The Girl Who Never Stopped Seeing.

She never let a moment in life pass her by, unwitnessed.

As a child, she watched her mother knead dough - pressing the watered flour with all her bodily force concentrated on her palms - the manner in which she often pressed her grandmother's thighs to relieve her of pain. She watched as ma placed a bindi on her forehead, exactly in between her two furrowed brows, her eyes fluttering in the process. She watched as her father embraced ma, while he believed she wasn't looking.

She watched as they were taken to the hospital after the accident, each as close to dead as it is possible while being alive. She noticed her father's blood smeared face as they rushed him to the operating room. She saw her mother's left thigh reduced to a pulp. When her grandmother tried to cover her eyes with her hands, she insisted on seeing. She did not selectively observe - it was the dirty, the unfair, the morbid, the ugly that deserved to be seen as much as the beautiful.

She looked at men and women defecate next to the railway track, when she took that train to Delhi. She saw the invisible people - the ones who sheltered themselves under a flyover; the ones who sat on the pavements stretching their arms out at each passerby; the ones who knocked at the windows of your car at a traffic signal, while you looked away - she looked at them straight in the eye. She didn't always offer help; that wasn't her intention. She merely watched them, acknowledged them, heard them beg and wail, and when the light turned green, she moved on. Often she stood under the street lamp and saw people move like shadows in the dusk.

At nights, she lapsed lucidly into dreams, where she witnessed herself soar, make love with abandon, encounter kindly beasts and ghastly humans. Once she watched her knees as they jerkily advanced one step at a time, while she ran over clear streams and meadows. Once she saw herself running straight up the mountains, defying gravity. Once she helplessly saw herself fall from a precipice. In many, many dreams she found herself each night, and lost herself each morning, as amorphous dreams faded into sunlight - she watched herself slip from the asleep, into the waking.

If moving was her life's vocation, then seeing, was its divine purpose. And so she saw, everything she could see -obsessively, compulsively, uncompromisingly and with retired voyeurism. Till eventually her eyes gave up on her uncanny obsession.

And her life carried on, without purpose, its vocation.

Chronicles of the Middle Kingdon [Part IV] (Full and Final)

[In continuation of Chronicles of the Middle Kingdom [Part - III]]

The trailing account of my visit to China are true and accurate, and mostly honest. I've been trying to pull off bit of the ol' Jack Kerouac, and miserably failing at that. I'm frantically chronicling everything, every hour, every event, every frikin' step taken and place lived at, but not every sentiment.
For all the fun and frolick that I had surrounded myself with, I still felt like Forrest Gump, running away from something. References to the past incidents made their way into our merry conversations every few hours, not in a sad, desperate way, but in a pensive, studied manner. They included recalling and retelling the chronicle of events several times, justifications and considered silences, and were dotted with several 'y'knows' and 'I-was-like-s' and 'he-was-like-s', as such conversations usually are. The way in which a tongue keeps returning to tease a blister in the mouth, not allowing it to heal. I wasn't heartbroken anymore, or doubted even for a moment that I was over it for good. But it seemed like a gaping hole had been left open, which indicated that something in life had been missing but I couldn't quite put my fingers on what it was, and mostly I was just trying to fill that damned gaping hole with fun, fun, fun - as if fun was any sort of a replacement for happiness. Though happy I was quite often, sometimes even euphoric, but that deep seated contentment had abandoned me. That mother-of-all-fucked-up feeling that accompanies a love-loss, had been assuaged long back, but its lingering, nauseous aftertaste followed me through a range of enjoyable distractions and indulgences, from Delhi to Beijing to Hangzhou and back to Beijing, like a lurking shadow. Occasionally when the distractions were bright enough, like a midday sun they would make the shadow disappear, and I would silently assure myself - 'really, I'm so much better of on my own!' and 'life's done me good!', and 'oh thank God its over!' and I did not for a moment believe them to be untrue, but the scheming shadow would play peek-a-boo every once in a while and throw at me the 'why me-s' which at one go would collapse my assurances like mere dominoes.
And so back to Beijing I came from Hangzhou, the shadow clinging close by my heels. That night we went to Yugong Yishan for a reggae concert to celebrate Bob Marley's birthday, which was one of those midday-sun-type, happy-happy, joy-joy events and I verily drank like a truant little teenager; and swayed to reggae music; and shared a drag of some good stuff with a Bob Marley doppelganger complete with dreadlocks; and danced with a suave Italian. One mad African singer of a reggae band playing that night, took much of a liking to Naj. He so totally fronted her that some men lifted her up and put her on stage where he almost started to grind against her. She hid her face, pleading all the while "I can't be seen like this, I'm a diplomat! Please don't take photos! What if someone told the Ambassador!", while we guffawed our hearts out. I punched the lurking shadow in the face, and asked it never to return again.


