Random Sadness

Returning home yesterday night from a party, I saw this Tempo carrier in front of our car. It was piled high with drums, trumpets, bagpipes, and other band equipment. The person sitting at the back looked tired, while the instruments looked sad. Their moment of glory had come to an end, so they seemed to me. Probably I was equating it to my feelings of emptiness. Emptiness, I knew not why. Was it the fear of losing something precious? There was a premonition in the air. I sensed it coming. I had sensed it coming for quite some time now. I had told myself that I was unnecessarily worried. I had shied away from the obvious, hoping that by being oblivious I would succeed in avoiding the obvious. Life is so unpredictable; one day it puts you on the crest and one day you hit the pit. I had, I can look back and see now, been preparing myself for this day.

My balcony has a ledge; sitting on the ledge, one can see the lighted twists and turns of the highway, cutting across the darkness of the night. The traffic, threads of light, gets blurred and bind in a strange pattern of yellow and blue. They create a silently noisy BG for my vacant mind, while it wanders through eons of pensiveness. It’s a bit risky, sitting there on the 3^rd floor ledge, particularly with a body mass that has the potential to tilt the CG eternally.

We chase dreams, we walk those miles towards our goals, in joy and in sorrow, we live life. We chart routes, we plan days, we play safe, we take risks, we live life. On judgment day, what do we have in hand? We came with a soul, we leave with a soul. The last bit of thread that we acquired, we give back. Actually there is nothing achieved. Just as there is no work done, without any displacement. The net result of life is zero. We live life, as being born, we are left with no other option. We love, as being human, we are left with no choice. We lose, as with life that’s what is fair and square. The party gets over one day, the band packs and leaves, the threads of light blurs across the highway.

Through the Looking Glass

Relationship Lifecycle

It was a usual Saturday night party. We were slowly getting drunk, not necessarily on alcohol. Bad conversation, silly jokes, uninvited innuendoes, surprisingly can make your senses go inert, giving a heady feeling close to drunkenness. The difference is that this drunkenness leaves an instant after taste, bad and irritating. I was sitting isolated in a crowd, laughter floating all around. Brilliant people all; talent overflowing. The company could get no better. There was definitely something wrong with me. Even a few months back these parties would have been marked with anticipation. The kick was waning off.

Relationships are like fragile saplings. They need to be nurtured. Even the closest of them cannot be left to take their course. They need steering, they need that wind in the sail, and they need commitment. Surprisingly, even with all these, there are times when relations just live out their lives. Every person comes into our lives for a time; from a lifetime to a splitting second. I call this the relationship lifecycle. There is a certain pattern, predictable and uniform. A start, a growth, a peak, and a table. Sometimes relations freeze on the table-top stage. At other times, they slowly die. All our best efforts may be able to extend the table-top period, but rarely does it revive a falling curve.There are also the cases of table-top comfort zones, secure and uneventful. Thinking it over, I would rather prefer the entire curve, see a death, start with a new curve, and experience the relationship lifecycle to the end.

Walking That Extra Mile

In a country like India, where human woes are too great to tackle, animals often do not qualify to be considered within the limited resources.




This was last year; it was the end of March. Nagpur was getting ready for another hot summer. In the lane adjacent to our house, we noticed this little fellow. He was of indeterminate age; that he was no longer a puppy was clear, however, so small and thin was he that he hardly looked bigger than a puppy. He was of indeterminate sex, and could well have been a ‘she.’ He was suffering from some skin disease, which had led to a loss of his coat and left the entire skin exposed. Every few minutes he would roll on the ground in a desperate attempt to soothe the itching. He was miserably thin and whenever we went to the provision store, on that lane, we would buy a packet of biscuits for him. He was perennially hungry and the biscuits vanished before you could say, ‘slow down fella!’ However, this was not a regular ritual, as we went to the store at irregular intervals.

Slowly we graduated to feeding him daily, at night. He would be waiting and the moment he spotted us, he would come running, his thin body and long tapering tail moving in abundance. However, as March rolled into April and the Sun shone brighter, one day we saw that his entire body was covered with self-inflicted wounds. Rolling on the hot asphalt, he had scrapped his skin, and the bleeding wounds were now exposed to the heat and dirt and this caused more irritation. The situation could no longer be ignored. This was just not a hungry dog anymore. We just couldn’t let him die without some attempt to make him well. We consulted the local vet, who suggested a tablet that had to be given for three consecutive days. We started the treatment and after three days there was a noticeable change; he was visibly less irritated and because the scratching had lessened, his wounds had lost their raw look. The next week we were supposed to start with a medicated bath that the doctor had advised, as the second phase of treatment. We were away for the weekend and returning on Sunday night, I was too tired to venture out with Kalua’s food (he had been christened by then, the name a tribute to his muddy black colour). Thinking that the store-keeper would have already given him a packet of biscuits, for which I had left some money with him, I went to bed.

In the morning I woke up with a terrible dream; I saw Kalua running towards me, at his usual jet speed. Just as he was about to fling himself on me, I moved away. I woke up, feeling extremely guilty. I would have allowed him to do this, had he not been ill. I got up, got dressed and went out with some bread and milk. As I neared his usual hideout, I called out to him. When he did not appear, even after calling several times, the dream felt like a premonition. The store was not yet open, and I wondered around aimlessly, calling out at intervals, though I could feel that he was not around anymore. I started going through the list of possible options; he could have been run-over by the numerous speeding vehicles, he could have succumbed to the disease, he could have… I could think no more. By this time, the store was putting its shutters up and I rushed towards it. “Have you seen the dog?” I asked, taking the man by surprise. He looked at me for a few seconds and seemed to collect his thoughts, then as clarity manifested itself, he said, “oh, han madam; wow kutta na? society walo ne complain kiya aur muncipalty wale use uthake le gaye.” I was aghast. Where had they taken him, how will I ever find out? He was on the verge of getting well. If they terminated him, because of the disease! The tears swelled up in my eyes. I stood there helplessly.

I came home dejected. Why did I have to go away, I thought irrationally. The first few days were bad, as the dream played on intermittently. I tried to console myself in various ways. However, as clichéd it may sound, ‘time is really the best of healers,’ and soon I was showering love and food on the ubiquitously present deserving canines on Indian streets.

It’s been over a year. Kalua was history. I had not remembered him even once in the last few months. A few days back, out on my regular walk, the evening hot and balmy, I saw this exceedingly thin creature scampering towards me. He braked to a halt, inches away from me; a tiny face, black glistering eyes, a dirty fawn coat, the only thing that stopped him from being mistaken for a deer was the lack of stubs on his head. As I bend down to pat him, he moved back hurriedly and started his mad prance, all around me. Was this Kalua? No, it could not be. He was almost the same size. Surely, if this was Kalua, he would have grown, would he not? Suddenly the questions were not relevant anymore. I rushed home to get him some food.

Each House has a tale to Tell – Script your Own

Have you ever wondered why is it that you fall in love with certain houses while others do not appeal? Why is it that while passing through a particular stretch of road in your city, you look out for a certain house, just for the pleasure of seeing it? This is because each house is a visualization of your imagination – a story that you want to tell.
We were in Delhi then; a decade back. On bus route 481, I would wait for a certain stretch of tree-fringed avenue, looking out for a red-tiled house with huge Gulmohur trees that burst out in orange flames. The house reflected a joie de voir, which I, a stranger, passing by, could sense. How nice it would be if our homes could reflect that joy of living?
A friend, as good fortune would have it, owned a rubber plantation in Changanassery, down south. The one-storey wooden house, atop the hillock, surrounded on all sides by the plantation, was in a world of its own. The nearest neighbour, in daytime was not visible; at night a distant light on another hill-top let you know that you were not alone in this world. That house had tales that ranged from the funny to the scary. During Christmas, when the family congregated, the children often got lost in the surrounding woods, so vast was the estate. The huge teak-wood table, marked over the years by names of cousins, bore stories of noisy meal times. How ‘chachi’ ran all over the courtyard to catch the chicken for lunch became stories that got recounted over the years. The house had tales of its own and the people who lived in it.
When we moved into this city, I was keen on staying in a bungalow, an option that was not achievable in the metros. Our otherwise nondescript house became famous as ‘palm tree-wala makan.’ This was, however, not planned. When we rang in for home delivery, food or otherwise, we initially used landmarks such as known shops, nursing homes and the ubiquitous tutorials of the city. However, over a time, as we became ‘regular,’ the person at the other end of the line would invariable say, “woh palm tree-wala makan?” and we would eagerly agree, thankful that no more explanations were needed. Those seven palm-trees in the small patch of garden, struggled with each other for scarce water and sunlight, made us walk warily under them with the danger of a dry branch breaking off, but gave an identity to the 20-year old weather beaten house and to us, who occupied it for sometime.
Would it not be nice if your dream home came to be identified with your choice and liking, the fern in your garden, the splash of colour from the Bougainville that curled round your balcony, the ornate gate and Victorian lamp posts that adorn your garden?

