Things That Bang

When Dyscalculia Strikes

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 09:36:46 +0530

I stood at the ATM machine and fumbled. I had forgotten the numbers. There was a dude talking away on his cell phone next to the other ATM machine. I fed in the numbers and the ICICI machine showed a grumpy face. I got stressed and I had brain freeze. Numbers danced before my eyes and I felt a surge of panic drown my lungs and bank against the back of throat demanding a scream and I blinked.

My disability kicked in and I knew I had to lay off the machine. My daughter grabbed my fingers and asked why we were returning home without money and I bit back the comment that we were returning home because her mother was an idiot. Self recriminations are the side effects of my disability that I give in to once in a while.

Driving back home, I got a call someone asking for my husband's cell number and in my stressed out mode I mixed up the cell numbers. The person called back and my mind drew a blank again and panic rose again. Numbers skidded and slipped as if on thin ice before my eyes and as I shifted the gears of the car, I apologized and gave the correct number again hoping I didn't let myself down again.

The individual on the other end must have thought I was an idiot. I, too, called myself an idiot - an idiot who couldn't help herself because of her disability.

Dyscalculia is not easily accepted by people. It isn't as simple as forgetting numbers or being bad at simple maths. Its about being colour blind when it comes to maths. The brain interprets everything differently - the values of numbers seem flexible, they blend into each other like warm reds blending into the cool blues, giving you a muddy black that makes no sense. Its a vortex that sucks the person in and panic steps in, aggravating the situation further.

Dyscalculia fucks up my sense of direction. Under stress I mix up my right and my left. Put me in the driving seat and scream -right- RIGHT! and I will inadvertently take left. Stress isn't good for a person suffering from dyscalculia.

The mind shuts down, unable to process or perhaps unwilling to process. Its a disability that I have to live with and I have to live with people trying to explain to me that it isn't a disability. I then have to extricate myself from a long drawn conversation as delicately as I can since their intention is to make me feel better about myself, as if the stigma of the term disability shouldn't smudge my sense of self-worth.

But it does cause little tremors to shake my sense of well being when it strikes, and that's natural. Wouldn't a blind man feel fucked up if he found himself in the middle of speeding cars and there was no way of getting to safety? Wouldn't he rue his disability?

But I live normally despite my disability, what choice do I have? I could scream there is more to me than my disability but it isn't the world I'd crying it to but to myself in those blinding moments when helplessness gnaws my innards.

I feel like a dog bound on a short leash, knowing her potential and yet held back by what is obviously not under her control. Its a feeling I have come to accept and yet continue to rage against. Its a disability - something I have to work around, something that makes me a wee bit different from majority of people and something I have accepted but rage against once in a while.

Memories About Medinapur

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 21:41:35 +0530

Medinapur made news recently when Inspector Attendranth Dutta was set loose by the Maoists in exchange for the tribal women the state had deemed Maoists. Medinapur means a lot to me. I grew up hearing tales about Medinapur - the simple village life, the abundance of animal life, the small golden fish in the ditches that snaked around the fields and the cool interiors of thatched cottages.

I remember asking my mom if I could go to Medinapur and my mom replied with an adamant -No. I was about five at the time and the person who told me magical tales about the village was our resident domestic help, a dimunitive woman who was a child widow and came to work with us when I was a newborn.

I grew up listening to Swarswati's tales; her longing to go back home and when she did go back home laden with bags wearing her colourful cotton saree she returned empty handed and in a white saree.

Every month letters from village came and my mother made me read the letters while Swarswati sat on the floor. I translated the letters that were written by the post man in perfect English. Stuff about snake bites, the destruction or success of crop and the need for money. The letters always asked for money and Swarswati asked mom to send her entire salary to them.

Mom was never for it. I remember mom telling me that once the money was over they wouldn't take care of Swarswati. Mom told her the money should be saved for her old age but for Swarswati the desperate need for money back home was more important than her advancing age.

The day Swarswati finally left for her village with little savings book which had all her savings and my mom with a sad smile told me that the day her money ran out so would her popularity with the relatives.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The next time I met Swarswati she was older, bent, tragic and in a white cotton saree that I so hated. She wanted to return to work but who would hire an old lady who could barely walk.

We talked for a long while. She lived with her brother and his family in Kolkata and he had gone through her savings. Nothing new there. Their land in Medinapur that had been bought with her money was sold by her brother and she never saw a penny of it.

The suppression had gone on but she didn't know any better. She missed the village. She spoke about the fake money I had given her when I was a kid (Monopoly money) that she had used to buy fish and vegetables with. It had been our inside joke.

When Medinapur made news, I remembered Swarswati and her years with us. Her rough hands, her gentle persona and her twinkling eyes when I bought her little trinkets with my pocket money.

Megalomaniacs Abound In Bigg Boss Season 3

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 18:33:10 +0530

Bigg Boss Season 3 on Colors has turned out to be as neurotic as the previous seasons. There are petty food fights, jealousies, personality clashes and hair fall due to dandruff.

Should we even be discussing these megalomaniac celebrities? Some think its a waste of time but these high and mighty personalities fall like pixie dust when it comes to living the mundane lives and scuttle like rats in the Bigg Boss cage. If that isn't interesting, what is?

Two people have been evicted till now - Rakhi Sawant's estranged mother- Jaya Sawant and Kamal Khan, the actor from Deshdrohi.

According to Kamal Khan he went loco at Bigg Boss's house to save the item girl Sherlyn Chopra's scrawny ass. A little tarnish on the knight's shining armour is no biggie in Bigg Bose's house. Kamal knew he was hated by the inmates and didn't seem too eager to hang around and deal with the rat infestation. Sherlyn, however, wanted to be part of the pack so Mr Khan used it to his advantage- leave like a nice bloke and white wash all his past obnoxious behavior at the Bigg Boss's house.

But then again, all the shit he did could be make believe for the hits, right?

