Shopping? (cringe!)

The dictionary defines Chores as a hard or unpleasant task. Shopping for me is a Chore (with a capital C). On my one free day –Sunday, mum decides to drag me shopping at the supermarket. It’s pouring and by the time I get there, I look like a wet chicken. With as much dignity I can muster, I enter the fully air conditioned supermarket and listen to the background score of my teeth chattering (very kelvinator). It looks like they’re giving everything away free, judging by the number of people who’re there. There were all sorts of people–fat ones, thin ones, tall ones, short ones…mostly fat ones.

For someone with motor skills two levels above an ape, my mother very adventurously asks me to maneuver the shopping cart. I sigh and grab my cart only to have one of the wheels run over my toes. Mentally yelling at myself for wearing Floaters instead of shoes I sigh and follow mum into the labyrinthine shopping area. “Ouch!” the wheel again as I tried to reverse my cart. As I peer at my toe to evaluate the damage, one supreme shorty decides she wants biscuits from the topmost shelf and causes a cascade of crème biscuits on my previously unbruised head. Now I’m bruised from head to foot (well, my inbetween is miraculously unscathed… not for long though). Looking daggers at her isn’t helping 'coz she’s scuttled off. It would have been better if I had kept my eyes firmly in front of me. Someone with motor skills even worse than mine decides his shopping isn’t interesting enough and playing bumper carts might enhance the experience. Result: a bruised middle. In spite of all the blubber that shields my tummy, I know it’s gonna be a blue bruiser.

Somehow I make my way out of aisle one (in my head, it pops up like a video game: LEVEL 1 COMPLETE: LEVEL 2)

A fact I’ve accepted is, the wheel of my shopping cart has an affinity for my toes. It doesn’t help that other people want to run me over too! And in all this, my mother is blissfully unaware, in her wonderland of aisles filled with things to stack her cart with. The heavier my cart gets, the more unmanageable it becomes.

To make my life a little more bearable, I add some Sprite to my cart only to have mum promptly put it back on the shelf and launch into the “diet” lecture. The chocolate I sneaked in is sneaked back with “the look”.

Feeling great pity for myself, I decide to tame my undomesticated cart. By then, my toes hurt, my legs are aching and my head is throbbing. Just then a kid decides to throw a tantrum and launch himself onto the floor kicking and screaming. Half of me wants to pick him up and pet him, the other half wants to spank the brat. I ignore wailing Wally only to find myself abandoned by mum. The 4 yr old in me wakes up and I panic (why?! I’ve been here a gazillion times) still, I want my mum!!! I scan the aisles and find her looking at some new fangled precooked mishmash. Relieved, I rush to be near her. I go one way, my cart goes the other and the stack of soups comes down crashing. The staff is now glaring at me (they think I’m the creme biscuit crasher). Mum decides the faster she gets me out of here the better. She doesn’t want to be “black listed” for having a delinquent daughter. Luckily, the checkout is reasonably empty as I pile my stuff on the counter, grab my bags and leave.

Garbage, Garbage, Garbage

I fail to understand why any educated person, traveling/ commuting suddenly risks throwing out all their education with their littler. The mentality is “Mumbai is one big garbage bin” so without a second thought throw wrappers, peels, old tickets, ANYTHING out of the window. From trains, cars, buses… if the airplane had windows open, I have no doubt they’d chuck their garbage from there also!!!

I have had many a tussle with the ladies who cannot keep a wrapper in their bag for 20 minutes and throw it at the station dustbins. Some days I go around with other people’s garbage in my bag just because they think it’s “uncool”. I have been called a pest, an activist, a crazy girl etc but I refuse to budge. I believe if ONE person doesn’t throw ONE packet; that is one packet less contributing to the mess, one packet less for the cleaning lady to pick up and a few seconds saved so she can pick up another.

The BMC don’t make it easier with the number of dustbins hovering around nil. But it’s a mentality that has to change. They wouldn’t DARE do something like this if they were abroad. (Sadly, I see some foreigners in their ridiculous Hawaiian shirts and shorts mimicking the Indians)

When are we going to realize we’re the cause of our own troubles and after we push self destruct, there’s nothing that can save us but ourselves. Should I turn this into a movement, a revolution???

listen to song "Garbage, garbage, garbage"

A film festivaler

I wrote this sitting in a theater chair, at the MAMI 10^th international film festival, just before a screening began.

