League Of Shadows

Of MOPS and Friends

2010-04-26T15:51:00.005+05:30

"I order you to go out and make friends!" he says, pointing at the door.

Easier said than done, I think, as I head out. Now I'm not usually so obedient but in all fairness, I'd already RSVP'd to go for this MOPS meeting. MOPS stands for Mothers of Pre Schoolers, which is a support group for well, mothers of pre schoolers. Now when i say "support group" I don't mean a group like Alcoholics Anonymous or Sex Addicts Anonymous...it's more of a time out from your usual parenting routine and a chance to meet other MOPS and socialize and compare notes or get advice on parenting, especially if you're a first time parent. Sounds a little mundane, I know, but considering the fact that I have become completely anti-social after marriage and especially after pregnancy and that I've lost touch (either on purpose or by chance) with most of my friends and rarely get to go out let alone socialize, Rabin thought this would be a great place to make a few friends, if only to stop me from cribbing about the lack of them. Also, he did everything short of actually kidnapping me and dumping me there so ... I went. (All excuses aside, I actually wanted to go)

Now I usually avoid large gatherings of women because invariably the conversation always tends to drift towards whose mother-in-law is worse than whose, whose servant is the BIGGEST ditcher at exactly the worst time possible and whose husband is the laziest bum in the world, none of which i can relate to. This is why I usually tend to
a) Avoid kitty parties (not that I've ever been invited to one) and
b) Have more guy friends than girl friends
So i headed over to church with the resolution that if this meeting became a big bitching fest, I'd make an excuse and leave soon.

I parked my bike and headed into church where i was met my five preschoolers, two baby sitters and one mom. "Whose kids are all these?" I ask. "Well," says the mom, "those two are Joanna's, those two are Marion's and this one is mine," she says, pointing to a toddler. "How old is she?" I ask. "She'll be two in June." she replies. "Oh, my daughter just turned two last week!" I say. And so we begin talking about our daughters and quickly learn that we had a lot in common, not just with our respective toddlers but also with our professions.

Just then Joanna (who's organized the whole thing) comes in. "Ah Shireen, i see you've met Deepika. Let's leave the kids with the baby sitters and go over to the next room. I'm setting up the surprise baby shower for Jessica." The rest of the MOPS meeting went reasonably well and I found that I was actually beginning to enjoy myself.

I came home, ready to tell Rabin that I hadn't stood quietly in the corner like he'd imagined I would but rather I had ACTUALLY made a few friends there...or at least, acquaintances for now.

That evening, the interrogation began at home. "Did you speak to anyone there?" he asks.

"Yep" i reply.

"Name all the people you spoke to," he says.

"Well, there's Deepika, Marion, Joanna, Zip, Praveena, Jessica of course, seeing as this MOPS meeting was a baby shower for her, uhm...." I struggle.

"Did you get anyone's phone numbers?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Uhm...I can't just generally ask people for their phone numbers. Besides, what would i say to them on the phone that i cant say in person the next time i see them in church?"

"You're such a shy potato," he says. "Introduce me to them and I'll get their phone number for you."

"No way! Butt out!"

"Okay okay. Who did you speak to the most? You know...the person with the most friend-potential?"

"Uhm...Deepika, i guess."

"Who is this Deepika. Tell me all about her."

"She's a fellow psychologist, her daughter's about the same age as ours... Sheesh, why don't i just introduce you to her on sunday?" I say, ending the conversation.

The entire week goes by with Rabin bugging me about Deepika and how I should make friends with her and call her home and just...call her/get her phone number etc etc etc.

Sunday finally rolls around and as usual, we're late for church. After the service gets over, Deepika and Praveena come up to me and start talking. Rabin is looking a little left out so i call him over, finally glad to be able to introduce him to the great Deepika.

"Rabin, THIS is Deepika....

I trail off as a hurt expression crosses her face. "My name is Vinitha, NOT Deepika," she says. "VJ for short."

WOOPS!!!

I can see Rabin's dying to laugh so I make an excuse and we leave soon. "She's your future BFF and you don't even know her name???" he chortles.

BAH. Good reason not to make new friends, especially if its under your husband's supervision. Don't think I'll be attending the next MOPS meeting either. Hmmm.

Gym rant

2010-01-18T21:07:00.004+05:30

Car keys?

Check.

Extra lock and key?

Check.

Ipod?

Check.

Headphones for the ipod?

Hmmm. Not in my handbag. Not in the recently unpacked suitcases. Not to be found anywhere. Think I left them at my parents house in Bangalore. Oh well, I guess I can do without music in the gym for one day.

I go to college, finish my work there in half an hour and then drive to the gym. While changing into my gym clothes, two women walk into the locker room talking about their servants and how inefficient and irregular they were to work.

I lock my things in the locker and escape from the locker room as soon as possible, not wanting to overhear their rantings. I finish my warm-ups and get on the treadmill ready for a 30 minute workout.

“That servant that we had when we first got married was so horrible! She kept stealing things from us!” says a voice to my right.

I look over and to my horror, I see one of the ladies from the locker room on the next treadmill. Even more horrible was the fact that she was looking at me when she said that!

“Er…” I begin, but I was cut short by a voice to my left.

“When we got married, I moved in with my in-laws.” I turn and sure enough, there’s the other woman from the locker room on the treadmill next to me. Were they really continuing their conversation over me???

“The house was not very big,” she continues, “…only about 3000 square feet. And that servant hardly ever came to work and so I had to clean the entire house myself! And my mother in law!!! Now don’t get me started on her!”

“Yes,” I silently pray. “Don’t get started.”

“She was horrible! Always getting bugged with me for waking up late. And she expected me to clean the house when the maid wasn’t there! Imagine!”

“Yes yes!” chimes the woman to my right. “My mother in law was a thousand times worse!”

“Why didn’t I just bring my headphones!!!” I think as I look around the gym for another available treadmill.

The conversation continues and I’m forced to listen to it.

“Luckily my husband built a first floor for us so now I can get up late and walk around in my nightie and my mother in law won’t know! I really thank God for that! THANK GOD!”

The other woman vehemently agrees. “Our house is also small, but it takes a lot to maintain. Just maintaining our garage is so difficult. We can only park three cars there. Our two daughters keep having fights about who will park their car inside!”

“Oh no!” says the second woman. “So what do you do?”

“Well my husband has a Benz and I have an Octavia so those two cars will be parked inside our garage always. Our daughters have Fiestas so whoever comes home last has to park her car on the street! Imagine that! On the street! I wish we had a bigger house! Our house is SO small”

That was it. I check the time on my treadmill. 4.8 minutes and 19 calories burnt. To heck with physical health for today. My mental health was more important. I quickly get off the treadmill, do some stretches and head on back to the locker room.

I bought a new set of headphones the next day!

Agony, Ecstasy . . . Guilt

2008-09-24T22:54:00.004+05:30

It just sits there. Mocking me. Taunting me. I cant see it, but I know its there. Its soundless voice reaches my unwilling ears. You cant do without me, it seems to say. You can’t pass this way and not think of me. You cant keep me locked up forever! You’re gonna cave. And soon. Today’s perfect. Nobody home. Just you and me.

I reluctantly move towards the desk. I open the drawer and there it is. Red and white and inviting as ever. A book of matches lies next to it, as if by chance. I reach for it.

In the next room, a baby cries. The spell is broken. What was I thinking? I rush out of the room as quickly as possible.

….. A few hours later

I’m back. Looking at the open drawer. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Why not!

Outside, dark clouds are gathering. Its 4 pm in the afternoon but looks like 7 pm. Lightening flashes and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles. The skies open up in a torrent of rain. The view from the ninth floor balcony is amazing! The entire city seems hazy in the rain.

A voice, unbidden, enters my head again. Wouldn’t it feel good to have one right now? Just one. Okay, just a few drags, not even an entire one. What harm could it do?

I push all thought out of my head and reach for one. It seems to fit perfectly between my fingers…like it was born to be there. I quickly light up before second thoughts hit and take a drag. Aaaaaaaah. That did feel good. So good. After an entire year of quitting.

I take another drag and watch the falling rain. This used to be my time to think. To just let my thoughts wander. This used to be the time where I would get ideas for stories or plans for what to do with my life. My uninterrupted few minutes of smoke-filled ideas. And then, I quit smoking. Just like that. No last cigarette to commemorate quitting. No goodbye packs. Quit cold turkey.

And why? The answer comes immediately. The baby. Her health.

As if reading my thoughts, the sleeping baby begins to stir in the next room. I look down guiltily at the cigarette in my hand and watch as the smoke seeps into my clothes, my skin, my hair. This is exactly what I didn’t want happening around my baby. I would go in reeking of cigarettes. But I think the stench of guilt would be stronger.

I take my last and final drag and look at the cigarette. The soundless voice seems to be sniggering at me. I won, it claims.

Not yet, I say.

And hurl it as far as possible over the balcony.

Never again.

The red and white pack is still around but not anywhere near. It is now safe in the garbage can nine stories down.

Perfect Days

2008-09-24T21:47:00.004+05:30

I live for days like today. . .

. . . beautiful sunny mornings,
. . . air-conditioned cars,
. . . great music to listen to in rush hour traffic,
. . . working out in the gym,
. . . playing with the baby,
. . . reading to the baby and watching her expressions,
. . . cloudy overcast skies,
. . . the first drops of rain,
. . . sitting near the balcony and enjoying the scent of the rain,
. . . enjoying the scenery from the ninth floor,
. . . getting a book by courier that I’ve been waiting for for a long time,
. . . getting an e-mail from the editor of a Psych journal saying that my article is up for review,
and
. . . sitting on the windy rain-swept balcony and smoking that much awaited well-deserved cigarette after a hiatus of one year, one month and two weeks!

………….aaaaaaah…………Bliss!

ಶದೌ

Random Crap #4?

2008-09-17T14:14:00.002+05:30

Hi all,

Firstly, I'd like to inform everybody that this blog is NOT, contrary to popular belief and i repeat NOT defunct. . . yet. It's just been dormant for a few months. Okay okay. Make that a year. But still. It's still very much around.

Secondly, I got sick of looking at my previous post everytime i checked this page so thought i'd put up something, even if its drivel like this.

Thirdly, i do have a lot of stories/thoughts/random crap to put up .... just that i dont have the time....and when i do have the time, i use it to catch up on sleep and my usual lazing-around-type activities so......my stories/thoughts/random crap just never get solidified into writing.

Fourthly, okay, there's no fourthly. Just that as the good old Arnie said (cant spell his last name)...... I'll be back! And soon! Goodbye for now.

Diabetically Diabolic?

2008-02-07T12:54:00.000+05:30

Okay okay....so i'm diabetic. But I still crave for yummy desserts. You know...chocolates and cakes and pastries and caramel custard and the like. I figure I can make some of these without sugar....and hallelujah! I was right!

While surfing the net for some diabetic delicacies (is that an oxymoron?), I came across the Landmark website which lists all the recipe books for diabetic patients. The list seemed pretty basic and ordinary until I came to a mouth-watering title - Diabetic Dream Desserts. I was all set to order for it until I saw the price - Rs. 666!

The number of the beast.

Positively diabetically diabolic. Sigh.

Okay, so maybe thats a sign. Maybe i shouldn't be ordering my sinful pleasures just yet. Maybe I should wait for the required three months before i can start to even think of desserts again but still . . . I WANT MY GUILTY PLEASURE!

...............................Just don't tell the hubby. Shhhhhhhhh................

(For those of you who are wondering, my one and only guilty pleasure is chocolate....just a hint... you can bring me loads after the baby comes :D)

PJ

2007-08-25T12:37:00.000+05:30

In order to avoid morning sickness, I've started waking up later and later every day. Problem is, I now have afternoon sickness!

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Great Expectations

2007-08-23T00:01:00.000+05:30

It’s amazing how many varied responses we get when we tell people that I’m expecting. I’m using the word “expecting” instead of “pregnant” because someone told me that it was crass to use the “p” word. Oh well, that was just one of the reactions.

Although a little sappy, I prefer the excited “Hugs and Kisses” category of reactions. Prefer it any day to the kinds of reactions I shall put under the “Prophet of Doom” category.

Imagine telling someone, “We have some news. I’m pregnant.” The obvious reaction you might expect would be something like… “Wow! Congrats! I’m so happy for you both.”

Or something to that effect. And yes, “I’m gonna be an uncle!!!!” and “Hope you’re naming the kid after me” reactions do fall under this category.

Never in a million years would you expect a reaction like, “Better take lots of folic acid or your baby will be born with half a brain.” Or, “Better eat lots of carbohydrates, fats, proteins, calcium etc or your baby will be seriously mentally deficient.” Or, “Oh, I always thought you had bad ovaries.” (Hello? How the heck would YOU know anyway!!!?) And the response I liked the best…NOT! “Has your morning sickness started yet? I was cursed with morning sickness and I think every woman should also be cursed with it. So, has it started yet? Huh? Huh?” (That was my Head of Dept.)

