the malshej weekend, july 6, '08

the banyan
Originally uploaded by Reena Tete

@ ganga nature camp

Rishikesh. The much awaited trip finally re-happened.

Between jobs, me and 4 other friends finally packed off for rishikesh. This trip, unlike many others was not improptu. Infact Disha and I did a lot of searches and finally selected ganga nature camp over aquaterra for obvious reasons. (and to my shame, I also prepared a format for comparison between the shortlisted choices). Aweful. But thankfully, I was true to my basic procrastinatory self, so nothing really came out of the excel sheets.

Let me redo the trip through a fototrip...

@ Suncity Bus Service from CP (N. Delhi) to Rishikesh. 9350918952.

(Beware of the bus owner. He can be very illogical).

With Lipika, the cute algae

@ Laxman jhula, 6:30 or so after chai n a cold ride in the dark to this bridge (where a homey pigeon walked the entire stretch of the bridge infront of us. Gues, pigs fly, so pigeons walk).

@ Ganga Nature Camp, Between Rishikesh & Shivpuri. 09412050478. (Rajeev).

No, swimming is not allowed. Not seedha. Nor Ulta.

The camp is very basic (read sand pit toilets). The food served is good, esp. the roasted mixed veg.

.......afternoon fillers... a baby trek to some waterfall, a dip in absoLUTEly chilled pool by the same waterfall, rappeling by the roadside 'tall-rock' (what else could it be called?)

Dumb Charade sessions, if you can come up with innovative n original names like...(i) lomdi ko ho gaya pyaar (ii) tahkhaane mei chudail

Recommended:

Include in your team someone like Lipika who can come up with the wierdest of ching chong names.

Our Lipika obviously took ages to decide.
She would look up to the movie-Gods for inspiration.. again take ages to decide.

Finally when she would manage to whisper to Disha, both would again take ages to laugh about it. Reconfirm yet again and laugh some more.

Her love for ching chong movies is so gr8 that Disha had to enact Once upon a time in 'China'. (Oh! to have heard Antonio Banderas speak with a chinese hangover). One also has to enact part I - IV as well to the names Lipika comes up with.

We did a lot of posing as well.

All of Us

Junta was on the move, while we waited our turn
Quite a traffic that weekend

Some would shout

Hey babby wo babby

Hey babby WO

So after some dunkings

and some more

We too hailed Jai Bharat and the ride started

Day 1 was just about 12-13 kms

Day 2 was about 27 kms.

Day 2 had some great rides with gr8 names (now i just remember 3 blind mice).

Remo, the funny instructor would come up with funnier annotations for the rapid-namesakes.

He was equally inovative in funny games like making us balance at the head of the raft.

Left-Forward...Right-Back...Left-Forward...Right-Back, he would shout the command. And Dunk would go our balancing act. If only we could capture the concentrated expressions with which we had been trying to balance. The best one being just before either jumping onto the raft or falling into the river.

...Disha and me

.......Mohit and Lipika

But The BEST among Remo's antics was

DISHA in her HOT SEAT.

Here goes...

Remo the funny man takes us to this rock by the bank. Makes Disha climb up and sit on the seat like formation cut out at the face of the rock. Mohit helps her and he jumps back immediately, and all of us back-paddled...instantly at Remo the funny man's command of BAAACK PAAADDLE.

Here she is...

Disha was astounded. Then she laughed. Then was irritated.

We ofcors, could not stop laughing.

Then she screamed.....Ok guys .... enough!!!! come back....

GUYYYSSSS!!!

mat aaaooo...mero ko kya hai....
GUYYYSSSSS!!!!

Well we did take our time to return.

We also sang saathi haath badhaana... while we helped her down
Some more foto sessions....

Kriti, the babe
Lipika, the joker

Some Cliff Jumps

Thats Mohit

Thats Me

My 1st jump was at a slant and how I ached :)

But the 2nd was perfect. I loved it.

(It was much higher than as seen in this foto ofcors. This clarification is since Mohit and I bragged so much about the thrill of the jump).


Back in camp. Our home for two nights n three days...