Live with Human Connect – Create Happiness

There was once a bumblebee; he went on a long journey to find a mythical flower that would bring happiness to all. He met the ant, busy with work, unaware of the world passing by; he met the spider, waiting patiently in his web, he knew not for what. Then he met the butterfly; happy with every flower that it sat on. Why are you so happy? asked the bee to the butterfly. Because, with every flower I am celebrating life, said the butterfly.
Life is a journey and to enjoy this journey without thinking of the destination is what gives a sense of fulfillment, vital to happiness. Along this journey, every point is a small destination that you arrive at, a small goal that you achieve. The first bud of the rose plant that you had planted, the joy on a face when you say, “and how are you today, my dear?”; all are small goals in the journey of life, bringing you dollops of happiness that collect to form that ocean of peace and tranquility inside you. And this is what will make you a successful and prosperous person; one who has the ability to give.
To build our happiness quotient, it is important to build human connect. Community life has several positives, which in our present nuclear existence we have lost out on. Our home is just not the best ‘brick and mortar’ structure that money can buy. Our home is also the people who live within that structure – our family; the people who live outside that structure – our friends and neighbours. How nice it would be, if the environment outside the four walls of our house was as inviting?
The more we let the human connect grow, the richer we get in terms of our relationships, which at the end of the day is all we accumulate. And to let relationships grow, we need to come out of our personal spaces, our confined existences and extend ourselves to others.We are like this bumblebee; we are searching for a magical but illusive thing; some call it success, some call it prosperity and some others call it happiness. However, it is within us that lies the power to make the most of what life has to offer. Go for it now, build the human connect that is the ultimate quotient of happiness.

Age is Still a Number

Age, they say is a state of the mind. Till, which number is what I ask? For however young you may be at heart, the numbers do catch up with you, in one form or the other.

Two years back, in Bombay, gingerly crossing over to the new right-side of forty, I harboured the desire to sport a nerdy pair of glasses, which would also contribute to the allure of my age. I went to the doctor, who examined me (rather my eyes) and declared that my god-gifted natural pair would last me another two years. True to his word, on the gong of 42, I realised that I was holding my books at an arm’s length, literally not proverbially. I immediately took the steps to acquire the long desired pair of sexy, nerdy glasses and started wearing them with an air of importance, not uncommon to unimportant people.

The strands of grey hair appeared next. They came in the most un-orderly fashion, instigating unorthodox comments from the most orthodox people. I was not motivated enough to take the initiative of going to a doc; however, if I had, I am sure he would not have assured me that the state of things can continue for some more time.

Apart from these two signals, most things were fine. I was pulling along as bravely as a forty-plus Indian woman can hope to, reassuring myself that I was not to appear for the ‘Yummy Mummy Contest’; in which case the extra efforts would have been justified. But then Sandra Bullock made a mess of things. Seeing her in ‘Proposal’, I was ashamed to face the mirror. I loathed myself for being lazy. I urged myself to visit the parlour.

Now, normal men and women will not be able to understand my inordinate fear of a beauty parlour. I actually become a bundle of nerves, as I enter the parlour. Totally vulnerable and insecure, I have all sorts of deadly insects fluttering not only in my stomach but in every mentionable organ that exists.

But for Bullock, this visit would not have been possible. As, I mutter and stammer at the reception and manage to convey that I need to have a facial and a hair-cut, the constant urge is to backtrack through the door. The very helpful attendant provides me with a catalogue and asks me to choose form an array of confusingly named facials. From ‘fruit punch’ to ‘honey’ , ‘herbal’ to ‘fresh dew’, the choices do not remotely give me an idea of what I am getting into. However, the prices do. I decide to go the tame way, my feet already waiting in the vain hope that it can carry my body against my wish. I ask the very helpful girl. She enquires about my skin type. Though I am not very confident, I tell her that I have a dry skin, feebly adding that I have never had pimples. She smiles with great patience and lead me to the room, where for the next two hours she does everything, stopping short of a scrub with a wire scrubber. All the time she makes these sorrowful clucking noises that implies a range of emotions; horror, disbelief, anguish, remorse, and frustration. The stubborn black heads refuse to leave the sanctuary of my nose, and hard though she tried, she managed to dislodge the apex of my olfactory organ but not the black heads. I stopped short of screaming, primarily because it was my fault that the black heads were permanent residents. She massaged successive layers of packs on my face; some smelled like strawberry and I had to restrain the urge to lick around my lips. Some tasted like a Bong concoction known as ‘sinni’, which we usually make, as an offering during a puja at home. Some titillated the senses with the earthy smell of wet soil and was erotic to say the least. Each time she would apply a mask and disappear for eternity, or so it seemed with my eyes protectively closed with wet cotton, against the harsh reality of the world outside. The piano chords that drifted in, was so soft that more than once it lulled me to sleep. Then the scrubbing started. Lying there, having surrendered to the process, I dreamt of a new ‘me’ surfacing from this rigorous effort. After almost what seemed like an eternity and when I had practically given up hope of respite, she declared that I was done. Collecting the pieces of my cramped body, I tentatively peered into the mirror. What a shock! It was the same old me, only redder and more harassed, that started back. I was as surprised to see myself as my image was to see my surprise. What had I expected? Sandra Bullock waving at me?

So, though I laugh a lot, love a lot, and cry a lot, I still need my dentist, my glasses, and a monthly ritual at the dresser to make me ‘look’ young and not just ‘feel’ it.

Living a Fantasy

Only a handful of us can bring our fantasies to life. However, once they do, they lose the sublime feeling of that fantasy. Others grudge them without comprehending this loss; they do not realize how important it is to carry on with this marijuana-like stupor. We sometimes outgrow our fantasies, like old clothes; sometimes they are laid threadbare from overuse or damaged in accidents.

Remember the time when as a little boy, you were resting your chin on the dirty window-sill of the train; getting warned against sticking your arm out and wishing that you could stick your head out; the wind blowing into your face, the slightly acrid smell of burning coal turning your throat itchy, the curling black smoke tearing your eyes and crusting your lips, and the piercing whistle conjuring dreams of far-off places.

I used to dream, as green fields, moss covered ponds, neat mud houses, half-clad children, swimming ducks, flew by my window. I saw the twig-chewing shepherd boy lazing under the breezy shed of a cascading tree, or a group of them hollering on the backs of dirty buffaloes, and thought if I could.

So many times, quaint little railway stations, tucked away in nooks of this vast land, beckoned me enticingly. Their red-tiled roofs, the patch of garden, with bright oranges and sunshiny yellow marigolds, flaming red or soft pink hibiscus, and flaring magenta bougainvilleas, whispered sweet nothings. How many moments have I spend thinking what it would be like to get down at one of these places? The fantasy changed content, though not purpose, as I grew up. While the child wanted to ride on the dirty buffaloes, the youth dreamt of bringing sea-changes in that unknown place. The dreams slowly included a friend, a soul-mate…

Where were you then? I had seen you so many times, the faceless face of my imagination. In all those time zones that I crossed, you were always on the edge, urging me along. You came but always as someone else, hiding yourself in the mist that separated one time zone from another. I looked for you and I found you in parts, scattered in the lives surrounding me.

It’s funny how fantasies merge; the house of my dreams was always by the sea. Today, it still is. The waves, relentless, mesmerize me with their rise and fall that is unpredictable and at the same time unchangeable. You never know where the next wave will rise from, but that it will rise is for sure. There is a sense of security in this. The sea is like a living being, active, vibrating, turbulent, and unpredictable. As the water recedes and you walk into the ocean, it feels like walking into your lover’s arm.

Will you come here? Will you walk with me in the morning sun, our naked feet tracing patterns in the soft wet sand? The warm water silently kissing our toes and melting away from the very touch; will you be there holding my hand, our souls silently communicating? The wind tousles your hair; you know I love to tease it, passing my fingers through them. Your eyes shinning with laughter, you deny me that simple pleasure. Our slippers hang around your waist, a warm surge floods my heart and those silly tears threaten to swell up. I turn my face and silently flick away the first drop. You come around and fold me in your arms. Nuzzling my face deep inside you, I stop existing.

Breakfast is just ‘bread and jam’, “eggs and fruits’, I holler. It’s healthy and it’s fast. I hate to cook for survival, I explain. You know I am being lazy. ‘With the amount of exercise that we are doing’, you say, pointing mischievously at the crumpled bed sheet, ‘you need real food, darlin’, not that tame stuff’. I know you love this tame stuff. I am the one who drools on fritters. You make me my oily delectable, sit with your sad looking jam sandwiches. ‘Are they good?’ you wait with the apprehensions of a new chef!

We laze around; the clock hands are broken for good. Our phones have been put to death. It’s just you and me and the open blue sea.

