Of Christmas, sandwich spread and solitude

Eleven days to Christmas! :)

It's that time of the year again - fairy lights, holly and mistletoe, cottonwool snow and tinsel. Tree ornaments glinting merrily in candlelight and warm, reassuringly sonorous brass bells. Candles that burn all night and faith that insists on re-asserting itself. Plum cake! A rotund, red-faced Santa who shakes his belly like a bowlful of jelly. Ho ho ho!

Christmas makes me think of chapels with choirs singing in perfect co-ordination. It makes me think of wreaths secured with ribbons, and of poinsettias in vases. Christmas is about carols at midnight, and the most vibrant shades of red and green the imagination can conjure. It is about believing, even at 23, that I will find something in my stocking on Christmas morning. :) It is about the beautiful message in Dickens' A Christmas Carol (I end up re-reading this book every Christmas, somehow). It is about decorated trees and lots of streamers in every store window. I have never really been sold on bling...but I can never have too much tinsel on Christmas. I can't get enough of the warm, spicy smell of pine cones. I can stare endlessly at a little church with light streaming out of its windows; and sit for hours inside cathedrals. Christmas is probably one of the coldest days of the year meteorologically - and the warmest in every other way imaginable. Why do I love Christmas so much? Because everything about it is about giving...and about belief. On Christmas, you believe.

Of course, the fact that it is just the beginning of a week of festivities and anticipation is the icing on the (plum) cake. :D

Talking of warmth and belonging, there's something incredibly wholesome about the friendships that spring up amongst an assortment of people thrown together by chance. Friendships that are cemented over late-night chats over everything under the sun; study sessions that, surprisingly, often work out as planned; meals had together - at conventional mealtimes and otherwise; heartbreak and tears that stand a very bleak chance against comforting by buddies; laughter and shared inside jokes and running gags that only the aforementioned assortment of people knows about; tiffs with and without rhyme and reason - and the way they melt away so soon, nobody knows or cares what they were about. Friendships that go beyond the ambit of the ordinary and become relationships. Bonds that, delved into, would reveal intuitive understanding, shared confidences, bars of chocolate and jars of sandwich spread, and the blessed security of the knowledge that things will definitely start looking up once you get back to the gang.

I have, on different occasions, celebrated Christmas alone, and with friends and family. This time, it will be with family. I'll miss the enormous wreath outside my school principal's residence, though, and the sight of lights twinkling within and outside the college chapel (and I can't ever forget Dr. Wilson's Christmas parties!). And I'll miss the impromptu Christmas bashes thrown in the hostel, when our supplies included five bottles of Coke, one big eggless cake, and multiple packs of Maggi. Ah well, we can't have it all.

Except that sometimes we do...and Christmas is one of those times when we should thank our lucky stars for it.

Merry Christmas, World...Happy Holidays! :) Ho ho ho!

P.S. This post is dedicated to all the people I have ever celebrated Christmas with.

P.P.S. This, Blogger tells me, is my 99th post. I like the sound of that! Maybe my New Year post will be my 100th! That would be doubly nice. :) :)

Picture Book

On most days, I'm a rubber duck. The sort you find in children's bathtubs. Yellow and tubby and cheerful and incredibly, annoyingly unwilling to stay under for too long. That's not resilience, much as I would like to think it is. It amounts to resilience, maybe, but it's not the original thing. It's just a constitutional incapability to remain in one state for too long. Sooner or later, I'll bob out and float away to some other corner of the tub. When I get fed up of being on the surface of the water, I'll duck down to see what it's like among the suds. And when I've had too much of the tub altogether, I'll tip myself off the edge, land in the laundry basket, and go and see how things are by the washing machine.

On some days, though, I'm a stress-ball. Willy-nilly, I mould myself to the moods of the person holding me. If they're mad at the world, I start to feel a little mad too. If they are exhausted and don't have the energy to hold a stress-ball properly, I tumble out of their grip and find myself lying somewhere under the couch. It's dank and musty and, frankly, I hate it.

And on other, different days, I'm a seashell in a trinket box. A lot like the thousands of others on the beach and in the ocean, but with my own unique markings. I'll probably chip if you're bent upon getting me to crack, but then, I got here in the first place because I survived the ravages of the ocean, so maybe I'm not as fragile as you think I am - or, more importantly, as I think I am.

