While I was away...

It wasn't that I didn't anticipate this, but its one of those things which you are in the way of even when you see them coming from miles. I don't know whether its the caprice or the realization that sinks my heart, but I have now started to see this queue from where I stand, running upto you. And though there are just a few around, I feel affronted and dwarfed standing right in the end while you are busy smiling at others.

Not too long ago, I mistook it to be a galactic occurrence, for its not everyday that two wandering souls fit into each other with a clank loud enough for the heads to turn and marvel at the aura, the beauty and the sheer electricity. I was too dazzled to notice others. I was too elated to know what I know now; the world is full of people like me. And now I stand gobsmacked at a distance to despairingly watch my thunder stolen. I, for the want of my dignity, would put up a impervious, unrattled front for God knows how long. But, need I tell you that there's really no ground beneath my feet?

And after enough afternoons have been spent mulling, enough lumps of expendable ego have been bitten and chewed, the mortal finally tears out of your now roughed up, usually tranquil skin, all bruised and battered, thorns in flesh, screaming for explanations. Accusations and defenses follow, loud and teary ones at that. An umbrella of innocence is spread out to hide the diabolic simpers. And you can't really blame anyone for being clinically blase or even pretending to be so. Retribution is too sweet to be given up for anyone. And it won't be too long when you find yourself hanging to their lame 'just a friend' explanations with your teeth. You never really thought how you would handle their admission, did you? Only when you blurt it out do you realize that you started a duel with a gun pointed at yourself. And now you beg them not to let you pull the trigger!

And in those vulnerable moments of oscillating between being a victim and an offender of indifference, a teary 'I'm yours' is all you want to hear, all you want to end it with. I hope it does end that way. It often does. But, if it weren't for your wobbly legs after all this mush, you would have mutely admitted to yourself that there is now a confidante in your special someone's life who now pretty much fills that space which you left while you were away. You wandered too far, for a wee bit too long. Too long for them not to think you didn't care. This friend was the eager, empathizing ears they wanted to pour out their heart to, the praising, assuring mouth they needed to hear the words from and the warm revering eyes they needed to be looked at by, which you felt awkward becoming.

Maybe its awkward as you have been doing it for long, or maybe because you have never done it before as yours has been a aphonic chemistry, or maybe everything that there was to say, has been said one too many times and you would rather stay silent than make it sound like a mechanized recital; but the selfish little piece of flesh that beats in the chest is a lovelorn child longing for the lullaby you used to croon for it every night. Little does it understand that lullabys can't be sung everyday. And after a few silent nights it starts to sleep to the distant melodies finally knowing that there aren't any more lullabys to be sung and swayed to.

The world is a lonely place. The bigger it gets everyday, the lonlier it becomes. You would have known that as you wandered around. You should have known. So, don't you go too far. Don't you go too far to not make it home by night. You know how awfully dark it gets back there while you are away, don't you?

This too shall pass...

"This Too Shall Pass!"

The mother of all phrases, almost as sacred as Bhagwad Geeta itself, this is one panacea to every hell you are going through in your life at a given point in time. The origins of this miraculous adage are not exactly known, but I first heard it in 'My Best Friends Wedding' and it suddenly went down my throat like smooth blended scotch and hit my mind like an ataractic, liberating it from all the 'trivial' worries I had. Julia Roberts screwing up majorly in her attempt to steal her ex-boyfriend from the 'talons' of a very sweet, very marriageable girl. She is all shaken up, sitting in the corridor of the hotel floor, smoking, when this friendly bell boy passes her and sharing her little cigarette stub, coins these magic words"This Too Shall Pass"!

Since then I have seen this get caught on, like one use-anywhere-it-will-fit apothegm and people are not abandoning it anytime soon. It got me thinking though, today, as I saw its liberal use on MS itself over the past few days. So, let's take a moment to see, when you really need someone to come, sit besides you and say "This Too Shall Pass"!

[You accidentally copied a non-vegetarian forward of the most extreme kind to the most gorgeous female (towards whom you were making impressive inroads) in your office, while trying to kill time with you useless ogle-at-all-remotely-pretty-fe
males friend, and by the time you can say oops, the 'thing' is spread out on her 19" LCD screen in its entirety while the 'poor' girl was trying to get the 120 page design document reviewed by her project lead. Man! What will follow shall never pass. It will haunt you like Frankenstein every single day of your life! ..even though every soul you even remotely know, will tell you that "This Too Shall Pass!"]

[You are a living specimen of things gone wrong with independent India. Tobacco-chewing (and spitting in the corner nearest your chair), porcine, greasy haired, sarkari babu who has a bigger desk drawer than the secure vault at RBI. The drawer is bottomless. No one has ever crossed your desk without feeding the hungry drawer. You beam a quintessential smile to the poor chap sitting across the desk and toss the usual 'Vajan thoda kam hai file mein..' only to discover on Aaj Tak next day that the 'poor' chap was a sting reporter. A million people see you running to the toilet door while some more cameras chase you with 'Ab apko kya kehna hai?' and lock yourself inside. Someone needs to get there inside with you and tell you - "This Too Shall Pass!" ]

[You were in the middle of 'something' with your pretty, coquettish neighbour, when your wife returns home early as the tailor she had gone to, to get her dresses done, had ran off with HIS neighbour! I am not sure whether the aftermath will ever pass, but you still need someone to put his hand on your shoulder and tell you - "This Too Shall Pass!"].
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But, seriously, I mean really seriously, have you ever had a moment where you are so dumbstruck that you don't know what to feel?.. when someone has slammed the door in your face so hard your ears still reverberate with the bang…. when you don't know what you are going to do in the days that follow apart from wondering what happened and what could you have done differently…when you can't help but gaze at the door, hoping it to open suddenly and see that face smiling at you again, but deep down you have given up hope. Don't you need someone to come sit next to you, give you a warm cuddly hug and croon softly in your ear - "This Too Shall Pass!"

