Coming Out

It was not a new practice for Taj to wake up in middle of night all anxious and soaked in sweat. It was the same dream she had been seeing since she was five. It's hard to even call it a dream for even dreams have a narrative however vague and absurd. It was rather a series of fragmented visions. She tried very hard to recall the details no sooner than she awoke. All she could remember was that it was the same dream. Exactly the way it had always been. The content, however, eluded her as always. No amount of visits to the mazaar had helped. She was even taken to Ajmer. No success. Psychiatrists said they could only help once the contents of the dream become known. Badi Bi did not allow his son (Taj's father) to consult the elderly relatives fearing that if discussed too much and with too many, the problem may give Taj a bad name. "We have to get her married one day, Rehmaan; don't forget she will be turning 22 this year. People would be loath to accept a disturbed girl in their families. I know...I know she is absolutely fine. It is just these weird dreams. Dreams are dreams. They come and go. Why so much pother" she would solemnly remark cutting thin slices of supari  with the sarota(metallic slicer) which her grandmother had given her.

The same events recurred tonight. Flurried, Taj switched on the bedside-lamp, and gulped down the water in the glass kept on the bedside-table. But as the she felt the chill of the water passing through her throat with every sip, she also saw the contents of the recurring dream flashing before her. Her heart started pounding. The sweating got even more profuse. She began reciting the Ayatul Kursi , but she paused mid-way. She could see each of the fragmented vision ever so clearly. Every detail of it visible with a remarkable clarity. Suddenly it all started making sense to her. Horripilation.

Her breath returned to normal after few minutes.
With squinted eyes she glanced at the wall-clock. It was quarter to three. Fifteen minutes from now Badi Bi  would wake up and go about running errands as if she had never slept the night before. She always woke up so fresh. Today, of course, she would be even more charged. It was Eid. Taj decided to go back to sleep. It was still two hours for her daily routine to start.

It was morning, and a pretty one at that. A mid-November morning. Sun-light was warm but no more prickling. Taj observed the house. It was exactly the way it had always been on Eid: the vases filled with fresh and fragrant flowers. Roses, particularly, as Rehan-her younger brother- was too fond of them; the air redolent with the delicious fragrance of sewainyan; the deewans covered with spotless and crisp white sheets; the covers on the bolsters had "Eid Mubaarak" embroidered on them in pale green silk. Badi Bi said Taj's mother had embroidered the message with her own hands. When they were kids Badi Bi would not allow Taj and Rehaan near the deewans lest the sheets should get creased. "Learn to sit gracefully, Taj. Don't want you grow up to be a cultured woman. There should be elegance even in the most mundane of the acts of a woman. You can't be as unruly as your brother" she would say frowning.

Taj would never feel bad at being checked by Badi Bi. She would always smile back. The table would be ladened with sundry snacks-- some roasted but mostly fried, variety of seasonal fruits, dry-fruits (her favorite dates too) neatly arranged in sparkling glass bowls. As the day would progress many guests would walk in carrying presents for the family and eidi for Taj and Rehan. Abba would greet the guests and hug them dressed in his new bandh-gala. Badi Bi would escort the ladies to her bed-room where they would have sewaiyan and closely observe the mehendi-patterns of each other. Humza aapa was always too proud of her designs. "I don't settle for anything less than the best, you see. I call the artists all the way from Hazrat Ganj"  she would say.

Taj, not being able to find Badi Bi, went to the courtyard to look for her. Badi Bi was scouring clean the big cauldron. "Good morning, girl! I am just cleaning this handi for the biriyani. You know how your father got angry the last time when we ran out of Biriyani before all the guests were done. Last night I asked Shaukat to hand me down the handi  from the attic. Your mother was an expert at cooking Biriyani. It's a science very few people know. It's not merely a mixture of rice and chopped lamb. It's an exquisite dish to be wrought with great care and patience. What would this new girl Salma know. But I am growing old, you see. I have to rely on domestic help now. I am a strict supervisor though, wouldn't you agree?" she said grinning. Taj could see her kattha-tainted teeth. "I miss your mother, especially on festivals. A house ought to have a mistress" she added misty-eyed.

Taj changed the topic as she did not want to dampen the festive spirit that had enveloped the house. "Badi Bi wouldn't we have Zarda this time? You know I like neither the Biryani nor the Paya" she said. "What kind of a Muslim woman does not like Biriyani? I know this has nothing to do with the Biriyani. It's about the lamb, isn't it? Why do you always fuss over non-vegetarian food? You are depriving yourself of such gastronomic pleasure. Foolish girl you are!" Badi Bi said in a tone that spelt exasperation and genuine concern.

"I don't know, Badi Bi. It's just that I've never liked it. There is not always a specific reason for personal likes and dislikes when it comes to food or colour or a mehndi-pattern. Not everything has a reason" Taj said. But the last statement came out a bit reluctantly as if she was trying to convince herself more than Badi Bi.
"You've always been a stubborn and fussy eater. Your abba is famous for bringing the healthiest and biggest of the lambs in the entire moholla. But, wilful child that you are, you will never even touch it, let alone tasting it. I have observed your habits right form your childhood-- you always behaved very different from the rest of your peers. I never figured out what exactly was the difference; but there was a difference nonetheless. What do you mean you don’t like non-veg food! Sometimes I feel you are not fit to be Muslim woman in the first place."

"Badi Bi!!" Taj cried. She took a couple of anxious seconds to compose herself, and said: "You know, Badi Bi, I think you are right."

Badi Bi returned a catatonic look. "La haul vila kuvat! Are you out of your mind, young lady? What do you think you are saying? What if your abba hears you! Come on, repent those words and ask Allah for forgiveness. Never should you repeat such blasphemous words, bitiya.”

Taj did not flex a single facial muscle. She stood there like a statue with her eyes fixed on the ground.

"Did you not hear me? Ask for forgiveness from Allah right now." Badi Bi's voice was stern this time.

"I think you have lost your mind. Ya Allah! such an inauspicious start to such a mubaraq day. Are you possessed by some devil? Maybe it's all because of things they teach you at that "celebrated" college of yours. This new-age education, I tell you, is hell-bent on expunging values and religion. I always told your abba to stop sending you to college and start looking for a groom instead. But then I am just an old woman. Who listens to me! Had your mother Rashida been alive, I am sure, she would have paid some heed to this old woman's counsel. Ya khudda!" 