But return, it did, and with vengeance, the next day. For the day that I had reserved for my most-awaited Chinese mission - The Great Wall - was the most lugubrious of all; the sky was inky, the air thick, the sun uninterested. Cold and grey feed a shadow and strengthen it. My lightfootedness eventually transformed into treads heavy with the weight of the thick overcoat and gumboots and the past, and my legs felt tired of running away. All through the way to the Wall on the mini-bus, while the guide (a young Chinese girl who spoke considerably good English) gave us a tour of tombs of various Chinese rulers, the past reeled like a film in my head. It was midday by the time we reached the Wall. No one chose to hike all the way up to the Wall. I presume because no one felt particularly adventurous on such an uninviting day. We all took the ropeway up the the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall, and by the time we reached up, the sun was up again and I was breathing easy and trying to let go, once again.





The Mutianyu Great Wall isn't the most popular of the various sections of the Great Wall, because it isn't the closest to Beijing. But this meant much fewer tourists and much more space to run about. The entire Wall was our playground - we posed, jumped, sat, jumped again, ran about like mad freaks, stretched out hands, stretched our legs, climbed up stairs, jumped down, posed some more, drank some water, ate some snickers, and took many many photos. Of all the historical places I have visited, the Wall is my favourite. I was informed that in spring-time the cherry trees on sides of the Wall come to life, and I almost wished I could be back in spring just for that! The cherry on top of the cake was the giant slide through which one slides down the Great Wall, adding an element of thrill to the expedition. That night the girls got together and watched all sorts of chic-flicks, and Naj and I spoke some Madagascar-speak, which are our insider jokes and are incredibly funny to us even if repeated for the 11869545th time.
With my last day at Beijing fast approaching, Naj had another exceptional culinary experience planned out for me. The Chinese Hot Pot! Restaurants that specialize in Hot Pot have special menus which contain everything raw you may want to cook yourself and eat. The tables have two kinds of broths brewing fresh over a burner underneath the table, one spicier than the other. You may choose the ingredients you want brewing inside each broth. We ordered for mushrooms, steak, sweet potatoes, noodles, varieties of meat and...duck blood. Duck blood came as coagulated red jelly which once inserted and cooked in the broth didn't really taste any different from anything else. Among a selection of sauces, you create your own special sauce - mine included primarily mushroom sauce, peanut sauce and mustard sauce, and bits of other sauces. You pick the cooked ingredients directly from the Hot Pot, mix it with the sauce and eat it. I liked the steak the best.



My final day in Beijing was a day done, perfectly Sex and the City style. Naj, Lysh, Carole and I went for brunch at Colibri: Coffee, Cupcakes and Fine Eats, which took its "fine eats" part quite seriously! The rest of day we spent shopping - I bought a total of 5 shoes, including boots in 4 different colour and several dresses and put Naj's bargaining skills to quite a test. Whatever I saved in the bargain though, I spend twice as much paying for extra baggage later.
The last and the freakiest of my great Chinese cultural experience had been saved for the last. The girls and I went for a Chinese massage. The massage itself was a much-deserved at the end of this whole week of running about all over China. But Then, the masseuse convinced me to try "fire cupping". Frankly, he merely muttered something in Chinese, which was roughly translated by Carole to me as "you have a lot of bad energy inside your body because of spices and hot food and you should balance that with the fire cupping therapy". I had no clue what fire cupping meant, but getting rid of bad energy sounded all zen and spiritual to me, given the state of affairs, so I said "Okay". It was only after he started sticking cups all over my back, practically immobilizing me that I was informed that the hideous flaming red marks take about 2 weeks to fade away. Getting rid of bad energy wasn't exactly as life-changing as I had expected it to be. I have no regrets though. I have grown up on an ardent belief that any new experience is a good experience. And I was only more glad to have some marks to show off, as evidence of my Chinese adventure, like a tan after vacationing at a beach.
Just as my Chinese vacation came to an end, there were more and more fireworks all over the town, presumably because the Chinese New Year week had come to an end, but I took it to be China's ceremonious send-off to me.

