Much Ado About Everything

Starting Over

2012-01-20T23:03:00.004+05:30

If you thought I gave up writing and blogging altogether, I'm glad to announce that you're wrong :D.

I just had some pressing matters to deal with before they'd press me into a quicksand of problems.

If anyone likes this or is intrigued enough by it, please suggest a better name/title. Lets see if an entire year of doing poetry has rubbed off or should be rubbed off :P

Starting Over

~~Sometimes~~.

Sometimes she finds it very difficult to write.

When she puts pen to paper,

Thoughts fracture into vapour

Gliding past her, away from her,

Floating above: clouds that seem

Touchable if only you could tiptoe a little higher;

The memory of something, like a taste filling your mouth

But devoid of a name to chew on; eyes that gleam

Open, into frozen, depthless hollows.

They stand sentinel: a twin watching the other.

Not to assist but to scoff, “You think we are

Worth a fraction of eternity, of someone’s precious

Moment in time? Relics that gather

Human ken amassed over a million years,

In a concentrated heartbeat?” She mutters

“Maybe....” and it dies in their face of incredulity.

Resonance of trepidation in her voice, she flutters

Between a yes and a no. “Why not?” with renewed

Intrepidity she enquires. They announce

“Look at our construct. Tasteful phrases, sophistication

Of design, erudite allusions: are these the terms you would

Outfit us in?” “Perhaps....” “And yet, uncertainty

Colours your utterances.” cutting off her contention

Into shards of probing silence.

“I trust in your merit above mine. I do”. They contort

Into a leer. “We are a likeness, a shade, a shadow,

A silhouette without essence, reflecting you. Only as

Credible, as you are. You us I me they we, better not

To be. No questioning our ineffectuality.

Came the rejoinder echoing, debilitating the hope that

Nourishes dreams. Empty, unending, vacuous, void. Until,

She traces her course back to the beginning-parchments

From the past inked with wit, crossed anew with faith ,

And smudged with feeling, pregnant with possibilities,

Giving birth to a chuckle, the ghost of a smile

Somewhere. “Beauty is as beauty does, and you are stirred

Up from tranquil passion, making you me us

Worthwhile."

Shoring these fragments of hope against her ruins, she sighs and starts again.

Last Friday Night

2011-09-04T21:40:00.017+05:30

I came home at around 4:00 pm. As I entered the house my brother welcomed me with irritated looks.

“Thanks a lot for coming this early. I was supposed to go to my friend’s place to study.” Unplugging the ipod earphones from my ears I said, “You should have messaged me, Sanju. I can’t dream that you were waiting for me to arrive to leave the place”

“I can’t leave her on her own can I? She’s in bad shape”, he declared.

My grandmother has been suffering from a bout of bad cold and fever since the last 1 week. She’s been on medications since Monday but there hasn’t been much improvement in her condition.

“Alright you can leave now that I’m here.”

I showered, changed had a late lunch and it was already 4:45 pm by then. I decided to take a break till 6:00pm and then start my reference work since the exams are less than 25 days away and I have done zilch. Watching the rerun of Bones from 5:00pm to 6:00pm was my treat to myself for the day. I wanted to sleep for 15 minutes till 5:00pm as I was awake for most of last night with my gran’s coughing and then waking up to check on her and only slept soundly by around 1:30 am waking up again at 6:00am to attend college. I stayed back in college till 2:15pm to attend a meeting where we discussed the upcoming department journal and since I wanted to write for it this year too, it was imperative that I stay put and show my face, make my presence felt, note down the dates for deadlines to submit drafts and smile away.

At 4:15 the phone rang and I had to go up to answer that and make polite conversation with someone who called up to check on my gran. At 4:30 my gran requested for some coffee and I dashed to the kitchen to make some and got back to Bones at 4:40. At 5:50 my gran started groaning from the bedroom and her speech sounded garbled and low as a result of her weakness. I ran to check if she was okay. She wanted biscuits. We had no biscuits at home and since biscuits were the only things she was enthusiastically eating for the last many days without throwing up I ran down to get some from the shop below our house.

It was 6:05pm when I reached home. I looked at the watch and thought ‘behind schedule by 5 minutes, but that’s okay’. I spoke too soon.

I switched the lights on as it grew dark outside with heavy rain clouds rolling in and not to my surprise noticed that my house resembled a place that hadn’t been lived in for a week; this despite the maid having come in earlier in the day and claimed to have ‘swept’ and ‘mopped’ the house. My blood started boiling and before it could steam out of my ears the phone started ringing. The darn thing’s been doing that a lot since my gran’s fallen ill, with people calling up to check on her health.

At 6:15pm I decided to sweep the house since everywhere I walked I could feel dirt under my feet and saw some of it on the bed too with every customary visit my gran made to the bathroom and back. I spent the next 45 minutes sweeping my 1BHK house: every single nook and cranny, all the while cursing my maid. She’s a 4 foot something, frail, old woman who could easily be above 65 years of age and looks like she’ll faint every time she takes up a strenuous chore. She supports her widowed daughter-in-law and 2 grandchildren by working as a house help. I know I should be kind and considerate to her but not today of all days. She should have done a decent job since she’s taken it up. She shouldn’t have taken advantage of the fact that my gran is sleeping off her tiredness most of the time so she can shirk her work and gather most of the visible dirt and shove it under the fridge. I thought I’d burst a nerve when I realised she conveniently didn’t mop. During the rains mopping up the house is vital to keeping it clean. I spent the next 30 minutes skating around on a floor wet with water and floor cleaner with a sad, old mop for a dance partner. At 7:30pm after I was done with all the cleaning I switched on all the fans for the floors to dry off.

“Ok, Luck, the nurse-maid (pun intended)” I thought to myself “We still aren’t all that behind schedule, we can do both reference for exams and probable topics for the article you’d like to write for the journal.”

The bell rang, I thought my brother was back and skated across to open the door. It wasn’t. My relatives had come over to help and look after my gran.

I sat around till 8:00pm relaxing my sore back, catching my breath (which has been giving me a lot of trouble since the last two weeks with wheezing: something I never had before)talking to them then decided to retire to the bedroom to do some studying. They came in to be with my gran. And then my gran started coughing like crazy and calling out to God and lamenting out loud why God was doing this to her and many other such things. This happened till around 9:00pm ,9:30pm and attempts at burying myself in a book about Spenser made my gran angry and hurt that I wasn’t paying attention to her despite the fact that her brother, sister-in-law and nephew were hovering around her waiting to answer her beck and call.

Long story short research for exams and journal never happened.

I felt like crying and banging my head against a wall.

My college principal wants us: the last batch that comes under Mumbai University, to have exams the same time as the rest of the college which comes under the autonomous system and has already had two internal assessments and are well versed with their syllabus unlike us.

My classmates; editors of the journal can set 7^th September as the deadline to submit topic proposals since they don’t have to clean the house, cook or order food from out or nurse their ailing grandmother.

Bev is constantly texting me about starting research work while eating Dosas her mom made for her.

I didn’t have time to go to the Doctor to get my wheezing checked until my gran had to be taken to the clinic but Universities I’d like to apply to next year would like me to have had some work experience which is a minimum of four weeks. I have none. My classmates do, but then they can always go back home and not have to worry about leaving a 70 year old grandmother who is prey to bouts of mood swings due to loneliness alone at home, keep in mind never ending lists of household stuff needed to be bought, constantly vacillate between fighting with an annoying 17 year old brother to being a considerate sister and ease his worries and pressures off about the imminent board exams.

This was my Friday Night and I’m sure next Friday Night I don’t want to ‘do it all again’. I’d like to be a normal 19 year old kid who’s really scared and can always expect her Mom and Dad to be around to reassure her and give a hug.

Hoping you had a Katy Perry style Friday Night. Sans the stranger in the bed, breaking the law, maxed out credit cards and other scary scenarios.

Falak.

Two To Tango

2011-08-13T00:59:00.004+05:30

Last year I very conveniently skipped putting up a post on this day: the day my blog turned one. I have personal superstitions about being too happy about a good thing. This year I have decided to pack that irrational thought into a bag weighed down with stones and throw into the overflowing gutter outside my house.

When I started writing ,it was to pass time since colleges in the city of Mumbai were in a state of partial shut-down as Professors across the city were striking for an increase in wages. God bless their souls since that incident gave me a lot of free time with not a clue about what to do with it. Like most things I take up (and my mother will vouch for this) I thought that this will end up being a passing fancy and my four posts a month trend would dwindle into nothing in the span of the next six months.

How on earth is a blogger supposed to wish his/her blog a happy birthday? A most confounding problem this is, I must say.

That’s when I remembered a friend’s opinion regarding the blog the other day. She said “The blog is you and you are the blog”. A simple statement free of embellishments but very appropriate for this particular occasion if you give it a little thought. So keeping that in mind I’ve decided to compare the points of view in the various posts I’ve written till now and if there have been changes in my opinions in these last two years.

When I started the blog I had no clue about what I wanted to talk about to people. I just wanted to express myself. The first four posts are living proofs of this fact. Writers blog

I believed in the sanctity of the joint family and considered any problem that arose was the result of my inability to adjust. It was just a case of sweet lemons. I might very soon delete this post. The Good, bad and the ugly. It isn't worth the effort when only the Ugly remains.

I had a problem with people’s opinions about anybody's dusky complexion. I hardly have time to worry over petty ideals of beauty now so I care less about it but I still do. The Sisterhood of Strawberries and Chocolates.

Travelling is a still a hurdle I have to deal with every 6 months. To meet my family I’ll continue doing it for the next 6 years if the need arises. A Thousand Times Over

My baby cousin was welcomed into this world a few months after the blog. She’s two now and I’m enjoying the last few months of my teen hood. She’s busy exploring the world and imbibing the truths of life. So am I. Right Angle

I thought youngsters doing drugs needed help and they could come out of the mess they’re in. I still do.

High Strung

My brother and I missed each other a lot. We fight a lot now; really serious fights which begin and end with blows. I still love him although I don’t know what the response is from his end. Sibling Mail Order

Unity in diversity is still the foundation on which India stands. But I fear I see it cracking up slowly day by day. Bangles All The Way

I still enjoy the small things in life. It’s the big things that I’ve yet to come to terms with. Sweet Nothings

My parents and Grandma are my biggest inspirations when it comes to writing. There are a few names after theirs which have been added to the list though. The Shinning

I like writing short stories. They need a gigantic amount of work done on them and the space for improvement available is enough to play football in. Webs

Pakistani’s are human beings. There are myriads of kinds of people in every country, not just India.

Guess Who Came to Tea

God Almighty and I are great pals still. It’s a symbiotic, mutual understanding of sorts. ( If you’re reading this God, please be informed I’m kidding ;) I’m the only dependent one here). I still am petrified of exams.

Ardently Fervently Selflessly Selfishly

I miss my family a lot still. Even though this is the fifth year running that I’m away from them. Percieve-r-ance

Birthday wishes will and have to work. They just seem to take an awfully long time. I could really use a wish right now

The situation in Indian hasn’t changed much.... If anything we are now moving into a more profound state of corruption and anarchy. I’d rather talk about this some other day. Road.Rage.Rules

Children are the father, mother and everything else possible of mankind. Wordsworth knew what he was talking about. Different Strokes

I haven’t stopped losing things, but I‘ve stopped letting them affect me. Sort of. The Inheritance of Loss

Oh! And how can I, how DARE I forget the wonderful fellow bloggers I’ve met here? People I’ve never met in person but friends nevertheless. They have for these last two years taught me a lot more about writing, interacting with people, and dealing with life and at the same time entertained me thoroughly without really intending to do the former. The blogosphere has proved to be the most interesting kind of contemporary classroom I’ve come across.

Two years , 30 posts and Two entities (the blog and I) partaking in an intricate dance of words, opinions, thoughts and feelings. Impressive. Specially keeping in mind my track record when it comes to pursuing things wholeheartedly and continuously.

I'm hoping that the tango is complicated.

Falak

Tu m’as manqué

2011-08-06T23:30:00.001+05:30

I missed you.

Sweet sounding words that make you feel marvellous like no other three worded sentence can, maybe except ‘ I love you’ but that has become so common place, now every random affection felt towards another living creature is expressed in terms of love.

The privilege of being missed....

I haven’t come across much else that beats the gratifying sensation that floods every inch of your body when someone says they missed you. Getting good grades or being appreciated for something I wrote, yes. But being missed still stands a notch higher than the rest.

It makes having been away for all that time pining for familiar things and people, voices and smiles all that much more worth it. It fortifies the raw, sketchy hope I have in the human ability to connect, to value and to cherish. But most of all I love those three words when they are said to me because well..... It feels great to be loved and yeah, I am a narcissistic soul.

So I’d like to thank my mom, dad, grandmother and my three loving friends whose ebullient expressions of joy and beatific smiles on seeing me made my day. I’d like to thank my newfound friends I met at the summer school I attended for two weeks in Scotland for missing me. We bonded a lot more in those two weeks than I have been able to with some people I’ve known for over two years. Our differences in age (there were those in their 30’s and 40’s), nationalities, educational and cultural backgrounds never was an obstacle to forge what for the present looks like longstanding friendships.

I’d like to specifically thank my cousin and his wife with whom I spent some time in London for missing me. I count those five days with them as one of the most memorable vacations I’ve taken and I can very confidently state that I haven’t met many people who have been so hospitable, welcoming, loving and free and yeah... who have in a just a span of spending five days in person with me and two weeks over the phone giving pep talks when I was in Scotland like me enough to miss me.

I also want to thank my professor for giving me a warm welcome on returning to class after a 3 week hiatus and also for being more interested in knowing if I had a good time instead of reminding me of the mountain sized heap of work that I have yet to catch up with.