And sometimes, I'm a random blogger, talking about children's toys and crustaceans' shells.

Image Courtesy: Google Images

"This can't be happening! Undo. UNDO!"

So I wrote a long, long post – about three pages, if not more - about my love of travelling and why I find train journeys particularly entertaining. I rambled about how we live slices of different lives as we travel through the country from one city to another. I talked about the joys of being address-less and unreachable. I rattled on about how humanity is at its quirkiest, idiosyncratic best when 72 random people are thrown together for 10-odd hours, sometimes more. And I wrote and wrote and wrote. And because I am compulsively neat and organized and a darned perfectionist, I had to justify the alignment of the paragraphs. Of course I did. How else could I rest easy? So I selected all the text, and then Murphy decided he needed entertainment, so my finger slipped and hit the spacebar.

And Blogger, which usually spends about a minute thinking things through when I want to save my work, promptly, efficiently went ahead on its own, and saved a draft that contained nothing. Not even a label.

If I didn't write about this, at least, I'd never get any sleep tonight. So think about me while I'm away - I'm going home for a few weeks :) - and I'll spend some time on the train thinking about the post that almost got published.

Between Lives - II

Blink.

She was standing outside a shrine in the midst of towering mountains. Something that looked suspiciously, wonderfully like snow lay in haphazard patterns on the slopes. All around her, people huddled under blankets rented at a hundred rupees a night. The air was thick with smoke from wood fires, the crisp fragrance of pine cones, mild wisps of incense coming from the direction of the shrine and the chants of a million shloks. She had never felt this way before...utterly calm, completely at peace. She closed her eyes, breathed in the night air. A drop of something cool and wet dripped gently onto her cheek. Rain? Dew? A teardrop? Who knew? She stretched her arms wide, trying to hug the universe, the mountains and everything in between. Her fingers brushed a passer-by, startling him into exclamation. She smiled, a little embarrassed, a little apologetic, and inexplicably free. She would come here again. She would.

Blink.

The monastery did look out of reach. No, out of bounds. But that was not because it was situated right at the peak of one of the highest hills in the region. The trek, she could manage. She enjoyed the rush of thrill and peril that a trek gave her. No, it wasn't the height. It was the peace. The way the monastery was completely at home amid the fourteen shades of green - she could see at least that many from where she stood - on the hillside. Beyond it all, the sky was the colour of a baby's eyes. There was something about the monastery that whispered absolute peace and pure simplicity - the simplest sort, the most difficult to find. She knew she would feel welcomed when she stepped in. She only wondered if she deserved the peace. Well, there was only one way to find out. Flinging her satchel over her shoulder, she began the trek. And every time she faltered or hesitated, every time she felt she had lost her way, she would accidentally glimpse the glint of sunlight off the ancient brass bell over the door, or the vivid red and yellow of the bunting against the emerald of the mountainside. She knew she was meant to go there. She knew.

Blink.

She had been here before. She had been here so many times, she had lost count. She knew the pale blue and mild purple of the mountains. She knew the tiny shack at the beginning of the trail. The wizened little man there, who sold tea for six rupees a cup (milk and fuel were hard to come by, as he often explained in defence of his prices) also insisted on selling her a ticket. She couldn't get there without a ticket, he warned her. She wouldn't be allowed in. She wondered which place he was talking about...but she never wondered too hard, because she knew, just knew, that she would get there in due course, ticket or no ticket. Sometimes, she gave him a hundred-rupee note in exchange for a crumpled square of paper with illegible writing on it, just to humour him. At other times, she would head on without bothering to reason or haggle. She knew of the lake at the centre of the mountains. Deep, blue and placid, the lake could only be reached via a steep precipice whose nuances she sometimes found herself familiar with, and at other times regarded with vague dread. And she knew she would have to wait at the ledge for the others to catch up. So she waited.

Blink.

