जय हिन्दी

कुछ दिन पहले कोई हम से पूछा की हम किस भाषा में सोचते हैं. जवाब देने में हम को दो सेकेंड भी नही लगा.
हिन्दी. पटना में तो फिर भी हिन्दी दिख जाता है. प्रेमचंद की कहानियो का संग्रह,
टागॉर की लेखनी या शिवानी के उपन्यास. परिवार में अनेक लोग थे जो यह पुस्तक पढ़ते थे. यहाँ
पता नही क्यूँ हम प्रसिद्ध हिन्दी कहानिया भी अँग्रेज़ी में ही पढ़ते हैं. और अगर हिन्दी में कुछ
लिख भी दें तो बहुत गर्व महसूस करतें हैं. जैसे कोई बिल्कुल अजूबा कर दिया हो. देवनागरी जैसे लिप्त हो रही है. न्यूज़ चॅनेल भी रोमन स्क्रिप्ट में न्यूज़ लिखते हैं, अधिकतर. लेकिन अगर आप अँग्रेज़ी अख़बार भी देखे तो कई बार आप पाएगें की अग्रेज़ी का वाक्य सीधा अनुवाद है
हिन्दी वाक्य का, यानी, किसी ने हिन्दी में सोचें वाक्य को वैसे ही अँग्रेज़ी में लिख दिया.
और सिर्फ़ अख़बार ही क्यूँ, कई बार वार्तालाप करतें वक़्त भी हम हिन्दी में सोच कर अँग्रेज़ी में बोल देते हैं.
वाक्य बिल्कुल ही अटपटा लगता है.
यह लेखनी क्यूँ लिखी? शायद बहुत दिन हो गया था अपनी मर्ज़ी का कुछ हिन्दी में लिखे हुए. और पढ़े हुए.

BMW vs blueline

9 years back a Nanda ran his BMW over few people. it hogged the limelight then and has been on the front page since. recently when he was sentenced 5 years of imprisonment, the media declared that justice has been done.
every week the count of people killed by the blueline keeps rising. the news finds a column in the 3rd or 4th page of the newspaper. the media doesnt raise a hue and cry. why this differential treatment? well, i have figured out why.
the nanda has committed two crimes. one he is a rich man, which is a crime in our poor country. and then his car ran over poor people. had he crushed a rich lad on an expensive bike, i guess it would have been ok.
on the other hand, the blueline is driven by a poor guy. forget the seth who owns the blueline. it's the driver who is present at the site of the crime. so a poor man committing a crime against a poor man doesnt make for a good story.

yateem

that's the name of the movie i watched this morning. i have seen it once before too. last time it was at my masi's place. well, she wasn't really my masi, but my cousin's. we lived in a big joint family. so my cousin's masi was mine too, as were his/her nana and nani. anyways, this masi lived in a haveli. by virtue of her marriage. and this haveli was on the outskirts of patna and on the banks of ganga. walk out of the haveli and you could stroll in the fruit orchard, (are orchards only for fruits?), which was spread over acres of land. it was a beautiful setting for her house. anyways, she divorced him and is now settled with her second husband in dehradun. i have heard that she has an equally beautiful house there.
as a kid i had enjoyed this movie immensely. though i didnt remember the story, just bits of it. so when i chanced on it on Set Max this morning, i had to catch it. and i am happy that i did. unlike other bollywood movies, here you'll see Sunny Deol bathing under the waterfall in his unbranded boxers. him swimming in the river showing off his well built body. and Farha is standing on banks looking at him with lustful eyes. it was refreshing to see this role reversal in Bollywood. till recently, when feminism was high on my agenda, i would wish to cast men in minimal clothes. it was my revenge for what men have done to women in the show business. and for that matter i liked Om Shanti Om, the way Farha Khan made a spectacle of Shahrukh Khan's body.
i think yateem too must have been directed by a woman.

no divorce in hindi

for the last few days i have been searching for the hindi word for divorce. but apparently there's none. which brings me to this perplexing thought that they really believed in the '7 janmo ka rishta' philosophy. and this isn't comforting.
apparently, the hindu way of thinking also emphasises the existence of opposites. so beautifully highlighted in the movie Aks. so, if there's a 'shaadi', there should also be a, you know what i mean.
but then, history also gives us an example. ram had separated from sita. but nomenclature didnt adopt the act. so i guess the act is quite prevalent. but when you talk about it, as rahul puts, one comes at a loss of words.