All these things kind of hit you like a punch to the nose and you start thinking about all the stuff you may not have done or all the stuff you are doing but could perhaps maybe somewhat slightly do a little better. And then you start doubting and worrying and obsessing about it and before you know it, you’re calling the gynecologist every other minute and showering her with questions (most of them baseless) and googling key words like “half-brain” and “cursed morning-sickness.”

To all the people who fall under the “Prophets of Doom” category, I know you all are just being concerned and you don’t mean to scare the living daylights outta me but, if you don’t have anything nice to say, PLEASE for the love of God, don’t say anything at all! Or at least say it in a less prophetic matter-of-fact way.

And for all you others, PLEASE bring on the Hugs and Kisses. And yes, the pampering too. I’M PREGNANT!

Woops!

Sorry!

I’M ‘EXPECTING’!!!

Of Life and Curve Balls

2007-08-13T17:11:00.000+05:30

“Just when you surface, life throws you a curve ball,” he says. “It’s like playing cricket and all of a sudden you find yourself kicking a football.”

I look at him and think how true that statement is. Just a week ago, we were returning from our honeymoon and now…

Okay, just to clarify, “honeymoon” is just the technical term we used to go on a holiday. Technical because
a) we had already been on our honeymoon about a week after we got married (as opposed to seven months later)
b) it was very useful in getting leave from work
c) it was very useful in getting friends and relatives to leave us alone and not keep inviting us to their homes for mundane conversations and reminiscences.

We had an awesome time and for once, we were able to kick back and relax and throw all caution to the wind. From Snowy Mountains to fine sandy beaches, from submarine rides to helicopter rides, from rollercoasters to water slides, from real beaches to fake waves and from trekking in the Rain Forrest to Crocodile hunting, we did everything.

After a paradoxically relaxed but hectic two weeks in Eastern Australia, we come home, ready to get back into our daily schedules of home, work and family…only to be thrown a curve ball… I might be pregnant.

Hoping against hope but not daring to believe, we find ourselves in a diagnostic centre, holding hands. Both of us are confused and disoriented. On the one hand, the purely selfish but somehow realistic thoughts start seeping in, “This is too soon. We’ve only been married for seven months. I still have one more year of college. How will I manage home, college AND a baby? What about all those “honeymoons” we were planning on before we even thought of having kids?.......”

On the other hand, we were absolutely elated and again, realistic thoughts that seem intangible at the moment begin to surface. “If it’s true, then we’ll have to convert the guest bedroom into a nursery. We’ll need to shift to a house that’s on the ground floor so that we wont have to worry about a toddler falling off a 9th floor balcony. We have to think of a name for the kid. We have to get to work in finishing a bulk of my thesis before the baby arrives…..”

So many “have to’s” and “shoulds” and “need to’s” … But in the midst of all of it, I suddenly realize something. There are no “should have done’s.” No regrets whatsoever. Whichever way this takes us, both of us are in for the ride.

We look at the nurse at the front desk of the diagnostic centre in frustration. We’ve already been waiting for ten minutes and every second that ticks by brings just another modicum of self doubt. These are the few deciding minutes. The results of the test will determine which path we take – whether we heave a sigh of relief and resume our normal lives or whether we heave a sigh of relief and start planning a completely different future that involves a small addition to our family. Whatever the result, it will be a relief just to know. Just to have some certainty. Some kind of closure to the kinds of torturous questions and scenarios that our fertile minds keep coming up with. We can deal with certainty. It’s the uncertainty that’s killing.

Finally, the nurse looks up and beckons us over. We stand up and take a deep breath. “Come back tomorrow,” she says.

“What?” we stammer. Waiting for one-and-a-half hours itself had been bad enough.

“The results of your pregnancy test are inconclusive. It shows that it’s weakly positive but that could mean negative as well. Come back tomorrow and re-do the test.” She nods at us dismissively and turns back to her computer.

We stumble out of the clinic and back to the car, both of us a little stunned. One more day of nebulous torture to go through. Uncertainties to face. Am I or aren’t I? What kind of future would we be looking forward to after tomorrow’s test? Has life indeed thrown us a curve ball or is this just a little bump in an otherwise relatively smooth road?

Well, there’s nothing for it.

We’ll just need to wait it out.

City of Dreaming Books

2007-04-17T15:45:00.000+05:30

Where shadows dim with shadows mate
in caverns deep and dark,
where old books dream of bygone days
when they were wood and bark,
where diamonds from coal are born
and no birds ever sing,
that region is the dread domain
ruled by the Shadow King.

Walter Moers

Sleepless on Kaveri Express

2007-03-29T18:11:00.000+05:30

Before long, the train chugs into the station and slows to a halt. We labouriously manage to pull all five suitcases into it and open the door to the air conditioned compartment… only to find ourselves in pitch darkness. The AC is working alright…it’s just the lights that aren’t. The only light that filters in is the light from the station through the windows.

We somehow stumble to our berths, tripping over a few people in the process and arrange our baggage and ourselves and settle down to sleep. Before long, the ticket conductor comes and wakes us up by pulling on my toe. Groggily I show him our ticket and settle back down to sleep, but somehow, sleep evades me.

I take out my phone and start playing a game of Sky Force. In the darkness of the compartment, the light from the phone seems like a beacon in the night. I realize that my phone battery is almost out so I switch off the phone and peer out the window. I recognize some of the places we pass…East Station… the level crossing that’s been under construction for the past year… the ITC factory….the short cut that I used to take to go to college…ring road….White Field…. After that, there were only fields and no more to be seen outside. I may as well try and get some sleep.

Just as I’m drifting off, I hear a put-put-put sound. Actually, it’s more like a Harley-Davidson engine roaring to life and I wake up with a start. In the darkness, the sound seems to be omnipresent. I slowly pinpoint the source – the man sleeping on the berth opposite mine. His snoring is loud enough to wake the dead….but apparently not the rest of the passengers in close proximity, who seem to be sleeping peacefully.

Living in a hostel dormitory, I’m used to sleeping among people who snore loudly, but this was absurd! It wasn’t even a rhythmic snore which could be soothing under some circumstances. It was more like irregular machine-gun fire that dies down after sometime and starts up again when a target is in sight. In this case, the target must have been me.

I jam the pillow over my ears and turn the other way. It helps to a certain extent but just barely.

A loud BANG right next to me has me almost jumping out of my skin and the compartment begins jerking violently. It’s a wonder that nobody else wakes up to this. The compartment continues jerking and the train begins to slow down. The banging noise next to me continues with each jerk of the compartment.

I mentally picture everything that an AC compartment would have and recognize the noise as the food tray hitting against the wall of the compartment. Just ignore it and you wont notice the sound after some time, I think. But the bloody banging noise combined with the machine-gun snoring was a bit too much and I gave up any hope of sleeping.

I sit up and push the curtain aside to look out the window. We’re approaching a station – Bangarapet. Great, I think. One hour down and five more to go before we reach Chennai. I watch the people milling around on the platform. Even at 1 am, the place is bustling with life.

The train moves on and the banging noise begins again. By this time, I can feel one hell of a headache coming on. Just then, my leg hits against something which I recognize as one of our suitcases. I drag it out from under the berth and jam it up against the food tray. The noise promptly stops. Wish I could do the same thing to machine-gun man opposite me.

I somehow manage to doze off, but my sleep is highly disturbed. It’s just one of things where you’re aware of all your surroundings but you know that you’re asleep. I dream of Harley-Davidson’s and sub-machine guns and war. (To be fair, the dream about the machine guns could have been because of the game Sky Force that I had been playing earlier.) But still, suffice to it say, it was one rotten night.

I wake up a few hours later to loud voices. The machine-gun man had woken up and was having a loud discussion with someone else. I check my watch. It was 5.45 am and nearing daylight. No sense in going back to sleep so I sit up and start checking the names of stations. We’re nearing our station but we’re not too sure which station it comes after so we haul our bags out from under the seats and drag them to the door.

Standing near the open door with the early morning breeze hitting us is refreshing but it still doesn’t make up for lost sleep. My head is still throbbing and I’ve developed a crick in my neck. We stumble out of the train thankfully and head home. Once we reach home, I tumble into bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.

Honestly, I really envy people who can sleep while traveling.

Anti - Social Behaviour

2007-03-21T16:42:00.000+05:30

“Excuse me, Sir,” I say, knocking on his door.

“Yes?” he says, arranging a pile of papers and standing up. “I have a class now so make it quick.”

“Good morning, Sir. I’m doing my Ph.D. in Psychology and I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

“Sure,” he says, looking at his watch and then at the door. He seems like he’s in a hurry so I come straight to the point.

“Since there are not many studies done in the area of my research, I’m developing my own questionnaire and I was wondering if you could take a look at it and give me some feedback as to whether it is a valid and reliable tool for this particular study.”

He stops arranging the papers and looks at me. “Do you know the difference between a psychologist and an ordinary person?”

I shake my head. Was this a riddle?

“A psychologist has the social skills to ask a person how his health is.”

Was this the punch line? Was I supposed to laugh?

“I’ve met you three times before so you don’t have to be so formal with me. You can at least get a little personal with me.”

Huh? Did he mean “personal’ or “informal?” One usually doesn’t get “personal” with the H.O.D of Psychology of the University….let alone your future external examiner.

“Maybe you can take the time out to ask me what I’ve been up to or how I’ve been doing. You’re a very intelligent girl, but you lack the social skills that psychologists generally have.”

Do I dare mention that he’d been in too much of a hurry for me to get “personal” with him? Come to think of it, I don’t think I would have asked him about his health or what he’d been up to even if he hadn’t been in such a hurry. Oh well. How anti-social of me.

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“Shireen, may I see you for a moment?”

Oh no, it was HER again. “HER” being the human blimp who is the senior-most Psychology lecturer in my college. In fact, she is so senior that she’s never ever been the H.O.D. or anything more than well, the senior-most. A fact that has been a sore point with her for the past thirty-odd years and has, to all appearances, caused her to have a mighty big inferiority complex. Well, actually it’s caused her to have a might big REVERSE – inferiority complex…. Considering the fact that she covers it up pretty well with her over-inflated ego.

Here’s an example. She comes to college in a chauffeur-driven car. Not a big deal by some standards, except the poor chauffeur not only has to wear a full uniform complete with hat and full sleeved suit in the Chennai heat, he also has to carry up Her Highness’ handbag from the car to the second floor staffroom – all this while Her Royal Highness ambles slowly to the teacher’s lounge, reads a newspaper and misses her first hour class EVERY DAY.

Another example would be her picking fights with everybody who crosses her path, including teachers. It’s not the fights themselves, because nobody would dare argue back with the senior-most lecturer, but the subject of the fights. She once called a teacher and yelled at her for an hour because she hadn’t told Her Royal Highness that she was pregnant. She then rang up the same teacher nine months later and yelled at her for another hour for not informing her that she had had a baby girl.

Like I said, her fights were not limited to just teachers, but extended to students as well. Some of my juniors were told off for not saying goodbye to her when they went home for the holidays. Another student was given a two hour lecture for not inviting her for her wedding. Another one was yelled at for talking to another teacher in Her Royal Highness’ presence.

Inferiority complex at its best.

Unfortunately, today wasn’t my day. I had been chatting with two MPhil research scholars when I got the summons.

“Shireen, may I see you for a moment?”

Rolling my eyes at the MPhils, I climb the steps to where she was standing. Being all of 150 kgs, she had managed to climb up to the first floor landing before she ran out of breath. Unfortunately, I had happened to be sitting right there when she was taking a breather.

“You know,” she slowly continues in her fake British-Mallu accent, “Two years ago, when you were sitting in the H.O.D’s office, I happened to pop in for a moment and you wished me…but you didn’t stand when you wished me.”

I look at her incredulously. I don’t even remember what I did (or didn’t do) last week, let alone two years ago.

“This kind of anti-social behaviour is not acceptable in a psychologist, especially a senior.”
Wow. Being called anti-social twice in two days by two different gas bags was quite something.

“This is not acceptable,” she repeats, shaking her head, all three chins wagging. She takes a step up, pausing to continue. “The last time you met me, you were inviting me for your wedding so I didn’t say anything, but you must have noticed how I’ve been ignoring you for the past two years.”

You were??? Can we try that again for the next two years?

“Every time you wished me, I’ve ignored you. You know why? It’s because you didn’t stand up and wish me two years ago.”

You were ignoring me? I don’t seem to remember you ignoring me the last time you bit my head off. Let’s see, that was about a year ago when my previous course ended. You said that I was a bad Christian and an even worse psychologist for not saying goodbye to you. I personally don’t see what our profession, religion and farewells have to do with each other, but there you go. Inferiority complex and low self esteem logic.

She continues yammering on about ill-mannered students etc but I had already tuned out. If she wants to feed her ego off students and other teachers, she could go right ahead. By that time, she had reached the second floor and was continuing on to the staff room without realizing that I wasn’t behind her.

I think I should take my guide’s advice. Just keep nodding at all the shit that’s being dished out and one day, when I’m out of college and people like these don’t have any more jurisdiction over my certificates or marks, do something that’s never been done before – tell them off.

So much for anti-social behaviour.