Oh! I love writers :)

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you were buying a perfume and ended up buying one just because you adored the gliding, delicate lines of that artsy bottle. Well, I have! I left Armani to buy a never heard of fragrance just because the bottle was etheral. Ever wondered, what part of you makes you do that seemingly stupid thing? I am not a psychologist to answer that, I am afraid. But I do know there is a little fool lurking around in each one of us which makes you want to find some substance in everything which appears out of the ordinary. "This thing HAS to be good since it looks good"!

Some people know this all too well. This does not stop them from searching that substance however. It just makes them the creator of that illusion. Popularly known as writers, these people know how to sell you a dead duck.

Let's imagine that you meet someone online and just to gauge what lies on the other end of the wire, you pop him/her the uncomfortable (or comfortable depending on what his/her demeanour is :-)) question - "So, what do you look like?". Now, one thing you should know (if you don't already, which would be shocking), that statistically, the chances of the other one being what you imagine (or rather pray) him/her to be is miniscule. I mean really really tiny. So here! The moment of truth! This is screaming for innovation. A writer is about to be born! Remember 'Need is the mother of all inventions'!. This guy/gal on the other side is not going to lie. He/she realizes the futility of it. But then there are ways..:-)

The truth : I am fat and ugly!

The truth softened : I am 'a bit' on the heavier side.

Further dilution : I don't look 'too' good as i have put on weight 'recently'.

Make it vague : I don't like what i see in the mirror. I wish I looked different.

Abstraction : I can't identify with what stares back at me when I look at myself in the mirror. Its a bloated shadow of myself.

Getting there : The world does not look at me the way i do at myself. My facade conflicts with the person that I am inside.

Impressionistic : The guise was never welcome. It just happened as i drifted along with what i thought was more important. Soon, the 'more important' things started to drift away from me as well. And i found myself worrying about the guise more than anything else as if other things were the least important ones to begin with.

THE WRITER : It does make we wonder sometimes 'who am I'? Sometimes on a crimosn evening, i would sit by a stream, throw a pebble in the silent vastness and look at the jaded reflecion of myself as the red ripples throw my face up and down. Suddenly a queer strange feeling engulfs me. I see a weary pair of eyes stare back at me and ask me 'Who are you? Why are you looking at me? I don't know you'. Its an uncomfortable question coming from someone you thought you knew, you thought was friends with you. But the tone is unmistakenly stark and unfamiliar, questioning the very motive of my existence. As the sands trickle down, I have found it increasingly hard to answer that question. As the crimson fades into gray and the face in the stream dissappears, I recede into my nothingness again, all too happy to see the unfriendly face swallowed by the waves. But deep down i know, as a few more grains of sand hit the ground, the face will return again..."

....you will never know what hit you. You will try to interpret that in whatever little stupid ways of interpretation you know of. Your mind will simply refuse to believe 'The Truth' even if you manage to get a grip of it. Guess what! You have just been handed a dead duck!!

Oh! I love Writers :-)

The Saint

The chanting echoed around the hilltop every evening. The devotional baritone soared loud, high and wide, reverberating from the walls of the luscious valley. The entire valley froze for that moment of enigmatic peace resonating from the majestic clanging of the gigantic brass bells. Tiny, lanterns would light up amidst the low hung banana leaves and the woody fragrance of burning sandalwood sticks, flickering in the evening breeze.

Every eye inside that wooden fence would be fixed on his face, enamoring his numinous persona as he sat on the sandstone podium set against the sinking sun. All heads bowed in accord as he stood up to say the final prayer. The sun wrenched its last rays along with it, which kissed his half bare Herculean silhouette and chiseled face, to plunge into another world. He was the God himself, or so would they ardently believe, standing there bewitched and awestruck…

..He quivered ever so slightly at the feel of tender touch on his feet. He opened his eyes and looked down at his feet where he could see a head half-covered with a black sari. He gently put his hand on her head as she looked up. Something shook inside him as he saw a hazel, watery pair of eyes look up to him. She had pain and anticipation written all over her angelic face. The saint stood there soaking what those eyes wanted to cry out to him, without a word. They were the wounds of betrayal which bled through her eyes, which made her travel thousands of miles to the saint, to muster the strength to get through…to start believing again.

He was the healer. His deific words and his celestial touch would cure every pain of mind and heart that was known to man. They would flock to the ashram from farthest corners to momentarily escape from the drudgeries of urban jungle, to get rid of the boulders of sins that lay heavy on their chests, to cry out their hearts and bandage the stabbing wounds the ruthless world inflicted upon them. Yes……he was the God himself.

She sat there in his feet, sobbing and gasping, looking at those flickering lanterns while everyone else slowly left. He sat there, his eyes closed, caressing her head with his fingers, as the tears on his feet started to dry. It occurred to him that it was unusual, him wanting to console anyone…like that… for so long. He had always done it with a sense of aloofness, for he was The Saint. But today, he wanted her to sit there and sob all night and the thought made him nervous.