Vacations don't satiate my inconsolable wanderlust. If anything, they leave me pining for more, like two droplets of water to a parched throat. But if I were to simply think in terms of the things I value most in life - including fun, friendship, seeing and doing new things and staying in a constant state of motion - my Chinese visit summarized all that I want out of life. And by the end of it all, as I realized there's so much more to see and do and experience if you open yourself up to the world outside, the gaping hole seemed considerably smaller and defeated.

My return flight to Delhi was via Guangzhou. An American boy, around 19 years of age, came up to me asking if I was going to India too. The kid reminded me of my cousin and we stuck around together for most of the journey back. He had been raised in China and was traveling to Rajasthan in India to assist in some humanitarian projects during his gap year. At the Guangzhou airport, he sat learning and practicing Hindi sincerely from his little book of "teach yourself Hindi" and asked me his doubts every now and then. At the Delhi airport, he asked me if I knew any good hostels, and after a moment of consideration, I invited him to stay the night at my place. I offered him chawal, dal and sabzi at night and let him sleep on the couch.
Next day, as I helped him get an auto to the railway station, on my way to work, he remarked "Thanks, I hope all the good karma pays off."
My thoughts went to a day, seven years back, when a sweet girl had allowed a complete stranger like me to stay the night at her place in Hyderabad and had fed me tuna sandwich the next morning. Today, she is one of my dearest friends and we had just had a vacation together after several years. Since that day, seven years back, I have never denied a well-deserving soul a couch for a night and some food.

"Just pay it forward, Johnyboi." I told him and drove off to work.

Chronicles of the Middle Kingdom [Part - I]

"Are you going to Canada too?" asked the girl who stood behind me in the relatively short check-in queue of Southern China Airlines at Terminal 3, Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi. "No. To China." I said. We were both taking the same flight to Shanghai. "Oh, I thought you were on transit to elsewhere." Indians don't usually prefer to vacation in China, and Chinese return the sentiment. I asked her for a pen to fill up the immigration form. I learnt meanwhile that most of my fellow travelers were on their way to Vancouver, via Shanghai. There was only one Chinese man in line. He looked lost.

At the immigration check, my face was briefly scanned. The officer stamped my passport, then smiled and gestured at me to carry on. Others weren't quite so lucky. At the next kiosk, a man was under skeptical scrutiny of another ignorant officer.
"I have never heard of Bangui. Where is it?"
"It is in Central African Republic." said the man, nervously defensive.
"Where is that?"
"Err...in Africa."
"Why are you going there?"
"On work - in the construction industry. Being deputed by the government on a developmental project there."
The officer looked askance at the piece of paper which the man had produced as a work permit; it was sealed and stamped, and had some lines scribbled in French which were unintelligible to him. I wondered if I should intervene and tell him that CAR indeed exists - that it is in Africa and its capital is Bangui. I decided against it and moved on.

T3 attempts to look ambitiously avant garde - the aesthetic effect created by Bharatnatyam padams arranged in a welcome before the Duty Free shops, is however, mitigated by the dismal brown carpets that stretch on either side across the various gates. I wondered what happened to the poor man at the customs. On the flight, I sifted through the pages of "The Finkler Question". Having finished reading about a quarter of the book, I still didn't know what to think of it, so I dozed off instead. I got up to a recorded announcement in English that conveyed that we would land in Shanghai airport in a short while.

At the Shanghai Airport, there was no one to help the Indian(s) who had to take a domestic transit instead of an international one. I toured the massive airport, pointing out to people my printed e-ticket to Beijing and using the most rudimentary english "Flight to Beijing. Go where?". After a few "No speak English" responses, a guard directed me towards the domestic terminal. After another hour of figuring out how-tos and where-froms, skillfully employing animated gesticulations and stunted english, I was on the next flight to Beijing.

