The Rains

I'll never understand the hold that Bombay has over me. Having had my own share of 'Mumbai experiences', I'm no stranger to the way she works. And yet, every time I'm here, it's like my first time.

Each of my trips to Bombay have been monumental. And still, it's the non-monumental things that make it special.

I'll tell you about my life-changing moments in a bit. But before that, let me begin with this time's trip.

Wedding shopping. That in itself should be self explanatory. From my ivory coloured wedding dress to the yellow n orange confetti--everything that'll be making my wedding day special begins from here: Mumbai.

Walking from Metro Cinema across Lady Willington Building, we made our first stop at Cross Maidan at 8.30am. By then, one of the first monsoon showers had already made its presence.

Now, knowing me, I took every step on the cobbled street with a cringe and lifting my jeans so as not to let even a spot of muck get on my jeans. But, and I've said this before, if I ever have to like the rains, it'll be in Mumbai. Those who live here and battle floods, traffic jams, power cuts and just plain shut down, must be raising their brow and thinking: Sure. She spends one rainy day on Marine Drive and falls in love with Mumbai rains. And I agree with them. But then again, I don't have to live here so why not focus only on the good.

So any way. Its drizzling here and I love it. I love the smells. And I love that crazy shaped cloud hovering over the Bombay Stock Exchange. And the kitten taking shelter under the grotto isn't too bad either. And for the first time, I don't mind my frizzy hair that refuses to be tamed in the humid Bombay weather.

So, where was I? Right. The rains in Mumbai. Where I sit right now typing out this post on my phone, it has stopped raining and we're waiting for Crawford market to open and for my future in-laws to come from Kandivali. Sitting on the sidewalk, I see a man in his DHL uniform light a candle and another guy putting away his big rainbow coloured umbrella. The sights, sounds and the smells remind me of the last time I was here in the rains. It was a month after I'd joined ToI and I'd been sent on a 3-day induction programme to Mumbai. And put up at the Babulnath guesthouse near Girghaum Chowpatti, I thought I could spend hours watching it rain over the sea. And that was the first time I'd ever loved the rains.

You know...now that I think about it, I know why I hate the monsoon so much. Apart from the obvious reasons, I think it makes me nostalgic. People call me unromantic because I dislike the rains. But I ain't. No one could be more romantic at heart than me. Its just that I've never had a 'romantic' moment in the rain...Not to say I've never imagined or hoped for one. But the rains remind me of happier times. Of moments that seem to be of another lifetime. And of relationships gone sour. It reminds me that I used to be happy once. And I crave for that every day. And may be that's why I hate the rains. Because they remind me of who I used to be.

But I have to be honest with my self, I love it...I love the rains...There's this feeling that you get when it's dark and gloomy outside--the kind that matches your mood--and there isn't a better time to spend time indoors. Reading a book, writing, listening to songs that make you cry...Last monsoon I spent one of the best days with my roommates at my old flat. There was a sort of heavy drizzle at about 3 am, and we sat on the terrace for nearly two hours in the rain, sipping chilled beer, talking about life and love, and getting happily drenched... those people have gone now..and so has that place..But that's the way I'll always remember our time together.

I digress. Yet again.

I'm not sure what I was talking about any more. But let me just say this: I may never want to spend my life in Mumbai. But every now and then, I'd like to go there to find my self, and Be my self.

Eat, Pray, Love

EAT



For those who've known me, for an hour, a day, months, years or a lifetime, would probably smile and think to themselves, "Typical" or "why am I not surprised?"

Over the years, I've earned the title of a 'hog'. In school, in college and at work. Most of my time is spent in either eating, talking about what I want to eat, or thinking about what I could eat.

I cant explain my obsession about food. I'm always hungry. even after I've just finished a meal, I'm already thinking about the next meal.

I've been accused of converting non-eaters into hogs. And they've told me, sometimes seriously, sometimes jokingly, that they need to stop spending time with me because I'm making them put on weight while I continue to stay skinny as ever.

There's something about food that calms me down. If I'm sad, or angry or lonely or busy- food makes me feel better. Almost always.

But what you should also know is that I hate eating by my self. Food gives me a joy I cant explain and I have to share it with someone. Simply talking about it doesn't help. The other person needs to experience it and feel the bliss too.

When I cut into a slice of blueberry cheesecake, watch the spoon sink into its mushy core, pause for a brief moment at the crust, hear a soft click as the spoon cuts through the crunchy base and hits the plate, when I put the spoon into my mouth, feel the cheesy, creamy cake slide and roll around my tongue and melt away, bite into the tiny blue berries as their juices burst in my mouth and feel the crumbly crust leave a tingly texture on my tongue..... that's pure satisfaction. That cant be shared with anyone until he/she feels it too.