She stayed back at the ashram in the night, as most people who came from thousands of miles did. She went back to her hut, as milky-way itself seemed to have descended on the valley. Her heart felt a little lighter and she started to revere his balmy touch as she lay there looking out at the starlit sky from the tiny window. She wondered what would have caused a young bewitching man like him to take up sainthood. They were not wrong, she thought. He can not be a mortal.

But he? He was unsettled, for the first time in all those years. He could not think of anything apart from those hazel eyes and the touch of her silky hair on his fingers. His hands grappled with the pages of the Upanishad as he struggled to keep his eyes fixed on the manuscript, but it felt like grappling with sand which itched to squeeze out of his skittish fist. He felt suffocated inside and rushed out in the moonlit night.

“How could this happen to me?”.He was screaming to himself in his mind.
“How could I think about a woman? Hadn’t I swam all the way to the surface, against all the currents, to see this light? Hadn’t I cleansed myself of love, lust and desire? Or, was I ever really above the surface? Had I seen the strongest current yet?”

He caught a glimpse of her as he walked passed her hut. She lay there on the cot, her eyes closed, her angelic face peeking through the black silk, imbued in the fiery hue of the faint kerosene lamp. He felt weak in his knees and stood there frozen, looking at her. He knew right then, that he had been flung off the ground by the strongest tide he could have ever imagined.

He found himself walk up and open the door of her hut. She was woken up by the tiny whimper of the door. It took her a few moments and a look at his face to realize what had happened. She stood up from the cot, petrified, bewildered and blank-faced as he walked up and stood right in front of her.

The conquest was absolute. Everything inside him had given away, every bit of control lost. He stood there as a slave to the almighty mistress. He lifted his hand and reached out for her shoulder hesitantly. Those fingers didn’t have the courage. They quivered and froze an inch away from her, like a servant waiting for the order of his master, too afraid to move. Those few seconds felt like aeons to him as he knew he had entered the fire ring and there was no turning back. For that single moment, every rubric, every epithet just ceased to matter to him.

She slowly lifted her head and looked him straight in his eyes. He could have died any moment just wanting to know what was in those eyes. He browsed her eyes, looking for any signs of submission, to see whether she had stepped into the fire as well. His heart sank as the script on her face began to divest. That expression couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. It was shock, it was sorrow, it was disbelief, it was pity. It was anything but what he had imagined it to be.

He slowly turned away and stepped out of the hut, finding it hard even to breathe, as the kerosene lamp sighed and wilted to the darkness. The valley was engulfed in eerie silence next evening. There was no saint on that hilltop any more. There were only mortals…..

Home Coming..

For me it's a bi-monthly affair. My going to my hometown, that is. Its 'different' to my usual existence here in my power-backed up, vitrified floored, security-guarded, 'thou art a stranger, albeit thou art my neighbour' 10th floor abode. It doesn't feel like moving from one town to the other. It's more like moving from one country to the next. But hey! It was Diwali and the visit was inevitable.

It's always been like that since the last few years. I am always greeted by that scornful gaze from Verma Aunty next door, as I park and disembark. The gaze is the impeccable "Aa gaye sahab!!"Can't blame her for this look now, can I? Considering that we (read the rowdiest bunch of kids of 80s) spared nothing to let her know how we felt about all those plastic balls, which she scampered to pick and hide away as and when we managed to launch them into her porcupine-grassed lawn adorned with her solar cooker (which she loved more than her dear life) while playing our 'domestic' version of cricket.

At least we can do something about the other gaze in waiting, which is as impeccably denouncing as the former. We are wannabe bindaas urban species and that's where we are stuck since last few years…at wannabe!! Hence, there is an implicit agreement to adequately tone-down between me and my wife as we head home. She knows her attire well. In go the noodle-strapped, see-through tops, low waist jeans and knee length skirts. Out come the more acceptable suits, kurtis and sarees. Now you don't want the street dogs go insane with unfamiliarity either, do you?

Anyways, I hop out for morning walk and NO! That guy!!? The one I used to beat up at will and he would go hiding in your mammi's pallu wiping his nose from your thaan wali shirt.!!We sheepishly exchange that 'I wish I never get to see your stupid face again' smile. Why does it always happen that you cross all those rustic fellows at a point, where there is nothing to look around at, and you have no option but to stare the moron right in his face? But wait! What is that luxury sedan doing there, parked right outside your gate? Hello! This is a big mistake. I am supposed to be driving one, not you!! Weren't you supposed to be like selling cotton blouse pieces to fat middle class aunties in Sadar Bazar? You nose-dripping sissy! Now I know. You made the most of your father's stint at PWD. Consoling wisdom dawns - anything can be bought in this knavish world. Sob! Sob!

And then I return, dejected and crestfallen, to see my father enthusiastically waiting for me to go and handover those mithai ka dabbas to all those rishtedars, who I have no clue, as to how they are related to me, till date. All I know that my back will be sore from all those charan-sparsh by the time I am back. And do I actually want to come back, is the more serious question I have to scratch my head for….….I have not been known to be a certified atheist in my khandan for nothing. I cringe with discomfort of the most extreme kind just at the thought of hawans and aartis. Mother has half a dozes pages bookmarked in the aarti book for the evening and I sulk, knowing there is no way I can escape this onslaught.