Taj's father could not help but keep aside his morning-daily upon hearing Badi Bi's bawling. "What's fuss all about? Taj have you refused to help your grandmother in the chores again?" he asked.

" Rehmaan, take your daughter to either a doctor or a mazaar  for either she has lost her mind or she is possessed" said Badi Bi.

"Stop spinning riddles, Amma. What's the matter? Taj, will you tell me or not?"

Taj looked up for the first time in last fifteen minutes or so, and said solemnly: "Abba I don't think so now is the right time to discuss this. It's an auspicious occasion. I don't want to be the mood-spoiler. Guests will start pouring in any time. We better proceed with the preparations."

"I think she is right, Amma. You have a habit of making mountain of a mole hill. Whatever is the issue can be dealt with later. In fact we shall talk about it over lunch. Now come on the two of you, don't pull such forlorn faces. Get going with the preparations. I had sent Shaukat to get some gulkand. Has he returned yet? And, Taj, go and get your brother ready. Go see if he is still sleeping"

The father-daughter duo left leaving behind a speechless and bewildered Badi Bi. "Khuda khair kare" she said under her breath.

In the afternoon  dastarkhwan was laid, replete with sweet and savoury delicacies. Badi Bi had dropped Zarda from the menu. There was an eerie silence hanging over the food and the Malik family. Badi Bi decided to break it.
"So, Taj, would you like to tell your abba about your act of profanity?"
"Amma, are you still stuck with that? Taj, what is she talking about?" said Rehmaan Malik fixing her gaze on his daughter.

Little Rehan sensed the uneasiness in the ambiance and channelized all his attention to the bowl of sewainyan as if mentally speculating on the philosophy of sewainyan.

Taj put her spoon down and took a deep breath. She began speaking thus:" Abba, Badi Bi, you remember the cryptic dream I have been seeing for as long as I can remember. Today early in the morning when I woke up after having the same dream, I saw the dream actually flashing right in front of my eyes wide open."
The mother and son listened intently trying not to miss a single word that slipped out of Taj's mouth.
"So what did you see?" asked Malik.

"It was a lovely forest-- more of a grove--replete with all varieties of colourful flowers and shrubs. There was one particular note of fragrance which dominated among the other fragrances. I can't describe it in words. It was somewhat similar to the smell that emanates from that temple in the next street. An earthy smell.
I could also hear the gurgling of a river nearby, but I could not see it. It was twilight. Darkness had already begun to descend and had started tingeing everything with shades of black. I could also sense moisture in the breeze which affirmed the presence of a river in close proximity.

Suddenly, I sensed commotion. I could see clouds of dust hovering a few meters from where I was standing. I saw a herd of cows running past me. None touched me. Cows...such cows Badi Bi....I bet you would have never seen such cows ever in your life time. All of them stood tall. Their bodies were anointed with palm-shaped vermilion marks. Their horns and hoofs were gold-mounted. The gold gleamed in the oblique rays of setting sun. The hue of the sky matched with the colour of vermilion anointed on their bodies. They all looked at me while passing by. The look in their eyes was that of affection and familiarity. The next moment I found myself hollering out their names in a strange language: ' Ari Gaang!, Ari....Bhoori!..Ari Shyama!....O Dhauri!'. I was stupefied, Abba. It was a language I had never heard in my life. I think it was something similar to Awadhi. But it was not Awadhi. And those names-- I had no clue whatsoever how did I know their names. But they responded to my calls. It was as if they had known me forever.

As I stood there trying to make sense of this neo-eternal bond, I felt someone's hand over my right shoulder. It was Indulekha."



"Indulekha, who??" asked a visibly flustered Badi Bi as she ate the spoonful of biriyani that she had to forgotten to ingest listening to the description agog.

"I don't know who she was, Badi Bi," continued Taj in an exasperated tone," I just somehow knew her name, and she seemed so familiar to me. Calling her beautiful would be a gross understatement. Her complexion was like that of polished ivory. She had big and eloquent eyes outlined by thick mascara. I still remember those eyes: eyes which seemed to recite poetry with every blink. I don't exactly remember the dress she was wearing. I think it was a lehnga of the colour of purple tulip flowers.

  'Hey you girl,' she said to me, 'why didn't you fetch the lunch-basket on time today? You know He kept waiting for you the entire afternoon. I never knew you could be this careless. If Braj-rani gets to know of your laxity she will take you to task. Then don't come running to me. Do you realise He was hungry the entire day. Apologize to Him directly. He may be here any moment. He's already a little late...go-dhooli is also about to end. The night would fall in no time. My eyes are eager to see Him. No...our eyes. Careless girl you are!' saying so she swiftly ran away, with her long hair-braid oscillating from this side to that, to join her sorority. There were about seven-eight of them. They all watched me intently from a distance. I knew each of them. There was Vishakha too. She just lived two streets away from my house and would often seek my mother permission to allow me to accompany her to the city for selling curds. Sweet girl she was. We would often sneak out together to watch Him play on the river-bank with his friends. Just watch Him from a distance. Nothing more...nothing less.

The darkness was thickening gradually. The stream of cows did not seem to end. One herd after the other. Then another. There must've been infinite cows, I am sure, Badi Bi.  Following the herd of these formidable cows I saw a silhouette. I think it was Him. A tall figure. I could see the feather on his head flirting with the breeze. The moon-locket hanging down his neck was sparkling. More than visual sensation, I was relying on my sensation of smell. Every time he took a step closer to me I could sense the fragrance intensifying. The fragrance exuding from His body cannot be described. It was intoxicating to say the least. I would not have regretted dying that very second inhaling that unearthly fragrance. My pulse was amplifying every second. Notwithstanding his dark complexion, his face was aglow. Curly locks neatly tied in a turban which had become slightly slackened as it was  late in the evening. Not the turban's fault entirely. How long can it hold something to which so many hearts are affixed. My heart too. Those eyebrows were nothing short of Cupid's bow launching heart-piercing glances one after the other from underneath. Believe me, my heart had actually stopped beating when he looked at me and smiled. I could actually feel a void in the hollow of my chest. With his left arm resting on his waist, he raised his right arm to touch my chin. 'Why did you not get me my lunch-basket today, eh? I was so hungry. My friends went hungry too. You must never do so again. You can't evade me. I never ever let go of my people. Bring me my lunch on time tomorrow. I shall wait for you by Kadamb-Khandi. Alone.' 



