Chapter 1: Second-hand Love

I had wanted one for a while now, a bicycle. My younger brother had got one for his birthday a few months ago. A shiny red one with side wheels so he wouldn’t fall off. That had made me want one even more. My parents finally succumbed to the dinner-table begging and pleading, and decided to buy me one for my birthday.

I turned eight that Wednesday in November. I woke up bright and early, eagerly anticipating the events of the day. Come evening, I was all dressed up in my new birthday frock, with matching hair clips in place. The guests started trickling in. Soon, my mother’s immaculately pruned garden, with its sweet-pea creeper climbing over the wall, was teeming with people. The uncles who pinched my cheeks. The aunts who gave me red-lipsticked, sloppy kisses. The fat, chubby cousins who stuffed their faces with samosas.

I was always secretly scared that people wouldn’t turn up for my birthday.

I still am.

All the presents were piled up on a table under the peepul tree in the far corner of the garden; the heart-shaped leaves casting flickering, rustling shadows in the evening light. There were round presents, square presents, blue presents, silver presents, big presents, and small presents. Most of them though, I knew from previous birthdays, would be highly inappropriate for a little girl. ‘Pass-me-ons’ accumulated over the year, waiting to be passed-on. But I wasn’t quite interested in any of that then. I was still waiting for THE present.

Everyone gathered around as my mother brought the birthday cake--two Victoria sponges put together to make a teddy-bear, covered in chocolate icing with Cadbury’s Gems for the eyes and a wide smile.

‘Close your eyes and make a wish’, said my grandmother, as she lit the candles lined along the teddy-bear’s rotund chocolate flavoured face. I knew what I wanted to wish for. I’d known and wished and wished and known for a while now. I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed in all the air my little lungs could hold. Just as I blew out all candles on the cake, that’s when I saw it. My father had brought it in through the back door and was now standing with it under the peepul tree. Everyone was looking at me, smiling, waiting for an exuberant reaction. They never got one. I just said ‘Thank you’, trying bravely to hide my disappointment.

The rusty, second hand bicycle stood under the shed in the backyard for three years till my father decided to sell it off. I never rode it.

I’ve never had a bicycle since.

How to Forget Someone

Start small.
Notice how people forget their keys,
their umbrellas, phone numbers.
Tell lies: I’ll call you. I’ll be back. I love you.

Then the more immediate things.
Throw away old pictures, train tickets from that
impulsive one day holiday.
Stop making associations- Songs. Smells.
Colours.

Then the hardest part.
Learn the point of forgetting.
The point of un-remembering.
Pack away the memories in
The cardboard boxes of your mind.
Until all you feel is a vacuum;
A hollow place between your bones
That fills up everything.
And you can’t remember anymore.

Anthem Without a Nation

I sing for the world

A song that longs.

I sing a song

of a place that I call home.

I sing of the world,

that is as much mine

as it is everyone else’s.

The earth and the skies,

and everything in between.

I sing to the world,

in all the tongues that wag.

I look for what they say is different,

only to find more that is the same.

The verse is found in translation.

‘Indulge!’ I sing

‘Indulge me while I change the world!’

But my song drifts now, rootless.

It seeps into the cracks and faults

of this broken world.

It never echoes anymore.

It’s drowned by the sounds of tanks and guns,

It’s crushed under the rubble of war.

It can’t escape the feet of those running,

Themselves escaping.

Silent lips are all I find now.

Silent lips don’t sing.

Rainbow Man

He liked the Rain.

You could tell he would be the sort.

You can always tell.

Grey.

If there had to be a colour for him,

it would be Grey.

From his thoughts to his socks.

Grey.

Dark Grey.

Like the Sky when it rained.

He liked the Rain.

It rained that night.

A relentless Rain from a Dark Grey Sky.

I was soaked to the skin;

cold and trembling.

His skin felt warm against mine.

Warmer still when he held me closer.

His hands searched my body,

his eyes searched my eyes.

Relentlessly.

He turned me on my side

And held me against him.