Since I’ve spent most of this post rambling on about being missed I’d like to now mention what I missed the most.

I missed this blog of mine. I spent most of May and June preparing for the summer school and then the whole of July in UK. I’m really sorry for having neglected this one thing in the world that serves as the perfect outlet for my thoughts, ideas, opinions, feelings and other synonyms you can come up with. This is the only place that soothes my urge to write.

So during my 22 day stay in the UK, having the most marvellously unforgettable time of my life (apart from learning Modernism in English Literature) I’m glad I met people who believe that if you love someone or value something enough to miss it just spit it out because I haven’t yet developed the supernatural ability to look into someone and see what I mean to them. Those 3 simple words help me live every coming day to the fullest. And in this world that’s worth something. Trust me.

But I still don’t get why the French have to say 'you missed me' for 'I missed you' and then say what it actually means is 'you were missed by me'. It's another story that it sounds better the convoluted way.

Falak

The Inheritance of Loss 3: The cycle ends (hopefully).

2011-04-05T00:59:00.003+05:30

So I’ve lost my wallet, my cell phone and a few days after the cell phone I realised I lost a green notebook I set a lot of store by along with a white hair band that I owned since my primary school days. I can survive without the last two, as, of all the things I’ve currently been losing those two are the ones that are the least important. However, those two are things I hold the closest to my heart.

That notebook had a rough draft of a poem, notes from the research I’d done on William Blake which was the groundwork for an article I wrote for the English Department journal; my first ever published article...... It also held ideas, jottings for new blog posts....

That white hair band must be the plainest accessory I’ve ever owned but it was a constant reminder of my school days, my friends, and my childhood. In some bizarre fashion it sort of linked my childhood in UAE to my teenhood in Mumbai.

As usual I have no memory of where I last saw them. Not a single clue. No one around me does either. Already bogged down by the stress of too many things missing I’ve given up on the last two, albeit after the ritualistic hunting process. Nothing great has happened. Eventually I had to give up on them what with my final exams staring me in the face and my friends hammering it into my thick skull that I have bigger fish to fry.

So to quote the Indian media’s favourite cliché, "How do you feel now?" and in reply to that I don’t feel much, to be frank I don’t feel anything at all. After all the initial madness filled with anxiety attacks, eerie dreams, disturbed sleep and obsessive ranting about my lost objects I feel nothing. Zilch. Rien.

It’s simple really; the point of it all is I’ve learnt something out of it. You can’t hang on to things in life or people for that matter and being the hoarder that I am it’s an important lesson learned. No single person or thing in life are ever ‘the most important thing' of our lives because eventually, we learn to live without them. All the voids and hollow spaces they leave in and around us fill up. There might be the occasional bad day; times when you suddenly long for that thing from the past but then it goes away and you learn to cope with it. I can’t say I’m completely cured of my negligible strain of OCD but I’m on my way.

Suddenly, things and routines I couldn’t do without; an absence of which would evoke fear, doubt and unreasonable apprehensions, that would keep niggling at the back of my mind stirring up a lot of negativity in the process, have stopped looming over me thus losing their larger than life appearance. The first step has been accepting the fact that ‘Alright, I do get more nervous than socially accepted and permitted levels of nervousness’. Second step: realizing that a small event or string of events can affect the bigger picture of my life only if I want and make them too. Three: this is going to be a long, long process and requires a lot of belief and faith in myself. I shouldn't be expecting any overnight miracles and nor should anyone else.

So basically, losing 4 important items on 3 different occasions brought to the fore a problem I’ve been pushing aside as ‘just an annoying habit’. That’s looking at the bright side of the situation. Getting back to the realistic side of me I wish that this annoying disappearance of personal articles ends once and for all.

Hoping that, like Sonya says, "3 is the charm".

Falak

The Inheritance of Loss 2: Tragic encounter with cops shatters myth about magic of numerical codes

2011-03-26T00:47:00.005+05:30

I have to and have to and have to, just have to get that phone back. Need my phone, need my phone want my phone want my phone WANT MY PHONE.....

So after a lot of tears, cursing, lamenting, searching and bemoaning my luck Beverly and I went to the Police Station 2 days later to file an FIR and submit the magical IMEI number that would help trace my darling cell phone and bring it back to me. As we got out of the rickshaw we were in we spent some time ogling at the building that was the Police Station. We looked at each other and then started walking towards the station compound. We climbed up a few stairs before finally stepping into the part of the structure that actually housed the cops. I wanted to snigger. Uncontrollably.

What would people say? Girls from good families never even skirt the boundaries of a Police Station, let alone step inside one. Cops are not to be trusted; half the rapists and killers and smugglers in the city are policemen. Police stations are filthy and unsafe.

While my head was swimming with voices yelling out all the stereotypes attached to Police Stations and Policemen my common sense was stating superfluous facts blithely.

Looks like the outpatient section of a hospital with linoleum flooring and off white walls, no smell, no lock ups in view {what a letdown...} no cops in sight either....Why do they have a foyer? An empty one at that too. Oh, there’s another room to the left. I spy cops. What do we do now?

“What do we do now Bev?”

“Ask someone what we should exactly do?” Bev and I, we have a penchant for rhetoric.

“Madam, what are you looking for? {On second thoughts} How can I help you?”

“We needed to lodge a complaint regarding a lost cell phone.....”

“Please enter the room to your left and let Inspector Mhatre know what your problem is.”

Oh yes, yes! I remember Inspector Mhatre... His kid was in kindergarten with me.{Rolling eyes}

Bored cop looks at our bemused faces and then on an impulse decides to rephrase his sentence, “The policeman in the cubicle on the left end of the room, Maam”

We ‘Thank You’d’ in tandem and walked to meet Inspector Mhatre. He was busy on the phone talking nineteen to the dozen in Marathi: a language Beverly can come to terms with after grappling with a sentence or two per second and a language that is as alien to me as being overweight is to a model. Inspector Mhatre smiled at us mouthed ‘cell phone’ and then gestured us to the other end of the long rectangular room. He smiled once again, held the phone a few inches away from his ear and yelled out loudly

“Shinde, Ya Madamcha mobile missing ahey. Tyachi complaint londavaychi ahey” {Ma’am has lost her phone. Lodge her complaint}

Constable Shinde escorted us to the far end of the room and sat us down on two identical, thankfully not battered plastic lawn chairs. He removed huge horn-rimmed glasses from his breast-pocket and fixed them onto the bridge of his nose. I felt like we were in an eighties Bollywood movie; the aggrieved female leads about to file a complaint and cops who weren’t the least interested about what we had to say. But I was wrong, they were interested.

“Where do you live? Are you working or are you a student? When exactly did this happen? Where did the phone get lost?”

“I don’t know exactly where.....I came home and realised that my phone was missing. I travel to and fro from home to college by train. I can’t precisely remember where I last used it or when it went missing.”

“So did it go missing in the train?” Questioned the constable, “Because if it did then you’ll have to go to the Railway police and file a complaint. So I’ll write that you lost it in the bus while travelling from the station to your house, right?” His eyebrows were raised quizzically, a conspiratorial look in the eyes.

Policemen 101: They make you run from pillar to post. He’s doing the opposite and helping us....Surprise Surprise

“When did it exactly go missing?”

“On the 17^th of February, Sir. Most probably in the afternoon.”

“Well it’s 19^th evening today......”

I know that, didn't I just confirm my occupation as a student?

“I’ll lodge a complaint for the 18^th..... You lost it on the 18^th, right?”

Bev and I look at each other, both our eyes mirroring the same expression: amazement , “Yes, Sir”

Policemen 101: Cops are sticklers for facts if it aides in harassing the public. False.

In walks top cop Inspector Kadam and seats himself on the chair before us. He starts interrogating me in Marathi and I stare at him dumbfounded. The Inspector looks from the constable to Beverly. I know what he’s thinking. Is she slow or what?

“She doesn’t understand Marathi, Sir”, Bev supplied in Hindi. Inspector resorts to displaying expressions of mock hurt and insult. The man’s regional spirit has been crushed with my lack of knowledge of his mother tongue is what he’s implying.

Marathi yeth nahi ka?! Mumbai mein reh ke Marathi aana chahiye na? {You don't know Marathi, is it? When you live in Mumbai you should know Marathi!}

If after living here for only four years you feel this distraught imagine how the Arabs are feeling ........

“Umar kya hai apki? Age Age....” he adds in English for my benefit.

I said don’t understand Marathi but Hindi I do, so please quit the subtitles.....

“Unnees saal , Sir. Hum SYBA students hai” {We are 19 year old SYBA students} I said. I was bored of playing scared, big-eyed, innocent alien. We threw in the prestigious name of our college for added measure, snobs that we are. Plus we wanted them to believe that we were serious about what we came and weren’t passing time. As I was rattling off all of my personal details, including my name age, address, surname, place of birth, father’s name, college and phone number a group of petty criminals who were cowering on the floor near us looking around listlessly were overhearing our conversation with the cops. Bev drew her chair sideways trying to appear unperturbed while making a conscious attempt to distance herself from the scruffy looking convicts.

We had one of our many telepathic conversations

What if they memorize my details and hunt me down? How smart are these cops?

C’mon Lucky, they don’t look bright enough to memorize all that AND act upon it.

Point noted Bevy.

Also note: you’re plain paranoid.

Iyeah! Ha! I drew the chair away didn’t I?

It’s called hygienic concerns.

Hmph...

Hmphh right back at you.

Inspector Kadam boomed, “Accha, Ok, Shinde tila lost certificate denyat yawe” {Please issue a lost certificate with the details to Ma'am}. And after barking his command with practised flourish the Inspector went to wherever it was he had come from.

After furnishing all the details they wanted I handed them the magical IMEI number.

Fingers crossed, C’mon numbers work your magic. Prove your worth. Break my losing streak.

Constable Shinde looked at me and said ,“Ahhhh , We’ve heard about this, but we don’t understand the technology and neither do we have it.”

"But Sir...."

Policemen 101: 5 year olds are technologically more competent than cops. These words resonate with nothing but the truth.

“Even though it’s not of much use I will mention it here in your lost certificate.” And saying so he wrote it down on the sheet of paper they had the gall to call a certificate.

The lost certificate was for me to keep, in case I needed to claim my phone or check the status of my complaint. The FIR; the official version of the lost certificate that the cops kept with them had no mention of the IMEI number whatsoever. There isn’t any mind-boggling rocket science involved with regards to the IMEI number. The cops just have to note it down call up the different service providers in the city and inform them that any new Sim Card that operates with this IMEI should be reported to the cops immediately and the co-ordinates of that Sim Card have to be provided to the IT section of the police department. Technologically incompetent moi knows that.

“Now what Sir?”

“Now nothing, we will wait and see if someone hands it over. Usually they don’t but just in case you know....”

Oh so basically after changing 2 buses and coming this far all you guys are going to do is wait for some public spirited citizen to hand it over? Classic......

“How costly was it? When you tried calling what happened?”

“I don’t know how costly it was Sir, but it was more than Rs 10,000 and when I tried calling my number I got the ‘switched off’ message even though the battery was fully charged in the morning.”

Who cares about the money {I do of course!} but the pictures of my family, school friends, videos from the JB concert, videos of my baby cousins and Bev’s first time on stage, my songs, messages , my things to do list, reminders...........Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

“Then it’s gone for sure. Either ways here’s you certificate. We will inform you if something crops up.”

They went back to watching the cricket world cup on the TV installed in an inner ‘cops only sanctum’.

Thanks for the extra helping of positivity. Wonder why it tastes bitter.

As we were walking out of the precinct Bev and I spoke out at the same time,

“What a waste of time and energy!”

“Although they were sweet and nice”

“Yeah they weren’t manner less boors.”

“We know most cops DO have potbellies and paunches”

“You bet”

“Look at the bright side, we know how a Police Station functions and we’ve been inside one! “

"Yeah! We were brave enough to go and deal with the cops on our own without any adult help Bev!"

"We ARE technically adults, you know......"

"Oh yeah..... I tend to forget that sometimes."

"Well, at least we tried"

"Yeah, we tried."

I’ve tried everything possible to locate my phone. Apart from obsessing over it and suffering from anxiety attacks there isn’t much I can do. So I sleep at night dreaming of my pretty little touch screen hoping that somehow, someday soon it will turn up flashing it’s backlight and notification lights cheekily at me.

The nut who stole it even stole the phone’s sassy red cover :(

Falak

PS: If the Marathi translations are any good just letting you know that they are the handiwork of my friend Madhuri :) If they're faulty please give the brickbats to her too :P Special thanks to Kalyani for providing me with typical Marathi policemen surnames :) Yes, those aren't the real names of the cops I interacted with. Whatever made you think I'm going to risk my neck doing that???

The Inheritance of Loss

2011-03-25T20:32:00.003+05:30

It all started with the wallet. A pretty thing in blue denim gifted to me by my friend Shruti on my 17^th birthday. I had preserved it for almost two years, intact with the box and the gift wrapper it came in. Two years later exactly after my 19^th birthday when the wallet I was using started disintegrating into shreds of leather and cloth I decided it was time to bring out the denim wallet. It was smaller, compact and easy to lose. In the giant handbag I carry to college, perpetually stuffed with books, files and occasionally with a stole to protect myself from the winter chill and the summer sun anything could go missing for a few minutes and initiate an anxiety attack lasting a few minutes before the object of concern turned up dandy and fine. I guess my possessions are of the opinion that once in a while a little extra pumping of the heart, increase in pulse rate, palpitations and hyperventilation does me good.