She looked down the ravine and into a page out of Sleeping Beauty. The castle rose out of the dense green foliage - the densest she had ever seen - its turrets gleaming in the moonlight. Tall, arched gateways and curving stairwells. It ought to have seemed sinister, she supposed, but it had too much of the touch of the fairy-tale. Parts of it protruded from the leafy lushness of the valley, and the remainder played hide-and-seek. Even from the edge of the ravine, it was difficult to miss the marble smoothness of the walls. Somewhere close, a waterfall gushed down the slopes and snaked past the castle, disappearing into nothingness beyond. Suspended over it all was an eerily perfect, buttery moon, bathing - literally bathing - the scene in shimmering, creamy silver. She wondered how much of it was fact, and how much she should credit her imagination with. All fact? All imagination? She wondered.

Blink.

She closed her eyes, opened them and closed them again. Life, as they knew it, was waiting to be resumed. Life, as she knew it, was busy weaving mysteries. It scared and awed and thrilled her. She couldn't wait to see what it was. Meanwhile, she continued to live life as they knew it. She lived.

Blink.

She smiled.

A Question Paper Called Life

"If you've written all you can in an essay during your exam, and can't think of anything further", my favourite teacher in school, Mrs. Moss, used to say, "move on! Don't just sit there waiting for divine inspiration! There are other answers to be written!"

Advice that I took seriously. It was difficult not to, given how animated she became whenever she talked - whether it was about history, literature, life or just general examination advice. Her eyes would sparkle with enthusiasm and genuine love for what she did, her hands did some explaining of their own...and her smile was one of the loveliest I had ever known. It still is. When Mrs. Moss taught you, she played Cupid between you and the subject...and you fell for it for life.

Coming back to moving on instead of sitting around waiting for divine inspiration, well, that's a great approach to life. When you've done all you can about something and cannot think of anything further, no matter how hard you push your gray cells - who knows, it is time to move on. It made a lot of sense to me back then. The question would read, "What is your stand in the Nature v Nurture debate? Elaborate with special reference to Caliban in The Tempest." And even when you're as obsessed as I am with literature and its layers of meaning, there's only so much that you can think of when you are asked to pen your thoughts within, ideally, 20 minutes, for 12 marks. I could argue this all day with a friend...but put me in an exam hall, with a clock tick-tocking away at eye-level and three unattempted questions and forty remaining minutes staring me in the face...and you'd have a literature-loving, well-prepared twelfth-grader grappling with an impossible mix of surfeit and spacing-out.

It still makes sense, though, doesn't it? For every crisis, every decision and every situation that life hurls at us with its mercilessly regular playfulness, we fall back on what we know already; we rummage for past experience, wisdom, knowledge or plain facts and figures that can help us make a decision or find a solution. Sometimes, we have the luxury of thinking our decisions through. More often than not, we improvise and hope for the best. On other occasions, without a single clue about what we're writing, we fill seven pages. All the time, we're hoping we will fetch ourselves a 12/12. When we know the answer isn't so great, we hope for a 7 or an 8. And there are still three answers to write, and only 40 minutes to go.

But it always works out in the end. In fact, it works out better than you imagined. But for that, you've got to complete the paper. And to complete the paper, you've got to move on once you have written all that you can in an essay. No use sitting around waiting for divine inspiration, as Mrs. Moss put it. There are other answers to be written.

Conversations with Me

Why the dolour, Murphy asks.
I'm hard at work on a million tasks.
Try some more, he says, just focus,
while I perform some hocus pocus.

Your mumbo jumbo, I tell him
and all your crazy vigour and vim,
and all the ideas with which you're toying
are a waste of time, and quite annoying.

He takes offence, walks away in a huff;
pouts, looks mournful, tries acting tough.
Then he yields helplessly to habit -
starts loping around like a li'l jackrabbit.

You waste time yourself, he says with a smirk.
At least I never ignore my work.
My laws, they're sensible and terse -
and look at you, writing rubbish verse!

Your antics, I say, with increasing asperity
are nothing but heirlooms for lame posterity.
You have such a way of goofing up -
causing unwarranted slips 'twixt lip and cup.

And your prose, he goes on, unheeding;
now, that's hardly worth any reading.
Beg pard'n- he twirls daintily on his toes -
you're boring, stupid and verbose.