I’m back where I belong, doing what I love best, living through (what was earlier) a dream –watching films back to back. And what an ambiance! This film festival has been another occasion for me to blossom and grow. The evolution has been from the cramped cardboard box life into a dark room full of strangers all enthralled by the flickering image on the large screen. The familiar smells bestir memories from film festivals gone by, from times when I was younger and excited out of my mind to be volunteering. The smell of popcorn is omnipresent. Like heady wine it transports me into another world. This world is cathartic, a purging of my worries of la vie quotidienne. For a couple of hours I exchange my life for someone else’s, snug in the knowledge that however bad it is it will eventually end. I sit wide eyed and absorb the narrative as my bottom grows numb and my mind travels far away.

As every movie ends, the audience bustles around and rearranges themselves at a new screen. Ah! The audience! Strangers but bound by a common thread for the duration of the festival. Familiar strangers from festivals gone past, new friends made from the previous day’s marathon viewing. It’s all part of this “double life” every cinephile leads. The ingrained urge to be a voyeur manifesting itself even more strongly with these film enthusiast types.

The surge of the smallish, but intellectually bound crowd is exhilarating. All for the common goal of viewing someone else’s opinion and life presented on reel. Any avid film festival regular with moderate powers of observation will deduce the clear cut “types” of people that attend.

First, you have the Makers –people who are here because they make films, or have a film that’s being screened. So you have actors, directors, producers… the lot. They add the glamour. The second type is the ‘contact’ people. They are here solely for business purposes, to enlarge their network. So you have distributors, marketers and that set. They add the element of “commerce”. The third are the cinephiles, people who love cinema and come to the festival just for the sake of watching films. They add character to the festival. Students are the fourth type – students from colleges, students of film etc… all here to be amazed by the work of their seniors, peers etc. here to get a toe-hold in this mad world of filmmaking. It fascinates them so much they don’t see themselves doing anything else. The fifth type is the “wanna-bes”- the “I have an image to portray” people who don’t give tow farthings for cinema.

If you observe the crowd in the interval between films, they are all milling around, trying to look like they have something to do, others consulting their catalogues or schedules debating the better movie. There are others indulging in pseudo-intellectual conversations of movies they’ve just seen or directors they love. You see the press running after celebrities for sound bytes. The hungry fill their stomachs with class A-carry able inside- junk food. When you watch people come out of the theater after a screening, you’ll observe their shuffling gait, the blood rushing back to their legs after sitting on their now numb bottom, a little disoriented from emerging into light from dark, thoughtful as if absorbing and collecting their thoughts about the movie. You’ll see the organizers walking around congratulating themselves on a job well done.

That’s why, this is where I belong. I live from festival to festival, in this separate world of mine, switching between a normal person and one transformed, sometimes even my dreams manifest themselves as a movie with opening credits and sometimes subtitles.

In all these film festival “types”, where do I belong? I’m, in reality, all of them, all at once. A truly La Phooey feeling!!! I’m also the silent observer that watches and takes note. In between screenings I mill around. I see familiar faces I smile at.As the slow moving line makes it’s way into the theater, I find myself a suitable place and make myself comfortable. From the beginning to the end, I’m lost to the world and to normal life. The only things that exist are me and the little charade begin played out on screen. Too soon… too soon, the credits begin to roll and the audience claps giving tribute to the filmmaker.

After the closing film, I know my head will begin to throb and I will feel the need to sleep like a drunk. My “waking up” will be comparable to a hang over. Reality will be a little easier to bear; people and places will take on a new significance. There will always be another festival, another time, but each has a separate place in the time-line of my life.

Living to regret the pain

This is what Kahlil Gibran had to say about pain

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its
heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder
at the daily miracles of your life, your pain
would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your
heart, even as you have always accepted
the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity
through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the
physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink
his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided
by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips,
has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter
has moistened with His own sacred tears.”

