknown, opportunities for thought and growth limitless.

This one is dedicated to some of my most special friends from B-School who have been instrumental in making me the better person I am today. 

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

M for Memories

She tries to remember sometimes, rather she tries hard to confirm that she doesn't remember, that it's all over now.

In the earlier days, she could... she could sense him everywhere, feel his presence in the nooks and crannies of the bedroom, hear his voice in her mind as she went about her daily chores. The hardest was the smell, the sudden wave of his perfume seeping through the wardrobe, that strong soap he used filling up the bathroom, leaving no space for her. She would go crazy turning and overturning closets and drawers, bathroom shelves and travel kits, discarding his many possessions, so she could bury the smell under mounds of her banal existence, so she could move on like he had never existed in her life.

Many months after he was gone, after she had cleaned up the house inside out, after she had verified and re-verified that there was nothing of his amidst her belongings anymore, she would still wake up with a sudden start, in the middle of the night, that smell haunting her again. The smell of his perfume, a wood and musk combo, would stifle her in bed as she tried to fight against it, suffocating her, pulling her underneath, to the cold dungeons of her mind. 

While other people had skeletons in their closets, she had elephants, and they refused to budge, let alone amble away. They were powerful, aggressive elephants, engulfing her in waves of nausea, stalling her as she walked alone down life. They loaded her mind with constant drivel, till her mind shut down, tired of fighting them, only to wake up again another day, and pick up from where it left.

Well, the elephants died eventually, though the fight wasn't easy, nor was it quick. People say time takes care of everything, and now, after eons of fighting, she doesn't remember anymore. She doesn't remember his voice or his smell, or the quirks of his language, the length of his temper, his likes and his dislikes, his walk or his snores. She tries hard, to knock down the walls inside her brain. Sometimes, she wishes she could remember a bit, a bit of his. Now, she is ready, to remember without dying inside, but it is too late.

Time has taken care of everything.

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

L for Last Names

I don't have a last name. After my first name, I attach my father's name that doubles up as last name and surname. His name is actually just a first name with a couple of initials, that in turn just abbreviate his dad's first name. And all our names are quite generic. That is, you can figure out we are South Indians, or at the best, Tams. Nothing more. Nothing less. Our names are a bunch of random first name combinations. 

There was a point in time when the very fact that I don't have one family name that all of us in the family can share really worried me sick. Well, not worry, but a mild form of irritation tugged at my heart. Why can't we have family names for last names like the rest of India? Or, for that matter, a major part of the globe. I even fleetingly thought of adding my clan's name to mine as last name (yeah, we do have such things though we don't really follow the tradition of the addition for reasons unknown). I eventually dismissed the idea because it sounded a little weird and pretentious. 

Cut to a few years down the line. 

A couple of months back, we discussed reservations in education and the all pervasive caste epidemic in India in one of our Ze Salon community meets. For the uninitiated, we are a country that for a thousand years has discriminated on the basis of caste. And now, post independence, we are playing reverse vote bank politics by favouring the former lower castes through reservations in education and government jobs. Both then and now, caste and religion based division and hatred exist, in fact thrive and fester through us, undermining our advancements in science and technology. 

During the meet, a fellow community member was told us how he has done away with the last name funda in his child's birth certificate. The child has two first names in the certificate, two generic first names. The child's last name / surname is not my friend's family name. Such a simply executable but absolutely revolutionary thought and action by someone who is anti-caste and doesn't want his child to grow up with a casteist identity. Another member was speaking about how her forefathers had changed their entire family name to a generic name to move away from caste based segregation. 

I felt a little small about even having considered adding a clan name to my name, announcing my caste to the world. And, I should admit I was a tad jealous that I wasn't one of those great people with simple yet revolutionary ideas, standing up for what they believe in. 

However, I do know that the next time I come across a person with a generic last name (any name that doesn't give away a person's caste or region easily), I would halt a second and thank his / her forefathers for having had the vision to make this world a better place to live in. 

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

K for Kavity

That's some narcissism, you must be thinking. Well, when I thought of K, the first thing that came to mind was my own nick-name, so why not spend some well deserved space on it.

Kavity is not a childhood nickname of mine. In fact, my childhood nickname is quite silly, like how most nicknames go, and is actually sillier than Kavity. Booju is what my mom, and my then neighbors used to call me. My cousin used to call me Moti (because I have always been quite mota). Kavity is a name I got well after my adolescence, thanks to a bosom friend I met during B-School days.