While most people eat to live, I, for one, live to eat.


PRAY




I'm not a very religious person, even though I come from a family who is. And I'm not sure if I'm too spiritual either.

I've never been able to explain to people what my thoughts about God are. But then, I dont think religion is something that needs to be explained to others. Its your won personal thing.

I also think prayers have nothing to do with religion.

I dont know how to pray. I've been taught, obviously. But over the years I've somehow lost the line that differentiates 'praying' from simply 'talking' to someone you believe in; God or otherwise.

Most of the times I feel like I'm simply talking, and to me that's praying.

I'm not going to dwell too much on how I pray because this isn't about that.

I dont know if I believe in the power of prayer. And I also dont believe that if you honestly want something, real bad, and you pray for it from the bottom of your heart, you'll get it. That just means that all the times I haven't got what I asked for, I haven't really wanted it badly enough.

That's not true.

I just think, even though its hard for me to admit, that you get what you need, not what you want.

Some nights back, I was feeling terribly low and lonely, and I lay in bed, crying, wanting so much, to be with someone who'd make the loneliness disappear. That hadn't happened in a very long time and I wished that for one night, for even a moment, someone would wipe my tears away. I 'prayed' for that moment; from the bottom of my heart.

And after all the times when I've thought God doesn't care about what I want, He gave this to me. He gave me someone who, for that moment, said something so simple, yet more than I could have asked for. "You have me."

When my grandfather was sick and people told me he didn't have much time left, I prayed. Harder than I'd ever prayed for anything in my entire life. For him to get better.

My cousin was expecting a baby and he'd be born anytime. And I wanted my grandfather to be around to see the baby, who'd be the first great grand child of our family.

I prayed, every night, every day, for a chance to let my grandfather see him ( my cousin had a baby boy eventually).

The night before my grandfather passed away, I was filled with something that could only be called 'enlightenment'.

Everyone told me my grandfather was in pain and he was suffering every moment that he was alive. He wanted to let go. But I couldn't stand the thought. It just made me pray harder for him to get better. Even when the doctors said there wasn't anything they could do.

But that night, I thought to myself, that my grandfather, even though I love him so much, had to released. I couldn't hold on to something that only brought pain and suffering. I had to stop being selfish. I had to let go. And I did. I prayed, for my grandfather one last time, to give him what he wants.

And my grandfather passed away that night. And he, and I, were finally at peace.


LOVE



There's nothing I can say about Love that hasn't already been said before.

Some time back, I was asked to define 'love' on a social networking site. And I replied with, "Am I qualified to define love?"

Everyone has a different perception of love, and there can be no fixed definition for it.

When I think of love, its something very simple: Love is when you're happy being with someone, anyone, who lets you be yourself.

I wont add that the person should be just as happy. Because I believe love is selfish.

Have I been in love?

So Many Times.

I've often admitted to myself, it doesn't take much to make me happy. Someone once termed it as being 'low maintenance'. I would have agreed to it had I not known better. Wanting the simple things in life is anything but LOW maintenance. Wanting to get the smallest things, which most people take for granted, is more difficult than having someone name a star after you.

Love, to me, is anything that makes me smile, or cry, in full honesty and sincerity.

I've been hurt by some of my closest friends. I've even cried for them. But it has been real. And I know the reason I shed tears for them is because of the love we once shared.

A month or so back, I was out with some of my colleagues, and after a couple of drinks, I remember laughing alot. And I remember I hugged my friend and cried for several long minutes because she would be leaving soon. I've known her only for three months, but I'll miss her. And to me, that's love.

A person, with whom I've not been on talking terms with for over a year, with whom I've fought on several occasions, shakes my hand when we meet several months later, that's love.

My immediate boss pretends to be busy just so my boss would take a look at my work and know I've been getting better, that's love.

Love may have been last on my list, but in life, it isn't necessarily so...

On the way home

Sitting at the edge of her bed, flipping through the pages of her book, she felt a sense of déjà vu. And this wasn’t just one of those times when the moment felt strangely familiar, even though it had never happened for real. It was those times when it actually had. Unfortunately.

She went back a year in time, like how they show in movies, with the scene turning into varying shades of gray.

She was sitting on her bed, the same way she was sitting now, reading ‘The Kite Runner’ and trying to focus on an otherwise beautiful book. And she would have found it beautiful too, if only her mind would let her focus on the writings on the page. But the words were getting blurry and doing a little dance, making it extremely difficult to concentrate. Her eyes were glazing over and she knew it had nothing to do with the book she was reading. It was something entirely different.