I had wanted desperately to go to China for a vacation; but more so, for a friendship. Naju is a friend - a kindred spirit rather - who I have known for 6 years now. Naj and I have been close friends since we were both studying in our respective colleges in Hyderabad. We Skyped and Gtalked often, updating each other about developments in our lives. I stalked her Facebook photos and very publicly envied all the fun she had been having without me. However, the trigger that finally brought both of us together, was that the year 2010 had fucked both of us (like it had done many others) and we decided, that some girl-time fun again, for the sake of good ol' days, had been long overdue. Yet, upon arriving at the Beijing Airport, excitement betrayed me - in a manner that it usually betrays you when you're aware that peregrination has come to an end and the destination has been reached. Besides - my blackberry wouldn't work in China and I had no watch - I had lost the concept of time. It was liberating, but also mildly frustrating, as, in between my slumber, day dreaming and traversing international time lines, I had no clue for how long I had been traveling.

The uncertainity of my China trip - which had continued till the very last moment owing to work commitments, had not allowed the excitement of a vacation to build up. I hadn't been perusing the pages of glistening travel magazines for spectacular photographs of the Land of the Dragon. I hadn't been looking for "10-out-of-ordinary-things-to-do-when-in-Beijing". I hadn't been dreaming about the fun I'll be having. Instead, I had been spending long hours in the office to be able to afford this break. And I had almost cancelled my tickets the week before. The cumulative effect of the process of ultimately reaching Beijing, was that this silly languidness had descended upon me. I made my way to the conveyor belt and waited.

"There you are - my dear Indian Hobbit!" said Naju, tapping on my shoulders and flashing that toothy smile. I should have hugged her. Instead I blinked and stared before I mustered a few words - "How did you get inside the airport beyond customs barriers?" In my defense, that was a valid question. "Did you forget that I am diplomat? My position comes with certain privileges bebe." She winked, while helping me with my luggage. Naj speaks English with a diction which I cannot quite place. It is a confluence of accents she has imbibed from the various places she has lived at - her native islandic Maldivian, mixed with a little bit of Indian or a hint of Sri Lankan, a trace of Singaporean too, maybe, but I'm not quite sure of that; definitely none of Chinese though. When she speaks, her lips curl into an earnest pout at the end of every sentence, which makes the light brown in her eyes sparkle. This endearing manner of articulation, along with her beautiful square face and small islandic features make her inordinately attractive.

Outside the airport, the city lay frozen and densely grey, like Picasso's Guernica. February is cold in China. For me, cold equals gloom. However, I expected to see snow; I have never had the opportunity. "Snow isn't overrated" quipped Naj, while in the cab. "Plus, I told you this is the best time to come to China. It is Chinese New Year time. We get a whole week off! Chinese people don't have religions and so they don't have many other festivals. They wait all year to celebrate the new year. It's so festive, with lanterns and fireworks and what not. It's a big event. The streets of Beijing won't be as crowded as they usually are because most of the working crowd go back to their hometowns. Oh, we have a New Year dinner tonight with friends. Let the fun begin!" Her characteristic enlivening warmth slowly extinguished the hebetude that had engulfed me after the journey.

We resumed talking about the past, the present, the year that had gone by. We talked about the end of her 7 year old relationship. We talked about my forced separation with the Man. We talked like old friends talk - empathizing and hopeful for each other.

By the time we reached her apartment in the Diplomatic Enclave, a thick dusk had engulfed the grayness and the city lights had emerged, blinking and gay. Finally the realization of being in Beijing, and not in Delhi; of being in 2011 and not in 2010, sank in.

Solace for a wanderlusting soul, albeit with an aching heart, lies in the act of motion. For escapists like me, travel physically and palpably manifests the progression of time - an irrefutable evidence of moving on - of leaving something behind, be it the past or the spaces we have occupied or the moments we have lived. So long as we're moving - some call it running away, others call it running towards - we hurt much lesser.