Many of my friends have forever been calling me Kavity, and my mother finds it hard to reconcile to this name even today, after many years. 

While many people have grappled between Cavity and Kavity in addressing me, not really understanding why anyone will hold a nickname that isn't very palatable, my friend's 4 year old went a step ahead. The first time I met him, along with a group of boisterous old-time friends from B-school, everyone kept addressing me by my nickname. This little fellow went up to his dad and whispered silently, but loud enough for everyone to hear - "Do you guys call her cavity because she has bad teeth with lot of cavities?"

Well! Kids these days! And, for the record, no, I do not have bad teeth with lot of cavities!

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

J for Jaffna

J has been a difficult one, frankly. I have thought and thought and thought about what could potentially qualify for a blog post under J. Either I come up with management jargons like JIT (which no one wants to read a post on, I presume) or I am reminded of controversial issues like Jallikkattu (that I really do not have a strong PoV on). Then, V reminded me of this, an issue that is close to my heart and emotionally stirs me up every single time I think of it. So, here goes. 

Jaffna, or Yazhpanam (the non-anglicized version) is / was a district in the Northern Province of Sri Lanka. I do not know much about the province itself but I have been following the civil war there for many years now. Perhaps, it is because of the proximity of my birth place (Chennai) to Sri Lanka, but I think it is more because of a language we share – Tamil.

The Sri Lankan civil war has its roots as far back as the 1950s when the ethnic and linguistic Sinhalese majority brought in a motion in Parliament mandating Sinhalese as the only official language of the Government. The then Tamils, many of whom civil servants, were forced to resign with immediate effect, because they did not know Sinhalese. And that’s where the downward spiral began. The linguistic discrimination led to loss of jobs, economic disparity, and complete marginalization of the Tamils, giving rise to rebel groups, and eventually the apparently undefetable LTTE and Velupillai Prabhakaran. The tragedy started at some point of time after a number of negotiation talks between the LTTE and the Sri Lankan Sinhalese government failed, despite mediations by third parties focused on peace, like Norway. Velupillai Prabhakaran got too used to the glory of war and the power he wielded over his people, not to forget the strength of an army he had raised (including child soldiers), that he backed away from peace talks and ceasefire negotiations regularly. Eventually, the end came nasty, Prabhakaran was killed, and so was his young son who was taken into the custody of the Sri Lankan army and killed (gruesome videos of which have circulated far and wide on the Internet).

Conservative, official estimates, peg the civilian loss of life in the 30 year civil war at a 100,000. Unofficially, people claim that the figure could be much more. And, there are pending investigations by the United Nations Human Rights' Commissions on suspected genocide of the Tamils.

Someone some day many many decades ago decided how to assert their majority rule, and that has led to one of the allegedly largest genocides in the recent past. I am not sure how many people are accountable for this, but the least I could do is share what I know about the issue with the people who read this blog.

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

I for Innocence

She (A) is a lanky kid of 7, tall for her age. Big eyes, and a bigger mouth. She speaks a lot, rather she has a lot of questions. She can go on quizzing anyone of any age, gender and language on the color of their handbags, the vehicle they use, the places they like in Bombay, the food they most prefer and whether their momma allows them to have ice-cream, amongst other things.

Here goes a sample.

She: Didi, so have you finished college?

Me: Yes, I have, A.

She: What did you study? Maths or Science?

Me: (strutting like a peacock, figuratively at least) I have studied engineering and MBA.

She: Oh! You have done both…

(now I am getting uncomfortable)

Umm.. why did you study both Didi?

Me: I studied Engineering because my mom wanted me to. Then I did MBA because I wanted to.

She: Ok. What is the full form of MBA?

Me: Master of Business Administration

She: (mulls over it a bit) Ok. Ok. So you do business now?

Me: No. I work for blah-blah-blah company in blah-blah-blah role.

She: (looks super confused) But if you have studied business, you should do business na Didi?

Me: Erm.. well.. 

I try to keep conversations to books these days with A. It is safe territory, and I can at least Google the answers to questions I don’t know.