I had to renew my railway pass that day so I had carried around Rs 1000 with me. On reaching the ticket counter I realised that my usual train would leave in a matter of 3 minutes. I urged the lazy official at the booking counter to get my pass made quickly and sprinted towards the train clutching the remaining Rs 200 or so I received as change in my hand. I’m usually very meticulous when it comes to keeping things in their proper places. But that day for some inexplicable reason I decided to stuff the money into my pencil pouch which was the first thing that I could lay my hands on in the cavern I call my handbag. I didn’t even bother to transfer the money from my pouch to the wallet despite opening the pouch a gazillion times to remove my writing implements. In the train, returning home I noticed a lady selling safety pins and remembered my Grandmother asking me to get her some if one of the travelling hawkers in the train were selling them. I opened my bag for the wallet and started the ritualistic rummaging I engage in every time I needed something found. It had to be inside a book or under the file or concealed in the folds of the stole. Out came books, lunch-box, mobile phone, pencil pouch, stole, library book, hair band, sunglasses, reading glasses {both intact in their cases}, ID card, water bottle but no wallet. NO WALLET.

"Madhuri, I don’t seem to find my wallet........"

"It’s got to be there somewhere in your bag. Give me your books, must be stuck inside one of them."

"I guess yeah....." OH MY GOD..... I’VE LOST IT...IT’S GONE....GONE

"What are you doing, Luck?"

"Searching for the wallet, what else does it look like?"

"Inside your lunch-box?"

There’s a saying in Malayalam that when roughly translated means, ‘When you lose your fishing rod you should search for it even inside an earthen pot’. What it basically tries to get across is that no matter how ridiculous it may seem, leave no stone unturned during your search for lost items. That’s a rule of thumb I always adhere to while hunting for my things.

IT HAS TO BE SOMEWHERE ANYWHERE NOOOOOOOO PLEASE LET IT BE THERE GOD PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE..... I CAN’T LOSE THINGS! I NEVER EVER MISPLACE ANYTHING!

"Maybe I left it in class......"

" Did you remove it to buy anything from the canteen today?"

"Nope.... I got lunch from home."

"When did you last use it?"

" To pay for the pass..."

"Is that the last time you saw it?"

"I actually can’t remember when the last time I saw it was."

I spent the next three to four days searching for that wallet in the classrooms, the lost and found department, every nook and cranny of every place I possibly was at on that day, retracing my steps and actions but that wallet was GONE. I was kind of okay with the fact that I lost it because the only thing of import it held was change for bus worth Rs 30 and a few 100 used bus tickets that I had saved up for my friend Manasa who collects them. Fortunately the Rs 200 remained in the pouch all day. Sometimes laziness pays off. Sometimes you feel lazy for a reason.

But I’ve always wondered how and where exactly it went missing... The bag is always glued to my arm or lap, the only other people I left it with are my gang of friends. We came to the conclusion that the only possible place it could have fallen out would be at the station as I was yanking my worthless stole out of my bag while getting off the train. I decided it was a much needed lesson for me to not be overconfident about being ‘the person who never lost stuff’.

I was much more careful than before, indulging in regulated checks of my bag at a 50 minute interval and everything was fine and under control.

Until I lost my mobile a month later.

Falak

Introducing Me

2011-02-07T23:25:00.004+05:30

I realised recently that even though this blog belongs to me it doesn’t talk a lot about me. I won’t lie saying that it’s an accidental occurrence, the truth being that when I started off with the blog I consciously chose not to write about myself. There’s something about revealing one’s personal side to strangers that is intriguing and at the same time intimidating. When you have elders at home constantly harping about psychopaths and stalkers you learn to be wary no matter how tempting pouring your heart and soul out to people who don't know enough about you to judge you seems. Another fact is that majority of my readers are my buddies and family: people who either live with me , have lived with me or those I see every single day of the week. It never really came to mind to give a background about myself and my surroundings.

This, I have recently realised, tends to be a major impediment to my writing. Most of the time I have to go off tangent and give lengthy descriptions so that the new readers I’ve acquired who aren’t family and friends {I’m gloating as I write this :D } aren’t lost.

So to both old and new, family and strangers welcome to my world of pixelated thoughts.

I’m Falak, a 19 year old girl studying in Mumbai, India. I’m a student of political science, English and French literature. I can speak decent enough French but I’m sure that in Paris I’ll be an outcast if I open my blessed mouth. I have no political opinions. None at all. Although I think living in a democracy invariably gives me the right to criticize the working of my country and I never miss a chance to do so whether in speech or writing because that’s the only possible way I can rectify things; by letting people know about it. I love English, the language of course, which I intend to major in. It happened almost a decade ago when my mother inculcated the love for reading books in me. It’s like being in love with your best friend: you’ve liked him and been with him for so long, loving him is a habit you’re unaware of unless someone draws your attention to it. Which is exactly what my friends Bev, Jo, Mads and Yo did. That’s how this blog came about, for more info read Writer's blog .

I was born and brought up and completed my schooling up till the 10^th in UAE and moved to India for my higher studies. Since the last four years I’ve been living away from my parents, here, in Mumbai but still entertain my frenemy homesickness. You can often see me whine about the people and things I miss. I currently live with my gran and younger brother who will feature more often on this blog from now on than they have in the past. I have a strapping, huge, extended maternal family who I lived with until last year and many a times this blog serves as the perfect platform for me to moan about the idiosyncrasies and peculiarities of my myriad of grand aunts, grand uncles, aunts, uncles and cousins who are all of the opinion that they possess the divine right to correct, criticize, judge and love me. I love reading but never limit myself to a particular author or genre. The same goes for movies and music.
My bookshelf holds The Harry Potter series, Wuthering heights, Mills and Boon, P.G Woodehouse, Cecilia Ahern, Jeffery Archer, Arundhati Roy, Harlan Coben, Marry Higgins Clarke, Nora Roberts and The Twilight Saga on the very same rack. If you can write I’ll read it. I love poetry. I love poetry and dabble in some myself but am still in the process of exploring its many wonders in my lit classes in college. If you haven’t closed the web page yet after the bit about poetry then I enjoy cooking. From what I've been telling my near and dear ones I am supposed to hate travelling but I secretly enjoy it because the people I meet,the insights and experiences I gain during my daily 1 hour local train travels to and from college and my flights to UAE are blog worthy. I enjoy reminiscing; it’s maybe because I’m some kind of a masochist who doesn’t mind taking a trip through memories that evoke painful symptoms of nostalgia and homesickness if it means I can find some shadow of happiness lurking there.

I ADORE little children, specially babies, as a result of which I often mention my kiddy and not so kiddy horde of cousins. I relish spicy food, freak out on the colour green. I love laughing out loud with my friends who I write about a lot. These 8 women: 6 from college and my 2 besties from school form my support system and help me weather my mood swings, phases of depression, omnipresent fatigue which is a consequence of being responsible for myself, my ageing grandmother, my rebellious teenage brother and the running of our small household, lack of confidence, constant bouts of anxiety and worrying about nothing in general. We also love the boy band The Jonas Brothers. I like to think I’m funny, everyone does. I’m an expert at geriatrics, having lived with senior citizens for the last four formative years of my life but am completely and hopelessly socially inept in a teenage sceneJ. My 8 angels are working on it. I talk in Hindi, Malayalam {my mother tongue} and English but think in all three simultaneously and write in English. I meet my parents every 6 months during vacations and living in two countries simultaneously creates a sort of identity crisis for me.

I guess I’ve pretty much mentioned everything that I’d tell about myself to anyone, whether an acquaintance or a stranger. A little more and you might as well not read any other post I put up.

If you’re still reading after the Jonas part you must have deciphered by now why I call this blog Much Ado About Everything. It has nothing to do with being a lit student and enjoying Shakespeare {I have yet to read one of his plays in detail} but everything to do with my obsession with word play and the fact that I worry, whine and can go on and on about trivial things. On the good days I glorify the inconsequential joys of life.

I had a grand old time introducing myself and my muddled up world. On a concluding note all I have to say to you whether you’re someone who’s been part of my journey finding my own voice this last 1 year or whether you decide to now or whether you’re just a passer-by is:

Enchanted to meet you

Falak

Different Strokes

2011-01-23T19:17:00.005+05:30

There is something charming about young children. Or to phrase it better, there is something charming about the practical logic that young children dole out.

My two precocious cousins, a boy and girl both aged that wobbly age of twelve where they are teetering between childhood and adolescence never cease to annoy and surprise me. They are a few months away from the jinxed 13 and I can already see them morphing into monsters. It’s scary when they suddenly snap at me; at an attempt to defy authority or their idea of their freedom being suppressed, when all I might have asked her to do is stop bossing her baby sister and go get her hair brushed. I don’t know whether I should soothe her temper or whack her on the head. Or when I just remind them about how ‘precious’ the books in my library are and that dog ears aren’t tolerated when he’d give me a rejoinder that’d have me reeling head over heels back into the kitchen and hiding under my mother’s apron; if she ever wore one. When I land in UAE I get excited, high pitched calls with a 12 year old girl trying to drown out the giggly questions of a 6 year old girl by increasing the volume of her own; and then there is also the nonchalant call where a 12 year old boy languidly questions me about the details of my short visit in that bored, drawling tone that has me wondering if he’s manoeuvring a car on the PSP with his free hand. And they never decline a chance to torment me mercilessly about my undying love for the Jonas Brothers, {even the 6 year old brat} who according to them I should have given up on before my 18^th birthday. But their revulsion for the JB never stopped them from waiting with bated breath to get the details about my trip to their concert in Abu Dhabi and the inside info on both the performers and the performance. They yo-yo between being cute and horrible in nanoseconds.

When I started blogging, slowly and steadily I let some of my family know about it, including the kids. On my last visit home during a family reunion one weekend my aunts got to questioning me about the blog and talking about it in general. That was when my sister butt in; in that honestly frank manner she used to tell her mom as a kid that the dish she painstakingly made was yucky, she told me “ Chechi (elder sister), Your blog is really dumb. I can’t understand what you write and it’s too confusing. I was too dumbfounded to reply, so I decided that the magazine I was hiding behind was my best bet to hide my disappointment. The little girl to whom I was a goddess, I who could never go wrong, had just deemed something really important to me as rubbish.

I might have spent almost 15 minutes staring at the same page when I decided to get myself a box of readymade chocolate pudding that I gorge on when I’m home to pep me up. As I was about to get a spoon, my cousin apparated before me with one. He had been walking up and down the house incessantly, his heels making thudding sounds and driving the household insane. It’s his way of staying occupied and working out his excess energy. He put on his I’m –such a –wise-old-guy face and asked me very seriously, just like as a kid he’d ask me if finishing school meant now that I’d get married and have babies . “If she finds what you write difficult, isn’t it good for you?” “Why?” I mumbled with my mouth full of chocolate, my spoon strategically left hanging midair about to drip chocolate. He questioned “ Do you think Shakespeare is confusing? His writing, the language you know?” “ Ummm, Yes.” I replied a little reluctantly, but honestly wondering what he’d have to say about that since he knew I’m a literature student. “Well most people do” he says brisk walking around the dining table “but it’s supposed to be great, what he writes. And I think you’re good, although I have to read what you write twice whenever I do to understand it.” He resumed scurrying about aimlessly.

While I was simultaneously digesting this gyaan (knowledge) and the chocolate pudding my cousin yelled from the bedroom! “I love the bracelet you got me! The colour combo is so cooolll! I love you.”
It looks like I am still sister numero uno in the dressing up department at least.

May the logic of children help you adopt a refreshing outlook on old things this New Year although I know I’m 23 days late J

Falak

Road.Rage.Rules

2010-12-22T23:30:00.011+05:30

“Watch where you’re going YOU FOOL!”

“Zipping away like he’s riding a DUCATI on an empty runway!”

We tried to move another step ahead but quickly recoiled back to the safety of that half of the single lane road that was occupied by double parked cars.

“I know an ophthalmologist. Need the number?”

It’s called a Zebra parking, see the white stripes? They didn’t paint it for your wedding. Oh! But how would you, who haven’t seen a horse, KNOW WHAT A ZEBRA IS??????”

“You’re supposed to stop when you see pedestrians at the crossing, ie people like us who have been waiting for the last 15 minutes trying to cross a measly 4 feet road. Oh yes! You stop even if there isn’t A SIGNAL! YEAH, THAT COLOURFUL CONTRAPTION YOU DON’T PAY HEED TO.”

“You know what Bev? Let’s just cross even if it means running the risk of being hit, at least that way we can put them in jail because we crossed at a pedestrian crossing.”

At that precise moment the injured muscle of my right leg from the auto accident gave a painful throb warning me otherwise and to add to that Bev gave me her ‘Shut up and wait woman’ look.

Finally we flagged down a giant SUV, the driver bemused, at seeing two college going girls who looked capable of murder. Luckily for the motorists we didn’t have to spend an eternity perched on the median but crossed the other half of the so called dual-carriageway road in two minutes. To irk us further Sonya had already crossed both the lanes and was waiting on the footpath tapping her feat and beating a tattoo on the dial of her watch indicating how long it took us to reach her. Like we didn’t know already. The Dare-Devil had dashed across the road earlier: irreverent of traffic or death. She has previously been at the receiving end of caresses from buses, autos, cars and a train too! According to her only a plane is left.

As we were dodging vendors selling kerchiefs, toys, lemonade, fake Ray-Ban glares {and wares than I can go describing in humorous detail for months} on the footpath or something that resembled it we were fuming. On a sunny winter afternoon Bev had smoke shooting out from her ears and Sonya and I were doling out endearments I can’t mention in print; she, with a ghost of a smile as always and I, the way they should be.

“It’s all a matter of rules you know!” I hollered, startling an underwear vendor from his reverie about boxers. He looked reconcilably at me, ready to believe that briefs were the best if that is what I thought. I glared at him, challenging him otherwise.

