The Ancient Youth

“Arts fac, baithiye, Arts fac! Bees rupaye. Baithiye!" (Arts fac, sit, Arts fac! Twenty rupees. Sit!")

Angai wondered, as she emerged out of the metro station, how these rickshaw-pullers always slotted the people without erring, how they somehow knew that person like her would go nowhere else but Arts faculty. She was in hurry and in no mood of haggling. She nodded and boarded the rickshaw silently. On her way to Arts Faculty she saw a motley of students passing by—walking, chatting, munching, making faces at each other, nudging each other. They all looked so charming to her.

“bhaiya khule nahi hain?”

She got off the rickshaw after rummaging through her wallet for change for a minute or so. As soon as she stepped on the campus of the University of Delhi, the words of Alisha, a dear friend, echoed in her head, “soak in some campus air for me when you go there.” She felt like a foreigner encroaching upon her property. It was Alisha’s campus. Her heart ached for Alisha. She wished she could go and salvage her from her house arrest. She wished she could just go argue fiercely with Alisha's parents and ask them to let her be, let her fly, let her breathe.

She reached the first floor where she was to submit the form—her form. Another attempt. She was anxious. She took out the form from the bag. The form had become limp, maybe because of the weight of her hopes, she thought.

“That way. Window number 53. Submit your form there,” a gentleman told her.

This was a familiar territory. She was acquainted with those classrooms. She had attended a few classes there. They seemed inviting. There was something so romantic about those corridors; they had an old-world charm about them; something very organic.

Her eyes met a slew of students waiting much before him to submit the form. Some were making inquiries; some were fanning themselves with their forms; some were cursing the prolonged lunch break. The wait seemed endless. She observed all of them closely. Her gaze was glazed with awe. These were the students who had studied literature formally. They had read Derrida and Foucault as part of their curriculum. They had thrived on Shakespeare, and had breathed Wordsworth and Keats. And here was she, merely on a caprice. How farcical it must seem to them if they got to know about it. They’d laugh, she was positive. They had formally read literature; whereas she...she merely lived it. Yet she, a student of medicine, was there...among them; trying to be one among them. Why, she wondered. Everyone she knew would either find her decision amusing or absurd. The people sharing the latter sentiment certainly outnumbered those who shared the former.

Though she vociferously defended it, she herself knew how impractical and unsound the decision was when considered on financial and professional grounds. Maybe she did not want others to tell her that. Why, she wondered again. Was it to prove a point? If yes, then to whom? No. Not to others definitely. She could have continued with her medical practice, had that been the case for that would make his kin so happy. Then? To herself? Maybe yes. It wasn’t just a course for him; not just another thing to be done. It was a decision as queer as her. It could be something that would define her. She knew she deserved to be there regardless of the result of the entrance test. He knew how deeply he revered the subject, how she slept with Othello pressed hard against her chest, how she had read so much into Faustus, how her eyes would light up every time there was a discussion on Austen or the Bronte sisters. She wanted to belong there. She too wanted to be part of that system; to be able to gripe about it legitimately.

“May I borrow that pen for a second?”

The girl standing next to her obliged. She wrote her phone number at the back of the Demand Draft which was to be submitted along with the form. The queue had moved a few inches forward. She spotted something-- a someone rather. How could she have not noticed this boy till now? The boy stood tall and lean; his complexion clear and glowing; his face bespectacled. While the rest of them were constantly fretting, fidgeting and grumbling, checking and re-checking if their documents were in place or not, this fellow was standing with his sang-froid. This nonchalance was magnetic. To Angai’s fanciful gaze he looked like young and solemn Buddha. The ancient youth was biting his lips and was lost in some sort of deep meditation. His entire demeanour suggested as if he was gravid with some profound realisation. He certainly seemed to be on the brink of it, if not fully realised it.

Angai was happy. She had found an engagement worthwhile. This should help him ignore the crawling pace of the queue and the humid summer. No, the attraction was far from sexual. The boy looked too pristine to evoke any such sentiments. This attraction was pure. Something similar to what she had felt for Priyank. In her head Angai had walked up to him and said “hi” already; the boy, too, had flashed a broad smile and took keen interest in this random stranger who had walked up to him to strike a conversation; they had hit off instantly; they were sitting in some cafe conversing seamlessly and the conversation segued from literature to philosophy, from politics to their personal lives; they had contemplated on the purpose of life, or the incoherence of life by now. That was all that Angai expected—his company. But, as always, that was all in Angai’s head. All these things only happened with others. Angai either read about them or heard about them.  The queue had moved. The boy had submitted his form already and left. All Angai could do was to watch the back of his navy blue shirt, drenched in sweat, disappear slowly in the crowd.

“Form dijiye...” the clerk peeped from behind the window.