the fall of rain

after such a long time, this year it rained in delhi. seems like someone has been pouirng his heart up there. it just rains nowadays. wonder why rain has such a soothing effect. it immediately makes me smile. makes my heart ligther. and it seems that we live in a perfect world. i can just keep looking at the raindrops. and if you see them hitting the ground, it seems like hundreds of liliputs are dancing. that's what one of my seniors used to say.
if you overlook the muddy streets, collapsing buildings and jammed roads it leaves behind, rain is the perfect way to end a day. and if once in a while you give the perfect you a break, and dont mind getting drenched, it is also the perfect way of revisiting your childhood.
way back in the 80s and 90s, the summer vacation would be still on when monsoon came to patna. some 10-12 of us would continue our play on the terrace. the rain was not an interruption, it was a welcome guest. none of our parents would stop us from playing in the rain. mostly because our grandmother would give us the permit. according to her, the first rain was the perfect medicine for summer boils. patna at that time wasnt that advanced to experience acid rain, i guess. once the rain stopped, we would run down to the bathroom. water dripping from our clothes. after another shower in the bathroom we would be ready to resume our play.

ganga would outgrow herself every monsoon. last year when i visited the banks during dusshera, i could see chunks of land visible in the middle of the river. i hope this year the monsoon has replenished her. however much the water level, ganga in patna does not exude the deafening noise that it does in rishikesh. it grows old by the time it reaches my city. and sobers down.
river, rain. i guess it's the water that has a soothing effect on me. even the roaring of sea doesnt disturb. it soothes.

yakk yakk

recently i was very eager to blog. with so many thoughts brimming and anxiously waiting for an outlet, it was difficult to control myself. writing is therapeutic. it's like talking to a good friend. one that does not react however blasphemous your thougths. is not judgmental. and best of all, keeps your secrets hidden from the world. that's the beauty of writing, when you do it in a diary. and tug it away behind a pile of forgotten clothes in your wardrobe.
a blog is totally contrary to it. so many people will read it and talk about it. it's like baring your soul, asking people to be judgmental. how i missed the diary. have got so used to letting it out on a keyboard, that scribbling in a diary seemed an effort.
so the thoughts brimmed, floated and i talked. big time. i probably let it out in installments. it's like, if the 10 people i interact with the most get together and discuss, they can piece together the whole story. how i miss the diary.

how far should we bend?

so i went to the client's office. and was shown into the MD's office. now she is the boss, or pretends to be. i had to write 4 invites because all of a sudden one saturday the head boss decides that they'll launch their product on coming thursday. so i had to write invites for press, senior management, vijay team and all employees. they brief me on 3 invites. i ask her to brief me on the fourth one too so that i can go to office. but she insists that i do all the writing in her office.
so i write the first invite and she's ok with it. then she goes in a meeting and comes back brainwashed. she looks at the first invite and yelps, revolution is too strong a word.
by now 4-5 of her pappus have also flooded the room.
me: but i thought you were ok with it.
MD: no-no. tch
pappu 1: how about endeavour?
MD: hmm
pappu 2: initiative sounds good?
MD: initiative doesn't gel well with the internal sensitivities
me: urgh
pappu 3: jouney is a nice word
MD seems to like the suggestion.
pappu 2 realises he is losing ground, so he juts in
pappu 2: waise we can make the invite flow in a different manner. you know, it could start with 'Mr. analjit singh invites you..'
pappu 3 gets back: you never address anyone with a 'mr' or 'ms' in an invite
MD: drop 'mr'
pappu 2: but i have seen it frequently in invites
MD: add 'mr'
by now my brain has gone into the power saving mode and has switched off. i look at the laptop screen. and it looks back. blankly. gingerly i slide it to Asif. let him make the changes in the copy, that is, if he can grasp the proceedings.
suddenly they all are looking at me. my brain switches on. ok, they are ready to brief me on the 4th invite. i understand the brief, and pull back the laptop. anisha and pappu 3 are peeping in the screen. they are judging me by each word that i am typing. i delelte what i just wrote. write again. delete it again.
MD: is it uncomfortable for you to work in this room?
i grab the opportunity and blurt.
me: i would rather go to office and work.
MD: ok
and yes, in-between she also argued with me on a preposition.