“Nobody follows rules here, everyone thinks it's their in-laws-place and they can do as they please. Inconsiderate nuts."

“ Luck? You seriously think people do as they like there?”

“Ok Sonz, their daddy’s farmhouse, fine?”

“Ooooh! Now that’s one place I’d be at ease at.” I think something about the colour of my face made Bev decide not to go ahead with the joke.

“They shove rule books in your face at banks, hospitals and government offices where they are least required. A transaction that needs a few clicks on the keyboard takes 100 perambulations around the desks of useless officials.”

“You’re telling me?” Drawled Sonya with an eyebrow raised in derisive amusement at the above said organisations.

“Yeah, I’d rather die of a cold” stated Bev in agreement to which I vehemently said “And I’d rather stash my money under the bed than maintain an account in this country.” {Don’t even bother looking for it there}

We walked in silence for sometime stomping the pot-holed footpath violently.

“Oh how I envy the ease of my cousins’ lives in Bahrain!” burst out Sonya

“I miss the orderliness of UAE!” I exploded, having held in that statement waiting for someone else to say it. I’m always sceptical about comparing my foster country and my country and running the risk of sounding like a hypocrite ex-NRI brat.

“No one gives a damn to rules here.”

“But when the same Indians go elsewhere they follow even the dumbest ones to the T.”

“They chicken out when they have to pay up fines, so they won’t spit, litter or over-speed.” Furnished Bev

“Who’ll fine them here in Mumbai? That pot-bellied corrupt policeman?” Chortled Sonya

“But we have to follow stupid dress codes and attendance policies in college. No one knows where to use rules here.” I muttered in disgust.

“You’re right Sonz. Fools make rules here and fools who can’t understand the difference between Christmas lights and traffic signals inhabit and populate this country. And then they have the audacity to complain about 2G scams??????” I fumed, climbing up the stairs to the railway station two at a time to vent out my frustration.

“Yeah Luck, how true.”

“What’s the 2G scam?”

The walk through the platform was spent explaining to Bev all about the scam that rocked the nation.

Wondering why our country can never reach that state where everyone is carefree like Bev,

Falak

I could really use a wish right now.....

2010-12-10T00:02:00.010+05:30

I was one of the few children in school who knew Santa was a myth, he didn’t exist. I lived in a desert where it didn’t snow and none of our houses had exclusive roofs let alone chimneys {we lived in flats}. And to top it all we don’t celebrate Christmas {my family isn't Christian}. But then again, deep down I’ve always liked to believe in things that others thought were balderdash. I like to make a wish on a fallen eyelash, the first star I see in the sky, hope for good luck if I see two mynahs {starlings}. I waited for a letter from Hogwarts before I turned 11, dreamt that my ancestors had super powers that I inherited after it skipped a few generations or some such romantic claptrap.

I don’t know if magic, miracles or enchantments exist. I secretly like to believe they do but my rational side, measured and cut by experience and polished by dogmatic notions of reality hardly give a sliver of a chance for my esoteric side, rough-hewn as a result of doubt to take lead.

What I’ve always hoped would work is the magic of the smoke from birthday candles when you blow them out. It is almost surreally mesmerizing that something dynamic and consuming like a flame feeds from the depths of a saccharine dish, draws out the sweetness of hope and extinguishes into white-grey wisps of enchantment that twirl and twine around a breath full of wishes and transports it into magical realms. I don’t know if there will be cakes and candles today so I’d not like to allow this special request of mine to be left at the mercy of the vicissitude of birthday plans and decisions.

There is one path to miracles I’m absolutely sure of. Group prayers. You need not believe in God for this. Just the same little request escaping many lips at the same time creates a vibration of positivity so strong that not even the steely bars of cynical rationality of life can cage and thwart the fulfilment of any wish however itty-bitty it is. So this time around I’d like to ask that come 25^th of December a fantabulous, strong, optimistic and lovely lady and writer named Erika can sleep peacefully without battling her arch enemies, phlegm and mucus, ever and also that her gorgeous baby Izzy {Izabella} can enjoy every single day without seizures, vomiting and other torments that her little being is subjected to on almost a daily basis. Erika was hoping for Dear Santa {who I’m sceptical about} to hear her out.

I hope every single one of you who is reading/reads this blog and this particular post; { although I know there aren’t many} and decide to don the Santa suit for a day because those two could really use a wish {and many more} right now. After reading this if you feel an urgent need to put my request into action and can't wait for Christ's birthday which is a fortnight away then please go ahead! If you think it takes a birthday to make magic happen then you are in luck, for today is a birthday too. Well, not Jesus Christ's but a 19 year old girl's. Inspite of all this if you've never had childhood fantasies of playing Santa then maybe just be nice and grant a Birthday Girl her wish: that another’s wish comes true.

Wishing I could cast spells,

Falak

Perceive-r-ance

2010-11-26T20:09:00.007+05:30

As children my brother and I used to be overjoyed at the sight of stuffed shopping bags strewn all around the house. It spelt HOLIDAY. It promised us a vacation, new clothes and possessions, and the assured company of our parents and Grand mom for more than the prescribed 6 hours we saw them in a day. While shopping, we’d bump into friends, teachers and other families and have a gala time discussing holiday plans. What to buy for whom, choosing sari’s of myriad colours, soaps cakes, powder tins, cream bottles, jewellery and stacking it all away in suitcases, deciding what to assign to which relative were tasks of priority. Most of the time these shopping excursions culminated into eating out at our then favourite restaurant ‘Super’ which was anything but that. Who cared? The waiters knew our family history and we theirs, they had literally seen us grow up in front of them, doted on us, got us that extra dish without charging and we loved the unhealthy fried rice and chilly chicken. We never ordered. The minute one of the ‘uncles’ saw us our special was ready on the table.

I haven’t seen those people in 2 years. That restaurant has been demolished and a new one is coming up. I’m rambling now, going off at completely another tangent. It’s all beside the point I’m trying to make or maybe it really isn’t. I don’t like the sight of shopping bags around my room anymore. It ultimately means I’m leaving my family or they’re leaving me. I truly abhor shopping and hardly visit the mall that’s only a 3 minute drive from my house. My friends would kill to live there. I don’t desire new clothes, new accessories, footwear, nothing. I don’t fancy passports and tickets especially when it says Mumbai-Dubai. And I’d kill to eat that unhealthy fried rice and chilly chicken every single weekend despite the fact that I’ll be complaining about piling on the pounds and will be even more under-confident in public that I already am. Do I feel at home in UAE? Honestly there are times when I feel like a Martian, completely out of sync with the drastic transformations in the life I once led, my schoolmates, the people I knew and the places I used to haunt. So if ‘Home’ ceases to feel like home; then does Mumbai feel like home? Can’t really say, because it’s difficult to lead two diversely separate lives. I can choose to adopt one and give up the other but I can’t. My UAE life is who I am and was; and my Mumbai life is who I am and will be/can be. Moreover, like my mother very succinctly puts it I’m a hoarder by nature and can’t let go of easily. So I amble from a set of 6 months to another surviving solely on the short holidays that pop up in between like greenery in a desert, compartmentalising friends, clothes, routines, hobbies and food into two sections: Mumbai and UAE.

My perceptions over the years have changed. Bags of joy now herald the advent of bleak-looking six months, life the way I lived it for 15 years has now been broken up into parts and the mention of fried rice and chilly chicken that made me flash a 250 volt smile now creates saline pools in my house. But I’m trying, trying really hard to change that, achieve a state of equilibrium and merge two disparate aspects of me and ameliorate into a whole, complete person. I hope perseverance helps me to perceive differently.

Meanwhile, seriously contemplating burning off those shopping bags,

Falak

Ardently, Fervently, Seflessly, Selfishly

2010-10-25T22:08:00.013+05:30

So what has Falak been up to the last two weeks? There has to be a reason to substantiate her extended silence after the pledge she undertook to write continuously.

Answering my own question, she hasn’t been doing outrageously exciting things to keep her away this long from the blog. She was busy forging a temporary alliance with a certain individual by the name of God Almighty.

She was busy discussing ardently, alternatives to completely blanking out in front of her exam paper, methods to circumvent studying a syllabus of oceanic proportions, and having the brain power to remember enough to fill in the pages of the answer sheet. She was busy fervently formulating terms and conditions of treaties to sign, pacts to adhere to. Terms and conditions involved were: if only stuff I learn comes 3 coconuts for you, if I manage to remember everything I painstakingly mugged up; 51 rupees for you.

After sleeping continuously for 4 hours every day for the last two weeks, burying her head within her books, hardly eating for the fear of suffering from an upset tummy, refusing to step out of the house except going to college to meet her arch rival the papers, the marks-talks ended successfully. It was ratified by the council of Love with Falak having all her demands met at such short notice and God still waiting for his.

He’s still waiting without creating a ruckus, without impassioned appeals of ‘why me always?’, ‘I know you hate me’. Biding his time he’s still sticking around here.

Why though?

Simply because he believes in her.

But does she trust him as implicitly?

Do we?

A very, merry, exam-free soul.

Falak

Sonny side

2010-09-19T18:42:00.008+05:30

Before you start reading just letting you know the words calignious, tenebrous, crepescular simply put mean dark..... I just wanted synonyms instead of using the same word again and again. I used a thesaurus. ;)

I haven’t written for a month and 19 days. I was planning on a little something to celebrate the 1^st birthday of the blog, wish it Bon Blogaversaire maybe. This blog does warrant that kind of gratitude on my part. There aren’t ample avenues or outlets available for an 18 year old to vent out her frustration and let go of her reticent nature bit by bit.

Yes, a year back on the 13^th of August this blog was born as a cumulative effect of boredom, joblessness, the latent desire for positive recognition and a genuine, intrinsic love for words and language. But the day the blog turned 1 I got hit by an auto rickshaw. The accident in itself didn’t leave me much to remember it by, at least not the day I got hit. A random stranger from the same rickshaw helped me stand up from my horizontal position of repose on rain drenched tar, I went home in a partial stupor, got cleaned up and then was again on my way to college. The next day I couldn’t hoist myself out of bed: consequence of a sore neck, numerous bruised and aching body parts and a busted right leg that is still tender to touch. It was the closest I’d ever come to being killed. Already a multitude of events had led to a lot of mental unrest and turmoil. This ripped off the bronze lining on my characteristically Cimmerian cloud. And then there were the gratuitous interviews I gave to two departments that organised the college festival. The first rejection nipped at my heart but it didn’t hurt. The second rejection didn’t hurt. It nipped my craving to write at a very subterranean level.

My clouds of dark moods are as seasonal and expected as are the clouds of monsoon but rare have been the occasions where the hopes of a sunny day have been shattered. I don’t mind criticism or rejection when it’s straight forward and people come up to me and say “Falak, your writing sucks.” I might feel a little blue {but then who doesn’t} and recover shortly feeling grateful for the constructive criticism. But to have yourself and your writing lambasted within earshot is a crushing experience. The organiser of the second department, a classmate of mine did just that; very subtly without using names but just highlighting the gender and topic and a lot of choice expletives while describing ‘this girl’ to her friends. For weeks on an end I was recipient of filthy looks from her and every time I’d cringe within. That I guess was the last straw that broke the under-confident girl’s weak spirit.

People with broken spirits take a vacation; it’s rejuvenating and helps you clear your head. When things became too much to handle I took a hiatus. The place I visited was stygian in its setting. It was perpetually night and the only recreation the people here {some tourists, some permanent residents} partook in was the masochistic pleasure derived from deriding self and ability. We emulated the citizens and conformed easily to their existence: denying ourselves the calorie-laden sweet meats of happiness, the sleep of the content person sure about their self-worth and salubrious dreams that provided exercise to the grey cells. I dined and wined myself to bursting point on the choicest dishes of self-doubt and tears served cold, visited museums and admired paintings of self-destruction and spent hours in theatres watching and analysing the entire diatribe meted out to me by OG extraordinaire which was replayed incessantly. The sky was forever nebulous and moonless when looked at from my tenebrous lodgings. Later I would aimlessly weave in and out of winding caliginous streets that kept going round in circles and bringing me back to the place I began from: I can’t write. I was such a law-abiding visitor that the authorities were planning to bestow an honorary citizenship on me and I was seriously perusing the possibility of accepting it.

I was handing in my letter confirming my endorsement of the same when a visitor was announced. She walked right in and I was blinded for a moment. The crepuscular evening was suddenly aglow with the luminosity of her being and the gloomy inhabitants scurried to bury themselves deep in the city’s labyrinths to avoid her resplendent smile. Everything about her had always been golden and light: gold streaked, brown hair, warm caramel eyes and that smile. She dragged me through the corridors, talking nineteen to the dozen, holding my wrists in a death-like vise. As she yanked me she illuminated the streets I used to walk in despair and suddenly I saw new paths that could lead me out of the circle. She tore up my citizenship papers which then blazed aflame in her hands. The same hands that warmed my entire being with a simple touch and eliminated the cold and numbness I had accustomed myself to. She started ranting about the evils of the vacation I had taken and threatened to wallop me black and blue the next time I gave her the slip and bolted. The idea of her hitting anyone {non-violent soul that she is} made me break into convulsions of laughter; pure gleeful laughter the sound of which I had almost forgotten. She got us both out of the hell-hole I had created within me and I assure you I haven’t stopped smiling and she hasn’t stopped talking {she never does} at all since then. If you don’t believe me, try looking for the elusive dimple that only appears when I’m really smiling. She’s still working on blotting out the memory of ‘I can’t write’ and to look straight into the eyes of Miss dirty looks and give her a cool smirk. We are making progress.