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Lost

2006-08-22T16:27:00.000+05:30

Another lost soul wandering in the desert. Searching for love. Searching for happiness. Searching for peace. Contentment. Fulfillment. Ever searching, never finding.

All around him, shadows glide by. Amorphous. Intangible. Surreal. Other wanderers...lost souls. Each in search of their own requisites. Facing their own demons. Ever passing, never meeting.

He walks on. The arid desert sands scorch his feet. Heat from the boiling sand rises off the earth in shimmering waves, like fingers reaching for the skies. Dried bones, picked clean by vultures lie around, scattered. Lost forever. Grim reminders of what he would be should his quest fail. He carefully steps around them and walks on.

The desert sands stretch forward and roll on to eternity. In the distance, a shape materializes. He shields his eyes from the glaring sun and begins to walk in that direction. What could it be? An oasis? An answer to his questions?

He walks on, keeping the mysterious shape in sight. But though step turns to stride and distance turns to miles, the shape remains a constant, ever evasive. Illusionary. Distant.

Yet, now that he has some aim, some destination, in this barren land, he forges on, ever keeping his goal in sight. His weariness dissipates to hope. The hope to stay alive. To reach his goal. To find his answers. It is this hope that fuels him onwards, on the one true path to what he thinks is knowledge.

Relentless as the glaring sun and the scorching sands, he continues onward .......

.....lost no more.

Hazey Shade Of Purple

2006-07-09T16:26:00.000+05:30

(This is a somewhat longwinded but sincere apology to The Wabbster. Sorry!)

We were already a pitcher down when he arrives. “He” being one of my school buddies…not that I knew him very well in school. After all, he was two years senior to me and it was taboo for seniors to talk to juniors!

My earliest memory of him was when I was in Std 1. Our class teacher had called him in to monitor our class. We were all wondering why he was scrunching one eye shut when he told us, “I was asked to keep an eye on you so…”

Okay okay, sorry for the PJ but that’s the kind of guy he was in school. Simple. Religious. At times a pain in the ass but…sweet. Times change and people change. We’re down two pitchers when he comes back to his favourite topic. Women.

“Man! It’s not like there are no hot women in my office. There are! But what to do? I’ve done them all!!! I’ve done….hmmm….nine girls in the past four months alone!” He takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales into my face. Damn it! I’ll die of passive smoking by the time I turn an hour older.

I flinch at this and look over at Wabby. He smiles and nods – his standard gesture when he hasn’t heard crap of what you’ve said. In this case he was lucky. He didn’t have this ass sitting next to him and boasting about the number of hot women he had “humped and dumped.”

“Man! But that girl I dated way back in Jan really did a number on me.” Another drag of his cigarette and he exhales into my hair. Damn the seating here!!! “I broke up with this chick and she just would not let go of me! I mean, let’s face it. I’m an attractive guy. No doubt about that. But I told her, I told her, “Honey? We just ain’t happening, you know what I’m saying?””

I look at him blankly and nod and smile, trying to look as uninterested as possible.

“She was pretty hurt, I can tell you that. But then, I think she came up with this plan. You know how women get when they are rejected right? She wanted my attention man, she really wanted it. So she went out and slept with about a hundred other guys hoping to hurt me into coming back to her. Ha! Hurt me! Doesn’t she know me by now? Me? Hurt? Ha!”

Sure dude, then why are you still talking about her seven months later? I mentally tune out and tune into the music and my beer. Wabby’s technique of nodding and smiling does wonders and he rattles on, pausing only to take another drag or go bottom’s up on another mug.

Three pitchers down and the music is finally getting interesting. Now I think Purple Haze plays the best music ever…and that’s the main reason to come here…listen to music, chill with friends and (my fav) head bang…..not to have an impromptu counseling session over deafening noise levels.

I can feel the music washing over me, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn back and he leans in closer. “You know what I’ve finally decided? I’ve decided to stay single from now on. Who needs women anyway? There’s only one use for them…and how many women can you hump anyway? Gets old after sometime. I think it’s time I settled down now anyway. I mean, five years of humping women’s brains out …and here I am. Burnout. That’s what it is. Burnout.”

He shakes his head sadly as if to say, my life is over now. Sigh. Sex is the death of me! And I'm actually living to tell the tale!!! Woe is me.

Wabby kicks me under the table and makes a face at him. I swear. This is the last time I come out with this guy. School friend, not Wabby. Small tip for you though Wabby – act obnoxious enough and I’ll probably swear to not hang out with you as well. No wait, I’d probably just kill you till you die from it. Er….

He now turns his attention to Wabby and leans across the table. “Man! These two hot bitches wanted to come with me today but I said, ‘No! I’m going to meet my old friend and its been ages! So, sorry honeys…you’re out of luck tonight!’”

Standard response from Wabby. Nodding and smiling. But this time, he adds a high five to the deal…which encourages him to elaborate.

“You know, I used to be desperate once but look at me now! I’m perfectly fine! Who needs hot women now anyway? They only cramp your style, don’t you think so?”

Nodding and smiling. “Yeah, I used to be your age once too. Those were my desperate times where I just needed to lay anything gorgeous. Hormones and what not! Man! Those were the days!” He smiles reminiscently and leans back, blowing smoke in my hair again.

Another kick under the table and Wabby looks like he’s like to lunge across and choke him. “I hate this guy!!! WTF??? Hormones???” I pat his hand and smile. Only an hour more to go and we’re home free. Literally.

Four pitchers down and still going strong. When the fourth pitcher arrives, Wabby shakes his head and covers his mug. I let mine be filled. Lost count of how many mugs I’ve had so far. They all seem to mysteriously fill themselves up every time I take a sip.

Just then, they start playing Judas Priest at full volume and School Friend gets up to bow down to the big screen tv. Enter Sandman starts playing after that and he turns around and extends his hand to me. I promptly hunt around for his sweater thinking that’s what he wanted. He gestures again and I realize he wants me to go stand near the tv with him.

NOT! He wanted to frikkin slow dance to Metallica!!! Er….? Hello? Uhm. Ukkaaay..?

The next thing I knew, I was kneeling on the floor wondering what the hell I was doing there and he was flat on his back shouting, “Who the fuck pushed me!!! If I ever find you…”

I slink back to my seat, trying to hide my face and hoping people would stop staring sometime in the near future. Wabby has an amused grin on his face and I shrug back helplessly. Damn it! Why hadn’t we stuck to plans? Then this moron wouldn’t be here and we’d actually be having a way better time.

Moron throws himself on the seat beside me, still explaining his temporary loss of gravity. Then he orders a pint. Half hour later, closing time, he orders two more pints and guzzles them down quickly. By this time, he’s completely out for the count and can’t even focus straight.

The music stops with Nothing Else Matters and the house lights come on. Purple Haze is eerily lit now and without the music, its just not haze anymore! One more pint to guzzle down. That’s four pitchers and three pints down on a total. I look at my watch. It’s 11.10 and my parents have already called twice to find out where I am (I was supposed to be home at 10).

He pays the bill with his credit card, scribbling something that resembled his signature and then got up and tripped out. Wabby and I sigh and pick up his sweater and bag and follow him. He’s outside on the landing, trying to pick a fight with some guy who had told him that he was a sexy dancer.

We somehow make it down the two flights of stairs and start walking towards my car. Half way there, we realize that Drunk Moron is no longer with us. We backtrack and find him leaning on a tree, trying to pick a fight with it.

Wabby and I manage to pull him away from it but he protests loudly, saying that he’ll follow us and not to worry. By this time, both of us have seriously had enough of him so we head on down the road. When we reach the car, we turn back and he’s no where in sight. Great! I think, now I’ll have to go back to look for him.

I drive slowly past Purple Haze looking for him, dropping Wabby at his bike on the way. I don’t see any sign of him. I call him. He picks up and goes….shweeeeetheart, I’m right here!!!

Er…. “Here” apparently is a matter of perception. I slowly start reversing and find him glaring at every parked bike until he stumbled across the car. He somehow manages to get in and I lean over and close the door. Man! Is he stinking of booze or what!

Halfway home, he begins yelling at the top of his voice for me to stop. Apparently no girl has ever dropped him home and never will cos he’ll never allow it. I quietly engage the central locking. Never know what he’d try to do in this mood although….if he jumped out, he’d put an end to his misery and mine in one shot. Hmm…interesting…

Still, it’s hard to drive when there’s someone banging on the door screaming, “Let me out!!!” (And no, it wasn’t because of my driving) and I would have dearly loved to shove him out myself.

I did get the opportunity to do so when we stopped in front of his house and he refused to get out. “No! no! Not home! I wanna go to Taveern. I neeed some more beeeeeeeeer.”

“You’re not going anywhere tonight but home. Out! It’s getting late!” Just then my phone rings and I see its my dad. He NEVER stays up late waiting for me to come home. I panic. He must be really pissed off with me now.

“Moron, I really really need to get home NOW! Get out of the car!”

“Noooooo. I don’t wanna!”

Sigh. I’ve never done this before and hopefully I’ll never have to do it again. I lean over him, push the door open and shove him out. He lands clumsily on the footpath and begins wailing about how he actually let a girl drive him home. Blah. And as Wabby would say, Bleh to him. I hurriedly throw his sweater and bag out after him and close the door before he even thinks of getting back in. Thank God for central locking!

I say a quick goodbye and head on home. Sure enough, my dad is raging at me coming home late. Before I can explain, my phone begins to ring. It’s him. I pick it up warily and say hello. “You left meeee and went awaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!”

Gosh stop whining! I make some excuse and disconnect. At least he’s home safe, the drunk.

Sigh. Wabby, I promise this won’t happen again. Next time, I’ll introduce you to some slightly saner morons. Maybe.

Look at the brighter side though…

…At least you got some entertainment value out of tonight ;-)

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

2006-04-13T16:25:00.000+05:30

He sits on the spare bed, watching her sleep. Next to her, a machine rhythmically beeps her heart beats. He laughs a low growl. Not long now.

In her sleep, she is dreaming. Dreaming of soaring higher and higher. Dreaming of a better life. It is a slumber that is as deep as any. It is a slumber she will never wake from.

He watches her with amusement. Tapping into her dreams is easy enough. He watches as she soars in ecstasy. Not long now, my pretty, he thinks. He quietly reaches out and touches her dream.

In her sleep, she frowns. She is in an arid desert. The heat is killing. All around for miles and miles, there is nothing but sand. She tries to fathom where civilization might be closest. South, she decides. She begins to walk. Hour after hour and still no sign of life.

All of a sudden, the dry sand in front of her cracks. The crack extends and boiling hot fumes erupt. Her skin begins to chap and peal. It’s hailing. Hailing sulphur. Her skin begins to slowly burn. God help me, she cries.

He withdraws his hand in pain. Where had that come from? She is much calmer now. Hailing sulphur? Ha! She better get used to that. Where she is going, there is nothing but sulphur and heat. Loneliness and pain. He extends his hand towards her again.

She is on a raft in the middle of the ocean. Cool breeze blows through her hair. All around for miles and miles, there is nothing but water. She tries to fathom where civilization might be closest. South, she decides. She begins to row. Hour after hour and still no sign of life.

All of a sudden, a giant wave batters her raft. She is immediately hit by another wave on the opposite side. The sea that was calm just a minute ago is suddenly roiling and churning. The water becomes fire. Flames engulf her. Batter her. Consume her. Her skin begins to burn and char. The pain is excruciating. God help me, she cries.

He withdraws his hand in agony. Funny how fire soothes and yet the one name he was terrified of can burn. He watches, silently, as her dreams return to normal. She looks peaceful. The end is not far, he smirks. What you saw was just a whiff of your new home. Enjoy the calm while you can.

It is time. The end is not far. The beginning is close. The machine by her bedside begins to beep at faster intervals. He reaches out his hand once more.

She is on a grassy mountain. Multicoloured butterflies flit about her. The mountains look inviting. She would love to see the world from the top. She begins to climb. Hour after hour and still no nearer to the top. She decides to rest a while.

She sits on a boulder. All of a sudden, the boulder shifts and she is in a cave. The cave is pitch black. She is not alone. Gossamer wings lightly touch her and move on. Somewhere overhead, a bat screeches. A quiet voice whispers, it’s not too late to get out. Get out of the cave. The tunnel. Go back to the butterflies on the mountain slopes. Don’t walk towards the light.

The light? A ray slices through the darkness. She ignores the voice and continues walking. It is easy for her to do. She’s been ignoring that voice all her life.

He is there, walking beside her. Leading her.

The ray thickens and widens. Beckons, almost. He stops in the darkness. Rules are rules. It’s still not too late. The choice is hers to make. Brilliant light or grassy mountains?

She turns and for an eternity, gazes at the dark tunnel behind her and the peaceful plains beyond. She turns and looks at the brilliant light ahead. He hold his breath. She is still uncertain.

The machine beeps in staccatos. Faster and faster. And suddenly deadpans a single eternal beep.

She is free now. Free to make her decision. In the darkness behind her, he watches. Watches as she chooses her fate. Her destiny.