Our bodies fit snugly into one another,

like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

He gently traced the curve of my hip,

stopping only to look into my eyes again.

Searching still.

Relentlessly.

The Rain pounded against the window.

The Sky grew darker still, Black now.

But I saw Colours.

Bright, bright Colours.

Reds, Pinks, Yellows, Oranges.

I clung to him.

Tighter now, never wanting to let go.

And then, all the Colours exploded

into a riotous pageant.

I woke up to a bright, Blue Sky.

Not a trace of Grey.

Not a trace of the relentless Rain.

Sunshine.

And he was gone.

The Hour Glass

We spent time, killing time.

There was all the time in the world.

Christmas song, ‘Dance along?’

You twisted and I twirled.

A time for books and other loves,

A little Chopin and a little Miles.

Good times, the time of my life

Of pillow talk and warm smiles.

But time tables, time frames,

Where do I begin?

This is where the cookie crumbles,

‘I just can’t fit you in!’

Waiting, wishing, watching,

The whits of time in an hour glass.

A present from another time,

Two Christmases have now come to pass.

I’m constantly running,

But I don’t have anywhere to be.

I put away the hour glass,

But time is still living me.

Heartland

The obnoxious odours of public bathrooms, rotting drains and sweat tease your nostrils. Scarves and dupattas are of no use as you make your way cautiously through the narrow rain soaked alleys, dodging leaky roofs and rattling rickshaws simultaneously. And then you're almost blinded by a riotous pageant of colours. You close your eyes. As you open them again, slowly, the world changes.

Welcome to Chandni Chowk, the heart of old Delhi.

I don't remember much from the last time I came here, except for the jaunt to the legendary 'paranthewali gali'. I saw less and ate more.
But this time, it was more than just a gastronomical experience.
My mother knows the blocks or katra's as they are colloquially called, better than the back of her hand. So I followed her lead. As did countless men, women, children, dogs, batata-vada and bhelpuriwalas. To cut to the chase, the place was packed. But the atmosphere was charged with something big city shopping malls lack in abundance. There was more character to a simple display of bright glass bangles on a wooden rack, than there would be to a posh store boasting designer-wear. The shop's here don't have fancy exhibits; some of them don't even have doors. The only thing that makes you want to take a look inside is the warm smile on the shopkeeper's face as he says "Namaste ji!" and quickly squats that buzzing fly which might be a deterrent.

Walking along the shop-lined paths, you can see tiny glimpses of a resplendent era gone by. Old buildings with strong wooden doors, that once housed men who created history and secrets which shook empires, now stand padlocked; forgotten. If you look closely, you can still see the pale ghosts of the beautiful courtesans in those intricately carved windows above your heads, luring men into the lair of lust that lay beyond.
And maybe even love.

It is an old place. Age has seeped into its bones. It is slowly giving way to air-conditioners and underground trains. Soon, it’ll lose its charm like the new city has. That’s the flip-side of development.
But dripping with oodles of ghee, swarming with warm people and the occasional cow, basking in the sunshine of a glorious past, that's the Dilli I love!

How the grump stole my world view

He's sitting on the bench looking up at the sky, squinting at the sun through his sun-glasses.
I sit down next to him and look up, trying to see what he's trying to see. Looking at his expression, I chose to name him thus.

Grump: It'll be gone soon. Bloody English weather!

I've grown accustomed to the fact that you can have more than one season in a day in England.
And the sun, unlike back home, makes an appearance rather rarely.

He picks up the folded newspaper lying on his lap and starts reading it, muttering something under his breath.

Grump: Bah! You really think I need these half-clad, porridge brained celebs to tell me how to live my life? Or rather, how I'm not living it at all?
Carpe Diem! Sieze the day!
How about we just let the day go for a change? How about not living every minute of it, but lying in bed, staring at the cieling and just watching it go by?

He goes back to reading. I try to rewind that monolgue and replay it in my head. I fail.

Grump: Look! She says she's deep! Britney 'I-popped-a-boob-at-my-concert' Spears says she's deep!
We have a new goddess for profundity!
Bollocks!
If she was, she needn't have to say it to the press. The press would say it for her.