Just being near you is so tranquil. We drift in and out of a hazy slumber. Our toes touch and we curl together. Our bodies are like jigsaw pieces, which automatically slots themselves in pre-assigned positions. The picture is complete, the story has begun.

We walk back into the dusk. I pull your head down and taste the salt on your lips. Your cheeks are cold, your eyes wet, and my lips feel them all. You pull me close; I melt as you crush me against you.
‘Goodness me, don’t you soap your back? What a tramp’, I stare aghast at the black, soapy water running down your back, carrying away the dirt and grime of your nomadic existence. You try to foil all my stoic intentions by running your fingers along my spine. You lips trace the curve of my breast to rest at the tip; I shudder in pleasure.

It’s one of our favorite flicks, one which we have seen innumerable times. We watch it together for the first time. I refuse to let you watch the way you love it; curving forward in rapt attention, your eyes cringed, your lips curving in a smile, sneer, or scowl. I arrange the cushions behind you, dim the lights, and switch the player on. Then, slowly I slide myself, between your legs, settling comfortably against your chest. We settle in blissful togetherness, drifting off and away from the world around us, wrapped in the magical web of the movie. I do not know when the sounds of voices fade away in the background, leaving us in the throes of muted passion.

I know you will not be there, for you love me too much to break my Marijuana-like stupor. Just keep my fantasy alive.

Singland, LA?

19th Dec, 2008
My first international trip (hopefully there will be more) and true to its reputation the Air India flight to Singapore was late. The international lounge had nothing international about it; the once plush leather sofas were torn, revealing forlorn looking foam that had seen brighter days. The metal bins stank of stale coffee and tell-tale red stains, which left me wondering how pan-chewing gentry were allowed in the first place. However, the wait gave me ample opportunity to observe other waiting passengers. There were few holiday groups; papa, mummy, chunnu, munnu, the smaller kids were getting crankier by the minute. There was no decent food available inside. Coffee was 30 bucks and small slices of cakes cost 50 rupees. I did not have the courage to ask the price of the Pringles pack, the only other eatable on display. The cleaver people (read frequent international travellers), had packed delicious food packs, and the smell of ‘dal puris’ and ‘kachodis’ made life miserable for the hungry hordes. The tired people (read infrequent travellers or first time travellers, who had no idea about what they were getting into and had arrived by 6 in the morning, as requested in their tickets) had pulled up an extra sofa and retired, snoring in the knowledge that the airport ground staff would lift them bodily into their flights, if needed. So, not one of the clever people, and presented with limited choice, I had coffee sans anything solid, I slept, and I people gazed. I saw laptop-carrying monks, burger eating South-Indian pundits, and sari-wrapped Iscon devotees. The world was truly becoming global!

The flight was finally announced three hours late. I actually saw people rushing with their hand bags. I made way for them, a conceited look on my face; little did I know that these were the same clever people. On the flight, the tired looking staff gave their over-used smile, their eyes saying, ‘get along fellows, and make it fast to your seat’. As I slowly made my way towards 23F, I was suddenly aware of a commotion ahead. A hostess made her way, jostling past the queued up passengers; passengers seemed to be fighting over seats. It seemed like in a local train or a long-distance bus. I realised why the clever people were running. The hostess managed to settle the problem with the dexterity of one used to it and when questioned by one gentleman, said, ‘the flight comes via Dhaka, na!’ I will not say much about the food served; I reminded myself that Air India was a cheaper option. Fortunately every person on board was ravenously hungry and more than full justice was done to the food. Every crumb of the sad looking patties disappeared without a murmur.

All the miseries of the past few hours disappeared, as I looked out of the window. A bed of white fluffy clouds spread below me. It looked like the most inviting place to snuggle up and rest. Soon the clouds disappeared. I suddenly realised that I was looking down at the Sunderban Delta region. What perfection nature presented! Each river, its tributaries and distributaries were drawn out in strokes that were nothing short of brilliant. The clarity of it all was a cartographer’s delight. How smoothly the rivers curved and met the ocean. The balance was undoubtedly divine. At that moment nature was the sublime presence that I held in reverence. As we left the coast behind, the shimmering blue brilliance of the Bay of Bengal stretched to the horizon. The blue of the sky and the blue of the ocean were one. While the blueness hurt your eye, the water just below was like a stretched brocade sari, golden shimmers rippling in the wind. We flew over the water for a long distance, sometimes along the coast. Then the clouds blanketed everything, and I went off to sleep. As we neared the coast of Singapore, nature was challenged by man. The perfectly manicured gardens on one side, the harbour dotted with boats and ships of all sizes, and the high rises outlined against an azure sky, were tribute to human skill and brilliance.
Changi International Airport was simply awesome. The expanse of terminal 1, soothed by green stretches, soft music, helpful airport staff, easy to follow directions, and a process oriented system was easy for the most uninitiated traveller, like me. I cleared immigration, collected my baggage, and found my son waiting outside the glass door, just as he had promised.
20th Dec, 2008
Today, I got my first real feel of Singapore. We took the Savannah Condopark bus and went to the MRT station. Abhi got me an EzLink card worth 15 dollars. I will be able to use this not only for the public transports such as MRT (train) or SMRT (Bus) but also to buy merchandise. I became quite an expert travelling along the travelator. It is basically a horizontal escalator, to make you walk faster. At every step you realize how easy life has been made for the citizens. No wonder people get accustomed to this and don’t want to leave this country. We first went around SMU, particularly the School of Economics, which is Abhi’s school. Since it was vacation time, the school was devoid of its usual buzz. The building, classes, study rooms, library, and the professor’s lounge and rooms were a perfect set-up for an academic environment comparable to the best universities in the world. Just across the street from SMU was the Kopitium (Food Court). We had delicious chicken rice and pork rice. Yes, I have decided to have non-veg for the time being. It was 6 in the afternoon and we got movie tickets for a 7 pm show of ‘The day the world stood still’, at Cathay, Singapore’s first movie theatre, which started before the 1st World War. Since there was still an hour left for the movie, we went around the Cathay mall. The mall housed a small gallery that exhibited old Cathay artifacts such as the projector, the reels, the old film posters, old photographs, the red wooden seats at the theatre, and numerous other memorabilia. Unfortunately photography was not allowed. Abhi was just picking up his mobile to click one (we Indians never change), when we saw the lens of one of the numerous camera pointing towards us. We abandoned the plan and took a free brochure instead. As malls go, they were all same, with their display of branded products, the glitz and glamour heightened by the coming festive season, and teeming with weekend browsers, most of whom like us were having ‘a look around’. The movie was funny. Never have I seen such a badly produced movie, particularly an English one. We laughed hearing Keanu Reeves speak Chinese. After the show, we went to the nearby Plaza Singapura, another mall, again fully resplendent in Christmas lighting. Here an exhibition of books and DVDs was going on. We checked and DVDs were available for 5 dollars. We have planned to check it out on the last leg of the tour, when we know how much money we have left to splurge, if at all we do. We had our dinner at Mc Donald’s and caught the MRT back to Semei.
If I have missed out commenting on the local people, then it will be an injustice to this perfectly designed place and its perfectly designed local population. They, particularly the fairer sex, come in compact models with hour glass figures, black straight hair, and strained un-smiling faces, as if the entire burden of the world lies on their fragile shoulders. They look like clones dressed differently. A Chinese (the highest percentage of Singapore’s population), who is fat, is a rarity. As I watched them heaping their plates with food at the Kopitium, I wondered how they could possible eat that much and still remain stick thin. Another of nature’s wonders. The men are also cloned versions bearing a serious, bespectacled look, and you wonder if their parents know them from one another of if they can make out between their parents (obviously by looking only at the face). Thinking differently, we may appear as similar to them, when they look at our dark and brown figures, loud and emotional, always bursting at the seams of our passion.

21st Dec, 2008
I now know why Abhi feels suffocated at times. Radhika’s entire family is very good to him and as his mom I am being pampered. Today we all went to Radhika’s dad’s house. Her brother’s family also leaves there. We had a sumptuous lunch of idli, dosas, dahi wads, mirchi bhajis, halwa and ice cream. The way I am eating or rather being forced to eat, I will put on 5 kilos, if I am not careful. After lunch we went to Mustafa; it is huge, and has everything under one roof. We had a look around, while Radhika bought her essentials. I plan to go back and get some bulk items from there. In the evening Radhika’s dad took us all out for dinner at Rafael’s Hotel. It was one of the best Chinese eateries in town and we had some exotic Chinese veg; spicy and sweet and sour tofu, eggplant veggie, crispy rice and sweet and sour soup, noodles, and a mushroom and asparagus with broccoli. After dinner we went up to the 70th floor (the second highest hotel in the world) and saw the dazzling lights of Singapore; right from the Merlion, to the Big Eye, to the harbour, Orchard Street and some of the big hotels. It was amazing. Then we went for a drive along Orchard Street with its brilliant Christmas lighting.

