Something about a rainy Kolkata

There is something quite special about Kolkata when it rains here.

There is something uncannily beautiful about the way it gets, cool, breezy, rainy and wistfully romantic whenever I am home, no matter how short the trip is. It's like I am being given more reasons to love this sleepy, laidback city full of an incandescent charm.

The tarred roads look shiny, reflecting the golden yellowness of the streetlights. The quietness interrupted by the sound of a car's tyres cruising on the puddles on an otherwise smooth street. The stray dogs playfully scamper about, while searching for a shelter for the night.

As I sit on the ledge by the window overlooking the road outside our house, the boys in my locality get together for their late-night adda. Their loud voices surprisingly aren't irritating tonight. Their jokes make me smile. Their voices have a strange inclusive quality about them. One of them has got cha in a thermos for the whole gang.

I see a couple walk past them, out for their post-dinner walk - the radiantly pregnant lady and her husband holding hands and enjoying the sudden drop in mercury. They share a private joke and laugh; the wind carries the happy sound in my direction...

I sniff the air. It smells of moist soil. The streets are almost empty, the street lights hazied and blurred by the heavens showering the scorching earth with the coolness of Kal Baishakhi. I run to the terrace to absorb it all in...

I face the strong nor'westers and get stung by the raindrops, which are huge and scanty at first. As I start walking along the railing on the terrace, the rain intensifies into an overwhelming cloudburst. I know nothing else. I want to know nothing else. I only know I am here, part of this beautiful moment.

PS - The above was followed by lots of predictable screaming by my mother who was upset for leaving the door to the rooftop open and the water on the staircase and the fact that I refuse to grow up. My father was bemused as always. 

But who cares. I slept with a big grin on my face. :D

Also see: Seduced by the Rains 
               Healing Showers of Pain

Impenetrable Meanings: Just not quite there yet...

I look at the sky, half cloud laden
I find the stars, shyly hidden
The moon leaving it's melancholic glow behind
The beauty is all but lost on me
As I wish the fluff to uncover the light

I listen to the symphony, mellow and melodious
The notes touching, the harmony porous
The tune ignites a pain at the core
Making love to me and hurting me simultaneously
As I wish for the absent lyrics to tell me why it so

I read a poem, profound and deep
The feeling apparent, but the words don't seep
The words leaving my mind groping for recognition
Halfway through I seem to lose tide
As I wish to be able to look into the poet's mind

I dig into a bruise, sore and hurting
The scab gives way, blood oozing, my fingers dirtying
In the mess that aches and piques
The curiosity keeps poking, the throb tells me to stop
As I am left solving the puzzle of what I want

I tread impatiently, skipping stones on my way
I stumble once, I decide for a moment to stay
The obstruction leaves me skeptical
The route now disoriented, I wonder which way to turn
As I wish for a hand to hold and guide me

As confounding and pretty as that kaleidoscope

Names of people, places and events evoke emotions in me. All these "nouns" that are sometimes very important, and sometimes seemingly insignificant, have put their stamp on my personailty en route the elusive destination of my life.

As much as I wish to be not affected by these elements in my life and keep walking independent of any form of attachment, it is just the disillusionment of detachment that I discover during my bouts of toughtfulness. Apparently, I am responsible for the way I feel.  I may begin to dissociate myself from people, from places, but in my mind I remain as attached and loyal to good memories as the time they were being created.

I had read somewhere, "People will never remember what you did or what you said. But they will always remember how you made them feel." Certain people have made me feel very strongly, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. The stronger the emotion aroused then, the stronger the association of the person with a deeper shade of my disillusioned detached feelings.

So, in the end, doesn't it boil down ot the same thing? Our interactions always evoke emotions, Out attitudes and general frames of mind help us form our opinions of others, which make us like or dislike them.

Some things that I look back on when I am down and out, and the things that salvage me from depreciatory self-piteous phases; An affectionate nickname that someone calls me by. The urge to make someone laugh. Mock annoyance when the joke is on me. Cacophony in company of friends. Moments spent knowing more about my best friend. Voluble silences that accompanied quiet conversations. And days that were made wonderful only by the mere presence of some favourite people around.

I would rather forget people who brought me pain and hurt me by lying to me and undermining me; saying things that angered me and by betraying my trust. I only remember the lessons learnt and choose to scoot from there.

Life is a magnificent gift. Things will sometimes be difficult. They will be confusing. But to look beyond that confounding string that refuses to untie or the psychedelic wrapping paper is what is important. Oftentimes, there are a series of silly boxes to open before you get to the real gift. Don't look for happiness. Create it. Happiness is too fleeting to be found in one place.

Back to my favourite metaphor about life and memories: the kaleidoscope. The  broken pieces of colourful glass are like the many shades of sentiments we experience throughout the span of our lives. Isolated and in their exclusivity, these fragments mean nothing. But when you put them all together and reflect upon them in totality, you see how these useless pieces combine and fuse with each other to form the most beautiful patterns; each extraordinarily beautiful, each unique, each unlike any other.

The magic and the ironic beauty of life...!

A heavy heart
A throbbing head
Some smiles I recollect
Some tears I brush aside
Still looking for an illusion
Living in a happy hallucination
I breathe, laugh, cry
Wrap it all in rosy velvet
Gift it to my days to come

Silence

Sitting next to the window I sigh

The evening sun goes past me

Solitude my sole companion

We talk of times gone past

And the Utopian life I see myself walk into

The keeper of my secrets...