And with that confession that silly smile made its appearance on her face. Again. For the hundredth time that night.

She was beginning to feel stupid. Smiling like that all by herself. But she couldn’t help it. Nothing she did could wipe that smile off. And she was ok with that.

Her thoughts went to the day’s events. She wanted to skip all the mundane regular unimportant stuff and get to the part that had her smiling like a fool. But she liked to go over the entire day, hour by hour, until she reached her favourite part.

And so she did.

The day had begun like any other day. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing special that would give her a hint of how it would end. She was in an ok mood and was getting ready to go to work.

She reached the office to find that there wasn’t much to do at the moment so she went about checking her mails. Bills. Mutual funds. Bank statements. More bills. Wow, she thought. The only people who care to write to you are those who want to get money out of you.

She was about to log out of her account when she saw a mail from one of her friends-Sean, also her colleague here at work. She turned around in her seat and saw him typing away at his desk. Funny that he should be mailing her when he sat just a few feet away from her. Or maybe it was work related.

She opened the mail and read the only sentence he’d written: “let’s go for beer later, ‘cuz I’m fed up with work.”

Always been a guy of few words when it came to writing, she mused.

“Yeah sure,” she replied back to his mail and logged out.

She went about doing her work for the rest of the morning, had her lunch at the cafeteria with a bunch of her friends, which also included Sean. He cribbed about how annoying everyone was and how people just did what they were told, without any inputs or initiatives from their side. He complained of how people didn’t care about what they did as long as they were being paid at the end of the month. He worried that people were getting even more selfish with each passing day and that no one cared about others anymore.

She smiled to herself. This discussion was typical of Sean. He’d always been a person who worked with great passion and love for what he did. He loved being out on the field, interacting with people from different walks of life. Being with them, talking to them, hearing their problems and finding a way to help them- that was Sean. Making himself useful was the only way Sean was happy, and spreading a smile everywhere he went, especially with children, was the highlight of his day.

Even here at work, he tried to do the same thing, even though some of his methods weren’t quite in agreement with the top management. His ideas were too radical or unconventional for them to swallow. But Sean fought to get his way, and more often than not, he succeeded. Because they knew he had the ability to prove himself right. And he almost always did.

Back in her room, still struggling to read, she was getting restless. She wanted to skip to the good part now.

After lunch was over they all went back to their work, which had taken on its usual pace, gathering momentum as the day progressed. They didn’t really have the leisure to sit and chat now and everyone was hurrying up with their own stuff, wanting to get it over with, and without any interest.

She paused in her work for a while to take a quick bathroom break. On her way she sneaked a look at Sean’s desk and saw him busy with a video game. Again she had to smile. This was typical too. While everyone went one way, Sean went the other. He took his breaks whenever he wanted because it depended on his moods. Sometimes he’d sit at his desk working for 3-4 hours at a stretch, not wanting to lose his flow. And when he took a break, it was while others were typing away at full speed. It made him look like he was wasting time or wasn’t working hard enough. But that wasn’t true.

He saw her spying on him and flashed a smile. “Hey there sweetheart. Ready to go?”

‘Sweetheart’. Sure. That was the other thing about Sean and her. They were the closest friends. They’d known each other for over a year now and there was a certain comfort level they shared that allowed them to flirt with each other like this. Harmless flirting. It was never serious. “Have you seen the chicks around here?” he would ask her, even though it was a rhetoric question for him. “They’re either married, have boyfriends or are ugly. You’re the only semi-pretty woman here who ain’t married. And I’m hot. So you should consider yourself lucky,” and he would wink at her. She would reply with a smirk and tell him that he was way too modest.

It never went beyond friendship for both of them, they’d never even thought of it. Besides, there was nothing more than friendship that they were looking for from each other. He had his priorities and she had her reasons. They were ok with where they were and had no issues that it wasn’t going anywhere serious. Its how they wanted it to be. Without any complications. “Once people start dating it just kills the fun,” he’d always say. And she agreed with him.

Anyway, moving forward.

She was packing up and getting ready to leave office. Sean came up behind her and whispered furiously, “if you don’t hurry up I’ll either kill you or somebody else for sure!”

She grinned and picked up her bag. “Let’s go.”

She stood at the gate and waited for him to get his car. When he drove by the gate, she got in and had barely closed the door when he sped off. She fumbled with her seatbelt and asked him what was wrong. He simply shook his head and continued to stare at the road ahead, only stopping to glare at passing cars if they over took from the left or to honk at those in his way. She knew he was pissed but she waited for him to calm down.