Lovely dark night. The sound of rushing Ganga and chilly air, a heady combination

Back into our 10/- raincoats bought at Ram jhula

and back to Delhi.

and back to Mumbai.
and back to Work.

Mala's Story

The story of Mala (name changed) is of a nineteen and a half year old girl from Nanded, Maharashtra. Driven by social conditions and socialisation, her story is perhaps like that of many more young girls who are married off as children, face an abusive situation at their husband’s home and driven by torture, they leave home in a fit of anger.

Mala’s story brings out the harsh realities that make women and children vulnerable to trafficking for commercial sexual exploitation. Married at 12, Sold for sex trade at almost 13, HIV positive at 13 and battling for life at 19 and a half, is the story of Mala.

Quote Unquote - Mala (name changed)

I am Mala and this is my story.

At a time when girls my age are looking forward to a bright future, I lay battling for my life. I’ve seen it all before my 19th birthday - deceit, mental and physical abuse, HIV AIDS, and now I lie awaiting my death. I am not afraid of death now, but the fact that saddens me more is that I’m not the only victim in this situation. Mine is a common story. A story written by the very society we live in.

My parents belong to the Kaikadi community and we are considered as "untouchables". I was the youngest of seven siblings and was married off before my 12th birthday to one of my distant cousins. This was the beginning of an endless nightmare for me.

My husband was pressurised into marrying me, although he was in love with another girl, and so, I became the target of his frustration. He abused me. Unable to bear his aggression, I sought respite from the torture. My parents convinced me that the abuse was probably my karma, my destiny.

I tried to make a more sincere effort to change my karma. It was difficult to bear the harassment but I continued to suffer in silence, until one day I decided that I couldn’t bear the agony any more.

I left my husband’s home. I had nobody to turn to, no house to seek refuge, no support of any kind and no inkling of what the future held for me. All I knew was that I had to escape from that living hell.

I walked and walked for what seemed like an eternity. In my mind, I thought of ways and means to support myself. What I didn’t realise was that I would be an easy target for people who are on the constant lookout for vulnerable women and children like me.

As I rested for sometime at a government bus stand, I noticed the unwanted attention I was drawing and panicked. I boarded the first bus that arrived and reached Aurangabad in the middle of the night. Scared, I began looking for a place to rest. I was a little wary when a middle aged woman approached me but after some time I was comfortable and even accompanied her to her house.

She took care of me and gave me food. She also convinced me that she had a job for me in a another city. I accompanied her from Aurangabad and after several hours of train journey reached a station where we were received by a woman who took us to her house.

She was to be my employer and she told me to change from the saree that I was wearing into a salwar kameez. Thus attired, I was taken to a place an hour away in an autorickshaw. From the moment I reached there, I sensed that this place was different. Something was terribly wrong. I had reached G.B. Road – the infamous red light area of Delhi.

When I realised the situation I was in, I attempted to run away but I failed. I was locked up in a room for several days, kept hungry, beaten up and abused. Several days of torture broke my spirit and I gave up. From there on began an ordeal which made everything I had gone through before, pale in comparison.

I now entertained several customers daily. I found many girls from Maharashtra, especially from Latur in that brothel. We befriended each other and soon realised that all of us had a similar story to tell. We had all been duped and sold into the flesh trade. The abuse that we faced at the brothel was unbearable and I attempted to escape several times. I missed my mother a lot and wished that she would be there to comfort me. I wondered if I’d ever get out of this place alive.

Then one day came the turning point. The Police with a Delhi based NGO had raided the brothel (2000). I was rescued alongwith some other girls. I was placed in a Delhi based shelter-home for rehabilitation of trafficked survivors, where I received vocational training. After two years at this place I was entrusted to Save The Children India (STCI), Mumbai on December 14th 2002.

Between the period 2000 and 2004, 20 other trafficked survivors were transferred to STCI, Mumbai. In the meantime a medical examination revealed that I was HIV positive. Inspite of my deteriorating health, I am well looked after and I receive a lot of medical care and attention. STCI located my family and I was reunited with them after six long years. My family was very regretful that they did not support me when I most needed them.