Unlike many, I don’t find it liberating, I don’t find it a “gift” from the “potter”. After a storm of tears I feel drowned or drenched not emancipated. The constant pain eats into my soul searing myself from the truly happy person I was before. This pain manifests itself in various forms… one more devastating than he other; till I’m left with pieces I’ve managed to salvage but still don’t make a whole. I can’t run or hide ‘coz it’s on the inside… throbbing, unremitting, unwavering till I’m screaming in my own head for it to leave. Physical pain is nothing compared to it…the bruises, cuts or bleeding doesn’t compare and doesn’t make one forget. Prayer doesn’t assuage it, meditation doesn’t calm it and talking about it is a waste of time. I grit my teeth ad hold it all it, put my mask firmly in place. Its source varies faster than a blink till I’m hurting with pain from everywhere that I can’t tell what’s causing me to ache. I hold myself tightly so I don’t disintegrate because that’s what it’s feeling like right now. The death-grip on my sanity is as unwavering as the pain… if I let go, it might let go… I’m not taking chances.

Is it supposed to be this way?

I was looking forward to getting out of college.. Finally… But suddenly I feel someone has pulled the ground from under my feet. Last time around I was feeling so liberated when this got done, but now I have this heavy sinking feeling…
Most of my routine has been forged going to and coming back from college, homework, projects and last minute studying. Suddenly I feel adrift, without purpose or reason… with more questions than answers.
No more getting up at 5.30 in the mornings and tumbling into college. Sleeping through the boring lectures and enjoying the interesting ones. No more teacher imitations and canteen food stealing. Wonderful, bittersweet memories.
One of my identities has been on a roll call, reiterated every morning, part of a class of 60.
This is the end of something precious. The end of life as I knew it…

Will you be there for me?

Lately, so many people have been asking me this. As if, in their storm tossed lives, they look for one constant, one rock… weather-beaten but there. They are unsure of where they go and when they will come. But if they do come back, they need the assurance that someone will be there for them, someone they can come back to. They want me to be that person- who will listen to them, be a balm on their travel weary bodies, soothe their uprooted hearts and minds. In the dynamic, ever-changing they ask, “will you be there for me?”
I say, “Yes, always.” Not forever, because forever has ceased to mean anything…. So, always, till the end of time. But when I ask them the same question, they look apologetic as if making an excuse for their fickle minds, hearts and loyalties.
So I sigh, and continue being there for them, without anyone “being there” for me.

Embarassment Central

THE BEGINNING OF MY MAJOR EMBRASSMENTS
This was the singularly most embarrassing thing in my entire life....
As i walked outside college on a sunny afternoon praising heaven for a teacher who didn’t turn up, i had a mildly euphoric feeling.

Annnnd....this journalist with a camera from IBN 7 stops me and asks for a sound byte. "maidem, tewday eez the anheebherysari of savitri bai phule. Please to be giving us a little thoughts on it."

I thank the stars for the Marathi lesson in 6th grade who told me WHO savirti bai phule was. "maidem, please do be giving it in Hindi." i froze and apologized stating I’d be a national embarrassment. seeing my predicament he allowed me to intersperse words of english in my hindi.

So i go on camera. and mumble some feminist shit about "strong women" and "women before their time" "role models". I felt like a total bimbette...
To add insult to injury... Sheena was taking pics of me with their cell-phone cameras.

That day will forever be marked as "the day that i made an ass of myself on national television". Where is my head on my shoulders when i need it the most!?
Gone was the euphoria and was replaced by a sinking goop like, innards turned to sludge like feeling.
Ironically, i was on my way to enroll in French class when i didn’t know my national language well.

I’ll live down the embarrassment in while but till i get over it... I’m in a state of constant mortificationhopefully something as embarrassing will happen with you... so that i know the world is a just place


EMBARRASSING SITUATION 2: I WAS ASKING FOR IT!
I read this English-Spanish book... and i picked up these phrases... so i was using them left right and centre...
iIwas calling people compadres and saying "que passa" all...and well... those idiotic spanish men say "hola! conjo!" to each other....
So i said "hola! conjo! to Fr. Terry (the priest) and HE knows spanish...
He looks amused and asks, "do you know what conjo menas?" and with supreme confidence i say "yeah! it means buddy or pal."
"er... not quite... “he says," conjo means cunt" and he bursts into laughter
For 2 seconds i was SO shocked i couldn’t react. And then i blushed the deepest crimson and burst into laughter.

Gawd! Another thing i won’t be able to live down!