Now there's an observation, I think to myself.

Grump: The world is an absurd place. 15 year olds are carrying knives to school. You can't park where you want to park or where you ought to park. You can't say what you want to say or what you ought to say. They're butchering innocent children and women inthe name of religion and you call us a civilised world? Lady Liberty's shrink diagnosed her with global watchdog syndrome. She shot the shrink, but used the prescribed pills to sedate the world while she went around singing her own song. Smart, eh?

He trails off.
Silence.

Grump: System? What system? Who's system? I say change the effing system. The 60's dream has gone to hell and very soon, that's where we're going too.

I'm now shifting in my seat.

Grump: Smile? I am smiling. I'm actually very happy being grumpy and miserable. Its like a used, sweaty sock that I'm very comfortable with. At first, it's pricks. But when I've worn it long enough, the sweat begins to melt and the sock grafts itself perfectly to my skin.
So please leave me alone.
And don't you dare sign me up for one of those scientology talks. Or Kabbalah even.
I DON'T want either. Don't throw your rotten ideologies in my face you MTV punks! Take your pretty faces elsewhere.

I wince.

A part of me is still sitting on that bench, sharing his world view. The other half has now come home and is listening to love songs on the radio.

Platonic love

I miss you now more than ever.
Not because I'm lonely. But maybe because I think you're not.
I think of the last time I met you. Sitting in the corner of the restaurant, on a table for three. You never liked tables for two.

You order for both of us; the usual. It doesn't feel monotonous. On the contrary infact. Like having found the perfect rhythm.

I draw something for you on a tissue paper.
Something about Plato and soulmates.
How very apt.
I wonder if you will keep it in one of the secret compartments of your wallet? Only to discover it years later while trying to find that elusive one rupee coin for the blind man at the traffic light.
My imagination runs far ahead of me.

Last night

Last night,
I walked the empty streets, looking for you.
I could smell your perfume,
feel your fingers as the rain poured down my face,
slowly at first, and then with an urgency.
The greater the tears, the greater the magic.

Last night,
I went to all the places we'd been to before,
inside my head.
I turned the pages of every book I'd read,
with you. Again.
The black letters were washed away.

Last night,
I lost myself trying to find you.

Its all English to me!

I'm here.
Here would be a little doodle somewhere in the Atlantic ocean called Britain. I'm lying in the grass reading a battered copy of 'Vanity Fair' that I bought for a pound.
These past few months have seen a lot of shirts with green stains on the elbows from excessive lounging in the parks.

These past few months have seen a lot.

I made my way through the labyrinthine terminals at Heathrow airport, lugging 4 bags. Thank the lord for walkalators! I had been asked to look out for 'cheery' students in 'bright red' tees. I couldn't spot anything red in a mile! Hungry and tired, I tried to get myself something to eat. A bag of chips?
"I'm sorry, but we don't sell chips." said the lady behind the counter, with a strange undertone of amusement and disbelief to the 'chips'. It was only later that I found out that chips were in fact what the Brits referred to French Fries as. And they are the Holiest of Holies when it comes to food. (For the unaware, what I was looking for could be bought at the mention of the word 'crisps') Yes, I shook my head at that one too.
That was my first encounter with the colloquial. What follows is a synopsis of what followed:

1. Bunking classes is referred to as 'skiving', and not sky diving as I misheard.

2. When the Brits say "You're fit!", they're not referring to the fact that your calorie intake is well monitored. Rather, you're drop-dead gorgeous and what would it take to get into your pants?

3. Soap Operas are the same all over the world. Yes, even in the first world.

4. Pulling someone doesn't mean you're literally grabbing them by the arm. It's what we'd call a hook up. And no the people are not called 'Pulls' as I'd expected. So much for studying linguistics!

5. The India of elephants and snake charmers is etched into the European psyche. Please do not try and change that. It will lead to a lot of embarrasing questions.