They got to his favourite club and took his usual seat. He nodded at the girl behind the reception desk and at the guy who came to take their order. He was a regular at this place and everyone knew him. Actually people knew him wherever he went; he was quite a known figure that way.

They placed their order, and got talking. She was doing most of the talking initially, knowing that sooner or later he would burst and tell her what was wrong.

Skip, skip, skip to later.

They’d finished their beers and were back in the car. He said he’d drop her home. But before that he wanted to take her somewhere.

There was this place somewhere on the outskirts, a bridge that over looked the only river that passed through the city. It was supposed to be a beautiful sight this time of the year (winter), with a thick layer of mist over the waters and dim lights showing through. With a chilly wind blowing over the river, it was amazing. That’s what Sean said.

He was shocked that she hadn’t seen the place ever, inspite of having grown up in the same city. “You have to see it!” he’d insisted in the club. And he told her he’d take her there.

So there they were, driving off through a place that was as remote as any place could be. The roads got narrower and winding, and the winds got chillier.

“You’re sure this is where it is?” she asked him uncertainly.

“Yes. Just wait till we get there.”

When they reached their destination, he parked just before the bridge and they got out. They walked towards the narrow concrete bridge, right till the middle and then looked beyond.

It was, indeed beautiful.

He asked her to bend over the ledge. He wanted to show her the little fish that swam on the surface. Even with the fog, he said you could see tiny specs of gold in the water.

“No, I’m not looking down. I’m scared of heights,” she said.

“C’mon,” he said, holding her arm. “I’ll catch you if you fall. Now get over here.”

She tried to run away but he held on to her and took her towards the railing. Still terribly scared of looking down, she closed her eyes and bent forward.

“Do you see it?” he asked eagerly.

“Mmmhmmm”, she mumbled.

They stood there in silence for a while, taking in the scene. It was getting colder and they walked back to his car.

“I’m so tired,” he sighed as he got into the car. “Wish I didn’t have to drive.”

“Well, if I knew how to drive, I would,” she offered.

“You don’t know how to drive?” he asked as though it was a huge flaw. “Let me teach you!”

She looked at him as though he was crazy. “Yeah right.”

“No seriously. I will. Hold on till when we get to a broader stretch of the road and a little more light. Then I’ll teach you,” he told her enthusiastically.

She seemed uncertain about the idea, but his excitement was contagious. “Ok,” she agreed with a grin.

When they got to a safer place, he stopped the car and asked her to get out and come to the driver’s seat. He shifted over to the other side and she got in. She closed the door and looked at him. “Ok. Now what?”

He told her to put her feet onto the brakes and accelerator and hold the steering wheel in a 10 and 2 position, like that on a clock. Then he looked around as though trying to figure how he was going to teach her how to drive, while sitting on the passenger seat, giving out instructions without actually being in control of the car.

“Hmmm. Ok this is not going to work. Hold on. Get out for a second,” and saying so he pushed the driver’s seat backwards to make more room in the front. He stared at the seat for a moment and then climbed on to it. He adjusted himself towards the rear end of the seat and said,” Ok now come in.”

She looked at him and at the seat. “On the same seat? With you on it? Where am I going to sit then? There isn’t enough room for both of us.”

He seemed to think otherwise and told her to get in. She tried to get into the car, head first. That didn’t really work out. Then she tried going in backwards. Not the best way either, but somehow she managed to sit on the seat, still unsure of how she was going to drive.

He told her to move her feet so he could fit his in near the brakes. That meant she had nowhere to keep her own. After a lot of struggling she sat cross-legged on the seat, not knowing what to do. In doing so she accidentally elbowed him in the stomach and he let out a yelp.

She turned her face around and saw his face contorted in pain. She knew it wasn’t funny, but she burst out laughing at the hilariousness of the situation.

“Shut up, this isn’t funny,” he croaked, and tried not smile. But he eventually did. And both of them doubled over with laughter, in whatever little space they had.

She turned her face to him again, wanting to say sorry amidst the giggles. And out of no where, without any warning, he brought his face an inch closer and kissed her.

It was a soft gentle kiss. And it was over before she realized what had happened. She looked into his eyes, and smiled.

He grinned in his boyish way and said,” Boy. It’ll be awkward at work tomorrow, won’t it?”

The moment had passed.

They drove back home, talking all the while. But not about what had happened.

Back on her bed, she was smiling again. She loved what had happened that day and couldn’t shake off the feeling that came along with the memory. It didn’t mean much, she guessed. But she couldn’t wait for tomorrow so she could see him at work and decide for sure if it would be awkward.


Fast forwarding to the present, she thought about that day a year ago and even now, it brought a smile to her face. Only this time it was accompanied by tears rolling down her cheeks. Everything was different now.