                                                           

Let's Talk Bombay Talkies

So, a couple of days back I (finally) got an opportunity to watch the much acclaimed and the much talked about Bombay Talkies. I am no connoisseur of cinema. I blatantly confess my inability to appreciate the finer nuances and technical aspects of cinema as a form of art. My appreciation of the movie is hardly based either on the apparently superficial parameters such as: popularity of the star cast, merit of the director(s), locales in which the movie is shot (I couldn't have cared less if ZNMD was shot in Satpura instead of Spain), or the more profound aspects such as the intricacies of plot construction, nuances of characterization, art direction, verisimilitude of the story etc. Or maybe these factors influence me subconsciously without my being fully aware of them. All I mean to say is that I don’t go in with a check-list in my hand. 

By and large, I've realised, that the one thing that appeals to me the most in a movie, or any form of art for that matter, is its potency to stir emotions, thrum the strings of heart, as it were. If the movie does that, then, at least for me, it redeems itself of all other inevitable flaws that it has; for art is the extension of humanity not divinity; and perfection is not a human realm. Yes, there's always a better way of doing, saying and creating things. But that should not preclude one from appreciating the beauty of the art form as it stands now.

Perhaps, that's one reason I've never been copiously pleased by Sci-Fi, action flicks, or even thrillers for that matter. I may enjoy a rom-com here and there, but it won't be something that stays with me. Whereas the movies which may be apparently nondescript but manage to ripple my emotions usually persist in my memory, influence me, and become a part of my life.

I was told that Bombay Talkies is my kind of movie. I read the reviews and the broad story line and had an inkling that I might actually like the movie. However, within few days of its release the movie had raked a storm of discussions in the intellectual circuits. The critique was highly polarised. 

Of the many things that caught people's fancy was Karan Johar's bold, serious and overt depiction of a homosexual character in his short story.

 While there was one section of the top crust of humanity that hailed it as the coming of age cinema and commended K Jo's daring, the other section panned the movie for depicting the gay character in a negative light-- allegedly as a "husband-snatcher". 

I for one think that perspectives of the critics on both sides of the fence are a little too loaded. It was a story. And a story should be seen as just that. A story is a small fragment of someone's reality. By passing a judgment on a story we implicitly pass a judgment on someone's reality. While I could not see in what manner was the gay guy trying to "snatch" the husband, I would not be surprised at all even if he were depicted so. Are we saying that queer people are sacrosanct and are not as susceptible to human follies as straight folks? 

In fact, not even once does the wife in question begrudge the gay man or show any sign of resentment toward him. She begrudged the husband. And mind you the grudge was not ascribed to his being gay, but to his deception-- for keeping her in dark, for donning a facade all through their married life. 

I think people missed out on the larger message that Karan wanted to convey through his story (and also by deciding not to marry himself) that while it is not wrong to be gay, it is wrong to be deceitful. 

The story commences on the note: "Homosexual hu main...homosexual. Chakka nahi hu. Na chakka hona galat hai aur na homsexual hona. Samjha!! (I am homosexual not a eunuch. And there's nothing wrong in being either. Understand)"

And the story ends on the note: "...jhooth bolna buri baat hai (it's wrong to lie)". 

I think these two lines sum up the entire essence of the story and define its premise. People failed to read this underlying and subtle message. 

It was not a case of a gay man alluring a straight man to sleep with him driven by lust. The husband was a closeted gay man himself. If anything the gay man should be commended for having such an effective 'gay-dar' (just kidding. lol). 

Surprisingly, I always empathise with women in such cases. No matter what, I somehow I cannot see how under any circumstances--however extenuating-- can a gay man choose to put a woman's marital life at stake. Maybe few years down the line when I am more experienced and more mature I may come to terms with this aspect of queer existence especially in a socio-cultural milieu like ours, but for now, I can't but be a little judgmental. 

For me the high point of the story was when the wife after all the sobbing and weeping breaks into a smile and concludes that now she's free and it's over. I loved the sense of liberation she experienced in that moment. I loved how she felt absolved of the guilt of not being appealing enough for her husband or not being worthy of his love. 

I can't imagine the agony-- that constant self-doubt, that constant guilt of being incompetent, that constant sense inadequacy on the count of not being desirable enough for her man-- of that woman caught up in such a marriage. 

All this while the wife dressed up seductively only to elicit gaze that makes her feel desirable-- something which her stoic husband could not accord her. 

I loved that moment when the wife is shown wearing a blood red lipstick post the confrontation she has with her husband. She was now dressing up for herself and not to please the husband for a change. It is that sense of emancipation that thrilled me.

The husband belittles the gay man, because he is not able to digest the gay man’s courage and unapologetic disposition.  He turns hostile towards the young man not because he was miffed by the unseemliness of the young man’s move, but his own inability to resist temptation. The violence was not the fallout of prudery; it was the fallout of fear—the fear of confronting one’s own desires. The husband saw in the young man what he himself could never be.

