kabootar ja ja ja, kabootar ja ja ja

Pah! I’ve turned into a freak. A mush ball who’ll start cooing like a demented pigeon any minute now.

And it all started when we were talking about our bed last night. It’s a huge king size bed, that could easily fit three. Nah, we’re not talking what you’re thinking.

Anyway so A tells me, “shit, maybe we shouldn’t have bought this huge bad-ass bed.” Reference to context: our tiny to be house, no thanks to the pathetic folks at ING Vysya (see, never lose an opportunity to bad-mouth them.)

Anyway back to cooing. So I tell A, “But this bed is fabulous. We’re no longer fighting over who takes up most of the bed and viciously digging our elbows in to each other, to make some space.”

Two minute pause. We’re both thinking of our previous bed. And our undignified attempts at grabbing more space, which included kicking, elbow shoving, and stabbing at the ribs.

Then A grins and says, “ Ya, that’s true. This bed is huuuge. Sometimes I have to find you at night.”

Oooooooooh. I turn to mush. He actually, in his sleep, reaches out for me…and he actually said that.

I played it cool. But inside I’m just about ready to hug a soft toy and start singing, “ main teri hoon janam, tu mera piya…”

*photo chepoed off http://www.crestock.com

men, mister, master and other musings

I just spent the whole day reading a book borrowed from an eleven year old girl.

So there I was sprawled on the futon, my legs on the backrest, as I gobbled up a vampire love story, Twilight by Stephenie Meyer.

The book is a pretty racy read, though in parts the lovelorn bits were too much. Even though I know those are the parts making young girls swoon.

But the point of this blog is to wonder what makes us, as girls and women, go weak in the knees. I remember reading Nancy Drew at eleven. And she had a boyfriend. But there was no weak in the knees about him. He was just a wholesome American boy who did everything Nancy said.

Then I remember Pride and Prejudice. And Mr. Darcy. The first character in fiction that I fell in love with. I adored his aloofness. His air of mystery. The misunderstood man. The man who could be so sarcastic and yet you would want to fling yourself at him.

Then came Karan Kapoor. The Bombay Dyeing Man. And suddenly every young teenage girl was softly singing dream lover while looking into the horizon. Dream Lover had no time for nonsense. He would sweep you of your feet, without your permission.

Then I read this book...and my mind is ticking. It’s the same thing. A vampire who been there, done that. Lived in millions of cities, through thousands of centuries. And now falls in love as a teenager, and spends the entire novel saving his mortal woman.

 Say what you may, women don’t change. At the heart of it all they want a masterful man.

Sure, I don’t mean he should bully me around, or dictate who I meet or what I do. Yesh

But...haven’t you ever been swept away into a kiss that you didn’t realise was coming. Or had your hand grabbed and taken to places without you having a clue. Or just the way a guy has asked you something or said something, or taken charge. No hesitation, no can I, is it okay... just full on confidence. And you are like wow...you are my daddy!

That’s really it. Warped as it may sound. Sometimes a guy just has to be masterful enough for you to feel like a silly girl who’s got this daddy guy who’s going to manage it all.

And you start unconsciously reacting to that strange complex feeling right from when you’re eleven to probably when you’re sixty.

So men, there’s a lesson here. And a disclaimer. The woman has to feel that about you. And you got to gauge when she does. Do not try it if you ain’t hundred per cent sure. Many masterful men have got kicked in the balls!

crash into me

It’s 4pm on a Sunday afternoon.

I’m in that halfway land where my body is asleep and my brain is going about switching the lights off.

I can hear the phone ringing. Far far away. First I think I’ll ignore it, and then because I can never resist a ringing phone, I take it.

L, she shouts into my ear. Remember me? From college. I got your number from P, and I’m now in London, and I saw you on facebook and......

And I’m seventeen. Away from home for the first time. I’ve never lived in a big city before. My father is in the Air Force, so I’ve been brought up in the safety net of a cantonment. All my friends, boys and girls are wholesome, my going out is restricted to rather wholesome jam sessions, my taste is music is pretty mainstream (Grammy and Top of the Pops), my clothes are what I think is cutting edge cool (Weekender!), my haircut is well, my mom’s talent at cutting hair was always restricted to what she called the Lady Diana cut.

And then, suddenly I’m seventeen. In college. In a hostel. In a big city.

R and P are my closest friends in the hostel. It’s a warm day in April. We’ve got ten days off, to study for our exams. P’s gone home to Nasik. That leaves me and R, in a state of
summer lethargy. We have our books open, sprawled across the bed, the fan slowly whirring. Drowsy and bored we’re trying hard to concentrate.

