Dream On.. Till Your Dreams Come True

Remember that dream you had? The one that was so totally real that it couldn’t have been real. It was unrealistically real. Yeah.. Thats what it was. Where you could see it all, hear everything that was said, feel every emotion - in limbo- as a third person would, overly clear; sense things that couldn’t be sensed otherwise. And then you cried because you couldn’t handle the extent of the emotions passing through you.

It happened to me too..

It is past the mid of night. There is nobody around. Only darkness. There is a slight breeze, doing nothing to help the heat. Intense heat. Dry heat. There is too much of it, it is stifling. I can feel it gnawing at my flesh, trying to make me succumb. Yet I do not feel hot. I do not sweat. It is under control. Just a matter of concentration, thats all. It is as I was taught - using the flame and the void. The picture of the flame in my mind’s eye, unwavering. To that I feed all emotion - pain, anger, discomfort, happiness, everything. A calm takes over, and I become distant from all that is around, yet at the same time I am more acutely aware of it all than before. Except myself. I can’t remember who I am.

There is a house in front of me. It is important in some way. Something that I must do inside it. I need to look for someone. I don’t remember who. I walk towards the house, moving effortlessly, gliding more than walking. I see someone in the garden and move towards him. He is the one I have come for. I enter the garden. I can feel something amiss. I know that all is not as it should be. The breeze is there no longer. There is complete silence even though he is talking. All I can see are his lips moving. I cannot understand it.

My clothes are black. Pitch black. Black breeches, black boots which come up to my knees, and a long, black, woolen coat on top. It is buttoned right to my neck. My hair is long, and black; it falls to my shoulders. My face is fair, my eyes - black stone. A light beard covers a face that looks like it has been carved from rock. I smile, but it does not reach the eyes. There is pain there. Too much of it.On the left breast of my coat there is a symbol, carved out of precious metal. It is a terrible creature, real as life. Four short legs with razor sharp claws; a long, lizard-like body, a majestic head with its jaws open in a roar, showing dangerous teeth sharper than knives. It is as golden as the rays of the Sun.

It is my Standard.

It is the Dragon.

It all comes back to me. I remember who I am. A sudden memory of the Power shoots through me. I know now why I’m here, and what I need to do.

I hear a sound. I realize it must be coming from quite a distance; my hearing is amplified. I can hear the animals. I know the sound. Darkhounds. A whole pack of them. Pitch black in color, each the size of a calf. Saliva dripping from their jowls. The creatures of the Forsaken after they escaped from Shayol Ghul. They are in a frenzy, and will attack anything in sight. Each drop of saliva is acid - eats through skin. I do not understand why I know this.

They are slowly but surely moving toward their target. It cannot be another.

For some reason, I do not run. I know I will not. I feel no fear. I don’t feel anything. I feel that I should. Logic does not work. There is only one way out. My best friend. My worst enemy. I close my eyes and reach out to the True Source. I can feel it coming to me. The Flame and the Void. There is nothing else. I open myself to the One Power. It hits me like water from a tidal wave. I can feel it ravage me like a storm. It is familiar, yet like a stranger; one I know really well. No amount of preparation makes me ready for the rush. It fills me, completely. I’m no longer my self - I’m bigger, inside. My veins throb with anticipation. The streams of pure energy traveling through my body. I’m more than Alive; I am hypersensitive to everything around me, I am calm. I control it all.

I smile. Saidin and I are One.

I know it is not possible, I know it has not been done. Ever. But I know I can do it. I know that I Will do it. I know that The Dragon was Reborn to bring about Change, even to bend Reality, as it exists. I control Saidin - the male half of the Power: my greatest foe, and my best friend, without which I cannot live. I use it to weave flows of Air and Spirit. The weaves are complicated, and take a lot of energy. I feel the familiar taste of sickness that is so characteristic of Saidin. I feel like retching, but I know that I cannot stop now, or I will not survive. My head cannot take the power of the True Source. The taint on Saidin is stronger each time I open myself to it. The weaves are ready. I concentrate. I can see Reality fighting the weaves, a stubborn wall which refuses to go down.

The wall goes down. I can feel the change already. The Dragon has returned. I begin to rise from the ground. The weaves are causing changes in everything around me. Lightning flashes all around me, as Reality puts up a final resistance to Saidin.

Everything slows down. The Darkhounds enter the garden and charge at me. I rise just above their heads. The effort is too great. Beads of sweat start to form on my face. The flame in my mind flickers. I know that I have just done the impossible, using Saidin. I know that I should have been burnt by it, and my body turned to ash. Yet I am still here. And I need to fight.

I am bigger than Saidin, I am who I was meant to be, I am The Dragon Reborn. Slowly but steadily turning mad.

I know I cannot hold myself in the air much longer. I’m using too much of the One Power and I cannot draw more to fight the Darkhounds. I start descending. Instantly, they charge towards me. I hold on to the Source, and think back into the depths of Time, willing myself to come up with an answer. I feel my mind stretching, I feel my body pushing itself to its limit. I cannot do this much longer.

I know.

I remember.

Lews Therin tells me. I unleash Saidin with a fury such as I never have. I feel the Old Power at work. A beam of white light leaves my hand and shoots towards them. They do not stand a chance. The light is alive. It is pure energy.It is Living Death. It penetrates everything in its way, reducing it to less than ash, wiping it out from existence altogether. It is a weapon of the First Age. Balefire. Something no Aes Sedai has used in over two thousand years. It lasts less than a second. There is nothing left. There are no Darkhounds. There is no garden. There is no house. There is nothing.

All is Black. Only I remain.

It is over.

Why is it that Dreams are not ‘Real’? What is Real? It is said that a dream is ’in your mind’ and therefore cannot be true. I ask you this, is the dream not frightfully real, when you’re in it? It is not impossible to snap out of it? Do you not feel extreme emotions while dreaming? Do you not laugh and cry while sleeping (ONCE in a while)? And if you DO wake up thinking, ‘Oh my god, that was so real!!’ then what is to stop it from being real? Who says that it did not happen? I know I weilded Saidin. I felt it filling me, and rushing through my veins. I felt the One Power, and used it as a weapon. I unleashed Balefire on those Darkhounds, and I felt drained and nauseus when I let go of Saidin. I know that with it, I could’ve done things I can’t even imagine, and some I can. I could have brought her back from the other side. The Dragon could. And I was The Dragon Reborn. Yet I didn’t. Because that was the way it was Meant to end.

What we easily dismiss as dreams are as real, if not more than what happens around us in the waking world. I refuse to believe that it did not happen. I have died, and I have felt what its like to die. I have felt what its like to be shot through the stomach, to be gutted with a knife, to be slapped in the face by my love, to be able to bring a person back to life.

And it is Real.

And it is Over.

Cows on Ice, and Others..

Nov 4th, 2006

There is no pain, you are receeding

No distant ship smoke on the horizon..

So here it is.. Another two weeks, another session comes to an end. This one is a little tricky. The bunch refuses to put in any effort at work, but are more than enthu otherwise. Following one short conversation where I told them that I enjoy a Single Malt now and again, they present me with a bottle of the stuff on the last day, and make me think about whether I actually behave like an alcoholic. Also, they decide that we must bond, over food and booze, and that On Toes is the place, Juhu being the targeted zone. What chance do I, but a lesser mortal have?

Thus we set out, me having picked up Pumpy from the zone of the to-be-condemned, the e-learning room (though the kind of things that one learns there leaves a lot to be desired, yes siree). After a quick smoke downstairs, I get Ea from the garage, and Pumpy clambers on. We thump out-the-gate. Five seconds later she almost has a heart attack, and from there on, every minute includes a delightful onset of palpatations, followed by a shriek, everytime the brakes are hit. She be unsettled, and to put it in a wise man’s words, “as awkward as a cow on ice!”

She ’sits’ on the brink of falling, fretting and fuming, and just when I’ve kind of calmed her down, my true love, Ea gives up on me. And then it begins..

At some point on the longest road in the city, (not to mention ‘while I was following someone since I didn’t know the way’) Ea shuts down. And she is not easily persuaded to come back to life. Pumpy isn’t too happy to begin with, and now she’s definitely gonna do something drastic.. I dunno .. maybe hug someone. This calls for serious thought. I check Ea quickly and professionally, with the look and touch of someone who’s been doing this for years. I check the ignition, the battery, and exhaust pipe, and carburettor, and my mind, by my phenomenal powers of deduction, manages to decipher the problem in a short 3 minutes.. It says,

‘Give me fuel, give me fire, give me that which I desire.’