However, some things are real like Rohit Verma's incessant need to give in to tears. When Bakhtiyar and Kamal Khan were sent to jail he howled and then a couple of nights later he sniffled when at the Bigg Boss home the inhabitants joked about him cooking and he ran out of the room brawling his eyes out. And no, gays do not behave in this pansy wansy way. He does not represent the gay community. He represents his own cry baby self!

Then there is Bakhtiyar and his sunny irritating wife - Tanaaz Irani who have their Bold and Beautiful love fights happening on Prime Time television just about every second day. Tanaaz, with her bubbling personality is quite a handful. There is only so much sunshine one can take - intense sunny positivity leads to corrosive wilting, sunstroke and death. Beneath all that happy personality is a vicious streak manifested by a cruel tongue. It didn't take her long to bitch about Sherlyn and her hair loss and for Mr Verma (who btw is losing hair as well) nodded and blame it on dandruff.

Which also explains the love for wigs by Rohit and scrawny Sherlyn.

Sherlyn Chopra seems to be the only one to feel the desperate need to stay at Bigg Boss's house. She bears the air of a hobo in Bollywood and her entrance into Bigg Boss' home a charity dinner instead of being turned to the soup kitchen. She made a pale reflection of an item girl to Rakhi Sawant. Her days are numbered since the greasy smell of desperation makes her unlikable by the mediocre female bitchie celebrities.

Poonam Dhillion seems to be the only classy 'show piece' amongst the women. Nice people cannot last on Bigg Boss and there are nice people in that corny little rat cage.

There is the comedian Raju Srivastav a good natured soul from Kanpur caught in the melee of personality clashes. He tries to remain out of the war zone and despite his comedy routines and spreading of laughter blends into the background like a pleasant wall flower.

Another talkative soul on the show grunting away is Vindu Dara Singh. If there is anyone who needs a zaaban pe lagam (reign in his tongue) is Mr Singh. His incessant inane conversation could drive any intelligent individual up the wall. But its his gossipy nature which keeps him aboard in that neurotic house.

The one with the most vicious tongue on the show who makes Kamal Khan look like a little runt is Ismail Darbar. Not only does he have ego hassels with most of the inmates but his arrogance on the show makes him a difficult fellow to like.

Then there are the three pretty wall flowers of Bigg Boss. Nice enough women with no outstanding obnoxious trait to help them stand out.

There is Claudia Ciesla - the blond bimbo, Shamita Shetty - Shilpa Shetty's younger sister and Aditi Govitrikar- the doctor turned model. These three babes despite their hot bodies lack the oomph of Rakhi Sawant and are probably too well behaved to leave a lasting mark in the tinsel town.

Bigg Boss is akin to desi Jerry Springer. There is a layer of unreal greasiness to the show that oils our voyeuristic judgemental streak.

Though the show is well into its third season it remains very popular and Amitabh Baachan's presence on the show has the calming influence of Ashok Kumar on Hum Log.

Fiction: The Cry Of The Pecker

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 20:13:47 +0530

His wrinkled hand touched the knob of the bathroom door and trembled. He was a horny 60 year old bastard lusting after a 36 year old woman. He wasn't getting any and neither was she. They were the only two sex deprived adults in a household where the other two adults, his son and his wife, were getting on probably every other night.

The water fell in the bathroom and he imagined himself in there with her and feelings of shame and lust made a nasty heady cocktail in his mind. He let his body go a long time back. He had a round belly that made him look four months pregnant and his breasts looked as if they had worked double shifts at the breastfeeding factory but these body image issues did not deter him from shamelessly sniffing his daughter in law. He imagined his shaft poking deep within her bushy nether regions and her soft mouth open in a perfect O.

His pecker had come to hate him and turned him into a dirty old man. It had been over ten years since he had sex. Vibha's death had closed the chapter when it came to enjoying female companionship but also irrevocably on his sex life.

Five years later, tragedy struck again when his younger son died of a car accident on the Jaipur highway along with two of his friends.

The car had come into a headlong collision with a truck that had only one working headlight. He turned his mind away from the call that came, the identification of the blood crusted broken bodies, the pyre and the coming of his shell shocked daughter in law to stay with them from Jaipur.

He put his head on the door of the bathroom and remembered how she cried into her pillow late in the night and he stood out side her door letting his tears run down his wrinkled cheeks as well. His other daughter in law saw him standing outside Sheetal's door crying and returned to her room to give her stoic father in law privacy to grieve in peace.

But one night they heard him cry out loudly and they stepped of their room to see their shell shocked father standing in the dark corridor with Sheetal. His son switched on the light and gasped. Sheetal had shaved her waist length hair and the warm yellow light of the cheap Chinese bulbs pooled against her clean bald head. She glared at her flabbergasted brother in law and his wife.

She held out her dead husband's electric razor which Gaurav, her brother in law, took and they watched her walk back to her room and lock the door. Gaurav shook his head and returned to his room, grumbling about midnight dramas were getting on his nerves.

His wife, Sonam, put a solicitous hand on her father in law's arm and asked him if he needed anything. He shook his head, told her gruffly that she was a good daughter and went back to his room. Sonam felt like his daughter but not Sheetal with her baleful eyes and cold silences.

Gaurav and Sonam bounced back from the tragedy within a year since the birth of their son came as a balm to their arid souls. There was laughter in the house again but Sheetal remained somewhat aloof and in a world of her own. She doted on the little one, cradled him in her arms and showered him with baby gifts but interaction with the family was cut and dried as if she was roomie sharing space with them and nothing more.

Sheetal found a job and left in the morning and returned in the evenings. She shared household duties with Sonam like a automaton, served dinner, held the baby for a while and then promptly left for her room. Sonam shook her head, Gaurav shook his head and so did he while the cherub slept in his withered arms.