My story is very different from what a lot of girls dream of when they are young but ironically it would be very similar to every girl’s nightmare. There are perhaps thousands of Malas' out in the world who are married off as children; face an abusive situation at their husband’s home and run away. Such girls very easily fall prey at the hands of traffickers.

I know that my end is near and it’s inevitable but all I wish for is that other "Malas" be saved.

*******************

Mala passed away on Jan 18, 2008

Absolute Nothingness

People draw inspiration from loss, from love. I draw, if inspiration it can be called from nothingness.
What is my purpose. I know not. Man without a purpose is the highest depravity of all, someone has said.
Process. Evolving.
These are words I relate to very well. I have lived it and will continue doin so. 'Coz that is how it is supposed to be. But the nothingness grows.
Here
Not a leaf shivers to give respite to this sultry heat in dry monsoons at 12 in the night in this far off village. The buzzing of mosquitoes and constant zing of jhingur and occasional barks in the dark is the only sound. And my tacking of the keys.
A lone lizard waits in the corner, my fearful eyes darting upwards after each minute. Its pitch dark here. On other noisy towns they sleep or chat with friends.
Its another night of stolen electricity for the villagers here. The women who were proudly showing what they can now read and write would also have slept by now. They will have to wake up at 4 and start their day in the cover of darkness. By 6 they will be done with their chores of cooking, cleaning and packing lunches. From 8 to 8 they will break their backs in the fields. At 930 they will come for night lessons in the dimly lit room with a blackboard and slogans of women empowerment.
How motivated they are to learn ka, kha, ga, gha….. The little children, some still in their blue school tunics, had promted their mothers when they faltered while reading the alphabets. Each one so proud to show what they had learnt. Guddi, the girl in blue (who accompanies her mother to the night school, daily) had recited a rhyme for me which I did not understand. The young teacher called Naina, daughter of one of the women of night school said how much satisfaction she gets out of teaching the women. “For the 1st 20 days, they could not even hold the chalk properly. Their hands would shake while writing. Partly out of feeling shy.”

“…….If my husband stops me from coming, I tell him that its only 2 hours that I spend on myself…..”, a valiant one had commented.

What motivates me? I know not. Nothing seems to matter. Not even appreciation for myself to have facilitated some kind of change in someone's life.
Now
Slight breeze lifts my red sequined dupatta which serves as a curtain for the night. Shit, the lizard has moved from its corner.
Something rattles outside my window. A lonely peacock also cries somewhere in the dark outside. The dogs seem to have slept off. I keep flashing my torch to check the movement of the lizard. And scratch mosquito bites.
I light another cigarette. My companion of the night.
And let my mind go blank. 1232 am.

Good Bye

He died at 27. Young and charming, he was also quick to temper. He could befriend the young and the old alike. A dear heart to women of all ages, a thorough buddy to his friends, he did not know how not to be happy.

Quite suddenly he passed away. With no illness, with no premonition, with reservations made at a quaint lodge in the hills for his photo shoot the next day, he passed away.

The family cleared his pending bills using the little savings that he had made. He had lived life on his terms, made his fast buck and spent it on all. They lovingly remembered him and attended to visitors who came for sharing in the grief. For much loved that he was.

Friends wrote about him, some sang his favourite songs, some lovingly remembered anecdotes from his days. They remembered aloud how he cared, how he laughed. How he gave his two bits even when not needed. This they remembered not aloud. They remembered times when they had to tell themselves..."If he is hard on us, he is harder on himself." For he expected the best out of others.

Today almost 7 months later there was no one to tease his sisters-in law, to ask about the girl-friends of the little nephews. He had more often than not brightened the dinner conversation. And sometimes strained it by his ethics. Quick on advice and critique he was, many a times unappreciated.

...."Had he been here now"..., they thought, ...."he would comment upon the falling marks of the adolescent niece, the decision of sister-in-law to quit job and take care of growing children, the demand of a mobile-phone by the 7-yr old nephew".

'Everyone cannot be like him. So what if we give into our weaknesses?', they had in their minds so often, thought.

“But why do people die, mama? Why can’t chacha come back?” little nephew asked the silent one’s around the table. They all had listened to all the other friends in grief, intellectualise about death, yet did not have an answer. Why can’t he come back? I will tell him that I have made a kite for him. What fun we’ll have. Won’t we, mama?”