Suddenly R jumps up. We’re going out, enough is enough. I’m staring at her, trying hard to fight off sleep, wondering where we could go. Shiv Sagar, Linking Road, Hill Road.

We’re going for a makeover. She’s three years older to me, and considers it perfectly normal to bully me around. So in ten minutes flat we’re in an auto rickshaw speeding towards Nalini&Yasmeen. I’ve never been to a fancy parlour, let alone one where Dimple Kapadia is sitting next to me. I’m so awestruck I don’t say a word. My hair is snipped, till it’s really short. They tell me it’s called a blunt cut. The thing is I’m feeling like I got hit on the head with something blunt, because the haircut costs me hundred bucks. Hundred bucks to look like a million bucks.

Anyway R looks completely different too. Very glam. So now we’re like two infected mushrooms. We can’t stop grinning at how good we look. We head straight back to the hostel to change. I wear my shortest dress and Ruchika wears her tightest jeans. Now we’re ready. With nowhere to go.

So we step out. Decide to catch a train to Churchgate. Pretty woman is running in Eros. On a whim, we stop at a PCO. I want to call V. Aah V. Hot V. Strange V. Moody V. Dark V. Nothing like I’ve ever known V.

So I call V at his hostel. It’s my lucky day because V is manning the phone that day. I hear his voice, and as usual I turn into a little hormonal swimming pool of love and longing. Any way, it’s also my lucky day because V lazily laughs and says he’ll meet us outside Eros. By the way, V is Goan. And nothing like the guys I’ve ever known. He wears his hair long, listens to White Snake and is always languid.

And at seventeen I’m in love with V.

So we reach Eros. I can barely sit still in the train. I’m standing at the door, the wind ruffling my new hair do. R is screaming “ sau rupaiye ka naash!” But I’m counting stations, five to go before I see V.

We standing in front of Eros. As are a few hundred teenage girls. The show is running houseful. Even the black marketers are throwing up their hands in resignation. The only one who doesn’t care is me. Because I can see V making his way through the crowd. Walking towards me.

He grins, when R tells him no tickets. We walk to Sundance cafe, to grab a coffee and figure what to do. He smiles at me and says, “Nice hair!” I promptly resolve to call nalini and Yasmeen to our wedding.

I’m in la la land, while R and V make a plan. It’s an elaborate plan, and they are grinning like mad. I just hear select words like V, V and you, V and the train, V and his friend.

Anyway, we’re soon on the train back to the suburbs. It’s pretty empty. V and I are standing near the door. Opposite each other. Silence. The sound of the train. The wind whipping my hair.

Anyway, the night goes on. It involves buying beer. Picking up K, a friend of V’s who we meet for the first time. Trying to drive K’s car. Parking at the beach. Drinking beer at K’s lawn. And finally all four of us smuggling into K’s house at 3 am.

By now we’ve all giggling about anything and nothing. The mood is set. K and R are getting along like a house on fire. K’s room is huge. And has a balcony attached to it.
They disappear to the balcony.

And V and I are sitting in the room. Me on the bed, dangling my feet. V on the couch. Opposite each other. Silent. The only noise is all the thoughts in my head. Will he kiss me. Please kiss me. Maybe he’ll kiss me. Shit, what if he kisses me, and then we fall on the bed. SEX. No way. Okay...maybe. I don’t know. Shit, I should have worn better underwear. Ok, we’ll just stop at a kiss. Maybe ten kisses...

Then V smiles and says, “You take the bed, I’ll take the couch.”

I’m staring at him. He stretches out on the couch and says, “You’re a kid. Someday you’ll understand.” And he shuts his eyes.

Damn. So today, when R speaks to me, it all runs through my head in a flash. And suddenly I think I know what he’s talking about.

He’s gay!

But then I think no, there’s a deeper, simpler meaning there.

Sometimes, however hard you want something, you will just not get it. That’s life dude.

it happened in Pune

I went to pune on a whim.

A friend was going for a night, and i decided to tag along. She had some work, which revolved around swigging neat scotch whiskey for free. Ya, more on that later.


Anyway, the point of this post is pune always reminds me of romance. Here's why.


The rogue grew up in pune. His parents lived in far flung assam (then it must have been really far flung, considering now it takes 40 hours by train.)


And the rogue, being the eldest child landed up living with his grandfather in pune cantt. His grandfather was a very social general in the army. And the rogue was a handful.