Silence! You are my dearest guide

We walked quietly down that shaded lane, He and I

Stopping to look at a pretty bird

Reaching out to touch that velvety blossom

Summer breeze ruffling our hair gently

The silent smiles spoke for both us

The sounds around meant nothing

Silence! You are my favourite messenger

We sit amidst jovial laughter, all of us

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind you keep me company still 

A loud mischievous accusation, a louder denial

Some back-slapping and passing of drinks around

The warm hugs to show solidarity 

That ticklish poke in the rib to tell me the teasing isn't over yet

Silence!  Even in a crowd you are my best friend

I lie on my bed a crumpled sorry mess

Stifling my sobs, sometimes, crying out aloud in my pain

The promise my tomorrow made to me is broken

The heart that believed that devious tomorrow is maimed

You console me, tell me, "Never again let this happen to you!

But even if you do, I'll still be around," and stroke my feverish head

Silence! You are my philosopher 

We meet after a long time, He and I

There is so much to say, so much to share

We recount stories we haven't told, uncomfortable silence intervenes

We know we still understand each other, ambiguous silence mushrooms

We revel in momentary togetherness, intrusive silence makes us edgy

Suddenly, there is nothing to say, nothing to share

Silence! You are my worst enemy

Taking off my Mask... Little by Little

It has been really long since I posted a blog. And it makes me uncomfortable to note how lackadaisical I have become about the one thing I enjoy a lot... Writing.

It's not that there is a dearth of ideas. They are there. They assume the most tangible forms in my consciousness. I think of putting them into words. The inclination to attempt foiling the vivid imagery with inadequate expression is overcome by my desire to preserve it in its truest, most original and unevolved form. For I seem to be losing faith in my ability to express myself frankly enough to be understood by those I want to read me.

Honesty is still my number one priority in keeping my relationships with people alive, spirited and to make me feel truly connected. Lately, I seem to be taking the easy way out; escaping answering questions about myself, hoping my friends don't see through my lies, wondering if my animated chatter seems happy enough to all around me, crossing my fingers that the constant nagging voice somewhere inside my head doesn't become loud enough for people around me to hear.

Here I go again. Doing what I didn't want to. Writing betrays my intentions. I am expressing myself, yet again.

Time maybe for me to dig out some of those half-ripe ideas rotting away in that dusty old attic of a mind of mine. Time for me to carefully wipe the patina of self-consciousness off them and revive that feeling that prompted me, even if for a second , to challenge myself to express the abstract, the inanimate and the uncanny feeling of wholesomeness it brought to me for that short while. I am craving for the excitement again.

I am hoping to snuggle back into my comfort zone, and hopefully, without much effort.

Just Another Brick in the Wall

The predictability of human interactions has become a bane for all those who seek excitement in meeting new people. I met someone recently for a formal interaction and there was an uncomfortable and overbearing sense of deja vu hanging in the air. The person was new and so was the ambience, but the conversation was extraordinarily drab. Talk of aspirations and personal or professional five-year goals only worsened my state of restlessness. I desperately needed a witty remark or a clever repartee to bring me back from the dead.

Where is the spontaneity now? Where is the naturalness gone? Why are we afraid to be different? How can we say we are unique when all we are doing is becoming someone who cannot be differentiated from another in a world teeming with a billion other you’s? Even our normal conversations are generously peppered with cliches and the chosen ten-fifteen words that form our vocabulary - “Awesome. Cool. Great. Cute.” We are becoming more unoriginal than ever. That’s all we can choose from to exclaim our excitement.

All of us seem to be rolling off the metaphorical conveyor belt of a mass production unit; we talk alike, dress alike, behave alike and sadly, even have begun to think alike. Our education system, right from the primary level doesn’t allow for exploration of concepts with an open mind. We are more used to the system of learning by rote and agreeing with whatever is told to us. We have grown so conditioned to this type of learning that now we rely on ready sources to tell us also how to act and react to questions, people and situations. We try to elicit responses of a certain kind, and in trying to be manipulative, we end up being predictable fools.

Consider this - you have a job interview to go to. You almost certainly know what kind of questions to expect - “What are your aspirations in life? Where do you see yourself five years from now? What are your strengths and weaknesses? Who is your idol?” and then some more. While these are perfectly valid questions, they also have become so commonplace, that  everyone has a well-rehearsed and well-thought-out answer to these well before the interview is even scheduled.

The mantra now is to create the impression that you are the best among the lot of rats squiggling their way to the “finish” line. Look around and you will see advertisements of courses that will help you crack the ultimate job interview, of counsellors who claim to rock your dating life, of personality development courses that help you make friends and enrich your social life, self help books to help you pitch your sales in the perfect manner and workshops to let you negotiate better business deals. We are all unaware, but eager participants in the rat race.

Ironically, having people speak, dress and behave similarly must make the process of evaluating people a more objective and easier task. Or does it?

It is a little alarming to realise how much of our behaviour is conditioned by these profit-making ventures. More alarming is the fact that while we are learning social etiquette, public speaking and acquiring charm and confidence, we have nothing left of our own that we can proudly stake a claim on; not even our impulses which are smartly conditioned to do the “right” thing at the “right” time. Political correctness rules. I do not disagree with the need to be smart and well-mannered. I have my problems with the umpteen replicas all around me.

