Notes on a Monday Morning

Waking up is never fun.

I turn off the alarm after it has snoozed for the fifth time. In a futile attempt at elevating my spirits, I let The Beatles croon through my iPod.

"Here comes the Sun...and I say...it's alright."

Right.

Still in my birthday suit, I brew some jasmine green tea; freshen up and put on a robe to collect the newspaper from my terrace. So what happened in the world today? A train caught fire, no one died. Anna Hazare is giving the Government a run for its money. The Middle East and Africa is still broiling with protest and conflict.

The egg I left to boil is ready; the bacon in the microwave is crisp; the juice has been poured in the glass; the bread leaps out of the toaster, as if wanting to startle me.

I am not grumpy. I am jaded. I am not necessarily cribbing. I am solemnly condemning the comforts of a conventionally good life.

I get dressed. I lock the house and walk out. I start the ignition of the car and let out a little sigh before setting the gear on the first and wearily pressing the accelerator.

This is the beginning of a series of groundhog days: life on a repeat mode.

There is a minor accident, instigating an altercation. The man with the small car is livid. The man with the big car is belligerent. The men in the rest of cars are nonchalant, waiting in queues to squeeze their way out through the by-lane to avoid being delayed.

The radio reads my mind; and that of a thousand others.

"Today, I don't feel like doing anything...I just wanna lay in my bed."

India Gate is a delirious flux of vehicles of all sizes, a whirlpool of traffic, as on any other working day. As my hands and legs work involuntarily, yet in perfect coordination, gallivanting my little red car through the traffic, my mind contemplates inconsequential existentialist conundrums.

What am I doing here? What is the purpose of living such a life? How can I do this everyday for the rest of my life?

In a few minutes, I'll be sitting in my plush wooden cabin, with no windows, dismal green carpets, a smell of cheap room-freshner, an AC which makes me miss summers in summertime, and preparing a list of "things to do" for the day, executing them and then striking them off the list.

Intermittently, I will lapse into a day dream about a parallel universe, where I am snorkeling in my polka-dot bikini in a beatific blue lagoon of a remote tropical island, as the sun rises up the horizon, on a Monday morning.

November, thou beest the harbinger of fair tidings...

The nip in the evening Delhi air tells me: it's that time of the year again, when the Devil is by my side, egging me to grow a pair of horns and a forked tail.

The Indian Devil Tree and I go back a long way. And the only feeling that wells up in my chest as I take a deep breath to savor the first hints of the little white devils in the air, is pure exhilaration. A similar Alstonia flourished right in front of my hostel room back in the days. Come October end, and my little cozy room, with its yellow bell flowers that graced the edges of its large windows and the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of the little devil flowers, teleported me to what seemed like a personal Garden of Eden.

Next ushered in the days of flimsy sweat shirts; late nights spent trying to group study for end semester exams and instead indulging in silly girlish revelries over cheap rum and boy-talk; inevitably missing the first class next morning; panicking about absolute lack of direction in one's life, or of an impressive internship opportunity for the upcoming vacation.

The scent of the Devil Tree, brings it all back to me.

And I finally feel free! Oh so free. So not in love anymore. So at peace with myself. So ready to take a deep breath, to let go, to let this smell fill up my lungs, my heart and my upcoming Delhi winters with all things lovely and fragrant. I am just about beginning to think it would be nice to find someone who keeps me warm this winter. It's been a while, no?

While you were sleeping...

[Sunday, September 19, 2010: The Girls walked inside my house after a night of partying at 5:30 a.m. Now that I was up, how could I let them sleep. Thus happened the early morning (6:30 a.m.) trip to Hauz Khas Village, right before the morning showers. These are the days, when I love Delhi. I will let the photos do the talking. Photo courtesy: yours truly. Models: Muse and Suu, the odd goose and the ruins.]

As the geese swarmed for the little boy to feed them bits of bread, the odd one stood out.

The girls looking upon the quiet lake, with a cutting chai.

Enjoying a free flight before the morning shower

Thus I framed the lives of those on the other side

Look through, and what do you see?