I nonchalantly express my thoughts on the matter, suggesting that a little petrol wouldn’t really hurt at this point. So we start walking around looking for a fuel station. Pumpy says she’s never walked down this road before. I tell her I haven’t either. Adventure is always good. Change, the only constant. Do not expect, for it is futile. Just live. Period. A five minute rickshaw ride, and we’re there. Pumpy is forced to hand over her Aquafina bottle, thankfully its empty. We quickly fill it, and return. Five minutes later Ea still shows no signs of Coming Back to Life. My powers of deduction start hinting that something may be wrong after all.. And just then, she returns! She speaks.. God Damn it.. She ROARS!.. And Pumpy and I are off again.

Here I am, on the road again

There I am, up on the stage

Here I go, playing star again

There I go….. Turn the page

The stop has taken about twenty minutes, and my poor trainees in the car ahead are still waiting for me, bless them. I stop for a quick fuel top up and we’re on our way to Juhu.. WOOHOO!! It is a pleasant ride, save the occasional bump on the road which causes certain hyperactive-i’m-shitting-bricks-type-individuals sitting in close proximity to make the bike almost capsize. We pass the Big B’s house, and she pokes fun at how small it is.. Maybe Robert De Niro could do better. We compare property rates in the US and our city. We talk about issues, and I tell her about this incident when I was a child (and at the risk of sounding like a complete fool, ‘I had (not!) a fever’)..

*Blink*

So I was on my way to Delhi from Chennai, I think. Must’ve been about six years old. Maybe seven. My mum was fooling around with her toes. She kept hacking away at them with this silvery knife like thing. I asked her what she was doing, to which she replied that she was making her nails sharper. Enlightenment dawned upon me. my face started shining with realisation.

Fifteen minutes later my mum smacked me upside the head, and asked me what I was doing. I replied that I was using her ‘Nail File’ for its proper use - to sharpen. What exactly was I sharpening, she wanted to know. I looked at her as though it was more than obvious, and returned the file with a huff.

I had this thing.. People (equals my parents) would keep making fun of me because I had a button nose, which showed no signs of growing at the same pace as the rest of me. I had had enough, and decided that the file might actually be the answer. Unfortunately.. sigh..

*Blink*

She laughs. Pumpy is amused. God damn humans! Here I am, narrating a rather embarassing incident in my life in the name of bonding, and she laughs! The audacity of the turtle-nosed specimen!

We finally reach On Toes, its about 5.30pm. The time is right. The time is perfect. It calls to us, My Precious.. Kingfisher. We step up to the entrance, at which point we’re politely informed that the doors open at seven. So much for that outing. This mortal is condemned. This day shall not go down as a day where people did normal things.

So here we are, cracking jokes, at the corner of the street, and I feel like I’m laughing within.. etc.. etc.. We sit, chat about random crap, while some of the trainees from Dimension X inspect Ea and pay her compliments. She looks fatigued, and needs rest. A little trickle of engine oil down the side sparks a rather technical and therefore, boring conversation which I get out of ASAP.

I decide that I cannot possibly sit around till seven. So I ask random people walking down the street where the nearest Beer joint is. Unfortunately everything is shut nearby. Its not customary to drink before seven. Apparently it doesn’t speak well of one’s character.

So I do the next best thing. I drag Pumpy along, and go get myself coconut water. Just too tempting to resist. And, believe it or not, the chap had refrigerated coconuts!!! End result - Satisfaction Guaranteed!! After much fussing and hemming and hawing - the usual formality ( = gimmicks!), she has one too. Five minutes and nirvana later, there I am, eating the last of the coconut cream (direct translation of Malai!) and wishing there was more. But, like all delicious things, this too must come to an end.

By 6, we have had enough. So we demand our right to get wasted on a Saturday evening. It works, and by a quarter past, we’re seated inside On Toes, which is smelling of freshly sprayed room freshner. We have just spent ten minutes trying to get the seating figured out, and now there is peace. The calm before the storm.

We order. And there it is.. the promised land? More like the promised Sea.. pitchers of beer, hell yeah! We wait for the usual accompaniments, but none arrive. So I call out.. Mishra, where are the peanuts? to which he says that they aren’t complimentary any more. This catches me by surprise. Just the though of it. To drink without munchies??!! Can this really be happening. Also, not to mention the fact that I was there the night before, devouring the freebies! So I call out again, ‘Mishra, call Ramkishen ji (our usual server). He’ll get us peanuts.’ Once Ramkishen ji’s name is taken, action is swift. A cheer goes up around the table, with the coming of the peanuts. And Surd said, ‘Let there be Joy. And there was Joy.’

Two hours, a few beers, and some hard rock later, we’re ready to push. By ‘we’ I probably mean Pumpy and I. We pay up, I profess undying love for my batch, and we’re on our way. Since we have no direction in life, she ends up back at my place. Del and Loki are home, Del hurriedly trying to cover his modesty as Pumpy walks in. Fifteen minutes later she’s on her way home. Now finally, for some peace and quiet after a long, hectic day…

Escalators and Other Monsters

So my ‘visit’ to the dentist is finally done with. I’m to meet pumpy for coffe.. apparently she owes me, coz she snapped at me a week back or something like that. I obviously accept. Free coffe.. always a bonus! So we meet at Infinity. Right outside Landmark. Thit is the tough bit - to wait outside the city’s coolest book store, (when one has a fetish for books) and not buy anything because one is too broke. She arrives, and since she’s one of the book reading clan, promptly walks in. Without much choice I follow, and keep my eyes diverted from the racks of books on display. It is a gargantuan effort, worth commending. If you think trekking in the Everest region is challenging, wait till you try this. I make the most feeble attempt at engrossing myself in a conversation - um.. with myself, and for some strange reason it doesn’t seem to be working. I do the next best thing - I start chatting with her so that my attention is diverted from the books. It kinda works. I walk out twenty minutes later having bought only one book, setting me back only Rs 100. It is most definitely an achievement for me. A first. We move to the coffee bar at the foodcourt on the same level. CCD. People seem to love the crap they sell there. For a change, I am pleasantly surprised by what I get to drink - an Iced Caramel, or something along those lines.

We settle down at a table, with Pumpy making fun of the dressing sense of the various ‘characters’ roaming about, or the lack thereof. Mz. S is supposed to meet us there, and we wait it out, arguing over who she loves more, Pumpy or me. As always, we never reach a conclusion with that one.

An hour passes, and Mz S calls, saying that she’s waiting at an eating joint down the road. So we set off, as Pumpy’s supposed to accompany her for a play. Now, owing to this pretty little thing called technology, our trip downstairs becomes dangerous. A matter of life and death, as I am about to find out. Only the strong survive. She dreads the inevitable. I know nothing about it, yet. We take a turn, and find our path blocked by the Monster. It is a sight that terrifies Pumpy. It is active, moving at a steady speed, caged within its boundaries. Unfortunately for us, we need to pass through its territory. Its jaws expand and contract. It is rather intimidating for one unused to such things. This is the moment that will decide all. Will the world turn upside down? Will the Monster devour the lesser mortals approaching it? The suspense it way too much to take. We step on to the escalator. Pumpy promptly crushes my left hand and freezes in the perfectly co-ordinated way that is typical of her. A turtle on stilts trying to moon-walk down the Kanchenjunga would be a fair allusion. Not to mention the state of my left hand. All this while she hasn’t mentioned anything regarding escalators, and so I’m more than a little taken aback with whats happening. The best way to cover my surprise is to laugh. So I do. I poke fun, ” Say, Pumpy, you’re from the states, woman. What’s with the fear of escalators?” And such. Pumpy, as always at a time like this, is not amused. She closes her eyes and prays to the Machine Gods, promising her soul after death, if she would only reach the Ground Floor in one piece. Incidentally if I reach with my left hand detached from my body it’s acceptable. I cannot comprehend how one brought up in the States can be so terrified of machines. Into the Unknown, Episode 435.