22nd Dec, 2008

Sentosa (peace and tranquility) it was todayJ we went out at 11.30, and reached City Hall station by MRT. Walking the streets is a real pleasure, and does not tire you at all. We went to the Excelsior Hotel and confirmed our booking for the Sentosa trip. I picked up all the brochures on display and Abhi said I was behaving like a true Indian, going for all the free stuff. I agree, though there was foresight involved. It was the latest tourist info and would be helpful to others as well as me, if I was required to write about ‘Singapura’. Once through with this, we went to the Funan mall; it is an entire mall with electronics goods and you get the latest stuff here. Just going around the mall was fun. We checked out some cheap music players, and promised ourselves to come back, if we had money left after all the other shopping and going around. (Btw, if you have noticed this is the same promise I am making to myself every time I fancy something.) In the mall itself, we suddenly saw this Indian/Bangladeshi/Pakistani guy sitting on the floor in one corner and having his rice and curry. It was so typical, and for a moment I could actually understand why people from the sub continent were hated, as they were. We spend a good hour at Funan and decided to get a KFC burger meal ($ 3.60 – A burger, mashed potatoes, and a coke) to carry for lunch. Since there was still some time left for the bus to start, we had our meal at one of the numerous outdoor sitting places, opposite Raffles City. We finished our lunch and walked back to the pickup point at Excelsior. Accustomed to travel in India where a tour group would typically consist of an overwhelming number of Bongs, Gujjus, and Mallus, this was a welcome change. It was truly an international mix. We were given stickers, which said we were the Sentosa group of SH travels. Celina, our tour guide, welcomed us abroad the bus and we started our journey to the cable car station, with her calling our attention to the sites of the city. There was a long queue at the cable station but it was quite enjoyable to observe others. Before getting into the cable car, groups were asked to pose for pictures, and the system was so fast that in one minute flat, even before you had got into the car, the picture was framed and displayed for you. If you did not want to spend the 20 dollars then a polite ‘no’ was all you had to say.
The site of Sentosa from the cable car was awesome. There is lot of construction happening on the island at the moment. Universal Studios is coming up with a theme park and Singapore is opening its doors to Casinos (albeit with some restriction on the local people). Our first stop was the Underworld Sea. Though it is a fish aquarium under the ground, you got the effect of travelling under the sea. Huge fishes swam all about you (not below you), as you stand on the travelator. Abhi took a lot of videos and we hurried out to the bus, which took us for the Dolphin show. There were sitting arrangements all around a large water body. The show started. There were three dolphins and they performed amazing tricks. They performed dances, flips, somersaults, played with balls, and also kissed three volunteers from the audience, who went into the water. After the show, we went to see the Merlion. It is Singapore’s emblem; a figure with a lions head and a mermaids body. There was a lift inside the Merlion, which took us 10-storey high to the head area. Our last stop was for the event ‘Songs of the Sea’. We sat in a semicircular arena, beside the waterfront. The show was actually a light and sound show combined with laser beams. It spoke about a simple story about a princess who had fallen asleep only to be woken up by the sweet voice of a village boy ‘Lee’. The show combined fabulous coordination of light, sound, and clever use of laser beams with water sprays, and fireworks. It was a total technological marvel. The show was over by 8.30 and we reached home by 9.30.
23 rd Dec, 2008
Yesterday’s hectic travel and long sitting hours spelt the worst for my tail-bone, which wanted to script its own tale. Gave a break to Abhi and my tail, took a couple of panadols and slept late. We went out around 2 and headed straight for the 24-hour shop called Mustafa. Today was totally for shopping. After Mustafa, we met Radhika and Rajiv (of course Raheel in tow) at China Town. Again we shopped; I sat on a trishaw for a photograph, and eat a local delicacy called ‘bread ice cream’ (a scoop of ice cream inside coloured bread, to be eaten like a sandwich). Since Abhi wanted to take me for a dinner of Chicken sambhar rice, Radhika dropped us off at Katong. After a leisurely meal of this exotic local food, we walked around Katong, saw a few malls and then took the bus home. I was thrilled to ride the double-decker and experience the SMRT travel.

24th Dec, 2008.
Christmas Eve and the sky is overcast with rain clouds. We will leave later in the day. The plan is to browse round the town area, City Hall, Bugis, round the malls, look at the displays, avoid any purchase but one – Raheal’s T shirt. Abhi is not keeping too well. He has a cold, and I know how awful he feels; so the very fact that he is out, shows the effort that he is making. We roam around for a while, sit for some time and generally soak up the atmosphere. We still have not bought anything for the kid, as I found nothing that suited both my taste and the price I was ready to pay. I get two watches for R and B, fake and $6 each. Don’t know how long they will last, but since they are not too costly, I picked them up. By the time we are hungry and ready to eat, it is 5.30. We get some non-veg snacks from the 7/11 shops (You find them almost one every mile, they are open 24 hours and have good offers going on certain things. So, if you are lucky, you sometimes pick up good value for money). Then we came to the Kopitium, in front of SMU, and Abhi ordered two chicken and rice meals. They are for $3.60 and include a bowl of steamed rice (very tasty), a plate of chicken slices (cooked very light with some vegetables) and a bowl of soup. We eat heartily and sat their relaxed and satisfied. At around seven, we headed for the MRT. We were going to Orchard Road to watch the Christmas lights. We change MRT; the whole atmosphere, right from the time you take the escalator, is different. As we come out of the station, we are swallowed up by the flow of Christmas crowd and have no option but to follow them. However, before we let ourselves go, there is a pending task. We go into the Wisma Atria on Orchard; fortunately we like something at the Gap shop. We pick up a t shirt for Raheal. Job done, am relaxed and we walk out into the streets again to find that it has started to drizzle. Nonetheless the crowd is boisterous; families, friends, everyone is out on the streets. We are actually walking shoulder to shoulder on the footpaths, while the streets glow with candy pink lighting. The shops and malls and hotels and cafes on either sides glow like lighted Christmas trees. The bread-ice-cream vendor doles out this typical Singaporean delicacy. The hottest item this Christmas seems the Santa Cap clip that both men and women have on their head. They are for $5 and the rage this season; coming in gold and red these tiny cap clips really look cool. I start taking videos, my camera in one hand and clinging on to Abhi with the other hand. If I get lost here, I will probably be able to make my way back home, but then I don’t want to go into that hassle. I quickly decide on a contingency plan, in case we get separated. We walk for over a mile, along with thousands of other people. Tomorrow (Christmas day) Orchard will be closed to traffic and then one can walk on the street itself. The lights seem to glow and blaze in an unending strip. We turn around after sometime as we have to take the MRT back from Orchard station. The MRT station is very crowded, so is the train. We have to stand, as seats are all occupied. At Semei, I tell Abhi to take a cab, as I can see he is feeling ill. But he says he can make it. So, we walk back home.