We are all ultimately becoming like a set of actors rehearsing our lines and blurting them out at the opportune moment  What questions should the interviewer ask? How should the job applicant respond to it? What are the keywords, the catch phrases that slot you perfectly in an organisation’s recruitment database?
If you describe yourself as “dynamic young professional seeking to enhance his competencies in a reputed organisation of entrepreneurial culture while contributing to its multidimensional growth… (and all that blah!),” save it. All in all you’re just another brick in the wall.

Picking up the pieces

An evening spent in reckless almost-abandon after long. Time to meet old friends, reconnect, feel blessed, feel loved and feel the spirit of Christmas in Pune.

As we told stories, retold anecdotes, made new ones and packed some away to relive when in sweet solitude, the smiles grew wider and my heart grew fonder with every passing moment.

Saturday night was spent in revelling being together, some dancing, all the camaraderie rushing back to make everyone feel right at home. Just like old times, when home was wherever even two of us got together - the street side, a store, the tapri, the canteen, our classroom, a discotheque or the quadrangle.
 
Early on Sunday morning, I walked down memory lane; this time without the banter of familiar voices guiding my memories. There was something so intimate about this solitary walk. Down the tree lined Bhandarkar Road,  the frosted sunshine playfully peeping through the drooping boughs made heavy by age, I remembered my numerous walks with friends and confidantes, the umpteen times we would gleefully waddle back home after a scrumptious meal at Panchavati Gaurav or Sharvaree, diligently working on group activity outside Kamala Nehru Park, the somewhat raucous but well-meaning laughter following some restricted viewings in there and what not...

I turn around the end of the road. The familiar walls to some of the most well known institutions in the country fall behind as I walk step after step towards a place that has shaped me. I walk in through the gate. I climb the stairs leading to the main door. I find a place on the top step, sit down and lean against the wall to feel welcome, rested after a night of indulgent and maddening fun.

As always, this physical closeness to the edifice drives me to think - about myself and my life. I do. I set some personal goals, about the person I want to be and where I want to go. I look back upon my recent past to be able to steer my future. I think of all the people who have made a difference in my mundane life by just being there. I check off habits I should get rid of. Things I should learn; only because they will made me happier about myself. A pleasant calm settles in a restless heart.

Something that Dr. Bhupatkar had said to a classroom full of then would-be MBAs on the first day of college has guided my actions ever since - "Make a choice and stand by it, despite the consequences." I may have made foolish decisions, but they are my own and I do not look back with regrets. For, unless I make a decision, I will never know whether it will shape my life for the better or for the worse. If I am on the edge, I would rather take a free fall than step back. What's a life without risks? And the last thing I would do is to just stand there and wait for something to happen.

I Remember

I walk along the road. I remember a private joke. I smile.

I see them walk hand in hand. I remember walking hand in hand. I see us there.

I sit by the window when it rains. I remember dancing in the rain. I want to dance again but I can't.

I see the skyline of the city from my house. I remember the silent conversations. I smile a sad smile.

I talk to people. I remember our cosy, hushed whispers. I pause to remember more...

I read a book. I remember those excited discussions. I weave a new one behind closed eyes.

I sing a song. I remember the adoring praise. I strain my ears to hear it just once more.

I watch a movie. I remember our awestruck delight. I laugh out loud.

I listen to a song. I remember those poetic sweet nothings. I stop and sigh.

I eat. I remember the eagerness to try a new food. I crave for more.

I wake up. I remember waking up together. I look around to find only a sore emptiness.

I try to sleep. I remember feeling warm and safe in those arms. I shed a lonely tear.

I dream. I remember all the other unfulfilled dreams. I cry.

I hope. I remember hoping for it to come back. I pray.

I breathe. I remember looking into those eyes while we laugh. I wonder when it will happen again.

I love. I remember loving. I still want to love some more.

I feel lost. I remember the time I seemed to have found myself. I search for it.

Taking the Leap

Just how many of us are willing to take that one step that could either backfire and ruin your life for a long-long time or make you the champion of your own heart and mind, and among a smattering of other people? What is it that scares us? Why are we seeking the comfort of predictability and the security of a well-set life?

I know someone who has decided to quit a fantastic project in Philadelphia, the comforts of a pleasant life there and come rushing back to India win back his lady love. My friend feels it is a lost cause already, but he doesn't want to let go of the 1 per cent chance he has. He doesn't want to wonder later on "what if I had taken that risk?" I cheered for him, his spirit and while I had always respected him for his intelligence and his approach towards life, I grew to respect him even more.

Every day I hear some one or the other say, "I wish I could do something different," or, "I wish I could be some one different". So what is it that stops us from being that some one else? That some one different? Is it that we care too much about what others will think of us. That if we fail in what we set out to do, we will be ridiculed for life? That we will be looked at with some times covertly sympathetic glances or sometimes overtly sympathetic stares? Why do we care? Why do we succumb to the pressure of being accepted? What would happen if we are not accepted? Would we be labelled outlaws?