I get Ea, and after about fifteen minutes, we reach the rendezvous point. Voila! There’s nobody there. Mz. S has left because its getting late. There we are, figuring out what to do, and I suggest we might as well eat. So we enter Urban Tadka. Its got the atmosphere of a typical ethnic Punjabi dhaba. The waiters are dressed in Pathan suits, with little waist coats to with them. the tables and chairs are made of rough, uneven wood, to give the place a homely feel (or what homely would feel like to people who live in such homes). Suspended from the ceiling are the most interesting lamp shades made of bangles. Good form there. There is however, a stark contrast, as posters of the latest Matrixy movies decorate the walls. And of course, there is my good friend Himesh singing in the background, what would we do without him? All in all, a place to be!

So we get down to work. By the time I wash my hands and get back to the table (otherwise called 2 minutes), I find that appetizers have already been ordered. The name Pumpy hasn’t gone to waste. Five minutes later her eyes light up. I know whats coming. Over Chicken tikka and Seekh kababs, we chat. About the most arbit stuff on the planet. Starting with fights in college days, and how that never seems to happen in the City of Dreams, for some strange reason. I tell her about Stephens, and all the non-studying I did there. I tell her about Lisa, about Surd, about basketball days, and of course, Saasha Singh and his lamp post. That one never seems to grow old for some inexplicable reason. Pumpy seems amused. Whats new?

We start the Jugalbandi - story after story. Each topping the previous one. We discuss the crazy things that people tend to do in the name of seeking adventure. Various locations across the country that would make a person believe in the supernatural. Bodhgaya, Patal Bhuvneshwar, Panchgani, the Aran islands, the works. We talk about sub-terranean caves, and the magic they hold. natural rock formations, Shiv Lings, tunnels connecting various parts of the country, ruins of ancient forts, and the history behind it all. And a couple of beers never did me any harm while talking. So our short meal lasts about three hours. By this time we’ve moved on to stories of frustrated men watching porn in shady theaters and gratifying themselves. The joys of life. And the things people can talk about!

By this time, the Badam Kheer arrives, and Pumpy digs in. I’m obliged to taste, and man - AWESOME would not even begin to describe it! After thats done with, we ask for the bill, as its getting late. I play the role of the chivalrous one and pick the tab and smoothly pass my card over to the waiter, ignoring a violently protesting creature sitting next to me. Then, as with every episode, something flips. He says that the card machine ain’t working. And i’m not carrying enough money to pay for myself, forget others. Typical situation.. it’s a typical..

Thankfully Pumpy has cash on her, and pays up. So here I am, red faced and wondering how I’m going to negate the embarassment. She’s polite enough not to mention it. We pick up the doggy bag and leave. Outside, we share the usual formal goodbye. She leaves, and I head off to pick J up from rehearsals.

Thus another day comes to an end..

Norwegian Wood - Reprise

I, Once knew a girl

Or should I say, she once knew me

She showed me my face..

It definitely ain’t good, Norwegian wood

She asked me to stay but she told me to go change my face

So I looked in a mirror and I noticed there wasn’t a hair

I sat on my butt, biding my time, drinking no wine

We talked until ten, and then she said, its time to head.

She told me she lived far away and started to laugh

I told her I didn’t and crawled off to pee in the bath

And when I awoke, I was alone, this bird (Couldn’t have!!) flown

So, I got high, with chums in the hood, Norwegian Wood

Nov 17, 2006 - One Year : A Lifetime of Memories

A year has passed. So fast. The memories return, as real as life. I think. But cannot come up with a solution. The problem is one that people have been facing forever. And will continue to do so until Japan finds a way to make Technology God. The pain surfaces within - again. I remember the day all too clearly.

November 17th, 2005

I am woken up by a familiar sounding voice calling my name. I open my eyes, groggy as a drunk. My father’s there, saying something to me. My ears aren’t ready for work yet. All I can hear is a jumble of sounds. I look at the clock, it is just past 3am. I ask him to repeat. He says, ‘She’s gone’. Two words. I am instantly awake, and I try to take stock of my feelings. I check for shock, sorrow, and fear. They are nowhere to be seen. I identify the feeling. I am numb. And, to some extent, I feel something that really scares me when I identify it. I am happy.

We go downstairs to their room. My grandfather’s sitting there, looking completely lost. He sees me and bursts into tears. The nurse sitting next to the bed is also weeping slowly and steadily. I fling my arms around Daddy and try to console him. He is in shock, and cannot help his sudden outbursts of emotion, which stop as suddenly as they start. Eventually I pull away, and walk towards the bed. There she is, as beautiful as i’ve ever known her. She’s lying absolutely straight, and has a look of resignation, peace, and satisfaction on her face. It is as peaceful an expression as I’ve seen on her face in months. And she is gone.

It is said that when one faces sudden loss, time slows, and every moment associated with the loss is relived in the person’s mind.

Barima. That’s what we called her. Literally translates into ‘Big Mother’. And she was, and how. She was by far the strongest human being I have ever met. She was hard of hearing from as far back as I can remember. We used to visit her and Daddy every summer or winter break, when we were kids. They used to live in Faridabad. Back in the day, it was the most exciting place my sister and I could think of visiting. The trips would be planned out months in advance. The entire experience was something to .. well.. experience. Starting with the packing, the tiffin of Parathas that we’d demolish in the train en route, the coloring books that were disfigured in a short two days, the brainless banter we’d indulge in, the fear of taking a crap in the Indian style loos, the periodic hourly fights Sumo and I would indulge in - Bliss. And then, the arrival in Delhi. A forty minute journey into Haryana, and the entry into the all too familiar lane.

Lohit Niwas. That’s what Daddy named the house. Needless to say, as an 8 year old, I was more than a little flattered. My most vivid memories of F’dabad are of Winters. Sumo and I would be asleep on Daddy’s bed, between him and Barima. Mom and Dad shared the only other room, at the other end of the house. Daddy would surface bright and early.. ahem.. at 4am, for his bout of fitness, his daily 7 km walk. Which would mean that by 4.30, we’d be offered to join him. The first few times that we declined, he looked rather astonished that we wouldn’t want to admire the joys of winter at that time of morning, followed by hurriedly swallowed disgust, and finally he stopped asking. I still love him for it.

Barima on the other hand, was far more considerate. She was always on our side - never forcing me to eat the vilest of vegetables like karelas and baingan, slyly palming them onto her own plate when Daddy wasn’t looking. She would make us unlimited glasses of Shikanjvi (nimbu paani) and give us lumps of Mishri (unprocessed sugar) to chew on.

That was Barima.

She would ask us what we wanted to eat, insist on us choosing, and then, after we’d put forward our respective requests, with a look of disappointment inform us that she’d already prepared something else for breakfast.

That too, was Barima.

She’d make us ‘Ice Cream’ which would be kulfi frozen in an ice tray, and it had a charm of its own. The joy on my face, as I’d open the freezer and pop out cubes of kulfi - hell yeah! Followed by ‘Ande Vali Pudding’, (egg pudding) a.k.a. Caramel Custard. As may be evident, she wasn’t one for fancy names. As long as the food tasted the way it was supposed to, it was a job well done. And, it definitely always was. The things that lady could do, and get away with - who puts left over cabbage and carrots into a paratha? Not to mention Lauki. I mean, there are some things that sane people just DON’T do! Yet the outcome would always be incredible. Then there would be Habshi Meat (mutton made by tribals) - this one time she taught me how to make it. Unfortunately… hmm.. no comment.

Food. The one thing that I associate with her. Once, she asked me when I was a kid, “So what will you do if I die?”, to which I replied, “You can cook a room full of parathas before dying”. I was around 7. She laughed and promised she would.

That’s the only promise she ever made me which she didn’t keep.

I see her lying on the bed. Half an hour has passed. Phone calls have been made to all concerned. Daddy’s still sitting in the same position, staring into nothing. Mum’s arrived, and is trying to talk to him. I see my father sitting next to the bed. He’s in control of himself. I want to go up to him and talk to him. I want to hug him, comfort him, and be there for him, but I don’t. We’re not like that. We never really were. He loves me, and vice versa, but as far as bonding goes, we have our own peculiar way of doing it. I ask him if he’s ok, and he replies in the affirmative. That’s it. We’ve expected this for a while. I have fervently hoped for it to happen for a long time. I know not if that makes me despicable, but I don’t care. I know that she’s happier. That’s all that counts.