While the story subtly censures the lie pulled off by the husband all his life, the story also briefly reveals the rather mordacious ramifications of accepting and being vocal about the truth of one’s own sexuality in the land of “Satyamev Jayate”. The young gay man is subjected to vehement violence and barbed remarks (physical and mental torture) at the hands of his own father finally culminating in the ouster of the young man from his house. The price that hundreds of queer children have to pay for speaking truth, nothing but the truth, about something as innate as their sexual orientation. Sad and shameful, isn’t it?

I wonder why people overlooked these aspects of the story and either went about extolling the story or excoriating it left right and centre. 

Like any other anthropological existence, Queer existence too is so diverse and complex that no one film, or story, can do full justice to it or present a panoptic view of it. One story can only portray one dimension of queer reality. Censuring the story is saying as if that particular dimension is non-existent. 

I feel that the best thing about a story —a realistic one-- is that it’s a slice of life. It can be good, it can be bad. It can’t be right or wrong. 

Phew! Well, talking about the other stories: Zoya’s story was extremely endearing. The way it subtly questioned and subverted our notions of (hyper) masculinity was indeed praise worthy. The way the child innocently gives up on hewing to his father's ideas of how boys should be was touching. " But I hate it. Mujhe nahi maarna goal-voal. Goal maaro...goal maaro...goal maaro."

 Honestly, I don’t care even if it was a rip off from some western movie. I loved it! Period.  

I am ashamed to admit that this was the first time I witnessed the genius of Nawazudien Sidique. And I must say all the praises that I’ve heard about him were not even one bit exaggerated. He is certainly a ‘Nat-Samraat’ in making. 

The three child artists were also brilliant. The first one’s unassuming rendition of the melodies from the golden era of Indian cinema (Hindi film music to be more precise); the second one’s mere smile when she sees her father return home with a story was more eloquent than any poesy; the third one’s expressive eyes which dilate and light up when he sees his mother’s stilettos and slips into them tugged my heart. The fine depiction of pathos, helplessness and a consuming sense of urgency on Vijay’s face when he is unable to get through the gates of Pratiksha (Mr Bachhan’s residence in Mumbai) is truly remarkable. 

All in all, I connected with the movie at various levels. It is one movie I’ve seen in a long time that will linger on for some time to come. It was simple (nothing grand or ostentatious), subtle and yet effective. 

                                                             

  

Of Love Awe and Resentment...

Dear C,

I am sorry to have been writing to you so late. It’s been long overdue now. But I am sure you’d forgive me.  Why won’t you. You’re magnanimity personified. I don’t think I even need to tell you how electrified I was upon seeing you after almost five years. You could see it in my eyes, couldn’t you? You could see my eye-pupils dilate as I walked closer and closer to you. In fact, I could hear your presence much before I could see you. I was thrilled. My gait was competing with my heart-beat.  I don’t know what exactly draws me to you. I think, it’s more of intrigue than love.

There’s so much we owe to you, and most of the times we don’t ever realise your importance. I admire how you go on about your business silently, while everyone thinks that you’re just loafing about. They don’t see what it takes to be who you are and how difficult it is to be who you are just because you don’t show it; but when you do, even the mightiest tremble. Now, you see, this is another reason I am so deeply fascinated by you. You wield so much power; and yet you are not bumptious. Well, most of the times. You know your limits well. Your grace, notwithstanding your rather formidable immensity, is something that renders me in sheer awe.   

I could spend hours at length staring at you -- just looking at you meditatively without uttering a word. And I love the way you stare right back at me with the same meditative gaze, as if trying to whisper something in my ears — maybe the secret of life, its origin, or its culmination. I am sure you know it. You’ve seen it all. From you it all began and into you it would be all laid to rest. When I see you I somehow I feel that all my thoughts are being subliminally subsumed by you. And I think you are one of the few who has the fortitude and resilience to withhold them without showing an iota of disdain or alarm.  With you can I be assured that the brine immanent in my eyes is-- and will always be-- less than that in yours. It’s a consolation of a different kind. Maybe you won’t understand.

Feeling your cold body touch mine makes me feel connected to the past, the present and the future simultaneously. I feel as if I am here, I am there, and I am everywhere your vast expanse spreads. I can’t even begin to imagine how you engulf so much in you when even the little that remains bare seems endless. Yes, I feel, that’s one of the most remarkable quality that draws me toward you: you are deep. Unfathomably deep. In others I always seek depth; and in myself I always seek height. Shall I tell you a secret? I fancy my heart as mysterious as yours.