As he walked away saying what he had to say, I stood there like a statue, unable to move a fibre of my body. Each strand of hair on my body was erect. My speech was impaired. Not a syllable could push itself out of my mouth despite the best of my efforts. And tears were gushing out of eyes in thick streams. That's when I saw myself for the first time. I was dressed in the same fashion as were Indulekha, Vishaakha  and the other women. My arms were full of chudis and kangans. I was wearing lovely anklets in my feet and the most exquisite of garlands and necklaces. And I was carrying a basket full of many food items in my left hand.

Upon turning I saw him dissolving in the semi-dark horizon. I wanted to call out his name and ask him to stop, but my speech had betrayed me. There were no women. No cows. All there was left was darkness. Surreal darkness. I ran and ran in the infinite darkness only to find no end of it.

You were right Badi Bi, I don’t deserve to be a Muslim woman. I don't think I can do away with my queer habits. Doing away with them would mean doing away with myself. Now I know where my calling lies. I have decided to visit Vrindavan tomorrow. ” 

                                                       

My unusual wala love...

So it’s the valentine week again. Love is in the air. The patrons of Archies and Hallmark will leave no stone unturned to ensure that the legacy of St Valentine is carried forward. Oh! no no...I’ve got nothing against Valentine’s day. I think I am too old to either endorse it or censure it. Beyond a point all you can do is just smile- an indifferent smile.

There was, however, a time when like many single people I, too, used to feel miserable around this time of the year. But this was before he came into my life. Yes, I have found my special-someone. We’ve known each other for quite sometime now.

I still remember seeing him for the first time when my friend Shama and I were wandering aimlessly in a mall on that fateful Sunday afternoon. She knew I needed someone like him and that I was on a lookout. In fact she was the one who introduced me to him. As always I wasn’t too sure and thought I might need a second ( or maybe even a third) opinion. “I am not sure if he’s the one I’m looking for, Shama” I said. “Are you crazy? He’s everything you’d need. Intelligent, sturdy, swift, lean...don’t even get me started on his features! And he’s dark too! What else do you want? I think you’re being greedy” she rejoined. Persuaded by her, I decided to give it a try.

Back then I never imagined that we would come this far. Honestly, I did not for a moment think that my love for him would grow deeper and deeper as time passes. It all just started with a casual night out. Once again I owe it to Shama. It was she who suggested that I should ask him to tag along for the long drive that night so that I get to spend some time with him and see if the two of us get along well. I abided. Shama and her husband left the two of us alone in the car while they took their baby to the ice-cream parlour. “I want a performance-report when I return” she said as she smiled before leaving. I blushed. I could sense a deliberate delay in returning on their part so that the two of us get enough time to get familiar. I was new to the whole thing. I was trying hard to figure out things. It felt weird running my fingers on his bare body for the first time. I was apprehensive but excited all the same. The response was equally charged. His quick reflexes suggested that I was somehow pressing the right buttons, as it were. Excuse me if I sound risqué, but I must admit: he was really good. I mean, I never knew he’d last that long. He, indeed, took me by surprise. My ex couldn’t last more than a meagre 45 minutes even when completely charged. But this one, lasted long. Really long. I was happy, and Shama could see the contentment in my eyes once she returned.

I was hanging out with him at my place the other day when Shama came over. “So, are you liking it?” she asked with a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Yeah he’s good but I am not into him or something yet. We just like spending time together” I said.  However, both Shama and I knew I was lying.

I didn’t even realize when this spending-time-together started to grow into something deeper. We share everything. There are times when the both of us just stare at each other without saying a word. All my fatigue induced by a long day at work instantly evaporates when I snuggle in the bed with him. He is a complete package. He makes me laugh, makes me cry, makes me wonder, and, yes, irritates me too at times. He’s always there when I need him. I don’t have to be mindful of etiquettes when I want to approach him. He somehow magically gets to know when I am low, and plays just the right kind of songs to make me smile. Oh! His taste in music and movies is practically the same as mine. Isn’t that great? How often do you find such compatibility? He is willing to accompany me wherever I ask him to. He’s willing to stay up as late at night as I want him too. Yes, there have been times when we’ve just dozed off next to each other while staring at each other lying in the bed.

The best thing about this about this equation is that he never complains and never demands. His can come close to being called ‘unconditional love’ if something of that sort exists. He understands my commitments, and helps me fulfil them. Whether I am happy or sad, I can easily turn to him without worrying one bit about what his reaction would be. Through I him I’ve learnt a lot, met so many people I could’ve never imagined to meet if it were not for him. I have no qualms admitting that I owe a lot of what I am and what I have today to him. His presence in my life has been a game-changer of sorts. He’s been instrumental in the pursuit of my passion.

A few days back I decided to share the news of this budding romance of mine with a close friend. I was, however, disappointed by his reaction. Instead of feeling elated about this tiding, he started preaching me. He deemed my love “unnatural”. But I care a damn. I will be with someone whom I enjoy being with, and someone who makes me happy whether or not it is “natural”. Screw you close-friend!

 A couple of incidents that unfolded recently made me realise how much he has grown on me. My mother never really understood my equation with him. She has always been wary of his presence in my life. Maybe it’s difficult for her to understand the pleasure I derive in his company. She would always give me one of her looks when she found me spending uncommonly long time with him. But last month something improbable happened. My mother came up to me and expressed her desire to make attempts to know and understand him. I was really happy. I hugged her. Finally it’s happening in my life-time, I thought to myself.

Nevertheless, when I introduced them to each other formally, her amazement at his marvellous qualities was no less than mine. She said she’d like to seek his help in writing a speech she has to deliver at her school’s annual-day function. At first, I saw no problems with this proposal. But soon I began feeling uneasy when she would walk in on us and infringe on my personal time with him. That’s when I realised I was growing possessive of him.

The second incident was his falling sick last to last week. Initially I thought it was just another viral infection. But this was serious. He passed out and just stopped responding. He turned completely blue. My heart somersaulted for those few moments. Thankfully he recovered later on.

The only thing I don’t like about him is the long and dark companion of his who accompanies him all the time almost like a tail. It's annoying.