I saw the first firework shooting up the sky from a window of Naju's swanky apartment, rendered warm and cozy by central heating. This eve of the Chinese New Year insinuated a new beginning.

[...to be Contd.]

Chasing the Years of My Life...

"I'm ten years old. My life is half over and I don't even know if I'm black with white stripes or white with black stripes!" - Marty- the Zebra, Madagascar.

So, yet another year has come to pass. I don't grow up anymore; I only grow old. By now, I know a few things with certainty - like eventually you get over almost any crisis in life, no matter how soul-sucking and stupendously indelible it may have seemed at one time. Also, I know which are the things that really matter in life - like fun and friendship.

You were a good year, 26th. I'm almost longing for you to be back. I made amazing new friends, cut my hair, learnt Spanish, learnt how to cook, worked hard, partied harder, danced a little, sang a lot, wrote some, and dreamed many armchair adventures. I went on a vacation to frikkin' China! (Beat that now.) It was a year of reminiscing and forgetting, forgiving even - a year when you pick the pieces of past and reorient your life, little by little. It was the kind of year that gives you hope when you look back upon it.

I think about the past decade often - a succession of revelations. I went through years when I didn't like myself too much. Then through years when I grew comfortable with my imperfections and contradictions. Eventually, I learnt to live with myself. As a corollary, I learnt to live with others.

I learnt that knowing that expectations are traps just doesn't save you from them. And that true freedom lies not in their defiance, but in their righteous fulfillment.

And oh, I thought a great deal about love, of course. I shredded the concept to pieces - analysed it, experimented with it, embraced it, resisted it, condemned it. Once, I surrendered to it and let myself be comforted by it. Once, I simply walked away from it. Once, it was ruthlessly taken away from me. I learnt that it is difficult to move on without achieving closure, but that sometimes you just have to do it. I contemplated the nature of longing and loss and discovered that often one begets the other. And so I learnt to perfect the art of un-possessing, un-belonging; of severing ties and of letting go.

I learnt that you live some moments in life which seem perfect; and that you long to preserve them. I also learnt that these moments seem so perfect only because they are transient and because you cannot frame them inside a snow globe and hold on to them forever. I learnt that memories are one of the surest sources of joy in one's life.

These have been years of reckoning - of growing older and wiser; of growing richer with every experience.

In a few days, I'll have surpassed 26. I never imagined I'd be a 26 year old when I was young, but I had an inkling of what I wanted to feel like when I am a woman.

And today, I feel every bit like the woman I wanted to be.

An Insignificant Incident, that Warrants no Mention. And Yet.

He had stared at the dance floor; for uttering a confounded apology while staring into the eye is a task for the braver to undertake.

He had eventually come around to saying the words, and he had meant them. And I had heard them. "I am sorry" - heard each syllable pronounced coherently, even over the loud pulsating music, along with the other fumbled phrases about the past and things as they used to be; my gaze still affixed unto the blazing red paint on my finger-nails, that rested delicately upon the folds of my satin dress.

And we had looked at each other briefly. And he had tried to study the blankness of my visage to decipher my predicament. Would I forgive him, or would I not care? And in my head, I had wondered: did I remember?

For a split-second, I was reminded of the hurt as it had existed: a memory of a feeling as opposed to the feeling itself. A feeling that had been agonizing and impassioned. A feeling...that had been, but no longer was.

I remembered it, as I would remember an old movie, watched once upon a time: its plot vague and amorphous.

And maybe for a moment I had smiled lightly. Or was that a smirk? My mind had earnestly tried to contemplate a response.

But our moment was lost.

And I had let his apology linger there, among the din of the exulting crowd and the numerous pairs of feet swinging to a popular bollywood number, in ironical silence.

And we had returned our gaze to the cavorting lights on the dance floor.

Strawberry Fields Forever.

"We will soon be landing at the Birsa Munda Airport, Ranchi. You are requested to keep your seat belt fastened and keep your mobile phones switched off till the aircraft has come to a halt."
This aircraft is the smallest commercial shuttle I have ever journeyed in. We are barely 25-30 people on board. Ours is the only aircraft in the miniature aerodrome.
When we land, a little stair case, with all of five steps, falls under the aircraft's exit and we alight and walk straight ahead to the small administrative block, which has only one conveyor belt. Pa is waiting for me outside.