That'll be all. And I firmly rise.
He looks up with innocent eyes -
Did I do somethin' to tick you off?
Oh yes, I say, I've had enough.

You'll miss me, he insists, as I shove him out.
Oh no I won't, I hear me shout.
Why don't you get lost in the wilderness ,
and spare me all the extra stress?

I return to spinning random tales,
but the Muses elude me. When all else fails,
I stare in dismay at my efforts...
he's right - and this is rubbish verse.

I hear a chuckle, and an illusion crack.
Dear old Murphy is, obviously, back.
Go write tosh. He's warm, indulgent.
I'll render the rambling redundant.

Step back, take a look.

Why is there such a blue pall over my blog? I need to do some serious shaking-up of the self!

All I Ask

I'll believe with all my heart

till I break it believing;

and then I'll believe some more.

I'll keep all the faith

I can keep, and then some -

I'll keep it like never before.

I'll give it all I have

and do all I can,

and fulfil every arduous task...

I'll walk as far as it takes -

sunshine and rain don't matter

So long as I know where I'm headed.

I'll fight all the fears;

be as brave as I can

and face every demon I've dreaded.

I don't mind waiting

forever and for always.

A promise is all I ask.

Button-eyed Profundity

So I'm in a brown study
over some things gone by;
a little green, a little blue
And I do, I do try

to see a little less red
(it helps you remain in the pink);
better crimson than yellow
is what I like to think.

I rack my grey cells over
the black, in-between, and white.
Then I sit and write some poetry
Arbitrary and trite :)

Truth - and closure

Dear ______,

I write to you today because I'm never going to be able to tell you this in person. Don't ask me why. It is very obvious why!

When I first met you, I didn't really care. You were just another new face among the tens of others I had recently met. The circumstances we met in didn't do much to get things off to a particularly rosy start either.

When I began to spend more time with and around you - purely because I had no choice - I actually found myself wishing either you or me out of the place. I concluded that I didn't like you much.

So I have no idea why, the first time you didn't show up like always, I was unable to enjoy the sort of day I'd been wishing for. I have no idea why it would put me in a bad mood to find you in one, and I certainly do not know why I began to go about with a silly grin on my face on the days that we talked about this, that and the other.

I have no clue when you began to matter so much. I still don't know why. You're wrong for me. All wrong. You don't fit my ideal combination of Roark and Darcy and Wodehouse. I don't know why you still mean more than that combination ever did, and I admire and dislike you in equal measure for turning that paradigm on its head for me. Who gave you the permission?

I reasoned with myself that it was yet another teenage crush coming two years late, and I knew it would bide its time and cease to exist afterwards.

I was right. It did behave like a crush. Long after I'd bid you goodbye, I found myself so engrossed in the present and the future and everything in between that you became just another hazy memory. You were different from the other hazy memories, though. Those others are never accompanied by a smile or a pang, or both, sometimes.

Something happened recently that brought you back into sharp focus for me. You're just another name on my phonebook and Facebook account now, and I am, thankfully, far enough past the 'lovestruck' stage to be able to talk to you like I do to anyone else. I'm also far enough past that stage to be able to smile and shake my head at everything. Quite the wise woman! :)

There's less than a one-in-a-million chance that you will ever read this...and there's absolutely no chance whatsoever of you getting to know that it is addressed to you. But if you do read this, do glance at the post just below this one, and you'll know why I chose to write to you today :) This is one of my moments of truth...and what is a moment of truth without acknowledgement?

Thank you for the memories, and for teaching me to look beyond Darcy and Roark. I'm still hung up on Wodehouse, though. Did I ever tell you you have a great sense of humour? :)

Love,
Crossworder

Over a Late Breakfast

You've got to be really well-prepared for your exam, or else really sure that you're beyond damage control, when you sit and ponder management theories a day before your Compensation & Benefits paper instead of dutifully revising Dessler and labour laws. And when you're cooking Maggi and writing this at the same time, you are beyond any help whatsoever, which is why you also grin like I am, and check your saucepan to ensure the seasoning is right.

