Song of the Sirens

"You got a photographer yet?"

"No"

"Are you travelling some place after?"

"I don't know"

"What are you wearing?"

"I haven't seen it yet. I trust Mom"

"How the fuck are you not losing your mind?"

I arrived three weeks in advance. Everything was almost done and as for the silly, trivial things, I was not going to let them get in my way. I would be a cool bride. I'd  be the opposite of cold-feet, anti-bridezilla. I'd be composure pacified, chilled in the freezer. My friends were impressed.

Reality hit three minutes after I walked out of the airport. When was the last time I was in 38 degree Celsius heat? At 10:30 in the night? Someone once described "Jahannum" to me - "It'd be burning hot and the water would be boiling. You'd drink it, but it'd NEVER quench the thirst." That was what I landed in. But, what is a little heat stroke when you are set to marry the love of your life, right? WRONG. This good man, this sweet soul had never seen me under yellowed skies of dusty Indian summer. Or hung out with both my parents. Acclimatization was in order for both of us.  No amount of chilled beer was going to help and it was too late to elope now.

I had heard all sorts of sordid tales of people getting  married back home. I laughed and I sympathized. I never understood. "You are happy. Don't give a fuck and you'll be fine". But does that ever work? Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, has an opinion and a constant urge to share it with you. I was told by a neighbor Aunty to not sit cross-legged in front of his parents. "Yes, let's pretend they are old-fashioned fascists and my exposed feet will make them reject me as a sanskaari bahu. More importantly, do we even know each other, Aunty?" A saree salesman did not even bother veiling his indignation at my bias for light colored sarees. "Aap dulhan ho, inhe dekho bhi mat." I was left speechless. It always takes a little while to rediscover the existence of my tongue there. Enough of this Amreekan niceness. The ennui of an ordered life is not for the motherland. When in India, do as... Beast Mode On! I embraced the chaos. Morning runs, Bisleri hunts, seamstress woes, rings for toes - all of it.
And so it started. Multiple poojas to bless an agnostic couple seems hardly misplaced in India. Like good kids, we listened to the mothers. They don't ask for much anyway. Or so THEY think. Mine was determined to be perennially stressed with sudden bouts of absolute joy and then of categorical melancholia, surroundings be damned.

"Aww, we brought you home that very day from the hospital after you were born. And now you'll leave home on the same day again."
"Mom, I did leave home. Years ago. And who on earth remembers this kind of detail?"
"Aww you look like a bride (crying in the department store)."
"Mom..."

I gave her a hug and then I gave up. After all, what is an Indian wedding if you don't break down in boutiques in front of a hundred strangers? If you aren't found in vulnerable positions in "beauty" salons where at best you'd be naked and at worst in real, scream-inducing pain? If you aren't stuck in traffic en route to your own wedding? If your friends don't go looking for alcohol for you in the middle of  the ceremonies. All this in search of socially acceptable means to be with a man who is as willing to jeopardize his own sanity for you. There exists no bigger test. I would have said we aced it. But then, that'd be egotistical indulgence. We barely survived. Our sanities have been on a break since, at a spa in the Himalayas. We wish them speedy recovery. And that they find their way back home soon or we be able to join them there.

Eja

She doesn't have warm hands they write poetry about. Instead, she has perennially wet fingers for cooking thrice a day. They don't warm me up on a winter morning when she wakes me up. No, they have always crackled like icicles since when she taught me to stand on my own. They are the kind that hold my wrist when my vehement blood boils and soak in the heat running through my veins.They are the kind that are placed on my feverish, dolorous eye-ducts and defy physics to transfer placidity. They are her hands, that I have now.

Scratttcccchhhh

Time zones - Part 2

I even dream of you now
On the other end of the phone.
Do you know how many miles of submarine communication cables are there between us?
Do you know how many people are there between us?
Billions.
I would get tired even if they all carried me one-by-one to you.

P.S. Some drafts are meant to see the light of the day years after they were conceived. Oh well!

Chez moi!

Because I'll be leaving my own little haven. And because I love it so much that I need to document it.

Do you remember when we couldn't any more?

Do you remember when the turtles crawled up the ceiling , hanging upside down,

Milky Way gleaming on their shells?

Our own giant stars, they were.

And that one time when you placed a drop of rain on my osmotic throat,

You thought it'd quench my perennial thirst.

All it did was make my insides drier.

When, once, lilies grew in the tumultuous winds

Their petals spinning in spirals.