Albeit all this ado I am subjected to, there is always a reason to go home. I enjoy those little stories about my childhood which my father sometimes tells my wife over tea. I love the tiny sparkles in Riya's (my daughter) eyes at the prospect of her meeting her dadu and dadi, the laid back, gentle trotting pace people spend their time at, like chewing each moment to savour it before it will slide away into yesterday, the smile and the handshake that you get greeted with by those old familiar neighborhood shopkeepers. It still feels like coming back to warm cosy quilt I used to cuddle up inside with mother on cold winter days in the night, tucked away in a little nook, safe from the unforgiving chill. There will always be a reason to go back. It will always feel like home coming….

Run Lola, Run...!!!

You know that you are a very good girl, Lola. Don’t you? Now don’t you stand there and look at me like that. And don’t you frown at me like that too. It makes me feel that I have grown up to be my father. Yuck!

And just look at your legs. You should have at least cared to change the blade in your pink razor. Your long beautiful legs. I can’t take the eyes of the sheen. No one can.

Last night, you thought I was asleep. I was not. You needn’t have tip toed across the Persian carpet. You couldn’t have woken me up. I heard the click of the silver handset, I heard the whispers and I heard the click on the cradle again. I heard you tip toeing to the loo. I saw you stand there for a while and I heard the flush too. You shouldn’t have flushed, Lola. There was no need.

I hated the cold sweat and hated pretending that I was asleep. I felt sick in my stomach. Felt like getting up and rushing to the loo. I don’t know if you looked at me as you slid into the quilt. The bed stopped squeaking after a few minutes. Guess you had gone to sleep. How could you sleep, Lola?Oh! You told me you were tired when I kissed you. Have you been tired for long? I should have noticed. But did you want me to notice?

You used to hate mornings. But today you stand in the doorway even before I have read the morning newspaper. When did you buy that black skirt, Lola? And how come I don’t know about your new dresses anymore. I guess it would have been an impulsive buy. It’s so easy to get tempted on that scented, dimly lit floor they have at Harrods.

Its too early in the morning. You might not get the 47 from West Croydon. Should I offer you my car keys, Lola? Where do you want to go? Would it be okay if I drop you? I will just hop out in my sneakers and tees. You don’t want me to look good this early in the morning. Do you?

Oh damn! I have been talking too much, I guess. Asking too many questions. You would be getting late, Lola. I will be all right. Someone is waiting for you…….Run Lola, Run……….!!!!

The tin box loves me

The image of the rag picking tin box has still not left me. It makes me smile every time I think of ‘Wall-E’. Who would not surrender to his innocence? Poor fellow goes about doing his chores, looking for those tiny little treasures, picking and tucking them away in his own tiny world hidden away from the malevolent world. No one is around to see that the tin box has a heart too and that he dreams as well.

And one day his world is rocked. It is turned upside down as Eve arrives in his little world. Smitten and totally bewitched by this curvy, slick lass, he can not help but be hopelessly charmed, unguardedly admit his wonder and awe going ‘Evaaaaaa!’, lying totally vulnerable to this futuristic beauty. He stands no chance against her superiority and sophistication. Still he manages to get Eve to step out of her slick cast and fall for the rustic him. Sheer innocence!

What a luxury! To have someone ready to lay his life at the drop of your hat. To be hopelessly in love with you like you were the only one in the whole wide world. The security, assurance, unconditional commitment. To be the centre of someone’s universe. Deep down we all want tin boxes for lovers, who are there for you no matter what. Tin boxes, who don’t throw tantrums. Who wait for you when you walk out on their face saying obnoxious things in anger. Who pamper you, care for you. Who understand your mood swings, hear unsaid words. Respond to your touch and words like magic. Who miss you, remember you, relish your company.

So the movie ends, Wall-E and Eve pretty much walking into the sunset hand in hand. Happy ending, huh? However, it left me thinking. What afterwards? One day, the tin box will stand there and see Eve jetting around in all her slick glory, blasting things and doing all those wonderful acrobatics she is designed for. That day, the tin box will ask her not to go too far, too often as he does not have jets, he has just a pair of rusty old chain wheels. He feels left out while she flies. He is left behind with just a roach to talk to. Eve frowns. She is puzzled, taken aback. Her eyes narrow in interrogation. ‘But didn’t you fall in love with me for what I were? Weren’t you spellbound the first time you saw me like this? So, why do you want me to be a tin box now, like yourselves?’

Tin box doesn’t know what to say. He is silent. He has no answers to her questions. He is hurt and his heart cries. All he knows is that he wants her by his side now, to walk along with him. He wants all those things from her which he has in his heart to give to her. He secretly DOES want her to be a tin box. Her slick, curvy appearance and her boundless flights leave him lonely and insecure.

The stupid fellow should simply say it to her, I would say. Plain and simple. Maybe she doesn’t realize what he wants. Maybe. But then, shouldn’t she have realized it by herself? Maybe not. And after all, is it fair to ask her to walk when she can fly. Will she be happy that way? How long would she walk along with him? Hmmmm. I think its unfair of Wall-E to demand such a thing. She will feel smothered. Allright, Wall-E’s insecurity and frustration is misplaced. End of discussion.

Ummmm…not quite! As luck would have it, Eve despises his rag-picking. He still keeps stuffing their place with all this garbage he thinks are a little treasure. Irked, she starts to sleep outside of their little condominium. ‘What good are these pieces of crap you keep piling up?’. Wall-E looks at her in utter bewilderment and disbelief. ‘Didn’t you use to find this habit of mine adorable? Wasn’t this, what made you think I had a beating heart inside my tin body? Should I stop collecting it?” She won’t utter a word further. Too proud to ask him for anything that might go down as a favour. She prefers to sleep outside instead. I think she should have said it, plain and simple. Maybe he doesn’t know how she despises it. Maybe. But then, shouldn’t he have realized it by himself. But maybe……blah blah blah.