I can’t still forget that night when your entire body was glazed in shimmering moonlight. For the first time, I saw the moonlight dance. It was dancing to the symphony created by the sound of waves swashing against the shore and the bombination of the blowing breeze. A symphony I had been longing to hear for many years now. I only felt bad for there was no one with me on that full-moon-lit and vernal night who could truly appreciate this surreal moment. There was no one with whom I could amble on your shores hand in hand. There was no one to who could recite a poetic verse or two to commemorate this splendid moment. There was no one who could be my anchor on your shores or in my life.  I often say this, and I say it again: I’ve never had very big aspirations. I’ve always looked for joy in small little moments such as these, but when one is denied even those, then, one is bound to feel a little resentful. Won’t you second me, O Mighty Ocean?

With fondest love

aviD


                                                               

Cheese Spread

The mother must have gotten used to it by now. It was not the first time it had happened: sometimes it would happen multiple times in the same day. He would snap at her for no reason, or for a reason too picayune. Today it happened when she was edifying him about the importance the scrubbing the crevices of the kitchen-wares lest dirt should settle there and won’t just budge. “I know all that already, mother. Don’t tell me how to look after the kitchen. I’ve known it all my life. It’s hardwired in me. There are better things I need to learn from you. If only I was half as street-smart as you.”
“’Hard-wired!’ damn! That was the word I was looking for today in the school. Your snapping does me some good, I must admit” mother returned.

Not knowing what to say, he just smiled. Mothers...

And then came the routine process of deconstructing the reasons of his crankiness in his head, and the pangs of guilt. Maybe it was the lumps in the white sauce. He should’ve stirred it slowly adding the milk carefully in small quantities. But he knew how to fix it. He got it off the flame once it was done and passed it through a fine sieve. And there was his white sauce—smooth and perfect— all set to be added to the cheese spread he was preparing. He somehow just knew the remedy. No one had taught him all that. It just came so naturally to him. He amazed himself with things such as this.

Or maybe it was the conversation that he had had with an old school-friend today. She just wanted him to be there for her if (God forbid) things don’t work out between her and her boyfriend. “I’d just want you to be around when I am raising the baby. I’d live next door to you, or somewhere in the same locality as yours. Whatever! I would never have an iota of physical or financial expectations from you. Just be there mentally or morally or whatever the f**k they call it.” The lines played out and rang in his head verbatim. It cannot be a coincidence that another dear friend had said exactly the same thing—almost word by word— to him. It was a bit eerie. What should this arrangement be called? Quasi-marriage? It was a commitment however unconventional. Wasn’t it? A commitment he wasn’t sure of—at least at that point in his life. He loved both of them very much. Each of them was such integral part of his life. One with whom he had spent the most adventurous and blissful days of his school life. And the other who had practically initiated him into his youth, and had helped him explore those facets of his existence which he himself was unaware of. Yet, he could not willingly give his consent to either of the proposals. There was something that held him back. Perhaps it was a matter of allegiance. He could not commit himself to something that he wasn’t sure of fulfilling. His life was not entirely his. He owed it many others. He couldn’t be selfish no matter how hard he tried. Everyone was busy envisaging and designing his future for him: parents, sibling, few close relatives, friends—without asking what he wished for. Ironically, he himself had not taken any call yet. What if he doesn’t even live that long. Envisaging so distant a future seemed a smug exercise to him. Nevertheless, each possibility was equally satisfying and would come with its own set of prospects and consequences. But he wanted the latitude of exercising his choice. It was his life too, after all. What he’d want ten years down the line would depend on his frame of mind then. Why would someone want to lay his/her claim on it. He also knew that eventually he’d end up hurting at least one of the parties, which was again something he’d never want to do. Expectations: the root cause of all the sufferings, in this world.

Or perhaps it was the new territory (a dating website) he had ventured into lately. It was quite an “it” thing among his peers. It was transformative exercise for him and nostalgic too. The same array of emotions had rushed through him as did when he was merely twenty one years of age. The same set of misgivings, realisation of inadequacies and the worst of it all—hope. Hope: something that he had conveniently managed to inhume under the overlay of his academic and career pursuits. It was a fun(ny?) place undoubtedly. But he realised that there were no takers of what he had to offer. And what was expected out of him there was something that he was incapable of. He was trying sincerely though. He had seen a couple of known faces there, but he was too prudish to walk up to them and greet them...at least there. In the real world he would wonder if he could ever manage to foray in to those dark and animalistic recesses of the minds of the apparently decorous people; in the virtual world, on the other hand, he would try to seek the humane side of the clientele thereof. “There must be something more than that to them, more than what meets the eyes” he would think in each case—former and latter. But the very initial few visits to that zone had taught him that all the qualities that he had acquired with such a lot of perseverance were of absolutely no value there. Who cared to what length he could go to get that just the right texture for his white sauce and prepare the most scrumptious cheese spread his parents had ever tasted.

Mother patted his back upon tasting it. “You are quite something. Honestly, I had never expected it to be this delicious” she said as she munched on the toast.      

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. "