25th Dec, 2008
Merry Christmas! We wake up very early and Vishakha (Radhika’s ‘man Friday’), is up and about. She has made tea for us. She will leave for mass and will be off for the day. We leave after I have tea and Abhi has his Panadol in warm water. He is in a better mood. The sky is still overcast but it is not raining. We take the 8 a.m. Savannah bus. We buy some chips from the 7/11 store at the Semei station, Abhi gets his stick of Vicks and then we catch the train to City Hall. We are there in time and the tour bus comes at 9 a.m. We are going to Jurong Bird’s Park. As the bus heads west, the streets are empty, it being a holiday. We reach by 10 a.m. On the way we pass by numerous factories. The Jurong area has almost 1000 factories. The Singapore Mint is also here. 10 percent of the population in Singapore lives in Jurong. Our tour guide Karen explained, how the ongoing economic crisis will affect asset-rich Singaporeans, where a lot of them will have to downsize their standards. Singapore is coming up with casinos in a big way. They are due to open by 2009 and 2010. However, in view of the depression that is affecting global economy this may not be a very good time for them to become operative. Singapore had 10 million tourists in 2007 and 2008 has not crossed that figure. Though Christmas day is not really the day to discuss such dismal situation, the topic comes inevitably into conversation. We enter the birds park and start with a panorail (a monorail) ride, which takes us through various points like Lory’s Loft, Flamingo Pool, The Dino bird, etc. But before the train ride we enter the special Penguin area, where an environment suited to house birds accustomed to arctic extremes, have been created in this tropical country. I have never seen live Penguins, and they are very cute. They often cry out loud, giving an eerie feeling. Some of them swim in the water while the others stand in groups. I get so caught up, taking videos that we almost miss the monorail. Lory’s Loft, where we alight from the train, is a huge netted area, where parrots and macaws of all colors are flying around. You can buy some bird food and they then actually sit on your hand and have the food. The birds seem very used to human visitors and are totally unafraid. We finish with the loft and then start walking around on our own. First we head for the Birds and Buddies show. This is an extraordinary experience. Birds right from macaws, parrots and vultures have been trained to do so many things. The birds fly very low over your head from one point of the open auditorium to another. Their trainers are positioned at various points. The show starts with a band of dancing flamingoes, all bred at the Jurong Park. They accompany the show conductor to the arena, and their graceful walk, complimented with delicate flapping of their wings to the music gives the impression that they are dancing. Two Macaws play basket ball (they have to pick four balls, one at a time, and put them into miniature baskets). The two birds, Barry and Cocky, have teams of spectators supporting them. We support Cocky and cheer him loud. Cocky wins both games and we applaud. The Macaws also do other very nice tricks. Volunteers are picked from the spectators and the birds go and sit on their arms and eat from their hand. We are asked to hold up money and a gentleman who is in the middle aisle is selected. He folds a $10 note, twice over, and holds it in his outstretched hand. The bird flies down to him, takes the money and returns to the trainer and drops it in his pocket. Later he takes it again back to the man and puts it on his palm. Then comes the hoopla-hoop show. Members from the audience hold up hoops and the birds fly through them. I pick up my hand and get selected to hold the hoop. Abhi says it is ‘Paisa Wasool’. After the show, we walk around the Flamingo pool and other areas. We are back at the bus by 12.30 a.m. and head back to the pick-up point.
Abhi is hungry for the Chili crab that he has planned for today’s lunch. It’s going to cost us a bomb but what the heck. We head for the pier, which is lined with numerous eateries. There are sea-food joints, Indian eateries and English pubs. We select one of the sea-food places and order two mugs of beer. The medium crab costs $75. We hardly have all that cash and Abhi goes to withdraw cash. We have a sumptuous lunch. The crab is mammoth and I am scared thinking of the amount that I have to eat. We are made to wear thin plastic aprons, so that when we break open the crabs we do not get stained by the juices. Dressed such, and armed with instruments that resemble pliers and plus, we start the adventure. We are so engrossed in the whole procedure that we forget to seep our beers. But it is fun. There is a Russian family sitting close by and they are also struggling like us. They drop the instruments and start with their hands. We also do the same. It takes us almost two hours to wade through that crab curry. Every moment I wished that Rintu was here; he would have enjoyed and made full justice to the food. Our bill came to a whopping $107. We could hardly get up after over-filling ourselves like that. We dragged around for some time and headed for the SMU sitting area. Here we slept on the wooden benches, our heads resting on the desks, and our tired bums resting on the chairs. And even in this uncomfortable condition we dozed off; the beer and crab settling down. Around 5.30, we refreshed ourselves at the college washrooms and walked back to the Excelsior pick-up point. Our bus for the night safari left at 6.15. The tour guide, Peter, explained the concept of the safari, and told us to be back at the bus by 10. After we reached the place, we got our tickets for the safari and joined the long queue waiting at the tram station. There was a tram car every 5 minutes, so it was not very long before we were seated on one. The tram rolled out of the station and immediately the night calm and silent air surrounded us. As the tram made its way through Indian jungles, Asian riverine forests, Amazonian rainforests, Hills of Burma, the voice of the tour guide briefed us on the animals that were there at a stone’s throw from the tram car. We saw rare animals such as the ant eaters. Rhinos, hippos, tigers, lions and hyenas, they were all there. After the tram ride we went on the Leopard trail. We saw a baby Leopard climbing the tree. We went to see the free flying fruit bats. They flew down quite low. Quite a few of them were feasting on the fruits that have been hung on the trees. It must be quite sad hanging down and eat; but then they may look at us and have the same feeling seeing us walking upside down. Apart from the fact that the safari was a unique concept, what struck me as enterprising was that each animal had been adopted by some corporate or moneyed individual. Right from Standard Chartered to Quality Walls, to Tiger Balm, they were all there. After this we went for the fire show. This was also quite entertaining and was basically a tribal show, with all sorts of displays with fire that looked quite risqué. By then we were just too tired and went back to the bus. We reached home by 11.30 and dropped into bed.

26th Dec, 2008

We chilled at home till around 5 in the evening. Matthew had invited us for dinner at the East Coast Seafood Centre. It was on the beach, and looked similar to Bandra Bandstand. We had a sumptuous dinner. However Matthew has changed a lot. He has grown up and not the talkative boy I remember. The place also had Singapore’s first rail ski place. Here instead of speed boats, an automatic overhead wire line speeds you across the water while you hold on to your ski board. You get dunked once in a while, but it’s safe as you can swim back. Later on we took a walk around the place, and Matthew dropped us off at Savannah.

27th Dec, 2008

There was a movie, a trip to Mustafa, and a visit to Clarke planned for today; and everything went according to the plan. We left at 4.30; Malav, Rahil’s cousin, came along. We first went to GV to see Australia. I loved the movie, so did Abhi, though both of us felt that the editing could have been crisper. This movie has a big chance to make it to the Oscars. I am glad that I watched it (each ticket is $10) for Nagpur will never have it in the theatre. After the show I and Abhi went to Little India, while Malav went home. We collected the GST form from Mustafa, exchanged money and then went to an Indian Biryani place. The food was good and Abhi said, ‘nothing beats Indian food’. After our meal we took the MRT to Clarke; this is Singapore’s clubbing area. Since it was Saturday night, it was chock-a-block with people. Youngsters, office goers, tourists, they were all there. We saw some belly-dancing; it was happening in the open. Went around the place. It was quite late; we took the night bus (the no 12 according to Abhi is the magic bus as it goes everywhere). When we reached home the family was still up. We started chatting; Rajiv and Rahil went to bed. Radhika, me and Abhi chatted till 4 in the morning.
28th Dec, 2008
My last day here. It has been a grt trip, an eye-opener in many ways, and an opportunity to see Abhi as an adult. We went out in the evening to roam around east-side; Semei is east side. We had coffee at Starbucks. Another dream fulfilled. Dinner was at Mittal’s place (she is Radhika’s elder sister). There was Afghan food in the menu and another first for me. Took the recipe of what looked the easiest.
29th Dec,2008
Will leave in sometime. Abhi has gone out for an interview. My bags are packed and am ready to go. Pray to God that Abhi has a very happy and long life.

Fall

RJ aj bollo, bayire khub thanda
Tayi kancher bhitore theke o 'patjhar' dekhche.
Lal, holud, patkele, ki garho rong , ronginer thekeu beshi rongin.
Jano Van Gogh er tulir uddam anchor,jano angul diye rong tule lepe diyeche.
Jodi amon korte partam,
bocher er shara malinno, glani, oboshonnota, erokom bhabe jhoriye dite
protekta pata shesh bindu kanna ta ke chokher kone theke, moner tola theke muche nito.
Kholosh take mele dhortam, sheyi tomar dike duhath tule.
Buk bhore nishash nitam, nitam tomar theke 'positive energy',
Sobuj patay abar bhore jetow amar dal gulow.
Abar banchtam , jemon bar bar tomay bishash kore.

The Story of Four

This is the story of four people whose lives cross for a moment in time that occupies a blink and miss period in the bigger scheme of things. However, for them it became an infinite moment scaring them for the rest of their lives. When I say scaring them, I necessarily do not mean it in a negative sense. I do not want to use the softer ‘touching them’, as the impressions, good or bad, went much deeper.

It all started with an innocuous meeting, was followed by intermittent telephone conversations, then more regular ones that almost became like a bad habit topped with considerable dollop of expectations. It was a friendship that developed from similar thoughts and traits, a friendship that precariously hung on that razors edge that thinly demarcates the concepts of closeness. The relationship not only lasted but flourished, given that both friends maintained an unwritten code of conduct that refused to let a whiff pass by. The fire smouldered, hidden, its glow warming two lives. Maybe this was too pleasant a situation to last.

The other two people, in this story of four, slowly got acquainted. All four of them now met regularly, they laughed, they had late night discussions, and they thought life would go on. Fate, however, decided to step in. In life, we often feel emotions that go beyond the accepted norms of society. How far and how much we let those emotions overtake our logical senses, is decided by our individual sense of appropriateness. One of this people, in this story of four, stepped beyond that norm of sensitivity. Why did he do that is a question that will go unanswered for the rest of the time that they live; But what happened, because he did, is what I will be telling you.

Suddenly lot of things revealed itself in its true perspective. The person who overstepped was surrounded in a ring of fire that engulfed not only him but burnt all the other three. A man of his repute was faced with the ultimate dishonour of life. The woman, who tried to be his friend, fell from the exalted position that she had created for herself and maintained throughout her life. Would she ever be able to regain her confidence when it came to dealing with the world? But what happened to the original two friends, in this story of four? Could the man accept that his wife felt differently towards another man? He had once said he could. But faced with the reality of situations all his original and liberated views fell flat. It was an unbearable situation for him. His pride was hurt. His perceptions about himself were broken. He explained frantically to his friend. He said it is not the thought of his wife getting close to another person that is bothering him. He reiterated that it was her denial of the truth that was responsible for his anguish. His friend tried to understand. But somewhere things did not fall into place. She could almost see through him. She was stunned into comprehension. Her husband’s thoughtlessness and insensitivity had not bothered her as much as her friend’s change. How was she to deal with this disillusionment? How was she to hide her own emotions that till now she had willingly shown to him? Who was the worse off, in this story of four, is debatable. Each one got scared; each one built their own defences. Each one, I pray, will emerge from this, if not unscathed but stronger. But will I?