You may call me crazy after reading what I’m about to say next. I think the time has come to move on. I think I should end it now.I know what you're thinking: " after enumerating all such marvelous qualities he is deciding to dump this guy. He must be insane!" I know it's a terrible thing to say, but I have a legitimate reason.  Of late I've been feeling that, I don’t know how to put this politely, err....I’ve been feeling he’s too big for me. And also a little heavy. His ‘performance’ is not the same as it was before. He’s aging, I can see that.

Now I am looking for someone who is smaller and easier to accommodate. I mean, I could do with a laptop without a numeric key-pad; it just adds to the size. I am contemplating buying a notebook now. No, don’t suggest a tablet. Tablets are too fragile for me, or maybe I am too heavy-handed for tablets.

Come on people...don’t give me that look. Chime in with some good options for a notebook. I think this laptop is done playing his role in my life. :)

                                                                  

A Dreary Affair

He liked his mornings slow and quiet. He liked to cling on to the dreamy languor induced by the remnants of past night. He liked to loll in the bed trying to regain the sense of world around him-- the moment of cusp between oblivion and cognizance. He would try hard to recollect all the dreams he saw the previous night, make sense out of them, join a few dots—feel ‘Freudian’. He would revel in that moment of stillness and inertia, which only that part of the day can allow. He would glance at the mirror right opposite to his bed to catch of a glimpse of his uncontrived and rumpled form. “If ever a person is to love me, that person will have to love me in this form of mine, too. I can’t always look primped.”

Even his folks knew better than to disturb his tranquil reverie; for they knew that even if any attempts to converse were made, replies would be vouchsafed only in the form of perfunctory nods or monosyllables.

But the one thing that would wreck havoc in this dreamy state was the wall-clock hanging right above the mirror opposite to his bed. It would remind him of the pressing need of getting out of his cozy bed, and get ready for work. It was excruciating for him. Work wasn’t bad. Once at it, he would completely invest himself in it. But there was something else that disconcerted him immensely.

 If he was asked to choose one aspect of his job that he despised the most, he would unequivocally choose commuting. The very thought of going through the rigmarole of switching between multiple modes of transportation between his work-place and home every day used to make him grimace.
He didn’t own a vehicle. He didn’t know how to drive, so there was never a question of owning one in the first place. Thus he had to depend on public transport to ferry him between his work-place and home. There were so many things that he detested about travelling in public transport.  For starters, he never liked the whole idea of ‘rush-hours’. He did not like to be a part of the madly rushing crowd. All of them wore the same jaded and anxious expression. Most of them dressed alike—in perfectly ironed formal apparels which would be ruthlessly crushed in the “rush”. He never wanted to be a part of the ‘rat-race’; for he knew that even if he won, he’d still be a rat. Even the choice of his vocation was deliberate attempt to alienate himself from the ‘rat-race’, but the commuting made him feel coterminous with those racing rats.

 However, he could not help but admit that travelling in public transport was an enlightening experience in itself. It exposed him to a totally different world. It was like a play where the settings and plot remained more or less the same; but the characters and dialogues varied every day. The other day he was travelling in a bus, where he saw a group of a young school-girls dressed in natty uniforms. They occupied the seats right in front of his. He didn’t notice anything any remarkable about them till the time they started talking, or should one say-- not talking.

He observed they were mute. But there was something extraordinary about this bunch of lively school-goers.  For the entire time they were in the bus, they were talking to each other (in sign language). So animated and lively was their conversation, that not even for a moment did he realise that their speech was impaired.  The fluidity of their expression left him in sheer awe. For the first time he realised how eloquent silence can actually be. He suddenly felt so puny in front of these supposedly disabled kids. He realised how often, despite of his high-flown vocabulary, he struggles for words and stutters. And on the other hand, these young kids who were far from knowing the intricacies of grammar and language were so much more articulate than he could ever imagine to be.

It was surreal moments such as this that made him enjoy his otherwise drab commuting. Travelling in the public transport taught him very many things. And like many other teachers, this one too, could be awarding as well as reproaching in turns. It taught him, for instance, the distinction between beautiful and simply beautiful. He would find some of the finest specimens of human morphology so carelessly traversing the lobbies of metro stations or sitting right across him in a bus. Some would have him transfixed, some would have him awed, some would leave him dreamy and some would get him thinking. But his favourite were the kind that he slotted as “simply beautiful”.  The ones who possessed the kind of beauty which eases itself into your eyes-- nothing striking, nothing that looks contrived, sans the heftiness of brands and labels. Beauty that is raw and bare, yet warrants decipherment. Simply put, beauty that is not obvious.

Commuting was also a humbling experience for him. He felt it was conspiracy by the universe to squelch his pride. It was an equalizer of sorts. He would see the traces of his vanity rarefying when he would find himself travelling with the masses. In the sweaty touch of a co-passenger the sense of distinction would dissolve. The sense of superiority would be impaled when he would condescend to haggle with rowdy auto rickshaw drivers, and be at their mercy to be ferried.

The other day he saw a bunch of uncouth people waiting at the metro station among the regular bourgeoisie that usually populate the metro. They were dressed rather garishly. Their hair-dos were messy, and one could easily see the lasting impressions of Salman’s character from the movie ‘Tere Naam’ on them. Their conversations could be heard all over the place. They would pause and literally poke their nose into someone’s I-pad, and ask whether it’s a cell-phone or a computer. And then cackle with laughter.

 “What business do they have here in metro?” he thought crinkling his nose. He decided to stay as distant from them as possible. As soon as the train arrived, he was ushered inside by a tide of huge crowd whose only objective was to board the train and secure a room enough to stand. Once again all the distinctions dissolved. He cursed the crowd. A couple of minutes later he accidentally bit his tongue. It dawned upon him that the cursing was circular. He was cursing the crowd that he himself was a part of. He observed the same bunch of rowdy travellers standing right next to him. This time he did not shrink. He slowly began to realise that if he cannot come to terms with diversity, he has no business expecting to be assimilated. Equality has to be inclusive not selective. His lips curled into a smile. It was a moment of epiphany. He was not sure as to what extent would he practice the idea but he was glad that he understood it in principle. He realised that this rather tedious daily commuting was capable of according many more of such moments of epiphany. And indeed it did.