But when I was boiling water for my coffee ten minutes ago, I hit upon some cardinal truths that I thought I must share. At this point, I must request all management purists and aficionados to exit the blog. I can feel irreverence bubbling over in me, and you are not going to be pleased. At the very outset, I remind you that I am a half-baked management graduate with very little knowledge to call my own. That probably explains the irreverence.

- More than once in the last eighteen months, I have found that most management theories are essentially common sense packaged in a fancy framework. Not to take away at all from all the contributors to the field, these are facts that have always, well, existed. That said, I do recognise the importance of realising that these facts exist, gleaning them from the everyday and the ordinary through intensive - and extensive - research, and presenting them to the world in a format that makes sense and is applicable, by and large, to most scenarios. As someone who intends to get into research herself eventually, I'd be the last to say that research in the field is irrelevant (why would I want to devote my life to something I don't believe in, now?), but there is also something to be said for the number of times I have heard people say (and felt myself), "Eh, this is what they're talking about? Of course there will be dissatisfaction if I pay one guy less than his counterpart doing the same work." Or "If you occupy a chunk of someone's mindspace for a reasonable while, he will, more likely than not, buy whatever it is that you're selling him". I could probably be charged with over-simplification. I'll cheerfully concede to the charges. :)

- Ever notice how most revolutionary concepts come from the same set of countries? Japan, the U.S. and the U.K., among others. Japan has practically cornered the market on contemporary management practices. I'd give anything for a peek into the average Japanese brain. Those people astound me. I haven't heard of too many theories coming from, say, Italy or Spain or Russia. I wonder why. Of course, there are studies carried out by researchers from scores of countries. What makes it to most standard textbooks (not that that alone means that the research was any good), though, comes from the same handful of countries. I seriously wonder why.

- We in India have an inexplicable affinity for books and theories that originated abroad. There's nothing wrong with that. Management is about people, and people are - cultural and organisational and economic differences aside - essentially the same everywhere. So whether we use Blum & Naylor or T. Rao to aid our understanding of how they can be "managed" (I've never been very comfortable with the connotation) is not - or shouldn't be - so important. But the problem lies somewhere else. The problem lies in assuming that your education is incomplete if you studied only out of Indian authors' works. Sure, it is...but isn't it equally incomplete if you study only out of McGraw Hill and Prentice Hall versions of foreign authors' books? Why can't we study theories from wherever they are explained best, and allow ourselves the privilege of reading what people from our country have to say about people from our country? And I mean this not just individually, but also from our universities' point of view.


My coffee mug is empty, my Maggi cold, and I am beginning to panic slightly about Comp & Ben. Cheerio, then. And I wish Blogger would behave better on my computer. I can't italicize words, the spacing is awry, and my paragraphs refuse to be disciplined into justification.

P.S.: As on November 30, I've had a decent C&B paper, have also spun yarns on Organisational Psychology...and am really kicked because Blogger is back on its best behaviour. As you can see, my friend, my posts are all justified in alignment...again! :)

Just thought I'd drop by...

Hey there...it's been a while. I'm back. Not back, really, just peeking in to say a quick hi because I missed my blog. Exams are on for another two weeks. In the last three days, I have taken papers in HR Planning & Selection and Training & Development. At this point in time, I can switch recruitment effectiveness parameters and training needs analysis basics no problem. It's all the same. Sounds the same, at least.

Anyway, I am here because I wanted to stop by. There were random streams of thought in my head that I'd put away to explore further here on Blogger...but Comp & Ben has a way of confusing the most sorted heads, and I am befuddled plenty. I still wanted to stop by.

So here I am, with nothing in particular to write about. I could write about how three friends and I just spent two and a half hours watching Ajab Prem ki Ghazab Kahani, and how the movie is pure rubbish but we still had fun trying to see if we could sit through it to the end. I could write about how it feels to find yourself on the brink of growing up, with no excuses left to remain where you are. I could write about the ten different ideas I wake up with every morning on what to do with my life. I could write about the flute seller who roams the streets every day at twilight, playing music that tugs at every heartstring, but never getting more than a cursory glance (and how he plays on regardless, and it is evident that his music makes him happy – and us, too, though we never stop to admit it). I could, maybe, post some poetry I doodled on the back of my Training Models handout. Perhaps I could write about the surreal reality that is the preparation for the Commonwealth Games. Perhaps I could write about the long discussion (or argument, or both) that my roommate and I had the other day - Fitzwilliam Darcy or Rhett Butler? (I still say a blend of Darcy and Howard Roark...and Wodehouse's humour thrown in ;). I could, while we are on the topic, write about my first crush. Or I could begin rambling on one of my random fundamental theories in life.

