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.