to ignore or not

ignoring is one way of not letting the world around affect you. the way Text Twist does. you would know if you have played that game on yahoo. very conveniently it does not accept words like slut, shit and many more. it's like saying that these do not exist in our world. had it been a game designed in india it would have even rejected the word 'sex'.
but why just text twist, many other institutions also have the same attitude. our biology teacher in school very conveniently skipped the chapter on reproduction. i can understand his discomfort, it was a girls only school and he was one of the 3 male teachers. but then it left a bunch of 60 girls confused. for a very long time.
but you cannot ignore the servicing in my office. they are so loud and vocal, despite the fact that they dont do their job. today i made their life hell (rather than allowing them to do the same to my life). just for a tiny moment. suddenly i realise it gave me tremendous joy to see them troubled. if my mother reads this she will call me a failed project .

PS: machupichu, i hope it's legible, now that i have changed the font.

hair apparent (or not so?)

i walked into the store. i should mislead him. so i ask him for clips. well, clips are no longer called clips, he told me. they are now called back clips, side clips and jura clips. by the process of elimination, i ask for side clips. he gestures me towards another counter. as i reach it my eyes are dazzled by the clips on display. multi-coloured stones cover every inch of the clips. bling-bling. instantly i blurt out, no-no i want simple clips. Ohh, hair pins!! that's what you are looking for?

last i knew, they were called clips. he handed me a set of 12 clips. what if i wanted just 2, they are sold by the dozen. clipped to a thick glossy paper which read JP STAY TIGHT. how uncomfortable for JP.

now that the act was over, i should ask for it. very causually i ask, tweezer hoga?

he nods and turns around to get it. it worked. he didnt even once glance at the thick sprouting strand standing proudly on my chin. growing taller everyday. well, not anymore.

take-off seat

2 and a half feet by 3 feet. that's all the space you have. but somehow it doesn't feel that small. it seemed far from the noisy hall i crossed. the only sound here is the humming of the AC duct above. that too if you hear it. lost in thoughts, i can sit on that toilet seat for hours. the boundaries and the wooden door in front melted away. i dont know where i was. my thoughts took me back to last night. this morning. last week. last hour. i travelled everywhere. suddenly my journey was halted by the noise in the lobby. i had been in that loo for probably too long. a crowd was waiting. not very patiently. i could hear their small talk. with all of them waiting, it will be too embarassing to step out. i can hear the flush. the door of the adjacent loo opens. ok. some respite for them. and me. i can stay a minute longer. lesser people in the lobby = lesser embarassment.

picture perfect

one of the side-effects of visiting a town like cannes is that your inferiority complex resurfaces. and remains. beautiful faces, perfect figures, fashionable dresses, shoes and accessories. even beautiful dogs yar. it seemes God had hand-picked people and the people had hand-picked their clothes. everything was beautiful. the bus driver was a looker. the workers dismantling a stage after a party were good-looking. a look at their bare backs, burnt bronze by the sun and sculpted by workout, left me gaping. i sat at the bus stop for an hour just looking at everyone passing by. from the kids skating away to the grandmother on a walk, it seemed they had walked out of a catalogue.
what decides how good you will look? genes dont. among siblings you will find beauty and the beast. what is that one factor which makes god say, she will be born beautiful. this is one code that i want to crack.
beautiful people have so much advantage. for one, they can wear whatever they feel like. since you cannot take your eyes off their face, you will not lok at their clothes. unless you are vidya balan. so whatever they wear seems to be in fashion. as a kid growing up in patna, my cousin visiting from pune would bring along with her the latest fashion trends. and they would stay put until her next visit. i do not have to mention how beautiful she was.
i wont be cruel to myself. two men have always complemented me on my beauty. one is my dad. and the other is vikas. that too when he is egged on by alcohol.

life and living

what's that one thing we are running after? if all of it is just maya, why am i bothered about being upset, about putting on weight, about my appearance? and if it's just a play, like shakespeare puts it, why did i get a supporting role? and if previous karma determines my current state, what wrong/right did i do? what was i in my previous life? isnt it thougth provoking? it is said one settles old scores across births. but what fun would it be when you dont know why you are being nasty to a person without any apparent reason. and maybe even feel guilty about it in the current life. or if someone is just returning the favour by being good, but i feel immense gratitude towards him/her. imagine god's job of maintaining a record of debts raised and debts settled across births.

give up on eating?