We were sucked into its vortex, floating in the low pressured center.

Or the time when the clouds caressed my body and you hated them for it?

When we walked carelessly on crunchy snails on the forest path

And the pitter-patter of the rain became an ominous growl.

Was it the snails getting back at us? Or the Gods?

I don't feel gods under my feet, 

I feel only snail squash, and it makes me jump.

I believe in snails, 

Soft and hard

Linear and curvy

Fallible, squashable.

Who can believe in gods?

Infallible, unsquashable.

So unreal, so unlike us!

Waiting in vain?

Sometimes happiness wears you out too. Some days, this inertia, borne out of satisfaction of mere existence, is (weirdly) just enough. I sleep well. I have almost forgotten how to be bluesy (much to the chagrin of my Flamenco teacher). On other occasions, I try to shake my insides for an ounce of any emotion other than glee, to feel something else. Not sadness. Longing, may be, for the summer rain, or for my father's arms. But, I seem to be fine with windy days, sunny skies and perpetual company of me. Then, one hour ago, I found her. I am still figuring if it's too early to be obsessing already. No I am not. I am dancing to her divine voice. It's past midnight. I'll be dipping my fingers in paints soon. I long to lay down on the wooden patio of the shack with him under a billion blinding stars, smelling cold air and thick coniferous cover. The lassitude ebbs away.

Oh Hindi Zahra, your wine-stained mouth is beautiful and, might I add, oddly inspiring.

You and I

In this caffeinated world!

Echoes of the lotus stalk flute

How many times had we met like this? At airports, train stations, bus stops. Yet, how different was this? This anomaly of separation of time and hearts in the midst of lost suitcases! This severance of bond that you insisted on. That dissatisfaction, of desolate miles between us, that I reiterated. 

Spirits whispered about us once. In my glee I could not keep it in, and you laughed that laugh of a disbeliever. A different time, you say. "That was when we stared at the flickering light-bulb in a mountain-shack and dreamed of a house by the lake." "No, that was when my Tuesday market whims came to you clad in Hindi letters, and beyond-your-years-wisdom arrived to me on the airwaves." That story of ours was woven in songs read by lasers. It cooked on slow heat of your mallet fingers and thawed my perpetually frozen extremities. The indecipherable was spoiled and the decipherable not challenged. 

I banished that whisper, after a while, to a world of "has-beens". You forfeited that nightly banter and beggary of "just two more minutes" to me long ago. I got your voice lullabying me through my insolent sleep for alms, and I kept it. The days were spent in wanderlust and fervent seeking of a purpose. You and I, "we" had become.

The spirits spoke again. You didn't hear it because this time around, they whispered through you and I became your bad penny. I saw again the almost forgotten apricity of your face, the dance of our midnight strolls through streets of your city in your eyes. I saw the slight smile of relief for a moment at the sight of me. And that half minute metamorphosed into the cornucopia of our bond, a belonging we had been longing for, a lifetime worth of peace. Deconstructed was the syntax of the universe and of my being. In that moment I dissolved in your mirth. In that moment I was safe. I was, finally, home.

Of Halo Errors

My arms ache. Three days of maneuvering a humongous Spanish fan during Flamenco, Kinect boxing, Flamenco again. Kicked some serious butt all three days.

I'm so tired I can't sleep

I'm a liar and a thief

I sit and drink pennyroyal tea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My parents are worried, as any set of Indian parents with grown ass kids who aren't married usually are. Got an email in the morning a couple of months ago. "Approve/edit the matrimonial ad for the newspaper". Oh man, it's only 7 am. A hurried "Yes, it looks good. Catch you later." My 3 week grace period to recover was over. They "decided" I had to move on. Finally I did get down to reading it.

"Jeez, who the hell are they talking about? This is so generic. I am not (no humility here). They have prided in me being strong and individualistic. Why are they down-playing everything? When did I become pious?"

The ideas parents bludgeon their kids with and the reality, they are hard to reconcile sometimes. I am being marketed as the perfect bride, a concept (utterly flawed one if you ask me- who wants to marry a pious girl?) that would appeal. This is not going to work. I am taking over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My own private social experiment.

Day 1: The profile's been set up and let loose on the interwebz with help from closest friend (both heart and geography wise). Thank you very much. The name is fake, dark, and only discernible to a reader. The detail is humorous (that's how I roll), but true. No pictures. I know the effects of "gori chitti kudi" on desi bride hunters.