Where is the sense of adventure that ideally should define the human spirit? The right to be who you want to be is a very basic right. Just like the right to breathe, the right to think, the right to feel and the right to fall in love. But apparently the creation of society and the norms that define it have taken over these basic rights too. In the words of a very wise professor whose class I had the privilege of taking, "Choose. Make a choice. And stand by the choice, no matter what the consequences are. Some times you may fail. But the times you win, will be so worthwhile that the times you failed will not matter at all."

I do not mean disrespect to my elders, my peers or my family when I go on and act as per my will. I love all of them tremendously. They may not agree with what I choose to do, but I cannot let that be among the biggest factors that deter me from doing what I want. Call me stubborn. Call me insolent. Call me foolish. That's who I am. I used to be someone else, thinking the world with oust me if I express what I am within; till I met a whole bunch of mavericks who were as eager to burst out of their fenced lives. That made me realise that I am not the only dreamer, not the only "mad" person around. There are many more just like me, "madder" than I am.

I can claim to have taken that metaphorical leap - in my career. It was not easy. I had considerations - big ones. It was all about taking that one step out of the line drawn around me. That one step was the most difficult. It hasn't been very smooth sailing after that. But yes, life's getting easier. I enjoyed the unpredictability, the fact that I was a little aimless for a while. There were moments where I feared I would have to go back across the line. But it worked out fine. It's just about that one leap. And my advice to all would be to take it.

Sweet Venom

The poison is snaking its way up my veins with every pulsating beat of my heart. I feel the sweet, cold fire slither along the mesh of crimson elixir of life streaming through my sinews, relishing the feel of overpowering a body that is resisting, doing its best to not give in to the titillating sensation.

My Skin erupts in goose flesh, unable to take it any more; willing for the coursing of the venom to stop. I writhe in ecstasy of losing to this agonising pleasure. Cold sweat breaking out all over. I kick. I scream. I wish to calm down. I wish to be lost in this tumultuous frenzy.

I shiver in fright. I cringe in pain. I scream in jubilation. I revel in being enclosed in the arms of sensuous entrapment. I soar in seizures of liberation.

This is how being ruined must feel like. This is what loss must be. This is the way one rejoices being enraptured. This must be euphoria taking control. This is hell's angels ruling the ordinary mortals, leading them to their doom using temptation.

The scorpion has mesmerised me. I long for yet another sting

Dear Readers,

The following is a link to my blog on the Business Standard website. Please click on the following link to read it. Your valuable comments on the website are welcome as always.

http://blogs.business-standard.com/shibangi/2010/11/09/trapped-in-a-brand/

Cheers!

I Seek, But I Cannot Find It

I was once asked, "what would happen if we were to part?"
While I could only imagine the pain it would mean
I had just tried to be a realist and said,
"Life goes on..."

Life does go on
But the pain deepens every night
When keepsakes in my mind flood my moments of solitude
When sleep plays hide and seek with my ravaged, tired, sleepless head

I seek company, I seek crowds; I run away
I seek isolation, confinement; I run away
I seek out my reclusive alter ego; I run away
I seek replays of good times; I run away

Far and away where I find find no one
I seek to lose myself in a hazy maze of adored dreams
Spiteful reality closing in on it, leaving me looking around
Searching for an exit; I feel trapped


Trapped in a spiral of endless wait
Trapped despite the openness in my heart
Trapped in the quagmire of my own expectations and self-respect
Trapped in the whirlwind of a tumultuous, rocky, addled  spirit

I dream, I hope, I reminisce; I cannot seem to find it
Groping about in the grim, dark alleys, the paths of my memory
I seek to find the same love, pleasure, pain
I cannot find it

Dear Readers,

My first "professional" blog has just been published on the Business Standard website. Please click on the following link to read it. Your valuable comments on the website are welcome as always.

http://blogs.business-standard.com/author/shibangi/


Cheers!

A Treasure Trove of Memories

I am blessed with a good memory. So I am told and so I have come to realise. For I tend to remember the most mundane details that seem insignificant to a lot of people but which soothe my invisible hurting wounds on a less than mirthful day.

I may not remember the date, the time or what exactly was spoken in words. But the connections made as I exchanged glances with that special someone, the tingly and pleasurable current spreading through me that made me anxious, curious, daring and shy all the same time all come back to me in a rush that takes over me in a paroxysm of an unnamed bittersweet emotion.

Is this a curse then? Getting over failures is difficult. Getting over heartbreaks is tougher. Every song I listen to has a history. Every literary piece I read has a reference. Every movie is reminiscent of clandestine hand-holding. The direction which the story my life is taking now is invariably connected to the past that has made me.

Is it a boon? For it makes me smile on a tough day to remember the shared "wisdom". For my urge to cry in anger is subdued by the calming reassurances once given to me. For whenever I feel weak, the strength that was seen by others comes springing back to life. For every failure now seems insignificant. For every joy is now more precious. For every moment is now laced with the nothingness of the sweet nothings we shared.

Tenacity is a trait I have always had. I do not know if it's a virtue or a bane. I cling to memories and I am told I need to move on. Move on from what? Where? From these lamentably lost moments that have given me the strength to love more deeply, care more warmly and fight for my expressions more ferociously?

I may have lost a piece of me. I feel incomplete. But if reflections of that past are all I have to give me a vague feel of how it is to be unbroken, why should I let them go? 

If memories are all I have, how can I let them fade away?