He came back. Wearing his charming smile, he stood at the door.

Time stood still. It was them and him.
He read the emotions running on the faces of his family. Reflections of their conflict flashing like coloured images in the kaleidoscope on their faces.

Was 7 months too early to move on? Was 7 months too long to want to retrace?

His beautiful smile fell. He turned and without a backward glance, passed away. For good, this time.

no cheers to bushi dam

the plan was to go to malshej, which for some reason did not happen. So we went to the cliche`d Lonavala. A sumptious lunch was in mind which thankfully did happen. But Bushi Dam - damn ! also happened.

This is what it was like.....
(misty therefore hazy)

Many more like us from Mumbai and Pune had headed to Bushi Dam...

(Like a short cut you know about and cleverly give a miss to the traffic jam

and discover that ...so do a lot many people).

anyways....

How do you reach Bushi Dam?

You pay for this ticket that ticket (pollution ticket included)
You pass by a purple-yellow-orange-green walled eatery called Chinese-hukkas
You get directed to the damn ooops dam by a lot of young boys frantically waving their hands
You pay 50/- parking

You then cross a big puddle of brown water
Some of your friends might not want to enter into that water
So just you or some other determined one like you might have to go

You pass by a lot of men in ugly chuds
and women with hairy legs showing thru raised sarees

You will also find a bhutta wala selling bhutta right in the middle of the trickling water to the picnicers who eat and hurl the chewed off remnants one after another into the same water

and
When you finally reach up-well almost upto the dam

This is what it will be like...



no it is not a Mela....

they are picnicers squishing their butts to fit in

while the dam'ed water manages to find some space to trickle down

4 more reasons on why to give bushi dam a miss:-

1] as you disgustingly make your way out (having never reached the top), a cow just might raise its tail to shit in that very water you will have to wade thru'

2] you could be caught a traffic jam on your way to and from the dam. Any place with a traffic jam has to be 'touristy' and avoidable

3] the chai you get there will be milky and less than luke warm

4] you still might not like bright yellow chuds on fat men with hanging paunches

What you need to do is head towards Upper Deck which has a steeply priced buffet for an OK meal...but the view is great..and if you are not photogenic, you will be lucky here

And What you definitely need to do is head to Malshej Ghat the next weekend to wash off Bushi

Heres to the Rains

A man in black another in blue, bent at their waists, valiantly pushing a white choked Maruti engine out of the choked Bandra roads.

Another monsoon…another period of camaraderie over clogged waters. Another day when we say, shit! I just had to go to office and mean it as well. Another day when mad Mumbaikers dive on three feet water- more splash than dive, actually.

When I was in the first standard or was it IInd?, I had to write a composition (thats what we used to call it) on any season. I wrote on the monsoons. But more than write, I watched and pondered and went out to experience what I later wrote about. My teacher, I do not remember, if she appreciated my piece, but I did have a great time, I remember.

Walking barefoot on the pavements with water rushing down the sloped roads. Back then the roads would be clean. We used to put salt on the earthworms and watch them squibble as they breathed their last slow breath. We would walk around with pouches of salt. Then when all the killing (killing…it was more entertainment for us!) would bore us…we would play mud splash in the play ground.

Occasional cricket balls from brothers’ gang would hit us or we would be delegated to do fielding. Till we would have had enough of being screamed at. Big brothers are terrors and like to show off that little sisters are at their beck and call. And most times little sisters are. Even opinionated little sisters who hero worship them. Like on the dry days, I would have to hold the colourful kite and walk backwards with loud instructions simple to understand but impressive when shouted. I was a kite holder. I had the responsible job of holding the kite and giving it a push upwards as it precariously made its upward flight.

In my essay on my favourite season, I described my trudge from school to home - slow and many a times backwards, with our olive-green or khaki bags with golden buckles hidden under white and blue and pink flower patterned raincoats or bright yellow ones. We would stop and peer at puddles waiting for worms to squirm out. And jump across puddles, then on puddles.

I don't think my teacher was impressed.