The pattern was shattered when Sheetal had bought a friend unannounced home for dinner. Her name was Bina and she was the antithesis of quiet Sheetal. Over dinner she ribbed Sheetal for her cool exterior and her soft beating heart for she willingly took up the work of an ill colleague and time and again stood up to their mean spirited boss. Bina filled the silence in all its cold pockets with her incessant chatter. She praised Sonam's cooking skills, said Gaurav was a thoughtful father and him- she looked intently in his quiet old brown eyes and told him that Sheetal thought he was the father she wished she had instead of that cold brute who left her mother.

His lips had trembled in response and he let his eyes slide over his silent daughter in law who refused to meet his eyes and trailed narrow lanes between her pooris and subzi. Her hair had started growing back – the fuzzy black had given way to a shaggy mop that she had neglected to style. He felt something twist in his heart and his chest tightened. He cleared his throat, nodded and gruffly asked for his pooris.

Sheetal never bought Bina back home again but the family were heartened to hear Bina's perky voice ask for Sheetal on the phone. They took it as a sign that Sheetal was beginning to pick up the threads of her life but they gave her space. They all had gotten used to her morbid self absorption but unlike his son and his wife he now found himself noticing small things about Sheetal. Like that crisp Monday morning when she finally moved on from wearing flat shoes to heels, when she began to wear more shapely blouses instead of the baggy sacks she used to wear to work and he remembered when his pecker moved a little when he finally saw the pink lipstick on her lips.

Part of him was heartened that she had finally begun to move on and part of him hated himself zealously for the reaction that came from a place he thought was long dead. He couldn't sleep the night his pecker came alive. Next morning he had a hard on because his widowed daughter in law painted her lips in front of him. He was a pathetic old bastard.

The tightened muscle felt good in all its 9 inch glory but his conscious tore him into pieces. She gave an absentminded smile to her little makeshift family and left for work. Sonam asked whether he was willing to hold the wailing two year old while she collected the dishes? He nodded and she plonked the frisky one year old on his lap and he gently moved the boy away from his boner and placed him on the floor next to him. It was all so wrong and yet felt good. He felt like a young man and as his boner shrivelled up and nestled back against his enlarged balls he told himself no harm had come. It was the way of men to hide the lust and dike the destruction it could deluge on those men loved best.

Five years of lusting and pining for a woman who thought of him as her father had made him feel like a teenager having wet dreams about a woman he knew he could never have. And the romance of it sang in his blood. He lay against his hard pillow and had fantasies of her, he gave in to desire once in a week and cleaned himself up with tissues later and made sure he never looked at her for too long when others were around.

He caressed the door behind which she took her bath. Five years had passed and she was a changed woman and he a changed man. Death had done that to them. He straightened his back and told himself to be a man and knocked on the door. The sound of water running stopped and a hesitant yes answered his knock.

He cleared his throat and spoke “Beta! Giresh will be here soon. He called and said the movie will start in half an hour. You better get ready fast.”

“Yes Babuji!” there was excitement in her voice. She had slowly thawed since her boss steam rolled into her life. The same obnoxious mean spirited slave driver of a boss fell for the iron willed Sheela and proposed marriage.

He stepped away from the bathroom and went into the living room and picked up the newspaper and blindly stared at image of a politician giving a toothy smile with a fat marigold garland around his thick neck. Minutes ticked by and there were sounds of horns blaring and the door bell ringing.

His grandson spilled inside with his school bag and mother behind him. They both wore big smile and behind them walked in Giresh. Tall, young vibrant Giresh juggling flowers and gifts for the family.

Sonam gave a girlish laugh “Babuji, you have to tell Giresh not to bring us gifts every time he comes over. He is spoiling Anil. He pulled in right behind us and got Anil all excited.”

Anil gave a toothy smile, his teeth were already stained with chocolate and Giresh put the gold Rocher wrapper in his pocket and strode over to his side and handed him a small sleek rectangular box and said “I thought of you when I saw this.”

He gave a weak smile and opened the wrapping and saw a Mont Blanc pen in it. His pecker felt puny and bullied in front of Giresh. He sighed and sat back and gave a weak smile “There really wasn't any need Giresh.”

Giresh shrugged and his eyes looked beyond the living room. His eyes lit up when he saw Sheela walk into the room and like Giresh's eyes his eyes too took in her silky shoulder length hair, the easy smile and the skip in her step.

“Time to go? We have a dinner reservation.” Giresh took her arm and she nodded.

They began to walk out. Anil like an incorrigible spaniel crowded around the two and they both gave him a tight good bye hug and Sonam behind them teased Giresh to bring her sister in law back home in it and no naughty business till they got married.

Giresh ribbed back that he respected the traditions of the family and had utmost respect for Babuji.

Giresh's words made him feel like a wriggling worm on a fisherman's pole. He remained seated on the leather couch with a stained smile on his face.

The car on the driveway started and he felt like crying as if his favourite toy had been taken away. His heart broke and he wiped his tears.

The door opened again, he raised his eyes and watched her in walk towards him in her vibrant red silk top and figure hugging jeans. She had come a long way from the grieving widow to a woman willing to love again.

She stood before him for a minute then bent down and touched his feet and softly said “Thank you Babuji.”

He touched her head and replied “Be happy, that is all that I ask.”

She stood up , flicked away the tears and left the house.

He sighed, picked up the paper and began to read. His pecker on the other hand wailed its horny existence.

There Are No Happily Ever Afters

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 22:38:56 +0530

Love is blind but marriage is an eye opener- anonymous

People fall in love all the time and then just like that they hand in their divorce papers within a few days (in Britney Spears' case the next day), a few months or few years. Sometimes people who've been in live in relationships for over decades throw in the towel once they get hitched. I know people who hold back wedding gifts till the couple cross the first year of marriage. Call it a clever strategy or lack of faith in romance and happily ever afters.

But there cannot be happily ever afters in marriages. Are there 24/7 happy relationships? We fight with our siblings, our friends and even our parents so isn't it natural that we would bicker with our spouses as well?

Yet, I am the first one to say get out of the relationship before you stab each other with kitchen knives as if re-enacting the War Of The Roses. When love sours it brings out the worst in us. We say and do things that would make even our mothers who proclaim they know us best say - my kid wouldn't be smelling his wife's underwear for her office spouse's sperm?!

