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

Minu

My friend passed away yesterday. Survived by an old mother, sister, brother-in-law, a niece who perhaps she had not seen and friends.
My batchmate whom I did not really know that well. She had a life to live ahead and not leave behind a mother who perhaps would not look so tired and lost.
Friends had gathered and like Shuchika and I perhaps even they were relating this to their own lives.
Death so sudden-so unbelievable. What can be darker than dark? Does the body feel a passage from life to wherever they go? Does it look back? My reference has changed from ‘she’ to ‘it’. How would the mother be feeling? It’s the loved one’s who are left behind and who feel the pain every single day.
Am I selfish to think who will mourn my death? Who all will I matter to so much? Isn’t it our purpose in life to love and be loved- as Jesus said-Love one another as I have Loved you.

And here we get caught in small, inconsequential worries, misplaced pride, envy, jealousy, malice and most incriminating of all-purposelessness. Caught up in frivolity. While time ticks by.

Is Death not the biggest truth of life? At the end, perhaps there are no are no grey areas. Just black or white.

whatsit2b? part 1

i had read this story as a kid. and loved the possibilities that could be. the other day i read it again and was very excited to write wat i thot cud be. but as all those other times, the thots just about crystalised and then i lost interest. (i need to walk around with a dictaphone actually).

The Lady, or the Tiger?
Frank R. Stockton

In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but, whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight and crush down uneven places.
Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance.

When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena, a structure which well deserved its name, for, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.
When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the inclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased; he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of *the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate.

But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could select among his fair subjects, and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection; the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic measure, advanced to where the pair stood, side by side, and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home.
This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady; he opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments of the king's arena.

The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan, for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands?

This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of the king. In after years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were in no slight degree novel and startling.

The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one else, thought of denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events, which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess.
The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena, and crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors, those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity.
All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!

As the youth advanced into the arena he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king, but he did not think at all of that royal personage. His eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature it is probable that lady would not have been there, but her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done,--she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess.

And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived, and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together; it was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door.

When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat there, paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed.

Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question: "Which?" It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it must be answered in another.
Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.

He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened it.

Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady ?

The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer.

It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him?
How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger!

But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and drowned!

Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?

And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!

Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door,--the lady, or the tiger?

Quote-Unquote

Frank R. Stockton

to be or not to be

7 ways my movie-mate makes plans with me for a movie. There are times when our plans fall into place immediately and we rush after office and times when she has had to coax me….which she has become a master in… in 7 different ways….and I have become a bitch in making her try and coax me in 7 different ways…..

# 1: Suggestion: “Lets go for a movie today. We will leave early….”

To which I reply….”I won’t be able to finish early so don’t wait for me. U go ahead, I tell her…..”

After 5 minutes of staring into her computer, she turns and looks at me…

# 2 : Excited Suggestion (as if Suggestion # 1 was never uttered): U know what! (What? I ask with raised eyebrows…) Lets leave early today… and go for a movie….(‘today’ is said with a couple of nods….Eyes are doe-like, big and innocent)

I grunt a non-commital response, to which she says…..

# 3 : Emotional style: .......“u don’t want to see a movie with me ?" (her eyes grow bigger…the look of innocence takes on a hurt expression now…If her voice could echo….it would echo as…with me…with me…with me…till fade)

I feel a twinge of irritation by now. But the varied expressions amuse me. I try very hard to wear a straight face because I know there are better styles yet to come

My friend/colleague silently works till lunch time.

Suddenly…..# 4 : Don’t miss the chance of a lifetime style: ..."U know what? this is so and so’s comeback movie…so and so’s debut direction…so and so’s music composition…so and so’s bla bla…"...

I give a vague smile. But I am very amused by now. And I am one step-ahead of thinking “cho-chweet”. If only she would quit asking at this point.

# 5 : She makes my plans style: "Listen…..Finish work by 6. We are going for a movie today after office".

I do not bother replying.

# 6 : Negotiating style: "What do you plan to do after office today? ...... (long pause...she continues staring....I feel a hole burning at the back of my head....) If you do not have any plans, do you want to catch up on this particular movie?"

Very sensible…to which I say…”I do not want to commit since I am not sure whether I shall finish work early. U carry on. I shall join you if I am free”.

By now, I do feel like a heel for doing this to her…nevertheless….she tries ….