I remember the greens.
The wild doob grass
which would line up
the pavements of Jamshedpur. And the huge trees with huge branches swaying to the beat of rains and splattering fat drops at the hint of a shake. It was a predictable move yet we would try and douse each other underneath the massive trees. Back then Moms used to let children go out to play and explore. There was mud and greens and open roads and huge grounds and friends who would not compete over gadgets but over who could run faster. Back then there was less concrete.

Yes, the greens! I have always been fascinated with greens. It depicts a sense of peace and open spaces to me. Walking barefoot on the green grass with tiny blades pricking lightly at different points on the foot…with the sudden giving away of wet mud underneath the foot.

I tried rolling off a green slope once as they do in movies. My elbows would come in the way and I had to push sideways. It hurt when I got up with skirt all twisted and a pattern with elbow dents trailing behind me.

Madonna is singing sensuously now on VH1. Yes rains and water take a different meaning as an adult.

Like washing off holi colour in river under the bridge of 1935, like taking a dip in river Betwa, like clutching onto someone’s sleeve on a swaying tree house over swollen river Ken, like walking on empty streets by the sea the first day on a new city never visited again, amid loud cracking thunder, like feeling fat drops on naked arms and holding tight. Like lying on white Pondi sands as rain hits the face.

If the clog clears from knee deep to shin deep I shall venture out to bandstand. There is something beautiful about Rain. To me it is the feeling that Rain brings about.

10 ways my rural partners avoid my calls/ request for reports

1- Report is done but, mera computer 'crush' ho gaya
2- Aapka phone lagta hi nahin
3- Wo suddenly meri wife ki bahen ka husband ka mausa ka death ho gaya
4- Computer operator ka pet dard kar raha tha
5- Bijli chaar din se nahin hai
6- I have just sent it
7- Arrey, you did not receive it? Ok let me make some more changes and send it again immediately.
8- Ho madam. Ho madam.
9- My Mailbox Status: Received email without the required attachment.
Better still….
10- My Mailbox Status: Received mail with attachment. But! But! unrecognisable fonts. (or attachment in binary digits).

And one more way (should change the title, actually). I like this the best--

11- Hallo? Hallo? Sunai nahin de raha…hallo? hallo?

I do not lose my temper quite that often, though.

my lookalike

He still smiles at me even though his pink nails have faded

even though its been six long years of having known me

Ishaan

Can you blame me for falling in love?

Last years’ calendar in guest room

She was walking like young Bambi. Young fat pudgy legs with dimpled knees, walking unsteadily towards me.

The white chemise that she wore had red and pink embroidery around the neckline. I could not hold back my smile. There is something lovely and amazing about holding babies. When their arms lie on your shoulder and their unsteady necks wobble back and forth. They gurgle , they chuckle and you become lost.
Atleast I do.

The anticipation of the fat baby girl wearing white chemise with embroidery around the neck as she walked on those wobbly legs towards me, made me smile and extend my arms to her. Then something suddenly turned in the air. Like it happens only in dreams and in books. The room turned from cool to chilly in an instant. Every realization flashed in a moment. All those low grade movies where the child turns into a killer made sense as I saw the baby girl in white chemise, now rush to me on steady legs and an evil smile. There was no knife but I felt the cold presence of steel. The anticipation of a sharp slash. I felt the pressure of her left knee. Knees, which now I could never imagine as being cutely dimpled. There is something more macabre about an evil intention behind a beautiful façade.
I felt that pressure on my stomach.

I woke up with a start. It was so real. 4:32 am.

I froze with terror since the knock on the door sounded as real as the feeling of the pressure on my stomach. I contemplated on getting up and pulling the door open to face whatever was behind it. To face it once and for all. Then I told myself-'shut up, u just have a gory mind.'

As always happens with dreams, I could not recall it with total clarity the next morning as I told about it to Kiran and Atanu. Atanu gave me a blank look perhaps not even bothering to listen to my ramblings and Kiran mumbled something distractedly as she directed Jamuna, the baby’s nanny to clean the kitchen racks.

I had again stayed the night over at Kiran’s place. This is so common for me that my toothbrush and some clothes are stationed in Kiran and Atanu's guest room. Kiran has in fact started refering to it as my room. Every 4th day I land up at her place to coo and drool over her baby boy. Little fat boy who has brought out all my long-buried motherly and nurthering instincts.