Okay, I am exaggerating but you catch my drift people in curdled relationships bring out the worst in each other and yet we say - hey buddy, tried a therapist? Stay together for the kids, Stay together for the money, just frikking stay together to save the institution of marriage!

And the cherry on the cake is that those who do dish out these platitudes are the ones who enjoy stable marriages. A woman with a broken jaw certainly wouldn't insist marriages are made in heaven or a man with nagging hag be the happiest best man at his buddy's wedding.

But things needn't be that extreme either to part ways. Sometimes people grow apart, drift away and realise that the person living next to them is a complete stranger and rue the phantom years spent together.

So why do we tell people to hang on to dead beat relationships? Why do they stay in dead beat relationships?

I still believe one has to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince but there can be no happily ever afters since he is a frog under that charming skin and you out of sheer desperation to get married kissed the tenth or the twentieth froggie with a baggage full of expectations that curtailed any hopes of that hazy death to us part deal!

The Writer's Dilemma - Print Or Online Publishing?

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 00:10:05 +0530

I am now half way through the second half of my novel and part of me has already decided that my baby will not be accepted in the print world and its best I show my baby to the online world where I am most comfortable. It matters little to me that I could finally say that I am a 'published print' writer when someone asks me the uncomfortable question - so what do you do? Or have my relatives tell their relatives and friends that they have a writer in the family as if by that connotation they too would become famous.

Getting tons of money due to my writing would be good as would a villa somewhere in Brussels, but those are pipe dreams. Not all of us can reach the heights of Salman Rushdie, Stephen King, Steven Erickson and though the list of successful writers is never ending, the list of those who slip by into oblivion precedes the lucky ones who reach the skies and have hordes rushing to book stores to read their work.

I don't envy these giants. Fact is, I wish them success since reading is a dying activity and publishing houses don't make as much money as they used to. People don't read any more. Somehow people are now suffering from mass ADD. Everything is quick fix- be it entertainment, food and even sex. Leisure activities like putting your legs up to read and letting the day roll by is indulged by few. And for this reason alone I am grateful to J.K Rowling. She got many youngsters hooked to reading. She's been a life saver for most of us writers.

Publishing houses are known to be picky when it comes to accepting new authors and even if a book does get published what an average author makes barely covers a month's rent. Not everyone gets the 6 or even 5 digit advances. It is a well known fact that most authors cannot live by weaving stories. A day job is a necessity if one doesn't want to suffer for art's sake or sell their kidney.

In the online world, however, it is easier. There are no letters of rejection and there are sites available which publish works of all types of genres and their readership is into hundreds if not thousands as is the case with ASSTR. Even Amazon has woken up to the potential of online publishing.

There are also sites like Smashwords where the writer can either give his book away for free or set the price of his book which can be then downloaded. Smashwords now powers the Sony Publisher Portal, increasing their reach many-fold. Further enhancing the appeal of electronic publishing, Tina Brown's Daily Beast has launched a new imprint in collaboration with Perseus Publishing, Beast Books, that will roll into print writers from the Daily Beast on a faster timeline (months) than that typically promised by traditional publishing houses. Published authors like Cory Doctorow are open enough to give away their books, while still achieving success with print publishing.

Of course there are many writers who aren't inclined to follow this new path and would rather see some concrete proof of their toil and then then there are lazy nut jobs like me who like living in the online world and find readers even in hard to reach places like Multan or Rwanda. I've had readers mailing me from all over the world and I get both hate and fan mail.

This is the high I've been living on for past five years without needing a print publisher to give me my fix and if one happens to be a regular on social networking sites, word reaches out even faster.

Do I need the money? Yes, of course, I do but the likelihood of getting there via print media seems pretty dim, and as I meet more online gods of the written word, the less I am inclined to want to be creating just another book lying in some dusty corner of a second hand bookstore. I have better chances of reaching out to thousands via the online world.

Would I still write a cover letter and send my manuscript to the big publishing houses or let the world have it for free? I guess I will know once I finish my novel. Until then its a whole lot of dreaming and hogwash.

Turkey-rized!!

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 18:42:38 +0530

Fiction: Toad Talk

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 20:43:10 +0530

I rescued a toad from a hovel and gave him a villa instead. The hovel was a little garden pot with an inch of water in it and the villa was my lily pond. I gently picked up the pot that lay on the driveway and slid him out of the pot into the lily pond.

Feeling I had done my bit for mother earth I was about to walk away when he croaked- "Ribbit"

I turned back to look at him and gave his scaly face a benevolent smile “You're welcome.”

“Ribbit!” he croaked again

“You're a talkative one.” I spoke to him again and he stepped on a lily leaf and looked at me. I stared back at him. This was a definite Syfy moment. His scaly head bobbed a little as if he was checking me out and he spoke "I like what I see!"

I gasped and looked around wildly "Did you just speak to me?"

He stuck his tongue out to catch a passing dragonfly and missed.

"Why? Do you think you are the only one who can speak in English?"

I remained quiet and stared at him.

"Speak woman! no, you aren't crazy. We can speak. Ask your temporal. His Nawwab talks to him all the time."

"Er.....you are on Desicritics.org?" I spoke up and then pinched myself hard on my arm.

"Actually no! I visit his site baithak quite often. We poets like to keep an eye on each other."

"Really? And what were you doing in my flower pot?"

"I was in a Jacuzzi and you threw me into a swimming pool."

"Lily pond" I corrected him.

He carefully moved on to a fatter leaf and croaked "Does it matter? Anyway you did me a good turn now I want to return the favour. "

I shook my head "No its okay. Not required. I ...er...need to go back in."

"No wait! I was thinking - maybe you can marry me?"

"What?!" I gaped. The toad was barely bigger than my hand

"I can't marry you!" I shook my head at him.