I am a closet small town girl, living in a big city. I will always be. Even though I visit my small town once in two years, for a little more than a weekend.
"This is all so cute. Nothing has changed."
My father disagrees. "So many things are different. You will see on your way." And then, in a moment of comical irony, escorts me to our old, antiquated, Maruti 800. He puts on the same old cassette with Manna Dey's beautiful and primitive, classical renditions.
"You hardly ever see this car in Delhi these days. And oh my God Papa, no one listens to cassettes anymore!"
Mumma comes out of the kitchen in delighted anticipation, after having heard that I have arrived. I enliven her in one sweeping embrace. She smells of her signature soap mixed with the aroma of tempered spices; sweet smelling nostalgia. The lentils in the kitchen taste of fond memories. I can never quite get it right, back in Delhi, even if I scrupulously follow her instructions on the recipe.
I immediately leave for the hospital, a few blocks down our government quarter. This is the reason which has drawn me home, after two long years. While parents visit me every couple of months in Delhi, I never really get to see my grandmother. She had been admitted to the hospital two weeks back. She can't sit or walk anymore.
The hospital itself is a castle of the past. I was born in one of the cabins I walked past. When I broke my leg, I sat on a wheelchair right here before the emergency ward. In its corridors, I have walked innumerable times, to visit friends and family, to celebrate and to mourn. The faces of nurses and the staff are familiar. There are no visiting hours. It is all in the family.
=Dadiji does not recognize me at first for she can't see too well. When I tell her it is I, "What happened to your hair?" she asks with concern. I laugh it off.
At above 90, she is at a place where it is difficult to differentiate dreams from memories: a place in transit.
"Your grandfather took me to Japan."
"You never went to Japan, Dadiji." bemused, I remind her. Her eyes widen in defiance, then she fixes her gaze on the sluggishly spinning fan, and squints. "When he was posted in Motihari, he took me to Japan."
"That was Nepal, Dadi." I remind again. "Yes, yes. Nepal." She concedes, reminiscing.
"We also went to America." I tell her only Dadaji went to America, to study at Cornell University. He went on a government scholarship and had to leave her behind.
"Your grandfather was a very good man." He indeed was.
"You should think of getting married. Jawaani to hasi-khushi beet jaati hai, magar budhape mein ek jeewan-saathi zaroori hai." When you're young, the life is full of fun and frolic, but you need a life partner when you grow old.
Pa comes into the cabin. She signals at me, and tells him "I have convinced her, that it is essential that a girl be married off." Then she looks at me intently, as if about to divulge the greatest secret of life.
"A husband, is a husband. Even if he is stupid or a charlatan. No one will do more for you in life, than your mother or your spouse."
This is for the first time that I find someone giving me marriage advice, so utterly endearing.
Pa strokes her forehead and sparse tuft of silver hair with his hands. "You will leave me and go Ma?"
"My mother also left me and went away." she said, smiling, like a sage. A simple reply. I couldn't continue the conversation without feeling a lump rise up my throat.
"I was born to my parents after a lot of prayers and appeal to the Gods." She said. "After three girls and two boys who did not survive. It seems like God sent me with all their quotas for living. I am ready to go, but the pran (life force) refuses to leave my body." The humour hasn't left her.
I tell her I was going home and would come and see her again, later.
"Home? What is this then?" She asks innocently.
"This is hospital, Dadi."

And she smiles again. For a person in so much pain, she smiles quite a lot.
I head home, with a renewed sense of mortality of all things and how that makes life all the more treasured.
Pa wants me to see the new house they have bought, which is still under construction.
"They have made it totally Gurgaon style!" He exclaims with child-like exuberance. "The society has everything. A swimming pool, a jogging trail, a club, and what else....we can see the distant Jagganathpur Temple from our balcony. I dream of the day I would wake up every morning to this auspicious darshan."
I am heartened at his excitement. On the way Pa points out to me the piles of bricks and rubble, that used to be the erstwhile illegal dwellings of the poor, now bulldozed off at the High Court's order. Some people are still sitting and sorting out their paraphernalia among the debris. Some are cooking in open air. The path that takes us off the main road to the site is a congregation of potholes of various sizes. Pa says a pakka road will be constructed there.