"These days I do not feel like working", I shot back as I rushed out of her house, again promising myself that from the next day, I shall reach office in time. Another Monday in office.

Another day for me to try and finish pending reports. Another day for Kiran to discover all those new expressions that her baby comes up with (there are numerous of those- sleepy expression, i-luv-u-mamma expression, cranky expression, sulking expression, potty expression…..). Another day for Jamuna, the baby’s nanny to finish this chore and that. She measured the kitchen racks and cut an old calendar into the-measured-neat rectangles, the calendar which used to hang in the guest room.

“Didi, yeh calendar ki baby kitni sweet hai."... Jamuna told Kiran, as she put aside the swanky kitchen scissors. Steel Scissors. “……..Kitni moti…aur iska white, embroidery wala chemise kitnaaa pyaara hai ”. Dekhke lagta hai na, ki photo se nikalkar aapki god (lap) mein aa jayegi?"

Her husband for social completeness

My chai-wali Patkar maushi called me a ‘kutti’ today. Lovingly ofcourse since she is very fond of me and favours me with untimely coffees and surprise hugs.

Sometime back she was frantically arranging for 5000 bucks since she feared her husband would drink away what she called her home of 20 years. Transfer it in her name, she did.

“So, now u have it in your name. Throw him out! “
‘Aiiga! Kya bolhi tu? Heh heh!’ She chucked.

I said- “aur nahi to kya. Find another mausa!"
to which she called me kutti

[Aside: comment on ‘another mausa’, was a joke. There was another dimension about ‘done-with-the-men’ conversation].

“But why do you need him anymore? What has he given you? “

A man of 50 odd years who gets government money which he drinks away. Gets fed, drinks, gets a ready family to abuse, drinks, swears, drinks, sleeps in stupored glory, drinks, gets to stay in a ready-made clean house - two children and one grand-child who maybe love him only because he his their father, drinks. And drinks.

A man who thinks it is his due that he ‘be-served’. He is after all ‘the’ man of the house.

“Aise hi hota hai. Aadmi hai who mera!” She insisted perhaps the 100th time since we have had this kind of conversation many more times before.

Samaaj…Aurat ka zindagi….reet….

She again repeated those endless reasons as to why her husband is parmeshwar. About social sanctions. About traditions.

We have this on-going game, where I tell her what she calls ‘outrageous things’. “Tradition is as per convenience. There was a time when sati was sanctioned”, I continued.

“I will do Sati, if required” declared my Patkar maushi.

So she would. For a man who she resents. Whose bed sores she tends to. Bed sores, brought about by a long bed rest while he recuperated from the physical fall since his drunken legs didn’t support him.

She will shed tears for him since he is her husband. And she will shed tears for herself, since she is a 'mere woman', as she calls herself.

A ‘mere women’ who single handedly raised two children, got one-married. Managing all in some 2000 or 2500/- that she earns. Money, which she often had to hide in secret places from the hands of ‘the man’ of the house. Those hands which would not hesitate to fall harshly on her and her two children.

She will continue to be the victim, all the while trying to be a survivor.

She needs the social sanction of a useless husband for keeping her house, ensuring baap ka saaya over her children.

To my mind, the only encouraging (wee bit) thing about such a mess is that, she once a while hits him back!

to each his own

how do u know
when u need to shrug it off or u need to put your foot down
how do u know
when enough is enough
how do u know
when u finally say ‘Enough! No More!‘ .....
.....it is because you have, upto this time either been (a) least-bothered or (b) have been a coward
how do u know that
the time seems right (a) because u have been pushed to the corner (b) it is actually right
how do u know
that being pushed to the corner is not actually 'so' but seems like it, because till this time it seemed childish to react
how do u know
when u think u have transcended from the lesser-lives
but something inconsequential (perhaps) - that ought to be shrugged off, makes you want to react instead
how do u know
that not caring anymore
is not the same as being a quitter.

Wish or Conspiracy?

If you look at something continuously
It takes shape as u want it to….