VALENTINE’S DAY EMBARASSMENT
The fact that it was Valentine’s Day didn’t cut me any slack on my embarrassing situations... so for today's comedy of errors.... here’s the first one… the rest I’m conveniently forgetting

The 2 hour break between classes gives me an opportune moment to finish my project and submit it. So Tess drags me off to Kayanis... a Parsi restaurant. She sits opposite me and we're joined by two of our other classmates –Sheena and Saurabh. We see couples from college coming to celebrate a v-day breakfast at Kayanis.

The meal is filled with discussions and complaining about college and the upcoming prom. Halfway through, my one rupee coin falls on the floor... i lena over to pick it up and BOINK! I land on my butt... and with an "ooeee" i find myself sitting on the Kayani floor...

My table erupts with laughter and the people at neighbouring tables are politely trying to suppress laughter (in vain!). Needless to say, i was laughing too (on the floor)…
The waiter comes, looks at me, then at the chair and decides to pick up the chair instead... hyuk hyuk hyuk hyuk... the lighter of the two.

So for a minute I’m on the floor laughing my guts out and no1 at my table is capable of helping me... by this time, tears are streaming down their face...

I pick myself up to find everyone at kayanis smiling at me (pityingly? in comfort?)

I sat right there... ordered a custard and jelly with as much dignity i could muster and ate my dessert (and my friends are still laughing)

Taming of the Shrew

I have finally made peace with myself- actually, peace with everything around me. I have lulled the storm within my soul to rest, sealed the cave of the Behemoth inside and temporarily chloroformed it, till it rises again –furious and baying for blood-for the two years I will spend giving society a false sense of security that I’ve conformed. I have consciously made myself ductile and malleable. For two years, I’ll do what’s expected of me (an MBA), to show them I CAN and then wave adios and go do all the things I’ve dreamed of- albeit with an MBA in hand. “Better equipped to face the world,” my parents say, I grudgingly agree. How bad can it be that people automatically thing you’re smart and you have an answer to all their problems? It’ll be that much easier for people to invest in my pet schemes. Yeah! I realized money speaks a different language and all the world changing, Lutheran/ Che Gueveran revolutionary ideologies, I need the moolah. I’ll hopefully get into an IIM –this year or the next because doing an MBA for me from another place is not an option. Let’s face it. This year I was lazy and gave a million excuses not to work hard. Now I realize that everyone at IIM is really not normal they’re completely weird and I’ll be among my own (having to work hard at numbers that don’t come easily to me). So IIM- here cometh I !

YIKES! SAVE ME!

What am I doing sitting and writing an exam that I don’t care to study for and one whose outcome I’m unworried about? I should be sitting at home writing agnostic treatises, tearing popular beliefs to bits! I should be “out here” propounding theories and instigating people to a pseudo-intellectual debate about existence (or any other NON MBA topic) or making non-mainstream, experimental movies that make people sit up and think. I should be prodding, poking and pushing society to reach a higher level and stop running after the petty. Alas, I don’t have the mind of Socrates (thank God! look what happened to him!) nor the guts of Luther. So I shall be pushed and shoved against my will to do an MBA… can you imagine that?!?! I cannot see myself stuck in “bored” room meetings, telling people how to go about their work! How can I manage a company when I can’t manage my own life?! My ambitious parents want me to throw away my God-given talents and run with the herd (who are, by the way, making money). Money? Ça ne m'intéresse pas. I’d rather be a chocolatier in Belgium or a travelogue compére (even if I have to live on bread and water for a while). Who understands? Who will explain? Every time I tell anyone my plans, they sigh and say “Another dream snuffed out!” “ Another talent bites the dust!” Should I be another casualty? Another statistic in this graveyard of dreams? Is there anyone who’ll pull me out of this Hades and support my stand?