Day 3: Nothing yet. My delightful writing has no takers except for one CatcherInTheRye. Others want pictures, horoscope, stamps, spouse visa. Oh well.

Day 4: Carefully chosen pictures in non-revealing clothes. Not the matrimonial kind though. One is with the Berkeley Rex, the other with my serious chashma. Still not completely giving in, are we? Strong urge to put this one up. Someone would get it. Someone.

Day 5: The inbox is flooded. Seriously? Now, I am even more disillusioned. But, then a friend asks if I judged people on what they read or what movies they watched. "Only all the time, dude". Point well made. I am as shallow. More time given. Let's start talking now. I am bad at small talk. But, if I am going to do this a la "instant coffee", I need everything served on a platter right now. Your dislikes, dreams, whims, passions. I do NOT need to know where your brother-in-law works, what gotra you are (how does it matter which so-called sage's lineage you are from?), or how many MNCs you've worked for previously. Three men, two conversations with each. I am thoroughly confused. Information overload. AY is tickled by the irony of it all. "Maintain a spreadsheet". Oh so hilarious you are! You are welcome for the entertainment I am providing you. But, I am too old, too rebellious, too un-meant for this.

Fortunately, life came in the way. Travel, friends, concerts, retail therapy. Another year completed on this Mother Earth, sparking more anxiety  back home. Watched Nebbou in a movie. Messaged my french hottie on the other coast. Told him I thought of him, "qu'est-ce que tu fais?" sent etc.. He replied saying he misses me ALL the time, looking for a job in San Fran. We haven't talked in THREE years. What the Helvetica? I forget he treats me as his unconquered kingdom, his Waterloo. He's cute, with an accent that weakens knees, physicist too. I've seen women drool over him. So charming, inappropriate, and irresistible all together that I had to subject him to the Good Indian Girl spiel (always handy with the foreign culture card). But then, men who are so aware of their hotness turn piss me off. I was pissed off. 

Anon: "What do you want?"
Me: "I want to possess. I want to be possessed."
Anon: "Kiddo, you are too passionate for your own good."
Me: "Wo jism bhi kya jism hai jismein na ho khoon-e-junoon, kya lade toofan se jo kashti-e-sahil mein hai?"
Anon: "How do you belt out such random shizz on the go?"
Me: "I have this stuck on my cubical wall. I can go Bhagat Singh on you ANYTIME. Besides, as Ma says..shabdon ko mat dekho, tathya ki gehraayi samjho"

For now, I am just excited about the upcoming long weekend (I know it's not a long weekend, it's for me ), the ensuing travel to quench that wanderlust, my people, music and love. As for the experiment, I am exhausted. I like my coffee brewed, percolated drop-by-drop. I can't do this. Shut it down, shut it down! Settle- I never have, and it's not happening in the future. 

Wicked ways of love

Five stages of loss. They should have happened. I walked out of a well laid out future. They should have happened, right? Moment of clarity, tipping point, or just plain vanilla wake up call, whatever one calls it, but I missed the Denial memo altogether.

Stage 1- Rage. The blood ran. Anger lived. Kept away from grief (Only wets the face and dries up the soul. Mostly unrequited and undeserved).
Stage 2- Jumping out of a plane (Yes, symbolism can be a lot of fun).

Of course many a conversations happened afterwards. Sympathy was offered, empathy sometimes. Most of it largely superficial. "Better now, than later". Some more heartfelt. "Dodged a bullet". And then, I almost forgot about it till an email came my way from his friend to talk about "it". It's acting like a ghoul. Refuses to die. I thought : Thanks, but no thanks. Instead I talked to this other person.I won't use singular pronouns for them. Pronouns have inherent gender and, hence, provoke judgement. "She is a girlfriend, she's on the same team" (the whole "Chicks before dicks" shabang). "He is a GUY. Of course he'll say that to you" (he wants to get in your pants). Let's just call this person Anon.

Anon: "Are you okay?"

Me: "I guess. I have been indulging in some technically fucked-up Haiku. Other than that I think I am fine.

Leather-bound leather heart

I became in his

Contagious leathery hands"

Anon: "Yeah, that was terrible. Read something funny. Wait, let me send some of my positive energy to you. Meditate. Stop eating garlic"

Me (having spent a few hours in the darkness of Kafka abyss): "But, I am insulated. My nerves, they feel no electricity. My arteries are choked. Oh, I am wasted love. And I love my garlic naans"

Anon: "Stop being such a drama queen. Here, listen to Heartbreaker."