He knows that all that awaits her on the other side is oblivion. Brimstone, sulphur and fire make the light brilliant. Mortals always had a flair for romanticizing the deadly. Stupid mortals. Believing that the light at the end of the tunnel was their reward for being good. Stupid stupid mortals.

She takes an unsteady step towards the light. Her next step is more certain. Hadn’t mamma always talked about moving towards the light? She is more certain now. She has made her choice. She begins to walk faster.

And in the darkness behind her, he smiles.

The Dream

2006-01-16T16:22:00.000+05:30

I dreamed of you once. It was the strangest dream. You were helping me find a lost key on the railway tracks. Mortal that I am, I kept looking around to see if a train was on the way and whether I’d be road-kill soon. Angel that you are, you offered to flit around the tracks and find my key. After all, as you said, nothing could harm you anymore.

I let you search, just enjoying being with you. Watching you. Observing the contours of your face. Your dazzling smile. Your long surgeon’s fingers. The way you turned around and winked at me reassuringly every time I heard a train approaching.

You found my precious key and we went to a road-side cafe. You said you had loads of things to tell me. You told me to tell your mother to stop crying for you. After all, as I could see, you were alive and kicking. Just not with us. You told me to tell her that you were happy. Then you leaned forward conspiratorially and asked me if I wanted to hear a secret. I said yes, of course. You looked around to make sure no one was listening. Then you proceeded to tell me the formula. The formula of how to die. It's quite easy, you said, pulling a napkin toward you. I'll write down the equation. All you have to do is balance it.

You wrote down the equation and passed on the napkin to me. Just as soon as you learn to balance this equation, you can join me, you said. And then you smiled such a dazzling smile that I couldn't look at you anymore. And then you left me. Again. Just as you had three months ago.

I woke up in tears, trying to clutch at the fragments of your entity. I didn't want to let you go. Not ever. Not again. I tried going back to sleep just so I could see you again, if only in a dream. But it didn't work. Nothing I did could bring you back.

Ever.

(In memory of Deepak. 16.Aug.1982 - 20.Jan.2003)

Thought For The Day

2005-12-24T16:20:00.000+05:30

When your cousins are opera-singing banshees, make sure your neighbours are nearby.

Alliterations

2005-12-16T16:20:00.000+05:30

College was always fun....specially the English classes. After doing Shakespearan plays in school, Robin Hood was a hoot in college. Too easy. And generally when things are too easy, they tend to get boring. And that's exactly what happened during English.

My friends and I soon took to writing poetry about teachers and some of the students we didn't like during English class. This used to amuse us no end and once we started circulating them, it was even more fun. Then came the English Criticism class where we learnt about alliterations and our so-called writing careers took a drastic turn from poetry to alliterations.

Alliterations are sentences that have similar sounding letters right through them. For example, "Lovely, luscious lips." Get the picture? Poets like DH Lawrence used alliteration (when the "S" sound is repeated, it's called sibilance) to illustrate their poems better. He wrote an entire poem on a snake, constantly using words that had the "s" sound in them to illustrate the hissing of a snake.

We, of course, found this highly fascinating and alliteration and sibilance became the order of the day. Here are a few alliterative prose that we wrote. Although they didn't make much sense (and still don't) they were nevertheless fun to write.

When will this witch with a wasted classful of wishful girls wind up and wedge a Wellington watch from Warsaw into her wide mouth? (This was about the most boring teacher in the history of teachers and written just before lunch)

Sapna saw Solomon swinging sorrowfully, sulking sillily and singing somethng she thought was sweet and sending sour sonnets about the seas and the sunshine and smelly stinky sewers in a sad state of sorrowful sanity in the sweltering sunshine of the summer son in South San Fransisco.

Dumbo ding dong Dolly doted on dates drooling dreadfully, dreaming daringly and defying death only to drool in the doldrums and doze dreaming of dating dashing guys dressed in drag and demolishing such dreams that don't delay dumbo dongs who dated Dolly.

Ruthless Rebecca rambled on and on to the restless rueful girls, raking in the rest of their rapt attention with rusty remarks and reasons and ruminerations, requiring the remaining girls to render their rumbling stomachs to roast their refridgerated brains and render them unconscious.

"So sweet," says Solomon, slurping a sinful sundae which was also a sparkling soda, "is the babe that lies in the softly sunlit sauna amidst a swarm of sexy butterflies and the Tyranosaurus Rex and the brontosaurus, the two of which fell in love with the cephalothoraxx of the rhino's back, which was stung by a super big scorpion and kissed by superman and Scooby Doo who longed for Scooby snax for Shaggy and Scrappy and also for Pierce Brosnan's sexy eyes which stung with tears cos Supergal was sleuthing in the Bahamas with Spiderman and the Ghostbusters, singing "Sweet for my sweet and sugar for my honey."

Dr Faustus fell for Florence Nightingale of France for he felt that if he didn't fall, he would fracture his fibula or his femur and then fall at Mephistophilis's feet for forgiveness and fruit salad.

Did the dumb dead duck dive deep into the depths of the dreamy dark damp ditchwaters of Denmark?

Gorgeous groovy guy gave gay girl a golden gondola to gambole to Goa.

Okay okay, so i'll stop with the bad literature. Hope you had fun reading this. Bye bye.

The Masquerader

2005-12-08T16:18:00.000+05:30

He sits there on the pavement looking pathetic. Hair uncombed, a vacant look in his unnaturally bright eyes, tattered muffler around his neck, torn gloves on his hands exposing his filthy fingernails, a cigarette stub tucked behind his left ear and half hidden by unkempt hair, bare feet sticking out of thread bare socks. A pair of crutches rest on the wall next to him.

He sits there on the pavement, begging for his keep. Telling passersby some sad luck story about how hungry he is and how he hasn't eaten since the day before. Sometimes the stories vary. He tells them how he came to town for a holiday and how all his bags got stolen along with all his money and how he needs cash to get back to his home town and how he actually really is a respectable man who is just down on his luck. He looks at passersby so pitifully that even the stone-hearted give him a few bucks.

Few fail to notice that his english/hindi/tamil are flawless, even refined. Look carefully and you'll see his alert eyes follow you, giving you the occasional leer. Observe that under his tattered muffler, his neck is unnaturally clean. Notice that his cigarette lighter is an original zippo. And while you're at it, notice that the filth on his actually manicured fingers looks remotely like shoe polish. Do you see? His rags look a little bulky. Maybe it's 'cos he's actually wearing a pair of long johns underneath?

Watch carefully in the evenings as he prepares to go home. He staggers up with the help of his crutches and hobbles off painfully in the direction of the slum behind the parking lot. Let that not deter you. Follow him and you'll see that he's actually not using the crutches as he should. A few more yards and when he's sure no one's looking, he begins to hum and whistle while trotting off towards the car park and not the slum. Watch him looking around furtively as he carefully hides his crutches behind some beams.

He knocks on the dark windows of a Honda City. The back door opens and he gets in. He then goes home to his mansion in his chauffeur driven car.

Untitled

2005-12-07T16:15:00.000+05:30

The sweet serenity of the soul

Shattered to bits.

Shards of broken glass

Shattered in the winds.

A drowning voice

Echoes with despair

Lost. In the howling winds.

A touch. A human touch.

A healing touch. Yet firm in its grasp.

A chance. A second chance

An eternity. Yet the pieces mould

Melt. Fuse. To form a whole YET

Empty Shell.

This was written while sitting outside Bangalore University, waiting for my final UG results. Makes sense now???

Alvirah's Blunder

2005-11-28T16:13:00.000+05:30

This story was written for WaterfallMist (because he was complaining that i didn't write "happy" stuff) but mostly it was written in 1999 for the Christ College intercollegiate writing competition held in honour of their new library. It always amuses me to see how my style of writing has changed over the years.

In a distant land far away , the only building that stood in my way was an old library. As I entered, I tripped over something and fell flat on my face. I gingerly picked myself up and sought the culprit of my fall. It was a book! Of course! What else would you expect to find in a library?

I picked up the book and read its title. “Witches and Warlocks,” it said. I looked around the tiny foyer. It was deserted. I carried the book through the foyer and into the main library…and stopped, shocked.

The whole library was in a complete state of disarray. None of the books were on the shelves. They were all lying on the floor or falling off the tables and chairs that lined the bare walls. Books were scattered everywhere. There were actually piles of books that reached up to the ceiling! The place was a total mess!

Suddenly, I heard a noise. No, it was more like a sob. I surveyed the whole room but could not find the source of the noise. Then I heard it again. It seemed to be coming from behind a pile of books on the far corner.

I waded through the numerous books that blocked my passage. On the way, I read a few more titles – “Curses and Spells” read one, “Cults and Groups” read another, “Salem” read yet another title. I realized that all these books had something to do with the supernatural!

I heard the sob again and made my way to the corner. There, I saw a real sight for sore eyes. For, there in the corner, surrounded by a pile of books, was a pretty, young girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen. She had long, golden tresses and wore a long flowing gown. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the Elizabethan Age. Her head was buried in a book and her whole body was racked with sobs.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, stepping up to her.

She immediately jumped out of her chair and whimpered down in the corner like a frightened kitten. “Oh! I-i th-thought it w-was h-her,” she stammered, relief obvious on her pixie face.

“Who?” I asked.

“Y-you know…..her.”

“No, I don’t know. But you’re obviously frightened of her, whoever she is. I mean no harm.”

“Y-yes. She might k-kill me or throw me into the Bottomless Pit or the Hell of No Return if I don’t finish reading all these books by tonight,” she said, gesturing to the whole library.

“You have to read all these books by tonight?” I expostulated. “How many have you finished?”

“Oh, about three,” she replied. And then she burst into tears again.

“Maybe I can help you. Do you mind telling me why you have to read all these books by tonight?”

She sniffed and dabbed at her face with the hem of her petticoat. “Well, it’s like this. See, tonight is the Night of a Thousand Moons.” She looked at me expectantly. When she saw my blank expression, she continued. “One night in a thousand full moons is set aside by us witches and warlocks to wreak havoc upon the world. Tonight is that night and I have to find a spell to stop it or else…or else….” She broke down in sobs again.

“Okay…” I said, hesitantly, if a little dubious.

“You don’t believe me?” she shreaked hysterically. “Your whole future depends on tonight and you don’t believe me?”

“Okay, calm down.” I said in a soothing voice. “I’ll help you. Just tell me what to look for.’

“Shhh…she’s coming!” she said, eyes round with fear.

“Who? Who’s coming?” I asked, starting to panic. I could actually feel her, whoever she was. The hairs on my neck were standing on end.

“M-my Aunt Al-alvirah,” she stuttered. If she finds me here, she’ll definitely kill me or…or…worse….she’ll throw me into the World of Dry Oceans and Wet Air.”

Before I could make sense of this last piece of information, I heard a crack of thunder and the pile of books nearest to me began to smolder.

“Sssooo…” a voice, nastier than rat’s feet on dry paper thundered. “My little niece defiesss me, eh?”

I didn’t want to turn around. Couldn’t. The girl was cowering in the corner like a petrified rat. I didn’t want to turn around, but was compelled to.

There she stood, between a pile of books, a manic look in her eyes. Hair flying in the whirlwind that circled her. Bolts of lightening flashing around her head. Or were those just the evil sparks in her eyes? Her teeth were bared like a hungry wolf about to feast on its prey.

“You certainly should be punished for thissss, ssssilly girl,” she hissed, as the whirlwind around her swirled even faster. “Hmm…let’s see…I think the Hell of Burning Water would do just fine. Assss for you,” she said, turning to me, “You will also be punished for helping this….thisss…..wench.”

The whirlwind around her began to swirl in larger circles until it engulfed both the girl and me. Suddenly, the back wall of the library disappeared into nothingness. Books began to be sucked into the gaping hole. I grabbed the nearest bookshelf that seemed to be attached to the wall.

“Hold onto something!” I cried as I felt myself being lifted off the ground and being pulled inexonerably towards the vortex. I twisted around but could not see the girl.

Suddenly, the shelf I was clinging to, heaved – and then disappeared. I was flung feet first into the vortex, still trying to grab onto something solid.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up yelling. In my own room. In my own bed. I looked around at my room and smiled. “Just a dream,” I thought, lying down again. Phew! It had been such a vivid dream that I could still see the lightening cracking as I was sucked through the vortex.

Something wasn’t right though. I looked around my room again. Funny, I thought. I had just thrown away this blanket. And hadn’t I changed the wallpaper a few months ago?

Just then, the doorbell rang. I noticed slight changes in my living room as I walked through it to answer the door. I was sure that I had changed those curtains and didn’t I pull down that wall to make the living room larger?

My jaw dropped when I opened the door. The girl. In my dream. Was standing on my front porch. Holding a pile of newspapers. She smiled, handed me one, and rode away on her bicycle.

If I was shocked to see her, I was even more flabbergasted to see the headlines in the paper. “Kuwait Oil Rigs Bombed.” was the main headline. The sub-head was what caught my eye. “Thousands of Sea Animals Die As Water Ignites.”

Water ignites? I thought. Burning water? Of course! The oil rigs were at sea! I checked the date of the newspaper. 1996? Boy, things were really beginning to fall into place now. My house, for one. 1996 is three years ago. Well, from today, that is. No wonder things in my house were different. I’d recently renovated it. Well, recently as in 1999.