the self

This is it. The fragmenting of the self (saṃ). The cohesive forces of the atoms comprising of me undone by my own bidding. When categorical words like forever and never have faded into the background of an unworthy past (I love you forever, friends forever, I’ll never leave you) …. It’s all Maya – illusion… delusion… disillusion? Like a heavy fist of iron it struck deep, it struck true… forcing the essence of my being apart… by my own folly… My nascent atoms roam the universe each carrying my former trait of being a wanderlust in search of answers. And yet each seeks to conform with different beings… separate… individual. A goal unachievable for the fact that they are a part of my being, linked through intangible cosmic threads interwoven to form the fabric of my conscious… the pain… the agonizing pain I seek to numb is only accentuated when I try to cut each thread loose… as if by subduing my conscious and sinking into the subconscious (unconscious maybe), I can somehow forget, alleviate my pain… but that is not to be…. Not in this life, nor in the next. Like Cerberus, it guards the door of my soul and keeps me from peace. The pain is a testimony to my humanness, my vulnerability, my mortality.
Eons ago I lived protected and shielded, my naïveté shielding me from the wallops of this hard-hitting world. The subtle cruelty the world seeped into my innocence forever poisoned a pure, unsullied fountain that seeks to be purged daily.
Sleeps offers no respite as dreams shape themselves into my darkest fears. I cry out and jolt awake only to be confronted by them in reality. I sink into a cycle of sleeplessness and wakefulness.
“You are your own master” they say. True for those who blindfold themselves against the vagaries of fate and ignore the twisted plots of destiny. They who choose to live life unquestioningly and uncomplainingly –complacent and happy with whatever is doled out. Do they even realize there’s a higher calling?
Alas, I have been cursed with a mind that asks “Why?” more times than I draw breath. Unanswered questions crowd around, pushing for space to be heard. Would I choose blissful benightedness over the predicament my questioning mind has set down on me? Negative. I refuse to be beguiled by ignorance’s pretty face that urges me to accept it all and move on. ‘So be it’ is not a part of my existence. No matter how painful it may be, I cannot go through life not knowing, not asking. The tribulation and distress are all a part of this journey. I wait in joyful hope, that someday, all mysteries will be made clear, all my questions-answered and peace will line my eyes. Till then I have to pick up the pieces of my fragmented being and forge ahead on my weary way.

destination destiny

Is that really me? Pushed into a vortex of circumstances I have no choice in… Existing, not living, by the dictates of other people- family, friends, society… doing what is needed or required, not what I want or choose to do. And in all this I can’t reclaim the life that is supposedly mine because “I owe people things”… I owe my family for bringing me up, society for accepting me, so on and so forth. But why in all this meaninglessness should I exist? Why? Hmmm…. That is the first word that confronts me every morning. (Blame it on the existentialist in me… and Camus for influencing me) WHY must I get up and go abut doing things as if I mean them? WHY must I study what in my opinion is conformist bulls***? Unanswered questions of the pseudo-intellectual, rebellious mind. Society has always served to wipe out and eliminate entirely beings who question her ways. They are pushed into the inconspicuous subcultures and slowly forgotten. Society beats everyone into conformity0 in the flow of the river, in the run of the herd and anyone who sticks his neck out… “Off with their head!!!”
Must I meekly submit to this stomping of all that I hold dear or should I fight for my ideal ideals and risk getting ‘cut-off’? My own family doesn’t understand why I behave this way…. How do I expect an entire conformist civilization to do that??? “Please be a little more normal!” they beg. But can’t they see? I’m better than normal- I’m abnormal! Under the lie of teenage counterculture I have gotten away doing most of what I’ve wanted to do. But time is running out and soon the validation period to use that excuse will expire. I’ll need to face my fears and tell them that in all this orthodoxy/ compliance / consistency / accord / submission I need to be an individual. Or I’ll have to face the music and finally ‘grow up’. Two words I dread and have come to hate. Associated with untold responsibilities thrust upon members of a society once they are deemed to have reached a certain age- mentally. Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage…” But this ain’t my kinda show baby! So I’d better get my act together with people who think like me or bid the old life a toodaloo and begin from scratch, away from the influencing currents of all that I have come to abhor in this place.

Limmerick-o-mine

this is the limmerick i wrote

BMM I thought was easy,
All sweet honey and breezy.
But a week sans sleep,
My eyes sunken deep,
The world appears all fuzzy.

BMM is the course i do. it is Bachelors in Mass Media.

.....