But when your connection is choppy and your brain addled with labour laws, and sleep is playing peekaboo, it's never wise to begin one of your yarns. The whole point of this post was to say Hi. So hi there…and I’ll see you soon.

Schoolgirl Poetry I : November Rain

Deadlines, in all their urgency
loom large and menacing over me
I smile and gaze out,
blissfully.


Memories, ever rushing by -
restless, like a school of fry
From the present,
my alibi...


Tomorrows playing peekaboo -
promising. Foreboding, too.
I love them golden
and in blue.


Winter chill beneath my feet,
wind and rain and hail and sleet
Where the elements part
and meet.


Silly grins for no real reason,
brought on by mysterious treason
wrought suddenly by
the season.


I'm free, I'm flying north again
I'm wandering down memory lane
Blame it on
November rain.

Grizzly me

There's something warm and cosy and snug and comfortable about an oversized sweatshirt. It makes you feel like a giant, well-content bear! :)

Spirals of Smoke

Waqt rukta nahin kahin tik kar
Iski aadat bhi aadmi si hai

(Time is a lot like man -
It can never stay put.)

- Gulzar

Forgive me the poor translation. If there ever was a textbook case of meaning getting lost in translation, this would be it! But it is a beautiful line; again, from Marasim.

Winter is gradually making itself at home. For the first time this season, it was foggy all through today. The mornings are beautiful; the evenings, picturesque.

I was about to post some poetry, but I think it can wait.

Life smells and tastes of ginger and cinnamon. Perfect.

Full Circle - 2

The '2' in the title is because I remember writing a post titled this way earlier...some time in March, I think. I'm not sure if it's still here, though. Between my own whims and the even more whimsical Blogger, I never am sure what stays and what doesn't.

But life does have a way of coming full circle in the strangest ways. I have had my Airtel prepaid number for five and a half years now. I bought it when I first came to College...and it has seen me through graduation, M&A research, a million highs and lows, scores of emergencies and a thousand impulses. When I finish post-graduation next year, I will leave Delhi. Till then, 98*******8 will continue to define me to my family and friends as the girl who misses more calls than the rest of the world put together, and writes text messages that read like theses.

The reason why I'm talking about those five years and this number is that, if I choose, I can enable calling on my phone at one paisa a second to any number in India. That, people, is a big (albeit expected) leap from what things used to be, not just for me or for Airtel (in different ways, of course), but for telecom in India as a whole. There's a whole lot of economics and marketing and strategy there, but I'll think aloud about that some other time. I just happen to be in a phase where the most mundane things bring back associations, and Airtel and 1 paisa are doing exactly that.

Back when I first got to Delhi, a local call cost 2 bucks a minute, and a single message set you back by a rupee. STD calls (I made a lot of those to my folks my first year, before I went devious and started missed-calling them for every little thing ;) cost 2.65. Roaming charges were nothing short of daylight robbery. So when Airtel came up with their one-rupee-a-day-rental one paisa per message scheme, it was a relief godsend. Rezzies are perpetually broke, so it helped tremendously to have to recharge with, say, 50 bucks a month, and text away to glory for everything from sharing notes on tutes to planning a surprise birthday party.

But I don't remember how much I saved from my allowance with that scheme (whose expiry all Resident Airtel users mourned for weeks). What I do remember, and will always cherish, is the friendships those SMSes helped build and cement. My closest friendships to date are ones that began with random PJ forwards, moving on to banter and longish, typed conversations and growing deeper with exchanges on lectures and life and everything in between. That is not to say that there weren't conversations in person or time spent together or the other things that go into the making of the most wonderful relationships. What 1p/message helped me discover in myself and my friends, though, was the beauty of thoughts, questions, misgivings and smiles articulated as, and as soon as, they occur, without the inhibition that being face-to-face can sometimes bring. And that kind of sharing builds stronger bonds.