# 7 : Done with you style: Ok bye. C ya 2morw.

I say…."What happened? I thought you wanted to catch up on the movie?"

She screams excitedly…."To chalo na! You ‘to’ (read as hindi ‘to’) are not saying anything. Lets go…chal chal… Jaldi…".....


One day she will call my bluff. One day I shall say… Back off!

my dream walked in

Ziya had to hand over a file to me which was long pending. We decided that she would drop in at my hotel on her way back from Amravati. Another colleague of hers would be accompanying her, she said. Since Ziya would be arriving at Nanded in the wee hours of the morning, I asked her to catch up her lost-bus nap in my hotel room.

Sometime after 3, I dozed off. The TV was on, the room not so dark so that my paranoia would not take over me. The last thing I remember thinking before I slept off was- I would have made Vaastu-Shaastra differently.

Remeber the scene, where Sushmita Sen's sister is home alone and so calls her boyfriend for a night over? They are in bed making love. She has her eyes closed. When she opens them, he is not there.

She goes around looking for him. Predictably, with a lot of sound effects.....she finds him dead and hanging.

Well, I dunno why, but I remembered that scene and thought to myself- It would be more scary if while the lovers were in bed....they are interuupted by a shrill piercing phone call. The girl (Sushmits Sen's sister in the movie) picks it up while naughily pulling the boyfriend closer.

The voice on the other side says.....the voice which is her lover's voice..."shweetheart, the traffic is a killer". I dunno when I will reach"...."

I remember thinking as the TV blared on that...shit...had it happened this way, it would be more scary. Imagine....in bed with your lover....and a phone call says he is in reality not there AT ALL.

Who then is the one in bed with you? Will the audience see a blue-frozen face when the lover lifts his face from the crook of the girl's shoulder or will he still look un-ghost like?

Anyways, I slept off with a scary re-do of a movie scene playing in my paranoid mind. TV blaring...1 light on since my imagination runs the better off me.


Ziya and her colleague came in at about 4 in the morning. It was cold and dark. I offered them water and surprisingly shared some official jargon. For me, 4 is midnight, yet here I was doing uncessary lip-movement. In a while we all dozed off.
I woke up when a shrill piercing call woke me up.

"Yes? I asked, wondering if the call disturbed the two dark shapes sleeping on the other side of the room. Ziya's was a bigger shape and Sunita looked tiny underneath the dark blanket.

"Hallo? Hallo?" It was a man's voice."....Madam? Madam? ...." Very faint voice. ".....Madam? This was the last dialled no. from this cell....The lady whose cell this is...I think her name is ..errr...was Ziya...I mean....madam....she and some other passengers died. Road accident Madam.....

my stint at taragram

I had some fabulous years at TARAgram. TARAgram- a rural technology demonstration unit, is 15 kms from Jhansi. Located at Madhya Pradesh, TARAgram is in this fantastic wilderness, where the dry summers drain you off all energy; so bright and hot in the summers that the rocks seem to reflect more heat and the dry leaves crackle as if it'll start a forest fire of its own. The rains so heavy that those very trees would sway in wet greeness and little riverlets would drain into the already swollen Betwa river.

We had our own power supply through DESI power (Decentralised Energy System of India), our own stationery of TARA handmade paper and our own sigdi-koyla in the cold cold winters. The koyla that I mention, is charcoal made out of biomass. My colleague would always corerct me and say 'invasive biomass' invasive biomass' not a waste! ok, bajpai, I give you that!

Us, Jharkhandi's and people from Bihar, Orissa, MP , Chhatisgarh would recognise the 'invasive biomass called 'lantana' as "putus", a thorny bush with rough dark green leaves and tiny bunches of orange or purple or red or white flowers. The DESI power that I mentioned above is electricity generated through another of Bajpai's "invasive biomesses', called 'Ipomea'. Again, us Jharkhandi's and people from Bihar, Orissa, MP , Chhatisgarh would recognise Ipomea as "theythur" or "besharam" or "behaya". Yeah, a plant actually called by that name!

"Besharam" is a tall shrub with palm sized leaves and tall stalks. It has lavender coloured bell shaped flowers and 'besharam' can grow anywhere. Throw a stalk anywhere, be it muddy or dry, 'Besharam' grows. I call that 'survivor' or 'perseverant' not 'besharam'. No wonder, Bajpai was so protective of his biomasses. We even had our own check dam. There were times when we would take our lunches by the dam and sit with our legs swinging over the water.