I glanced at the headlines and burst out laughing. Aunt Alvirah, the witch had mistaken Earth for the Hell of Burning Water and had sent us back, without even knowing it. “Well,” I thought with some remorse, “this is as close to hell as we’ll ever get in this lifetime.”

Taking a deep breath, I went back inside my house. Sure, I’d have to live the three years all over again but then, these three years were a gift and I was going to enjoy it every darn minute possible. Besides, I’d have three years to help the girl find the right spell. Thank you, Alvirah!

Beware!

2005-11-24T16:13:00.000+05:30

Half of you look at me with pity. Yeah sure. But pity isn't all it's cracked up to be, is it? You might pity me, but you still roll up your windows and look the other way. At least some of you have the decency to pretend to do something else. Like play with your fancy cell phones or feign interest in the mundane billboards and so-called scenery. Yeah, it's only when you see me at your window that the trees on the other side of the pavement suddenly look interesting, don’t they?

Sure, some of you even deign to throw a few coins at me, making sure not to touch my grubby hands. Who knows what kind of deadly diseases I might have. Not that I’m not grateful or anything, but how's a few coins going to help me? Seriously. Does it make you feel better? Like you've fulfilled your service to society? Like you've done your good deed for the day?

Some of you pretend not to see me at all. Why would you? After all, I just might ruin your appetite. Or worse, make you feel guilty about the nice food you're going to eat. Or the nice clothes you have. Or the secure world you seem to live in. What? Do I threaten you in some way? Make you feel insecure?

Well it should. Wanna know why? I'll tell you. I used to be like you once. Oh yes. It was years ago but I still remember. I used to have a wonderful family. A roof over my head. Clothes to wear. Food to eat. I even used to go to school! That is until a stranger offered me a ride home. Yeah, I used to be gullible, but not anymore. I never did reach my home. He made me get into an auto and then he blind-folded me. Said it was a surprise. Yeah, it was a surprise alright. Specially when he took me to some warehouse and broke my knees and blinded me in one eye. After that I remember a long train journey but I was in too much pain to notice anything else.

When we reached our destination, he took me to another warehouse where there were other kids like me. All handicapped in some way or the other. Talking in different languages. Wearing rags. I was also given rags in lieu of my school uniform. And there I was, just another face in a multitude of faces. We weren’t given much to eat. Just some stale bread and something that could have been water.

Life became routine after that. If you can call it life. Every morning, the man would come and pick us up in his car and drop us on some street corner with a dire warning that if we didn’t bring back a certain amount of money by the end of the day, he’d do worse to us than break our knees. We were left there to beg for our keep and were picked up every evening. All our money went to the man and in return, we got a place to stay and something that resembled food.

At first, I tried to escape but it was tough because of the language problem. Besides, nobody even spared a glance my way when I tried talking to them. I didn’t realize that I was being watched and every time I tried talking to someone, I was severely beaten at the end of the day. Once, I even tried talking to a policeman but that just earned me a box on my ears. Apparently cops don’t like helping us either. I think that was the worst day because that evening I was not only beaten, I was also molested. God, that was the worst punishment ever and I’d make damn sure I did not offend my captors again.

I’d like to think my parents tried to find me. Well, if they tried, they didn’t succeed. It’s been six years and I’m now twelve years old. They probably won’t recognize me even if they saw me. Oh heck, there’s nothing wrong with hoping. After all, hope is all I have.

So, the next time you see me at your car window, it would be nice if you didn’t treat me like a non-entity. It would be nice if you really would do your service to society and maybe throw some food my way instead of a few measly coins. And before you roll up your window or pretend to not notice me, just remember:

I used to be like you once.

If something like this could happen to me, it could happen to you as well.

I’m still being watched.

Act too smug and you just might become a target too. It’s not that difficult to follow you home or to your work place.

Above all, remember: You’d feel justified in feeling insecure when you look at me.

After all, anything can happen.

Anywhere.

Even to you.

Travel Rant

2005-11-18T16:12:00.000+05:30

I used to love traveling. A lot. I thought it gave me the time I needed to catch up on my thoughts as well as reading my novels. Plus it provided the perfect escape from the monotony and stresses of college and home. I used to absolutely love traveling......until I started noticing a certain pattern. Either someone would already be in my seat and I'd have to haggle for it, or there'd be an utterly noisy baby in close proximity to me or there's be an extremely fat woman sitting next to me, squashing me half to death.

As far as the haggling for the seat on the train went, the popular response would be, "You're thin na? Why don't you adjust?" And the perpetrator would smugly move an inch and expect me to squeeze my skinny ass onto the seat. At first I used to comply but then I thought, why the hell should I? I have a reserved ticket and you don't. So you either get completely off the seat or I’m calling the ticket conductor.

I think the same principal applied to the obese people I always land up sitting next to. "You're thin na? Adjust." Ya well, I’m tired of adjusting, and I’m tired of being squashed up against the window and I’m tired of having the wind knocked out of me every time you shift in your seat. Besides, if you're going to overflow into other people's seats, you might as well buy an extra ticket! I know I sound rude but I’ve seriously had it with people who think it’s their sole right to sit on you just because they can.

And don't even get me started on kids yelling their lungs out somewhere in my vicinity during journeys. Seriously, these howling kids seem to follow me where ever I go. Whether it’s in a movie theatre or a bus or a train or even in a nice serene park, these little bawling cretins seems to be everywhere. Don't get me wrong. As a child psychologist, I have extreme tolerance for young children and most of my patients are generally well-behaved. And I do love children. It's just the uncontrollable ones that are the problem. But then again, if the children are uncontrollable, I think the parents are to blame.

Like a couple of days ago, I was traveling back to Bangalore in an Air Deccan flight. As we all know, Air Deccan has very small aircrafts that seat only 50 passengers and have only one flight attendant. I of course, had the misfortune of sitting just behind a French couple with three young children. The girl who was at the window was no trouble at all. She kept gawking at the passing clouds and was totally oblivious to everything around her. Her little brother was in the centre seat and the mother was in the aisle. Every time the little boy so much as burped, the mother would lean over and spank him. When he began to howl, she'd yell even louder for him to shut up. See, this is where punishing the parents would come in handy. I'm sure if someone had told the badly-behaving mother to shut up, the kids would have behaved themselves as well.

Oh heck, I’m just ranting. I believe that if you can't control your kids, don't bring them out in public. They only land up being a nuisance to others as well as you. And for the love of God, don't bloody bring your ill-behaved kids into confined spaces such as aircrafts and trains where their screams are just amplified even more. Who knows, maybe one of these days I just might turn around and smack you first and then throw you and your noisy brats over board.

Just for the heck of it.

As for the "Swalpa adjust madi" syndrome that other people seem to have, I've solved that problem by putting on weight. Now I'd probably have to ask them to adjust. Muahahaaa.

Scum

2005-11-07T16:08:00.000+05:30

I'm watching you. Watching your every move.

And I know you're watching me. No, staring at me. I see speculation in your eyes. I look a bit like her, don't I?

You look surprised. I wonder why. You know. You know that I know. You know that I remember.

I remember. It may have been years ago, when I was a little girl, but I remember. The terrace party. I came downstairs for some juice and there you were. Feeling her up. Someone else's wife.

You begged me not to tell.You realised that I could have broken up two marriages. Just like that. Yours and hers.

You begged my not to tell. Made me swear. You said you'd never do it again. I shrugged and kept quiet. I was only eleven years old.What was I to do?

But you lied. I caught you with her again two years later. You had your tongue down her throat and your hands up her blouse.

You promised me the moon. Whatever I wanted. If only I'd keep my mouth shut. I didn't want anything from you. I avoided you as much as I possibly could. But you were always around. In my face. When you got transferred to a different city, i was the happiest.

You asked my to keep my mouth shut. I did. And I have. For thirteen years. But now you're testing my patience. Really. You're taunting me. Playing mind games with me. And you're watching me to see if I'll snap.

Oh, I'll snap, honey. But not right now. Not here. I'll snap when the time is right. And when I do, don't worry. I'll make your life a living hell.

You can taunt me how much ever you want. Now. Just know that you're time is coming. Soon.

I'm waiting.

I'm watching.

I know you're number.

And I know where you live.

Sri Lanka

2005-11-06T16:07:00.000+05:30

I stand on the beach, looking over the waters of the Indian Ocean, at the gorgeous psychedelic sunset. The setting sun splays the cloudy sky with rich hues of oranges fused with shades of red and pink. The sparkling waters reflect the sun's rays in all its glory. The effect is blinding but beautiful to behold.

It's hard to imagine that less than a year ago, the hungry waters of this same tranquil-looking ocean had ravaged this very spot. It's hard to imagine that this gorgeous sea had swallowed up thousands of people, ruining property and land and changing topography and lives forever. But then again, when I look around, I notice the tell tale signs of death and destruction all down the western coast. Here a ramshackle cottage, there a broken railway line, here a line of bricks in the ground on which a house must have once stood. And all this at least a kilometer and a half inland.

But of course, tsunamis are not the only calamity that Sri Lanka has suffered from. It is not immune to bomb blasts, terrorist attacks and at least one assassination per month.

Just two streets away from our house is the residence of the Secretary of State, heavily fortified and guarded by dozens of armed army personnel. But what’s the point of all that security now after he’s been assassinated?

I stare in horror at the shells of two buildings that were bombed just two months ago. The roofs have fallen in and the surrounding debris has not been cleared yet.

Life goes on all around. Episodes like these are two-minute news to the rest of the world and then forgotten. News of bomb blasts and tsunamis, earthquakes and cyclones are just a hiccup in our lives..... something that happens to others but not to us. It's only when we see the destruction with our own eyes that it hits us. Anything can happen. And yes, even to us. At any time.

I focus on the now darkened sky reflected in the sea. The waves seem to be getting larger and larger. Maybe it's just high tide. Maybe it's just my imagination. Either way, I retreat quickly into the house..... and my false sense of security.

Running Away

2005-10-31T16:07:00.000+05:30

She took another drag of her cigarette and looked at the view. From her vantage point on the boulder, she saw the dismal valleys bellow and the stark plains beyond. The drought had played a game with the vineyards and won. Now, there was dry, barren land stretching for miles around. Wasteland.

This spot used to be her favourite refuge as a teenager. She had always had this bad habit of running away from her problems. Literally. Every time something went wrong that she could not handle, she'd take a long ride on her bike or catch the next train out of town and stay with some relatives until she could clear her head and pretend like nothing had happened. Not dealing with her problems was one way to deal with them, she thought sardonically. But this time, a long bike ride or a train journey wasn't going to fix things. This was something she could not run away from, even if she tried. She patted her swollen belly and took another drag. No, this was something she just could not run away from.

She flicked her cigarette over the precipice, watching it tumble down the hill. She used to come up here with her friends when she was younger. Those were the carefree days when they would all just pile into a car at a moments' notice, buy a couple of beers and head on out of the city up to the hills. It wasn't too far away. Just about 52 kilometers from her house. She had always associated these hills with laughter. That's why they were comforting when she was depressed.

She sighed and lit another Navy Cut. Smoking really soothed her.... calmed her. And in that hazy calmness, she could think rationally. Or at least, try.

It was weird how perceptions changed with moods. When you're happy, everything looks green and lush. When you're depressed, the same surroundings look barren and black. As black as your mood.

Another drag. Think rationally. Maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed. Maybe she wouldn't have to face her parents' wrath. Maybe they'd understand. She patted her swollen belly again. Yeah right. Maybe they'd understand....in a million years or so.

She crushed the cigarette on the rock and flicked it down the hill, watching its descent until it finally came to rest a few feet below. A heavier object would fall much faster and farther. She stood up and brushed off her jeans. She patted her tummy again. I'm sorry, she thought.

Then she jumped.

Opera-Singing Banshees

2005-10-27T16:06:00.000+05:30

One of my pet peeves (and yes, I have many) are my neighbours. Okay, maybe I shouldn't use the plural for that. The neighbours on one side of my house are dead quiet and are no trouble at all. Well, they wouldn't be, would they? They all reside peacefully in their respective graves. It’s the neighbours on the other side of my house that irk me.

I know I have blogged about them before, but seriously, you just have to meet them to understand.

Meet half-deaf papa neighbour. He's in his mid thirties and can't hear in one ear; hence, screams to hear himself. Meet gun-throat mama neighbour. She's also in her mid thirties and loves to laugh and talk at the same time, hence having to repeat herself several times over in her efforts to be understood. And all this is done at loud-speaker volume for papa neighbour dearest to hear. Now we come to the baby neighbours whom we shall name Banshee and Opera-singer. Both of them, having learnt at a young age that papa dearest cannot hear them unless they talk loudly; have acquired the skillful art of talking at ear-splitting volume. This comes naturally to them now. Banshee is about ten years old and loves to wake up her younger brother (Opera-singer) at 5.30 am, just to hear him sing. His singing, to us, mere mortals, sounds like wailing and bawling but, to the higher beings, must be pure music.