After an initial hiatus, the rains are here with a vengeance. Drenched clean of the summer squalor, the leaves hang wet and fresh. The tree outside my window has this bright red flower (in Bangla we call it ‘krishnachura’). The lone cuckoo seems to have lost his sense of time and season, calling out loud over the pitter patter. The parched land lets out a sigh; an earthy smell wafts through. Memories flash by, totally unconcerned of my ability to handle them. Did the earthy smell do this? Or was it the cloudy sky, the water drops hanging on the petals, or the impending reality of meeting ‘him’?

I was stuffing my books hurriedly into the cloth satchel that all of us owned. There was no time to check the routine and everything had to go in. The Wren and Martin slipped my hands and fell. I bend down to pick it up and there beside the open book, lay a black and white photograph. I looked furtively across the room, where baba was reading the newspaper. He was too engrossed in the political bedlam, to notice. In a way good, I thought. I quickly put the young man in his rightful place, at page no 101, and the book in the bag. Just two minutes left for the first bell at 9 a.m., so I had exactly four minutes to reach school, park the cycle and rush in before the 2nd bell. I zoomed out and jumped on the Hercules that two years back had belonged to Riju. He had outgrown it and now officially the battered contraption was mine. I raced the old trusted war-horse across the fields, taking the muddy short-cut. Water splashed and my white kurta immediately spotted the muddy marks that ma would have a tough time with. Never mind, I thought, will handle ma later, when the time came. As of now, I had to make the 2nd bell.

Was there something missing in my life? At 56, I was well established, known and respected. My husband, bless his soul, had been a pillar of support and encouragement through those tedious years of struggle. In-laws, parents, children, siblings, we managed all. There were tensions, confusions, harsh words and tears. There were moments of joy, euphoria and camaraderie. I had lived a life as complete, as I could hope for. Now, left with myself, my work was the only presence that I desired in my life. Or so I thought. What was happening today? Why was I going back to some insignificant instants? It must be the programme, I thought angrily. I had called up Riju on Sunday, and told him about the television discussion, I was to be part of. It was on ‘influence of western classical instruments and how it has contributed to modern Indian music’. I was not particularly excited about it, when the organisers had called up. I had casually asked about the other participants and came to know that ‘he’ would be anchoring the show. Did I sound nervously excited when I spoke to Riju? Whatever it was, Riju as usual was quick to spot it. ‘My goodness he is still so much in you’, he exclaimed.

My mother used to spend most of her time defending my escapades to irritated neighbours, and of what was left she insufficiently divided between housework, taking care of three kids (thankfully her other two children were model specimens that friends, relatives and neighbours admired) and pampering a much-dependent husband. ‘Rinki is a monkey, all she lacks is a tail’, was what she was used to hearing. ‘Rinki is a monkey’ was what my godly siblings said, when I had exasperated them enough, to break their saintly demeanour. Unperturbed I continued, with all the naughtiness unsuited to a 12 year old.

Today I had woken up quite early. I need not have, as I was to be at the studio only at 11 a.m. After my morning tea, I went though some details I would be keeping handy and referring to, as the discussion went on. I did not feel like having breakfast. I was feeling oddly excited. I sat on the recliner in the balcony, my seat of solitude. I was going to meet him today, in person. All those intense moments of unrealistic adulation, fantasy, passionate desire, that had grown and assumed a realistic proportion, only to be ridiculed and snubbed, came back.

I had seen him, or rather his movie when I was thirteen. He was an upcoming talented name and the Bangla film industry was waiting with bated breath to see him make his place (or be wiped out). I caught my breath, as he looked into his beloved’s eyes. Something flipped inside me. The pain was so physical; I could almost touch it. His eyes looked straight into my heart. I, who was the local tomboy always dressed in my elder brother’s hand downs, regaling in the trousers, when my friends walked around in dainty frocks. I, who refused to grow my hair from the fear that ma would tie it up in the ubiquitous plaits that was the fashion of the day. I, who played with boys in all their rowdy games, never viewing them as more than necessary nuisance, I, ‘Rinki the monkey’, was experiencing a totally alien emotion. What was this feeling?

Just couldn’t decide which saree to wear. Should it be some heavy silk? Or printed georgette that can give me a slimmer look? I had almost emptied my wardrobe, before sense prevailed! What was I doing? I was behaving like a teenager on her first date. This was sheer stupidity, I chided myself. I selected a simple cotton tangail, and looked at the clock. Gosh! It was late! Quickly, getting the rest of myself presentable, I asked Ramen to take out the car.

People at home, thanks to Riju, came to know of ‘him’. Initially everyone smiled, indulging my feelings with a sage nod. ‘It would be over in a month’, said baba. ‘Thank God, Rinki is behaving like a girl’, ma heaved a sigh of relief, now confirmed that my sexual inclinations tilted towards the ‘normal’ paradigm. ‘Rinki has gone mad,’ said Riju with the decided authority of a nerdy 15 year old. But a month went by, a year, then a few years; I turned from a gawky adolescent to a young woman, reasonably good looking, poised and individualistic. Quite a few of the men, with whom I interacted academically or socially, were interested in an association beyond mere friendship. I wanted to get interested. But they all looked mere boys. Where was the man I was looking for? The only man in my mind was ‘he’. People at home started getting irritated, as I refused young men who were good husband material. Baba was disgusted. ‘This is going too far’, was his response. Ma was at a loss. ‘This girl has given me only trouble’, she complained. Riju gave me quizzical looks, perhaps the only person who could understand my emotions to some degree. ‘Do you really think that you will ever meet him, forget getting acquainted?’ was his incredulous reaction. I did not care. I could not see beyond him. What could I do?

I was sitting in front of him. The other two participants had not arrived. The steam from the coffee mugs created a mist before my eyes. Outside the rain was pouring incessantly, drowning the world away. Despite the years the dimpled smile was still so true. He was saying something to which I nodded vaguely, as I remembered those sultry summer afternoons, my room in the attic, the whirring of the old table fan and me with my face deep inside my pillow; my anguished love releasing itself, away from prying eyes.

How could I make them understand that it was not an adolescent obsession? It continued well beyond those formative years when people fall in love quite regularly. I never missed any of his movies, read all the magazines that even as much breathed his name, kept tab on him like a jealous lover, dressed as if he would see me, grew up as he would perhaps like me to be and realised that I was totally in love. It did not matter that he would never know of my existence. I loved with an abundance that was all consuming. My studies did not get affected. For all the while, I was preparing myself; as if getting ready for the day that I knew would surely come.

He would be almost 68, I thought. He wore a trendy pair of spectacles, the style icon even now, I thought, as my face broke into a silent smile. He noticed it. ‘You are smiling, is it something I said’, he asked. ‘No..ooh’, I stammered. He was not happy with the answer, but being the gentleman he was reputed to be, he continued with what he had been saying. I was in turmoil, I so wanted him to hold me just once. This was insane, we had a live discussion coming up, an audience waiting and I for one was not going to lose my cool.

I surpassed the expectations of my family when I went abroad for my doctorate. That’s when I met Rathin. Ours was not a whirlwind romance but a rather unequivocal decision to get married. Riju was the only one present and could just about keep himself from shouting, ‘Rinki the monkey is married’. We completed our studies and our honeymoon and returned home to a life of responsibilities. Riju for one heaved a sigh of relief now that my ‘idiotic infliction’, as he called it, would be gone. I too thought the same. However, this was not to be the case. It did not help that Rathin was a movie buff and to add to it, an ardent admirer of ‘him’.

The discussion went about quite smoothly. It was interesting; we had a knowledgeable audience. Sparks flew, but all for a productive purpose. He was a brilliant actor but not quite good an anchor and at times one of us had to take the reigns in our hands. Once it was over, our producer invited us over to the studio canteen for lunch. One of the participants excused himself because of a prior appointment. We had a lively lunch, all of us high from the success of the programme, and a few beers. ‘He’ was laughing heartily, talking of incidents that would make excellent copy for any writer; teasing our producer for playing safe with staid discussions, such as this, were there was no way one could create heat. In all this banter, Romi, the other panellist and an old friend, suddenly quipped, ‘Rinki has been a fan of yours for as long as I can remember’.