8 kms away from TARAgram is Orchha. Located at the banks of Betwa, Orchha's history dates back to the 17th century. The Ram Mandir, Jahangir Palace, Teen Deviyaan ka Mahal, Laxmi temple, Chaturbhuj temple and much more. Each has its own story to say (and all guides tell it differently as well). Ram Mandir used to be more beautiful, I'm told, until Uma Bharati painted it pink. As you face Ram Mandir, on the right side is a gate which leads to an enclosure which has two square 15 foot pillars, called "Saawan Bhaado". I was told by some wise women that at the onset of rains, Saawan and Bhaado like two lovers bend and seek each other. Well, I could not imagine two squares reaching out to each other but on a fading light, the pillars did look imposing.

Jahajir Palace is impressively imposing as well. Each window on every direction gives its own perspective and meaning to beauty. A damp afternoon thrown in, and the mood is purrfeckt!

Two sides of the Palace overlook Betwa. As the skies turn a deep purplish-orange, the views could be anything - be it the trucks on their way to Niwari or Tikamgarh or Bhopal passing through the metal bridge on swollen Betwa or a flash of branches being swept away while a boat paddles downstream home or 2 women washing clothes at the ghat which has a dozen broad steps while a man rushes through his bath in the water soon to turn dark, while children dip and frolic and swim and dive from the water-slick smoothly rounded rocks.

From yet another side you can see, a well-maintained garden with a Mahal called some Fulwadi or the other. Supposedly, the Bundela Raja's favourite mistress used to reside in this Mahal. The front side as always overlooks people rushing through their touristy-agenda.

Jahangir Palace was made to commemorate Jahangir since he had helped the contemporary Bundela Raja to usurp the throne, my so-called guide had told me. (I do not remember why I never took an official guide).

Well, Jahangir came to visit for 1 night only an dit took perhaps 17-18 years to build this palace. (Am I wrong or what?). The room where he slept is not grand. A small platform where his 'rajsi' bed would have been laid.

One of my colleagues would stuff his week-long dirty clothes in a rucksack and on a Sunday afternoon would wash them at Betwa, drink beer and sleep off on the warm rocks. What fun!

A 4 centuries old stone bridge which was quite low would year after year get submerged during the rains. It was also a source of rancor since only one heavy vehicle could pass at a single time. With the Bundelkhandi tempers virtually always on the rise, the drivers of nose to nose buses would hurl swear words left right and centre.

The drive from TARAgram to Orchha during the rains is not just a drive. It is an experience. Beyond the old Orchha bridge is a wild life sanctuary. I never saw any wild animals but the drive down is mind blowing on a dark night.

I only regret not using each and every moment to soak up all that the place had to offer.

the rock

many expressions come to my mind

cool mist washin over me

thin soft flakes melting down my cheeks

cold fingers finding warmth on your tight clasp

fingers and palms fitting perfectly

long companiable silent walk

pausing and looking back

stopping and looking ahead

breathless but content

words shared with people heading the other way

not meaningless words only an effort to catch onto more newness

the fading sunlight

gods light

pink light

orange light

purple light

still some more light after the sunset

then darkness

only firelight

and that within

the chill of fresh silkcotton like snow, the heat of dancing flames

the intimate cover of silver-darkness

the colours of intimacy, love and companionship

the sounds ethereal

some more expressions come to my mind

intruding sunlight

like the hiss of snow on fire

of an impending closure

of the joy of having known such happiness

No Title

Yesterday I did not look back
Yesterday I, after a long time again felt weak in the nerves
That Fluttery feeling
Yesterday I again day dreamed
Yesterday I wanted to blush and feel shy again

Yesterday when the old call came I was indifferent
Fond memories but that’s what it came down to- fond memories

Yesterday I once again wanted to grab the warmth of the sun
It no longer matters that I do not want to look back
Yesterday it did'nt matter that the way ahead is still lone.

six to 8

On a cold evening with my coffee
and rum
my balcony and
4-yr old manali market
sox

watching
the old man
walk up and down
to the gate...to the door
to the gate...to..
the door



till it is too dark for me to see
till it is too late for him to be out

the old man and I
on an evening in jhansi

some comments I found cute

Jaded question from me to this cute ‘lil girl in a printed white frock and lace around the neckline
“where are you going?”