We ask the nurse what exactly happened. She tells us that she had finished monitoring the Oxygen supply a short while ago, and was resting. Suddenly, she heard Barima hiccup and saw her spasm momentarily. And then it was over.

The thin line between the living and the dead.

After a while I go back up to bed. There’s nothing to be done till the morning. Dad’s organising the cremation. I sit in bed and my minds begins to float again.

‘And the Meaning, Gets Left Behind

All the Innocence, Lost at One Time

We’re All Different, Behind the Eyes..’

Her hearing aid. It was a part of her life, more of a hindrance than anything else actually. Probably because she’d wear it, and forget to turn it on most of the time. Every morning, Sumo and I would wake up before sunrise; because she’d be ‘whispering’ (at about 90 decibels) to Daddy that he should let us sleep and not disturb us. That was just the beginning. She was also in the habit of visiting the loo in the middle of the night. And the logic was simple - if she needed to go, so should the others. So she’d wake Sumo up (up until she was about 16) and say, “Maksho, pishab te nahi karna?”, and a rather embarrassed, not to mention indignant teenager spent the next five minutes trying to convince her grandmother that she was old enough to visit the loo when the need arose. But, a dinosaur never could outrun, nor defeat a meteorite speeding towards it, and in that way, Sumo had to deal with Barima’s loo requests for a long, long time.

At the breakfast table, all of us would be seated, and enjoying her hand-cooked food. She would ask Daddy if he wanted another Paratha, and he, though he was a foody (and would have made four of them disappear like an Annual bonus on a shopping spree) would politely decline. Because she was so used to his asking for more, and also because her hearing aid wouldn’t be completely functional, she would at this point yell at him, saying that he’d eaten enough. The poor man didn’t know what hit him. In the next two minutes, she had lam-blasted him for eating like a pig and not trying to control his weight, for hogging on food even though his stomach ought to be full, for stuffing his face silly with anything in sight. All this because the poor old man said that he didn’t want more food. This unfailingly led to a ruckus, where Daddy would scream that he didn’t want more, and Barima would yell back that she would not give him any more to eat. By the time Daddy’s face turned a shade of dangerous pink (and this was not easy for him, considering his entire face was covered with a long mustache and a flowing beard) we’d intervene, and by the time the situation was explained to Barima, she’d walk off in a huff, muttering under her breath, ‘ Khar-Dimag’ (Donkey brain!). After this daily session of entertainment, we’d get down to business - eating salad.

Delhi winters need to be experienced. The weather changes around mid-October, bringing a slight nip with it. A few weeks later, that little nip develops into something bigger, and in November, the temperature is perfect! The air becomes alive, people start feeling happier, more relaxed, and the tension is withdrawn from their lives. That time of year is here again. Only today, the joy is missing, the happiness is gone, there is no relaxation, and the tension has returned. I can picture the others downstairs, sitting with Barima, mourning her going. Each one has an explanation - ‘She was tired, and weak’, ‘She was waiting for her son to some back from the UK, so she could be at peace’, ‘She got sick of the medication’ etc. Then they sit and talk about how their lives are not worth living because she has left them. They cry, not saying that they miss her, but that now life will be very difficult for ’them’. I think I feel sick listening to it. It is not that they didn’t care for her. They probably cared for her as much as I did. But when Barima was around, the mistake that took place, as with everyone else, was that nobody told her often enough. She knew alright, but its one thing to know, and another to hear it from the ones who love you. I go down to the kitchen and open the fridge. I take some stuff out.

Salad. The boon of winters. Fresh white radishes, carrots, lettuce, and cucumbers. Cut into long pieces, or eaten whole. With a slight (or more than) sprinkling of salt, red chili powder, Chaat Masala, and fresh lime. Eaten sitting in the backyard, at noon, under the winter sun, leading to bliss that really cannot be expressed in words. We sat there, munching away. Daddy was busy cleaning and cutting the radishes and carrots. He always did. It was the only work related to the kitchen that he was in charge of, other than shopping. Barima would make a huge kettle of tea and come and serve us. So there we’d be, chilling in the sun, falling into a stupor caused only by a combination of comfortable relaxation, fresh salad, tea, and Delhi winters. Everyone would go quiet after a while, contemplating their lives. I would do the same, dreaming of the future, of being a super hero, of earning lots of money, of winning over beautiful women.

I was 6. That was what Faridabad would do to a person. It was so laid back, in a time zone of its own. People knew each other, and smiled when they met on the streets. They went for a fancy dinner out once a month, or less frequently. This would comprise a trip to a restaurant fit to serve around 30 people. It was all too exciting. The outing would be talked about for weeks after, the quality of the soup, the ambience, the food, and of course, the phenomenal Paan we ate just outside the restaurant.

Somewhere along the line, I think all of us lost something. Not quite sure what, but suddenly everything around us changed. One fine morning, things were not what they were the night before; Change had arrived. And Life was never the same again. I don’t know when this happened, exactly, but happen it did. And like most of the world, I live in the past.

The ambulance arrives, and Barima is carried into the back, and strapped onto a stretcher. My cousin Danny and I decide to accompany her to the crematorium. On the way we talk about her life. About a lot of the stuff I’ve mentioned above. He told me about an incident that took place when he was in college and used to live with Daddy and Barima.

Danny was seeing a girl called Priya, who was the daughter of a family friend. One fine day, after much planning, Priya was to stay over at Daddy’s place for the night. Obviously, expectations were high, as such things were not easy to co-ordinate in those days. The much awaited day arrived, and Priya came over. There was electricity in the air. Someone put the main supply off rather soon, though. The night saw Danny and Priya on the same bed (mother of God!). Of course, Barima was lying between the two of them!

That, too, was Barima.

We arrive. I help to take her body out of the van and strap it onto a wooden stretcher. The family puts shawls and flowers on her. She is secured in place with rope. By this time, a lot of relatives and Dad’s colleagues have arrived to pay their condolences. I deliberately ignore most of them. I don’t feel like spending time making small talk.

She is carried to the area where the cremation will take place. She is placed on the ground, and a Pujari hovers about, muttering unintelligible words in what is probably Sanskrit, not like any of us can tell. Daddy is sitting very close to the pyre; he still cannot believe what is happening. Dad’s the Son; it’s his duty to carry out the last rites. The only part of Barima that’s visible is her face. He is made to pour honey over her eyes and on her lips, as it aids combustion; but I”m sure there’s a religious reason for the same too. Then he sprinkles liberal amounts of some dark brown powder, which also helps in combustion. Now, for the first time since last night, I see tears in his eyes. I am sickened. I keep watching. Now it is time for the wood. I help stack the wood over her body till she is completely hidden. This is goodbye.

The fire is started. The Pujari pours oil over the entire pyre. People start leaving to attend the Kirtan fifty metres away. I stick around. Five minutes later, I’m alone. The fire has become powerful now. It is roaring, and seems to be going all out to devour everything within its reach. I get lost looking at its flames. I see the wood burn along its length, changing color and turning darker by the second. Suddenly, a small section of the pyre gives way, as the wood is completely charred. It is near the top. I step a little closer, not knowing what I hope to see. I’m filled with disgust, and fascination. I cannot take my eyes off the sight in front of me. It has the terrible attraction that watching ’The World’s Most Amazing Videos’ has, or being witness to an accident does.

I can see a white orb. It is smooth, and round, looking out of place among the pieces of burning wood. A light in the midst of the darkness. I move closer, to figure things out. Realisation hits me. It is her skull. Now I truly am transfixed. I stand there for almost thirty minutes and watch. The flames dance around it, registering an enemy that isn’t easy to defeat. They change their tactic. All at once, they pounce on it, trying to crush it with sheer force. It fails miserably. There the orb lies, defiantly challenging the fire all around it. For a long time, the battle wages. Nothing changes. And then it happens - with a sharp noise, the orb cracks. The battle is finally drawing to an end. There are too many of the opposition. It is just a matter of time. In a few minutes more, it splits, and sections of it cave in. I have captured a lot of it on video - my phone.

This is how people in my side of the world bid farewell to someone who’s brought them up, cared for them, and died old and weak-

and Alone..

‘Lightning Crashes,

The Old Mother Dies.

Her Intentions Fall to the Floor

The Angel Closes Her Eyes.’

believe..