Maybe it is a mismatch. Maybe Wall-E and Eve are not meant to be together. But maybe Eve would still have wanted an Adam to become Wall-E, had she had one. Maybe Wall-E would not have realized his desire for a tin box had been hooked up to a (f)Wall-E..….. Maybe, we all want tin boxes for lovers but we never want to be one ourselves….

Choose Your Life..

It's almost like resting your sore, tired butt on a fleecy cushion and let is sink a few inches into it. And then being handed a martini to get your cerebrum to dilate and puke what it was finding hard to digest...Bloody reality! But I was just being given time to unbend. That's what they do to the new recruits. It was then when the silken pixie by my side pointed her finger towards something down there. I leaned and peeked from the tip of the cloud and almost fell over. It was me lying down there, flies buzzing on the gray matter that had started to squeeze through my pulverized skull.

I turned to her, aghast, my jaw touching the ground ..err cloud ..too stunned to utter a word. "But how???" Her expression instantly made me realize the futility of it and I looked down again. It was unreal, to express it conservatively, to see myself lying there on the concrete sidewalk amidst a huge mob, who didn't want to miss the freak show.

So is this the end? What next? Do they collect my brain splattered out over concrete and carry me to a morgue? Cut me down and sew me up on the autopsy table? Wrap me up in white cotton sheet and garlands and march up to the crematory carrying me over their shoulders? Put me on the logs and fire me up? Why don't I shudder at that thought anymore? After all its my body, MY. MY.... Why does that word feel strange now? Earlier I would look down when I thought about myself and I saw a torso and I knew I was talking about something in bone and flesh. Now what? What exactly am I? Bloody hell!

"It's time", she quipped. I unglued my curious gaze and looked at her again. She had that receptionist's smile at her face, the kind you see when you walk in for an interview and you are left wondering whether she actually knows that you are about to shit in your pants. I had a feeling I was about to have some real tough time soon. My list of sins was pretty lengthy!

Past that august golden gate I used to imagine elysium's doors to be like, walking on the clouds past the cabalistic strata of fog, I was led into a lyceum engulfed in mist. And there they were, the Shangri-la's version of the jury, sitting on a raised dais. Clowns, I thought. I soon realized that they knew everything about me, I mean EVERYTHING. The number of times I had hit that sissy in my neighborhood, the number of roaches I had squashed under my boots, the number of times I had fantasized about that English teacher, times I had pretended to be unwell to skip office, pretended to be truthful, cursed, helped, cried, laughed, had sex, fallen, shaken, feared and other miscellaneous stuff which better be left alone. With time, date and duration stamped against each act of mine arranged chronologically and aggregated for statistical purposes I had nothing left to do but nod. Open and shut case!

But I was in Zion and I deserved some miracles. And I got one! "After a thorough review of your case, though you qualify to be reincarnated as nothing more than a duckbilled platypus, you are just in time for a promotional offer we are running for the male middle aged suicidal cases."

"Why for this category?"

"They are the sleaziest things on earth and we want to encourage them to hurry up on their way up here! Now, this offer is called 'Choose your life'. Are you interested or you would like to earn the distinction of being the only mammal to lay eggs?"

I didn't quite like the idea of laying eggs in cold highlands of Tasmania and I eagerly looked at the three cards they spread out on the table reading the obvious on my face – whoever refused a freebie as good as this, ever?

"Choose one"!

Three cards bearing a snapshot of my potential reincarnated self lay in front of my eyes.

1 - Me standing, holding a large piranha, on the deck of a private yacht, like – 'What a catch!' I look rich, with a little paunch, sun shining on my rather large temples.

2 - A newspaper with my photo on page three. I look pleasantly different in long kurta and jeans. Wearing specs as well! Grinning amidst all the Ramanis, Thakrals and Shankars. I seemed to have made it big in the filthy patronizing creative world.

3- A stolen photograph from one of my albums. They had been doing their homework! Her arms round my neck and we pulling off that funny face. Of course our hands in each others' back pocket didn't get captured. So did the secret little bum squeeze.

I felt a lump in my throat as I gazed at her pearly whites, her disheveled hair in that cold morning breeze. That was the last photo of us together taken a fortnight ago. My hand started to move to pick up the third card.

"Yes, she was here a week ago" – quipped the seemingly oldest one in the jury…"and she did not take up the offer.....”

Confide in me

Its one big messy Cartesian join, this world. I mean, just look at your ever-growing list of contacts in your mobile phone for once. There isn’t enough to set it apart from a list of the ill-famed I-need-to-double-my-money-in-a
-fortnight applicants who applied for the crazy DDA lottery. And then you talk, each one of you to each one of you. Find yourselves those corners of the room which you never knew existed, ram yourself against the wall, covering up your mouth, look at some distant nothing and talk.

You have become one big ear and one big mouth. Jubilant cackles, maudlin whispers, feverish confessions, sloppy tales, anguished boohoos, cacophonic bawls and the works. It all gets thrown around to be chewed, swallowed, digested and excreted. Like a daily shot of cocaine you just can not do without, you just HAVE to talk and you just HAVE to hear someone talk.