In a deep voice, she replied….”nuckh-lau”…. (for lucknow ofcors)



“I wonder if my 60 odd aunty Virginia, is a virgin?”…I wondered aloud to a friend…
Ask her….he said, "Virgin- ya?"



Message on the wall near Daryaganj police station in 2001.
It goes…

....Please Bill no stick.....



The menu displayed on a student-type eatery in Hudson Lines in 1998, read as..
.....Bredomlat.....



Man painted on wall in Ideal Lane, Dangratoli chowk in Ranchi in 1992

....Yahaan peshaab karna mana hai....

He finshed painting. In bold and in red. Unzipped his pants, peed and took off in his cycle.



Good looking guy in my compartment in tata bound train asked me what do I do? I work on the issue of anti-trafficking, I said.

Long pause

He: Ahem….traffick is a problem in Mumbai. Very crowded.

I took my book and climbed onto the topmost berth.


2 old men from my earlier organization loved to use similees. One would say, “bla bla bla (whatever the issue of the moment)….otherwise you will miss the bus…”

Another would love to say (for any issue)…. “you have to hit the iron when it is hot”.

A third uncle, who would say any shit for diplomacy, on one 10 o’clock Saturday meeting in the dome said…..

“As so and so rightly said, …..you have to hit the iron when it is hot……
Otherwise you will miss the bus.”



I am scared to call out the names of my NGO partners. Marathi names are very scary to pronounce for a regular hindi speaker like me.

I called a Mr. Badve as Bhadwe once (2005). We all were straight faced ofcourse.
I therefore, dare not call out for Bhosle.

(What kind of names are these?)



One of my field workers (2003) would stammer. His Bundelkhandi hinglish was classic (I say this not in a bitchy way). My colleague Bajpai was supposed to have met up with this guy the previous night for some work.

Says the guy, “ yaar Bbbjjpai, ttuum kkal aaake mujjhhhko touch nahin kiye”?


A friend of mine was scared that she was pregnant. So the boyfriend goes to this pharmacy and hesitantly asks for Parakh (supposedly some home pregnancy test).
shopkeeper: Hein-ji? Hein-ji? ... oho aise boliye na.

Boyfriend of friend comes out with Perk.



Some stupid dame in some school in some small town (I have been to many small town schools) once bragged...
"My (her's) pronounciation is very good".

call

inspired
to burn
to move into nothingness
the smoke makes patterns
blows softly
silently
while cowboys with guns and noise make noise
while hunger calls
takes an effort to answer
time has not dulled
moments call
suddenly something reminds
and it begins all over again
put on a sham
a show
of carelessness
a show of false bravado
silly small talk
unsaid words so loud
drowning meaningless words
screaming out between the lines
all within me
u cant hear
i don’t say
but want you to hear
(do I hear what you don’t say?)
i don’t know

i tell I don’t care
but here I am
i am not fooling
i am living it
does living feel numb
or is numb, living
don’t care
walk away
slide away
dream different
words
like a low on art, script
like a song making sense only to me

“…waiting for the summer rain ……..

probably probability

I have wondered since as far as I can remember. Why is it that some people are happy with what comes their way…some are happy till before they get it …some are never happy.
Is it our blood which defines it? Our environment? Or what? What ever it is, it is damn frustrating. Well, the world would be a boring place and not happening at all if every1 was alike. But why is orange an orange and not an apple? No, that’s an easy 1. If an orange would be an apple and we would know the orange as an apple I would still ask- why is an apple an apple and not an orange. Perhaps people like me love pondering and questioning for the sake of it. Perhaps.
Well, on gloomy days, it is not the orange and apple that has bothered me…but people..rather my friends, my cousins whom I have shared a lot with. Given the same environment…our chosen paths take us so afar. At times completely divergent ways…so far that there is nothing left to talk about.
I think the “happiness with one’s choice” lies with the acceptance factor. But on those gloomy and lonely evenings- I very pathetically wonder as to what will bring me happiness. I am so surprised at myself. What happened which slowly by slowly changed me? I distinctly remember thinking about a friend of mine- “she does not know how to enjoy” she does not know how to be happy”. That was 10 years back. Today, 10 years hence, that question or rather statement, befits me. How many off the road by-lanes did I take to move so far away.

When did those golden rays turn grey?

day 1

i welcome myself to pour out incognito.