That day after she and Sean had briefly kissed, she’d seen him at work. She’d waved at him from her desk but he hadn’t waved back. Maybe he hadn’t seen her. She mailed him, but no reply. All that day he hadn’t said a word to her. Even when the day had ended, there was nothing.

And so it was, the next day, the day after that, the week and the whole of that year. He never spoke to her after that day in the car. No explanations, no reasons- nothing. Every time she approached him he would make up an excuse about being busy, or simply refuse to talk.

She didn’t know what had happened, or why he wouldn’t talk to her. All she knew was that whatever they had had was over.

She cried softly, the tears smudging the writing on her book. Even after all this time, it still hurt. She missed him. But he’d never know. He was just a memory now. And she hoped that someday soon it would fade away, just like their friendship had.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

How I got to be a Writer

For a long time now I’ve been meaning to write a post that, had I titled it, would read- “how I began writing” or some such autobiographical title. I want to write about my love for writing, my experiences so far, the good, the bad and the downright ugly.

But believe it or not, this is my fifth attempt at writing this post. Everyday I sit to write, I type a couple of lame, half hearted sentences and I stop. If I want to sound all writer-ish, I could label it as ‘writer’s block’. But I’m not sure if that’s what it is. It’s funny though- the fact that I can write my way out of anything, but I simply can’t write even one paragraph about how much I love writing.

I want to go back in time and figure out when I discovered my ‘talent’ (as some call it) to write. And even though I can’t remember the beginning of this journey, I do remember that I loved writing even before I realized that I’m pretty good at it.

It began, I guess, when I was in school. English had always been my favourite subject. I would read my English text book even before school term began. And I always dreamt that one day I would write one of those stories in that book. And not to say that I didn’t try. I’d tried my hand at writing a book when I was somewhere in the 6th or 7th grade. A couple of my friends and me were writing a combined book that resembled some of our favourite books at that time- the Sweet Valley Series, the Baby Sitters Club Series and the likes. I’m sure you could imagine what it was like at that time. Three girls huddled together on the school playground, talking in hushed tones discussing how to introduce ‘Lisa’s’ boyfriend in the next chapter, or whose parents should get divorced to add to the plot.



That book never got further than chapter 3, and that too only because all three of us were assigned to write one chapter each.

But even though the dream to become a writer didn’t materialize back then, I didn’t cease to dream. I told myself that I just had to wait until I got better and the urge to write was so overpowering that words would flow out of my head and onto the paper with absolute ease.

After that childhood attempt at being a great writer, I moved on to writing more serious things for the school magazine or for the endless public speaking competitions. I still remember the thrill and the pride I felt when my article first appeared in the school mag. And that feeling I got on seeing my name in print made me decide that I want to become a writer.

I initially confused my want to write with becoming a journalist. Somehow I thought that only journalists could write and be recognized for the same.

So I went on to be trained as a journalistic writer. In graduation I began writing news reports, news scripts and the likes. I wasn’t that great at it, but it always read like a report. And somehow it didn’t make me happy.

But then there were classes where we could write about a given topic in just about any way we chose to. We could write in any style. No rules, no formats and no defined structure. I wrote to my heart’s content in those classes and that’s when it hit me that I was so in love with writing and that I wanted to do just that all my life long. And it was during that time that I wrote one of my best pieces about the sea. Something that amazed people and showed them that I was good. And from that day onwards, there was no stopping me.

Even though I’d always kept a diary when I was younger and would scribble notes to myself anywhere I went, I now kept a book and a pen with me to put my thoughts into words. And I realized that I loved the feeling of a new thought taking shape in my book.

I don’t know how good I am at this, but I know that I’m not bad. I write to express and not to judge my self or my writing skills. When people tell me that I write well, I often wonder if it’s true. Because I never know whether it’s a good piece or not. For me, if my words feel good, if they take me to a different world, if they flow in a rhythm, like music, if I’m happy at the end of the piece, if my thoughts and my personality and my life reflects in what I’ve written, then that’s all I want.

I’m not always inspired to write. There are times when I have to try over and over to get something written (like this post) and still not get to the end. The writer in me doesn’t always take over. And that’s when I really struggle. I remember writing for the college journal. I had to do a piece on our trip to the Dangs. And I sat at my desk for so many days to write something that gave justice to the people of the place. But it just didn’t come. And then one night, out of no where, it hit me like a tidal wave and I sat for two hours straight in the night and wrote an 8 page long article that got great reviews.