Even when I was with Rathin, I would find myself thinking, what if this was he. I chided myself for such un-wifely thoughts. Rathin was a good man, responsible, caring. What more did I want? He was a good father, an excellent provider; I was so lucky. Why was I so occupied with a presence that if known would make my world come tumbling down? There was no answer; all I knew was that I loved him insanely.


He stopped in the middle of an anecdote and stared at me, a surprised smile on his face. I felt my ears growing hot. This was so ridiculous. My well-kept secret, shared only with a very few people, was laid out in public and in front of the very person who had ruled my entire being from the day I have come to know myself. I managed a cool smile and said, ‘Romi, he has millions of such fans, who worship the ground he treads on’. He was looking at me with those eyes. I felt all my secrets were nakedly visible to him, a miserable hip of unsheathed emotions. ‘Yes, there are fans but rarely a fan whose books I admire so much,’ he said. ‘You have read my books? You are interested in musical instruments? You know about me?’ the questions tumbled down, toppling over each other, in my haste to ask them. He was saying something but I was deaf to it. The buzz in my ears was pure music, ‘he knows me, he knows me, even if only by name, he knows me’.


Rathin came to know of it. Once, submitting ourselves to our desire, I had screamed out his name. The world seemed to stop. Rathin was very understanding. Oh! How I wish he was angry. He was unaffected. Life went on, as if it never stopped. I dreamt of him more and more often; it was he who made love to me, he who sat by my side, he who read the first draft of my books, he who criticised and commented, he who drew me to him kissing my lips hungrily, it was he who did all that I wished Rathin would do.

‘Of course I have read your books. You were in Brazil for a workshop, right? Will you be writing on African American music, this time?’ he was asking. ‘I don’t know, I have some ideas that are taking shape, but I want to ponder on them for some more time before seeing what direction they are taking’, I replied. Romi had got up to take a call while our producer was busy ordering the dessert. He looked at me and said, ‘why don’t you give me your number? I would love to talk to you more… ’. Everything in my world stopped, as I heard myself, ‘9922……’.

An Experiment

The London ‘Tube’, a survey says, is the place where majority of Londoners fall in love. Creative pick-up lines such as, “I forgot which way I was going, which way are you headed for”, abound. Other than a place to build your repertoire of pick-up lines, snooze and make up for incomplete sleep, or a thousand other activities that travellers do, it is also the hatching ground for love, young or old. Having said this, the obvious question is ‘why so?’ And the obvious answer is how else do you expect human beings of opposite sexes (and same sexes for the differentially endowed) to behave when put together in a room on wheels, the doors to which open at long intervals and from which you will not walk out, unless it is your preferred destination. So, obviously people fall in love, travelling the same route, with the same faces and at the same time.

The same logic perhaps holds true for ‘office romances’, touted as the most ‘in’ thing of modern work hours. So, basically when two people spend quite some time together, there is a high probability of the possibility of their falling in love.
Now, suppose as a matter of research, spouses (not swapped but ‘officially’ own) are placed together, under congenial laboratory conditions, can same results be assured? If so, then what an ingenious way to bring that glow back in marriages that has lost their shine from over-use or under-use! The only point, however, is if only spouses agree to be put together.

The Sweetness of it All

What goes around comes around. The saying had never held so much meaning as it does now. It’s uncanny the way every action, every thought and every word is getting repeated. The same cycle of emotions, denial, rejection, anger, heartbreak… how ironic. Whatever I had said one day, all that someone had complained about, all my justifications and all their judgements are getting repeated. The only difference is today I am at the receiving end of what I had doled out one day.

I do not feel any anger, but there is a strange sense of satisfaction, as if I have been absolved of my sins. My tears have wiped away my wrong doings, in a way no amount of punishment could. How light I feel! Every day, each action is like a stab in my heart, the pain so sweet, as it fills up the veins mixing with the blood, choking me. I am not a sadist, but this gives me so much pleasure; as I thank God for this opportunity to redeem my pile of guilt, I feel a little frightened. I am ready to take more, so that the equation is balanced and there is no leftover to affect the people dearest to me. Please God, let the account be balanced and closed, never to be opened.

The funny thing is being on both sides of similar situations, I took such a long time to accept that change was inevitable, all that was there was then and all that is here is now. I took such a long time to realise the tell-tale signs. Was it denial? I do not know. But now the way things are, suddenly I jerk up and sit straight, and see everything so clearly. Why is it that when we are on the receiving end of a situation that is to our disadvantage, we always ignore the inevitable? How clear it was to me when I was sending the same signals. How I loathed the person who never seemed to understand what I was telling, quite clearly through my actions and words.

This had to happen, what had gone around had to come around. It’s a balanced world. No action can go without a reaction. How grateful I am to be able to go through this torture, for this opportunity that destiny had handed out so benevolently.

What If...

Standing there in front of her, I went back all those years. I was deliberating; I did not know how to answer that simple question, “how r u?” I wanted to say I was fine. I had a lovely wife, children, and a happy life. But somehow her question was not looking for these answers. I could feel it; she looked at me with those searching eyes, trying to answer the unanswered. I remembered those eyes; from years that were so far back in time that they seemed to belong to someone else.

That evening we had found ourselves, alone, in her room. I was going away the next day and she said she wanted to show me something. The rest of the household resided in an expectant hush, waiting and hoping for something to change. The day before, I had said no. No, to a marriage proposal that had made its way across the myriad channels of relationships that linked her to me. She had not believed it. She, who was the belle of the ball, the cynosure of all eyes, every young man’s dream. She had chosen me and I had refused her. I, who was practically an out-of-town nobody, still struggling to juggle my studies and a part-time job. As she sat before me, I knew she wanted to ask me all that was going like a storm through her confused mind. I felt a little afraid. I was not very adept at handling women, far less situations as delicate as this.

She looked at me, her eyes searching mine. It was then that I gathered up all the courage to tell her that my circumstances did not allow marriage, at least not at the moment. “Tell me yes, and I will wait. I will wait against all opposition. But I need to hear it from you.” At that moment commitment was the furthest thing from my mind. And to be fair to myself, I was not really in love. Or more correctly, I really did not feel anything that can be akin to the extreme emotions that one usually associates with love. How could I commit? I had to think of my younger siblings, who were still in school. My father already retired, pulling a decently sized family on the strength of his pension and my meagre earnings. I told her it was not possible. That she should find someone more suitable to her status. She sat there, still looking at me, her soulful eyes still searching for the unanswered truth, if any.

I came back the next day. I left her town, never to return again. And I left her memories, never to think back. At least that’s what I had thought. But, what remained were those haunting, searching eyes. Later on, I had thought many times, what if I had said yes, what if I had asked her to wait, what if…

Now as we stood, facing each other, once more those eyes were asking me something, hoping that the answer would be different from what my face so easily reflected. “I am very happy. I have a lovely family. After all this commotion is over, I will take you home to meet them.” She had come to attend a cousin’s wedding and I happened to be the cousin’s friend. We had met after ten years. We had never been in touch after that day. Our distantly related families thought it best to keep us from each other, lest our marriages be affected by even the whisper of a past association. “How are you?” Before, she could answer, I knew it. Her eyes said it all. “Well, I have a rich husband and a good life.” “Are you happy?” The moment I asked that, I regretted. What right did I have to ask if she was happy? She had wanted happiness from me. She had made no bones about it. And here she was standing here, in front of me, stripped of her poise; her emotions disarmingly at my mercy. It was so plainly there in front of me. How can I be so cruel? What did I expect to hear? Why was I looking for the unanswered “No”? Would that give me some sort of satisfaction? Would the feeling that someone’s happiness was and is in my hand, make me feel like God?

No, that was not it. I was not that sort of a person. I wished everyone a happy life, just as I wanted my loved ones to be happy. I just wanted to flow along with the rhythm of life. I had not done any harm to this woman in front of me. The woman, whose eyes were still brimming with so much of love, that it made me look away. We stood there, as time went by, each in our own thoughts, each in the other’s mind, each thinking, what if…

On The Journey

I could see her as she made her way up the rough terrain. She seemed to be competing against herself, trying to leave the group behind. Look, I can make it faster and better, she seemed to be saying. It was not as if I was part of the group either. But, what happens in journeys such as this is that you start together, and you try to keep together in a bid to end together. It’s what nature, particularly when the going is tough, does to you. So it was with us, the motley group of people, on our way up the tough mountain trek to attain spiritual salvation or to celebrate with nature’s glory; each to his own.

I had noticed her, rather her long hair, which lay plaited like a thick black snake, literally long enough to encircle her delicate waist. Was she beautiful? That’s a question for the beholder to decide. I was caught in the black depths of those far-away eyes. Now, before you get any thought about my desirous intentions, I have a point to clarify. She was a woman, a rare species in the given circumstance, a defiant image of shy boldness, her face a fleeting image that did not give you time to consider her beauty. So, it is, but obvious, that she stood out, in that stark landscape.