This friend who made me happy and whom once I made happy…

…once did this artwork for some songs
One of his sketches look as if it has me in it.

Of an embrace so sweet and intimate
Of closeness-togetherness-warmth-trust-faith-companionship

Could it be … could it not be?
Am I seeing it or seeing it, Am I?

But it should not matter
Yet I cannot throw it away……

hum Hindustani

Another of those endless workshops, where I tried making small talk.
Tried is the keyword here.
“You know, I hate English language”, said he. He the pompous.

I wonder if I should have asked him in Shashi Kapor style, with my hands folded and looking
sideways…... "Can u repeat in Hindi ?”

or perhaps I should have loudly broken into something like "Givin the dog a bone... Givin the dog a bone...."

Almost Original

Like a badly designed tacky bag saying ORIGINAL

Like a man wearing shoes that are branded FOOTLAND

shake it 2 ur left and shake it 2 ur right

If you get caught on a Saturday afternoon in a contraption of a mall, while hip people and not so hip ones scurry about, have a foot massage as the last stopover. If you are mad since you have had to wait for lunch till 6.30 in the evening, then coax your friend to try out the electric body massage chair (which is rated at some freaking grands).

My friend sat trapped as if for some virtual reality experiment. Face frozen while man-made fists thumped through her back. Suddenly her shoulders started shaking –left-right-left-right-left-right. Her eyes kept opening wider by each fraction of the second.
The other friend had her mouth open wide while she asked- ‘why are you shakin so?’ I am not! She screamed. This chair is shakin! Take me out take me out!

My Saturday was made. As I knelt on the floor because my laugh got taken over by the tummy ache at seeing her shake and scream and look perplexed all in one electric moment.

Lesson of the Day

Do not make any deals with a movie-fanatic.

She will badger you, read repeatedly badger you with “u promised u promised…”
She will also repeatedly play at emotional blackmail
Be warned. You will want to
(a) stare blankly at her as if she is speaking telegu
(b) stuff her through the fish like grills of office window
(c) doggedly finish work that would otherwise have remained undone for the day
You will also have to stealthily type emails in an official document and copy paste it later (without the official letterhead ofcourse)

Bheja Fry, here I come.

my mrs k

there have been so many times that i have avoided her. a few steps away but i would acknowledge only when acknowledged. i remember those meetings when she would turn everything topsy turvy and me in my very-undiplomatic ways would get impatient and say something to goad her more. it became a game between us. who could goad more. then who would start goading 1st. then an avoidance on each one's part. she has always had a fond word to say about me. but behind my back. i yes, however tacky it might sound, love her. love her and respect her. i have been able to seperate the human her and the professional her. i loved one and accepted the other. why did she take all the crap that i gave her? she also loved me i know.
the most elegant of women i have known and seen. the most soft spoken of all. the ready smile. her walk so light as if she would glide on air. we used to say that she is not a person but an experience. we used to say, 'she has more energy in her 70 yr old strong frame than all our energies combined together.'
a woman who saw and did so much. a woman who has been an inspiration to so many. one of my NGO partners had written a song on her calling her devi. We ofcourse had lagughed and would so often feel embarrased when so many of them would behave as if they were worshipping her.
i would cringe when some1 would imitate her as she called out my name in her sing-song voice. she would call out- bye children in that same sing-song voice. a voice which at times have shaken all the veterans here. (even me at times).
which now lies numb and unfeeling. that beautiful face swollen because of medicines which her body rejected. with tubes she lies having never had thought this is how it will end. for all those times i avoided her, here i was waiting for hours and hours for a glimpse of only some seconds. seconds which leaped in shock to see what looked like the unbelievable. a flash and life changed for her. as it changed for all of us. as another one who reaches out to me now in a broken voice. with heart rending words that he needs my support. she is like God for him and he cannot live without her, he says.
We await for the miracle. which will bring back that sudden deep breath.

Mrs. K passed away on April 24th 2007, 2.30 am at Breach Candy Hospital.

I HATE IT

WHEN I LOSE WAT I PEN (KEY) DOWN BECAUSE I 'NAVIGATE AWAY' FROM THE PAGE. UURRRRGHGH