And that's all it took. Somehow, Robert Plant (God, my lord, I mean) bemoaning over heartbreak made me feel way better about constantly shattered and superglued back heart o'mine. Okay, it hasn't been broken THAT many times. Everyone saw it coming this time though, except us. It was not faith. It was just naive. Straw man arguments had become our drug.

नैनं छिन्दन्ति शस्त्राणि

Yes, weapons cannot pierce it. But, words do gash and slash the soul (you might as well wear your bib and nibble on it now). We were not ourselves anymore and yet we kept at it. Finally, I had decided to not be part of a binary world of "of use = keeper/ can be blamed = expendable". Apologies, but nicotine is the only vice I can handle for now.

My.. How do I put it? My nicest Ex. He decided to give me some objective, veritable, candid quality time. Passive aggressive- Yes (Thanks for the political incorrectness).Verbal lashing- You are kidding me, right? That's not you.

Well, my love, apparently I did become that.

So having decided to disappoint the said friend of the said habit, I am back to my Rumi. Hopefully, I won't be birthing any more amuse-bouche Haikus. I like my verses longer, more filling, life-giving, not teasing. Anon and I are going to enjoy a few more Proseccos while discussing "their" Gods and my Robert Plant. Impulse is ridiculously underrated and hindsight's a bitch. But, who's looking back?

Leaving home

This day, five years ago, I left home. I had ceased living with my family 4 years before that. But this, this was almost a renunciation. Left motherland, Ma, Pa, the smell of drenched earth in Monsoon, and everything that was familiar for a... I don't know what it is yet. I don't understand what I was running away from. I could have gotten great education, as good a job back there too. So what was I looking for?

This was written by M and given to me before I left. I have received many a love-letters. Some of them now only serve the purpose of reminding me my hostel's room number with their envelopes. I don't read them anyway. I can not empathize with the feelings of erstwhile me. This I read quite often. May be because M understood me better than most men I met. May be because I felt most hurt when she forsook us and this was the last bit that reminds me of her as I knew her.

No crayons and colors to wish you Happy Birthday

But words may play their vicarious part

So here I go drawing for you

With a little girl in pajamas, let us start.

Papa's pet, and Mamma's ladyship

A little doll sans dolls in her hand

Hiding in nooks and crevices of the ancient house

Breaking through into her own wonderland.

You look for her from dawn to dusk

And she's nowhere to be found.

For she's curled up with a perpetual book

Blind to the outside sound.

Now she's off on another venture

The Discovery of America, the big run

With hugs and kisses, her friends arm her

Bon Voyage they all shout in unison!!!

Wondering as an afterthought

When on the jet plane

Which book will be her companion

What wonderland will keep her sane.

I didn't open it till my birthday that year as I was instructed. And it turned out to be more beautiful a gift than I imagined. Much has been lost since then. Contact, innocence, hope, bits of our hearts and souls, a whole lot of tears. But, I have made my peace with it. I WILL see you someday. Hear this?

अंत

All she left in her vapor wake 

Is the stink of my singed heart and 

The aroma of her sugar and roses

She lived a 100 years. I had not seen her in a long time and she finally lost her patience a year ago. I heard about it from V with hints of distress on the phone. No one was allowed by Dad to display any more. I was all alone here after all. "No mourning allowed if you are alone". So I didn't cry in front of him. I found my solace in her full life(whatever that means), I imagine, of happiness, grief, leaving home, re-establishment, and a painless, peaceful departure.
Death, and it's finality are eternal truths and all other cliches. But, she was a devout Hindu. The finality of a Hindu death is even stronger. There are no promises of meeting again in a different world or a different life. All everyone strives for is Moksha, leaving behind all moh (desires) and maya (illusions). So every time it comes up my esophagus,  I try to swallow it back with some salty water. Nothing will ever make me feel as guilty as not having been with her right then. And it is never going to go away.

We, the people of India, having solemnly resolved...

Aah, a unicorn!
I found her last year. While we sat submerged in it, she was only dipping her feet in the hot tub. I stared at a few D-cups in front of me. Scared, and a little tipsy. 
"I am hearing things. Am I drunk already. This is only my second". 
"That's true."
"Wow. So, you survived India (quite literally sometimes) without having gone through foeticide, infanticide, child sexual abuse? You weren't beaten up outside a club by our moral custodians? And you want me to believe that you were never even manhandled in public even though you were totally asking for it being inebriated and loose and what not?" 
"I just had a protected child-hood"
"I wasn't particularly on the streets either, you know"
"Hmmm.."