It stretches before me, like a never ending tunnel… a tunnel with no light at the end. As I walk, my footsteps echo in the dark. I cannot see anything in the dark. Darkness engulfs me and beats down my spirit. Fear and panic rise in my throat and I call out… my voice magnified a hundredfold, comes back to me… like unhappy ghosts. All this darkness and loneliness gets to me, eating away at my soul.
Then I see an opening and walk slowly towards it, disbelievingly. I walk out and feel the sun on y skin, birds in the air, people around me talking, laughing. I look away as the sun hurts my eyes and laughter pains me. I have forgotten how to smile, how it is to be happy. The darkness that I felt hasn’t been left behind. I have carried it with me… deep in my very soul. I have absorbed it, and now it runs through my veins. Though my body is in the light, my soul is still in darkness…

... THE SEA...

Masked by smoky clouds the sun is nothing but a circle of light. The timeless sea rumbles back and forth, striking sand then retreating. Its frothy waves die out on the each. The sea as grey as the clouds above looks endless, stretched up to the horizon. Crows and eagles soar above the mangroves, swaying in the breeze. Strong and pleasant breeze tickles the sea, playfully picks up a grain of sand and gives it a joyride through the mangroves. The breeze, with its salty breath, kisses me.
The smell of the sea…a smell I’ll never forget though I may be miles away from it. It’s a smell I grew up with, a certain, unwavering sort of smell, certain and unwavering as the sea itself. The ageless, timeless, sound of the waves comforts me.
The sea is never still. It cannot be. Even if it’s clam on the surface, underneath it’s full of life.
The sea has a certain romance about it that makes you want to love. Lovers hold hands as they walk along the shore. Words of love whispered to each other like the breeze. Love pledged and love sworn… FOREVER. A forever that rings across the waves and is swallowed by the sea.
The sea is a keeper of secrets –some beautiful, some not. Yet it guards them, never to be revealed to anyone. Who knows what kind of secrets it hides in its deep dark folds –mermaids, sea monsters, treasure??? Anyone who is drawn to those secrets and goes out in search of them is lost forever. They will be enraptured by those secrets and the spell will never break. Have you not heard the sea whispering to you? Calling you? One day I will stop, face the sea and embrace it, to be lost forever among the secrets. No one will find me though they may search. I shall dance among the mermaids, listen to the secrets, hear words of love whispered on the shore and laugh at their foolishness. Love doesn’t exist, it’s just a façade. I will tell that to the dolphins, I will tell that to the mermaids. The kiss of the salty sea shall never leave my lips. When I enter the world of the sea, human voices will be lost to me. Human voices –sugary sweet, full of hate and lies. My ears will hear the song of the waves and spells of the sea. “I” will be ageless... timeless…

...and he shall wipe the tears from their eyes...and there will be no more pain...
rock on mumbai... we pray for thee...

BLACK TUESDAY

It could have been me… could have been my family… July isn’t a lucky month for Mumbai. First the Deluge then these serial blasts. SEVEN of them, SEVEN. Rush hour, in the general compartment. Innocent lives of people who existed to make others happy and go about their own business. Mumbai has never done anything to anybody. It has always been at the receiving end of these attacks. What did we deserve this for???
Students, office goers, fathers, brothers, sons, friends. People dead or injured are predominantly male. WHY??? WHY??
Mumbai was in shock. They still are. The anger and pain will come later. For now it has swung into action and is helping make things better. That’s why I love the city so much, that’s why I love its people, that’s why I love being a part of this. Look at the resilience of the city. Any other city would have collapsed. I sympathize with London but …nothing beats Mumbai. First the rain and flood, then the riots then this. We have pulled ourselves through all sorts of mishaps. Mumbai pulled itself together and through the pouring rain and through the hurt and blood they are helping. Helping injured, helping the dead, helping to put the city back on its feet.
As I watch the news I see friends of mine bleeding, on national television, yet they are helping. The city is praying for the injured, the dead and itself.
It could have been me or my family. Reports of the dead are filtering through and I cry out as I see familiar names. FRIENDS …Dear friends who I worked with and chatted with and laughed with a couple of hours before are no more. I can’t believe they’re gone… I don’t think I ever will…
We don’t need to protest, You see it in our eyes. They tried to bring us to our knees and break our resolve and spirit... it has only been strengthened. Nothing, NOTHING will break us. We are ONE tonight. We will get together and fight back. Today cries and wails may fill the air but through all this you will hear the eternal song of hope that sings the people to sleep. They have not died in vain…

Last year's deluge

The deluge last year was a much better story than this year's ... check it out...