There is something strangely alluring and addictive about that someone somewhere, wrapped in a cloak of mystery. You become just a compulsive voyeur waiting for that baronial cape to open up and drop down, for you to have a peek inside. But its actually when you take a moment to think that you realize, it’s the magnet inside you want to wind an extra loop of wire around to pull more, pull the heavier, pull the immovable which makes that someone somewhere intriguing. The urge for them to helplessly shed that cloak, and stand bare in front of YOU, is really what is intriguing.

Its never about them, it’s about you. The lure of playing the agony aunt or a confidante which people will exclusively shed their dirty linen to is quite overwhelming. That dreaded sound of silence is killing. You need them for you to exist. Pain is a sweet pill. The more painful it is the sweeter. Others’ pain always tastes that way. It infact aches if they prefer a shoulder other than yours. You could well be a billboard screaming 'Confide in me!' But after a while they are whining and not talking, about the same old things, about their same old worthless lives. And you need someone with a fresh new cloak, and then some more. Keep them coming….

The more you listen to them, the more you forget about yours. And your linen suddenly looks all the more aglow without you giving it a tiring scrub. You just let it be, because that’s the way it is and there is worse out there. And someone close to you keeps looking at you, legs crossed, waiting patiently for you to turn away from the corner, waiting for your restless steps to halt and turn back, waiting for you to come and sit near to him after you had cut him off at that phone ring.

They never had a gold-threaded cloak to wear but have a lot to say. They share the linen with you which you let lay after you woke up in a jiffy at the ringing of the phone. They lie there denuded underneath that thin linen and wait for the day when you would look into their eyes, caress their hair and say “Confide In Me”….

A crunchy bite of moon…with a dollop of honey!

So, you finally did it! Spent a quarter of your life mugging up those 2-kgs-apiece books to get yourself shot in that hallowed mortarboard (the mug-shot now proudly suspended on your living room wall) , managed to land up in a cushy job, and actually came out with flying colours from the nerve-wrecking marriage market with quite a ‘deal’. Then, braved the agonizing wedding ceremonies lasting whole three days too. And if someone was to go by what you are really itching to do at this point in time, it would be lead to an utterly horrendous conclusion that the whole extravaganza was eventually to get you laid! Just imagine, five hundred people making merry at the thousand-bucks-a-plate dinner you threw in the French gardens to announce it too, totally at your cost. You must be crazy! The world must be crazy too!

You are almost twiddling your thumbs to wait for all of them to vanish and be with your lady love/lady arranged. I know, I know – at this moment, it can well pass for the only reason for your existence. You will be officially left alone, just the two of you to ‘consummate’ (I love that word) your marriage, (to play bang-bang in a luxury resort room – if it were to be put a little crudely). And all that when you have never even had a proper first kiss with someone! Who ever said, you have to die to be in heaven? Don’t you feel like Alice in wonderland already, like a hungry child who has been let into a castle of chocolate? (Gen Y can excuse themselves from this page. I am talking about my generation here, please. We were supposed to be virgins at the time of our wedding. See, I don’t even mind you cocking a snook at me right now. I agree ‘twas weird).

So, here we come Bahamas, Switzerland, Mauritius, Goa and Shimla. We are ready to paint the town red. Oh my! I go weak in my knees just imagining the candle light dinners, beach walks holding hands, scuba diving in blue lagoons, bon fires with mouth-watering Arabian belly dancers around, cuddling up in the ropeway trolley atop the icy mountains, zipping through in a crimson convertible amidst the lush green pastures (yeah with herds of snow-white sheep grazing in them too), lying semi-clad (or unclad wishfully) on a beach on a moonlit night with a whole crate of beer bottles at your disposal. And of course, the best part, to just be there under that gauzy linen on the hotel bed with your partner in crime and just ‘do it’, all night, all day long! Crushed roses, stained satin sheets, jingling red bangles, warm husky whispers, feverish moans, melting bodies and unbridled steamy passion - Honeymoons – aren’t they the most beautiful phenomenon man ever treated himself with?

But, hey! Hold on for a sec. Isn’t this like too good to be true, too rosy to even exist? Damn right, it is.Well if you had an arranged marriage (like most of the lesser mortals) then you just threw the dice in the air expecting it to land up showing a perfect six! Chances of that happening – one in six. You get the drift? Ok, let me illustrate.

Second day into honeymoon, poor you are walking hand in hand on the beach with wind in your hair (if you have any left) and crimson waves kissing your feet, trying to feel that perfect walk-into-the-sunset moment and you suddenly hear “Honey, what have you thought of buying for my dad/mom?”. And as the days/weeks/months/years go by you will realize that you will never EVER want to walk into the sunset with her. Evenings, for her, are synonymous with shopping! Did someone say, love is all you need? He is rightly buried now, at some dilapidated graveyard.

And do you even want to get me started on the virginity fixation. Imagine a guy expecting to marry Nutan and in a flash realizes he married Helen instead. How would he know? Oh he would, in a second!

And this is even worse. You just can’t get it going the first few nights. Guys, you know what I mean, don’t you? Gosh! That looked so easy in the movies you saw in your hostel days, so natural, so totally for granted. You probably couldn’t see the tiny disclaimer at the bottom of the screen “These ‘stunts’ are performed by experts and should not be tried at home”. At that moment it does feel like a ‘stiff’ stunt you just don’t have the ‘strength’ to carry off.