The wailing, er…I meant singing, once started, does not stop until 6 am. This is when gun-throat mama neighbour decides that Banshee should be reprimanded and commences to do so with the utmost volume. Banshee, not one to be outdone, begins a screeching competition with her mother. This in turn, wakes up half-deaf papa neighbour who begins to yell at his tribe for waking him up in the first place.

All this happens just outside my window.

They seem to have invented a game called Screaming Mindlessly. Plot of the game. Pretend that you’re being stabbed over and over again. Rules of the game. Scream as loud as you can.

My mother once complained to them that they were making too much noise. Gun-throat mama neighbour retorted saying, “This is my house and my children and my life. Butt out.”

Okay. So. This is my house and my 2000W audio music system. Deal with it. 6 in the morning did you say? Okay. Metallica should be just fine then. If confrontation doesn’t work, passive aggressive behaviour will. Besides, it’s more fun. Every time they make too much noise, up goes my music volume. See? Fun.

Besides, I have the a feeling that by the time its time for their tenth standard public exams, I will be married and have children of my own. And I will make sure that I play Screaming Mindlessly with my children every damn day during that time.

Revenge is mine!

Long Live Passive Agressiveness.

Ghosts in the Dark

2005-10-24T16:05:00.000+05:30

Imagination is probably your worst enemy when you're terrified.

This is me, sixteen years ago. We'd just moved into our new house and all was well.....until I realized that there was a graveyard just behind my room. Luckily, at that time, there were no windows in my room that overlooked the graveyard so I could just pretend it wasn't there.

My parents took part in a lot of social events and were hardly ever at home....which left me to my own devices. At these times, my neighbours used to baby-sit me. The woman who lived in the first floor of my neighbour's house prided herself on her ability to see ghosts. "I was born with a thin white film over my eyes," she would say, "which enables me to see all kinds of supernatural beings. Why, once, I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a man sitting at the edge of my bed and looking down at me! His lips were moving but I couldn't hear a word he was saying. He then caught hold of my feet and I screamed and put the lights on and there was nobody there!"

Now, sixteen years later (and in broad daylight) I think that it was probably her spinster fantasies talking, but at that time, this story really creeped me out. The kicker came when we built our first floor a few years later. She called me aside and in a conspiratorial whisper thanked me. I wanted to know what she was thanking me for. She had a vague smile on her face as she confided, "You know, after you built your first floor, you've blocked my view of the graveyard and I haven't had a "visitation" since. Maybe now the ghosts get caught in your house on the way to mine!"

That spooked the living daylights out of me. That’s when my imagination started running riot and the nightmares began. I started imagining ghosts at every dark corner and crevice of my room. I began to avoid coming upstairs alone for now, my new room afforded a splendid view of the graveyard in all its majesty. My parents quickly got tired of escorting me upstairs and my mother bought me a small ornate silver cross. "Keep this in your pocket always and nothing will be able to harm you," she said. It was some small consolation. I began clinging to the cross every time I even thought of coming upstairs and for a time, it worked....until my imagination got the better of me again.

My first funeral. I was in my room when I heard it. The drums beating outside. I looked out and there, just below my window was the funeral procession. About six people were carrying a small coffin while others were beating drums and bawling their lungs out, heading towards the graveyard. I watched, entranced, as the service unfolded and the coffin was buried. That night, after an especially horrifying nightmare, I woke up in a cold sweat. My room was pitch dark. The only thing I could see was the slightly luminescent screen of my computer monitor. But that’s not what spooked me. What spooked me was the feeling that I was no longer alone in my room. As I looked towards the computer, I saw a young girl with shoulder-length silverish hair sitting at my chair and gazing into the computer screen. Her hands were poised over the keyboard, but she wasn't moving. She was just sitting there, staring at the computer.

I rushed into my parents room and dived under the covers with them, refusing to step foot into my room until she was gone. My mother dutifully checked my room and reported nothing strange. Or no one strange. But even so, I refused to sleep alone that entire week and had the computer shifted to my parents’ room. My grandfather made it worse by telling me to always check under my bed before going to sleep every night. You never know….

That’s when the silver ornate cross that my mother had given me really came in handy. We were inseparable, even in the daytime. Just having it in my pocket gave me the courage to face dark rooms. I remember imagining hungry monsters waiting in my room, ready to pounce on me. That’s when I’d squeeze the cross in my pocket and lunge at the light switch. The evil would always dissipate when the lights came on.

Then, one day, when I was upstairs alone, I realized that I didn’t have the cross with me. I panicked but at the same time I realized that I had been upstairs for over an hour and nothing bad had happened. No hands had sidled out from under the bed and caught hold of my ankles. No monsters had jumped out at me and said the proverbial “boo.” I was quite safe and okay. I didn’t need the cross for protection. It was all in my head.

From that day on, my fears of the dark slowly began to abate. I would even make fun of my “ghostly” experiences and use them to scare my friends when they came home for sleepovers. After all, the dark terrace with its awesome view of the graveyard was an ideal place for midnight ghost stories.

But even after all these years, I still have the cross. I’ve hung it up on the wall that faces the graveyard. You know, just in case…..

As for my wayward imagination, it still runs riot at the very thought of ghosts and monsters. But I’ve learned to ignore it….just as I’m ignoring the thing staring over my shoulder right now and reading this blog.

War Torn

2005-10-21T16:04:00.000+05:30

Silent ghosts of the past...whispered memories....echoes...it all comes back.

"I'm leaving, Amma, I'm sorry. But don't worry. When i come back, I'll be a hero. I'll win the medal for bravery and it'll be just for you. We'll hang it up in the show case so that everyone will see..." He prattles on, the way young idealistic soldiers do. "...and then we can move to a bigger house..."

"Don't worry, Vysh," says a deeper, more mature voice at my side. Turning, i see my husband. He smiles reassuringly at me. "I'll bring him back safely." He squeezes my shoulders and bends to kiss my tear-stained cheeks.

I stand at the gate watching the tall lanky frame of my only son and the muscular physique of my husband dissolve into the night. That picture becomes hazy as I myself dissolve into tears.

Weeks...months....eons...and I still stand by the gate, waiting. Waiting for the two men who mean the world to me to come back. Waiting and praying. Praying and waiting. Helpless.

The world goes about its business. And I, ever waiting, every praying, watch the world. The milk man, the paper man, the vegetable vendor, the post man...all go about their duties as though all is right with the world.

A hand on my shoulder. I turn and look into gray, compassionate eyes. Dhadhima and I had shared a common bond ever since the war had started...We were both mothers whose sons had been drafted to the front.

She sits beside me and holds my hands. Together, we watch the dark mists that shroud the world.

Shadows in the mist. Echoes in the dark. Voices tainted with agony. The mist thickens. Eons give way to eras. Minutes stretch to eternity. And finally...the dawn of a new era. The mist clears, but not entirely. Voices...different ones this time....talking about love, peace and brotherhood among nations. Dreams...echoes of peace.

And finally....a bright new day. A new world. The shrouded mists become dewy mists. The war was over. My heroes were coming back.

A tall lanky frame, hardly recognizable. Long gray hair, unkempt. A face lined with experience and pain. I throw my arms about him as he steps through the gate and he holds me tight. Not a word is said. In his clenched fist is a medal. A medal for bravery.

Dhadhima is still standing near the gate, looking expectantly at the mist. She slowly turns and looks at me. Fresh tears brew as realization hits us. Hits us both and shatters us as a thousand hand grenades never could. My son had come back......but hers never would.

The Apprentices

2005-10-18T16:02:00.000+05:30

This was written sometime in 2001 after my first day of work in an Advertising Agency. Oh, and we (Saps and me) actually had the gall to submit this along with our first assignment, which was to write a synopsis of a book on Account Management. Luckily our boss had a good sense of humour or we would have been fired the very next day!

With hearts beating rapidly, they crept into the office - only to find their boss glaring at them.

"Your assignment," he thundered, dropping a book that could have been a combination of a large sized dictionary and a telephone directory (complete with yellow pages) in front of them.

The book, weighed down with knowledge overflowing from it, sapped their energy as they hobbled over to the desk with it. On opening it, they gasped, for in it, lay a whole array of words strung together to form undecipherable sentences. The more they gazed at it, the more it swam before their eyes, distorting all images of what is and what is not.

Focusing their combined energy on J. W. Thompson's Account Management, they unsuccessfully tried to decode the mysteries of how to become an Account Manager, but no matter how much they tried, the truth always managed to elude them.

Under the watchful gaze of the frowning boss, they pretended to be engrossed in the adventures of the account manager, while all the time contemplating, "Why meeeeeeee?"

As the telephones noisily came to life all around them, they could feel their own life seeping away until, by noon, they were nothing but wilted wall flowers, just sitting there.... withering away...

Finally, their grumbling stomachs brought them out of their stupor and they decided to appease their hunger. The unappetizing food revitalized them and filled them with the desire to catch the bull by its horns, or, rather, the book by its covers and just go for it. So, with light hearts and heavy stomachs, they headed back to the office only to encounter - The Book.

They threw themselves wholeheartedly into their first assignment and, in their (un)deranged state of mind, somehow, to a certain extent, managed to unravel the great mystery of - The Account Manager.

The Darkness and the Light

2005-10-16T16:01:00.000+05:30

Once upon a time, two men were imprisoned in two separate, identical rooms for an indefinite period of time. The rooms were pitch dark. There were no light bulbs, no tube lights, no switches, no furniture. They were given one candle each with a book of matches.

The first man lit a match. It burnt bright for a second but then it blew out. "I'll preserve these matches," he thought, "since i do not know how long i will be a prisoner. They might come in handy later." So saying, he kept them in a corner and waited out the rest of his days in that cold, dank, dark room.

The second man lit a match. It burnt for a second but then it blew out. "Hmm," he thought, "There seems to be an opening somewhere in this room from which the draft that blew out my match came from." So saying, he lit another match and watched the direction of its flame as it blew out. He walked in the opposite direction and sure enough, he felt a light breeze coming from a hole in the wall. He stretched out his hand towards the hole in the wall and to his amazement, the wall moved. He lit another match and in the second that it sparked, he saw that what he thought was a wall, was actually a door. An ajar door. He walked out. Free.

Most of us take life for granted and just wait for good things to happen to us. Maybe its time we got off our asses and did something about it.

News Update

2005-10-11T16:01:00.000+05:30

I came back to Bangalore about an hour ago. Came home just now. No dogs to welcome me, which is quite strange as they generally wait near the end of the road for us. Mom is in tears and has landed up getting a migraine. She was apparently too upset to go to work yesterday. Apparently Brownie bit someone yesterday and that person lodged a complaint with the Dog Pound. The Pound got a written order to take the dogs away. No amount of begging and pleading worked, although all the neighbours tried. An order was an order. Both Brownie and Bouncer were carted away in the Doggie van.

I don't think they're ever coming back. :(

In A Nutshell

2005-10-11T15:54:00.000+05:30

Snail mail. Good news. Acceptance letter. PG Course. Different college. Different city. Different state.

Packing. Tearful goodbyes.

Hostel. Checking in. Unpacking. Final farewells. Initiation. Ragging. Making friends. Sharing rooms. Midnight parties. Fun!

First day of college. Introductions. New classmates. Learning names. Learning faces. Learning.

Exploring college. Exploring the city. Exploring shopping malls.

Coffee shop. Free sms. Crank sms. Making friends. Phone calls. Exciting!

Second Semester.

Beach house. Girl's night. Surprise birthday party. Bonding.

Spencer lunches. More coffee shops. Movies. Sparks. Banned phonecalls. Heart ache. Lousy birthday.

Christmas at home. Speeding time.

New Year's. Pongal holidays. Loafing. Bad news. Black days. Teary nights. Funeral. Depression.

Frenzied studying. Sleepless nights. Final exams. End of semester. Back home!

Awesome holidays.

Third semester. Back to the grind. Internships. Case studies. Research methodology. Dreaded statistics.

Psychotic room mate. Dreaded hostel. Midnight tears and confidences. Sleepless nights. Drowning. Breaking. Obsessive phonecalls. Counselling. Packing bags. Running away. Goodbye hostel. Goodbye schizophrenic roommate. Goodbye madness.

Wild saturday nights. Phone-sickness. Phone obsession. Dreaded end. Heartbreak. Heartache. Dissent into madness. Again.

Class trip to Bangalore. Partying! Partying! Partying! Good food. Bonding sessions. Fun.

Another lousy birthday. Lousy Christmas hols. Lousy New Years'.

Fourth semester. Frenzied rushing around. Project done. Final corrections. Final Submissions. PG over. Back home. Jobless bliss.

Application for MPhil. Lousy entrance exam. Lousy interview. Acceptance letter. Back to Chennai!

Start afresh. New hostel. New classmates. New church. New friends.

Blissful independance.

Coffee shops. Tearful farewells. Angry rantings. Helpless.

December blues. Back home. Club X. Interesting night. New friend.

Utterly depressing birthday.

Carol Rounds. Sneaking out. Meet the parents...the first time. New Years at church. Party after. Talking all night. Being together. Bliss.