I get up and shake the blades of grass out of my hair. I walk back home only to be plagued by that one persistent woe.
How do my keys find their way to the bottom of my bag?

Out damned spot! Out, I say!

"Don't you lie to me, you impertinent brat!" she yelled. Her face would become beetroot red everytime she was angry or exasperated.
"But I didn't do it!", came the reply, half drowned in the watery sobs.
"Well, then who did?" she demanded
He managed a meek shrug. His eyes were swollen and he was trembling.
I sat at the back of the class, looking at the tiles on the floor. I wished I could evaporate. But I sat there, eyes glued to the floor.
Behind me on the wall, written in bold black paint were the words, "I hate our teachers!"

"Are you going to own up, or should I take this to the Headmistress?" she questioned the boy.
I looked up to where they stood. I thought I saw the boy staring at me through his fogged up glasses. If looks could kill, I would've died a thousand deaths that day.
Then, almost miraculously, the boy turned to the teacher and said, "I admit it. I wrote it. I'm sorry."
The teacher was a little taken aback by the sudden development. Not knowing what punishment to dole out, she asked him to begin with getting that paint off the wall. The boy nodded, not removing his eyes from me for one instant. I don't know if he was actually looking at me, or did I just happen to be in the line of sight.

Class resumed. But my mind refused to stay put within the confines of that classroom. It wandered to the day before.
"You're stupid. Just like your namesake...the dodo!!" Then they all squealed with laughter. And he'd led them all. For days, weeks, months. A new insult everytime.
I'd cried all the way back home.

I tried to shut it out. The guilt loomed over my head like a thick black cloud. The morning's events came to me in flashes. The empty classroom...the painted words on the wall... hiding the paint box and brush in the boy's school bag.
I'd had my revenge.
And even today, it's everything but sweet.

Warm Birthdays

I sat on the carpet next to the bed, watching intently as the two needles in her hands worked furiously. My grandmother's calm gaze would take turns between the soap opera on TV and the lemon-yellow sweater she was knitting me for my birthday.
"Will you teach me how to knit too?", I asked her.
"When you grow up a little", said she . "Your hands are still so small. The balls of wool are bigger!!" and she laughed. Her wrinkled olive skin glowed and her eyes sparkled from behind her glasses. She spread the half-knit sweater on the bed, counted a few stitches on her fingers, and then asked me, "Do you want me to attatch a crochet lace to the sleeves?"
"Will it look nice?, I asked, not knowing the first thing about crochet or fashion for that matter.
"Oh it'll look lovely, just you wait." she said, having made up her mind about the addition already.

My birthday came and went. The sweater was beautiful and I refused to take it off till the time it no longer looked yellow, but a tone of brown.

I was soon learning how to knit. From counting stitching to sewing on pockets, she tried to teach me all that there was; all that she knew. But I guess I didn't have the patience. I couldn't wait the long weeks, or months in my case, that it would take to knit a muffler. So I gave up sooner than I had started. And resumed watching. This time it was a white jacket with a pink border, all in crochet. I marvelled at her skill, her precision, and above everything else, those endless hours of patience.

Its been six birthdays since. The white jacket was left unfinished.
I wear readymade sweaters now.

A day in the life of an air stewardess by Adrian Mole

Jonquil Storme opened her languorous blue eyes and looked at the clock. 'Oh drat and bother', she expectorated. The clock said seven o'clock and Jonquil was due at Heathrow Airport at seven fifteen, where she was in charge of Concorde.

Jonquil stretched out her lissome white hand and picked up the phone. Her other hand dialled the number: with her other hand she fondled an orchid that stood next to her bed in a jam jar.

'Hi, Brett!' she said into the receiver … 'Jonquil here, darling. I'm late, our night of passion wore me out and caused me to oversleep.' Brett's manly chuckle reverberated down the phone.
'OK Jonquil', he guffawed, 'I'll tell the passengers that there is snow on the runway. Take your time my darling!'