"Why? I'm well settled. I can speak English with a neutral accent. I like reading your hot stories and kind of like your kids too."

I glared at the toad and spoke "I'm sure I am losing my mind here."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a croak and I shuddered "No, you're not woman. We could bump off your husband, take his millions and visit this sadhu who will turn me into a handsome young man and help you get that twenty year old body again and we'll be happy"

"You are an evil reptile" I gasped

"Evil? No! An opportunist? Probably! So what do you say?"

"No!" I shouted then tried to calm my nerves. I spoke again "No! I'm not interested."

"You aren't huh? But lady you have no choice. I will make sure that you will be mine."

That fat toad looked sinister and the world suddenly seemed to close around me and I couldn't breath.

I spread my hands out and shouted "Leave me alone."

"Never!" he croaked and lunged towards me. I turned and ran out of the garden towards the driveway.

He followed croaking my name and I imagined his wet slimy body somehow hanging against my jeans legs. I ran towards the driveway and saw the part timer open the main gates.

She stared at me in surprise as I ran towards the porch.

Aaman's car took a sharp curve through the iron gates, into the driveway and I watched the jumping toad squelch under the front tire in a matter of few seconds.

I pushed back a scream and tried to compose myself- a talking toad killed under my husband's car. This wasn't murder Dee. I told myself. So what if he was a talking toad. He was just a toad.

Aaman opened the door of the car "Hi babe what's up?" he asked holding his Blackberry next to his ear.

"Er..nothing." I gave him a weak smile and let him pass inside the house.

I stared at the front tires of his car, took a deep breath and followed him in. My toad saving days had come to a quiet squishy end.

Fiction: Bitter Truths Over Coffee

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 00:24:56 +0530

"What is it that you want?" Shelby asked before taking a sip of the bitter coffee. Her soon to be ex-husband shrugged and looked around the room and took his time to reply. Shelby was used to his antics by now and waited for his response.

He stared at a woman sitting behind her. Shelby knew he was staring at another woman, probably a petite blonde with too much lipstick. He always liked to compare between his wife and other women and always found her wanting. Fifteen years of living with the schmuck had eroded her self-esteem but there had been a lifeline thrown from an unexpected quarter.

With a trembling hand, she put the cup back in the dainty porcelain plate with tiny flowers made on it. The Paradise Cafe was expensive. It was her husband's idea to meet there. The clientèle were the kinds born with elegance infused in their DNA. He reeked old money and she - what did she smell of? Sweaty underarms - the tell tale signs of a middle class woman clearly out of her element.

She looked away from his handsome chiselled face and let her eyes fall on a blonde sitting behind him. She was the kind he liked - thin like a reed, with perfectly symmetrical features, large china blue eyes, long dark eyelashes, a sharp thin nose and luscious lips painted red.

The woman raised a quizzical eyebrow at Shelby and raised a white gloved hand to call the waiter. She wore the air of privilege and authority; all that Shelby lacked. She felt out of her skin, worse still she felt like a bull in a China shop but she had to see this conversation through. She was not chicken!

She folded her sweaty palms on her cotton dress. Her tightly drawn knees itched with unwaxed hair. She cleared her throat and tried to get her wayward husband's lewd attention. "Max! Act like a horny SOB on your own time. Why did you call me here?"

Max returned his languid attention back to his brunette wife. She had put on weight over the years and lost most of her pixie looks. Shelby reminded him of a fat Labrador - still easy on the eyes but lacking elegance and sophistication. He wondered why he had married someone below his station, someone who could never match his wit, his intellect, never got along with his friends and was naive in bed.

He had always liked blondes but married a dowdy brunette. A mistake he was going to finally correct after fifteen years of trying to instil some class in her. She was a waste. Her maroon cotton dress was pulled off from some mall Sale, her nails were chipped and the roots of her hair had not been touched for over three months. For a renowned author who made plenty of money, Shelby never really cared about her appearance and that irked him. But she was not his problem any more.

Max leaned back against his chair and spoke "You know what I want, Shelby."

Her lips tightened and eyes narrowed. Anger raced through her mind and she began to breath faster.

"You know I will never hand it over to you Max! Never!" She glared back at him and his eyes fell on her heaving breasts. He smirked, knowing she found his attention on her breasts ironical. That was again his way of saying her breasts were fat!! He stopped calling her fat a long time back he did it with his eyes and his mocking smile.

She thrust her breasts higher and stared back at him. He raised an eyebrow at her attempts to fight him at his own game and spoke softly "If you don't hand over that first edition of Copperfield I will not divorce you."

Shelby shook her head at his crass attempts to blackmail her and let her eyes fall back on the woman sitting behind her husband.

The blonde was also having coffee. She liked it without milk and sugar. Bitter like the taste of betrayal, something Max was sure to feel sooner than later the blonde had told her over sex musty sheets. The blonde smiled at her tenderly and Shelby held back the answering lift of her lips and she pushed the memory aside and looked back at her husband.

"You can continue to sulk and pout over that book. Fact is you gifted it to me in front of your friends and its mine. I won't return it to you."

Max leaned over the table and sneered at Shelby "You stupid cow! What do you know about literature or about art? You fat burger-eating filth"

"Burger eating filth?!" Shelby let out a open hearted laugh and felt the scales of power shift. "That's the best you can come up with? Wait! its beneath your high born dignity to call me a cunt, bitch, twat or a whore, right? You think them but your frigid mommy used to wash your mouth with soap when you said curse words, didn't she?"

"Don't bring my mother into it!" Max dropped all pretext of being civil and seethed at Shelby. "She warned me against you. Look at me when I am talking to you." He glared at her.

Shelby pulled her eyes away from the blonde who licked the cream off her lips with the pink tip of her tongue and sent Shelby a flying kiss.

"Hmmmm...?!" Shelby smiled a happy Christmas is here smile at Max who blinked. Shelby was in love. She couldn't stay mad at Max. Her mood lifted as if hundreds of flamingos flew away from a dried lake to rivers that swelled with churning water and plenty of fish.