I am reminded of early school days, when while riding home in the shabby, old school bus through a particularly rough road patch, we kids would rise up from our seats to enjoy the joyride. At times the bus would plummet over an unusually high speed breaker and for a moment there, we would all stay suspended in mid air, only to hit the floor with a monstrous thud. That was our daily dose of adventure.
I tried to drive Pa's car. It is indeed a sweet little thing, but difficult to maneuver. It has no power steering. Papa drives, clasping the steering wheel tight and forcefully swinging it with both his hands at every turn. I adoringly observe him, while he crinkles his nose and frowns and tut-tuts his way through the path across a meadow, to the construction site. The society is impressive, by the standards of a small town.
"I keep telling him to buy a new car." says Ma. "But he says, what is the use?" I identify the sharp contrast in their attitude, from what I have seen in Delhi's denizens: where a house of two members, prefers to flaunt four big cars, regardless of how many their parking spaces can actually accommodate. Their cars serve the ego, not the purpose.
It's a simpler life, with simpler ambitions: a small house, a small car, good education for the children and a group of loved ones around to spend the old days with.
I tell Mumma that Pa is right. Somethings are better unchanged.
I am saddened at the thought that tomorrow, I will leave it all behind, one more time. Things will not be the same when I come back again. Dadiji may, or may not be among us. In a couple of months Papa will retire. My parents won't be living in the same colony where I grew up: the very lanes of which vividly bring to life old memories, as I walk through them.
In these two days, I have been brought to close quarters with the past again; looked back at life as it was, and consequently, looked ahead at future with nervous anticipation. When you have lived some, you have lost some. When you have lived a lot, you probably have lost quite a bit too: loved ones, homes, possessions and time.

I am drawn towards an enquiry into the essence of a "life-well-lived", which in turn confronts me with the question of its authenticity: it is brisk and fragile; an assortment of experiences, good and bad. A sum total of all things you are and will be and will do; the spaces you will occupy; the roads you'll walk down; the people you will love; the heartbreaks you will go through; the stories you will live to tell; the dreams you will conjure for the future and the past you will look back upon, sometimes fondly and at other times, with anguish.
My attention is diverted to the song in loop in my head:
"Let me take you down, cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields. Nothing is real...

And nothing to get hung about."

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?

How to Eat a Wolf.

[This poem, ‘How to Eat a Wolf’ is from Sharanya Manivannan’s book of poems "Witchcraft" (Bullfighter Books). It has been reproduced here with the permission of the author. I am an avid reader of Sharanya's blog and look forward to her "Venus Flytrap" posts.

Where most young writers these days focus on the contemporary style of writing, Sharanya is lyrical, without sounding archaic. She has just the right word for what she wants to say and I love it when words just fit! In my opinion, she is one of the most promising upcoming young writers. You can visit her blog here and her website here. Being a spoken word artist too, you may listen to her reciting some of her other poems here.

This poem struck a chord with me. I have read and re-read it several times. Especially the last few lines. I wanted to share this. Hope you like it too.]

Does all lust start
and end like this?
Don’t get me wrong.
I loved my wolf.
I held him tethered
like a pussycat. I nursed

the rumble in his belly
with hands gentle as a burglar’s.
He lived on milk and blood and ocean.
He had violets for his furs.

It’s just that he was
beginning to devour me.
He nuzzled me with claws,
fondled me with fangs sharp as yearning
He snaked a tongue so hungry in its kiss
it turned my body to salt.

How do you douse
a dervish swirl? I asked.
Devour it, you said.

So I fantasised
about eating his balls,
rolling them in semolina seeds
and roasting them golden.
I got blooddrunk
on the thought of the
crisp tender cartilage of his ear,
left to simmer in tequila and cilantro.
The dry teats turned
sweet when baked with cinnamon
applesauce, or drizzled with chocolate.
The tangy musk of austerely steamed eyelid.