Who soon got expelled from his strict boy's school when he was discovered in the girl's hostel of the neighbouring sister school.


And that's how he landed up in a co-ed boarding school, in Pune!


He soon made friends with a girl in his class who would cover for him and pass him her notes. She had a shy little sister, who also studied in the same school.


Anyway so the rogue's studious friend was soon found out. Some notes she had copied for him were found, and in the assembly she, the model student, was made an example off. The rogue everyone knew had no future, but she seemed hell-bent on ruining hers as well.


She cried, and her shy sister consoled her. The whole school was talking about the rogue and the studious one. Boyfriend girlfriend, haw-haw.


They passed out of tenth, the studious one never looking or talking to the rogue. In fact, the shy baby sister, used to run away every time she saw him.


Then one day, a couple of years later, the rogue came to bombay. he was handsome, could charm the whiskers off a cat and more importantly, he had found his calling. He was a pilot.


He had two days in Bombay before going off to godforsaken Assam (yes, Assam keeps featuring in this story). Two days of transit, before he reported to his first base.


What better time to try and make it to first base (sorry, could not resist that bad pun) ?


So he remembers a studious girl in his class who lived in Bombay. He looks through his trunk with his name stencilled on the side, and he finds her number in an old address book. He dials.


A girl picks up the phone. She tells him studious is now in the UK. She got married you see.


He knows that shy voice. He asks if it's her. She's surprised. And says yes.


They meet. She takes him around Bombay. She's beautiful. Tall, slim, young, a little unsure, a little shy.


And like they say in all romatic novels, the two days just flew by.


The rogue went to make his career. The shy girl went back to her job. He flew aircrafts and wrote long letters to her. She rode the bus to her office, and thought about him.


Finally six months later, he got a week off. He spent six days travelling, so they could spend one day together.


So this how they fell in love. My parents. Who got married one evening, because they couldn't stand the thought of being separated again.


Who lived apart for six months after two days of being married, because my father 'forgot' to inform his bosses. And the rules said he could not get married.


Who finally when they were together, managed a honeymoon in goa, after my dad took a car loan.


Two totally different people from two totally different worlds. And it all started in Pune.


Maybe that's why I like going there once in a while.

If I could, I would tell you I love you

I never wanted to be anything like her.

Which is sad. Because she loved me like no one else.

But love, like we all know, is just as straight and simple as a tangled mass of overhead wires over a DDA colony.

She loved me the way she knew how to. Strict. Scared. And vulnerable.

All because she never believed in herself enough. She didn’t go to college. She didn’t work. She was never financially independent. Or wildly popular.

And then she married a man, who was everything she was scared to be. He loved everything new. And he was fearless.

So again, like we all know, love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring. Well, this one made a ring that trapped them both.

She scared. He happy. She fearful. He gregarious. She friendless. He loved by everyone. And the more everyone fell in love with him, the more uncertain she became.

Because, you see, he was the only thing she had.

Then she had me.

And I sensed all her fear, all her insecurities. I didn’t understand them. But I knew I was the only one she had. To take them out on.

And I built a wall around myself. I kept her out. I blocked her from my head, my mind. I was scared of her moods, her temper, her questions, her expectations.

So I ran away. Only to return with my return ticket firmly in my pocket. With a friends number at hand. With enough money to flee at the slightest chance.

For years I battled my demons. The biggest was will I ever turn out to be like her. Sometimes I found myself using the same words as her. Or the same lines. And however innocuous they were, they chilled me. The same words? The same lines?
The same fear. I was turning into her.

Then, something changed. And two years back we started to talk. On the telephone. First short conversations. Then slightly longer. Initially a little hesitant. Then a little more confident.

They came to meet me. Yes, love is a burning thing. And it makes a fiery ring. But this time it looked like they were bound by it. Some good, some bad...but well, like we all know that’s love.

So anyway, they met me. It was a start. They met me some more. I visited them. A day, two days... and now a week.

Then today I saw dust. In the bookshelves. I saw a high cabinet that had fingerprints near the handle. I saw a toaster that looked like it had been used and then kept on the side.

And I saw her. A little more human. Not so exacting. Older. More willing to forgive. Gentler. Happy.

And I realised she’s making an effort. To battle her demons. And she’s been making one for the last two years. It’s not that easy to change. But she is trying her best.

That’s when I realised I still don’t want to be her.

But neither do I want to be without her.