I flourish through the remnants of what used to be.

The lone street lamp, doesn't belong.

Do you wonder how many looked through that balcony to find something but didn't know what they were looking for?

Now people power walk though my paved pathways, every morning.

If you pay attention, you may hear the sounds of the past...

of the little boys reciting the Koran in unison and of ladies talking in hushed whispers.

While the little girls played hide-n-seek, sheltering themselves around my resolute pillars

I stand witness, through the ages.

Notes on not belonging to a City: Delhi & I.

"There are really patterns. It was a revelation, of a kind. Dreams and sand and stories. Deserts and cities and time."

- Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Fables & Reflections #39: Soft Places, (1993)

After two years, Delhi still remains what it always has been, a dispassionate lover who is the best kept secret, but never a friend.

It’s not for the first time that I feel intrigued by my impersonal, bittersweet affair with Delhi. I have oftentimes imagined myself as its Mistress, treated with a cursory nod of acknowledgement in society, and with utmost benevolence in private, but never with acceptance.

It would be ungracious of me to not acknowledge its kindness; often I feel it eying me as a step child - making up for its lack of affection by showering upon me abundance in kind. I owe it the exceptional opportunities it has provided, a thriving career. In Delhi I graduated from being a Missy to becoming a Madam. But ask me (or ask it) if we ever became allies and we’d both nod our heads with a dismissive smile and proclaim “we’re just old acquaintances”.

Not to say that personal histories have not been created and buried in its folds: chance encounters, opportune romances, circumstantial friendships and unpredictable trysts with love. Like the boy who liked flying planes so much, that I failed in keeping him grounded to myself. And another, who excelled in bizarre boyish skills: fire poi and skateboarding; who made for excellent conversations over Sunday brunches and etched himself in my memory forever as the Sweet Blue Eyed Boy. The girl at my dance club who asked me to go dancing with her; who was the queen of Delhi's debaucherous nights, and yet who then settled to marry a man chosen by her parents with little resistance. That beautiful dancer whose amorous embrace consumed me in a dervish swirl every time he took my hands and led me to the floor, but whom I left waiting, without remorse. And the Man who taught me how to use chop sticks on the first date and made me fall in love with him, so hard, in spite of my intelligence, my clairvoyance and my awareness of its limitations, that it felt almost criminal. What is it that they say about a lot of water having gone under the bridge?

I never belonged to Delhi like I belonged to Hyderabad. Good ol’ Hyd - how I longed to run into its arms at the end of every week, riding red district buses meandering through desolate highways, to escape my far off college campus and to set foot in the streets of Hyd, where I was free. We were kindred, Hyd and I, each looking to belong, each trying to shed the old ways of towns and adopting the new ones of a city. Unlike Delhi, in Hyd my friendships were never listless, my loyalties never trivial and my love never conditional upon loss.

I never belonged to Delhi, like I belonged to Bombay; throwing myself at its mercy, which is the only way it allowed its patronage. Hopping on and off Mumbai’s gritty locals, I felt comfortable in my skin. In its salty rains I felt submerged in reality. Its rocky sea shore reflected the conflict within. Mumbai demands your resilience, but also delivers itself completely to you. Unlike Delhi, Mumbai is a life coach, not a sugar daddy; it pats your back and hands you a spade, it never pats your head and hands you a candy.

I never belonged to Delhi, like I belonged to Singapore. Walking down Orchard lane, on the Christmas eve, hand in hand with my 9 year old huckleberry friend - I felt appropriately festive. Drinking wine right out of the bottle at Clark Quay with my namesake, who I serendipitously happened upon at New Years’ Eve - I never bargained for a lasting friendship. Dancing with the beautiful Indian boy up close and personal to the tune of “Stand by Me” played by a local band - I knew the night to be a shifting moment, never expecting it to last forever. In Singapore's utopia, I was not once disappointed. Unlike Delhi, Singapore delivered what it promised, and exactly what I expected of it: to revel in its ephemeral glory.