Jonquil put the phone down and sank into the pillows that were still impregnated with Brett's hair oil. She wondered if she would ever get to marry Brett, the Captain of Concorde, and whether the excuse about snow on the runway would be believed. After all it was July. Thus ruminating, Jonquil showered in the shower and dressed in the dressing room. Soon she was soignée and was climbing into her Maserati open-topped sports car to the gapes of ordinary dingy passers by.

Soon she was wriggling up the steps of Concorde in her high heeled shoes. Brett met her at the door of the plane and gave her a French kiss. The passengers didn't mind at all, in fact they applauded and cheered. A jolly American shouted 'God bless you, Captain!'

Brett flashed his manly teeth and went to the front of the plane and switched the engine on. Jonquil went round smiling at the passengers and opening jars of caviar. Soon the champagne corks were popping and the passengers were lying about in stupours. The flight was smooth and without hazards and when Concorde reached New York Brett asked Jonquil to be his bride. So, after having blood tests for diseases, Brett and Jonquil were married in the elevator of the Empire State Building. Soon it was time to turn Concorde round and go home to London. Jonquil was dead proud of her new gold ring and Brett flew the plane better than he ever had before.

As Jonquil got into bed that night she said to herself, 'What a lucky girl I am. To think I almost became a Domestic Science teacher'. She looked at Brett's matted black hair on the Laura Ashley pillow and smiled. It had been the most exciting day of her life.

THE END (Copyright World Wide owned by A. Mole)


An epilogue of sorts:
Adrian Mole is a 31 year old british writer-in-waiting. Twice married, once almost-married, he is a father of two sons, one of whom is illegitimate. His meandering experiences find home in his diary entries which have now been converted into bestselling books by Sue Townsend.

p.s.: for those who haven't figured it out yet, Adrian Mole is fictitious.

p.p.s: for further details, click here.

Belated happy independence day

Before reading what follows, so that it is coherent, I recommend that you read this.

58 years of stagnation?!? *rolls eyes*

With the second highest growth rate in the world, you can't really call India stagnant now, can you?
In comparison with the first world countries, we may have miles to go. But that doesn't take away from the fact that we aren't headed in the same direction. From the state that the Brits left us in, 58 years ago, (read dislocated, starving, pennyless and rioting) we sure have come a very long way.
But all we seem to do is sit in our cosy little homes and criticise what the government does. We never try and empathise or put ourselves in their shoes. Maybe we should. It isn't easy managing one billion people and thousands more who aren't accounted for. For a population base as large as ours even the smallest plans take forever to implement. And the raging libido of the Indian male isn't exactly something the government can curb. 'Hum do humare do', has now progressed to 'hum do humara ek', but 'More the merrier' is the population's stance on the issue.

I personally believe that the government that we have this term is performing very well. Definitely better than the last ones. Anti-encumbanacy and all of that can go hang. And our current Prime Minister is by all means, very honourable. It takes courage to apologise to an entire nation. And that too for someone else's actions.

I know that my comment box is going to be flooded with interjections starting from corruption to crime to illiteracy to poverty, but the ONLY point that I am trying to make here is, is that instead of being critics, we should all try and be the change that we want to see.

Hobbes and black and white photography

Of Strangers and Maybes

The burnt-out candle, wax dripping on its side
speaks of the fire that was the night before,
the crumpled white linen
speaks of the passion,
limb wrapped around limb
speaks of the warmth,
clothes lying in a heap at the foot of the bed
speak of that one moment of freedom.

Curtains are swept aside,
the sunlight flows into the room; glistening, gleaming
A number scribbled on a piece of paper,
kisses in the air.
The door closes.

A crumpled piece of paper on the floor
speaks of a love that could've been.

Steel corn cobs

Although skyrises have now become an inescapable part of city skylines, they almost always leave me yearning for freedom. They seem to cave in one me, blocking out all life. Once expansion became impossible horizontally, the ground above was littered with these repugnant constructs. When I walk the streets in the cold shadows of these mammoth structures I long for the warmth of the sun. Patches of green, now, don't seem to fit in aesthetically. They jarr with the grey, perhaps.
Skyscrapers, or skyscratchers as I like to call them, have etched their way into the blue, like school kids, who carve their names on their wodden desks, scarring them forever.