Another time that I wrote solely on inspiration was my piece on Mumbai. I was sitting at a cross in some place in Mumbai in the early hours of the morning, listening to Iktara (a song from the Bollywood movie ‘Wake Up Sid’) and watching a bunch of guys playing volleyball and another man training his dog on the football grounds. And it just came to me. Word after word, emotions at their peak, feelings so over powering that they just didn’t stop coming. I had no paper or pen with me at that point of time. And so I kept my words running in my head all through the day, adding more thoughts, new ideas, and more people into what had begun as a simple travel piece. I spent the entire day in Mumbai with my head bursting. And when I finally got back home to Baroda, I sat down and poured everything into my book. I wrote like a maniac, like there was no tomorrow. And the result was fabulous, if I say so myself. It was an incredible piece of writing and so was the feeling when I finished.



And the most recent thing that I wrote was about a friend and his work, during a media law lecture, sitting in the last bench. One hour and 10 pages later (I can’t write short stuff) I looked at my work and I couldn’t wait to show him.

So this is what I’m talking about. I can only write when I want to, only when my heart wants to (I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true). Like right now. After several attempts to write this, I finally did so today.

I can’t see myself not writing ever. You know how a man feels lost if his sight is taken away from him? That’s how I would feel if my writing was taken away from me. (I know that this wasn’t a very good example, but I’m hoping you get the point.)

In the months of May, June and July 2010, I had my articles printed in the Times of India, some with my by-line. And I absolutely loved it.

But last month, I got my first magazine by-line in India Today’s supplementary Simply Gujarati, and I just can’t describe the feeling of seeing my name in ink. I want to do that everyday and feel that way every day of my life.

I’ve realized that I’ve written 3 full pages in MS Word and now I need to stop. I’m glad that I got my writing streak back, and I hope to write something good really soon.

Road to nowhere

The journey to Delhi was just like before. If you meant the ride, the people, the roads, the sights- everything that really didn't mean a thing to her. On the outside nothing had changed in the journey compared to what it had been last year. But on the inside nothing would ever be the same. She knew that. Maybe he did too. She couldn't tell. But she knew that even if it did bring back memories to him, he didn’t really care. By the look on his face, she could tell that he never had. They’d been surprisingly close for him not to care. They’d been terrifyingly close for her to still not be over him.

She looked outside the window as memories flashed past, with the music blaring from her i-pod trying to block out the thoughts that came with those memories.

She stole a glance to her right. He was just inches away from her. But they could’ve been strangers by the way they were behaving.

How things had gone from lonely to good to great to confusing to complicated to bad and back to lonely- she had no clue.

And yet, every moment they’d spent together was carved in minute detail in her mind. She couldn’t get rid of them as easily as he’d gotten rid of her. She wasn’t as lucky as him to forget everything.

They were still miles away from their destination. But she was looking for reasons to prolong the ride. Because the thought of spending 3 whole days together as though everything was ok, was a little too difficult.

Not that she couldn’t do it though. She’d practiced the smile to unbelievable perfection; and yet believable enough to fool everybody. So much so that she’d even begun to fool him. Because the tiny speck of hope that she held was beginning to disappear. That slight chance that he might even pretend to care was slipping from her fingers with alarming speed.

Not that she had any control over his actions or thoughts or decisions. Far from it.

She wanted to get this trip over with as soon as possible, and with as much invisibility as she could manage. She wanted to get back home to her life where she could pretend he didn’t exist. She didn’t wish him any harm. She just wanted to get away unharmed. And she longed to get away from the city that had brought them closer.

The city outside her window came into focus- the city she had begun to love. Every street had fascinated her. Every monument had seemed to amaze her. Every person on the road held a unique charm with their own story. Even little things like the clear skies and soft gentle breeze seemed different and better. And silly as it may sound, it was because he’d made it seem different.

But as she looked out now, it all looked drab and lifeless. They just stood there, all grey and morose. After being lively and colourful last year, it hit her with an intensity she couldn’t understand. And even though she knew her imagination was getting the worst of her, it was as though everything glared at her and mocked her for her foolishness. That she was stupid enough to let one guy change the world for her. That she could let a few moments spent with him change the way she felt about herself and about life.

Right now, she hated herself for letting him ruin this trip for her. She’d made up her mind to ignore him as much as possible and she had been doing just that over the past month. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d thought. He ignored her just as well and it made things easier.

Then why did she hate the fact that he didn’t speak to her???

They were about to reach their stop. As she got ready to get her bags down, her phone beeped. She paused with her suitcase in one hand and pulled out her phone from her pocket. It was an unknown number. But she knew his number by-heart to recognize it.

She assumed it was one of those group messages that he’d sent which she usually ignored. But she still checked it.

It wasn’t a forwarded message.