Back to Chennai. Frenzied work. Speacial papers. Research. More research. Submissions. Deadlines. Hostel solitude. Studying. Studying. Final exams.

Research. Writing. Typing. Thesis. Deadline. Torture. Missed deadlines. Running around. Pulling out hair. Nit picking. Brain picking. Homicidal tendencies.

Final submissions. Relief. Final viva. Mphil over.

Back to Bangalore.

Sigh. Chennai. I'll miss you.

Pay-per View

2005-10-05T15:50:00.000+05:30

Good morning, sir. I am your guide for today. I will be guiding you through the various intricacies and wonders of ...yes! You guessed it! The passport office! Would you care to join me at the back of this long-ish line? I assure you, sir. It just looks long. Trust me, sir. The wait is much longer.

Ah. You must be lucky, sir, look! From where we stand, we have a most advantageous view of the entire outside of the passport office. Notice the damp walls, so inviting....so invigorating ....for that cluster of insects. Try not to go too close, sir, they may bite. What's that sir? Oh yes yes yes. Speaking of bites, you can live vicariously by feasting your eyes and empty stomach on the restaurant right across the street. Yes yes, The Passport Restaurant is a very novel name for a restaurant. Note the neo-modern decor! The extravagant buffet! The stunning array of food! And, yes, its all for the taking right after you're done with the passport office.

No sir, it won't take long for the gates to open. Just another hour or so. But of course, the doors are a different issue. Now that might take about two hours. No no sir. Thats excluding the one hour wait outside the gates.

Ah. You must be really lucky sir, look! They're opening the gates! Now, run, sir, run! We don't want to get trampled now, do we? Whats, that, sir? Now whats that supposed to mean?

OH.

Do you work out, sir? You did a pretty good job of running to the front of the line just then. Yes, sir. I work out, too. Have to stay in shape to catch up with my clients you see. Some of them run so fast when the gates open that I sometimes lose them in the crowd. Whats, that, sir? I didn't quite hear you. Something about it being the point? Oh, never mind.

Let me interest you in the various sights to behold inside the compound of the passport office, sir. This is only visible to the vigilant eye. Did you know that you can tell a person from his spit? That's right! For instance, take the wall you are leaning against, sir. Note that there are six different colours of spit on it. No no sir. Get back in line or you'll lose your place in the queue!

Did you know monkeys are very possessive? If they grab something from you, you dare not chase it or else they tend to get violent. I suggest that you put your passport into your pocket or into your folder right away sir. It is, after all, another tedious but extremely educational job to get it replaced. Whats, that, sir? Oh, i brought up the subject about monkeys and passports because the one above you on the ledge has been staring rather intently at your passport for quite some time now, sir. Sir! Sir! I insist that you get back in line right now!

Hark! Do you hear? The inner doors are opening. It wont be long until you are invited in, sir. No, no, I will not be able to guide you once you are inside, sir. Sir? Are you crying or laughing?

Well, I must bid you farewell, sir. This is where I take my leave. That will be 500 bucks plus tax for the tour down the line, sir. Whats that. sir? Stick it up where???

OH

Death Threats

2005-09-30T15:49:00.000+05:30

It's ironic, the way things work out. The same person who tried to kill her three years ago, actually saved her today.

Or, at least, for the time being. If I’m being incoherent, it’s because I'm still upset about the entire thing.

I guess it started eleven years ago when she decided to adopt herself into our neighbourhood. We named her Brownie for obvious reasons. Everything including her nose and eyes were brown. She was a pedigree dog, but for some reason, had strayed from her owners and had found us, her new family. She was adorable, and, needless to say, was doted on by the entire neighbourhood. That was until they showed up.

They would be my new neighbours. The pregnant mama, her half-deaf husband, their two year old daughter with the lung power of an opera singer, the half-deaf husband's brother and his pregnant wife. Quite a village. And, judging by their behaviour, probably originated in a village as well.

This was three years ago. By this time, Brownie had had her third litter and we had given away all her puppies except one, whom we named Bouncer.

One Sunday afternoon, I heard Brownie yelp loudly. It was a completely inhuman yelp. That is to say, it was horrifying. I went out to check but couldn't find her anywhere. After a few more minutes, I heard her yelp again. This time, my neighbours from the opposite house came out. I thought that maybe the sound had come from the next house so I peered into their house from the balcony.....and started screaming uncontrollably.

There is a grilled gate at the centre of my neighbour's garage. Brownie was on one side of the gate and my half-deaf neighbour and his brother were at the other side of the gate. They were pulling at a noose that went around Brownie's neck. The poor dog was jammed up against the gate while they tried to break her neck from the other side. Bouncer was standing beside his mother and whimpering.

My dad had woken up by this time and bolted downstairs. He threw open the neighbour's gate and demanded to know what was happening. "The dog kept barking at my wife and sister-in-law," Half-deaf replied. "They both are pregnant. We thought the dog would bite so we killed it."

On hearing this, I began yelling at him, yelling like I’d never yelled at anyone before. "You want your dog?" he asked me with scorn. "Here, take it. It's dead already." He picked up her limp body and threw it out of his house, slamming the gate behind him.

I picked up Bouncer and cradled him in my lap while the other neighbours picked up Brownie. To our surprise, she stirred and then wriggled free, whimpering all the while. We slowly removed the rope from around her neck. It had burned her neck and left a black scar on her brown fur. She could barely move but didn't want to be petted by any of us either. She slowly hobbled away with Bouncer following, and we didn't see her again for three days. When she returned, she was completely back to normal...barking at strangers and growling at the neighbours.

I never really made an attempt to get to know my neighbours after this incident. I thought of them as barbarians and completely stayed away from them and made sure that they stay away from the dogs as well. In fact, there was a growing animosity towards them on my side....until this morning.

This morning was one of the scariest days of my life. I heard a noise outside and when I looked out the window, I saw a man chasing Brownie and Bouncer with a sickle. I thought that maybe he would leave them alone, now that they were safely under my car but he kept yelling and trying to cut them with the knife.

By the time I rushed downstairs and got my gate open, my next door neighbour and opposite house neighbour had come out and were yelling at him. It was the same story once again. Brownie had barked at him so he wanted to kill her. Even with all of us standing outside and yelling, he kept coming at her with his sickle. Finally the next door neighbour put her foot down and told him that he absolutely could NOT come any closer. This from a woman who had wanted the same dog dead only three years earlier.

While he was giving us his explanation and waving his knife at us, I saw one of the neighbour's gates opening and Bouncer slinking inside. The gate was silently shut behind him. Brownie was safely under my car. Suddenly, she stuck her head out from under the car and growled at the man. He immediately lunged for her. I stepped in front of him just in time. He looked straight at me and said, "You're like a sister to me. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to kill the dog." I stood my ground so he backed off a little. By this time, his wife had walked up behind him and slowly took the knife from his hand.

He did not budge. He looked at me and said, "Don't worry. Sometime when you're not at home, I’ll bring a bigger knife and cut up both your dogs." So saying, he left.

My next house neighbour and I stood outside until he was gone. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing and crying at the same time. I swear I could have hugged her just then.

Maybe this is a good time to bridge our differences. I don’t know. But for now, I have to figure out a way to keep Brownie and Bouncer safe from knife-wielding maniacs when we’re not home.

Random Rant

2005-09-29T15:48:00.000+05:30

Just a random thought that occured to me when i heard the lyrics for this song - Arms of Mary, by Boyzone, but predominantly sung by Stephen Gately. The lyrics go something like this -

Mary was the girl who taught me all I had to know
She put me right on my first mistake
Summer wasn't gone when I'd learned all she had to show
She really gave all a boy could take

So now when I feel lonely
Still looking for the one and only
That's when I wish I were lying in the
Arms of Mary

My question? Was Mary that bad that he later became gay?

okay okay, don't shoot me for this one

Hope

2005-09-16T15:46:00.000+05:30

The chasm deepens. Darkness falls. The blackness undulates like waves of sluggish oil. The yawning maw of oblivion beckons. And I. Surrender. Gladly.

Deeper into the rippling pitch I fall, entranced. Sucked. Suctioned. Plumetting. Flying. And then. The gentle sun of a mellow day. Brilliant in its contrast to the ever fading darkness. Lush trees and babbling riverlets. Snow-clad mountains in the distance. Flower-manicured bushes lining pitch roads. A cool, summer breeze gently ruffling leaves and flowers.

Hope.

ONE DAY...

2005-08-20T15:45:00.000+05:30

...........you’ll wake up and realize that you’ve slept your life away.

...........when you’ve finally found yourself, you’ll realize that you’ve lost everyone else.

...........you’ll look back on your childhood and wonder, “Did I really have one?”

...........you’ll look down at the ashes and realize that life has passed you by.

It wouldn’t hurt to .....

..........live life ..... just a little.

Cheek Pulling Hand Slappers

2005-08-17T15:42:00.000+05:30

So here I am, at my so-called childhood friend's wedding. Childhood friend because I've known him all my life. So-called because I've spoken to him like three times in the entire twenty three years that I've known him. The church looks absolutely beautiful. I sit near the aisle so I can view the entire proceedings.

The organ begins to play and the bridegroom and his entourage walk in and take their places at the front of the church. The organist then begins to play the bridal march and we all turn around to see the bride walking down the aisle. First, the church pastor walks in, then the flower girls, the brides' maid and then the bride and her father walk down the aisle. Except I was too busy gaping at the church pastor to notice anyone else. He was none other than my cheek puller from the week before - Pastor Kurvilla. He must have gotten a promotion along the way, cos he was no longer the assistant pastor but the Presbitor In Charge of this particular church.

Bumping into my cheek-puller twice in the one week that I happen to be in Bangalore is way beyond coincidences. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the wedding trying to avoid him.

I hate weddings. No wait, let me rephrase. I hate crowded places. I hate being jostled around and elbowed. To make things worse, it began to rain. Worse still was the fact that the wedding reception was being held on army grounds - open air. Goodbye designer shoes and saris. Hello bad mood.

I was so intent on avoiding Pastor Kurvilla that I bumped smack into the bridegroom's grandfather - a 92 year old ex-military man with a handshake of iron. He was so overjoyed to see me after SUCH a looong time that he gave me a resounding slap on my arm, that even made my dad wince. OUCH! Look at all the preeeeedy tweeeeeties. That one came completely out of left field.

Already in a bad mood, I spent the rest of the wet wedding avoiding anyone who looked remotely lethal, violent, drunk or interested. But even then, I got my cheeks pinched a few million times, got the now familiar oh-you've-grown-so-much-I-last-saw-you-when-you-were-this-high-remember-me monologue and even got a proposal from some loser with a green card.

But even after all that, my poor ego was still smarting from having taken a good beating from a 92 year old man.

Sigh.

Remember Me?

2005-08-09T15:33:00.000+05:30

My mom does it again. We're doing a little shopping on Commercial Street when we bump into what seems like an old friend of hers. They begin to catch up on all their news when she happens to glance towards me.

"Is that your daughter?" she exclaims.

"Yes," Mom gushes, "this is Shireen. You must have met her last when she was a baby."

"No no...I met her a couple months ago." She turns to me and asks the dreaded question, "Remember?"

Of course I don't. I stare at her blankly. Of course, my mom still hasn't introduced her to me so I still don't know her from Eve.

I start fidgeting uncomfortably and thankfully the conversation goes on with me out of it.The woman leaves and my mom and I continue down Comm Street and stop at a slipper store. While my mom checks out the slippers, I notice a man on a scooter beckoning me. He's yelling, "Aye, come 'ere." The sunlight glints off his spectacles so I don't know if he's calling me or the girls behind. I turn around but then he starts pointing at me and yelling a little more animatedly. He seems so excited that I feel that if I don't walk over to him, he'd get off his scooter and grab me and shake the living day lights out of me.

He does worse. He freakin' clutches at my cheek in a pincer grip and presses down even harder, all the while saying, "You know who I am? Huh?" And all I can think of is, "OUCH." Of course, my vision is blurring but the little tweeties I can see flying around me in circles seem clear enough.

Finally my mom saunters over and when she recognizes him, screeches, "Rajan!!! It's you!!! What are YOU doing here?"

He finally lets go of my cheek and turns his attention to her. "Your daughter does not remember me."

Nice opening statement. My mom looks at my, astonished. "What? You don't remember Rajan Uncle?"

"I....er..." I stammer, trying to look uncomfortable. It worked the last time. But not now.They're both staring at me, waiting for a reply.

My mom is looking impatient. "Don't you remember him? How could you not?"

I look at him. He obligingly removes his glasses and peers at me. Like that's going to help. Today is proof enough that my blank looks work.

"I'm Rajan Uncle," he says helpfully.

Yes, I think we established that. But Rajan Uncle from where and when and how would I know you?

"You used to punch my paunch when you were...this high," he says, making a big deal of leaning forwards and holding his hands knee high.

Ah. That explains it all.

Not.

I tap my feet impatiently as my mom and him chat about church politics and their respective parents, all the while willing myself to not rub my smarting cheeks. I have a feeling he might have drawn blood. I make all the usual signs of impatience: looking at my watch a few billion times; feigning interest in every passer-by; jiggling all the plastic bags I'm carrying... Finally I hear my mom saying her goodbyes. Before I could step out of the way, he leans over and pinches my arm. Hard.