That is still not as weird as someone (either of you) starting to cry after an earth shattering orgasm. I mean really get all mushy and weep. And that’s not a one off rush of emotions as you would shockingly realize. It is a habit. Pitifully, handkerchiefs will become a prop in your love-making! Not to mention those utterly embarrassing 80 decibel screams of passion -“Oh God. I’m there. I’m there….” which initially would make your chest swell in pride. Later it would just make you want to sneak out of your apartment quickly, your tail between your legs, lest you get to see that embarrassing frown-cum-smile from your neighbour again.

I’m not over with the list of horrors. Have you ever thought about the pride-mincing - “Is it over?” What exactly one is supposed to do in one’s life after hearing that except jump down from a rooftop or something?

No, it ain’t too dreamy for the tried and tested, four-years-together-and-done-everything-a zillion-times couples either. They seriously need some reason to go for a honeymoon. They have a valid question - why pay for a gold class ticket of a movie which you have watched to death in premiere class already?

Then why is the world so hung-up about honeymoons, in spite of all the potential unpleasant surprises it can throw up. Why is honeymoon synonymous with bliss and ecstasy? Let me put it this way, for all non-believers and believers alike: Most of us are sold to that proverbial dream with that perfect silhouette of us and our prince/princess draped in divine ivory against the glorious moon stitched on charcoal sky, lip-locked, sitting in the window of a grand castle with white daisies and snowy swans, and milky way itself have had descended on to the terra-firma! It’s that slice of time which we have bribed the casino steward for, to throw up the dice in the air and make it land with a six, every time! It’s our moment of biting the crunchy moon …with a dollop of honey…and it will only last a few bites!

Just You Wait..!

One fine day, I will disdainfully kick my blue office chair with my cherry-black shoes with raw beastly force, enough for it to roll on through the thin long aisle and stop in my boss’s cubicle gently kissing his chair, for him to turn around and ogle in a daze. I would then rise slowly above my cubicle partition, amidst the pin drop silence and hanging jaws. With a Schwarzeneggerusque composed, mean, don’t-mess-with-me expression, I shall roll up my sleeves and look around as a few spectacles start to crack and crumble in disbelief. I would walk down to the other corner and rescue my dream girl who is swooning by now, grab her hand, announce a time off to my trembling boss and walk out of the front gate with the guard frozen in the most duteous salute.

From that day onwards, I will only have head-turning, big-bang entries. Doors will fling open and office stationary will be dismantled and float in thin air and it won’t be before everyone I have passed across has been left gasping and I have settled down in my chair, would the office floor stop trembling. I, you a**holes, would have arrived! Just you wait!

By now, you should know who I am. Or maybe not. Maybe you haven’t even noticed even though I sit bang in the middle of the floor and I am always sitting there; even before you come in and even after you walk out. I complete my work before they put my name against it. I have arrived and already checked my mails before the clock strikes eight. Eight for me is start of work. Eight for others is the time they drag themselves to the shower! They have stopped putting people in the team I am supposed to work in. I am the team! I am the whole bloody team; a one man army!

Everyone is really friendly with me, you know. My shirt has faded at the shoulders by the sheer amount of pats I get on my back. That’s the way they all are with me. A pat, a ceremonial ‘How are you matey?’, a quick question like ‘would you know how this fuc*ing thing works’ and next thing I know is I am writing a step by step cookbook for them after that blank expression I get to see on their face when I have told them ‘that’s is the way this thing works’. And before I have pronounced abracadabra they are on their way shaking their head in disbelief. This carries on throughout the week and it took me a while to figure out why suddenly everyone seems too busy on a Friday afternoon that they don’t have any questions for me that day. It was the day when it hit me - ‘I am a bloody geek’!!

And you Mr. Stud, sitting next to me; I hate your guts Mr. Stud. I mean all you do is talk. I bet you took a training course to learn how to move a mouse and all the work you ever do is at the gym. But then, you are surrounded by all the prettiest girls, leaning over, drooling and laughing at your stupidest of jokes.

I sit there at my desk burgeoning with the thickest of manuals and left over coffee cups trying to look engrossed as they come and stand there at your desk like fifty times in a day smelling like fairies. Can’t you just sit somewhere, madams? I mean you stand with your distracting backside towards me which is way too mmmmmm and I am supposed to behave like you don’t exist which is kinda hard!

I wonder if they really think I am short at listening or my glasses are too thick for me to notice. I hear you bit**es (I won’t call you that if you gather around my cubicle instead), loud and clear. Your chuckles are a signal for me to feel my bum for a strategically placed chewing gum which is now decidedly stuck there, or a ‘I am a Geek’ placard stuck on my back. How could I even blame you for those degrading chuckles when even the boss has a hard time keeping himself from falling off the chair laughing!?

Sigh! I know nothing I will ever do will work. I mean, it will work for my bosses, work for my goddamn company but it will never work for me. Neither the weekend slog, nor the three in a row night outs or an IQ of 180. At the end of the day, I am a piece of precious office furniture which is supposed to be painfully undemanding. It’s just hopeless!

But I have had enough, more than enough! I know its time to throw those glasses out of the window, loosen up my collar button and roll up my sleeves. I refuse to be a part of a doomed species heading for extinction. One day, soon, I would have abandoned my loyalty to the geek kingdom. One day I would have crossed over, from a timid, workaholic, inconspicuous geek to a smooth-talking, go-getter office eye-candy. Just you wait!

Disclaimer : The usual coincidental resemblance to living or dead disclaimer. Yawn! (And yeah, I am not a geek :P)

Silenced Serenade..

