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.

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!

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!

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?

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?

Ab waqt khatm!

She called out
As I stumbled to get my walking stick.
Covering a thousand crooked ear lengths,
Her muffled voice is as collapsible as her lungs.
I cannot see,
And she cannot hear.

Between insulin and twisted thumbs,

And childbirth and forgetfulness,

Pain and pleasure 

Are salt-peppery.

Dry taste-buds and dry eyes
Long for a rain from a lifetime ago.
She reads for me,
I sing for her.
Last dance and last song of us.
I watch
And she listens.

Lull

I wait for you,
My Love,
An emotionless terra nullius,
To leave a proud Him
And come back to me
To blow the smoke in my mouth again,
To beat the wrong drum beat,
To stroke my hair,
And sing with me.

Bits of orphaned love-lives!

Billboards all around say San Francisco is a city of characters. So it is no wonder I met her here too. In her colorful kaftans, and beads and quirky glasses she looked like a quintessential San Franciscan "character". I was smitten. I also like to romanticize all things old school and her typewriter sound from the window across was no exception. I had seen her quite a few times already in the elevator with those brilliant, wise, well-traveled eyes while she dragged her grocery cart. Old-age did not seem to have caught up with her eyes yet. We met in the laundry-room and I pretended to be AY. No one was supposed to know I lived there too. She was cheerful and very inclined to talk and while I usually am a little wary of strangers coming and talking to me (Yes, it happens a lot. And I, more often than not, end up being an agony aunt. I think I am way too shy for it still), I was very eager to listen this time. So out came the story of a woman who had lived in the same apartment for 35 years yet had traveled across all continents. A freelance writer with a noisy typewriter, she was. And then the conversation started to include me. "Are you married?". No, I said. "Ah, I never married. My man lived a couple of blocks down. We were together for 25 years." (My thoughts then : "Dude, that is brilliant. Who does that? To be with someone for so long without the entire marriage tie-up. So, you actually WANTED to be with him?") "Then?"-I asked. "Then. Then, he got Alzheimer's. I brought him here. He died 2 years ago. He did not remember me by the end. He did not even remember himself." I was surely not expecting this between the tales of travels to mythical lands. I was shocked. Then I wanted to kick myself. ("How? How the hell did this happen again? I have enough woes in my own life right now") But, she seemed unfazed relating it all. She, in fact, appeared very happy talking about him, seemingly still in love with him, the good times and probably even the bad ones. I pushed the buttons on the washer and climbed six flights of stairs in a daze, still pretending to be someone else on a weekday holiday doing my laundry.

I cried intermittently the entire day. Not because I was sad for her. Not because I was sad for her man. I seldom cry when I am sad. I am yet to cry for S, though the nightmares of taking that last breath under water still haunt me after four years. I cried in despair, envious of her luxury of the last moments spent with him. She foresaw and she was prepared.

How blessed are those who know what their last moments together would be? You mostly do not even get to know till it is all over and look back to find only a void in your own memory. How would you ever cherish it then? All the time we spend blaming moments of weakness, other people, distance, differences in culture/religion/age, in lieu of that, we are scared to admit that we were just not strong enough to fight hard for it, that we made a conscious choice to let go, that we judged it less important than other things on our own. So why make excuses then? Why not? Even something as great as death does that. It makes excuses of disease, accidents, willingness to take your own life. But then, how many times do you meet someone you actually like (in my case, even bear) and more so want to spend your life with? To let go and not own up for such extraneous banalities that pretty much everyone in the world has exhausted over and over again is plain cowardice. Intrinsic nuances, for the sake of it, are at least more interesting reasons for relationship deaths. "She is a bitch. He is a bitch" seems like a relatively better argument. After all how can you be yourself if you are constantly scared of a negative reaction? Incompatibility of temperaments, lack of love, disdainful cursing provide for some valid causes of these lamentations and definitely make up more occupying stories. Yep. Till, obviously, you do not interrupt me during my cigarette break and start talking to me about it. 

कब

यूँ पूरा जीवन जी गए हम कि
एक छब्बीस साल के साये में बावन साल की प्रज्ञता समा गयी.
फिर,
मैं ख़त्म हो गयी 
और तुम भी ख़त्म हो गए. 

M

My dream analyzer,
My word beader,
You shined like a thousand lambent moons and
Glowed my pupils into oblivion.
How do I even begin to console you,
My calm one,
When all I do is get angrier!

42?