He told her he missed her…

Blast from the Past- Sempiternal Scribbles

This has been borrowed from Mehak Siddiqui's blog http://sempiscribbles.blogspot.com/2010/07/blast-from-past.html

I take no credit for the same. I simply liked what she wrote.


Our paths crossed innumerable times,
for months. Yet we never noticed.
You were simply 'that tall guy' to me
until one day, life happened.
Fate happened,
Love happened.
One proper look at you,
and I was hooked.
Addicted.
I NEEDED to know you
and so began my quest
to be a friend to you,
a friend like you'd never had before.
I guess that in itself was an indication,
of the ruination I was stepping into.
You already had enough people;
and I was never much more
than 'just another one' of them.
Except for the fact that I loved you,
more than you can imagine
or will ever comprehend.
More than even I'd imagined.
And unrequited love is like disease
it only causes pain and problems galore.
Yet, we remained friends, good friends.
But I wonder why
I still cry over you
even when the feelings are gone,
more or less.
Why does a song or a movie or a place
automatically remind me of you?
Why do I hang onto your memories
when they trigger nothing but regret?
Why does it pain me
when you befriend pretty girls?
And treat them like princesses
when really, they're utter bitches out to hurt you
and everyone else.
Why do I feel upset
that you never compliment me, ever?
that you don't think I'm as close a friend as I think you are,
that you can notice the smallest niceties in other girls,
but can always find something to make fun of about me.
Why does it surprise you
when I prove I'm smarter than you think.
Why are you so ignorant,
to every quality I possess?
But observant of every fault?
Why aren't you ever keen to meet me
-the way you always meet your other friends?
Why don't you ever call?
Or say that you miss the good old days
when we would talk every single day?
Why don't I matter to you?
Why oh why oh why?
Sigh.
I pray someday you'll realize
the depth of the hurt you caused me
by your indifference and detachment
when my only mistake was to love you
love you deep, love you true.
I hope someday you'll see,
that I ain't as bad,
as you've always perceived me to be.

Once upon a Time

She couldn’t believe it. Maybe she’d heard wrong. There had to be some mistake. He hadn’t said what she thought he’d said. Should she call him back and ask? Just to confirm? Because there was no way he would’ve done this to her. And definitely not over the phone. He couldn’t have been so callous.

And yet, somewhere in the distance she could hear those tiny voices whispering in her head. They were saying things she didn’t want to hear. Because they were wrong! He was wrong! He wasn’t a selfish person, and there was no chance in hell that he’d do something like this to her. Not after everything she’d done for him.

She sat at the edge of the bed in the hotel room, her hand still clutching the phone as if her life depended on it. May be it did. She didn’t want to seem like those desperate needy women who just wouldn’t let go. But she was a needy desperate woman! She needed him! Now, more than ever.

How could he choose to abandon her at this point in her life? How could he abandon her at all? Hadn’t he promised to be with her “through thickness and thin” and “in sickness and in health” till death do them part? What happened to all those vows that he had made, holding her hand, that he’d love her forever.

She glanced at the photo frame she’d brought along with her that stood on the night stand. It was a picture of both of them laughing like a bunch of kids. It was taken a couple of years ago on their trip to North-East India. It had been her gift to him for finally getting the job he’d tried for over six months. They’d gone for a walk with a tour guide in one of the numerous tea gardens in Darjeeling and her foot had slipped on the dew laden grass. He’d caught hold of her wrist as he’d lost his own footing and they’d both tumbled onto the grass. The moment had seemed hilarious at that time and the guide, sensing a ‘Kodak moment’ had taken a picture.

That seemed like two different people in a different life.

The picture only reminded her of one of the few times she’d given up her dreams for him. She’d studied to be a journalist. And she knew she was good at it. It was her life and there was nothing else she wanted to do. But the beginning of their married life had been financially low and she’d taken up a job at a BPO instead. It paid good money. It was as simple as that. When things had begun to look a little better, she’d heard about a magazine in her city that was looking for a fashion writer. She knew that now, with their life back on track, she could take this job. But he’d found another job in a Bigger city he’d said, and after many fights, she’d shifted with him to the new city. It was at that time that she’d surprised him with a week long trip to the north-east with part of the earnings from her previous work.

Once again, when life settled down, she took up another lifeless job just so that they could stay together. But all that time she had still been looking out for her dream job. She’d given so many interviews that she’d lost count. But nothing worked out in his supposedly ‘big city’.

She knew that her constant failure at nailing the perfect job was taking its toll on both of them. But she held on, trying everything she could.