Now, why I noticed her was a little more and beyond these obvious reasons. At times, we had stopped at precisely the same instant, within a metre of each other, resting on the rocks that lined the deep gorge. Though this sequence of events was random at first, it became more planned, as the group thinned along the way. I had the feeling that she was trying to keep an assuring distance from me. Not too close to send any signal, yet not too far to risk any danger.

I was feeling quite tired, and stopped at the first tea-stall that had appeared like a divine intervention, after what seemed like miles. I watched, as she made each tired step around the bend in the road, her flushed face set with dogged determination. Slumping on to the rickety wooden bench, she looked up. Our eyes met, and those dark pools melted into their depths. Quite a novice in matters that concerned women, I hesitated thinking of an appropriate reaction. By the time I smiled back, she had turned away to order her tea. We sat sipping the milky concoction. Back home, this thick variety would not be taken sportingly, where tea meant flavour and liquor. The tea was quite hot, and as she blew into it, the vapour rose like a mist and veiled her face. She did not attempt to speak, and I was left with my unspoken words. I wanted to know her name, ask her why she was alone, and where she had come from. She gazed across the valley to the faraway mountains that stretched along unending, range after range, as far as the eye could see. I did not want to interfere in her solitude.

The tea-stall owner seemed a more agreeable person, and I started talking with him. I noticed that she was listening to our conversation. Since, I had heard at the bus stand about a short-cut that would be much faster though more rocky, I asked Mangu Lal about it. “Han sahib, hain na! Ap thordi age jao tow, bayen taraf thodi chadai mein ak rasta gayen hain. Ap aramse ek der ghante mein pounch jayenge. Par apko us raste mein khane pine ka kuch milega nehi.” Considering this bit of information, I was tempted. The rest had revived me a little, the smile of those dark eyes had created a ripple and I felt a little adventurous. Suddenly I saw her getting up, the empty tea cup and the two rupee coin was placed on the table. Before I could give my money, she had started. As I walked to catch up, suddenly I was plagued with the though that she knew I would rush after her. Her confident steps, as it vanished round the next bend, resounded with the knowledge that I would follow her.

She turned back, hearing me call out to her. I had to shout, as she was about to take the right-hand road. Seeing me hurrying up to catch her, she waited, blinking, as she faced the sun. I tried to organise my thoughts, as I walked towards her. “This left-hand road would be faster. Mangu Lal was saying. I am taking this way. Would you like to come?” She hesitated, as if letting the information and the proposal sink down to the depths of her realisation. I felt confused. Was it such a big decision? Then suddenly, she shook her head to signal a negative answer, and took the longer, familiar, well-travelled path. As I took the up-ward turn, I saw her vanish around a bend in the road. I felt low, not because she had not come with me, but because her eyes had clearly said that she did not trust me or my intentions.

As I trudged along, I found myself trying to reason out the thoughts in her mind. The situation presented itself to me, as she would have seen it. A man asking her to accompany her on a lonely road, in a desolate area; it was unnerving. I dismissed the thought, as I slowly got immersed in the surrounding beauty, the trickling waterfalls and the stray wild life. I reached in little more than an hour and went straight to the lodging house.

Next day I saw her, as the long line of devotees meandered along the narrow path. I adjusted my camera, as I focussed on the beautiful snow-capped peaks. Suddenly she was walking beside me. “Hello. I was planning to start early morning, tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

The Ritual

He was working in the field, when he sensed her going towards the makeshift shower. Without turning his head, he could tell that she was picking her way carefully, wary of the rough gravel. Her anklets were whispering, as if afraid to break the quiet of the morning. Carrying her fresh clothes in one hand, the other hand swinging her tightly plaited hair; she made her way, furtively glancing in his direction. This was their daily ritual.

Her hand tentatively drew the curtain, in an attempt to block out the bold rays of sunlight that struggled to make its way through the crack in the door. She could see his strong arms; brown and wiry, as he deftly cut the bamboo into long strips. She knew he was watching her, his eyes hungry, a look that made her shiver in excitement.

Taking off her clothes, she remembered she had to hurry, there were people coming home. Her hands, however, did not show any such urgency, as her fingers moved caressingly over her body, taking off each piece of garment in a languid movement. Was he watching her? Shameless fellow. She moved her eyes close to the crack. He was no where to be seen. Where is he? Did he go away? Her eyes searched the sun-swept fields and suddenly he stood up, from where he had been bent down in between the bamboo shrubs. He faced her, as he stood there bronze in the golden sun, the sweat drops glistening on his bare chest. She gasped and moved away. Had he seen her? Did he know that she was looking out for him? Her body scorched hot even as the cold water ran down.

They had finalized an alliance with their son, the people who had come the other day. She was getting married today. As she walked towards the shower, carrying fragrant oil in her hands, she looked out to see where he was. He was not to be seen. Maybe he had not yet come. She was a little early today. She decided to oil her long stresses while keeping an eye on the crack of the door. A thousand golden rays spilled in unapologetic ripples over her bosom as she untied her blouse. Where was he? Why was he late? Had he gone somewhere? Perhaps, another woman? She couldn’t bear the thought. But why? Why was she waiting for him on her marriage day? She herself would be gone in a while, never perhaps to see him again? So, why was she holding her breath in anticipation? Why was she looking out for him?

Her husband’s cousin was coming today to help with the harvest. Her husband was not keeping well and they needed an extra hand to tide away the busy months. She looked up from where she was filling the water pots, as the horse drawn tanga stopped before the house. He was standing their, as bronze, as wiry, and as strong as she remembered him every night. The future no more stressed out like an uninterrupted monotonous line, the ritual would continue.

Hey! It's Just Another Story:-)

She did not remember when she fell asleep. The pillow was wet with tears; the pillow into which she sank her face, every night, trying to shut away the pain. It was so physical, this pain; it felt as if someone or something was twisting her heart. She moved her hand over her chest trying to lessen the pain. She wanted to sleep, fall into a slumber that will take away all the memories, so that in the morning she can wake up with an empty slate for a heart. But life usually was not so kind. It did not let you use an eraser quite so liberally.

Why does it happen sometimes that you are faced with a situation that you have always dreaded? She was not prepared for this, nor was she waiting for it. She was there, whiling away her time away from the noise and chaos, in this sleepy corner of the world. She had not gone out holding her heart on her hand. She had not asked anyone, nor permitted them, to have a peek, discover what they wanted to discover and then pull her along. She was laughing through the labyrinth of life, just as she had promised herself that she would. She could'nt help when a disquieting feeling engulfed her, from time to time. But everytime she rose from that, fighting, gasping, but live and kicking. She had learnt to take care of her emotional needs.

It was then that he came. Like a messiah. She saw a friend, a person who had time for her. Her days took a new turn, waiting for the hands of the clock to reach that position when the phone would ring. She would finish all her work and wait for that time. She would keep everything aside and wait for that voice. She would dread the time when he would say bye. Time would fly. The seconds, minutes and hours would merge into a dream, removed from the reality of time and space. All that mattered was feeling each other intensely across the invisible barriers of the world.

She often wondered, now, why had he come all of a sudden? He of all people, who had the most satisfying and content life, as one can ever hope for? There was no void in his life that needed filling up! Why did he wake her from her slumber, why did he make her want to flow against the tide, why did he say to her, “tell me once, what I want to hear.” Today, every moment she remembers that one single line, that soft oh so soft voice, and all she is left with is her own tears.

They were both burning with the heat of desire, a passion so overpowering that all barriers seem to crumble in its force. It was a ring of fire that beckoned, with mesmerising intensity, even if it meant lives charred for eternity. There was no way either of them could escape it. So, it happened one day. As they came close, fate took over. An insignificant instant from the past, a story of indulgence that left nothing in its path, came between them. Was she trying to be honest? Today, as she looks back, it feels like the hands of God. But she saw that light die in his eyes. As he moved away, she knew she had lost him.

Why was a physical encounter, without love, so important to him? He had loved her, had he not? She had trusted him, had she not? No, he did not go away, which perhaps would have been easier. But he moved away, sheltering himself behind a wall of work, responsibilities, ethics and morality, unreachable, shunning her like dreaded disease.

She complains. He explains. Love is a one-way traffic, if “I love thee what’s that to thee?” He tells her that there should be no expectation. He tells her anything can happen in the future. He tells her that even if nothing exists between them from this moment, can they not live with what they had? All so true, all so sage, all so logical. But she can’t understand such profound thoughts. If all this is true, why did he risk what he had? Was it all a game, played in the spirit of adventure?

Did she deserve this? The question haunts her all the while. She is grateful for these moments they shared. Grateful? Is that the right word? Many years back, someone had said, “love is an illusion.” She had thought, what a cynical idea! Today, it seems true. To be in love with the idea of love. The expectations, the fantasy’s, the waiting and the wanting are somehow more pleasant than reality.

The day he said that he had lost everything, she knew that he meant his family. That day something died within her. The will to flow against the tide.