how thin she has become. have you seen Kareena Kapoor in her latest movie? she looks as thin as a reed. suddenly her cheek bones are so much more prominent and the pout always posing. since i have seen her on screen and also her effect on vikas i am considering size zero seriously. fuelled by people around me i started mulling over the option of working out. gym. thats the answer to all my problems.

but then, it's her job to look thin. like it's my job to write. so i have to be extra cautious even while smsing. (now, is that a word?). anyway, so she is just doing her job, which is fine and i dont have to be bothered because someone somewhere is doing a good job.

i had brownie with ice cream and chocolate sauce for lunch today.

long time no see

after such a long time i am blogging. blame it on the heavy flow of work. hopefully they take this into regard while considering my appraisal.
that brings me to appraisal. reminds me of school. infact, school report cards were more predictable. predictable in the sense that i knew what excuse i would give for low marks. but, you never know what resaon the HR will give for not so impressive appraisals. i mean, marks never depended on school's profit and loss. but what if they did? imagine the principal announcing, this year you wont get any marks because the new teacher has caused a dent in the school funds. or the Mumbai branch is not doing well, so we have to pretend that we are not doing well either. the more i think about the appraisal the more fidgety i get. so let's change the topic.
donno what else to talk about. catch you later.

we in the east

the western society has always been selfish. they always form rules, clubs, organisations to their own advantage. even something as mundane as the time-zone has been devised to suit them. it's we who get up before them. start toiling before them. bring the world to its functioning mode before they wake up. gross injustice.

5 you said?

5 minutes are bliss. When I pull the blanket over my head and snooze off every morning. 5 minutes are comfort. In the examination hall. 5 minutes are a savior. When the death of deadline is pushed.
5 minutes are enlightenment. At the coffee vending machine in office. 5 minutes are perfection. When I garnish the dish before it is attacked. 5 minutes are confusion. When with a handful of gel I try another hairstyle, and, in the same breath go back to the previous one. 5 minutes are flash-back. When I spot a primary-school friend in a crowded mall. 5 minutes are an hour. As I wait for my mother to walk out of my room before I swap the channel. 5 minutes are forgettable. When I gave my first extempore speech. 5 minutes are nail-biting. As I search my name in the passing-out list. 5 minutes are consequential. When the principal notices it is me booing the guest speaker. 5 minutes are a hunt. When one sock is in my hand and the other is god-knows where. 5 minutes are a challenge. As I try to convince my professor that I lost my assignment on way to college. 5 minutes are critical. When I am trying to control my bowel movement and at the same time speeding to reach home sooner. 5 minutes are fidgety. As I keep looking at the phone waiting for it to ring.
5 minutes are all the same. As I drive down the highway for miles and miles. 5 minutes are technologically challenged. As I leaf through the user’s manual of my fancy new gadget. 5 minutes are yes-no yes-no yes-no. When my father asks me to attend a relative’s wedding. 5 minutes are a discovery. When I am cleaning my room after ages. 5 minutes are a battle. As I bargain to buy my stuff at my price. 5 minutes are frozen. And I can go back to it in the photo album. 5 minutes are life. When I say no to burning it away at the end of a cigarette.

wat you reading?

haven't read a good book lately. a book that leaves you with a thought, stirs your brain and lasts longer than the last page. My Feudal Lord, that's the book i just finished reading. lots of drama, domestic violence and extra-marital affairs is what it's made of. it's a definite page turner, though at times you curse the woman for not walking out on her husband. it's a real life account and if you do a google search you will find faces to the characters. and yes, i am still with the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. but somehow it has lost the zing in the second book. so i am on the lookout for a real good read. got any recommendations?

i think i should eat something

now i am bored.wish the curtains, here's when naren walks in. i talk to him for a minute and as he returns i turn back to writing. curtains i wrote? i don't know why i wrote that. i wasnt thinking of curtains. or was i? if i lift the curtains it's rohit this time, let's share the ideas. after a visit to my boss' room i am back to the blog. curtains? thats where we were. i have yellow curtains at my home. curtains are a funny concept. i mean, you want to block out the outside world, but not totally. it's like dilly-dallying between a yes and a no. not sure which way you want to go. my lense is irritating me, things around are appearing clouded. the lense is working like a curtain.