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

H for Heroes

Who's your favorite hero? Batman, because he is the silent crusader? Superman, because he is from Krypton? Spiderman, because his hands and feet can spin webs? Or, Ironman, the flashy, rich, hot boy?

I never read comics as a kid, so I never had a favorite hero, or super hero. The first time I fell in love with a superhero was when Nolan introduced the spruced up, wise crack cracking, ‘baritoned’ Christian Bale on screen. 

But, this post ain't about my super heroes. Nor is it about yours.

It is, rather, something inked in my memory, from primary school. Fifth class was really the most exciting of all of primary school, and something all of us looked forward to as fourth standard kids, for solid reasons really.

The first day of fifth class, I swaggered into the classroom, with as much self-importance as a vain king walking to the battlefield for the first time, with a shiny, new sword in his sheath. In my case, the weapon was an ink pen, and the sheath, the good old pencil box. Yes, the day marked an important transition – from pencils, erasers and sharpners, to the revered ink pen. Class started and I unleashed my weapon on the notebook. Only then, the battle began. Ink blotting across sheets, ink not flowing through the pen, ink splattering on my bright new white shirt. Ink everywhere, blue as the sea, smouldering in the storm. The evening I went back home is when the actual fury unleashed. Apparently, my lips were blue, and so were my cheeks. My mother spent some quality time scrubbing my face and hands and giving me a few “must-be-heard” scoldings, and then devoted the rest of the evening to bleaching out the shirt. Anyway, I wasn’t smart enough to ask her then whether she had been an expert with ink pens from day one!

After this fiasco, we had to look for some quick workarounds. The traditional ink pen, you would know if you are from that era, can be filled up only through an ink filler. An ink filler is this small tube like contraption that first needs to be dipped into a huge bottle of ink (huge bottles that would leak when opened, leak when kept aside, leak in general) and then taken very slowly and shakily towards the ink pen. By the time filler goes from bottle to pen, around 50% would be lost to the table or floor beneath, which ink can be used to make beauty art with hands or feet, that will then stay on forever like a tattoo (exactly like a tattoo, in a few minutes time you will realize the folly and try to wipe it frantically with anything available around, before mom comes with a tirade fit for two ears full). And then, the pen itself would not shut properly, will leak from the sides, from the nib etc. which is what leads to a fiasco (similar to the one that happened on my first day at school with the ink pen).

Ball pens were strictly prohibited in school, as it apparently hampers learning to write well (perhaps, all doctors learnt to write in their fifth class with ball pens). So, our nearest workaround was this, the Hero pen.

Have you used a Hero pen? He is the king of the ink pen community, comes with his own ink filler, where the nib can be dunked into a bottle of ink, sucking ink into the filler till it can take no more. No messy drops, no leaks, no blue lips or splotchy shirts, no fiascos. He truly was the hero of my childhood. I, in fact, had him in all colors – brown, black and green. The black was my lucky one, my exam pen. The brown one was my every day pen, my go to boy for math and science, and English especially. The green was one I avoided, he was the ugly duckling that I took out for classes and teachers I did not like, as a sign of my rebellion against them.

Unfortunately, despite all this practicing with the ink pen, my handwriting is exactly like a doctor’s. And, I did not even end up a doctor! Even my hero couldn’t save my handwriting I guess!

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

G for Grammar Nazi

I am a bit of a grammar snob. Rather, I am a self confessed Grammar Nazi. And I am not proud of it. 

There was this period not very long ago when I was relentless in my pursuit, correcting the English of all and sundry. It gave me pleasure, a sense of service to mankind, that I was imparting much required knowledge to the world. 

But, with time, I have come to realise how much of a double edged sword that is. I am afraid of speaking or writing anything lest it is wrong. And, I have this set of well meaning people around me (including the husband) who are ready to pounce on my slightest slip to put me in place. 

Also, I recently read some random study in the Internet that said Grammar Nazis are all psychopaths. It is another matter that I have also read "proven studies" on how important it is not to make one's bed in the morning (surely commissioned by the leader of procrastination) and how apple cider vinegar is the magic potion to lose those Kgs overnight (VLCC would have filed for bankruptcy by now if that were the case). Anyway, this psychopath thing has been bothering me. I am getting nightmares of me dressed in black ninja attire going around and meting out punishments to the Grammar slackers of the world. Though that does sound remotely like batman, I think I should focus this behaviour on nobler things, like correcting spellings or pronunciations, or perhaps, forgetting the language!