I just wanted to wish my blog a happy birthday and to thank You ‘Femme d’or’ who lit up my dark skies with a brilliant sun.

You truly are my Sonshine.

Love

Falak

Blast from the Past

2010-07-31T23:43:00.003+05:30

Somehow my old poems just end up saving the day! I am upto my neck in work not only at college but at home too and thus end up neglecting my blog. And as icing on this messy, botched up {YET TASTY}cake called life I have decided to take up tuitions for a certain 23 year old girl from the coming week and the cherry on top is the upcoming french presentation I have which I still have to prepare for. This poem stands true for me with the same meaning and intensity that it did three years back. Hope you like it.

The End

How weird are the constraints of time
Which thus hold us back
That to make idle conversation
Of time we have lack

The breeze no longer I enjoy
In the rain I no more revel
No fault of mine it is for
On such innane pleasures I have no time to dwell

It’s ages since my feet
Has felt the grainy sand
For running I am always
Thus my feet hardly touch the land

Summer heat or autumn wind
Springtime cheer or wintry chill
Nowadays to me feel the same
I have no time to feel their thrill

In this constant hurdle race
A minute lost is a penny gone
Losers have no right to complain
Neither to look woebegone

The feel of a tree is a memory
Lost deep within the confines of my soul
In my life nowadays
Nature to play has no role

The warm bed, the waiting book
Are my companions of yore
Anything that isn't a matter of consequence
To me now is an eyesore

Healthy meals, friendly gossip
Has now in life no value
Months or years, I am not aware
Since I saw a fresh drop of morning dew

Gadgets are all around me strewn
They are my only existing associates
I think I now don’t even keep
In mind the visages of my playmates

Movies are a distant dream
My existence's ancient pleasure
Music is a bonanza
That my ears treasure

Fatigue is a climber
That around my body has coiled
Still I just don’t notice
As in my work deeply I am embroiled

A fresh cup of home made juice
Is an age since I drank
In my blood stream now caffeine
Holds the highest rank

Of beaches and of roaring waves
Of gurgling streams of whispering lakes
Nothing I know as with water I am
Related only for the showers I take

Its ages since my hair
Has wildly flown around my face
For says the common etiquette
That it better stay in its place

I earn and earn all the time
So for spending there is none left
I don’t know what life would mean
If of this money I am bereft

This override is taking its toll
Just as they told me it would
But no one understands that I would have tried
To battle it if I could

The only thought that gives me solace
Is that when my end approaches
Nature in the form of a wood pyre and the presence of loved ones
Will give me company and wipe away all my reproaches

History repeats itself

2010-06-16T19:23:00.002+05:30

Hi to all
With the advent of the new academic year and playing simultaneously the roles of "Mother " and "Sister" to my little brother {who has come to India for his studies now} and the sudden graduation from 'Young Adult' to 'Responsible Adult' has made blogging a luxury I simply can't afford for a few weeks to come until my Mummy Dearest flies down and holds the fort. Somehow my conscience keeps chiding me about neglecting my blog that has helped me meet so many wonderful people and also explore my creativity. So as atonement I decided to post something I wrote way back in 2006 when I was just a little kid { not that I feel any older now}.
Hope that disclaimer prepares you for the childish philosophy it is filled with. Maybe, you might like it and maybe not, but do leave your comments. My 14 year old self is curious to know how people would respond to the 'ME' of the past.
Happy Reading
Falak

EXPERIENCE

My life is constant winter
Something I never realized
For I kept holding on to what were
Moments of my life that I prized

Those weren’t the spring days I thought them to be
Nor the summer nights with a full moon
They were just the sudden bouts of sunshine
That God bestowed on a cold and clouded winter noon

Those sunbeams that warmed my cold heart
So they did for a little time
Were just like the rain clouds that made a farmer
Hope that all things would be fine

The happiness that enveloped me
Knew no limits nor bounds
And such was the intensity of the cold wind
That was sharp, cutting and profound

The sunbeam that gave me joy then
And the chill that the sudden wind gave
Were the ones who in my life
The path to maturity pave

The spring I longed for always
If it came I never knew
But the wind that hurt me always
Never stopped and still ble

My strength lies in the cold wind
That made me forever strong
It blew forever in my ears
A meaningful long song

The sunbeams still keep coming
I simply let them be
For when I’m lone and cold all over
It’s only the wind that keeps me company

The warmth of the sunbeam I still love
But no longer do I depend on them
For now I’m the sturdy young tree
That grew a woody bark from its weather-beaten, delicate stem

Guess Who Came To Tea!

2010-05-10T00:55:00.009+05:30

“I’ll cook”, said I and saying so, very enthusiastically made my way into the kitchen to make Tomato soup or my version of what I thought it was. I am a decent enough cook and I know that if no one else will my brother for sure will vouch for my culinary skills. He'd better, after all the pastas, sandwiches and whatnots I made for him. I was busy chopping, sautéing, pounding, washing and marvelling at the joy cooking gives me. When I am on my cooking spree I am in what some people may refer to as ‘a state’. I tend to be overtly elated, boisterously jovial and am predisposed to overlook the little things around me. For instance how I came skipping out of the kitchen in high spirits balancing a plate full of humungous just washed tomatoes without realising that my uncle who had come home a few minutes back had brought a friend from work along with him. On becoming aware of the new person I sheepishly made my way back into to kitchen mentally admonishing myself for having made an accidental display of my crazy state. Once back in the kitchen I was in the company of my mother who was busy making potato bhajias.

“Who’s that?” I asked her stirring my saucepan full of chopped garlic and onions. “He’s your uncle’s colleague, don’t you know him? He’s come here many a times before and likes your brother a lot!” replied mummy dearest. “Maaaaa” I drawled, “I don’t live here for most part of the year or have you forgotten that now?”

My mother winked and gave me a lopsided smile. We then returned to our specific cooking chores. She went back to frying potato bhajias and I went back to sautéing onions. When the bhajias were done I went to serve the guests with a plate of the same come hot off the stove. The guest smiled fondly and said to my uncle “My daughter too is only as tall as she is”. I smiled sweetly and went back to my chopping at the same time listening to the conversation that ensued between my uncle and his friend. “Ahh, she is now, is she?” How old is your daughter?” and general things like that. Suddenly our guest states forlornly “Daughters grow up too quickly”, which my mother who came out of the kitchen with a fresh batch of bhajias affirmed saying “Yes, you’re absolutely right!

Munching on bhajias my uncle filled in his friend about me, “She studies in India now, in Bombay. All of us go to India on vacation but this girl comes here to vacation!” and saying so they shared a laugh over my mixed up life.”

Listening to him speak I realised he was speaking in Urdu, so he had to be from someplace up North in India and most probably would be a Muslim. He confirmed my hunch by telling my uncle how the same bhajias are made at his house during Ramadan and how his daughter would make yummy kebabs. ‘There comes the daughter again” I thought smiling inwardly. I wondered how much the poor man must be missing home cooked food, his daughter and family who weren’t with him in the UAE ...

“These bhajias are really delicious!” said my uncle’s friend. “Please have some more, don’t hesitate”, persuaded my mother and uncle simultaneously at which our guest took a few more. He seemed to me to be a timid, gentle kind of person with his quiet and considerate countenance and soft spoken voice which had the exotic lilt indigenous to Urdu speaking persons, reminding me of my Pakistani friends from school. I offered him some juice to go with the snacks which he accepted after a lot of cajoling on our part. “Thank you Beta, God bless you” said he with a lot of feeling. He seemed like an amiable soul.
As my mother and I were seeing my uncle and his friend off, we gave them a few more of the bhajias wrapped in tissue on their way out.

“Oh please! There is no need for all this!” exclaimed our guest. “It’s okay, take some for the road.” We said.

Smiling he took it once again reiterating how delectable he found them and how wonderful our garden looked and it was such a pleasure to the eye to witness open green spaces in a country where you associate houses with cooped up flats. We thanked him and after waving them goodbye came back in.

“Where is he from?” I asked my mother. “Kashmir” she said, busy scrubbing vessels. “Yeah, it’s kind of evident from the way he speaks and all.” I replied.
“He’s from the Pakistani side of Kashmir, the one there, not the one in India”, my mom added. “Oh!” I mumbled lost in deep thought while my hands prepared the soup automatically.

I’ve known Pakistanis practically all my life. I’ve had best friends who are Pakistanis at some point of time in my school life or the other. I’ve shared food with them, sat on the same bench, gone on school picnics, cheered for our school houses, fought with them over India-Pak cricket matches, watched the same Indian movies and sang the same bollywood songs. Then at some point of time they opted for the International syllabus whereas I continued with the Indian syllabus. Then we lost touch and they became memories of my childhood. Having lived for the past 3 years in India they have become more of the arch enemies that most Indians in India who have never seen a Pakistani in flesh and blood consider them to be than the friends of my memories.

This particular visit from this man only enumerated certain facts I already was aware of but temporarily forgot.
1) People across the border have daughters they dote on and miss like hell.
2) They are reminded of Pakistani daughters when looking at an Indian girl the same age and not of daggers and knives.
3) They behave like the perfect Indian guest: refuse some, thank a ton, bless a child.
And the most important fact,
4) They too love potato bhajias.......

Yours enjoying the Tomato soup and bhajias,
Falak

Webs

2010-04-22T02:28:00.049+05:30

It is a grey morning today. A wet, quiet, grey Sunday morning with a possibility of thunder. The sun is on vacation; lost in a tangle of thick grey-brown clouds like sheets on a hot night. The rain has been playing games: drizzling, then disappearing, then pouring when it finally appears. Like you. So very like you. I am sitting on the window seat, the same place you and I would sit together to relish the rains: for me the wet green trees with dark brown-almost black barks, water gushing down their backs with their gleaming, fat leaves and the silence for you. The ‘silence of the rain’ you called it, even when it would pound on the tin sunshade above the window just like a rude stranger who wanted to barge in and craft a chasm between you and me. We couldn’t even hear our own thoughts.

I no more have that befuddled, exasperated look on my face reserved specially for your description of ‘The Silence’. My ‘babe in the woods’ expression that according to you said ‘give me a kiss and I’ll comprehend everything you just said’, the expression you loved. Now the rain brings with it my own brand of silence. A silence devoid of your laughter, your voice, your music, your breathing. There is a quiet now. The roaring rain has been subdued to a lazy drizzle and a lone plucky bird dares to call out, the same way I called out to you, begged you to stay back, the same way the trees endeavour to make the rains remain. But do they??? No, they don’t and then they go where they please with not a care in the world for the still thirsty trees they leave behind, alone and shivering, trembling, the howling wind echoing their agony. The rains taunt and tease them saying, ‘come along if you dare, if you care, if you love me.’ Tormented and despondent, enraged at such an affront, hurt at the occurrence of such a doubt they call to the winds and alleviate their misery forever. And so we saw many a broken tree after storms. Not this time though. So it’s okay. You’re here now, where I wanted you. Right where I can see you.
A simple skid from a moist ladder on a rainy day when you decided to fix the sunshade before you left. You’re here now in the garden you loved so. Beneath the tree I love.
As usual you were considerate to leave me with a gift. You bequeathed a memory of your love so that I won’t be lonesome because like you say lonesome monkeys don’t chatter. But I decided to be alone in the end, like that song that says ‘I’d rather just be alone if I know that I can’t have you’.
So I gave the gift away to someone who’d treasure it much more than a solitary me would. But it’s nearby, near me like you are, like you always will be.

--------------*----------------*------------------*---------------------

She walks out of her cottage into the rain kissed day: her dark tresses dancing in the wind, an envelope in her hand, wearing a long blood-red summer frock that clung to her in the the gossamery mist like a sin clings to a lie.
There is music in the air. A stirring harmony of rustling leaves, the drumming pulse of the rain and the plat-plat of droplets dripping down the eaves. The wind whispers around her and a soft spray of rain riding on it embraces her in icy bliss; like, his kiss. The fragrance of the breeze: wet earth, musk and wood. His heady scent.
Overwhelmed she sits beneath the fire tree in an icy monsoon rain. A letter in one hand and a single blue rose in the other.

------------*----------------*-------------------*----------------------

After what seems like hours to the little boy looking from the window the lady in the garden from across his slowly gets up and walks back to her house. He thinks she’s pretty, with black hair and black eyes. Black like the crow he's scared of who'll come and peck him away if he doesn't have his mum-mum. He likes looking at her when she comes out in the rains. She only comes out when there is a thunderstorm. He knows because he always watches. Mesmerised the little boy continues to gaze at her until the white wooden fence dividing their properties and the rain drops on the window obscures his view of her. Until he's tired and wants go sleepy in his spidey blanket.....

Until his eye's are heavy and he sees a woman in red spinning a shimmering-shiny web... But spidey's a boy! And then the girl-spidey becomes his dreaded black cwow and then he's scared and starts crying but then his mama comes slowly into the room and grabs him and feathers him with kissies. He gurgles with joy, the little baby boy. Relieved, the toddler forgets all about spidey and bad cwows. Forgets all about one mama when secure in the arms of another.

THE SHINING

2010-03-31T20:07:00.004+05:30

Imagine.

A simple 7 lettered word, but very potent. A state of mind as well as a journey…..

For me the journey started almost 15 years back with simple bedtime stories.

My dad would tell us stories; my brother and me. Bedtime stories for us didn’t mean being read out classic fairytales from books in English with glossy covers. I learnt to speak English when I started school and that is when I was introduced to The Princess Brigade and made friends with Cinderella, Snow White and the rest of them dainty damsels.