green signal

standing on the road as the traffic zips past. at any given moment if i raise my eyes i can make eye contact with 50 men around me. they are there. scrutinising me. at any fraction of a second if you count there must be atleast 100 men looking at me from 100 diferent angles. scanning every part of me. from head to toe. their eyes crawling on me. not an inch of me is beyond them. it's an ordeal to stand on the road waiting. ask any woman of delhi. if you dont look at them and acknowledge their presence, they'll honk just when they pass by you. who do they think they are? george clooney or what, that the moment i set my eyes on him i would jump in his car/bike/truck or whatever he is driving.

today

one of those days when you dont want to work. when you wish you could drive past your office to some other land. when i would rather watch movies back to back. or just sit under a tree in an open field with air running through my hair and the grass dancing in the wind. or soothing music and a shot of vodka playing lullaby to me. in comparison, the colleague laughing in the next cubicle is cacophony to my ears. and i pray the servicing guy is not walking up to me to break the perfect calmness of my mind. i hope these glass panes break open and wind gushes in. all those abandoned sheets lying on the desktop will suddenly belong to it. i wish they'll let me live in this cacoon today. and no-one would puncture it.

no thank-you

why do people dabble in complimenting when they cannot pull it off? people who are not a looker will understand my embarassment. i mean, you are not doing a charity by complimenting someone. or maybe, for some it is just that.
it is probably well intentioned. but turns out like an over-done cake.
"you are looking good somehow." somehow???? i mean, shouldn't the full stop be placed after the second last word. another killer is, "you are looking good today" today. you dont look good everyday. today is the operative word.
but the clincher of the series is, "aaj tum itni achchi kaise lag rahi ho". thankfully, it was a dim-witted woman who said that. and most of the time dim-witted people end up saying such things. so it wasn't that much of a bolt. and how i wish she reads this.

a fork in the road

when you lose a friend. when between making a call and not making one you choose the latter. when you remember a birthday but skip the wishing ritual. when no excuse can be good enough to cross the bridge. when you can bury the past but not the Brutus.

????

everyone is a storehouse. a storehouse of ambitions. of frustrations and depressions. they wear a different garb. some sport a tattoo, some a beard, some an undetectable expression. they essay a variation in their sense of humour, and sense of panic. in the loudness of their speech. or in the silence of their protest. in the exhibit of their mood swings, and in the withholding of their feelings. in the amount of attention they attract, or try hard not to. in the experiences they have lived. each has a story. which they are hiding from the other. from the world. because, the moment you tell your story, you are out in the open. naked. putting yourself on a dais to be scrutinised. to be post mortemed. and it is so much easier to post mortem others rather than allow others to post mortem me.

i = she

to some people i might be the villain. the mean, bickering woman. may be my maid thinks that about me. or that's how the servicing people in my office rate me. useless and lazy. i am forever busy in the process of categorizing people. i think others are also doing it all the time. i wonder in which slot i fall. is their perception of me any different from my perception of myself?

marathon

what's funny is that we all are running not knowing where we have to reach. we have created our own destinations, not knowing what are the destinations in the larger scheme of things. not only that, we have also fixed the landmarks of our life. it might just be possible that the landmarks are not the exact turning points, but that we had already taken a turn much before reaching the point. but all of us are running. not knowing where to reach. or where to stop. it is quite possible that someone up there is making a total fool of us.

home calling

if it runs in your blood, how long can you not belong to it. you leave home, parents, customs and rituals. thinking, it's not your way of life. but i guess i am being hit by the pre-pre-mid-age crisis. with each passing day i feel, i don't belong to delhi. why else do i call up home and ask is it raining there? yahan toh baarish hi nahi ho rahi...... aam hua hai? haan? dher sara? why do i keep remembering my childhood spent in patna? i had given up hope on Patna, but after all these years why do i feel that i need my hometown more than my hometown needs me? is confusion re-visiting me after the college years? is it really in my blood or just in my mind?