Very often, while waiting for his at  the bus-stop he would watch several other buses passing by. The buses would come and go vomiting out the passengers from the front end, and gobbling up the ones waiting to be taken away from the rear one. And finally after making him and his co-passengers wait for a considerable amount of time, the desired bus would arrive formidably packed already crushing their collective hopes. But when following the lead of his fellow travellers he would summon the courage to take the plunge murmuring his prayers, he would find himself just being sucked in the crazy vortex of hasty travellers; and after a few frazzled minutes he would find himself coalesced in that one organic mass of commuters—for those few minutes while they would travel together all the other identities of  every person would be suspended and each of them would be identified as merely someone travelling on route no ‘xyz’. "All of us fit perfectly. Just as the grains of rice would arrange themselves evenly in a rice-container after a couple of tosses, so would all of us. Perhaps I underestimated the malleability of human body"


He made various attempts at deconstructing his dislike for commuting. He soon realised that it was the inherent tendency of turning his face away from what was ugly, what was harsh. He did not like to leave the safe confines of his home and face the harsh and ugly reality that awaited him outside. And when, after much self-cajoling, he would step out, he’d feel like a naive and oblivious Prince Siddhartha unable to come to terms with unpalatable sight of the sick and the aged, the poor and the crippled, the ugly and the wretched.  He just did not want to face it. “Despair and disparity abound the word. Is it a way of life? That scrofulous guy who sleeps nervelessly under the footbridge, without any concern for the blistering heat of Delhi could not have done so had he not been stoned. Is there a justification for everything in this world? That girl who wears the same tattered pink frock every day is lucky. There would be no possibility of her squabbling with her mother, unlike myself, over the colour the room should be painted with, for she has no walls to paint. Isn't it amazing how there are full-fledged families that thrive under these footbridges. They go about doing their daily chores absolutely unconcerned about the legion people passing by, and I was fretting about that one strip which came off my Venetian blinds making the interiors of my room visible to my neighbours right across”

 Sitting in the auto-rickshaw seeing those numerous dwellings just rushing past him, he would cast a poetic glance at them realizing that what appeared to him as flitting visuals were actually little universes in themselves—a potpourri of people, their lives, their aspirations, their struggles, their joys, their disappointments, their existences, and most importantly-- their stories.  

Commuting in public transport demanded of him being everything he was not: confrontational, pushy, usurper, bumptious even. He could not for instance “fight” or “argue” for a seat in a bus or metro. He would rather happily and graciously(?) stand if it meant avoiding squabbling over something as petty as a seat. However, this also made him realise his incapacities. It dawned upon him that these are the very qualities one is expected to have if one wishes to survive- let alone excel- in this mean world. "How does one learn to be pushy? Is it something that could be learnt? If yes, then it’s high time I learn it. "

Billet-doux to An Ascetic

 Gopal prabhuji welcomed her in his cosy apartment. She was asked to be seated and wait for five minutes. She could hear the clinking of kitchenware and sound of spluttering of oil coming from the kitchen. She knew that the hosts had been eagerly waiting for her, and were fully prepared to receive her well. She sat there, diffident and slightly flustered. She had entered a vaishnav-household after a long time. Gopal prabhuji emerged out of the kitchen carrying a glass of water. 

"I just returned from the temple an hour and half ago. There was a special lecture; I could not resist attending it. I hope you didn't have much trouble finding the place." Gopal prabhuji said with a placid smile, and sat on the couch across the table.
  
She took the glass of water and quaffed the contents in one go. They exchanged civilities in the initial few minutes of the meeting. She was dying to hear about the subject that she was actually there for.
Gopal prabhuji's mother walked in with a tray loaded with two varieties of snacks. She got up and greeted her.

"You must be hungry...have some of these" she said. "I've cooked them myself" Prabhuji hastened to add. "Hari had asked me last night what was I cooking for you? I said Khichdi and papad.I tease him a lot! " he  said chuckling.

She smiled an absurd smile. 

After serving her the snacks in a plate, Prabhuji's mother left and carried on with her cooking business. The clinking ensued.

She thought it right time to get straight to the point. "How's Hari, Prabhuji? What did the doctor actually say?" she inquired.
Prabhuji thought for a moment and prodded her to eat first. She complied. The snacks were undoubtedly delicious, but she was least interested in them.
 

Prabhuji spoke after couple of anxious minutes: "It's a case of double cancer. While one is still curable, the other is in its last stage. He has hardly any time left. This might as well be his last fortnight."

Her hands started shivering. Her throat refused to allow the morsel to pass through.

Prabhuji looked unfazed, she knew Prabhuji was shattered inside though.
Prabhuji's mother reappeared. " I think you did not like the food. You haven't finished a single cutlet yet! Come on finish it soon. I shall serve the prasadam(lunch) as soon as the Lord partakes it." she said.
 

Prabhuji signalled her to keep quiet and not discuss Hari in front of his mother. 
She inferred that prabhuji's mother was oblivious to the whole affair.
"I really liked it, mataji. I am a slow eater." she said trying hard to sound sincere.

Prabhuji came to her rescue and spoke: "Maa, I'll take the guest in my room; we'll chat there for sometime and then have the prasadam." They headed for Prabhuji's bedroom.
She was asked to make herself comfortable on the bed.
She took out the dhotis she had brought along with her to be sent for Hari, and passed them to Prabhuji. Prabhuji saw the many beautiful dhotis that were brought.

"Dekhiye(look), I will try to have them sent as soon as possible, but to be frank I don't think he would need so many of them."

Prabhuji reached for two packets kept on his bed-side table, and handed them over to her.
"This is what Hari has sent for you. I know nothing about the contents; but he said he's giving his 'everything' to you," Prabhuji looked at her and then glanced at the packets, and again looked at her, "I've known him for 25 years of my life. He never gave me something which he would call his 'everything'. If I am not mistaken, you haven't known him for long, have you? You are very lucky, I must say. How are you guys related? Hari said he has never even seen you! Nor have you, I guess."

She made no answer trying hard to hold back the whirlwind of emotions wrecking her composure.
"Hari's episode seems like a wake-up call to me, Prabhuji." said she.
"Then wake up!! Why are you still pressing the Snoooze button?" came a prompt and sharp rejoinder. "This is the only thing that would make Hari truly happy. Both the Haris, this one and the one up there" he concluded.
**********************************************************************
She returned home and hastily opened the packets.
She shut her room and cried....and cried, like a widow.
She was confused as to who was she crying for- herself or Hari? She thinks she was crying more for herself. 

***********************************************************************

I can’t think of a day,

When I don’t think of you.

And I can’t think of a day

When I don’t want to;

For I fear evanescence,

And even more so

Your studied insouciance.