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

F for Friends

That's kind of a normal one, right? One of the first recalls when we hear F is friends after all. But what about those strange friendships that a girl can have, in a city like Bombay, the train friendship types but not necessarily on trains? What about meeting and greeting people in unexpected quarters, that leaves an imprint on the mind?

Driving can lead to such strange friendships, at parking lots especially, where guards and parking assistants and other drivers all want to help one park the perfect way. 

The other day, I was driving out of a parking lot in a hurry when the guard stopped me. The momentary halt irritated me, but his friendly smile was intriguing. I rolled down my windows as he walked up to me excitedly. “Madam, aap Haryana se hai?” he stumped me. I wondered for a second what part of me had prompted him to say that, and then realized that it wasn’t me but the car that had attracted such attention. I explained that I am not a Haryanvi, but just the proud owner of a Haryana registered car. Despite my lack of familiarity with his region, he spoke for a bit about his gaon and his family, more it seemed to himself, than to me. A honk from the car behind me put a rude stop to his reminiscence. As he snapped back to reality, I pulled out of there, haunted by the sorrow of his self-imposed exile.

There is so much to be thankful for in life, those eyes seemed to be telling me, as I got ready to bitch about the moron ahead of me, driving in between lanes at less than half my aspirational speed.

It is, indeed, an interesting life!

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

E for Everafters

What is "everafter", I wonder?

Happiness, sorrow asunder.

Is it peace, the mind at rest?

Is it closure, of what isn't best?

Or is it just a fairy tale, magic wand, stardust,

Poof! A vanish, as it must?

What is "everafter", I ponder?

Why do we lust behind what may or may not be yonder?

Change is alluring, a charming interlude,

It is merry and cheery, changes you for good. 

Change is inevitable, change is here to stay

It kills the everafter, don't wish it away. 

Everafter,

A constant chatter,

A steady song and dance,

A twist? No chance. 

How predictable, how boring

Where is adventure roaring?

Where is excitement gearing?

Where, where is the spice gathering?

Everafter is only empty chatter,

Not real, not any matter. 

It is a story well said,

But life is never a said story, is it?

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

D for Drivers

“Abhi high tide chal raha hai madam. Itna tez nahi jaane ka hai”, the driver critiqued an Audi A6 zipping through Bandra-Worli sea-link at well over 140kmph, while he ploughed his Santro at the prescribed 50kmph with clinical precision.

I nodded my head unconvincingly, thinking about all the times I have driven my puny i10 at 100kmph+ on that very sea link.

He didn’t mind my lack of enthusiasm as he drawled on about the correlation between high tides and wind speeds, the probability of cars spiraling out of control and damaging themselves and other cars, their hoods hanging precariously over the bridge, staring into the sea.

That’s the quintessential Mumbai cab wallah – a highly opinionated, imaginative, talkative aspirer. 

He has an opinion on pretty much everything, right from the futility of the new flyover at BKC to the effectiveness of Modi’s Government. He can talk about a wide variety of topics, ranging from the Visarjan schedule in Dadar to the Mother Mary festival in Bandra. He aspires to buy a flat in suburban Goregaon, while he owns one already in faraway Vasai. He drives all day and all night, through rain and shine, peak hours and peaked peak hours, highways and alley-ways, and bad roads and worse roads, because he has a vision and he is driving towards it.

Sometimes, I feel paltry in front of the Mumbai cab-wallah, me with only dreams of next month’s salary and innovative ideas of how to spend it, me whose vision is defined by the next big vacation.

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

C for Cook

Bleary eyed and still sleepy, I tried ignoring the door-bell. Once. Twice. By the third ring, I realized it was a relentless pursuit that I couldn’t wish away by burying my ears in the pillow. I pulled out my cell phone that was reflecting an unholy 6.40 am. Cursing all and sundry, I stumbled out from under the quilt and got myself to the door, only to see someone all dressed up standing outside, ready to barge into the house. It took me a minute to figure out who that was and when I did, my reaction was not one akin to grace or pleasantries. That’s Push, who entered our lives two years back, Push who doesn’t go by the time on the clock or the date on the calendar, Push who feeds us every day now.