How much of human life is lost in waiting. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

There are good times and there are bad times and there are some times that you can’t slot under these two. 26th of July started out a wonderful day. The sun’s rays poked its fingers through the window as I left home for the coolest place in the world –college. The birds sang, the traffic hummed and God was at peace with humankind. Friends, meetings, classes, hanging out, projects, eating, studies, some more hanging out –all like a normal day at college. What happened after 2 p.m. totally redefines the word NORMAL.

Three classmates and I decided to take the car home as all of us lived close by. We had just found out that the railways had stopped owing to the rain. We didn’t think that there would be much traffic and we felt safer together. Ipsita’s car with the driver arrived and we piled in. Four of us plus the driver makes five. WOAH! What a crowd! Little did we know that the car was going to be our home for over 21 hours. Before hopping into the car we decided to get wet in the rain. Ah! The blessed feeling of being one with nature! We were soaked to the bone and when we sat in the car we realized that our getting wet was the stupidest thing EVER. The A.C. was switched on since the windows had to be closed and very soon we heard four pairs of chattering teeth. Also Ipsita had worn a white skirt (another dumb idea!) and we had to take care not to dirty it.

In the beginning it was all La-di-da (inside the car). We sang, listened to the radio, and got to know each other better. The outside situation was hell! We took an hour to go from one end of the road to another. Families were contacted and then the networks collapsed.
I sat as far away from Ranjana as possible, considering she dances (or tries to) anywhere possible. So we had some fine display of Odissi dance viz. the Thribangi and Mudras –INSIDE THE CAR!!! Then if that wasn’t enough she started singing! She only stopped when we threatened she would find our fists in her face. The dear girl was only trying to help. Reuben was in the minority being the only boy( Ipsita’s driver kept mum throughout). Reuben bowed down to the age-old rule –‘let the women talk and do their thing’. So he was bombarded with ‘girl talk’. Three girls chattering at once was too much for the poor guy, so he tactfully suggested we listen to the radio. The silence reigned in the car except for the radio.
Outside it looked like a mini lake. As the evening darkened into night so did our tempers but eventually we cooled down to spend a joyous night in each other’s company. The darkness pressing against our car when we were stuck in a by-lane somewhere. We had an absolute blast even though we got to know the gravity of the situation. Thank God for Parle-G and Thank God for petrol bunks (we went to the loo there. If it wasn’t for that, the trees would have got a free watering.). Santa Cruz was the worst affected and we passed the night in the same place. The others slept fitfully except for Ranjana who slept like ‘Kumbakarana’ (her snoring shook the whole car!!!).
The way we came was a miracle because:
1. We were running out of petrol and
2. We did not have any money with us
3. We unknowingly kept the windows closed when the A.C. was on.

We got to know that the spirit of Mumbai was alive and well. People got a free swimming lesson, a first hand experience of the wrath of mother nature, some got a free trip to their final home, so on and so forth. It was an adventure and it is a once in a lifetime experience. This hasn’t happened for a 100 years and I pray that it never happens again.

We managed to survive all that and emerge as winners. The road to three of our homes was blocked so we went to Ipsita’s house where we cooked for ourselves and had a cool time. Our families couldn’t be contacted because of the network collapse but out of the whole ordeal RANJANA was the most difficult to bear and if I hear the ‘Vrindavani sarang’ once more…. People will accuse me of murder!!!

adventures... adventures... adventures...

Call me a freak but I love college SO much that I went in spite of the Met department’s warning. I wasn’t the only one though. There were 45 other people AND the teacher. Well… after lecture 1, it was 26/7 all over again. We were SO psyched out!!! All of us in the foyer chatting and laughing about how cool it would be to be stuck in college again.. all jokes that in some twisted way CAME TRUE!!! Frantic calls from concerned parents, boyfriends, girlfriends and anyone who cared about you!!! MUMBAI WAS IN ACTION!!! Last time the spirit of Mumbai manifested itself in the outpouring of help and support. This year it was the same if not more.
So here are my adventures…

Lectures end at 10.30 because of dire warnings of “THE DELUGE”. So we convince our enthusiastic teacher (Vara) to take a rest and hurry home. She sportingly agrees. Considering the experience I had last time (stuck in a car for 22 hours with four wacky friends) the same four (Ipsita, Ranjana, Reuben and me) decided to go home together (because we stay 5 minutes from each other). So with our 18 year old wisdom we go to the foyer and stuff ourselves with food… and we weren’t the only ones!!! Talk about people who think alike!!! Everyone who attended that day was eating like it was doomsday!!!