Freedom in Fool's Paradise

I dare to listen to my heart

I dare to dream

I dare to strive to make those dreams a reality

I dare to fight my way through inane obstacles

I dare to defy

I dare to stand up for my rights

I dare to make my own tules

I dare to voice my opinion

I dare to be honest

I dare to be loud and uninhibited

I dare to maintain a dignified silence 

I dare to laugh in the face of trying times

I dare to be me

I dare to shed tears when I am sad

I dare to share my mirth with those who stand by me

I dare to love myself when no one else does

I dare to fall in love

I dare to give my heart away

I dare to relive memories that warm my heart

I dare to relive memories that singe me

Like a moth to the flame I dare to stare doom in the eyes

With some longing, some lust and that slowly awakening passion

Does this make me stupid, cowardly, unrealistic, emotionally weak, crazy?

Am I anti-social, promiscuous, insolent, obstinate, narcissist, hedonistic?

Would you call me stubborn, arrogant, abnormal, cold, immature?

If you think I am living in a fool's paradise for being who I am, then so be it. 

FOR I DARE TO BE FREE

Mumbai Mojo

It is often said that nothing, not even a series of bomb blasts can break Mumbai city's mojo. Wrong. Rains can. They did. Just last evening.

I was coming back from work, taking the usual route, wanting to catch up with a friend on the way and then going home, when I saw the skies above Dadar station turn purple in fury and lightning make its 'blink and you miss' appearance. That alone was enough to drive the crowds into a frenzy, whereby everyone was trying to get into any train and any compartment possible. I, for one, managed to find a comfortable corner where the likelihood of getting crushed by heavy, screaming and aggressive women and their heavier and bulkier bags was minimal. I promptly called my friend and cancelled our plans for the evening.

Three minutes into chugging along to the next station, all the screaming and shouting each of these women to every other woman in the compartment was drowned by a loud crack of thunder and the loud sound of torrential rain hitting the roof of the train. Windows were shut and the doors were slid shut to avoid the water from coming inside. The inside of the compartment soon started to feel like a pressure cooker. The air got stuffy and smelly from the combination of sweaty odours claiming my nostrils with a vengeance, and I was starting to feel faint. The local train authorities and the signals were at their sadistic best, making the trains move at a speed that could make a bullock cart ride feel like one in the Concorde.

I managed to stand comfortably in my tiny corner till the time the train reached the station before the one I had to alight at. And thankfully I managed to get off at the right station without much trouble. Oh! Did I mention trouble?  How could it leave me alone?Trouble did happen to me. Now.

To get out of the station from the platform at the farthest end took me more than 20 minutes. The crowd looked like a mass of bees swarming around an invisible target. If I thought I had been about to faint from the overwhelming odour of sweat in the train, I had become a zombie now. I cringe to recall all the elbowing, pushing, shoving and name calling that happened around me, while I tried to navigate my way out of the human mess with a phony sense of calm that I just looked, but didn't feel. Amazing as it was, I did pull myself up together long enough to reach the exit and sprint to the auto stand. I didn't care about the rain, the slush, or the mud staining my feet, slippers or clothes.

And now, like in very other city in the rain, the auto walas started acting up; refusing to go anywhere they didn't want to. No matter how much I said I'd pay them. I asked a lady to guide me to the bus that would take me home. She sternly directed me to a queue that was snaking its way into one of the BEST buses of Mumbai I had heard so much about. After having got in, and gone some way ahead, I asked a co-passenger how far my bus stop was. To his amusement and my consternation, it was the wrong bus. It didn't take that route at all!

As soon as the bus stopped due to a traffic jam, I got off and waited for an empty auto rickshaw to grant me respite as I felt the cold rain water drench me. Finally, an old man in a rickety rickshaw decided he could earn brownie points with the Almighty force up there by helping the poor girl in extreme distress (he said that to me). Thankfully I hadn't gotten too far away because I reached home soon enough. If two and a half hours for the whole commute from work can qualify as "soon enough" for a route that generally takes me an hour and forty-five minutes to traverse.

Now that I am writing about this particular "fright night", I am finding it difficult not to smile to myself. It is not like I haven't encountered crowds in public transport systems or rains that mar the mood of the day. It's just that when you expect a city to be on the move all the time, when you have so much about it, it appears invincible. To know that is just an illusion and maybe not the forces of man, but the forces of nature can reduce it to any other ordinary city in India is a humbling thought. As much as I have come to love Mumbai, I have to admit, it needs to manage its rainy days better.

That One Lucky Charm

It was a day where things couldn't possibly have gotten worse. The excitement of getting to work on the first day at a new job was marred by the rains which are dreaded in a city like Mumbai. I am also completely new to the rush of the Mumbai locals, and the maddening traffic jams that take me about 30 minutes to go a distance of roughly 2 kilometres in an auto rickshaw that I share with complete strangers. After being squished to my bones, I got off the train at the station closest to work, and walked in the direction opposite to work for a good 10 minutes before realising that I was going the wrong way.

At work, the website I am working with refused to be functional. Some joker had decided it would be funny to hack the site and introduce a malware into it. So I was left with doing nothing much except lurk around my regular cyber space hangouts - facebook, gtalk and my blog. It kept raining throughout the day. I almost skipped lunch till I started feeling faint. A huge sum of money I was to receive from someone sitting in London had not reached me. I was on the verge of being broke. I stepped out of office early, as there was nothing to work on - the site was still being restored - and discovered that the taxis were having a ball saying "no" to every bystander asking for a ride to hie or her preferred destination. I walked the entire route to the station, getting soaked in the rain, and splashed in slush by inconsiderate cabs that thought nothing of slowing down when nearing a puddle.