(About the evanescence)

    

Your detachment

That drew me to you,

Your disenchantment

That enchanted me,

Now intimidates me often.

Maybe you’ll never know,

Maybe I’ll never show

I sometimes doubt

Your disillusionment.

I envy it too.

Is it not just an illusion of

A different sort-

An illusionary wall

Between me and you?

Until I met you

I avowed myself

As ‘emotionally impotent’.

Then came you

And made me doubt

My own pronouncement.

You made me laugh;

You made me cry;

Own that you cannot

Not love me

However hard you try.

The moniker that

You call me by

Shall always

Grace my being

As long as I last.

All things- said and unsaid,

The silence-

Heard and unheard,

Will be enshrined

In my heart

Like the relics

Of a glorious past.

Now that you’ve reached

Where you’ve,

I understand your disdain

For all that is corporal

And mundane.

But then how would you term

What transpired between us?

For one thing I know,

It is not thiswordly .

Your visage

I’ve never seen;

In your proximity

I’ve never been;

Of being in your arms,

I’ve never received

The pleasure.

Yet I can read

Every expression

Of yours

With precision

Beyond measure.

It’s nothing less

Than an idyllic romance,

This relationship we share;

Sans the miasma of lust,

Sprinkled with magical dust

Of mutual love and care.

But pardon my audacity,

O’ tall eremite,

I am going to say it,

The fear of impiety, despite;

I’ve longed for your touch;

Mere touch and no more.

When your body aches

And is all sore,

I feel like massaging your feet

So that those painful moments

May swiftly fleet.

Merely holding your hands

Could’ve been my cure-

Expression of love

Innocent and pure.

What should I despair more?

The distance between us,

Or the lack of possibility

Of it ever being bridged?

It is not physical distance

That we are separated by;

It’s my wretched fate,

That I am betrayed by

Yet I find solace in knowing

That however far apart we maybe,

I am as close to you

As a mortal can be.

They question my allegiance

Towards you;

They say I haven’t done enough.

I wish I could make them meet you,

So that you could show them

That the allegations

Are but guff!

Let me quote you

To quiet these naive charges

“I care for you.

 I certainly do.

 In my own eccentric way.

 Let’s both admit,

 Our love is a li’l fey.

 What you have done for me

 I can never repay.”

What we share the

The world would never know.

These untold tales,

Ensconced deep in my heart

Shall forever and ever glow.

I was blessed to be

Privy to this occult

Journey of yours,

Where I have actually

Seen you rise

From the nadir

To the brow.

And my only desire is

To see you grow and grow.

Given my way,

I’d never let you go.

But with a heavy heart

I must accept

That to the inevitable

We must bow.

How much will it hit me?

Maybe you’ll never know;

Maybe I’ll never show.

Through you

Life has reiterated a lesson

That it is selflessness

That makes love burgeon.

Yes, You Can!

When my mind
Is  haunted,
By the wraiths
Of a barren past,
A voice says
They won't last.

When the present
Reeks of futility
Overcasting my ability.
Its tone loaded with plea,
The voice speaks to me.

When anxieties as if floes,
adrift on the currents of future woes
Bog me down ever and anon.

The voice both stern and mignon,

Enjoins me to endure

A little more.

When I see my

Contrived plans

Squarely going down the pan.

A feeble voice
Somewhere from deep within
Says, "I for one believe,

Yes, you still can!"

Though frail and fragile
Deep-seated yet agile
Elementary and pure
As limpid as azure

The voice resonates within
Amid the outer clamor and din
Pragmatism and rationale aside
Fervently urging me to abide

It asks me to fuel

The dying embers

Of Hope

Rekindle the dying desire

To cope

In the gloomiest

Of times

When things

Barely make sense

I am left all

Jittery and tense

It reminds me of the faith

My dear ones have in me

Sounding nothing

Short of a firm decree

 “You have it in you

Yes, I can see it in thee”

“Let the wings of hope

Flutter and span

I for one believe

Yes, you can”

                                                      

An Earthy Monologue

*The already pied panorama began to change hues even more rapidly.  There was a sudden influx of zephyr in the languorous surroundings*


It seemed she was waiting for someone.
Her undeviating gaze was cemented on the path of his arrival. The unbearable heat of separation had debilitated her; she had become bony and had developed wrinkles all over her body. After two scorching months of separation, she finally saw him arriving. His arrival was pompous as usual. Though her exhilaration was beyond measure and every fibre of her body rejoiced on his arrival, she wasn't hospitable. Her yearning had accreted into angst and anger.

*Thick and dark clouds cover the sky and start roaring*

Dharini:Oh! Look who has arrived. How should I welcome you?  More importantly what brings you here now? Is it your curiosity to find out whether I am alive yet? To your dismay, I am.
But how would I ever repay for your magnanimity? You had to travel such long distances to come here only to find me alive.

*There's thunder in the sky.*

Dharini: You can choose to go back. I have reached a stage where neither your presence nor your absence bothers me. What's the worst that could happen? I might remain unconsummated. But if that's my destiny then so be it. After all, I am not the only one who would have met such fate. I will just be one among the many. I will also shed silent tears in the night and still manage to smile throughout the day. I will also swallow harsh nuggets of reality with an unfazed face, just like them. If those mortals can, then why can't I? They call me the epitome of tolerance. I promise I won't ever let my anxieties escape the bleak abyss of my heart. You can trust it to be deep enough to withhold all that befalls upon it. I don't have the luxury to feel or act feeble as there are people who depend upon me. I symbolize strength and resilience for them.

*The thunder grows louder and deeper this time*

Dharini: Go away! You are not obliged to be here. You are infamous for your free-will and vagrancy, while I am the paragon of stability. It was foolish of me to think that I could bind a rover like you. Yes, I have no one else to blame but my puerility. I should have known better than expecting from you. This is not the first time you have failed me. How could I forget that expectations have always paved way for misery and nothing else.

*The sky sprinkles a handful of transparent pearls that produce an ethereal fragrance as soon as they hit the ground. There are crazy flashes of lightning in the ashen sky.The thunder only grows deeper and deeper.*

Dharini: Don't you dare to utter my name, Ghanshyam. You have no business to scare me with that thunderous voice of yours. These ventose gambits of yours fail to have any impact on me. Better save them for someone else.