It was recently brought to my attention that identity and questions of the like "Who am I and the meaning of it all?" hold a special place amongst existential conundrums. Not that prior to now I could not have fathomed most of the humanity being tortured by this elusive, mystical riddle. I am and have been completely aware that this is a very prevalent and legitimate question people ask themselves, probably with more frequency than highway travelers ask for restroom directions from 7-Eleven employees. Even the Paranoid Android has devoted much maniacal moroseness to the subjects of tantamount enigma. This time, though, it encompassed an allusion to a dear friend which led me to believe that I must be nuts to have gone so long without falling prey to my own bitch of a brain's manipulations regarding the meaning of it all.  This could be because I stopped listening to that little inside voice long back. (Now that I think of it, it explains a lot more). So I decided to pay my dues. 

Beyond the obvious address of name that my parents gave me, I have been called many other things. Some good, some bad, sometimes both by the same people (One person is doing that right now a few miles away. Yes, I know. You, be very afraid of the memory of my big eyes and soon-too-follow cold shoulder). Going further though, who?what?where? transcended from midnight gossip sessions to an uncomfortable, as-per-convenience self-interrogation. While I have mostly thought of myself as just a bona fide anxious coffee-drinker and a pure carnivore (till recently, when I decided to give vegetarianism a go), I have in the past year also been labelled cow-belt wandering Hindi speaker, a psycho, way-too-free a spirit, yadda yadda yadda. So I summarized the answers to some aforementioned FAQs to:

• Hindi
• Hindu
• Punjabi/Garhwali
• New Delhi, India (I like writing answers in points just like Mrs. George taught us)

THIS, apparently, is supposed to define me now. WTF!(Mrs. George said this was a bad thing to say). My dad and sister talk to each other in FRENCH. Frikkin French (Mrs. George is very pissed now). 

Ma has to coerce me to shower early on festivals (Sarees, I wear on my own to look pretty). I listen to her and do all of it now just because it is easier than arguing against the ritualistic bunkum. I have spent good six years of my precious teenage arguing, when I could have learned more profanities and faster. It was exhausting. And still my mom mutters the Gayatri Mantra under her breath while cooking. Apparently small intestines have an ability to digest blessings as well (okay, I agree, that is just sweet of her). 

And don't even get me started on that half-n-half thing that I am. Don't know any of the languages. Don't know one's culture and don't care for the other's. Even the Hindi-speaker labeler speaks better Punjabi than I do while teasing me for all that I am (or am supposedly defined by). I need my Garhwali Ma to interpret things while conversing with my Punjabi grandmother. Ain't that sad? 

New Delhi? Dilli. Dilli of big roads and manicured lawns, of Metro-rides and crazy traffic, of sweltering heat and freezing cold. I love Dilli for all that. But, I love it most for the food. But then, any good food would make me a turncoat and change loyalties. I do not even need 30 pieces of silver. (I wish food was a nation right now). Anyway, no one outside India is ever particularly interested in knowing what part I am from. Just India suffices. Always. Errr. Almost always.Yeah, I do meet a couple of people here and there who ask "Are you from Gujarat?" or "Do you speak Hindi or Tamil?". This is more out of equating all Indians to that one you know better, just like every time I meet someone from Iran I go "Oh, I have a Persian friend. She runs Marathons. You do too?". You get the drift?

So while this turned out to be a good exercise in moot-point making, I remain as blithely cavalier about my non-existent identity as always. I have been very mutable and will keep evolving, just like I hear the apes did. I can be yours. I can be you. But, I speak only in capacity. In reality, I would neither be of you nor you. I would rather be nothing.

I feel stupid and contagious

Just discovered a hauntingly beautiful version of  "Smells like Teen Spirit" by Scala and Kolacny Brothers choir.

http://www.scalachoir.com/en/music/videos/smellsliketeenspirit.htm

Not at all Nirvana-ish, but I guess Cobain would still approve.

11/01 8:36 am Pacific Time

चाह से जेब अभी भी उतनी ही भरी है जितनी सालों पहले थी.
निराशाओं से खेलते-खेलते हाथ इतना सूज गया है कि जेब में घुसता ही नहीं है.

Thank you DCE

For:

• preparing me for the worst as life is only easier than it ever was there
• convincing me that smoking/drinking/smoking up are not defining characteristics of people
• demonstrating that political correctness can go fuck itself in the ass
• being utterly sexist and treating women as second rate citizens 
• making me deal with government officers, horny men and condescending professors. Nothing else could have inculcated more patience in me.
• introducing me to the most amazing and the most unbearable people, all in one place
• being so very pretty during the monsoons
• fantastic canteen bhaiyyas and their custom prepared coffees
• denying us the most innocent of pleasures like climbing on to the terraces of the hostels
• being a big name in the education market. It helped for a little while.

Disclaimer: Most of the list is based on my own experience that may or may not be reflected in that of other students, although a lot of women would concur with it. The list may expand as and when I remember more, or bother to do so.