Mankind has surely come a long way. The unfortunate bit is, there's nowhere to go from here.

Lonestar

The cigarette smoke curled over his head and disappeared into the night. He sat under the yellow glow of a lampost on a park bench. The book he had been reading, now sat in his lap turned upside down on page 349. His eyes hurt. Half from exhaustion and sleep, and half from the reading in the dim light. But the book made an interesting read. It spoke of a time traveller in a virtual universe. He regretted not having started reading earlier; as a kid or in college even. But he had never really liked books. He could feel life passing him by at a super sonic speed when he tried sitting under a tree or in the library with random ramblings in black and white. He wanted to be a part of life at all times.
But now he had realised that there was so much life in those leather bound tomes. Not just life, there were lives. Devouring page after page, book after book, he had now lived many lives and not just once, but over and over and over again. Everytime he felt the pages on the right thinning, he was reassured by the fact that he could start all over again. He could laugh at the protagonists, cry for them, with them. And he could relive it as and when he pleased. Reality wasn't that generous, so he had found his solace in fantasy.

He looked up towards the sky. The sky looked down on him. And he wondered whether all those who died truly metamorphosed into the twinkling specks that studded the night sky. He longed to be one of them, a part of the eternal.

The orange-brown leaves of the magnificent tree that stood, proud and boastful, in the middle of the park with its branches spread out in all their splendour were scattered on the ground below it. A young boy made his way to the park, to sweep away the dead autumn leaves before the residents of the block set out on their morning walks. He passed an old man sleeping on a bench. The old man had no warm clothes on and fearing that he would fall ill, the boy attempted to wake him up. The old man's body was stiff and cold. The boy retracted his hand in shock. By the old man's side, on the bench, sat a book turned upside down.

In the sky above, a lone star twinkled, only to fade away as the sun began to rise.

Patch of orange

I chanced upon this blog a few weeks ago and am now totally hooked. I thought I'd share it with all of you. Also, originals like this man NEED to be brought under the public eye.
Be sure to check out the short film titled BIRD.

The moment

Twenty five-odd intent eyes looked at me. Attentive. Alert.
They sat in neat rows, one behind the other, behind tiny wooden desks.
" So who can name the nine planets for me?" I asked.
Some eager hands shot up in the air, waving furiously. There were excited murmurs as the others discussed the answer amongst themselves.
"Alright, each of you can name one. We'll start with you" I said, pointing at the girl sitting to my left. She had pretty red ribbons in her hair which was neatly combed and well oiled. Her socks sagged at her ankles and her uniform was almost two sizes too big on her. But the bright, cherubic smile on her face with her two front teeth missing, stayed with me for the rest of the day.
"Urth" she said, in rustic english.
"Its 'earth' sweetheart" , I added correcting her pronunciation. Would all of you repeat that for me, please? E-A-R-T-H, earth."
"Earth", they all repeated after me.
"Who's next?" I asked. Once again, hands were raised. More than the last time, this time. By now, they were finished discussing and cross checking the answers amongst themselves ofcourse. I smiled knowingly and picked this boy sitting in the last row.
"Vanus", he answered.
"VEEnus" I corrected him, stressing on the 'E'.
I could see that they were all thoughroughly enjoying themselves. Some of them were even sqealing with excitement and jumping up and down in their seats, clapping their hands. But understood. It wasn't everyday that someone from outside school came and taught them their lessons and played games with them. And when you're seven years old, that surely is the highlight of the day.
But for this almost twenty year old, it was the highlight of the year.
Maybe even the last twenty years. I have never had an experience more gratifying and insightful as this one. In that one moment, I wanted to tell them everything that I have ever learnt. In that one moment I understood that I could make a difference in someone's life, even if it was by teaching them how to spell 'hippopotamus'. In that one moment I settled conclusively all contention and uncertainty about what I wanted to do with my life.
Because in that one moment, I found my reason.