Then...this is to us. And the effort we make.

patterns on the wall

when you lie

i see

blank walls

with marks

where pictures hung

a matteress

resting against

the walls of moving van

plastic packets

old newspapers

empty bottles

scruffy door mats

all left in the landing

i see

silence

wet eyelashes

a tap that drips

a clothesline that's empty.

when you lie i see

my life without you

and i make myself believe you.

sweet summer

i was eighteen that summer.

just back from college. with two months to kill.

he was twenty.

waiting to go start his training. with two months to kill.

we had to meet. we were just three people that age out there. he, his sister and i.

so, like it happens in the movies and the books, we hung out.

we went for walks. we drank copious amounts of mango shake sitting on the steps of my house. we went exploring on his scooter. and we talked and talked.

his sister at some point left us alone. so that's how we ended up spending most of the summer together. my mother was amused, and insists even today that he polished off all her snacks waiting around for me. but it was perfect.

warm in the mornings. warm enough to drink cold coffee in tall glasses with lots of ice in it. warm enough to go driving off across bad roads, stop under a large tree and watch a train roll past in the distance.

warm enough to just sit in my room under the fan, talking about friends and things we wanted to see and do. warm enough to walk lazily to the mess, and pick books from the library. warm enough to stand at the gate endlessly, talking again, until it was time to go home for lunch.

warm enough to meet again in the evening, and hang out at the kids park. to sit in my driveway, and try and fix my rickety old moped together. and warm enough for regular tambola nights.

then, finally the day when we had to leave. strange, because somehow we were on the same vehicle to calcutta. i don't remember saying bye or what it felt like. but i remember writing to him for a few months. and then slowly the summer faded from my memory.

it was the sweetest summer. i liked him. i thought he liked me too. but i never asked. and neither did he.

then sixteen years later, i speak to him this morning. he doesn't sound anything like he did. but then i really don't remember. we laugh, talk all jumbled, try and fill in the years.

i tell him we'll meet. but i don't think so. not because of anything. but because somethings are meant to stay blurred, slightly faded.

and some summers are meant to stay perfect.

remind me, how old am I?

i hate partings.

not the one's in your hair, but the tata types.

so naturally these days i'm a bit down and out. and when i start to pms, that will become an understatement.

but, the thing is, the man I'm mad about, who will henceforth be referred to as MIAMA on this blog is going to climb a mountain. He's going to be gone for three weeks. Minimum.

To a neighbouring country, where the flights are dicey and telecommunication is not very good, unless he carries a satellite phone. or a homing pigeon.

So I'm not going to see his mug every morning and evening. I'm not going to sleep knowing that he's right beside me. And I'm not going to be able to call him any time I feel like.

I'm happy he's going. Because we must all do our thing that gives us joy. But I am, though I'm trying not to, a little worried.

Then there's the car I'm mad about (CIAMA!) . It's been with me for seven years. And I'm in a serious committed relationship with it. But now, it's sounding wierd. After the last servicing, the engine doesn't sound like it used to. They changed the horn, and I can hardly recognise the sound. And now I know it has to go.

And then to top it all, this morning, when I'm driving to work, the damn FM station decides to play sad love songs. The depressing mopey kinds.

Darn. I really need to get my big girl underwear out.

scary shit

why is it love so difficult? when does it turn in to a habit? when does it release you? when does it drag you down?

when do you say enough? when do you say sorry? when do you ask for another chance? when do you decide there will be no other chance?

when do you think you can give it all up? when do you think you have the strength to walk alone? when do you think you still have the love to have another go?

my first brush

apologies for not having written in days. but i've been really happy and busy.

and that just proves my pet theory that if you are unhappy you have lots to write about.

and that brings me to my next best pet theory. there are two types of unhappiness. one is delicious - because you know it's shortlived, or because you know that it's not really such a big deal. like for instance a trivial fight, a break up with someone you would anyway have broken up with. it's emotional cleansing. you can cry, have an outburst, gather all your friends, grab lots of sympathy, shop a lot, and wake up smiling two days later. these unhappy moments are meant to be juiced.

the second unhappiness is the serious kind. your spouse/lover/friend leaves you. someone you love dies. that kind of thing. you get the drift right? the kind that leaves you feeling someone just wrenched your gut out, and you takes days, and weeks, and months and sometimes years to get over it.

anyway, my first brush with unhappiness was when i was in school. i liked this guy. ya, right ... what else could cause unhappiness when you are 15. his name was AZ. sorry about the initials, fat chance that he's reading my blog but anyway....

point is AZ was tall, handsome, soft spoken. had lovely brown eyes. a super sexy accent ( his folks had just moved back from Botswana). and he was two years senior to me.

so in class eight, i spend all my time drawing his name all over my school books. i craned my neck during assembly every morning just so i could see him. i decided the water cooler that was closest to his class had the coldest water. i sat in the scorching summer sun, watching the school cricket team in action. sometimes, i was the sole spectator.

and i thought no one knew.

then in class nine i realised everyone knew. my whole class used to try and push me on to him, when we passed his class in assembly. everytime he walked past my class, there would be wild cheering and hooting. and to my utter mortification we landed up being in the same damn Ashoka house. By now, not just my class, even his class knew. My famous crush has gone around the school.