I believe I think I know,

I think I know I believe,

I know I believe I think..

Not quite sure what I think, know or Believe anymore..

coffee with #%*! (eww)

Sunday morning I’m wakin up,

Can’t even focus on my Coffee cup,

Don’t even know whose bed I’m in,

Where do I start, where do I begin??

The weekend is here, the day of Rest hath arrived. Pumpy calleth, we decide to meet for the drink made with those beans which have a unique aroma, strangely sensual. The venue is confirmed. A short tuk-tuk ride later I reach, and sit next to her. A second later she begins, cribbing about how the outdoor seating thing isn’t happening and the afternoon is not the time of day to do things like these. She harasses a couple dozen of unsuspecting Sunday-Afternoon coffee drinkers into making way for her at the table she REALLY wants to sit at. It’s Order time!

The cappucino arrives for the All-American beverage drinker. I order a thick Chocolate shake - appetizing as it is; a rich blend of milk and chocolate and crushed ice.. heaven.. on paper.. It arrives; and its more like chocolate flavored water. What more can one ask for?! huh? This is followed by the Chocolate Excess, a dream on a regular day - chocolate cake drowned by thick chocolate sauce. On this day, the cake doesn’t quite taste like it’s been made after the turn of the millennium. Half a cappucino later, Pumpy decides to be herself and dump the cup. She orders Earl Gray. Which is awesome, but the only problem is that she doesn’t really know how to mix tea with milk. As a result, it turns out looking like she had sent up a prayer to the Earl Gods, which had in turn been rudely rejected. The expression on her face after the first sip confirms that the taste matches the way it looks. I think I derive joy from these things. I laugh away. Bindaas.

We chat about the usual (?) crap like Eminem and his profundity, and time flies by. The Chocolate Excess has found a partner to spend share the rest of its short lived life with - a scoop of Vanilla. The chemistry between the two truly is terrific. May their digested souls Rest In Peace.

We move onto Mr. Nice, and about how nice he wasn’t and how cool he IS.. sigh.. the things people find interesting at a coffee table really does leave something to be desired, especially when one of them knows nothing ABOUT Mr. Nice. A life of con. Thus we live. Oblivious to all else around.

An hour passes, it is time to bugger off to Food Bazaar. Pumpy gets set to head to Landmark. Books in the pipeline - must be bought. We step out of Barista and are suddenly confronted by a lady in her mid forties. She’s dressed like a Banjaran, complete with a bright, colorful, expressive Ghagra-Choli. She looks a little out of place on the main roads of Mumbai, but it is a rather welcome sight. Brings back memories of Hyderabad days.

Salma. That’s how she be calling herself. Comes up to us holding a tray full of stickers of all kinds - from little red hearts to help one on with his or her cheesy existence, to pictures of various celebrities who’re worshipped around the country. Most people refer to all of them as one entity - confused humans - they call them God. Priced fairly at ‘Pay-whatever-you-think-it’s-worth’ per sticker.

Salma starts chatting with us, and wants us to shop from her little inventory of goodies. She proceeds to tell Pumpy that one day she’ll be happily married and will find the ideal match who will make her life complete. Pumpy’s a little pink in the face. I, however, have no such luck. No words prophesying any form of good luck, peace, and happiness coming my way. Drat these women.. They’ll bond anywhere! After we’ve fixed Pumpy’s wedding date and determined how many children she’s likely to pop out, we shop from Salma. She tries to bum me a sticker with one of the celebs on it, but I politely refuse and pay her for it anyway. Pumpy procures a picture of the sharp tempered one with a Black Tongue.

We bid farewell to Salma and to each other. Ration shopping calls to ‘us’. Sigh.. to run a house.. and some people say its easy..

... to die for

V: so tell me a happy memory

eru: Ok.. this one’s what changed my life..

its ridiculous to talk about it.. coz it doesnt sound like anything major.. but its what changed the way I think completely..

i may have told u this..

V: no tell me

eru: it was after second year college.. when i went to ireland..

I was on an island called Inish Mor, off the west coast of ireland.. for 3 days..

its probably the oldest part of ireland.. most ppl only speak Gaelic out there..

so I’m walking around.. looking at old forts etc.. alone..

V: hmmm

eru: and someone told me about this place called the Black Fort which was on a cliff.. so i climbed this trail..

there was nobody around for as far as i could see in any direction..

V: and?

eru: I got to the top.. and the ground leveled out for about 100 meters.. where I’m guessing the fort was..

there was nothing left of it.. it was just jet black rock for kilometers on either side.. and the sea in front..

and it was really windy.. when the wind would start suddenly.. it would make me move a step or two to my side..

and i’m petrified of heights..

but i walked towards the edge..

V: ok..

eru: no railings, nothing.. just level ground.. and the drop to the sea

V: oh god! and?

eru: so i went there.. and obviously couldn’t stand near the edge coz it was too windy.. so i lay down.. took off my backpack .. and crawled to the edge.. It wasn’t halfway pleasant, but seemed the right thing to do.

the toughest thing i ever did.. was push my neck over the edge.. because it feels like u’ll fall.. even though the rest of yourbody is on the rock..

V: this is like a movie ..

eru: my mind forgot logic..

completely.. the only thing there to hold on to was the edge.. smooth black rock..

I put my face over the edge and looked down..

V: ANDDDDDDDDDDDD?

eru: the cliff was completely vertical.. almost like the hill behind my house in Bombay..

but it was 300 feet high..

and i saw the water smashing against the rocks at the bottom.. and then i looked up

all i could see was sea.. the wind was wrestling with me.. trying to make me move..

V: i have goose bumps all over my body!!!

eru: and i inched up another foot or so..

so chest upwards i was off the cliff..

and that day… i flew…

V: no!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

eru: i looked all around.. i saw the world in those ten minutes..

i saw life..

and i saw my death..

and the crazy bit is..

the only thing i WANTED to do at that moment..

V: was…

eru: was to dive off the cliff..

V: I KNEW U WERE GOING TO SAY THAT!

eru: Here’s the messed up part. I went to my backpack.. wrote a letter to my folks (they still don’t know any of this!) saying that I wouldn’t be coming back home.. and left my phone in the bag for someone to find…

and went back.. and was lying like that for fifteen minutes..

and i was happy… i just let go of everything around me.. everything in my life.

just like that..

and i dont know.. maybe i would’ve gone.. but someone came up and shouted out at me.. so i moved back..

And that was probably the happiest day of my life, come to think of it..

That was the day I forgot fear of Death. I embraced it.. and ever since, it’s been an ally..

me: hmm.. now u know why death doesn’t perturb me

m: hmm…

11:55 but it doesn’t just not perturb you….u LIKE it

me: its a friend..

embrace death.. and theres nothing left to scare u

m: somebody else’s?

me: embrace it like u would a pet dog.. who could .. COULD .. one fine day turn around and attack you

11:56 nobody’s death scares me..

i’ve spent enough time contemplating it..

and i will accept death.. i definitely wont be happy about it..

but i’m not scared of it

m: stop..

u’ll live

me: i know i’ll live..

11:57 me: thats the thing..

im not interested in dying.. I don’t really care about it.. thats why i screw around so much..

i know i’m not going young..

the problem is i know a lot of ppl around me will..

thats probably why i fuck with death so much.. i kinda taunt it.. to take me.. but it wont.

11:58 m: u have no control over it…do u see that…

me: ofcourse i see it.. i always knew that..

i dont want Control..

that would make life Predictable and Boring

12:00 m: breathe…life CAN be a lazy day on the beach u know…the waves dont have to eat u up…let them just come and lap against ur feet..hear them…sing to them…

me: hahah.. i’m at peace with the world .. i am..

m: with the world…but in ur head?

12:01 me: that doesnt matter.. the way i see it.. i have too much to do .. to wait for a lazy day at the beach..

as and when it is time.. that too shall happen

my head’ll pull thru..

me: dragon-hide is real tough material!

I’d like to see How tough.. Push till I can’t any more.. Fight till I drop.. It is the way of the Dragonkind..

to Rama

Thats our blood down there,

Seems poured from the hands of angels,

And trickles into the ground.

Leaves the warehouse so bare and empty

And my heart’s numbered beat

Will echo in this empty room,

And fear wells in me

Nothing seems big enough to defend

So I’m going away…

The Power and the Glory

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do???

whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

The day starts as any other, in office.