"Ah! yes! your mother. God bless her dead soul. She never did like me. Did she?" Shelby leaned over and patted Max's hand that crumpled the fine linen napkin that had the initials of the Cafe embroidered in gold thread. "Its okay Max, I don't have any bitter feelings towards that old dragon but as per that book, it was the only thing you gave me selflessly"

She gave him a whimsical smile and began to collect her things. She pulled her suede coat on, put her leather bag against her shoulder and as she got up she spoke to him "Get your lawyer to talk to mine. It can all be very amicable. We'll sell off the lakeside property, the house in Maine and divide the money equally."

He tried to speak up but she pushed the chair and stood up "Yes! Equally, Max. I know I made more than you, saved more than you and I am willing to let you have my shekels as well in return for an amicable divorce."

She put the woollen scarf with white and black pandas made on it around her neck and continued to speak to Max though her attention was on the blonde who had paid her bill and was ready to leave as well. "The Copperfield stays with me Max and I will fight tooth and nail for it. Goodbye Max."

She walked towards her blonde lover who kissed her and without a backward look Shelby walked out of the restaurant. The blonde glanced back at Max who gaped at his secretary and wife leave the restaurant as lovers.

Mall Hunting

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 01:26:21 +0530

My best friend's getting married in a couple of months and the lady hates shopping. And that is the only thing we don't have in common. I love to shop.
There is something pleasant about trying on tons of clothes with a female friend inside the changing room telling you whether it looks good or not. Or trying on your tenth pair of shoe in the sixth shoe store.

For my best friend, however, shopping is an anathema. And currently trousseau shopping for her is pure torture and while she bemoans her plight over long distance calls; I, on the other hand, talk about shops and contacts where she could get snazzy clothes and good discounts. She wants me to shop for her and it doesn't seem a bad idea since I like to 'help' people shop.

Since I am very choosy about clothes many a times I land up browsing but not buying for myself but make others buy tons. This is a trait my elder sister and I have in common. We make people try on clothes, heap praises and virtually do the job of the sales people of the stores.

Retail therapy, obviously doesn't last for long. For there is always something better to be looked at and desired. Its a never ending cycle. But thankfully there isn't always stuff around which is worth hankering over. And thats when my girlfriends and I merely hang out at stores.

We hold clothes while they are still hanging on the hangers, stare at the price tag with a absent minded glance and talk about things completely unrelated to shopping.

Retail stores act as stress busters as well. A haven away from being whatever we are in our daily lives. Where we can just be women looking for stuff to make us look pretty. It can be the 'me time' for many.

But my best friend swears retail shopping its worse than suffering in Gitmo. She sees malls as places made of nightmares with zombie sales people, never ending Kenny G music and greasy jail house food courts. Worse still she is allergic to malls- literally. She breaks into hives in clothes stores- little bumps and rashes dot her pink skin and she scratches and mutters dozens of curses on my grinning head.

Getting back to my best friend's on going shopping she was quite pleased that I like to shop for guys as well. I do. I absolutely love men's clothes especially formals; even the ugliest man can look snazzy if dressed right but my best friend would rather chew her nails than step into a men's store and help her fiancé get all 'dolled' up.

Even my husband likes to shop for his own clothes but I kind of sneak in clothes into his wardrobe with a patronizing I can dress you better attitude.

Unfortunately for my friend we live hundreds of miles apart and I'm not rich enough to go back home (Delhi) just to help her shop. And maybe its right that she buys her own stuff and dolls up her man and fills up her car with shopping bags instead of me go Tyra Banks on her credit card.

Not that I am much of a fashion diva. Far from it. Its an innate female nesting trait where I want to bring in an extra twig or worm for the betterment of my family and friends through mall hunting.

Don't even get me started on the levels where they sell cosmetics. The smell of face chemicals is heaven on earth for me. I don't think I could ever shop till I drop. Maybe I should go live in China where they supposedly have 24/7 open stores and just for the kicks drag my best friend along with me.

Memories Of India's Partition

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 10:17:17 +0530

My grandfather was a talented storyteller. Every night we girls would be lulled to sleep by his stories. There was much fanfare in his telling; sound effects, gestures and the weave of words that took us to the enchanted worlds unseen and unheard of. But when it came to him talking about partition the twinkle in his eyes glimmered a little less and the upward swing of his lips fell.

I was about thirteen when I asked him about his escape from Lahore. My grandmother and her children had left for a wedding by train before the violence broke out but my grandfather had to wait back in Lahore for his brother, a stubborn cop who wanted to hand over the chain of command to his Pakistani counterpart before leaving for India.

I still remember the sitting with my grandfather in his cool room on a hot June afternoon. Instead of taking his usual afternoon siesta I pulled him back to memories he wanted to forget and but spoke about for he was a storyteller.

Violence, he told me, lives in the hearts of men and so does bravery. Lahore burned around them, screams echoed and men pillaged and raped. Man killed man- Hindu and Muslims alike killed smothered in the junoon of hatred. My grandfather paced the floor of the Police Chowki (police station) and his brother sat on his inspector chair, a stubborn man as always. The windows of the Chowki were barred and the mussalman hawaldars guarded the doors with their rifles.

My grandfather remembered his mouth being dry and his palms sweaty. They were sitting ducks. Two hindus guarded by mussalman hawaldars who could in passion turn on them. He pleaded with his brother that they should leave but obstinacy and idealism sometimes makes a man courageous and foolhardy, so he told me.

They waited and time ticked by. The world outside burned and the sun peaked and baked the blood drenched land where he remembered walking in peace and greeting people who looked just like him. It was a land he had come to call home away from home. A place where he had brought his bride, seen movies along with her and made babies with her and now it was not home but enemy territory.

He continued to pace and the mob around the Chowki increased. The brothers held rifles in their hands. Death was assured and yet there wasn't much that could be done. They waited and the Mussalman officer kept his word. He came and with him more hawaldars.