I never thought this day would come. All my confidence in our grand democratic republic is now shattered, and with each falling piece I realize how much I miss the ogling eyes of men (so many men) on the streets of Delhi. While our police, law, and politicians can give KKK a run for their white hats when it comes to prejudices, general junta of the city- the proud owners of the y-chromosomes, are pretty indiscriminate. They would bestow any pretty, young thing with their completely unwarranted attention, no-bias-attached. How, you ask I see. Well, that PYT doesn't even need to be pretty or young. They will grope anyone/thing with a general female form regardless of age, beauty, length of hemlines, state of mind etc. All that equality gave me sniffles any time I traveled in the DTC bus or walked down in "modern clothes". Natasha Smith could have taken lessons on how to feel self-disgusted from any woman in India, instead of feeling wronged. Now that I am safe, it feels weird. The phenomenon of walking in the dark with sudden increase in visual and aural senses' acuteness largely remains inexplicable.


And I haven't even talked about the liberty of thought, and freedom of expression yet. So naturally, I asked a Dude who actually exercised it. "You see all these women with dheela character in the pubs, or for that matter even juice shops? Forget even those, see these women from the north-east, they roam about in Delhi like it is their homestate, with their fiercely free attitude which just screams I need to get some right now. I need YOU baby. Yes, their eyes scream that out." "How do you know? I don't see anyone even looking at you. Are you going to go talk to her?" Obviously the Dude is not going to be bothered with making small talk-shalk. Not like the women can ever say no to him. "And anyway, no is yes said with just eyes." Even in his village adjoining Delhi, all the women present (albeit invisible) at the village meeting voted to give away their rights to own mobile phones or marry with their own choice. Face it, honor killings are just expressions of dissent and disapproval. "Arre, Dhoble and Shri Ram Sena are not the only saviors of morality and decent women. We don't even need these outsiders for safeguarding our women here above the Vindhyachals." Surely, self-censorship is not an issue here. And this is India and not the US, where calling a woman a "slut" for asking insurance cover contraceptives on the radio would in any way be penalized. Women are killed for much less here. Freedom of expression for the win!


If you thought that unity in pluralism was a mere political rhetoric for grandiose thumb-waving in front of Pakistan and to keep Rahul Baba in business, think again. Through the ranks, the urban and the rural, the elite and the masses, everywhere the thoughts fuse together to form a beautiful harmony. Screechy altos or coughy tenors will simply not be tolerated. These men would put frat brothers, from party schools here, puking into each others mouths to shame. They stand together and stay silent together. So lest you want to lose a life or limb by interfering if a girl is being molested or paraded naked in full public eye, be like Gandhi ji's bandars. Better still, go get a camera to record it all. The entire charade afterwards is so wonderfully choreographed that it goes exactly the same way EVERY time. The cops say the loose woman asked for it. The media screams "no fair" and insists on asking people on the streets. People blame law, society, and indulge in some social-media activism (of course no protocol followed).  All this while the Fab India saree clad representative from National Commission for Women hides the woman's face and ensures her own matching pearls are seen clearly on the tele. One needs to give the judiciary due credit though. With half the laws for women not codified for they fall in the realm of religious freedoms and the other half just plain shitty, they fall back on known guidance of choice wherein lie the eternal truths. So where a Muslim woman can be divorced anytime with no rights whatsoever, a Hindu woman can be completely denied inheritance from her own father's property (Oh might I remind, she was also not given any dowry because it's against the law). In cases involving fuzzy logic (ha) a judge may look at Ramayana and decide that the wife should follow the husband wherever he goes. Umm, except Rama was a crappy husband (yes, Uma Bharati, I said that). So if you are gonna be damned if you do and damned if you don't, you might as well do.

Gypsy soles, wondrous souls

Six months too late, but here nevertheless. Featuring my beautiful (first too) Moleskine. 

Florence, Italy. 2011.

Venice, Italy. 2011

More to come soon. 

Dilli

चार साल की मिठास से थकी हुई ज़बान पर नमक की तरह है

झुलसाती गर्मी में चले जाने वाले बादल के साए की तरह है 

बस घर है

तसल्ली तब भी कितनी है 

Of peace, and not armistices!