Fed and watered we decide to brave the journey home with the spirit of adventure and a feeling akin to what the three musketeers had. But hopes of making a safe way home came crashing down with parents screaming at the other end of our cell phones that the trains had stopped. So with no other option left but to either stay at college OR go to a classmate’s house we choose the latter. Poor guy (Thapas)!!! We pounced on him like a tsunami and he had this look about him that “what the hell did I get into???” he was a close friend and we had crashed into his place many times before but never dripping wet… and the best part was… no parents!!! That didn’t mean anything coz his bro and sis were there with his cool, hip grandma. We had fun… not total fun because Thapas’ brother beat me at chess. But we ate, danced, talked and basically had ourselves a whale of a time!!!

Parents call frantically again : (( [those cell phones should never have been invented. they are like tracking beams!!] they say, no scream, leave and leave quick before it starts raining again. So we bundle ourselves out as fast as possible into a cab and ride to Mumbai Central station. Trains arrive with a frequency of one every half hour so we quickly get into the first one. Full isn’t the word for it!!! Overflowing, bursting at the seams, call it anything. It was more than full. It looked like the exodus!!! We made our way back safely though. The usual journey that took us 40 minutes took us 2 hours. But looking at the bright side we made it back to our station in one piece!!!

Then we are waiting for a bus at the bus stop. One bus every hour. Then the good news cell phone rings again proclaiming that the place where I stay is safe but all roads leading there are flooded. A collective groan from the three of us is interrupted by the arrival of Ranjana’s bus. She ditched us and ran for it and jumped on with the agility of a gymnast. Ipsita had ditched us at Mumbai central station in favour of her best friend’s house close by. So Reuben and I are waiting helplessly at the bus stop because we don’t want to walk home. The adventurous spirit was wearing down. We just wanted a warm bed and hot coffee or tea. Ruben (another friend) to the rescue!!! He surfaces with his bike and I vroom away leaving Reuben to his destiny. I promise him I’ll send transport soon enough … translated as Ruben will pick him up. I LOVED going on the bike through knee deep water!!!

So I get back home safely, silently cursing the rain Gods and my parents’ vocal chords. Whoever thought there was an age limit to be grounded!!!

NOTE TO ALL WHO READ THIS: this isn’t as horrifying as what happened last year. Oh the AGONY!!! I’m emotionally scarred for life!!!
I’ll post that next time!!!

What happened here?

Why did I stop writing??? Why did I lay my pen on paper never to pick it up again? Is it because I stopped believing I could write? Is it because I began to think no one appreciated it? Whatever the reason may be I realized I gave up an integral part of me. Writing is something that was an outlet for my very soul - be it a poem or a story or a simple essay. It took me 2 days and a seminar to realize, I wrote for myself and if people came across it, good for them. I am in love with my pen and paper once more. After this I will be able to reproduce what I write in film, an effective medium. I will be able to let the world take a look at a soul that I hid so long.

They talked about dreams. They meant a lot to me…and they still do. But somewhere along the line I have lost focus. I am young and vibrant and full of dreams. What I lacked was the determination to see them materialize into reality. I don’t hesitate anymore and I am not afraid of my dreams. I WILL make them happen.

This discussion has somehow changed the way I look at myself as a person and other people. I wonder how a group of people with THEIR dreams can change the way I think. It seems ridiculous… even to me. I who always scoffed at such meets and discussions am actually empowered by it!!! They are a bunch of people my age or a little older and they had such a profound effect on me. Somewhere deep sown everything they said I kept telling myself “this is their job, they are going to say stuff like this”. but after Jourdan read “the dreamer’s manifesto” I came into the light. Everyone who spoke added something that has enriched my life and made me a better person, a better friend, daughter, sister and a better human being.

Everyone was going ga-ga over them. They were really good. I don’t know if I should tell them what an impact they had on my life. Surprising! because I have been an extremely frank person all my life and not afraid to speak my mind. Yet, I am a little apprehensive. I don’t really know why. Maybe I should. Then maybe I shouldn’t.