My bedtime stories were about an African elephant; a brave elephant, who was the chief of his herd and lead them through a number of adventures through the dangerous and exciting jungles of Africa. Wrapped up in our blankets, snuggling close to our dad I remember begging him for a new story every night. All the poor man would have wanted to do I am sure is sleep his fatigue away but he’d never once turn away and go to sleep. He’d try and stall. Maybe tell us he’d say an interesting one tomorrow and to just sleep off the desire to hear one today but never once did he ever out rightly deny us a story telling session. Once tucked into our huge king sized bed dad would crawl in and ask “Ok, so what story do you want to hear tonight?”

The days the question never popped out of him were a sign of the extent of his exhaustion. Daddy really had to be bushed to refuse us a story.

I loved the elephant. He was so brave, so courageous, so exotic. He also had children: baby elephants who’d lead the herd when they’d grow up. Lying their in our dark bedroom with moonlight streaming in and creating eerie shadows, my father’s silhouette visible against the muted moonlight and my brother kicking me between the sheets I used to imagine in my mind’s eye the thick jungles of Africa and the enormous rivers that meant so much to these elephants. I used to imagine them migrate from dry, parched lands of their forefathers destroyed by wily, selfish human beings and go in search of greener pastures. Their brave escapades, scraps with lions {Wow!} which they obviously won and their ability to make medicines out of wild herbs for every wound possibly imaginable was riveting enough to keep me thinking late into the night, imagining. The days daddy did go to sleep I’d stay awake in bed thinking of the myriad situations possibly thinkable in a young child’s head. I’d imagine how the planet would have been before the arrival of humans and bleep: all mankind would vanish and a desert would remain in my head. Then I’d wonder what the universe looked like without earth and suddenly an image of all the planets revolving around the sun with the earth conspicuously missing would emerge. Then I’d try to imagine what everything would have looked like before the universe and then everything would just black out in my head. Then I’d screw my eyes shut tight, in concentration, trying to imagine something other than black because black is a colour and well, you only have colours in the universe not outside it. Then I’d get a terrible headache and fall asleep.
My father is an extraordinary story teller. I don’t say this just because he’s my father but because he really does have the knack to put across a story. His narratives were and still are always detailed. How the forest looked, the time of the day, the noises around, how the elephant looked with acute details regarding physical and emotional characteristics of the protagonists. It aided my effort to imagine, to recreate what he was imagining inside my head. He is also adept {as many who know him well, especially my mother would agree} at spinning yarns of a bizarre variety. You can call them fabrications, tall tales, lies excuses, whatever. The fact was that no one can come up with situations and reasons like he can, with the snap of a finger. It would seem almost natural, like a reflex action, the speed at which he would come up with stuff as if it was all there stored up in his head.

The best part about our tale-telling session was that not a single story I heard from him was in English. Not one. It was always in my mother tongue which is anything unlike English. My African elephants spoke my mother tongue.

The days my mother would come to put us off to sleep we’d be assured of a good laugh the next day. My mom was and is a working mom and works twice as hard as other moms. So that implies she’s twice as tired and that means she falls asleep twice as fast when she hits the pillow. While putting us off to sleep she’d be the first to doze off and relentless requests for a night time fable would result in disjointed sentences about
“There was a lion who was the king of the jungle…. Silence….. Mommy ? Hmph…. Yeah, he went to war and got hurt…..Mommy? {accompanied by a nudge in the ribs} Hmmmm…. And did you sweep the kitchen? The sink needed washing….you didn’t?”

Somehow the fact that household chores haunted my mothers dreams tickled me so much that I’d burst into peals of laughter with my brother which we’d later manage to smother, in an attempt to not wake up our drained mother.

My mother’s claim to fame was the letters she wrote: reams and pages of it to my grandmother who then lived away from us in India. I would always hear {and still do} my relatives exclaim in awe about her detailed descriptions and fluency of language. She is still the epitome of beautiful handwriting in our family. Funny thing is that she wrote my Gran in English who’d then have it translated by one of her nieces or nephews.
My Gran too is not far behind on the concocting- stories- front. The best part about having my Gran tell you a story, a real life incident or the episode of a show you missed is that by the time she tells you all of it there will be a lot of additions and deletions to suit her tastes. A lot more ‘masala’ would be the appropriate term. Even her emotions and reactions are always excessive to the action that triggers it in the first place. I always felt that she would have done very well as an actor. My dad thinks that if we’d sent her into movies or serials {and in Indian movies and serials emotional mothers always play an important role and capture the hearts of audiences} we’d have become millionaires by now. For my Gran everything has to have drama and be melodramatic; even emotions. Else life is never fun.
The best thing about mom was she was a book worm: an avid, voracious reader. I still remember her entire collection of books which I wasn’t meant to read since they ‘were books for big people’.

To oblige my curiosity she got me some of my own. It started with baby editions of Jack and the Beanstalk, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, moving on to my favourite: - Enid Blyton. The first time I read her collection of short stories I felt I’d get a headache {I felt the same when I read Harry Potter for the first time, so you can imagine} but soon I was fast friends with gnomes, pixies, fairies, elves and friendly witches. I had images, of what I thought they’d look like burnt into my brain accompanied by my deductions of what the English landscape looked like. From then on there was no looking back and thus started my lifelong affair with books.

I’ve moved on since Enid Blyton and my African elephants and grown up enough to realize that not all mythical creatures actually fit my description of them and that the African elephants were a part of a series of stories my daddy learnt way back in school. Then somewhere along the lines I wrote a song, some short stories in school, and few bizarre essays about magical women in red who haunted empty woods riding a white horsed sleigh, and a rabbit who was given a secret treasure by a wood nymph {I am not sure if it was a wood nymph} and things like that and then came poetry…..

My father and mother are regular people doing regular 9-5 jobs, rearing two kids and trying to achieve the dreams most normal people have like buying a house, educating their children the best they can and being good human beings. My grandmother was one among the many young widows who raised three kids on their own and raised them well. There is nothing spectacular or exaggerated about them but for me they are raconteurs, authors and actors. They have something within them that shines through and reflects on me and the things I do or love to do. Maybe they never thought much of it and no one else did too because they were simple, unexciting behaviours. But it’s their ‘shining something’ that lighted up new avenues for me.

We all have that something we don’t think really matters but I think we should stick to doing things we love or things that come automatically and is second nature to us. Maybe it takes someone else to recognize the light that shines within us and find us special. Perhaps our little ‘shinings’ are there within us to provide light to others.

Yours, trying really hard to recollect what the African elephant’s name was.

Falak

Sweet Nothings

2010-02-11T20:59:00.014+05:30

We were asked to write a story in our Communications skills lecture beginning with 'IF ONLY. Before I realized I had a list of if onlies that sounded maudlin and gloomy. As if having a professor hell-bent on making you write, and snooping around to check on you wasn't gloomy enough.

I decided to be positive and modified the list to the extent that now it’s completely different from the one it originally took root from. The only common factor is that it begins with ’I’. After all, its all about me.....;)

I like.......

I like it when it's still dark in the mornings when I am on my way to the college. Nothing beats the serenity and tranquility of early morning darkness when everyone and everything is lost deep in the lairs of slumber.

I like it when I can switch the AC on in the middle of winter and wrap myself up in a blanket and go to sleep like there is no tomorrow. Come to think of it I like it when I have access to the AC 365 days a year.

I like it when my hands are hennaed and we are having chicken for dinner since it invariably means my Dad or my brother will take turns feeding me since my Mom is a vegetarian.

I like it when I dread the walk to the railway station on a hot afternoon and suddenly the sun decides to hide behind a cloud.

I like it when I hope for a lecture to be cancelled and cancelled it is.

I like it when people spell and pronounce my name right. Don’t ask me why but I simply like it.

I like it when the watchman becomes beneficent and lets us have water for a few extra hours on a Sunday because it means I get to sing under the shower and not bother myself with a bucket and mug.

I like it when everyone has to go to work but I get to sleep late since I am the only one having a holiday.

I like it when everyone tries to put my baby cousin to sleep and she doesn’t but within five minutes of my trying the same she nods off. {The secret is my singing. Do I hear the Indian Idol guys at my door?}

I like it when an outing that my friends and I have been planning for months; actually materializes since most of our plans that includes me never do.

I like it when some stranger I see daily but don’t really know smiles at me and then I smile back. Before we know we are ‘smiley friends’.

I like the fact that I have come across a lot of horrible,
exacting, self centered, rude and disgusting people; and I like it even better that I get to spend a lot of time with them, since it helps me appreciate with full intensity the wonderful people who come into my life no matter for how short or long a duration.

I like it that my i-pod has songs belonging to 6 different languages and I can speak only 3 of them fluently. The rest I just sing along with.

I like the fact that nowadays exams mean not having to worry about Mathematics.

I like the fact that I completed two main public exams and only have 1 more left to go while my brother and cousins haven’t finished the first one yet.

I like my unusually large feet - makes shoe-shopping a breeze; always pick up the snazziest pair available in my size which is almost never.

I like it that I get to live in two countries simultaneously even though 300 out of 365 days it puts me in a conundrum that I find difficult to come out of.

I like it that I’ve never seen snow in real life. Just gives me another reason to visit a foreign country.

I like it when my students at my place of social work ask me why I didn’t turn up for a day or two although my initial response is to remind them who the teacher is.

I like surprises, good ones where I am the center of attraction. No wonder I hardly get any.

A cool breeze on a hot day is something I like. The same stands for a single rose that survives for days in just a glass of water.

When someone tells me that I am neither fat nor thin but am just perfect, I like it a lot.

I like playing ‘house’ with my little cousins. { I have a huge stack of cooking toys}

I like it when my brother makes a mistake in French when I teach him since it means I get to smack him on the head.

I like it that the girl sitting next to me in the train is trying to look at this as I write it.

I like the smell of wet earth during the first monsoons before it turns into disease infested slush.

I like Josh Hartnett, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, Channing Tatum, Ranbir Kapoor, Imran Khan, The Jonas Brothers, Hugh Jackman, Patrick Dempsey, James Marsden, George Clooney etc etc etc{ toooo many to puthere;)}........
But I LOVE my Father and my Brother.

I like it when people in my family get married since I get to dress up on the wedding.

When a random stranger’s angelic baby bestows a toothless, drooling, pure as love grin on me I like it a lot.

I like it when people I like address me by my nickname or as sugar, darling, sweetheart etc.

When my mom and dad are around me I like it a lot because then there is always someone to give me a hug and a kiss.

I like bikes. The ones I like look great in the showroom and not on my bank balance.

I like it that others love my hair.

I like writing and receiving letters and I like it when I am the first to call up my best friend to wish her at midnight on our birthday.

I like the sound of pen on paper, crunching of dry leaves, breathing of a sleeping baby and laughter full of mirth and glee.

I like the feeling of peace that overcomes me when I tell the truth, do the right thing, be kind to someone and when I write and when I pray.

I secretly like receiving gifts.

The fact that this is longer than I expected it to be and is proving to be inexhaustible is something I like.

I like the fact that this Valentine’s day I finally learnt to love myself.

Yours liking the fact that you’re reading this

Falak

Bangles all the way....

2010-01-23T18:47:00.001+05:30

This happened in November last year. It was one of those days when I had to take a late train and not the empty, early morning train I am used to. A late train means rush hour. Rush hour means crowd. Crowded trains mean not getting a seat. It was exam time {shudder}. As usual the huge swarm of office going women who were scattered around the platform a few seconds back made a dash to the edge of the platform when the indicator indicated time left for arrival of train as 1 minute.

They looked like warriors: dressed in multi-coloured uniforms that ranged from jeans, t –shirts, skirts and formals to saris and salwar kameezes, armed with huge handbags, glares shading their eyes against the mid morning sun and earphones plugged right into their inner ears as though the music was the command from headquarters that’d help them survive this war. Entering local trains in Mumbai during rush hour IS mortal combat. Two rules to remember are: do or die {push the other person or jump into the running train}.

We were waiting, crouched to spring and claw our way in when the chugging train would come: blaring its horn in announcement of its arrival. The moment of push came and I successfully squeezed my self into the train, overcoming life threatening hurdles of manicured and un-manicured nails, boulder sized bags and hands, watches and bracelets that would most likely get caught in my hair. I got stuck against the pole that has been very considerately placed right in the middle of the entry so that the aged and disabled can hang on it to it to make their way in and unsuspecting students like me can get caught with one arm around the pole.

A huge mass of human bodies were ramming their way in and when one of them realised that I was the reason for the hold up, a mighty shove and a heartfelt expletive were hurled my way. Thanks to the same I made my way in and scampered towards the seats as if sitting atop one was the only thing I lived for. After I had successfully perched my self comfortably with my bag on my lap I realised I was sitting in the direction opposite to the motion of the train. One might think about what difference the direction my seat faces makes since after all I got a seat.

Matter of fact is that it does: sitting opposite to the direction in which the train moves means that when people hop in at other stations and cram themselves into the bogie up to the point where every inch of floor space is occupied by human feet and no room is left for air passage {since all space is blocked by various body parts of various human beings} results in my resembling a dish towel used to wipe the water off the cutlery used in a seven course meal during a wedding. It also means that the efforts I took in the morning to look like a human would all be in vain.

With a sigh I decided to make the best of at least having a seat to sit on and got my text book out to do some last minute revision.

Luckily for me it was a relatively crowd-free train and my toes which were curled inwards anticipating some serious trampling relaxed and I decided I needed a break from half an hour of mugging up political theories relentlessly. I let the book rest on my lap and started idling away time staring at my co- passengers and listening to some interesting conversation that floated past me. I’d occasionally turn towards the window closest to me to take a look outside at Mother Nature but the lack of nature and more of garbage dumps urged me to look back into the compartment. I was busy looking at the hoard of people that blocked both the doorways at either side. I was secretly thanking God for only having to get down at the last stop which meant no rush at all. People getting down at places in the middle were brave and I respected them but I had no inclination whatsoever to exchange places with them, ever.