Amid the same old nauseating odor of a diaper having served its purpose for the zillionth time occupying the room, amid the night yet again having fidgeted in and out of slumber, oscillating between the disheveled bedcover trying to hold on to the edge of the bed and the cacophonic howls of the street dogs safeguarding their territory somewhere nearby, you hesitant to even let out a cold sigh at the sight of her frown snailing off slowly into a sleeping smile, it must have surely crossed your mind sometime - was it ALL for this? Was everything that you did was for lying awake in the bed at this night, just having rinsed your hands after cleaning up your infant's mess, praying that your wife won't wake up from the much required and deserved sleep, trying to think of a reason why corn flakes (yes the same damn cornflakes you have to put up with each single day as you would in the morning next day) were invented in the first place!

You were terrific, she was incredible. You did things; she knew whom they were for. Just a look from either of you and you both of your would melt. Words were abundant, even though you could totally have done without them. So much to say, so much to praise, so much to adore, so much to fall for. You could be a cowboy riding a colt in the moonlight beneath her castle window, strumming a Spanish guitar, singing for the bewitched her, gently swaying to your magical serenade, spellbound.

This erstwhile no-nonsense cowboy walks silently to his cabin wearing the most credulous of plastic smiles right from the parking lot to his table. Table on which he earns his bread and butter, nodding to the pot-bellied, cruel piece of joke called boss. He has adapted. Has taken to his new sobered up skin. Popularly known as 'Sir' amongst all who know that he won't default his EMIs and pay up his credit card bills 5 days before the due date and would give up after a few agitated cries when you victimize him on fine prints. The tamed citizen of the urban jungle.

Sometimes between those quintessential paper cup coffees or yawning in the black leather chair of the board room during a presentation, you do hear that serenade for a fraction of a second, echoing somewhere in the distance. And it fades even before it has hit an octave. And you wonder whether it happened to me, in this very life? And you wonder - "What Happened"? What happened to that moonlit night, to that colt, to that Spanish guitar. What exactly happened to you, to me?

When exactly was it? When did you first feel your fingers were too sore for the strings? When did you feel too lazy to ride the colt? When did she first forget to wait for you in her window? When was the first time she didn't feel like swaying in the evening breeze? When exactly did your serenade fade....and fell silent? Probably when your jockeys gave way to creased trousers and t-shits to sky blue shirts. Probably when you dumped your guitar in the garage behind your pricy swank sedan. Probably when you got on with the business of living, 'settling' into a comfortable nothingness and manufactured 'happiness' over the weekends.

You just can't remember. Even after banging your head against the wall, you don't know. You search for an explanation in those bootless evolution and change theories, searching for alternatives in work, people and other addictions. But you know that nothing that you put in that big gaping black hole will ever satiate it.

Tonight is just another night when I hear that echo of the silenced serenade, lying awake in the bed. I am not sure whether I still want to hear a melody that belies my vitreaous world. I have become accustomed to nothingness I guess. All I am waiting for is for it to fade away....forever...

Everybody's Moon..

One of those early Sunday mornings, the moon (yes our good ol’ moon) just having returned from night patrol, having heard thousands of all too familiar whispers from the lip-locked lovers in the deserted park benches basking in the moonlight, having been marvelled at and written about by hundreds of poets, having seen a bunch of eager scientists planning to touch it yet again, looks at itself in the mirror, beams a haughty smile, yawns and goes to sleep.

And a million miles below is a genius itching to be revered, a capitalist eager for the next million, a neighbourhood auntie desperate to show off, kid next door curious to boast to his friends. And a time warp theory is disentangled, de-jargoned, printed, wrapped in glossy paperbacks and shipped for public. A galactic icon is created for the graphic designers to get busy with t-shirt prints, mobile wallpapers and animated cursors. A new badge for society moms to show off their awareness for a brilliant future of their pampered Horlicks kids.

Mountains blasted flat, rivers bridged, jungles mowed down and cash registers start to ring. Diesel guzzling tin monsters ferrying overfed urban mobs to the newly accessible paradise. People squatting in the lush meadows of the serene valley. The paradise starts to show up on web pages studded with marqueeing promotional offers, atrocious fuchsia headings and blinking GIFs. Soon it’s on everyone's tourism list. Everyone's!

Somewhere a Nawab is jolted out of slumber by his been-there-done-that, entrepreneurial son. Elephants are festooned with fake gold ornaments, guards are told to brush their moustaches, dark cadaverous women are procured from the neighbourhood slums and made to fit into backless cholisand the ancient sleeping haveli is thrown open to the bundy and bermuda clad firangis hungry for a make-believe ethnic fix for their painfully easy lives.

A masterpiece is dissected by an army of critics. A repertoire of ready made tags wait in their armoury. Cubism, minimalism, post modernism, deconstruction, golden ratio. Formulae applied to beauty, numbers assigned to mystery, measurements defined for perfection. The fish-eyed pictures of the masterpiece make it to the glossy centrespread of the coffee table books in the villas of corporate rats.

The factories continue to roar. The machines continue to peel the aura off brilliant dreams and chop them into mediocre pieces of actuality, neatly packed in millions of showy boxes. A few can't stand mediocrity. Most can't stand brilliance.

Someday, on a full moon day, when it’s carelessly loitering in the night sky, the moon shall be harpooned, tethered and pulled down to the earth. It will be carried to a factory; smoked, grounded and polished into shiny little gemstones. That familiar smirk would be wiped off from the night sky, forever. The heavens would have surrendered to the gluttony of man. Someday the moon shall belong to everyone.…just every damn one...