Just when she’d thought things were at their worst, she’d gotten a call from a newspaper in a nearby city that was looking for a daily columnist. She knew she was perfect for it. Even though it meant spending almost six hours traveling everyday, she wanted to do it. She wanted to be happy and she needed it to make their lives happier.

Today had been her interview and she’d decided to spend the night in the city that would give her big break. She’d been so excited that she hadn’t noticed his subdued, almost indifferent, attitude as she’d left the house. She’d reached the press office in time and couldn’t wait till it was over. She knew she’d get this job. She knew this was the answer to their problems. Life would be the fairytale she’d always wanted.

But it hadn’t ended like she’d hoped. She hadn’t got the job. They were looking for someone with experience, not degrees, skills or passion.

She’d called him up just an hour ago to tell him that she hadn’t made it. She wanted to be with him, so he could’ve held her as she’d cried. She wanted him to tell her that everything would be ok.

But instead, he’d told her that it was over between them.

Why?

She wasn’t capable of finding a job that she wanted.

She was slowing him down.

She was becoming way too dependent on him.

She wasn’t hard working or dedicated to her work with the number of jobs she’d switched.

The voices in her head were getting louder now. They eluded any kind of emotional, pitiful or denial thoughts. They were screaming out loud now. They were saying things she should’ve said to him. They were demanding for answers that she couldn’t give but needed them just as much. They were counting off reasons why he had every reason to stay instead of abandoning her at a point in her life when he was all she had.

Tears failed to come. Because despite those uncontrollable voices, she was still in denial.

This moment seemed like something from one of those million Hollywood movies she’d seen. It sounded just as dramatic and over-the-top. She could almost picture herself in a scene. The situation seemed perfect for the movie. She looked like those depressed heroines waiting for the glycerin in their eyes to do its job. She could almost hear the soulful music in the background.

All she wanted to hear, more than anything she’d ever wished for, was for someone to yell “CUT!”

Mother's Day Special

As I sit in my room checking my mails, I hear the clicking of the knife on the chopping board in the kitchen; my mum's trying out a new paneer recipe for dinner. She just got back from a shopping spree with her friends after a long day at school. It makes me wonder: how does she have the strength and will power to even stand in the kitchen, let alone have the enthusiasm to experiment with food for a family who loves to eat!

It's got me thinking-my mum hasn't had it easy.But she sure does make it look so.

I know everybody says that their own mom is the best.And I'm sure it must be true. But I can bet on my life when I say that my mom is THE most talented mom there ever was made. God broke the mold after He made Ma.

Her love for everything creative has been handed over to both my sister and to me.And with my sis taking up the bio-chemist way of life, I feel more like mom than she does.

She's got the best of everything; her paintings have the depth and maturity only somebody with her experience can possess; her food spills over with the joy and love for cooking, and flavours that leave you wanting more; her stories and poems talk of her days in Goa and her passion for life; her attachment to her sewing machine is the result of her own mom's love for stitching that's been instilled in her as well, and Ma's designs have always had both her kids looking pretty all their life so far.

She has always believed that I am someone good.Even though on the outside she may have doubts about certain things, but on the inside, she's already congratulated me on my success.That's how much she believes in me.She's always backed me up whenever I wanted to do something out of the ordinary or something not many people might approve.She was the first to lemme take up Arts in the 11th std,when everybody else told her that I should take up Science.She fully supported me when in school I wanted to take up drama as a career.She was with me all the way when I decided I wanted to pursue journalism even though others told her it wasn't a career for a woman.

I remember some of the most special times spent with Ma: singing on the top of our voices as we recorded songs on the stereo or spending hours painting in a playful painting competition at home or decorating the Christmas tree every year or going crazy at the art supplies store or at the flower market in Delhi.

There are times when I realize that besides my sister and me, she's been a mother and much more to those hundreds of students that she teaches at her school.All my years in school I've always been "Miss Curie's daughter".And even though it used to bug the hell outta me at times, I realized that the phrase was a compliment. Students envied me cuz I was mum's kid.She was(still is) a fun teacher that made everything easier, simpler and more interesting.Her stories were known in every class right from the 3rd std to the 7th(she teaches middle school) and all those passing out from the 7th std still miss her.

There's so much about mum that makes her truly special.Even though there are times I wanna scream at her for not understanding me or even for constantly nagging me to clean out my cupboard, it just makes her more human.I might get mad at her for a million things.But I love her for a million reasons more.

Happy Mother's Day Ma ... :):):)

love is....

last Sunday i heard the priest say something that really got me thinking..he was talking about 'love' and he said, " relationships usually don't last when you fall in love ,not with the person, but with an experience he made you feel.." so when the experience wears off, the love does too..i wonder how true it is....