The train jolted to a halt at some station and suddenly the book on my lap slithered forward risking a fall on to the dust, leftovers and peanut shell infested train floor. A quick bend and swift hand movements saved my treasure trove of constitutional knowledge from becoming the germ hot spot of the century. After I straightened my self up and placed the book back on my lap I heard someone heave a great sigh of relief. I turned to my left only to realise it was the lady sitting next to me who had been holding her breath for the entire few seconds it took me to save my book. She looked so ecstatic at the save I had made I wouldn’t have been shocked had she stood up and done a victory jig because that’s how dirty the train floors are. A group of old ladies in front of me nodded their approval and some college going girls flashed me a smile that went ‘Go girl!’

The college going girls had their hands hennaed; right from the tip of their finger to their elbows. The intricate designs and the rich red-brown of the henna against their skin had me looking with envy at their hands for a considerable amount of time. Gradually I noticed that a number of women around me, some clutching on to the handles on top some smothered in a sea of human bodies, some chatting on their cell phones and some just sleeping off the 1 and a half hour journey had their hands hennaed. Few of them had their hennaed arms covered with red and white glass bangles with stone work on it. I smiled in realisation; it was November, the wedding season and most newly wedded brides from the North of India would sport red bangles for at least a month after their wedding and bangle free women with hennaed hands were the ones who must have attended a wedding in their family. Some were dressed in power suits and some in traditional saris and salwars. There were also the occasional jeans and t-shirt clad bride. It wasn’t atypical because you could find some of these women in little black dresses in discotheques and the bangles would still be there. That’s tradition for you.

We reached Bandra {a station} and majority of the crowd got off and a matronly lady in a purple sari entered the compartment. She had a few red glass bangles on either hand. I guessed her to be from one of the Northern states of India since it was typical for married woman from these parts to wear at least 1 red glass bangle on each wrist. During my train travels a useful bit of information I gleaned was that if you wanted to make a wild guess at which state a particular lady originated from you should check out the colour of the bangles{if she has any} on her arms. Maharashtrian ladies would wear green glass bangles. Bengali women would have a mix of maroon and white bangles and this entire theory held true only if the said ladies were of the Hindu faith.

The train jolted back into movement and a young woman in formal office attire of black trousers and a pale blue blouse standing near this lady in purple lost her balance toppled forward. The purple lady clutched the young girl’s arm and helped her regain her balance thus preventing her from falling face down on the train floor {shudder}. The young woman thanked her profusely and the lady in purple feeling satisfied wit her good deed for the day decided to lecture the young woman on train safety. ‘What a way to say welcome!’ I wondered. The woman began with how we must always clutch onto something like the handles on top or at least the walls and young people don’t understand how dangerous it is to stand on the doorway etc, etc, etc. The poor young girl had no idea I supposed, that losing her balance and stumbling would result in receiving an earful till the very end of her journey. She had a look of forced interest and attention on her face because she didn’t want to upset the lady who saved her from being infected by a thousand pathogens.

I assumed the lady in purple to be one of those aunties you meet in the train; who’d go out of their way to make you comfortable and then lecture you on nothing in particular and my assumption was proved right. I empathised with the young woman but at the same time I was enjoying their one- sided exchange. Suddenly the old lady realised she had nothing more to talk about after having ranted out all the safety rules the railway officials must have ever dreamed of .The lady in purple kept mum and I could almost hear the young woman mentally let out a profound sigh of relief. Her body language which was rigid until then became relaxed. After a blissful fifteen minutes of peace that she gifted the young woman, the purple lady realised that the young woman had her hands hennaed. A knowing smile came upon her lips and I clutched my book in fearful anticipation all the while thinking ‘Poor girl! She’s in for it again.’

The purple lady turned up to the young woman and said “It’s difficult to go back to work so soon, right? Almost too soon isn’t it? And what with all the dress codes you young corporate girls have to adhere too! How did your in-laws feel about you not wearing any bangles???? What can they say when office doesn’t allow, right? You need job for food to come home, na? At least you can keep the mehendi {henna}! They can’t ask you to remove that now, can they?”

And she cackled in delight as if it was her personal victory over big firms across the nations who according to her weren’t respecting the traditions that this woman couldn’t get rid off the henna on her hands. The young lady looked stunned at the little verbal Niagara Falls that had flooded her a few seconds back.

Once she regained composure she quietly asked “What bangles?”

The lady in purple tutted disapproval at the young woman’s irreverence and said “Your wedding bangles Beta! How can you forget them?”

The girl looked like someone had accused her of being a kleptomaniac.

“Married? Me! I haven’t finished my graduation yet!” she declared with indignation. It turned out that she was a management student who had a seminar that day and so she was dressed in formals.

The purple lady was purplexed but concealed her confusion with an awkward smile and said “Your hands have henna and it’s the wedding season so….”

The girl who had had enough of the purple lady’s inquisition by now replied in a matter of fact manner “It was Eid yesterday and I hennaed my hands like most Muslim girls do on Eid.”

*---------------------------*----------------------------------*-----------------------------*

I was trying to laugh quietly and it hurt. It hurt because I wanted to laugh out loud but couldn’t. Bottling up animated laughter within a human body results in bruised ribs and holding your sides tight with your arms in an attempt to stifle laughter only adds to the soreness. Only in India could you confuse yourself with a Hindu North Indian bride and a Muslim student. Talk about unity in diversity. I didn’t hear a squeak from the purple lady till the end of the journey. But I did hear a squeak from the alarm in my mobile which informed me I had exactly an hour till my political science paper and I still had half my portion to revise.

Yours, from Mumbai - the melting pot of cultures in Incredible India

Falak

Sibling mail order

2009-12-23T22:51:00.011+05:30

Dear SRjr,

“How are your studies going on??????” Ok, if I start a mail which begins like this you will surely claim me to be the most God-awful, boring sister you could find on earth. Ok then, so let me start by asking “Found a girlfriend yet????” Well, that makes me predictable and such a prying nosy parker! If I ask about your health you might think I'm nuts because no one apart from me knows how exactly exams can abet deterioration of one's health. The next option for me is to start off the conversation with something shocking by telling you “KEVIN JONAS IS GETTING MARRIED TODAY!” and you'd reply by saying “Urghhhh, psycho teenage sisters and their obsession for cute boy bands” rolling your eyes in mock disgust and exasperation in spite of the fact that you don’t mind them and love their songs too and well you’re as shocked as I am but you will want to be all manly in the gangly, unsure way most teenage boys are and say something cliché like "Do I look like someone who cares????" Then in an attempt to redeem yourself in my eyes and sound more humane you’d mumble a “Good for him”.

If I try for off hand-casual and start with “So how’s school????” You'd grunt and shrug and then with a little more prodding on my part {I was always great at wheedling stuff out of people} you'd start grousing about all those crazy kids in class and give me the details on who did what and update me on school scandals. And I am supposedly the older sister.

If I ask you about sports day in school you'd whine {such a typical Virgo} about how cold it is {which is only expected since your doing march past in the middle of a desert country in the middle of winter} and how unnecessary the whole charade was but you had to put up a face and bear with {instead of bunking it like I had done for as long as I could remember} it since mom and dad were the parents this year who were invited in the guests of honour category to distribute prizes at the event even though you'd be bubbling with inexplicable pride and joy inside of you. {I am too. Though I’d very well like to ask the principal why she chose to bestow this honour after I passed out.} If I ask “How are mom, dad and gran?” you’d start off on how they nag you to study and how you had the upper hand when the marks finally came because it proved you do study and do it well too. Maybe if you are in a good mood you'd pitch in about how you outsmarted all those smart alecks from the IGCSE section twice your size, weight, age and height when playing basketball with a lot of repetition of the words basket, dribbling, travelling and something else that sounded as foreign as Greek and I’d smile inwardly thinking 'my lil’ macho man!'

Then you'd ask me if I had my violin class which 90 out of 100 times I wouldn’t have had because you know how busy with concerts my tutor is and how he has a forgettory for a memory. Then you'd tell me about stuff that you learnt in your music class, about the new tunes you can play on the guitar and the drums. I’d say something like “lucky you” to hide the slow emergence of envy inside me and then lord on you the tunes you should learn to play and the sites you should go to because if Bev can do it on her own and {Bev is such a musical whiz without lessons} then so can you. You'd say something along the lines of ‘Shut up and mind your own business’ in a more respectful way acceptable to me and grunt a reply that’s neither affirmation nor denial since most tunes I want you to learn would be a JB song.

If we are speaking around mealtime then we'd ask each other what exactly we are going to have for lunch or dinner. You’d name something exotic and even before I can reply about the meal at my end you'd pitch in about what I am having and be right 99.9% with the answer of rice, Sāmbhar or chapatti and some veggie dish and smile smugly {How I hate that!}.

Then you would tell me about how you downloaded all those movies I’ve been dying to watch and the songs I’ve been dying to hear although I can watch and listen to all of those only when I come down tothe UAE next March and you know how much it irritates me that you can and I can’t. But it’s like a cat bringing a dead rat to its owner. “Look I had fun doing it but it’s all for you”. Even though it repels the owner they adore the gesture of love. Nothing I typed here implies to you being a cat and me your owner. {I’d like to though, but no thanks. You’d scratch the hell out of me}

You call up on Raksha Bandhan and bemoan the fact of how you are not earning, you’re dependent on mom and dad and so can’t gift me a thing and I’d say that’s totally fine and send you the Rakhi through our cousin who’s here for a visit only to receive a courier package with the book “THE HOST” that I have been dying to read.
It’s only been 2 and a half years since I got myself a phone and its been doing pretty well until last month when it became terminally ill and start dying bit by bit. First the screen blacked out and then I couldn’t hear a thing: blindness and deafness. Sigh…… I was mourning the slow death of my loyal cell and you were jumping for joy. You buggered mom and dad into getting me some hi-fi phone with touch screen, Wi-Fi and god knows what by letting slip things like “She needs a phone quick. How else will she keep in touch with us??? Alone out there…… and it needs to be good to look at. She’s a college going kid, isn’t she???? And her birthday’s in 2 weeks and you can’t make it to be with her this time and she most probably won’t get any gifts from family.” As a result I have a splendid phone now: the envy of all around me. One, I treat with as much care as I would a work of abstract art {I don’t really understand abstract art}.

We fight over juvenile things like the remote control and escalate it into something serious and end up brutally beating up the other {scratching, punching in the stomach, banging the other on the wall etc are included}. Our respectful form of love lasts only through the first week of my visit. No one incites mad rage and violence in me like you do. If you tell my friends in college about how violent I can be they would take you to meet the counselor.

You keep grumbling about how mature I am in all other aspects except when it comes to the JB and how I start acting ridiculous like a giggly schoolgirl but you will still record their show for me since I can’t watch it here. You coerce dad into getting me their latest CD before it releases here in India so I can gloat about it and make Bev go green with envy. You’ll complain about how I totally forget you when I meet up with my friends and hate the fact that mom and dad send you along with us incase we have plans to hang out in the mall till late in the night. Still you’ll talk to them and gang up with them to pull my leg {it’s appallingly the same length still, though dad would have been happy had I grown a few inches taller}.

Still when we are making our way out of the mall you will shepherd me and my friends and shoot dirty looks at any male species daring to look our way. And then when you hold my hand involuntarily like a reflex action and keep falling onto me in the course of walking and keep doing so until you have achieved the desirable proximity that assures you I am not going to gather my skirts up and run away somehow you’re once again the little chubby, curly haired toddler who’d hold my hands and look up at me with eyes full of trust that said “my big sister bestest”.

I still remember the time when you were in kindergarten and I was a first grader and after school while we were waiting for dad to come pick us up I was making most of my left over breakfast when the school bully decided to push me over and drop my food. You went and shook the guy, your little hands hardly catching hold of more than his blazer. Later, I also remember standing at the supervisor’s office, the bully being yelled at and me administering a cold, wet handkerchief to your fair soft cheek red with the imprint of that idiot’s hand, all the while emphatically shrieking out to the supervisor about how " he slapped my little brother!”
I also remember coming home once and fuming away to glory, venting out a 7 year old kid’s frustration at mom {which mostly included tears and crying and gritted teeth} because "that lady” {your class teacher} asked me not to visit you at break time because after I left you’d be sad and want to come with me. My anger was justified, I guess because who are teachers to decide when brothers and sisters meet??????

You always get me gifts. For birthdays, great results, some achievement or the other. But just remember {and revel in the fact since I don’t give you a single thing in return} that you are my most cherished gift. Thank God mom and dad had a baby boy…… Thank God he gave me a little brother who is almost a foot taller than I am.

This is exactly why I don’t call you up because I know what our conversation is going to be like. So why waste time and money?

And before I forget I just came to know about how you messed up your French paper….Such a careless boy…..Call me up, we have to revise the grammar rules again….. God! How many times do I repeat the same things before you understand how to go about it?? Do you know that your mule headedness drives me over the wall? Well, just call up ok…….. Or do I have to do that too now????

Well, at least sending a mail to you has its perks. I can post it on the blog.

Yours the eternal bossy big sister {who Loves........ to boss You around}

Falak

High-Strung

2009-12-09T17:55:00.006+05:30

“LSD’S are also known as designer drugs and are used mostly….”

“I wonder if the designers are as famous as Gucci and Versace….” quipped my friend Yo and we giggled.

“Oh man! Look at hash! It looks like a slab of chocolate” declared a classmate.

“She knew it was hashish even before the name was projected on the slide!” I whispered to Yo as discreetly as was possible with only a few inches of distance between the said classmate and us.

“You know hash is slang for hashish huh?” questioned Yo, one slim eyebrow raised in amusement. We sniggered once again.