“Aaj kya banaun (What shall I make today)?” is the first question I am thrown at by Push first thing in the morning. “Make some music and some cake, and a story to go with the flow,” I am tempted to say. Controlling the sarcasm and the irritation, I remind myself I need food for sustenance as I rummage in the refrigerator for something, anything, that I can dump into her hands and get back to sleep. Then she follows up with “Yeh kitna banaun (How much of this should I make)?” I bring out the measuring cup to measure out the lentils and then count out the veggies and the green chillies… And, by then, sleep has bidden me farewell, and I am left standing all alone with Push, Push who doesn’t want to be bothered by minor things like measuring out and making standard food for two grown adults.

I walk into the kitchen after Push leaves, to retrieve the outcomes of her battles inside. It truly is a war zone, like the ones they show on Troy and Bahubali. Serving dishes lie on the side counters, covered not closed. Bottles of masala precariously hang on to dear life from the edges of shelves. The stove looks miserably bloodied with chilli powder and tomato puree. Water drips from the tap in slow motion, singing paeans to the warrior princess who was battling inside. And the cupboards – aargh! The cupboards! They are all open, every single cupboard door is open, as if someone was escaping for dear life and had no time to reign in the mad horses. As opposed to her name, Push doesn’t push anything shut. She follows a completely open door policy, and would do exceedingly well in any new age company embracing an open office culture.

And, every single day, as I walk out of the kitchen with my breakfast in hand, I ask myself, “Why do I put up with her?” But, I know the answer to that one even before I finish the question. She turns up on time (unearthly early though that is), every single day. She doesn’t take an off, unless I force her to take a holiday for a festival, or because she is ill, or just because I need a break from her. And, her integrity levels are highly abnormal for a normal human being, so much so that I can trust her with a big barrel of mangoes and know that every single one of them will be accounted for no matter how many days pass. Although, I am sure they will all be rotten by then as she would have stored them in the cooler and not shut the door!

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

B for Books

What was your childhood like? Cricket on the street? Kho-kho within the compound? Eating mud? Yeah, someone told me that eating mud is a thing every kid does, apparently. The only outdoor game I remember ever playing goes something like "Delhi, Bombay, Madras, Calcutta". Beats me if I can recollect what exactly it was, but it definitely was a game played before these wonderful cities underwent name changes.

Most of my time other than this game were spent indoors, filling out the couch reading, rather, devouring books. I would clock at least one book a day during summer holidays, the TV ignored in a corner, my friends chilling out at their grandparents' places in the country. 

Looking back, I think my parents had it easy. All they had to do was take me to Landmark, the friendly, neighborhood bookshop (actually quite a large one), where I would buy at least 10 books at a time. No, sir, no. Libraries were not for me. I wanted to own my books, sorting and arranging them by author and genre, on the bookshelf in the drawing room. They didn't have to bother about me getting a sun stroke playing out in the heat of the vicious Chennai summers, or getting lost on the streets, or being hit by a motor vehicle on the road. Rather, I would assume they were bothered about my absolutely immobile existence.

This blog in fact takes after my favorite children's writer, Enid Blyton. I would spend the days imagining myself in a boarding school, moving up forms rather than classes or standards, having midnight feasts consisting of scones and plum cakes in the garden tool shed, away from the prying eyes of matrons and house heads, and living in the English countryside.

While years have gone by, and the books I read have become heavier, both in size and content, the love still remains, rather has grown. And, while my reading list has expanded to include Rushdie and Orwell and Vikram Seth and Khaleed Hosseini, comfort food still remains my good old English favorite countryside through the eyes of Wodehouse. Jeeves is the best, isn't he?

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

A for Apple

As a kid, I really hated apples. They were either too hard to bite, getting stuck in between my teeth or, so soft that they crumbled into tasteless powder in my mouth. And, there was no way of figuring out which one was what from the outside! 

But, as with many other things, I outgrew my hatred for apples with age. So much so that, I have been shelling out a fair share of my hard earned salary for apples over the years.

In 2012, I spent around 500% of what normal people spend on food in a month on just apple. In 2015, I think it was around 1K% of what an average person expends on food in a month. Oh, by the way, in 2005 and 2010, I cajoled friends into gifting me apples for my respective birthdays. Yeah! What a swing from hatred to love, you would say.

Wonder how much wider the swing from hatred to love would have been if Jobs had named it Coffee!

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