Partly in haste, and mostly because of ignorance I got on to a train that was likely to carry more passengers to a destination way father than where I had to get off. I was placed between aunties so cheerfully plump that for maybe the first time in my life I realised I am actually not quite as fat as I believe. Needless to say, I couldn't get off at my station and was forced to stay in the train till I could push my way out of the thronging lady dynamos, three stations later. The train that took me back to my destination took its own time, stopping between stations, and sauntering merrily. Finally, I reached home, changed into fresh clothes, took of my shoes that had montrously bitten into my tired feet and sat down to write this.

As I write about an unusually drab day full of the best examples of situations that usually ruin your mood completely, making you a banshee of sorts, I realised I was still very happy. I was smiling. There was a contentment in my heart that I had not felt in a long time. I was finally at a job I had always wanted. I was finally free, which was letting me breathe and be calm. And there's something else...

I had been mulling on my way to work about how my life has turned out. About what I want, where I want to go, whom I want to be with and who I want to be. It had made me a little pensive to think that often these directions we set for ourselves in our mind don't work out that way. Life has a strange way of playing games with you. It was a thought worth pondering over and I was doing exactly that. Till... a phone call changed my pattern of thought for the rest of the day; from morose and gloomy to bright, beautiful and absolutely like warm liquid fire flowing through my veins the whole day long. That it was unexpected and gave me a pleasant shock made it more welcome. Oh! If only I could put the feeling into words.

I am now poised with all kinds of courage and a "chin-up-in-the-face-of-death" attitude to confront whatever lies ahead. Don't get me wrong. I have managed myself everywhere. This hasn't been scary for me at all. Only that I have a challenge in front of me. To prove to a certain person who told me that I'll be sick of the hectic and severely professional lifestyle in Mumbai and head home within a month. This has been rubbed into my face so snidely that I have forgotten everything, but the will to succeed at this job and in this city at any cost. To know that I have with me people who care makes the whole deal worthwhile.

That one lucky charm worked in my favour, turning what could have been a horrible day into a perfect day I'd label more as adventurous and exciting. Thank you God.... You do show your love in strange ways.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of My Mad Family - Part VI

So, I had had a dream-worthy two months in one of my favourite places - Pune. And then came the torture - stabbed in the back by someone I considered my best friend, losing another best friend to a Sidney Sheldon-esque series of suspense ridden circumstances, career issues, problems with my parents not having faith in me and understanding me, and being grounded in a city where I barely have friends (save two people). I was constantly under pressure from myself to find a way out of everything at once. It is no secret for the people who know me that I follow my heart, at the cost of losing out on some "wonderful" looking opportunity (as judged by others, who are apparently concerned for me). I agree I may not always have succeeded in ending up with the dream job, the dream paycheck, the dream city or my dream man. But I am glad I took those risks (horribly cliched, but true beyond imagination). No wonder then that I was looking forward to meeting my cousins, my relatives and my grandparents after 3 long years. I could find new reasons to exercise my vocal chords after having restricted my conversations to typing on the keyboard till late at nights... and all of them brimming with despair, hopelessness and cynicism. That'd explain my unusual quietness and my very frequent spurts of moodiness.

To let you all know, I have a huge family. My father has three brothers and three sisters. My mother has seven brothers and two sisters. If I were to count only my first cousins, I have 20 of them on my mother's side and 16 on my father's side. Just memorising who was whose child and what his / her name is, used to be a demanding activity when I was a child. I confused people with their names, called my mama my kaka and so on and so forth. Amazingly, I was still considered a brilliant child. Now, most of these cousins are settled outside of Orissa, with jobs and their own family. The younger ones are still here. A majority of my uncles and aunts live in Bhubaneswar though, where we were headed towards right now, in torrential rains, where it was impossible to drive over 80 kmph even on the smooth highway and visibility was near zero.There was no way we could reach Bhubaneswar before 8 pm.

Sometime during the drive I got a call from a number in Delhi. It was about a letter of offer of employment with Business Standard - an interview I had almost no hope of cracking, because I had screwed in the written test horribly, confusing Sunil Mittal for LN Mittal (which so-called MBA does that?) and not being able to identify key people who are important  nuts and bolts that keep India's financial system running. What the hell was I thinking when I went to write that test. Oh wait! I was crabby and cribby then because I was suffering a terrible heartbreak. It's a wonder I wrote anything in the test at all! But coming back to the point... I FINALLY HAD A JOB!! Mom and dad didn't seem to excited that I'd be moving out of Calcutta yet again (to Mumbai) and for a journo's job that'd pay me less than an HR job (I had consciously made the switch, against their wishes and advice). But I was on the top of the world. There was no way I was letting this job go.

I have go off track now. I am often asked to carry back rosogolla for my friends whenever I visit my parents in Calcutta. What not many people know is that the best rosogollas in the world come from the suburbs of Bhubaneswar, from a place called Pahala. They're made in front of your eyes and served hot. Each is the size of a ping-pong ball, and when you place it in your mouth, it's softness melts into the texture of your tongue, making you feel like you've died peacefully and gone to heaven. Why I am saying this is because I am sure I will die of some diabetes related ailment. I am way too fond of sweets and I am never sorry for it. This is just an attempt to rub it into the faces of all sweet-loving people that I have had these little pieces of heaven.