He expected the Chowki to be left unmanned and plundered by the mobs instead he found a Hindu officer waiting for him to hand over the command. They shook hands and wished each other luck.

The muslim officer offered his loyal guards. He gave his word that they would be safely escorted. My grandfather and his brother stepped out of the Chowki and found themselves surrounded by a blood thirsty mob.

The mob asked the hawaldars to handover the hindu men but the answer they received was the barrel of the guns. Shoots range out and the crowd dissipated. My grandfather and his brother were pushed into a Tonga and with police escort they moved towards the Hindu neighbourhood.

The story gets blurry in my mind beyond that point. Suffice to say they survived the ordeal and made it back to India. My grandfather's brother's wife and her three children too managed to cross the border but they walked it. The family got separated and the cause of the separation are like pages ripped out of a novel. Those are the blanks that my memory cannot fill in.

But I do know she suffered. The mob caught up with her but they found her dark and ugly and let her go. Her children had taken refuge in the fields and escaped the wrath of the mob. They managed to cross over the border. I looked at my uncles with new eyes. They had seen so much.

My grandpa told me that they initially had gone back to their village in Himachal Pradesh but then came to Delhi and refused to take compensation or land from the government. He told me it was a matter of principle – how could he be a refuge in his own land?

Unlike some who continued to harbour animosity caused by the partition my grandpa believed in seeing the good in all. Even a thug, he once told me, will come to your aid if you remain on amicable terms with him. Such was his constant advise.

The story is itched in my mind. On the one hand there was bravery and honour proven by the hawaldars and their officers and on the other hand sheer violence and brutality. Both had nothing to do with religion but with basic human nature which is both noble and barbaric.

The partition is a sore that continues to fester and the hatred like a generational feud that refuses to abate. Political parties on either side continue to fan hatred across the border and yet we are of the same blood and the same heritage.

Lahore was the land of happiness for my grandpa and grandmother before the dominoes came tumbling down and they spent most of their young lives in hardship. And the tales of Lahore being the hub of all commercial and cultural activities during the 30's and 40's brings the yearning in my heart to see the land as if I may find some part of my grandfather and grandmother there.

Its a pull of the roots, a curiosity that would probably remain unfulfilled at least in my lifetime. I hope our successive generations will be able to see Lahore and maybe feel a time in their souls when we were one.

Travel Review: Return To Ootacamund

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 00:55:11 +0530

There are places one can frequent more than once and still be enchanted by what those regions have to offer. My love for the Niligiris, or Neelghiris as it was known during the colonial times, endures.

Last Friday early morning we drove to Ootacamund and stopped for breakfast at the famous Kamat restaurant for Banana leaf covered idilies and chow chow bath.

After a filling breakfast we drove through Mysore, Bandipur, Madhumalai and by lunch time found ourselves driving on the 36 Hairpin bends that took us up the gentle hills of Nilgiris to Ootacamund.

Much of Ooty remained the same except it was greener, less tourists, prone to drizzling and extremely cold. We dropped our bags at the club and headed out of lunch. Much to our disappointment the Holiday Inn wasn't serving outsiders since they had some sort of massive family 'convention' going on with a loud man accosting a hired girl half his size to put the biggest garland on the head honcho of the family and ten girls shrieking their delight ten paces away from us.

We beat a hasty retreat to land up at Mithun Da's famous Monarch and were again disappointed. The place held the smell and look of the socialist era. Mammoth in size, it wore a deserted look as if it was already hit by the swine flu pandemic.

We waited around for a few minutes and headed back into the town to have Chinese food at the famous Shinkow restaurant. Kids loved the food since it was bland and salt less. Aaman and I were disappointed. Nostalgia sometimes tastes like saw dust.

After a short siesta back in the club we headed back into the city and checked out Mohan's Rose and Teak furniture shop. Mohan's Rose and Teak shop has furniture which is way cheaper than the stuff available in Bangalore and they are very honest about the material their furniture and figurines are made of.

Most of their furniture is made of Teak or Rose wood and are very honest in their transactions.

We also visited the main shop where we bought some regular stuff and then headed towards Coffee Day next to Modern store where the service was at its lowest levels. But since we were in congenial mood none of us protested.

Next we headed towards St Stephen's church opposite Mohan's. The Reverend of the church was kind enough to give us a tour of the church. The church was consecrated on 1829 and despite its beautiful homely ambiance I felt immense sadness at the church. The Reverend was kind enough to take us to his back office where he apprised us of the church's history and told us that the survival rate of the British who came to Ooty was quite low at the time.

The cemetery behind the church had graves dating back to the 1800 and most as usual most graves were of young soldiers, wives and even babies. The price of colonial rule was paid by the British by their young.

It was close to dusk and the weather became exceedingly cold and after thanking the Reverend for his warm welcome we headed back to the Club for dinner.

On Saturday we visited the Botanical garden which was breathtaking. They had little nooks and crannies with gorgeous flowers and exotic trees from all over the world. The sales counter however turned out to be a disappointment since they had put all their flowers in the glass house for exhibition. I couldn't take my eyes of the hydrangeas that grew effortlessly in the garden whereas the ones I own back in Bangalore barely manage to spring no more than one mophead in a year.

There also seemed to be some sort of a begonia craze as most of the flowers showcased in different glass houses were begonias and other plants were the mundane variety.

Later on, we drove to Coonoor to have lunch at the Taj. Though the hotel was gorgeous and the buffet was good but the service was lax. Plates were left on our tables and the head waiter sniffled and coughed much to the alarm of the customers. Coonoor, we decided, was a place to relax without kids since the town didn't offer much in terms of kiddie entertainment.

We drove back to Ooty on the narrow road and most of the times found ourselves crawling behind some slow truck or a bus. But the passing scenery made up for the aggravation.

By the time we reached back it was pretty late and we relaxed at the hotel. Aaman and I nursed our drinks at the bar while the kids watched cartoons in the television room. Dinner was served at nine after which we headed back to our cottage and dozed off by ten.