please don't torture

you have visited a distant relative after a long-long time, in your hand has been thrust the thick photo album, now your ordeal begins. not only are you supposed to react to each photograph, but also ask who he/she is. show interest in what's happening in the photograph, listen patiently to the anecdote that follows and smile to the joke. if there's a kid in the photograph you are supposed to say how chweet, declare whether he/she looks like his/her mother or father. and if it's a marriage album then you keep seeing the same pose, just the props around the bride and groom keep changing. if your sense in jewellery is a bit developed, then you may find something to interest you. but somehow the jewellery wearing rule in marriages is, the chunkier the better.
that reminds me of my visit to PP Jewellers in Karol Bagh. my friend and i went exploring the Karol Bagh mkt. we chanced upon the over advertised PP jewellers showroom. so we stepped in. such heavy and tasteless neckpieces, i havent seen anything worse. there's was also a shilpa shetty there, madame tussads style, decked in jewellery.
that brings me back to photographs. there was also an age where i secretly tore away all my photographs, those were the pimply, confused, expanding, teenage days. i like flipping through black and white photographs. they have an antique feel to them. there's this family friend of ours whose drawing room is quite a visual treat. there are framed black and white photographs of his grandfather, great grandfather, and great great grandfather. being a muslim family, the ancestors had real long names. the teenage daughters of the family have a tough time remembering each of their names. obviously, whoever visits them for the first time is bound to ask, yeh photo mein kaun hai? and not being able to remember their forefathers' name is the biggest crime they could commit. that's not what i think, but that's how their father does.
and not to miss photographs, you are at a wedding, reception. your plate is full, with a portion of each of the dishes, and you are about to mouth the biggest morsel of your life..........click. you know how it feels.

growing out

have you had that feeling of growing out of room mates? and cousins? and places? and situations? when you are ready to move on. leave the present, allow it to become the past. is it like breaking a promise? is it a way of saying that i have had enough of it. and i am ready to abandon the other.........and if i am ready to grow out, should i stunt myself?

the art of conversation

when you are expected to make polite conversation, those are the testing times. you are unable to say anything because all the time you are thinking of what to say. over the years i haven't been able to overcome my shortcomings. i remember myself sitting in my drawing room in patna, trying hard to strike a conversation with some distant relatives while my mother is busy getting tea for them. at that time you could easily escape the embarassment, the guest would often say, bahut shant hai. also, as an adult, the responsibility of starting a conversation and making it roar would fall on the guest. but the akwardness of the situation has stayed on. even now if i get a phone call from an aunt, who calls with all the good intention, the conversation wouldn't flow beyond health and weather and when are you visiting patna next.
i curse gurgaon. the other day i had to take a lift back home from a colleague with whom i haven't chatted for more than 10 minutes, that is, if you add up all the small chats we have had. i tried my best to rope in another colleague. but i failed. 1 hour drive, where i ll have to keep conversing. i don't know why i thought it was my duty to keep him entertained while he was driving me home. thankfully, he wasn't the quiet types. and the topic he chose for his extempore was: fm stations of delhi. i could wander about in my thoughts while he went on and on. in between i just had to keep encouraging him, you are right. that not only kept him going, it also gave him the illusion that i too was a part of the conversation.
thankfully, there were lesser jams that day. i reached home in less than an hour.

ignorance is low marks

scoring in school was always very tricky. unless you are sure of the answer, do not jot them down. because, a wrong answer won't just get you low marks, which is secondary, but also undivided and unwanted attention in classroom when the teacher read out your answers. just to sight an example of what not to write. sometimes if you have been hit by a germ of genius, then your answer might become folklore.
once our biology teacher asked us to state the position of fallopian tube in the human system. one of us, name with-held, answered that it's the tube which connects the eardrum to the outer part of the ear. now, we cannot really blame her. such names are confusing. anyways, to the uninitiated, fallopian tube is an integral part of the female reproductive system. her mistake was not out of this world. one can take years to explore one self.
another instance is when we were answering the history paper. the topic under scrutiny Indian Freedom Movement, and role of Hindus and Muslims. one of us, again name with-held, wanted to write, 'hindu and muslims fought shoulder to shoulder for India's freedom', instead she wrote, 'hindus and muslims fought soldier to soldier...'

free falling

whenever i am climbing down the stairs i have this fear that i'll fall. i can see my feet desperately searching for a footing as i am flying down the staircase. there i am at the bottom of the flight, lying prostrate with my hands and legs outstretched and my nose squashed to the ground.

thank god for lifts.