Back to the drive to Bhubaneswar; we reached Pahala at about 7:30pm. We halted there. And despite the numb backsides, sore backs and cramped legs, I jumped out of the car as soon as dad parked it outside one of the numerous stalls lined along the highway. I was about to taste heaven after so long! We ate some chhena poda (another very popular Oriya sweet) and gorged on the rosogollas before packing lots of it for our stay in the Temple Town.

We reached home at 8pm, as estimated, and after unloading the boot of the car, we rushed to see my grandparents. The bear hugs and the tears of joy when we met after so long was beyond words. It is an indescribable feeling to be so loved and to be able to feel that love just like that, without any effort, without words and sometimes, even without a physical touch. My cousins were all wide-eyed and thrilled, as was I. For I used to carry them around, play with them, sometimes teach them, and when they were really small, change their diapers. To see them as fully grown people, who are so smart in the head and good looking, it filled me with a strange kind of pride. I couldn't stop hugging them and patting their backs (yes! I was behaving like an over-affectionate and possibly overbearing aunt)

I was filled in with details of what they were doing at school, whom they were friends with, how they messed with each other, who their crushes are, what they like, whom they are no more friends with. I wanted to scream with joy. I wanted to hug everyone really long. I wanted to jump about in excitement. I wanted to sleep a peaceful sleep, holding on these good feelings.There was chatter, and evil grins, and conspiratorial whispers and lots of heart warming laughter. As I stepped back from myself and viewed the gathering of people there, I thanked God for giving me a chance to regain my sanity among the people who knew nothing about my ordeals, for they could be happy and make me happy without having to worry about my state of mind then. That's exactly what I needed. I was getting another shot at being me. I grabbed it instantly. There has not been any looking back ever since.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of my Mad Family - Part V

It was unusually warm that night, very humid and the low voltage refused to let the fan run at a speed good enough to put the air in motion. I remember sleeping very fitfully. But I was looking forward to the morning. It came, but it was pouring then, and the rain-lover in me was ecstatic. I wanted to go to the courtyard and hop-skip-and-play with the big fat raindrops.

DAY 3

Getting ready for the trip back was easy. There was no rush. People were lazy and while we were supposed to have started by 8am, the rain had put out a stopper there. The route was not going to be easy. The narrow mud paths would be slippery and the visibility was bad. Yes! It was raining that hard. We sat in Guruji's study, talking in loud voices to be heard over the pitter-patter on the tin roof of the house. So reminiscent of Javed Akhtar's innocently amorous poetry from 1942-A Love Story... bajta hai jaltarang teen ki chhat pe jab motiyon jaisa jal barse. It was romantic. It was beautiful. And I am sure all of it was laced with a tiny tinge of a treasured but distant poignant memory, for me.

When the rain did stop at around 11am, we were all ready, stuffed to our throats with some fantastic breakfast. Prahlad and I helped dad redo the jigsaw puzzle in the car trunk. It was a mellow goodbye. Guruji's wife gave me some flowers from the temple, blessing me and saying that she had not imagined in her wildest dreams that a city bred girl like me would be able to manage so well and mix with everyone in the village. Although that was a nice compliment, I felt a little let-down wondering what it is about me that Guruji had perceived? I do make an impression sometimes. But I'd have expected someone who has talked to me numerous times to know me just that little bit better. I let it pass. Thanked her. took her blessings and settled into the familiar feeling of being packed into an already stuffed suitcase. We were all back in the car, and raring to get "home". Uncle and aunty had been away from their home for over two weeks now and were getting a little restless.

Dad managed the unpaved roads with his usual agility and in an hour's time, we were on NH5. I was again listening to songs while the elders yapped. We stopped a short way into Orissa border and had some coffee. We stopped at another dhaba for lunch (which was a bad idea). Mom even made dad and me get our own hand wash from among one of the many bags in the car because she did not trust the hygiene quotient of the soap at the sink in the dhaba. And then we stopped at a hotel in Bhadrak for a loo break and another coffee.

While were in the hotel, it started raining cats and dogs. We stood in the porch, trying to figure out a way to get to the car parked about 15 feet away without getting soaked. Mom was most concerned about it. She hates the rains. She also got aunty concerned by saying that the sarees she had purchased to gift to relatives at the wedding could get ruined by the rain water seeping into the trunk. Now it was dad's turn to get annoyed. There was no way water could seep into the car. And mom's finickiness annoyed all of us most of the time. Dad rushed to the car shielding himself with an umbrella borrowed from an attendant in the hotel, drove the car to the porch, and we realised with shock that the trunk of the car was actually open! We were worried that some of our luggage might have fallen off without our knowledge. And we were also afraid something might fall out now in the rain and make a mess of the whole already messy situation.