I set traps.
Mine is the deepest void,
the deepest void you’ll ever know.
And so I lured him to a well.
A wolf can drown in its own
wetness. But mine swam
and lapped and doggypaddled
until I waded back in to get him.


Mine is the darkest smoulder,
the darkest smoulder you’ll ever know.
And so I conspired to let him burn.
A wolf can poach in its own juices.
But mine danced on coals and leapt
ablaze, until I pussyfooted back in to get him.

I became desperate.
I preached to my wolf
about suicide, proselytized
about reincarnation. Come back
as a sleepy kitten, I said.
Come back as a hibernating bear.
Come back as a snail
with a flag trail of surrender.
But my love was indefatigable.
It was volcano and oceanic tremor. It was
a black lace bra and
too much jazz at 3 a.m.
My love was as big as betrayal.
I pleaded and pleaded until

you finally looked up and said,

You can only kill a wolf
you don’t want to have,

and only then did I see that

your love
was exactly
the size of two fists.

How to Identify an Emotional Mind Fucker or a Pathetic Loser.

Now let me tell you, it hasn't been easy.

But I have finally developed the "Loser Alarm". Yes, that one which starts beeping and blinking red inside your head, and which blares the warning "Don't go there!", every time you listen to that smooth, emotional, processed tin can of crap being dished out at you. Ever been there?

Now, here's a bit of a tutorial. Because honey, if I've been there, use my experience rather than going though the pile of crap to figure it out for yourself. As for any men who may come across this post, and have been fortunate/unfortunate enough to meet the female counter parts of the two prototypes I am going to explain hereafter, just think of these caricatures in terms of altered gender.

In my experience they come in two kinds: the Self Degrading Mind Fucker and the Guilt Inducing Blame Gamer.

Mr. A, thrives on your sympathy. When things don't go his way, he tells you emotional stories from his past, or whines about the instability of his present and uses them as an excuse for the "monster" he has become. He will tell you he can say such things only to you, for no one else understands him. Don't even try to argue with him, it's a trap! For this man accepts his mistakes before you can even point them out. And no, this does not mean he takes responsibility for it. Taking responsibility for a mistake means that you do everything possible to rectify it. But no, what this man does, is that he very carefully and strategically disarms you, while putting his own hands off. And then comes, *Dhan-ta-Nan* the "self pity" act, till you crumble, because ofcourse you like him, maybe love him even. You think that it's cruel that someone should punish themselves so hard, and feel so miserable for having committed those mistakes. Don't even think about this ladies! The only way out of this: throw him out of your house, all bags and baggages, but before that, gift him a tampon and ask him to stick it up his rear.

Now, while Mr. A was just pathetic (though manipulative in his own way) Mr. B is a sly, calculative manipulator. He thrives on your guilt. Almost nothing you do is good enough for him, and worse, you "make him act" the way he acts. He will turn your statements around; bring up past acts which you did not even know were an issue till then; all just to make you believe that you had an ulterior evil motive behind the way you acted or maybe you're just a bad person overall. You can't get away from this person, unless you can stand up to him and say "Fuck off. It's not my fault that you're such a dick head." and really mean it. The strategy to deal with this kind, is to simply refuse to allow the guilt to eat into you. Trust me it's a lot better to be a bitch who walks all over 'em than to be a door mat who's walked all over.

Every once in a while, if you're really God's favourite child, you'll run into a certain Mr. Duplicity, who seems to have perfected both of the above mentioned mind fucking techniques. If that Mr. A+B has been unleashed upon you, then God save you. Simply. Run. For. Your. Life.

I can smell a piece of crap when I see it and sometimes even when I can't see it. A turd is a turd is a turd. Even if they paint it pink and spray it with perfume and garnish it with little heart shaped pretzels. If you go ahead and eat that shit, the joke is on you.

Ladies (and gentlemen, if there are any here), if you ever need someone to tell you that, your "Guy" or "Girl" is being a total dick-head, an ass-hole or a vapid and sore loser, just holla at me. I promise to say it as it is. You'll get no "but maybe she's confused" or "maybe he needs some time to figure things out" bullshit out of me.

Trust my Loser Alarm. I henceforth stand proselytized to a Heartless Bitch. Fuck you very much.