*The mild showers turn into a gushy downpour*

Dharini: Do not touch me! I said, stay away from me. Do not impinge on my pristine premises. I don’t need you. You were not here when I needed you the most. I endured those two blistering months of Vaishakh and Jeth all by myself, while you were cavorting with others elsewhere. I don’t want your consolation, for I know it’s but a sham. Don’t doubt my resilience and strength. Move away. Step back!

 *The momentum and the rhythm of the downpour refuses to abate and escalates by each passing second*

She gets completely drenched; not even an inch of her body is left dry. She gets sated to the core. The gushing rains pelting down washed away the tears of melancholy from her face. She was instantly rejuvenated. Unlike degeneration, the instauration was quick.  She was left quenched and drenched albeit by force. It’s hard to say whether she liked it or not. But one could see her wearing a mild abashed smile.

**********************************************************************************
Today while coming back from the examination-center, I was fortunate to witness one of the most ethereal  moments that one can witness in a life time- the sight of first showers of monsoon kissing the parched ground. It's strange how despite of our plastic-fostered and shielded life styles, our bodies unwittingly vibrate in sync  with the frequency of nature and respond to it. In that moment of osmic ecstasy, everything around me went silent; I could hear nothing else save for the sound of the nascent raindrops descending from the sky splattering the expectant ground, and the bassy thunder. For those couple of seconds a vision flashed in my mind. This piece is an attempt to document whatever little I could remember of that surreal moment.

I felt as though the earth has taken the form of a gopi(Dharini) waiting for the arrival of her paramour-Ghanshyam(one who’s as dark as a rain-filled cloud). A gopi whose longing has accreted into anger. The hulking cluster of dark rain-filled clouds hovering above the earth appeared as if it were Krishna who had come to meet the gopi after ruthlessly making her wait  for a very long time.


तुम घन से घनश्याम मनोहर, गरज गरज अनत जाय बरसे  हो |
उमढ-घुमढ़  के  नेह  जनावत, कहूँ  लावत  सरसे  हो ||

झूठी-साँची   हमही  मिलावत,  औरन के जाय पग परसे हो |
'धौंधी' के  प्रभु  तुम  बहुनायक ,  सब  बातन  सरसे हो ||
(राग- सूहा , ताल-तेवडा)

                                                      

Nostalgia

(This is a piece I wrote on 15th April 2012 at around 1:45 AM- the day which marked the centenary of the ill-fated voyage.)

 I am not much of a movie buff. I have a rather blasé attitude towards cinema.Cinema has never been something that fascinates me inordinately. I certainly do not wish to come across as a monastic soul who’s beyond such trivial pleasures of life, it’s just that I am not one of those who would watch a movie more than once, even if one appreciates it, or one who would hop to the cinema hall every other weekend to catch the latest flick . I am very choosy about the kind of cinema I watch. However, there are some movies which are extremely close to my heart, and the mere mention of their name evokes a surge of emotions in my mind. Titanic is one of them.

From the day I heard that the movie is about to make a comeback, that too in a 3-D avatar, I was as excited as a seven year old is about the arrival of his/her first bike. And despite having watched the movie countless times, the excitement and anticipation refused to abate.

The movie has the staple ingredients that usually entice me: romance and vintage grandeur set in the backdrop of a tragedy. But when I reflect upon my uncritical admiration for the movie I realise that it’s not always the content, the form or the technicalities of a particular movie or a song that make you go back to it over and over again, sometimes it’s the sentiments attached to it .

Titanic and I go long back. One of the reasons that it is (and will always be) close to my heart is that it makes me nostalgic about my childhood days spent in the city of Bombay. How many times have you actually had a “reason” to watch a movie or actually had an anecdote to narrate as to what compelled you to watch a movie? I have one, however puerile it may sound.

I was a sixth grader, barely ten years old. We had recently (and suddenly) relocated to Bombay, and I was admitted in one of the most posh schools of the city situated in a posh south Bombay locality.  Until then (and even now) I resided in a small east Delhi locality; I was brought up in the typical “Jamuna-paar” milieu, and was sent to a small time local school where the students and teachers thought it more apt to use our first language than the one imported from west. And all of a sudden I found myself surrounded by these snobbish English speaking kids who dwelled in the plush South Bombay apartments, and came from affluent families. Quite obviously, I was not readily assimilated.

As a child it was very difficult for me to deal with this stark transition.The teachers used English as a medium of teaching and communication; there used to be two recesses unlike my previous school where we used to have only one recess; the end of a lecture was signalled by the sound of  machine operated siren unlike my previous school where still the age-old method of manually ringing the bell  persisted; this new school was too far off from my residence; I had to practically change two buses to reach there as there was no bus route that would directly connect the place where I resided to the place where this new school was located as opposed to my previous school which  was just a stone throw away from my residence; the kids here liked and hummed the songs of Backstreet Boys and someone called Ricky Martin, who they said had become a rage at that time. The sense of getting uprooted from my familiar surroundings, having left behind my childhood friends, my school, my teachers, my neighbourhood and my city, compounded my discomfiture. This school was-the new school, interesting though, but not my school yet.

They used to hold a weekly General Knowledge quiz which was conducted by a very patronising teacher-Mrs Pawah. She was the colour of cottage cheese and must have been in her early sixties. She had small steel gray eyes, and wrinkles that parenthesized her mouth. She was a short and stout woman who wore a wig, and had a coarse voice. She had a habit of chewing aromatic pan-masaala. One could easily sniff and tell her presence. I remember being chided by her on the very first day of new school, for I entered her post-recess class late (in my defence, I could not figure out that the break was over as I was still used to the manual ringing of bell to signal the end of the break). The worst part was that I could not even figure out why she was hollering at me and what were the contents of the harangue (the medium of rebuking was English too :)). I just knew I was being scolded for some reason. I used to dread her and her class ever since.

The quiz used to be conducted every Wednesday. It was around the same time when Titanic had released and had set unprecedented records in terms of Box-Office collections. It had become the talk of the town. Everyone in the new class barring me had watched the movie and was going gaga about it.  I never cared to watch the movie because it was an ENGLISH movie, and English movies were not supposed to be watched with parents (if you know what I mean). And of course being a ten year old kid leaves you no option other than watching a movie with your parents.

It was one of those Wednesdays.

“You...yes you, third bench second row, stand up. Tell me what made the Titanic sink?” she enquired.