Our drive back towards Bangalore was comfortable and enjoyable. The roads were mostly smooth and the North Karnataka lunch with jowar rotis and brinjal at Kamat delicious. We reached home within five hours and did not feel tired thanks to the smooth drive on the NICE road (We spotted Kheny directing operations to complete the remaining stretches).

When Kids Ask About Death

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 00:49:05 +0530

How do we talk about death to our kids? While walking through the cemetery in Ooty my four year old and I had a conversation about death. Just like we talked about birds, bees and the weeds that grew gently around the marble slabs, under which rested the bones of those long gone I spoke about the time when we all are laid to rest.

Her small little hand rested in mine as we walked down the worn out steps. The sun was resting and the cold wind gently blew her mousy hair in her eyes. Gently she told me she was going to die there and I replied that I didn't think so. I told her that she would probably be way older than me before she died.

She accepted with a nod and asked if she was going to die somewhere else and I answered truthfully that I had no idea when and where she would die but probably not here.

We walked out of that sad little place and that was the end of our conversation till I spoke to my mom and my daughter happily related to her grandmom that she had visited an old cemetery.

Today, while watching the news my 7 year old son pointed out there there had been more swine flu deaths, one in Delhi and one in Bangalore. He opened up his science encyclopaedia looking for H1N1. Obviously, it had no information on it yet, so we had a conversation about the flu and again I found myself talking about death in a matter of fact manner.

I told him if diagnosed at the right time, most people get well but then sometimes people aren't that lucky. Sometimes death happens. He looked at me and nodded, put his book back in his cupboard and that was the end of the conversation.

These are harsh realities that we cannot deny.

I know it can hit me or my loved ones, my friends, my neighbours or my entire world any time. We live on borrowed time or in a dream when all that was no longer exists except for the present moment that we live in and that too dies and another ticks in.

Death is a greater teacher than life for death makes most of us love life.

In my daughter's class there was a child who had swine flu. The school shut down for fumigation and Monday classes will resume. Our kids will return to school. Death is a fear every parent leaves unvoiced in their hearts. A reality given in this uncertain world.

At the cemetery, I picked my daughter up and kissed her soft cold cheeks and told her she would see me with white hair and bent over and that death would have to wait for us a long time.

A hopeful wish, my heart whispered, knowing death was non negotiable. My kids would also know this reality some time in the near future and there is no way of sugar coating death or skirting around it.

Like all things, it needs to be talked about when kids ask questions.

First Swine Flu Death in India, Government Issues New Guidelines

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 10:33:50 +0530

I hate to hit the panic button but it seems there should be mandatory checks when people suffer from upper respiratory disorders. The death of a young child in Pune has led to a lot of finger pointing in the medical community. The horse, however, has already left the barn. A child died and if we do not take proper precautions this could become an epidemic of extraordinary proportions unseen since the time of Black Plague and the sole responsibility would lie in the hands of our government.

There should be compulsory checks at airports for those returning from international travel. All hospitals and not only the government ones should have the testing facilities and treatment. In villages too, the hospitals should be well equipped to deal with the flu. NGOs should be hired to work at the grassroots levels.

Children in schools with even common colds should be sent back home with parents being told to get their children tested. Schools in area where flu clusters are found should be closed until the risk subsides. The government should also ensure the antiviral drugs are subsidized to whatever extent needed and high risk categories like pregnant women, the young, etc., are given priority, instead of the usual VIP prioritization.

The Indian government has enacted new guidelines in the wake of Rida's death, like forcible quarantines, and states like Maharashtra, West Bengal have invoked British-era Quarantine Acts.

The tragic death of young Rida is fundamentally due to the general unpreparedness of the public health system, the government, and society at large to epidemic scale diseases, and the H1N1 Flu in particular. The World Health Organization has been cautioning world governments on the H1N1 pandemic for a while now, and even the additional guidelines issued today by the Indian government fall short of the concerted response needed to address this problem before a dismal worst-case future, with over 2 billion people likely to be infected by the H1N1 flu.

Hang Kasab

Sun, 02 Aug 2009 13:58:11 +0530

The movie Dark Knight is playing in the background as I write about my views on Ajmal Kasab and his pending fate.

The Joker in the movie had no love for humanity. He killed because he liked to. He had no good side to plead to but the common citizens of Gotham and the prisoners did- they did not push the button to blow up each other.

That happens to be the difference between us and them. Do I sound like George Bush? Maybe but there is a us and there is a them. The them are those who have lost their souls, who no longer believe in the sanctity of life and for whatever reasons ideological, religious or just for the love of it don't care about taking lives of the defenseless.

The Joker certainly didn't care, those who gave Kasab the gun and training didn't care and Kasab who sailed into our country in his designer clothes and gunned down people didn't care. But what makes Kasab different from the Joker? Unlike the Joker who in his madness had lost love for his own life Kasab turned out to be a coward. He squeals for compassion, for leniency and with his sweet words and with his good looks tries to needle his way into our civilian hearts.

We, like the innocent lambs of Gotham want to believe that Kasab has a human face. But it is a demonic front no different from the heinous smiling face of the Joker. Hand him a gun and chances that he would throw the gun aside, cower to a corner and call upon Allah are slim. In all likelihood he would shoot like any criminal from the Batman graphic novel to escape and spread his tyranny in whatever little form he can.

You see like any hardened murderers found in real life or even in violent graphic novels its in their blood. Like the Joker, Kasab is damaged goods and once that far gone peace means weakness to them. A trait that is used to exploit, to subjugate and to kill.

We don't have superheroes like Batman to save us from the baddies and the baddies unfortunately keep coming. It is the fight between good and evil, good and bad, the compassionate and the savage, it is eternal and long drawn. The fight, unfortunately, is us against them and we cannot put a human face to the Joker no matter how handsome or how sweet his laments may sound.

Kasab is what evil is all about and there is only one way to deal with evil - respond with righteous fury and just sentence.

Hang Kasab.