This is odd. I write this while listening to a very soothing tick-tock of my clock and sipping beautiful red wine. I am not outraged, or sad, or in any way trying to purge any emotion out of myself. I am, in fact, happy. Happiness shows too. In a paunch, full of days worth of "real" mozzarella. In my toasted skin. In my (for once) big, tousled hair. 

But, this ain't a travelogue, and definitely not one of the post summer vacation essays we were expected to churn out about each museum/monument/mountain/beach visit. Not yet. This is just a first. In a series of, hopefully more to come, inspiring times. 

I crossed half the globe for this one. For Italy. Italy of glorious espresso shots and equally satisfying Chianti moments, of heat that burns the insides with every breath in and of Gelato that cools it all off, and of women so beautiful, even bad ideas seemed great (read going out bra-less and jumpsuits-that I was almost willing to spend EUROS on till I remembered warnings from SH of not getting carried away, fashion-wise). But, come on. I was on a vacation. Well-deserved, after 4 years of grad school + unemployment + job. 

I met Caesers and Boticelli in Rome. I touched a forgotten street-dwelling Michaelangelo. I tasted the sunshine and the sweat, that they tasted right there. And then, I saw a million paintings of “Bambi and Madonna”. I was teleported right away to second grade moral-science classes. Resonations of “He died for your sins” came screeching through the quiet hallways of the gallery. “What sins? I am 7 years old. I am a HINDU. Pagan/Infidel/Kaafir. Non-kosher. I have a billion gods to worship. What on earth are you talking about? If I see another cherubic, blue-eyed, blond-haired baby and a blue robed mother, I’ll effin’ scream (yep, 7 year old me was uber profane and bi-polar). Where is the well-preached religious austerity, damn it?” Yeah, it is difficult to remain neutral when it comes to art. If it doesn’t evoke any emotion, it is a big failure. Right? I saw all the angels, with Morton’s toes at that (Seriously, what’s the deal with that? Eve, Madonna, Destiny, Venus. A disorder common amongst ALL models from the era? And after I had noticed a few, I couldn’t not find them in EVERY painting.). I left hungry for the characters. Where are the mistresses and the harlots? Where is the darkness? Where is the humor? Would I have to re-visit France for that now? Then I came across the ghetto-est train I have ever seen, and it made my day.

I found my anarchical humor. And then some blues.

What “Yesterday” are we talking about? I can negotiate for some. Am I going to be unemployed again? Or worse, would I have to sit for competitive tests again? I want SH's hundred Reservoir Design stories (that I cried through before exams) worth of “yesterday”. I want my futile attempts at harmonizing with AM through Antaras and Alaaps worth of “yesterday”. A yesterday to encompass all times of hope and exhilaration, of peace and not just armistices. That is what I want. Else, ça va bien, merci.

I had forgotten how a city can have 2000 years all wrapped in a few square miles. Reminder: Need to visit Delhi soon. But, wait. That’s not where the similarity ends. How can I forget the men? Yep, didn’t miss Delhi for that. Making way through catcalls, whistles and very inappropriate propositions, I felt completely home. I have lived in the US for the past 4 years. My sister thought I was naïve again. She handled them well enough while I stared dumbstruck at being asked by a couple of 38 year olds (who assumed I was 22) if I wanted boyfriends for the evening. Yeah, creepy much. Pedo much too. Europeans, I say! When did she grow up to be the older, protective one? I thought I was the older brother. Nevertheless, I realized I am now soft in spite of being the fittest in years. Walking 8 hours a day doesn’t just get you drunk faster. So to all that is Rome, to its founders, preservers, and re-founders, my fantastic- looking calves would be eternally grateful. 

Ave Maria.

You know, fuck that.

Ave Caeser!

डर

जब ना डर हो और ना कोई आकांक्षा,

और स्वप्न हो गए हों खाली.

जब हो इतने स्वतंत्र,

रहे केवल अब और आज.

उस पल की आकांक्षा में, स्वतंत्रता में, रहेगा यह मन तब तक

इस डर के बंधन में.

(When there exist no fear and no hope,

And the dreams are all empty.

When there is absolute freedom,

And just a now, not past nor future.

In the hope of that moment and that freedom, I shall remain

Fearful.)

Wasabi, not Guac!

Context: Running through the living room, getting late, combing my hair, swinging my faux Aarti thaali in front of Dad for money. Him laughing.

Mom: "Where do you think you are going in your torn jeans and bathrobe lookalike shirt?"