For long, Delhi liked to see me in captivity, be it in His arms or a cubicle; it never set me free. A fleeting sense of belonging to Delhi once came upon me, as a packaged deal with belonging to Him. I bought a car and there was a time when I wanted to buy a house. I had assured Him and myself that I would make a home for us here. I may have been disillusioned that it never came to be, but I am, all the same, relieved. Belonging to a city in which you are not free may come easier, but it is impossible to love a city in which you are not free.

I plan my escape every day. Will it be this year or the next? How much should I save? Should I learn Tango at Buenos Aires or try Ayahuasca in Peru? Maybe I should start taking Spanish lessons already? Maybe I should learn to swim better so as not to be embarrassed in Fiji's blue lagoons? Will I ever be able to save enough for a Round the World Ticket? But then again maybe I could take the Trans-Siberian all the way from Beijing to Moscow, with whatever I am able to save? My mind, dear friends, designs its own adventures.

Maybe it is me, and not Delhi. Me and my peripatetic ways, my impulsive escapism. Maybe I have spent enough time in Delhi to thwart its attempts at camaraderie. Delhi remains, a soft place, a place in transit, a sojourn: a place where you don't buy new furniture and don't plant bonsais in your terrace. A place where some nights you enjoy engaging company and at others you light a cigar and listen to jazz till midnight. My friends are not Dilli-Wallas or Dilli-Wallis, they are exiles, expats, small town boys and girls starting out here from scratch, people trying to make a living, just like me, or people surfing one couch at a time, awaiting a revelation through their encounters, travellers, tourists even. There is distant family liberally scattered in and around Delhi, which I choose not to socialize with much. When I hear of someone claiming to belong to Delhi, I do not relate, but I understand. Delhi, history's burden bearer, the City of Djinns, that has embraced so many, from the Pandavas to the Mughals to the partition refugees, never became mine.

Maybe when I leave, I'll look back upon Delhi with the fondness of a lost lover, and finally belong to it, like one belongs to the nostalgia of days bygone.

Missy is always up and about on the Weekends.

T'was a random, smoking-brunching-working weekend. Sexy Boy (as he likes to be called) and I, Sunday-brunched at The Yum Yum Tree; the sushi was good and I totally loved the conveyor belt system of buffet. My favourite parts of the brunch: the Prawn Tempura, the Chicken Satay with Peanut Dressing, the Green Apple Martini, the Peach Schnapps Martini, and the famous Yum Yum Tree New York Cheesecake, which is the best I've had in Delhi (and Vir Sanghvi agrees to that). I wore a dainty scarf over my collared white shirt tucked in the blue jeans and felt and acted quite up-street, for a change.

Sexy Boy gifted me those Sobranies. Also, he was the one to suggest that I try them as a subject for my new found interest in photography. Did I mention I had bought a new SLR camera? Those below, may not be the best shot, but I'm determined to get there, err, someday. I haven't made it out of the automatic mode yet, but I am hoping to, as soon as I find some quality time alone with my Canon. I discovered that while in fully auto mode the SLR focuses on the closest identifiable object in the frame, and therefore placement of subject becomes really important (yeah okay, so I'm a total novice, and maybe that was obvious and kind of d-uh, but one has to begin somewhere.) The Sobranies are literally so beautiful, I think I will just let them sit in that pack and refrain from smoking any.

The Travel Book photo figures here so as to remind myself and you, dear reader, why I bought the camera in the first place. The roads, my camera and me: The Ultimate Dream.

Oh, and I finally enrolled for weekend Spanish lessons. That was a weekend well spent. Now back to getting some work done, which has taken a back seat through all this.

Anyhoo, check out the Sobranie of London.

(Gasp! Knuckles, not very pretty; also must change nail paint. Sigh)

New ash-tray likes to pose.

Clickety-click with one hand and tapety-tap with the other.


Remind me again, why I need to just go.

P.S: Don't forget to feed my fish. Their names are: Red: Dhishum, Green: Golum, Orange: Tang, Yellow: Scuttle and Blue: Marina