Until then I had no clue that Titanic was an actual historical catastrophe which had inspired the movie. So I was a little befuddled by this question being asked in a general knowledge quiz, but being awfully intimidated by her overbearing persona I could not dare to contest the pertinence of her question. 

“I don’t know, ma’am” I said meekly.

“What do you mean, I don’t know! Everyone knows it. I couldn’t have asked you a simpler question. I am disappointed in you” she said in her characteristic contemptuous voice.

“Ma’am,” I spoke mustering some courage after a few seconds of hesitation, “I have not watched the movie yet.”

There was a complete silence in the class. Everyone’s face turned towards me. I had learnt that I was not the only one who despised her; no one in the class particularly liked her. Hence no one dared to react lest she would chide them. To my surprise, after giving me a perplexed look for a couple of seconds, she burst out laughing. And the rest of class followed her lead. Her laughter was derisive. A wave of hilarity ran through the entire class. I was pretty confused as to what was happening. What was so risible about my honest confession that had every one in splits? A slightly sympathetic look on the face of the boy sitting next to me helped me figure out that I had said something stupid.

“Sit down, you!”She said dismissively.

That day I ran to my mother as soon as I reached home, and narrated the entire incident to her. I blamed her for all the jeering and humiliation I was subjected to, since she never had me watch Titanic despite the movie being so freakishly popular.

She wiped my tears and edified me about the historical importance and authenticity of the ill-fated event. At the same time she also promised me that she would accompany me to the movies.  

I was excited. This was my first English movie ever. Even though I have faint memories of watching a few popular sci-fi flicks such as Jurassic Park and Jumanji on the VHS tapes, this was my first one on the big screen. Mother, my sister and I reached Regal Cinema for an evening show. I can still recall the excitement multiplying with each passing second as I saw Regal Cinema nearing, through the front window of a double-decker B.E.S.T bus.

We finally found ourselves settled in the luxurious chairs of the elite Regal Cinema. The movie commenced. It’s funny how kids react. I would keep on entreating mother for translations of the dialogues in the movie (I was not pro at understanding the language let alone the accented version of it). I still distinctly remember perpetually prodding her during the entire first half asking, “When the hell would the ship sink?”
I was least interested in the beautiful moments that the movie showcased; all I was interested in was-what made the ship sink?

This was my first tryst with the celebrated movie. The movie will always be close to my heart, for it will always remind me of my naiveté; it brings back the memories of those innocent moments, those humiliating moments. That moment of awkwardness when Rose expresses her desire to get sketched wearing the pendant...only the pendant; the moment of uneasiness when I shifted in my chair while Rose pulled Jack from the driving seat to the rear part of the car where they had their first and last sensual congress. My understanding of the movie was very rudimentary. As far as I can remember I had liked the movie. I think it must have been the mesmerising beauty of Rose, her wavy auburn hair or the playfulness of Jack. I can’t actually cite with certitude what I liked about the movie back then but I remember that I liked it.  The haunting theme music had definitely caught my fancy. The soulful and haunting voice of Sissel lingered on.

The second time I watched the movie was with first ever crush of my life. By then I had had a little more time to reflect on the romantic saga that was interwoven with the cataclysm. No, it was not a romantic affair at all. It was merely a social outing and we were in a group. But I still remember looking at that person’s face in the filtered light of the cinema screen from the corner of my eyes. I remember my desire to hold that person’s hands while watching Jack and Rose assuming the epic pose and locking their lips in the backdrop of limitless Atlantic Ocean and the infinite orange hued sky. It was my first crush; it happened when I was completely oblivious to carnal instincts of any sorts. I was too young to understand that the feelings I had, were suppose to be called romantic feelings. For me it was a special attraction, an inexplicable attraction. I just knew I wanted to be around that person perhaps for my entire life, and I was naive enough to believe that things might work out. It is this innocence of mine that the movie reminds me of.

Although later it turned out that the person was not least bit worth of having any kinds of feelings for, even till today that person’s face resurfaces in my dreams however hard I try to scramble my memories of that person. The theme song of the movie invariably reminds me of the time I spent with that person and my imbecile liking for that person.

I wanted to relive all those moments. Hence as soon as the rehash of the movie was announced I had made up my mind that I wanted to watch it and relive those nostalgic moments with Jack and Rose (yes you may call me mawkish). Even today after having watched the movie umpteen times I observed things that I did not observe the last time I had watched it. It occurred to me that I still find Rose as bewitching as ever. I loved her auburn locks even more. I still love the vulnerability of Jack’s character and air of artlessness about him. My heart still skips a beat when Rose’s leg slips off the ship’s stern.

 I still enjoy the clumsiness and awkwardness of Jack when he sees Rose bare bodied for the first time. I can still feel the tremble in Jack’s body and the suppleness of Rose’s moist body after their first sexual congress.The conviction with which Rose pronounces her full name, "Dawson...Rose Dawson", after being rescued, still impresses me. I still nod my head undetectably when elderly Rose claims that a woman’s heart is deeper than the ocean.

  I love the streaks of levity in the otherwise grave setting of the movie. I still smile when the elderly Rose contemplates herself in the salvaged hand-mirror of hers and remarks how it is still the same as she had seen it last, just the reflection has changed. In fact, going slightly off at a metaphysical tangent, the stark contrast between the wizened face and withered body of Gloria Stuart(elderly Rose) and the flawless beauty of Kate Winslet(young Rose) reminds me of the fact that pulchritude is transient.It reminds me that however advanced and mighty man assumes himself to be, he is always feeble in the front of nature and destiny. It reminds me of the fact that there is nothing that is not perishable; even the most beautiful things wither; even the unsinkable might sink.  It gives me a faint idea of how it feels when death tumefies and assumes monstrous proportions, and stares you right in the eye.

This time, I had thought that I would watch it someone really special to add another memory to cherish in the future but could not manage to find a suitable prospect. Some friends were kind to offer their gracious presence but I chose to avoid company and relish those moments all by myself.

It is not always the story of a movie that attracts you to it, sometimes the stories of your own life which get woven with a movie or a song make it very close to your heart. Titanic is one of such very few movies that I will always cherish.

I derive an uncanny thrill when I realise that as I write these concluding lines, the unfortunate tragedy completes its centenary. It was this very date and time exactly hundred years back when the Atlantic decided to feast on one of the most magnificent and robust man made marvel ever set afloat and over fifteen hundred lives served as accompaniments. 

Titanic Theme Music