Enquiry. Booking. Conformation. Event!

Issue - Nobody around to conduct the game.

Solution - The Dragon moves into gaming.

So here I am sitting in the front seat of my car, enjoying the barren, sun-burnt landscape of the heartlands of jaat-land, on my way to the gaming zone. Ajay’s in charge of the red steed, where he belongs, content. Four little piggies in the back seat, lambs on their way to slaughter. Fun times await.

We’re about ten minutes away from the destination. The road is long and narrow; traffic is single file. Only there is no traffic at this moment. There’s only us. I’m lost in the scenery, secretly yearning for a life where I won’t be required to do anything except Live. Close to nature, answerable to no-one, and with nobody waiting for me. Just my books, and my guitar. My profound escapist thoughts are abruptly clipped as Ajay swerves to the side and slams on the brakes. I look up, startled. A white Scorpio has cut us off and stopped diagonally across the road. I see a little Indian flag on the bonnet, fluttering vigorously in the wind, trying to cut loose and get away - from something it detests. As though it actually can. The fate of our nation. Politicians.

This view is also promptly disrupted as my attention is more than taken up by the five men jumping out and walking up to my car. Now, if something like this happens on a regular day, it really doesn’t perturb me too much. The only thing I can’t understand is, “Why the Fuck are they carrying sticks?!” A second later one stick comes crashing down on my window, and I open my door. I try to ask them what the problem is. In Haryanvi, they tell Ajay and I to get out of the car. We comply. They get in and start hitting two of the boys at the back. No explanations. But then, when you’re at the receiving end of someone’s love (being displayed in the form of a knuckle sandwich), not too many explanations are required.

Ajay and I try to get them to stop, but they won’t. Neither will they hit either of us. It’s more than weird. Finally I manage to pull one jaat off the boy in the back seat. Apparently not a brilliant move.

I’m looking him in the eye. For over a minute. I don’t move. Maybe it would’t be advisable.

The Reason - He has a revolver plastered against my forehead.

He’s screaming at me in Haryanvi, but I don’t listen. My attention isn’t quite on his unceasing flow of profane eloquence. He’s getting more and more furious at me. I still don’t speak. His anger changes to bewilderment. I think I know why. All through the last minute, I’ve been staring at him, smiling. Unafraid. Stupid.

Thankfully for me, Ajay intervenes and talks to him. He reluctantly moves away from me.

Flabbergasted as he is, he manages to stutter-spit out two words of english before departing. “Plea Shit” he says, pointing to my car seat. And he leaves with his men.

And once again, it is over.

Humans…

to all the Tubthumpers

…..In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade,

And he carries a reminder

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cries out

In his anger and his shame,

“I am leaving, I am leaving”,

But the fighter Still remains….

- The Boxer (Simon & Garf)

The Flight of the Dragon

‘On the road to trivandrum

Coconut oil in my hair..’

The ever invigorating lyrics of Hotel Keralafonia are bouncing off the walls of my mind, kind of like a hippo balanced on a ski sled with stilts under it. All in all, not too smooth. It is a beautiful Saturday morning, as the Sun rises over the City of Dreams. I surface bright and early, bags packed, ready to roll.

Temporary destination - Santa Cruz Airport

Final Destination - The Capital

Reason - New Years Party ‘07

Departure - 8.20am

Mode of Travel - Air Deccan

Chapter 1 - Baggage Screening

Time Check - 7am

On first glance, I see half the population of Bombay on Hajj. A kind of orderly one if I may say so. Hajj with a multitude of trolleys. Hajj with people of various religions. Hajj without the stampede. Hajj in an air-conditioned surrounding. Hajj with an equal number of sleep-walkers, bored parents, impatient businessmen, and women-who’re-prepared-for-an-impromptu-meeting-with-Brad-Pitt-at-7am.

Ok.. I said AT FIRST GLANCE. I’m assuming the Hajj is rather different in reality. Peace.

For some retarded reason, Deccan decides that four aircrafts need to take off within twenty minutes of each other, early in the morning. The result - A queue a hundred strong. Really, just thinking about this all over again makes my fingers heavy.. They refuse to type.. sigh.. Forty minutes into the wait, I’m still twenty people away from the X-Ray machine.

Time Check - 7.40am

Just as I am getting ready to unpack my super-special-handy-collapsible-pocket-sized sleeping bag, I hear a frantic cry from behind, “All Daeli Pus-An-jar, please be screen baggage.” Divine intervention. A quick overtake from the right, and my Sardar Co-passenger and I are twenty places in front, nonchalantly looking around at the others, who for some strange reason look more than a little indignant. La La La La La..

Chapter 2 - Security

Time Check - 7.45 am

So we quickly collect our boarding cards and weave through the web of man-things in order to get to Security. Brillianto! Mama Mia.. MAMAAAAAAAAA… This queue’s got only another 70 people in it, and moving at the pace of a Buddhist Elephant who’s attained nirvana. A little tear quietly worms its way out of my eye and plops to the ground - well actually to my shoe. My life is flashing before my eyes. I think of all the happy times I’ve had, and some of the sad ones; drunken get-togethers, movies, girlfriends, break-ups, family, basketball. And then I think about how the downfall of a mighty person takes place. Another quiet tear finds its way to my shoe. The Fall from grace. How a person goes from screening baggage and clearing security in twenty minutes; to screening baggage being stuck in security for over an hour.

Time Check - 8.10am

Panic does a brilliant job of settling in when least expected. In general. This day my mind fights it for a bit and then gives in. And IT settles. I’m gonna miss my flight.. i’m gonna miss my flight.. i’m Fuckin well gonna miss my flight!! Help me oh no I’m not going to get to Delhi I’ll be stuck in Bombay and I don’t want to be I’ll spend New Year’s in the blasted airport I don’t want to see certain people help me help me how will I party with my sis who’s just come back to Delhi from the US damn shit crap fuck bugger arse fuckin hole…

Breathe, boy! I’m standing right behind the Sardar ***, who’s trying to sweet talk people into letting him break the queue, all the while maintaining the urgency in his voice. Side note - I must learn this someday. To keep my face straight, and persuade people to do things which suit me in a million ways (jumping with anticipation and joy from within, but not being allowed to show any of it), without letting on that it could be of any possible benefit. You know, kinda how business deals are made, I guess. Of course Surdie is politely (by and large, but not By the Large) refused by everyone in front of him. We are reduced to stamping our feet with frustration. My right shoe is a little damp by this time; can’t quite get the other eye to pop a tear out. Embarrassing really.

Time Check - 8.20am

So this is it. The End. Will there be no more divine intervention? Who helps people only once when they need it some more? That’s just cruel. Wait! Shhhh.. listen.. I hear it… “ALL DAELI PuS-AN-JARS, PLEASE!” Woohoo baby.. that would be us! Once again, giving polite nods all around, and staring down our noses at people in front of us, now behind us, we move to the Security area. I’m made to put my phone into a little tray which goes through the X-Ray Machine. However, wallets need not be put into trays. They can be checked my the hand-held metal detectors. Genius.. Sheer Genius.

***Chapter 2.5 - The Sardar

I completely forgot about this one. So the man’s in the airport at 7 on a cloudy Bombay morning, where all is dim. Except him. No sir! Standing tall at about 6′1″, the height accentuated (or not!) by a 40 inch waist. And designer-wear. And Designer-wear. And desig….blub blub blub.. In his defense, I really must add, that on a cloudy morning in that city, there’s always a chance of staring right AT the sun while you’re inside an Airport Terminal. That would explain the wrap-around Red Oakleys on his face.

Ahem.. So the black full sleeve sweater (ouch!) looks like something I would ideally expect on a body like Leonidas (This.. Is.. SHPARTAAA!!) but apparently he is unavailable to help display the best quality of the sweater - the fact that it hugs the wearer tighter than a koala does its mum (apparently busy on a shoot or thereabouts). So Leonidas’ body double a.k.a Baby-face Surdie steps in. But, in retrospect, without this exchange, I wouldn’t have ever figured out his waist size otherwise. Oh yippee yay ~

Right. Moving along. So at security there are plenty of boards around saying ‘No liquid items to be carried in hand baggage’ - Due to recent terrorist activities in the UK or some jazz. Surdie’s bag is called upon for checking. NOT NOW! Bugger him. Out come 4 bottles of cologne; Gucci, Armani, Bulgari and Ferrari. “Sir the sign says liquids are not allowed. You will have to leave these here.”