End of class nine. last day of school. Everyone is delirious. saying bye. eating golas. Throwing ink on each other. There's chaos outside the school. Buses are honking. Those of us on cycles are waiting for friends. That one day, no one is in any hurry to leave.

Suddenly, in slow motion, I look up from my cycle, to see AZ walking towards me. My first reaction is to flee. Just jump on my cycle and get the hell out of there. But I'm frozen, rooted to the spot. He stops right in front of me. Looks down at me, and smiles. My heart stops beating. Then kickstarts with a loud noise that should make everyone around me jump.

I can hear giggling from behind me. No one says anything. Finally he says, " Hi...I'm A. " As if I didn't know. I know his name, his surname, his favourite colour, his pet's name, his house address, his two sisters, his favourite sport. But just then, my ears are ringing, my face is a horrible mottled red, my fringe is poking into my eyes...and nothing is coming out of my mouth. So I continue to grin.

He says, " I thought we could be friends." I can feel someone poking me in the ribs. It's my best friend, S, who's in class eleven. She pokes me again. I know I have to say something now...anything....

" Hi, I'm S. And I'm really late. So I'll see you later."

And I turn my cycle and ride off as fast as I can. My friends catch up with me five minutes later and they are shaking with laughter. They pull me off my cycle and we roll around by the side of the road. Them clutching their stomachs, me my head. I can't believe I could have been such an ass.

So it goes on.
Class tenth. He comes to see me in my class. I jump out of the window. My class is on the first floor, I break my hand.

I'm running down the stairs. Suddenly I see him and his friends at the bottom. I miss two steps, and twist my ankle.

Finally he calls me and my best friend S to his birthday party. I don't go. Not just because I'm shy, but because my mom would grill me, and my face would be a dead give away.

But S goes. And things are never the same again. Because a week later she tells me that she went to his party, because she is in love with him. And she told him that, and now.... here's where the unhappiness bit comes in .... they are going around. boyfriend girlfriend. in love. together. a & S. he tall, she tall. me on my cycle.

I come home. and sit on the dining table, and eat my lunch, and open my books and study. And then when it's really hot and the even the fans can't muster up the enthusiasm to keep going, my parents go to sleep. and i lock myself in the bathroom. and i cry and i cry.

and that summer day, i have my first brush with unhappiness.

Q & A

Always fall in love with someone, who loves you more than you love him?

I saw this on sex and the city last night. And i remembered a similar conversation a friend, M, and I had few months back. We both discovered our mothers had given us the same advice.

I think it stinks like the sulabh sauchalaya on tulsi pipe (how i know that is another story. Something to do with traffic and a failed attempt with a plastic packet) First, it goes against all my romantic notions. Not the Sulabh, but the question posed on top. Two, how do you measure this love equation?

What if you slowly start finding yourself falling more in love than you want to? What if the balance starts getting disturbed? It’s no longer 20-60, it’s now inching towards 50-50 – gosh, what would you do?

Start reminding yourself how weird he looks when he snores. Stop laughing at his jokes, and instead concentrate on the blackhead he has on his nose. Hope that he gets a cold, and you can catch him with snot running down his mouth?

Really. It makes no sense.

And what about anticipation?

He calls, and you yawn. He writes you a letter, you forget to open it. He wants to take you out to dinner, you’d much rather watch a rerun of Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki.

How sad is that. No waiting for calls. No has he messaged me. No dying to see him. Just ho-hum, I’m in love with him, but not as much as he is.

So then the answer is, it’s much more fun to be in love and be slightly manic about it. It ensures you’ll wear better clothes. Wax more often. Do your eyebrows like clockwork. Listen to sappy songs like “ You’re beautiful” and actually resist the urge to throw up.

And then there's always that ... if you’re madly in love and are just a little insecure, you’ll at least try and suck your stomach in.

Don’t know about you. But that’s incentive enough for me. : D