“It’s easy to recognize symptoms of addiction among your peers. Youngsters might suddenly decide to wear long sleeved outfits to hide needle marks…..”

“Hey! Haven’t you taken to wearing long sleeved outfits Falak? C’mon show me the marks…..” ribbed Yo

“I can and I will. The only problem is that the marks are sunburns and not needle punctures so sorry to burst your bubble”

“……other symptoms include wearing sunglasses to hide bloodshot eyes, frequent visits to restrooms, mood swings and extreme emotions……”

“Falak! Ha! You’ve started wearing sun glasses too….” accused Yo”

“I won’t from tomorrow….. Just get me some under eye cream to protect me from damage due to UV rays...”

“Ok!” conceded Yo “But the mood swings symptom is sooooo you!”

“Fine I wont be moody but just don’t ask ‘why aren’t you writing anything’ or ‘why haven’t you posted anything’.” I concluded with a smug smile because I knew she just couldn’t attribute the last symptom left to me.

“Ah, well the restroom visiting is way out of your league…… You only use the college restroom if you have been downing like gallons of water since morning.”

“Yeah, I guess people use pigsties to relieve themselves only when the other options are 1) embarrass oneself and 2) embarrass oneself.”

“Yeah, whatever but you’re our ‘addict’ ok?” proclaimed Yo and I replied with a nonchalant grunt and didn’t bother to retaliate with a witticism since I had been called worse in jest. I was secretly making diabolic plans of how to pay her back when the opportunity came.

The lights in the audio visual center were dimmed so that we could watch the slide show on drug abuse…. Dimmed light also translates to private discussions during lectures .

“Cocaine is considered to be a recreational drug that heightens sensitivity to stimuli and has no side effects. Famous personalities like Freud and Rimbaud were known to use it. Even Sherlock Holmes was portrayed as someone who used cocaine since it was believed to accelerate cognitive performance and enhance creativity….”

“So addict, what do you freak out on?” this question was accompanied by a painful nudge to my ribs and I mumbled “Cocaine my dear, cocaine.”

“Why cocaine?” queried Yo. “Didn’t you see? All smart people use cocaine” I managed to say while trying to soothe my sore ribs and pay attention to the presentation all at once.

“Oh wait! Is it because Rimbaud is a poet and you write too???” Well, if that was the case” I replied “then FYI Rimbaud was also gay so you might want to jump a few seats away from me?”

We burst into giggles at our own ridiculous joke and managed to stay awake through a boring 8 o’clock lecture early in the morning

“Oh man! Why do they want to teach us about drugs? Like we don’t know already!” commented a guy to our right with his perpetual hey-I –really-am-so-smart-to-be-bothered-about -what anyone- else-has-to- say look on his face to which his friend replied “It sounds more like they are informing us about what drug to use and how to use it. I am so sleepy!”

“Let me guess…” I said feigning an expression of profound thought on my face and whispered to Yo “Is it the lecture on drugs that is making her sleepy or taking the same drugs before the lecture?”

Smothering a fresh string of giggles we resumed listening to our foundation course lecture on drug abuse and other social problems since the lights had been turned on.

“I wonder why people would want to do that to themselves!” exclaimed a girl in the row in front of us when a gory picture of an addict inserting a needle into his arm was shown.”

“I know!” said I corroborating the statement. “Can’t they understand that the stupid ‘high’ that they keep looking for is going to kill them and totally destroy them?”

“Maybe this ‘high’ is so great and drugs are the only means to experience it so then they forget all else.” Yo contributed.

“I wonder what feeling or emotion could be so great that you'd want to sell your soul to the devil knowing that it’s the point of no return during the take off towards your own destruction.

“I wonder……” was all my friend replied and that was the feeling we left with when we walked out of our FC lecture that day.

A number of rich, well to do kids in my class are established drug abusers. Their rave parties and well, parties in general are not news to us. They don’t peddle drugs or force it upon others. They just get sucked deeper and deeper into the quagmire of addiction and before they realize it it’s too late. They think it’s fashionable and that it’s acceptable. Most start doing drugs because they feel stressed or ‘strung up’ about their life in general. Well if tension is the reason that people do drugs then like my friend Yo says I should have been an addict years ago. I am one of those people who love worrying about everything and nothing in general and hold myself responsible for everything. {BTW I am responsible for everything that happens to me and oh I am not a junkie he he}.

That evening when I went for my violin class my music teacher finally taught me to hold the violin between my shoulder and chin and pluck it with my fingers. I played a couple of exercises and he praised me saying I had practiced and it shows. I was over the moon since learning to play the violin in it self is an achievement for me so being told that I was doing it well enough was a bonus. I was really happy. I think I went a little loony and was singing quite audibly in the rickshaw on my way back home. Come to think of it I think the rick driver reached me home in record time because he thought I was demented.

I practiced my violin lessons with more gusto than usual and felt like I was floating mid air for the next few hours and then the good feeling died.

I then logged on to this very blog and saw sweet comments from total strangers and again that wonderful feeling that set me free from within got hold of my system and I was deliriously happy for some more time. The buzz crashed in 20 minutes and then I was back to normal.

My baby cousin woke up and I went to play with her. She rewarded me with a wide toothless grin. My heart and head grew wings and flew to some remote paradise at the sight of her merry face. Later when I was listening to my favorite songs after eons, again that weird sensation grabbed me from within.

At night I was speaking to my mother on the phone and her voice laced with concern, irritation {because I didn’t call her for two days} and tiredness after a hectic day at work suddenly sent a warm feeling trickling all over my body: like someone had switched a heater on somewhere in the region of my heart. I smiled to myself.

It was 11:30 in the night and I had to go and sleep. It was quite cold and I was snug and warm in my bed wrapped up in a cozy blanket and suddenly realization hit me hard like a cricket ball hits a window pane and I searched frantically for my cell phone in the darkness. On finding it I clicked away a message to Yo that said:

u dnt need drugs 2 feel high. U need luv a sense of being belongin and achvmnt. D feelin tht u get due 2 dese emotions is a high. music in gnrl helps. For me the strings of d violin trigrd it. I was high bcoz of strings. High-strung hahahahahah. Gn Luv Falak

I only wish I could pass on the same message to those classmates of mine.

Yours addicted to little joys in life

Falak

Right Angle

2009-11-08T15:10:00.004+05:30

There is a baby in the house…… She is adorable.

The second she arrived the timetables of all the inmates in the house have changed drastically. Most of them sleep when she is asleep so that they can play with her when she is up and about. Moreover when she is awake she cries: so there is not even a sliver of a possibility of sleep then.
We have adopted a new language that involves blabbering downright gibberish.
Old uncles thought to be grave and stern have tossed the tough exterior façade into the bin that came their way first and have taken to baby talk like a fish to water. We sound more like rattles that resemble men and women.

I have become the human version of a bike that goes vrooooooooooom when she wails. She likes it. We plan to ride to countries on entirely separate continents on a bike: just the two of us. I wonder where the money for petrol is going to come from.

I can give all the spies a run for their money because I have mastered the art of tip toeing round the house in the middle of the afternoon and also the gift of opening creaky old steel dressers oiled some two decades ago without eliciting even a squeak from it{three cheers for me!!!}.

The house looks like a live advertisement for baby clothes. We have learnt to watch the television with the volume somewhere in the neighbourhood of mute for the fear of waking up the bawling siren. She sleeps, she eats, and she sleeps more and eats more.
She yells and we all scurry to attend to her whims and fancies. She expects us to understand whatever it is that she requires by just keenly listening to the change of tone in her high pitched wailing.
I guess we have great sense of pitch because somehow we do the right things and appease the little lady. She throws a tantrum as often as a fisherman throws his net. She loves staying up late in the night and keeping us awake. She hates being fed when she wants to sleep and vice versa and I am sure she thinks of us to be imbeciles because we are too slow to recognize the call for a nappy change.

It’s only been three days since she’s come home and we are already dancing to her tunes with the practised air of a ballerina to Mozart’s symphony.
Everyone has accepted her presence in their respective lives without giving a thought to the matter. It is as if her being there was just one of those many things that are meant to be. You either adjust to the fact or you keep your complaint to yourself.
We have put on these pair of spectacles through which we view life with her in the picture.

It’s weird then that the same people find it difficult to accept a teenager into their lives without hesitation. Well…. There isn’t a lot of difference is there?
Teenagers speak a different language…. Maybe you could take the effort to understand. You might even end up liking it. Instead of baby clothes they strew their clothes around the house. They like the volume turned down when they are burning the midnight oil for an exam the next day. They eat and sleep a little more than you do and that’s because of hormones…. They are children who are still growing up……. It isn’t difficult to understand what their mood is or what is bothering them. Just pay attention to their grunts, nods and monosyllabic answers: there is a perceivable change in its quality with a change in mood. Babies wail and throw tantrums as a part of growing up. Teenagers throw tantrums and brood and are crabby as a part of growing up. They hate it when you tell them to study when they want to have fun and have fun when they want to work. Babies like deafening rattles teens like music, preferably loud. Teens too like staying up late in the night. Best part is they don’t expect you to keep them company.

They get snappy at you mostly because most of us never understand that behind the ‘I-am-big-enough-to-take-care-of-myself’ pretence all they want is a hug and the reassurance that ‘I’ll be there for you’. They feel lost because the same set of adults understood them and their various needs just a few years back The fact that they don’t anymore is unnerving to a child no longer a kid but not yet an adult.

Maybe teenagers aren’t all that difficult …. After all they are just a bunch of babies trapped in almost adult bodies who really don’t know what’s happening to them whether they are 13 or 19.

Perhaps it will help if we slightly alter the angle of the glasses we wear, to accommodate them somewhere in the picture.
Maybe then there won’t be questions or any hesitance to accept. Maybe……….

Yours vrooming away to glory,

Falak

A Thousand Times Over

2009-10-12T21:20:00.006+05:30

Sometimes I wonder why I do what I do. It just makes my life comparatively more convoluted than that of those around me.

My friends are busy planning a lunch for tomorrow while I am busy planning my ten day whirlwind visit home, to UAE. Their hands are busy flipping through menu cards whereas I am busy checking my ticket and passport.

They are asleep in their comfortable beds anticipating the start of the sudden holidays whereas I am turning and tossing around in bed mentally reviewing to- pack and to -do lists.

The next day as I glare cheekily at the immigration officer who has decided to take his own sweet time to stamp my passport I wonder if he is actually memorizing my details or something.

That done, waiting in the lounge in front of the boarding gate for two hours does nothing to soothe my back which is on the verge of going on strike against the grave injustice I am meting out to it. Can't blame my spine and seats of learning… I subjected them to the torture of staying still and ramrod straight for four fifty minute lectures earlier in the morning. Poor them…. And then my arms that last exercised when I went swimming four months ago, cry out in agony when I haul my suitcase around. As I make my way to the plane, 'goodbye and happy holidays' SMSes that flood my cell phone confirm my hunch about my friends being busy watching movies back to back or doing something a million times better than ending up with co-passengers who snore.

An hour later, when the lady sitting next to me manages to stop snoring and, I manage to pay the courtesy visit to my long lost friend sleep the steward decides on an impulse to stomp his way from one end of the aisle to the other. Nice… he scared my reticent and shy friend away. It is 10 in the night and the plane is an hour late. Nora Roberts does nothing to ease the cramps in my legs which are the result of sitting in an auto rickshaw with one leg over a suitcase for an hour and 15 minutes to reach the airport.

My stomach is grunting and emitting low rumbles that reminds me of a growling dog with its hackles raised. I think the last time some food soothed my innards was at 2:30 in the afternoon. How I wish the plane would take off and the crew would serve me some chow. It is now exactly 12 in the night and the air traffic control finally decides to be gracious and permits us to fly high.

Finally, after 4 torturous hours the plane decides to land itself at the Sharjah Airport thudding all through the runway and then some more. No jolt or thud ever made me so happy. If my back had hands the clapping and cheering would resemble the crowd at a FIFA final because I could finally stand straight, after more or less 8 and a half hours of remaining seated.

As I wait at the luggage carousel, mentally counting the appearance of a particular suitcase for the 10th time in a row I wonder why am I doing this, when I can manage to be snug in my lumpy bed in Bombay and wake up late the next day looking forward to an outing with my friends. I finally spot my bag after a wait of almost 20 minutes and stop short of whooping in glee. I just realized that standing doesn’t agree with me either. I push the trolley with my bags outside the airport almost breaking into a sprint, all I can dream of is going home ASAP and crashing into my cozy bed. HELLO UAE. Imagination becomes reality.

Next day I wake up groggy and ravaged with jet lag. Once again I dwell on the sensibility of my decision to not study in the UAE where my family is and moving back to India to pursue my higher education. Compared to this hassle of travelling every 6 months and the whole rigmarole of packing and having to keep adjusting to my surroundings and two totally different lifestyles the former would have been a better choice. Add to that the miserable feeling of not exactly belonging to any of the two places in particular, I feel like I am stuck in a limbo. As I wallow in self-pity and depressing thoughts of this variety early in the morning, the phone rings. I pick it up and hear my little cousin's chirpy voice.

“When did you reach?” She squeals, "Early this morning honey" I reply

“I am dying to meet you! I wanted to be there to receive you at the airport but I had tuitions this morning. I am so glad you're here, I missed you!!!" says she.

At that particular moment, it became as clear as crystal to me why exactly I have been doing this whole travel gig since the last two years despite the aches and pains that come with it. And especially after spending the last 2 hours writing about how obnoxious travelling back and forth is.

I have, and I would travel to any remote corner of the world a thousand times over just to hear a loved one tell me that.

Yours recuperating from jet lag

Falak