“What nonsense! These are not liquids. These are colognes. Can you not tell the difference. These are from Bangkok.”

Here’s where I leave him to argue and run towards the exit for the aircraft.

Time Check - 8.30am

Apparently the craft is waiting only for the two of us. Already ten minutes late. Indian service I say. Brilliant. Any other place, and the plane would’ve left. I love INDIA!! Right, so I run into the aisle and find my seat, by default, because the blooming airline has free seating (so if you’re lucky enough to be a part of the first bus that reaches the craft, you’ll also be fortunate enough to participate in the ensuing stampede to find a seat of you’re choice - just like a local train in Bombay- an experience). I get dirty looks from a few people but I don’t care. Surdie enters and receives the remaining dirts. I breathe and slump back into my seat. The air-hostesses have already begun their speech. “Kindly put your mobile phones off for the flight.” I reach into my pocket…

“Madam you need to understand, my phone’s at security. It’s fifty yards away from the craft. I haven’t lost it. I know where it’s lying. PLEASE let me get it. PLEASE PLEASE!” I’m begging the air-hostess.

“Let me ask the captain”. Captain says,”Hurry the hell up! we’re really late”

Time Check - 8.40am

I move out onto the ramp and start to descend. The ground officer starts screaming at me to get back in. I tell him about my phone. “Forget it man! FORGET IT! You’re phone’s gone man, you’re not getting it back now man. It’s over man!”

So I tell him in that case I need to get off the plane as my phone costs three times as much as my ticket. He says nothing doing. I finally tell him I have the captain’s permission. He doesn’t quite believe me so I call him into the plane to talk to Captain Sahib. He does. I sprint down the steps and run into the building. What phenomenal security, I say!

A passenger’s running all over the tarmac and then into the building. The only guard I come across asks me “Where are you going?”, without stopping me. I reply while on the run “to get my phone”. He nods, satisfied.

I reach security and ask the guard if he has my phone. He does. I take it, say thank you, and am about to leave, when he stops me. “Where are you going sir? You left your phone behind, no? It is your fault, no? Now you will fill a form, yes?” I try to tell him that my flight’s already half an hour late thanks to me. He’s not impressed. With a benign smile on his face he replies, “Arre Sahib, the flight will not go anywhere. I work here. I know how things function. You relax. If you want tea I will order?” I’m not sure whether to take him seriously or not. I decide against it. So I quickly fill in the form, and run back out. Nobody bothers checking my boarding pass while I exit the terminal. I wave at the guard and he waves back, asking if I got my phone. I’ve left him thirty yards behind by then.

Time check - 9am

I reach the craft. The ground officer is stepping out of the plane, looking grumpy as hell. He tells me I can get my phone. I hold up the phone and smile. He starts getting offended, “How could you…” I run past him before he can finish. I’m in my seat again. If looks could kill, My fellow travelers would’ve killed me a long time ago.

I smile. Life is beautiful.

Time check - We’re 40 minutes late, take the hell off already!

Who says customers don’t command the service provider?!! hahahahahaha

Ode to a Tamatar

“Here I am, lost in the ashes of time, but who wants tomorrow?
In between the longing to hold you again
I’m caught in your shadow, I’m losing control
My mind drifts away, we only have today

Touch me and I will follow in your afterglow
Heal me from all this sorrow
As I let you go I will find my way
I will sacrifice ’til the blinding day when I see your eyes
Now I’m living in your afterglow”

“Wow! Your ring’s as big as my eye, see!” The ring gets held up to the eye. It is indeed bigger. I smile. Random connection. Happy days again, methinks.

There it starts, lunches at Sweet Obsession. Why? “Because I don’t eat alone. Never have.” Fair enough. Simple.

“Good morning hug. :-) Missed you hug. 6.30pm hug. :-)” It starts.

“This is going to be a long one - hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug hug.” Jadoo ki japphi.

“Nothing much, just wanted to give you a big hug and a big kiss. Then a bigger hug and a bigger kiss. Then an even bigger hug and an even bigger kiss. Then four big hugs and kisses. Hope I’m not disturbing your meeting with the DDA Director of Sports.” errrrrrrrr

“Baby I’m a roasted tomato right now. It’s too fucking hot. I want swimming pool with — in it. Otherwise I’m going to die.” awwww… Therefore the name.

“It’s simple. If I ever see you putting your arm around —– again, I’ll fucking Paste your ass” With such a straight face, as though discussing the weather. The cigarette almost an extension of the right hand. TGiF.

“Please please little me in little skirt. And really want to see you. Please for me.” That’s a tough one.. I guess not. At all. Dammit! TGiF again!

She says, “Hello, you fool, I Love You”

And the joyride stops right after.

Uncertainity takes over.

No going back.

This is where it ends. Again.

“When everything’s meant to be broken, I just want you to know who I am..”

Illusions

Under the cover of darkness

Though high among the clouds,

The wings beat incessantly.

Turbulent rivers of Air created,

Their older course altered-

Steering Him to his destination

Steering Him onward on his journey.

The flight has begun.

Day breaks again
Day without light,

Leviathan flies on, oblivious.

The only way he knows.

The air fills up in him

He exhales - filth

The accursed mighty.

The wings begin to tire.

A giant expanse of hide

Stretched over a fossil.

The talons a cruel present,

Designed to horrify the eye

In majesty and repugnance:

His body, just a shell, to one.

The treasure he seeks eludes the best

The treasure that cannot be reached

The treasure eternal

The treasure he shall be denied

This day.

In darkness he continues,

Till such time he sees the light.

Destined to wander, destined to roam

It is the way of the Dragonkind:

Light is but an illusion.

The wings beat incessantly..

CK1 - Chip

Friday, October 13

He was all of around 3 weeks old when I first saw him, trotting down the side of the lane outside my house, oblivious to all the perils of the world. He must’ve been 4 inches high, and had a white underside, with orange brindled fur. I followed him for a while, and watched as he suddenly ran onto the road right in front of an auto-rickshaw. I followed him instinctively and found myself in the auto’s path. After much frantic waving on my part, the driver managed to swerve and screech to a halt, thereby allowing me to pick up the bundle of fur and set him down on the road side. As if on cue, a huge stray mongrel came running up and attacked the little one. At this point i’d had enough, so I shooed him away, and picked up the toddler and took him home.

I was rather fascinated by the little creature, because I’d never seen a child so small, and yet so lively. It being monsoon time, he’d managed to get covered in slush, so, much against his will, he was given a bath. He screeched and scratched right through the entire episode, and for a moment I actually believed he was having a heart attack or something. Shortly after he had been towelled dry, he started exploring my apartment, hesitantly entering the rooms and examining the mattresses. Intrigued by him, I followed, and watched as he inspected the entire place.

Eventually, he came back to me and clambered onto my lap, looked me in the eye, and finally, after much thought, nipped me on my inner arm with razor sharp, half-a-centimeter long teeth. I yelled. That was my first bonding session with Chipkoo.

The kitten turned out to be the complete package. After the first day, where I thought him to be all cute and cuddly, I got to know the ‘real’ him. He would begin his day by relieving himself in the kitchen, and then move onto chewing on everything that got in his way, which was EVERYTHING. Teething tends to be a slightly difficult situation to deal with for normal people. Wait till you’ve got a kitten who’s teething - the total scratch count went up to around 328 in the first week, between the four of us.

While I was lying down on my bed in the afternoon I decided that he needed a name. I thought of quite a few - Pearl, Jumpy, Ginger, Psycho, Idiot etc, but they just didn’t seem to fit. I realised then that I needed to give him a name that suited his personality. I glanced down to see what he was doing. He was fast asleep with his little feline frame stretched across my neck. I gently picked him up and put him next to me, but in the next fice seconds he was right back, purring as he snuggled up to me. That was when it hit me. It could be nothing else. Chipkoo. It was what he was. Who he was. Thus was he baptised.