Me: "Movies with friends."

Mom: "Don't we get you nice clothes? Can't you act lady-like EVER?"

Me: "YOU should know better than to ask that. Besides this was an acid accident in the lab. I don't hide my bruises, why my bruised jeans then. You should have seen Ankit's shirt when acid spilled over. It had tiny holes all over"

Mom: "Uff.. Atleast, this is better than your neck piercing. Is this why we sent you to a convent school?"

Me: "Why exactly did you send me to an all-girls Catholic school?"

Mom: "It is a good school and not far away."

Or that is what my mother said. I argued they had different intentions though. 

1. Keep the boys away from me
2. Be able to start a matrimonial advert, if it ever got to that, with "Fair, convent-educated, Punjabi girl..." 

The pursuit of either of these ends has been pretty abortive till date. 

Perfect timing for plan-change. My younger sister (referred to henceforth as MS) who was going to drive me (because that is another thing I do not know) decided to make a pit-stop at our old school. She likes going there to meet up with teachers, unlike I, who showed up there after 5 years of leaving. Come on. I was there for 13 years. THIRTEEN frikkin years. I was there for cursive writing, through summery pink tunics and white skirts, wintry red blazers, with long well-oiled plaits that hung below the hips, for Mental Math, stories of Adam and Eve and of Our Saviour.  I called the teachers "Miss", was duly scared of Mrs. D'Souza who would call us "Junglees from the fish-market" if we created ruckus, participated in prayers that took place four times in 6 hours (much to the dismay of my grandmother who would get a shock every time I started my prayer at a pooja at home with "Our father, thou art in heaven". "Why do you not know any good Hindu mantras? Why only Angrezi mantras?" But, I digress..). That was how it was. Nuns were nuns, teaching us docile girls to be seen before we were heard, and using base verbs with our dids/didn'ts. Teachers came in all kinds of packages- nice, sarcastic, helping, or just plain bad at teaching, standing akimbo while kids ran amok. I had had enough. 

First teacher to meet at the gate- Mrs. George. She hugs MS, asks her welfare, while I shuffle restlessly trying to stand with one leg covering the other one with the acid tear. Horrors of having to open hems of our short skirts at the entrance of our school suddenly came alive again. But, that was not for long. A protest happened (the reason of which eludes me now), became political, and caused enough grief to our school administrators to punish us by changing our uniforms to salwar-kurta. The punishment had to be tantamount to the offence. We got the ugliest new uniforms. They were not just a fashion-disaster, but also climatically wrong (too hot in summer, too cold in winter). My more fashion-conscious heart would go out to the 13 year old me, except I know she did not bother so much about it. 

Mrs. George asks MS about me. I am still here. Nope. No sign of recognition. "So you do not recognize me out of my school-uniform?" But, that was not it. I just was not an impression-making kid. I read during the lunch-break, stayed away from trouble, kept quiet, was not even class-monitor material. In all, a boring kid that gets good marks and is remembered as "the girl who gets highest in English/Hindi". Not by name nor, sadly enough, even by "the girl who gets highest in Math". College saw me with a different struggle of trying to be anonymous in front of professors. Well, I made an impression on Mrs. George now. 

I have grown up since then, from a quiet, shy girl to a person with strong "dislikes". I am taller, hair is shorter. I have a couple of degrees and do my own taxes. Still wear the tunics though. Matrimonial ad is yet to come and the boys need to leave for that. Wiser? I don't know. But, myths have been broken.

1. There are Indians other than me who do not like mangoes. And we have all been disowned by our beloved fellow countrymen. But, they are rather cloyingly sweet and...Ahh, nevermind.
2. Fantastic, long-distance relationships do not last. Conversely, neither do bad, close vicinity relationships.
3. There is a world of make-up beyond the red sindoor bindi mom wears.
4. Just because people preach integrity does not mean they practice it too. In-the-face immorality is more acceptable to me over fake, vacillating sincerity.
5. Hypnosis does not shrink a butt. Especially if someone else tells it in a loving, but firm, voice to stay as it is. All you get is a confused butt.
6. Benefit of doubt is a finite resource. 

Je ne comprends pas!

I am too clean a hippy, 

Too free-spirited for the free-market.

A simple girl with a messy history,

A twisted girl with good upbringing?

Too sane for the crazy, 

Too crazy for the sane. 

Non comformist, non-belonger?

Or just a pretender trying to survive the world?