"Next time, you better remember me," he says and starts his scooter.

"I'm sure I will." I think, rubbing my arm.

"Who was that?" I burst out, when we were out of earshot of him.

"He was the assistant pastor at our church in ... hmm....1987, I think."

Hmm...Let's see....1987 would mean that I would have been 6 years old at the time. And they expected me to remember him? OH MY GOSH!!!

"Why the hell didn't you just introduce him to me in the beginning instead of embarrassing me like that? You did the same thing with that woman we met earlier...." I continue to rant on for a few minutes.

My mom listens to the entire thing and just laughs it off. Which of course pisses me off no end. I know for sure that nothing has registered. I know for sure that there will be another time. But next time I'll come armed with some clever come-backs.

The next time someone says, "Do you remember me? I used to carry you as a baby!" I'm gonna say,"&^%$$#@" and walk off.

Anyone have any better answers???

Lost Wallets

2005-08-05T12:25:00.000+05:30

After a long, expensive and tiring day of shopping, our final stop was at the bakery. I decided to wait in the car while my aunt went to buy the bread. Of course, the minute I’m alone, I automatically reach for my cell phone, my one true addiction.

While fiddling with the cell phone, I suddenly realize that somebody is talking to me. I look out the window and see a well-dressed man, carrying what we call a missionary bag.

“Please, sister, can you tell me the way to Egmore.” His English is impeccable.

“The bus depot is just there. Just go there and take a 27H or a 27L and ask for Egmore.”

“Yes, but how far is it if I had to walk?”

I think about this for sometime, mentally trying to calculate the distance. “You can’t walk there. It’s about 16 or 17 kilometers from here! Take the bus.”

At this point his voice breaks and he yells out, “Praise the Lord!”

Huh? Oh well, back to my phone. Another tap on my window. I look out. He’s still there. I roll the window down again.

“You see…” he falters. “I need to go home to Nagercoil.”

“Oh, in that case, you need to go to the main bus stand. That’s only a fifteen minute walk from here down this road.”

At this point he shows me his leather bag. The side of the bag is slashed open and there is a big gaping hole there. “All my money has been stolen, and I need to get back home.”

“oh…kay….”

“Please sister,” his voice dissolves into tears, “I’m not a beggar but I need money to get back home. All my money was stolen.”

I look at him uneasily.

“Please, I also have daughters your age. All I want to do is get back home to them.”

Okay okay. So I’m a sucker for sob stories. I sigh and take out my wallet and hand him a ten rupee note. I look for any sign of my aunt but she’s nowhere in sight.

The man does not move. In fact, he begins to sob uncontrollably. “The fare to Nagercoil by bus is 480 rupees.” He looks down pathetically at the ten rupee note in his hand.

What? He expects me to give him more money?

“My aunt will be back now,” I say, “Maybe she can help you.”

At this, he looks panic stricken. At that time, I thought he may have been panicking because of his bus fare. But now, on hind sight, maybe the thought of my aunt seeing through his charade, might have sent him into a panic.

“Please sister. I promise you I’m not a beggar. But can you give me the money to go home?”

“I don’t have 380 bucks to give you!” I sputter.

“Please sister. Only 90 rupees?” And we go through the whole rigmarole of the voice-breaking-and-dissolving-into-tears routine all over again.

“Okay okay. I have only 20 rupees more. But that’s all I have.” Like I said, it was a long, expensive day of shopping.

He looks like he’s going to cry again so I quickly take out the money and hand it to him.

“Praise the Lord!” he says and disappears into the night just as the car door opens and my aunt gets in.

I’d like to think that I helped out someone in their time of need. I’d like very much to think that he reached his home and family safely and that I may have had a hand in getting him there. I’d like to think so.

Then why do I feel so cheated?

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

2005-08-04T15:23:00.000+05:30

I'm a necrophile.

I see dead people.

Moron!

2005-07-26T20:08:00.000+05:30

I recently had the utter misfortune of sitting in the back seat of my car while I let my uncle drive. Please note - I absolutely had no intention of letting him drive. He just saw it as his sworn duty to do so.

I really wish my car had seat belts and, in this case, restraints, in the back seat.

I settled down for what I thought would be a smooth ride. After all, it was only from my house to the theatre. How bad could that be?

Heh. I was soon to find out.

No sooner had we left my lane than an ambassador turns in. Do note. My road is the most awful road in the history of roads. But thanks to technological advancement, it was finally discovered by road-rollers last week, and is now filled with the usual mess that accompanies it.

Now where was I? Ah. Yes. The ambassador almost collides with my car in its vain attempt to avoid the trenches on that side of the road. Smart uncle that I have, rolls down the window and shouts obscenities at the ambi driver that could make a sailor blush.

Leaving the ambi, now safely stuck in the mud and unable to follow, we brave our way to the mainroad and just miss the green light by a few seconds. With no music system in the car, my uncle feels that it is his duty to fill in the silence. He does this by ranting at the traffic lights, ranting at the traffic, ranting at the cop who was standing under the traffic light and picking his nose and ranting at the gloomy weather.

At last, after 99 seconds of red-light torture, we shoot across the main road and almost hit a cyclist. Down goes the window again and my uncle leans out and yells, "Moron!" along with a string of obscenities in German. Not that the cyclist would understand but hey, it’s worth a shot, eh?

Then of course, the ranting begins afresh. "Who do these guys think they are? I'll tell you what they are. Morons is what they are. Look at that guy. He's wiggling his right hand out the window and turning left! (Er...that IS the signal to turn left, I thought?) Arsehole. Cutting a traffic light instead of waiting for a few measly seconds more. Moron." The monologue continues and I tune out.

Except its really hard to tune out when you're getting jostled around so much at the back. If you're an exceptionally good driver and you rant and rave about other motorists, its one thing. But when you yourself are a horrendously bad driver, freakin' keep your mouth shut and concentrate on the road! Yes, this is where the restraints would come in handy in the back seat.

He continues to zig zag his way through traffic at high speed, while applying brakes every few seconds, all the while cussing anyone who dares overtake us or screech to a halt when we cut in front of them. Of course, there’s no use having the air con on cos' the window is perpetually down with his head stuck out of it, yelling at all the so-called morons and arseholes on the road.

At last, up ahead, I can see a red traffic light and sigh with relief. This will give me time to let my stomach and nerves settle down a little. But instead of slowing down, my uncle floors the accelerator and runs the red light, narrowly avoiding another car and a few dozen cyclists.

"Woah, did you see that?" he gloats. "I ran the light. Hehehe. Wow. See, the secret is to wait until the last minute before you do that. That way, the cops can't follow! What did you think? What did you think?"

Wait a second and I’ll tell you JUST what I think.

Moron.

Parents and Denial

2005-07-07T19:48:00.000+05:30

Scenario 1.

I come back home from college and find my cupboard wide open. I panic 'cos I know there's a bottle of whiskey hidden in there. I feign nonchalance, as I walk into my parents' room hoping against hope that the bottle would still be undiscovered. I wish. It was right there, sitting on my parents' bed for all the world to see.

My dad points at it angrily and says, "What's this? And what was it doing in your cupboard?"
I lose my cool and yell, "What were you doing in my cupboard? Talk about invasion of privacy!How dare you snoop around in my things! They should have a law against people like you!"
My dad, not one to be deterred, yells back, "Whats a bottle of whiskey doing with you? Who drank this? Was it those boys???"

Oh. Lightbulb goes off. "Yes yes it was. My classmates brought it last week for our reunion and were too drunk to remember to take it back. I tried telling them that alcohol wasn't allowed in the house but.....they snuck it in anyway. And then after everyone had gone, I found the bottle and panicked thinking that you'd think that I was the one who had drunk it so...I hid it."

I can see the anger abating and my dad's voice becomes normal once more. "Oh okay. But promise me no more alcohol in your parties."

"Yes yes I promise." I scoot.

The topic never comes up again.

Scenario 2

I stumble home after going to a pub and inadvertently stumble into my mom.

"Your hair is stinking of smoke! Where have you been?"

"Mom, you know everyone at the ad agency smokes and there are no windows in the bloody office."

"Ah yes yes, tell your kanjoos boss to put in some ventilators! You stink of smoke like this and people will think that you've been smoking!"

"Yes mo.." I somehow make it to bed and fall in.

Scenario 3

The Scorpions are coming to Bangalore and my friends and I are too broke to afford tickets. There's a promo happening in Urban Edge, which is the most happening pub/disc in Bangalore. The promo involves playing games. If you win a game, you win two tickets for the concert. My dad knows I'm going for a promo to get tickets. He offers to drop me off and wait with me till my friends arrive. We stop outside the building that has Urban Edge Pub written in large, red, brightly lit letters. My friends are already there so he drops me off and leaves. The fact that the promo was happening in a pub and that I'd actually go to a pub never once crossed his mind.

Where do our parents think we are when we come home at 2 am? Coffee Day? The movies? A friend's house? And how come they always attribute our errors to someone else? Are they in denial? Or are they just blind.

Urban Edge does not exist anymore. It was shut down a couple of years ago.

Meet The Parents

2005-07-02T19:42:00.001+05:30

The building looks harmless enough from the outside. Looks can be deceiving. I have a feeling that the Mr. Hyde in it will be unleashed soon enough at the press of a door bell.

A car door slams behind me and I'm being led to the elevators. He presses the number 3 and leans back against the wall. The elevator door bangs shut.

A million scenarios run through my head but they all have one central theme.

"Mom, Dad, this is the girl I want to marry." All hell breaks loose. "What? Are you crazy? She's not the same caste as us! Hell, she isn't even the same religion as us! Are you out of your mind?"

The elevator doors bang open on the first floor. An elderly couple step in and smile at us. I cant help but think, will we be together at that age? Will we even be together after this meeting?

We continue on our upward journey and I cant help but think I'm hurtling to my doom.

Of course, this whole marriage thing will be sprung as a surprise. But once the initial shock dies down, will everything be okay or will everyone be opposed to it. Will I be accepted by the family or will I be rejected. Will I be welcomed or unceremoniously thrown out? Can it be negotiated?

The doubts cloud my mind and I begin to feel suffocated. I'm jolted by the sudden CLANG of the elevator door. We're here. Third floor. Only a few more steps and our future will be determined. I panic. I stare at him wild-eyed. He takes my hand and smiles at me reassuringly.

I see him reaching for the door bell. Which would it be? Jekyll or Hyde? The door bell chimes. After an eternity I hear light footsteps on the other side.

The door opens.

Indian Traffic Rules

2005-05-25T00:01:00.000+05:30

1. Always look to your left while crossing the road. That way, you'll never know what hit you.

2. If you're driving a particularily large vehicle, make sure that you drive slowly, in the middle of the road.

3. If you're driving/riding a particularily small vehicle, make sure to zig zag your way down the road. This will have the same effect as point #2.

4. Always stop at the stop line at traffic lights. That way, when your vehicle stalls, you get to hold up the rest of the traffic.

5. Always move towards the vehicle that is overtaking you and then look at him like he's the idiot.

6. Make sure your vehicle breaks down on a lonely dark road. That way, you can scare the living day lights out of some poor sod by suddenly appearing in front of his headlights.

7. Always speed up when the traffic light turns orange.

8. Follow lane discipline. If you're going straight, always drive on the extreme left.

9. Put your left indicator on while turning right. That'll sure confuse those mafia types who are following you.

10. If you're a guy with low self esteem, make sure you overtake every single girl on the road. Show her who's boss.

Assholes.

Rainy Days and Mondays

2005-05-24T23:52:00.000+05:30

This is the only time i can actually see better without my glasses.

I'm riding down Church Road in the pouring rain. Although i have my helmet on, my glasses are dripping rain water. They really should invent windscreen wipers for spectacles. There's zero visibility. Traffic has slowed to a crawl. I can just about make out the tail lights of the car in front of me. Quite a few vehicles have their parking lights on. Wouldn't want any fender-benders on a night like this, would we?

All of a sudden, my fingers start stinging. And then the tail lights ahead of me disappear and i'm left in pitch darkness. My own headlights are useless in the downpour. And then...someone starts stoning my helmet. After a while, i realise that the thunking on my helmet and fingers are not stones, but hail! Its HAILING in Bangalore! Man, but that hurts.

I stop at the first shop light that I see and hurry inside...only to find that its a barber shop, full of gawking men. I pull my coat tighter over my soaking white t-shirt and huddle to one corner. The barber, gentleman that he is, offers me a chair and herds his customers to the other side of the shop.

I wait out the hail, all the while trying not to shiver too loudly. Once the hail lets up, i get back into the pouring rain and start my bike. Following another tail light, I ride through a river that once was the road and around fallen trees with their jagged barks jutting into the road, ready to poke anyone's eyes out.

To make matters worse, the electricity goes out just as i reach my area. Pitch darkness seems to be the order of the day, but with the rain letting up, my headlight is like a beacon on a stormy sea.

I reach home. Safe.