On the day of Chipkoo’s arrival, I didn’t tell any of my flatmates that there was a new member in the family. When they walked into the house after work -
Del - ‘Madarchod! Who the fuck brought this into the house?’
Loki - ‘Abey Saale, Yeh kahan se aaya?’
Jen - ‘Fuck this, I hate cats!’

There it began, a forging of new relationships between people who were not interested in a new-comer, and a new-comer who refused to take no for an answer. All the poor lad wanted was attention, and slowly he began getting it. Which brings us to an interesting fact - if you want something real bad, you need to fight real hard to get it. He would meow and bite and scratch and shriek and be a complete pain in the ass, till we would cuddle him. Ten seconds later he’d be lying in the nook of my armpit, or between my legs, or on my lap, passed out. As he started eating properly, his energy levels increased drastically. Now his idea of fun was to scratch and bite till he got attention, and then continue to scratch and bite till he got bored, which could last forever. Needless to say, even for the animal lover in the house (which would be.. ahem.. me) it began to get irritating after a while. However, for the others, it was different. Del and Loki gradually accepted Chipkoo and started chilling with him. It was impossible not to. He was just too damn cute, peppy and tiny to ‘not love’. The only one who was insistent that he leave was Jen, as she believed that cats are bad luck, and for some strange reason didn’t really appreciate being scratched. I tried, repeatedly, to convince her that he’d improve as he got older, but she wouldn’t have any of it. I guess I knew from the beginning that it was just a matter of time before he would leave us. Yet, at some level I believed, because of this crazy little thing called hope, without which we’d be nowhere, that I’d be able to make her love Chipkoo.

I was wrong.

Working Class Hero

sigh.. sir Lennon at his best!!

As soon as you’re born they make you feel small
By giving you no time instead of it all
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school
They hate you if you’re clever and they despise a fool
Till you’re so fucking crazy you can’t follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be

When they’ve tortured and scared you for twenty odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career
When you can’t really function you’re so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you’re so clever and classless and free
But still fucking peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be

There’s room at the top they are telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be

If you want to be a hero well just follow me..

Bleeding Me

This thorn in my side is from the tree I’ve planted
oh,it tears me and I bleed

Caught under wheels roll
I take that leech I’m bleeding me
Can’t stop to save my soul
I take the leash that’s leading me
I’m bleeding me
I can’t take it
Caught under wheels roll
Oh, the bleeding of me

I am the beast that bleeds the feast
I am the blood
I am release

Come make me pure
Bleed me a cure
I’m caught, I’m caught, I’m caught under..
Caught under wheels roll
I take that leech
I’m bleeding me
Can’t stop to save my soul
I take the leash that’s leading me
I’m bleeding me

Call me.. Sometime

moving on.. (what else does one ever bloody do??!).. WHY is it that such an ancient race, wise, proud, resilient, strong and intellectual (um.. that would be the ppl of my country, as I’ve been told) has succumbed to the vile influences of the ‘the Greatest Wonder of the World’, the West??!! CALL freaking CENTERS?! Bah! I spit on thee, vile foe!! I piddle on thee, oh and ya.. I worketh with one of thee.. Sheer contempt I feel for all around me in the same field. Lesser mortals.. Godforsaken humans.. And for myself.. disgust..complete and absolute (For the record, this is NOT, I repeat, NOT a self pity trip!!)
here we are, feeling all important and all-knowing, and intellectual. We feel like we’re making a difference, and growing as people. and all we’re doing is screwing one generation of indians by getting them to work as bloody Customer Care Reps for various MNCs. Sickening.. One entire generation of perfectly able minds who’ll never aspire to be anything more than agents whose sole role in life is to say, “thank you for calling I**, I am your personal servant, for the next ten minutes. How may I assist your royal FAT A** today? Let me tell you at the beginning of the call that you are God, and have the right to say WHATEVER you want, HOWEVER you want, and WHENEVER you want. You have the right to rave, rant and abuse. Nothing you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. Primarily because, like I may have mentioned earlier, I AM your personal servant.. “

Super-Man Bombs

Alok gets on my case : “Sir what are we doing today after the session. Lets go for a beer!” This is instantly backed by the chorus of agreeing voices. I smile and shrug my shoulders, not saying anything.

“Please sir, come on na! We’ve never had a beer together..”

“Alok, that Might be because I’m in charge of training you, and till that’s done, there’s no beer for either of us?? No?”

“But we must go out SOMEWHERE !! It’s been a hectic session” Argh… the way of the persistent.

“Fine. In Orbit it is. How about a movie? Check out the movie timings. We’ll go at 5.”

As luck has it, a Star has returned to the world, to save it from unspeakable evil in the form of a bald Kevin Spacey. That’s right amigo, Superman Returns! Oh Joy!!

All 17 of us saunter into the movie hall; I’m trying not to bounce with joy coz Superman’s come back after soooooo long! But I cannot bounce - I am their trainer, remember?! Images.. sigh..

The movie begins, the trademark lock of hair on the forehead brings back memories from wetting-the-bed-days; bliss!

Half way through a trainee on my left leans over and whispers, “A bomb blast happened”, to which another to my right side replies, “Superman ko bula na, he’ll save everyone!”. I laugh along with them. The things people do to de-stress after training programs. Ouch..

Half an hour later all our phones have messages saying, “Bomb blasts all over. Are you ok?” Realisation begins to sink in. This is suddenly turning out to be a not-so-fun outing. My trainees start freaking out, and I’m wondering what to do. All of them want to go home asap. The phone lines are all jammed by now. So no calling anyone. I convince them to stay in the hall till things settle down. It takes some serious people skills to make them stay. Fortunately, it works.

Two hours later, there is still commotion everywhere. Traffic is at a standstill. Trains are not operational. There is a red-alert in the city. Grizzly images of the ripped train compartments on the news. Hundreds of people missing parts of their bodies- people fortunate enough to have survived the seven blasts which took place within a few minutes of each other. And here we are sitting in a centrally air-conditioned mall, trying to find an excuse to be scared for our lives, behaving like we’ve survived something major.

Let me tell you just how major it gets. So the trains are obviously not running; or by this time, not exploding. Road traffic is fucked beyond repair. Option 3?? lets walk. So I whine and crib to myself, and set off at a brisk pace down linking road towards Andheri. Its roughly 8km from Malad. Takes about an hour. Oh bother! The tribulations of the corporate executive. Damn! I’m stressed out and in serious shock. I think this calls for a Single Malt.

I guess it’s bound to happen. How else does one feel that sense of belonging? One can’t possibly be left out of all conversation following an event like this without having his own two-bits to add, no? I have to assert my right as a citizen of Mumbai, in order to gain the attention I rightfully deserve : The awe-struck gaze of friends and family when I tell them that I was one of the ‘Survivors’ of this massacre of sorts. That furtive glance up to the heavens (which includes a short prayer thanking God for having saved my worthless behind) when I tell people that I was scheduled to be on a train at roughly the same time that the blasts took place. So maybe I was. That doesn’t amount to Anything. Fact of the matter is, I wasn’t on the train. I was chilling with my batch. I’m sure, in some perverse way, it would make my life a whole lot more meaningful and exciting if I was actually on the train, and had survived the blasts. There would be so many more questions to answer. So many people interested in hearing what I have to say. Maybe I’d be fortunate enough to feature on a cover story on the News. Maybe. Man, that would be the life, wouldn’t it? My face being viewed by tens of thousands of people. My expression - suitably sombre, perfect for a serious interview where I get to express my views on how people are just taking my city for granted and this time also, as so many times before, Mumbaikars will bounce back in a day and move on with their lives. I’d be telling them that this was it - the last straw.. There’s only so much that any city can take. First the ‘93 bombs, then the July 26th Floods, and now this. Enough. No more.

Yes, I could do justice to it, I think.

But that’s not happening right now. Doubt it ever will. For the simple reason that I have nothing to contribute as far as the blasts are concerned. I don’t even know anyone who was present on the trains at the time. Frankly, I don’t even care about it beyond the general concern for fellow humans, if that. What difference has it made to me? Oh, I know… I get to walk into office late tomorrow because the trains will be delayed due to excessive security checks. What joy.. I have something to discuss with my colleagues and friends in office for the next week, “So, what were you doing at the time?”. I also have so much to watch on the news - How did the explosions take place? Where all did they happen? Where were the bombs planted? Who is responsible? To eternity and back..

Welcome to the real world. This be our playground.