nancy drew can screw

your mind, i mean. if you have read her in school, you know what exactly i mean. well, while reading her adventures, it seemed she had the most happening life. thankfully the delusion lasted through 5th and 6th standard only. and i realised that Drew never did any investigation proactively. things just happened to fall in place, as per her convenience.
but Drew didnt vanish from my life without taking a toll on me. i thought i too should investigate the happenings around me. so my adventures began.
in my school there was this big glass and wood almirah which housed all the shields and trophies our school had won in inter-school competitions. just behind the almirah was a door. it was only visible when you stood at an angle from the almirah. between the almirah and the door, there was just enough space for a person to slide in. that is where my imagination took flight. there's a secret door leading to a room where the convent hides all the black money. i will bring it to light. over the next few weeks i kept an eye on the door. nothing much yielded. one day when the corridor seemed a bit deserted, i slid behind the door. my heart was beating in my mouth. i turned the knob of the door. it swung on its hinges. inside was a washroom. washroom?!!!
chaste and virtuous that the nuns were, their washroom in the school permises was also hidden away. so that no-one could know what business they are about when they answer the nature's call, and imagine them in a position doing the same. i guess so.
anyways, personally i moved on to sherlock holmes. and was never ambitious enough to emulate his doings.

b e l o n g

when you visit a gathering where you do not belong? you can see everyone having fun, enjoying themselves, laughing at stupid jokes. but you are just watching. it's not that you are comfortable sitting there and watching. i am not. most of the times. it's not that i want to belong. i dont. i just want to escape from such a situation. like vanish from there. not be there. why? i dont know why. i mean, i dont even want to make the effort to belong. i would rather sit alone and enjoy by myself. you could say i can have fun seeing them enjoying. but isn't that the most stupid thing to do. watching others having fun, when i can have fun on my own.

under the wear

in the past 20 years underwear has garnered a lot of importance. from being tucked away into oblivion it is now being flaunted with elan. colours, prints, cuts. whatever permutation combination you can think of, some one has already thought of it and put it on an underwear or a panty. from a staid brown, black, blue now yellow, red and green will catch your eye. i mean, someone is bending, and i cannot help put look if i can spot the underwear. jockey, ck, the more expensive it is, the more it is flaunted. sometimes an ass crack also peeps out, with or without the hair, depending. or if you have been unlucky enough then with the underwear you can also spot a hole in it. like i spotted it yesterday in my office canteen. not to mention that i quickly looked away. before making sure no-one noticed me noticing it.
while we have started giving so much importance to what lies beyond the exterior, does it also mean that if this trend continues unhindered, then in a few years human beings will also start giving less importance to the exterior and more to the soul within?

bird spotting

our school bus dropped us at some distance from home. it would take us around 15 minute to walk home. on the way there was a spot where a few colony boys used to hang around waiting for us. a harmless wolf whistle or the recital of a current song was the most we witnessed. there were almost 9-10 girls who used to take the bus from our stop. these guys eyed i dont know whom in particular. i still remember the face of two of the boys . one was from an Anglo Indian family. the only Anglo Indians i have ever known. and they were quite a celebrity in patna, everyone knew them. rumour has it that the mother and the eldest daughter of the family committed suicide together. all because the daughter couldnt find a match though she had crossed her marriageable age. how much of it is true i dont know. but i never heard any other rumour contrary to it.

anyways, one particular day when we were walking back home something quite unexpected happenned. i must have been in 5th or 6th standard. i was walking with two of my friends, and a senior, a 12 grade student, was walking some 25-30 ft ahead of us. as we crossed the afore-mentioned spot, i guess the boys said something. our senior turned to retort. the Anglo Indian walked to the senior and replied backed. she slapped him. he slapped her back and turned to leave. she caught hold of his head by his hair. a scuffle followed, but the guy managed to escape with scratches on his face. our senior was left daring him to come and face her. with her hair pulled out of plait.
miraculously it so happened that as we took the next turn in the road we spotted a police patrol van. our senior went and reported to them. all this while we just stood in the background. that particular day she was the only one amongst the seniors. we couldnt do much to help her, except be there.
next day we got to know that the police had booked a case against him. and the same evening the Anglo Indian, along with his father and the beat police officer, made a visit to our senior's home to apologise. so that she would withdraw the case.

after completing my school, i moved out of patna. years later, after i had completed my graduation and PG, i was home visiting . it so happened that i crossed passed the spot. young girls of my alma mater were walking home, looking smart in the red pleated skirt. and what do i see, the anglo indian is still sitting at the spot with one of his old time friends. some habits are difficult to shed, i guess.

why i hate gurgaon.