Dad couldn't hear us call out to him, so I ran to the car, and closed the trunk door. Getting drenched to the bone in those two minutes. And my mother found another reason to crib. "Why wasn't the boot closed?" "Why did you have to get wet in the rain?" "What if you catch a cold now in the AC?" It looked like the havan had worked for me but had made my mother more prone to losing her temper. Mom and dad know me as an insolent child. So I made use of that image and went back to my songs while she continued to nag me, not caring if I caught a cold. Actually, even dad had to ask mom to stop pinning me for every small reason. It was a silent ride for everyone else while I stared out of the window breaking the raindrops into a million little droplets and scattering around. James Blunt's 1973 couldn't have pulled me into it any more
 on this that that was so blue.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of my Mad Family - Part IV

Lost in my world, I hardly took in the flurry of activity around me as the preparations for the evening puja were done. The past has an interesting way of sucking you into it. And the more you resist, the more difficult it is to not think about it. Suddenly, an elderly looking brahmin came to my father and without saying anything prostrated before him. The rest of us looked at the scene agog, while dad kept sitting back complacently, saying, "the moon's rising behind me. He's praying to chandra." We still didn't know what to make out of it. And then the brahmin got up, and bowed low doing a namaskar clearly to my father this time, who choked on the tea he was drinking. And before dad could regain his composure enough to ask what this was all about, the brahmin had walked away. All of us except dad burst out in perplexed laughter, not knowing what just transpired. 

Later, we were called to watch as a trio of singers took charge of entertaining us with retelling certain excerpts from the Ramayana. It was a group of husband, wife and daughter, who were so good at what they were doing. It was quite like the jatra form of storytelling, with the harmonium and the dhol as accompaniments to the lady's sing-song manner of narration of how Shabari offered berries to her dear lord Rama. They were like rock stars, handling the microphone with elan, engaging the audience and having them participate by clapping ans swaying to the beat. We, sitting right at the back, were enraptured in the magic the trio wove with their act. I call them The Bard Trio.

And then came the time for the havan. There were two kunds made. Uncle and aunty sat around one; mom, dad and me around the other, and guruji sat in the middle, reciting the mantras into the microphone for the entire gathering to hear. I did not understand why the whole village was present there if the puja was to quieten my mercurial temper. And then it struck me. Free dinner after the havan... the prasad. Well, some may have been there to genuinely be a part of the puja, but free food never hurt anyone. More so, guruji is a very respected man there, so all were around as a mark of respect.

There was Geeta paath between the mantras and as we poured ghee keep the fire blazing, guruj explained to us parts of the Bhagvad Geeta. It was quite interesting because I like dabbling into spheres of spirituality every now and then (religion is not as appealing). Now was good because of the mood set by the bard, her husband and her daughter.

After the havan was done, the five of us - the main participants - of the puja were asked to walk the parikrama (the boundary) of the temple with small cane-woven baskets full of batasha (coin sized sugar tablets offered to Gods during aarti or puja), while the kirtan singers began their melodious chants of Hare Rama Hare Krishna again. And then we had to throw handfuls of batasha at the two hundred odd people watching the puja. What happened next startled me, for these same people, standing with their palms joined and eyes closed in search for oneness with their Almighty, suddenly scampered and scrambled about on the floor, trying to pick up as many batasha as possible. They called out to us, asking us to throw more batasha in their direction. The chaos was funny. It was a ritual I had never even heard of. I have to ask about its significance the next time I meet guruji.

Dinner was served to the people as they assembled in the courtyard, seated in serpentine lines with the banana leaves spread out n front of them. Aunty, mom and I helped serve the food. After that was done, I was waiting outside the bathroom. It had been long since I had had the opportunity to err... em... okay... take a leak. (have absolutely no subtler way to put it).  Just then the daughter of The Bard Trio came up to me, all flustered and shy and struck up a conversation with me.

In between losing my turn to go to the loo, swaying madly from side to side to try and forget about my bursting bladder and trying to turn my cringes into a warm smile, I managed to talk to the girl - Sonali - for about 5 minutes. And when I could no longer wait, and the bathroom was finally vacant,  I excused myself as politely as I could and sprinted the distance to the loo, just 5 feet away. Sonali was a nice and warm girl. She thought I was still in high school / college (I think I liked her more because she said that). When I told her I am 28, she was shocked and exclaimed, "That's how old my mother is! You definitely don't look your age." I was predictably shocked too. I looked younger than my age! Yaay! To be 28, and have a daughter who's 14 and would appear for her madhyamik (Class X) exams later that year meant her mother was married when she was less than 13. Wow! These things about rural India are known to all of us. But they hit you harder when you  meet someone who has been through it.What is worse is, they have accepted it as a way of life and still go about performing these 'traditions" nonchalantly. I wonder if guruji has expressed a stand against it.

Some pleasant "chit-chat with the villagers" later, people started coming in to pay their respects to guruji and take his leave. I noticed that while everyone respects guruji, it is not just blind faith. They love him because he has been a helpful soul and a philantropist despite his modest means; helping the village folk in whatsoever ways possible. And guruji treats them all like children, sometimes scolding them, sometimes their friend and sometimes just cracking a joke and chuckling enjoyably. Something about him makes me like him despite the fact that I am not much of a religious person myself.

After everyone left, guruji's family and we had dinner too, again amidst lots of laughter and jokes. By the time we went to bed, it was well past 2 am. We were to leave for Bhubaneswar the next morning. I said my "thank you" to the force up there for helping me through the day without making it look like a hassle. I switched on the playlist in my phone and fell asleep to the tune of Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.