it's not because of the distance. it's because, unlike life, gurgaon is so well planned. the buildings are all similar. and have been sliced with the same precision. first the knife went horizontally. kach-kach-kach. perfect, the floors are ready. now the cabins. again went the knife. this time vertically. over time, the builder has practised it to such an exent that he can go about it blind-folded. so every building looks similar to the one you have just passed by.
the tiring long drives often reminds me of my father's wish. the road should function on the same technique as the escalators. you just sit in your car, and the road keeps running. and what if my mood can be altered by changing the electricity in my nerves. can i be programmed to be happy always. and successful too. well, is the former mutually exclusive of the latter?

isn't it funny, where we start and where we end up?

everyday

Everyday so many dreams are crushed. Everyday so many people feel worthless. Everyday so many people feel left out. Everyday so many people are rejected. Everyday so many hearts are broken. Everyday so many people are wronged. Everyday so many people and their rights are neglected. Everyday I live so many lives.

bus number 4

when i was in school, we had these huge red coloured buses to take us to and fro. they didn't belong to the school, but were commissioned by Bihar Raj Transport. those big rickety buses now somehow reminds me of my grandmother. both were big, cosy and tattered. familiar, enveloping and protective. after school hours i never commuted in them, and if they were plying for commuters on street i never recognised it if i spotted one. the windows were big enough, because of the missing glass panes, to sneak in our bags before we could step in. and the seniors would invariably take the end seats. it was cool to be back-benchers in the bus too.

name calling

for years now i have had this eerie feeling that someone is calling out to me. at night when i am just about to go off asleep, you know when you are on the periphery of slumber, i hear my name aloud. obviously there's no-one around but darkness. in office you will find my head emerging from my cubicle like a submarine and taking a 180 degree turn. but no-one is picked up by my radar. while i am walking down the road i hear my name being called from the other end. when i look back, it's just pedestrians scuttling.

is it just an output of fertile imagination? i would like to believe it's more than that.

she and him

She loves him more than she loves me. You cannot detect it in her actions. But you can see it in her eyes. All the time. All she talks to me about is him. It all is about him. Everytime. So much so that at times I feel neglected. Does she have no time for me? As I said you can’t detect it in her actions. She does everything for me. But she doesn’t have the ear for my woes, my stories and anecdotes. Because our conversation is always about him. What’s uncanny is also the fact that both of them are alike. They are on the same curve. In the same spectrum. In the same realm. And they don't realise it. For them, loving each other is probably loving their own self.

FEEL

Try and pause. Give yourself some time. Understand how you are feeling. What’s it that’s gnawing you. Try and pinpoint your feeling. When I was on my way to sit for the Maths paper of my 12th board exams, I tried to figure out what I was feeling like. Anxious? Nervous? Frightened? Surprisingly, I was totally blank. One of my teachers had earlier mentioned in class that it’s totally in-place to feel nervous. Because it shows that you have prepared for the exam and are eager to do well. His words were meant to soothe a student’s nerves. In my case, it did the opposite. Because, now the thoughts running in my mind was, have I not prepared well.
Some where I had read that when you are really frightened you should feel the fear and go for it. FEEL THE FEAR AND GO FOR IT. I really find it helpful when I have to walk into my boss’ room with my resignation letter.

where it all starts

Your whole life depends on the way you have been brought up. If your mother is the morality master, then be ready for a world that’s moved ahead of the Ram era. My mother always taught me to be morally correct. To be sacrificing, kind, polite, and what not. She conditioned me such that I believed life is worth living only if you live it morally. Like if I had two apples with me and had to share it with someone then give the bigger apple to the other. Every time I did something which was high scoring on the morality chart my mother would be delighted. She would reward me with a smile, a gift or an encouraging word. Innocent that most of us are as kids, I took on to belief that life always rewards you for being good. Ha. I was in for lots of heartbreak.

In today’s world I lose out because I am not nasty. Because I am not quick to reply to an insult. Because I don’t know how to respond if someone is making a fool of me in public. Because I am hesitant to fight for my rights. Because I can not nurture a relationship on false feelings.

And I also lose out because I grew up reading Chandamama. A kid’s magazine with high moral stories. Where the one who was good always wins. Where the unkind are always defeated. It made me believe in world which does not exist. It’s like growing up in a house with the colour white all around. And made to believe that the world outside is a replica of it. Now when I am on my own I keep searching for white in this black coloured world. I see it in specks here and there. But the black is bloating it away.

And my mother still lives in that white coloured house.