And then there came along special rates and lower charges and reduced roaming and, over three years, we'd pretty much begun to take local and STD calling at one buck as the standard.

Till DoCoMo came along whistling. (Pretty interesting how TTSL's GSM service got its name...apparently, docomo is a Japanese compound word for 'everywhere', which suited NTT DoCoMo, Japan's biggest telecom company, just fine as an indication of its network quality. Also, 'docomo' is a portmanteau for 'do communications on the mobile network'...very Japanese English, but interesting nonetheless! :)

And suddenly, all the others were scrambling to provide 1p/sec calling to their subscribers.

For a brand that is new to India, bright and colourful and tiny DoCoMo exudes the endearing energy and confidence of a little child, and has created quite a stir.

And so I was thinking, as I walked past yet another Do the New hoarding this evening, that life has, indeed, come full circle here, too. Now, I can call people for a song if I choose to...but the people I want to call the most are too far away. There's less time, more worries, less candour, more uncertainty. I wonder what it would have been like to spend only a paise a second five years ago. I know what it is like now...but I wasn't looking for this answer :) Short of declaring outgoing calls free of charge (or actually paying subscribers to make calls or send text messages), there isn't much telecom companies can do now. They're on their way down to the bone here.

Maybe I should take a cue from DoCoMo and do the new instead of brooding so much over the past like I am wont to do sometimes. But before I put all this ruminating out of the way and get back to the mad merry-go-round...to all the friends I met, got to know and grew to love over those fifteen months and afterwards, I miss you.

This post is dedicated to 1-paisa-per-message friendships that have come to mean so, so much.

Memories in Melodies

Not that homesickness is confined to a particular season, but I end up missing home terribly at this time of the year. Among the countless things that bind me to where I will always belong, is music - old Hindi music and ghazals, in particular. Given that both my parents enjoy it immensely, and that music always had a place in the background when all of us were together when I was growing up, it is hardly surprising that I have an innate love of melody too. College and my time on my own added new genres and more variety to what I like...but there's nothing that can quite take the place of old Kishore Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar and Mohd. Rafi songs...or of the soulful ghazals by Ghulam Ali and Jagjit Singh. I seem to have inherited my father's love of Gulzar's poetry, my mother's knack for remembering lyrics, and both my parents' flair for humming and singing softly as they go about their work. This evening, I suddenly found myself humming Katra Katra from Ijaazat, an old Hindi film. So I thought I'd share excerpts from some of my favourites :) Somehow, they end up saying a lot about life...happy songs! :)


Katra katra milti hai, katra katra jeene do
Zindagi hai, behne do,
Pyaasi hoon main pyaasi rehne do...
--------------
Aane vaala pal jaane vaala hai
Ho sake to ismein zindagi bita do, pal jo yeh jaane vaala hai...
-------------
Ae zindagi, galey laga le
Humne bhi tere har ek gham ko galey se lagaya hai, hai na?
------------
Diye jalte hain, phool khilte hain
Badi mushkil se magar duniya mein dost milte hain...
------------
Koi roko na deewaane ko
Mann machal raha kuch gaane ko...
------------
Tum itna jo muskura rahe ho
Kya gham hai jisko chhupa rahe ho...
------------
Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koi
Yunhi nahi dil lubhaata koi
Jaane tu, ya jaane na...
Maane tu, ya maane na...
[Yes, I know this one came back into the limelight recently :)]
--------------
This one is from Marasim, an album that Gulzar and Jagjit Singh collaborated on. It released when I was in senior school, and I have very vivid memories of listening to the songs with Papa as he drove me to and from my Math tuitions (I am seriously mathematically challenged!). I would chatter nonstop, breaking off every now and then to ask him what a particularly difficult Urdu word appearing in the current song meant. He would explain the meaning if he knew it himself; otherwise, we sat and deconstructed the word and tried going into its etymology to arrive at its meaning. Pronunciation in Urdu is extremely nuanced, and my father insisted I pronounce words right, often having to say a word as many as eight times himself for me to get it straight! Now and then, I’d deliberately mispronounce a word, just to hear him say it again, perfectly and with endless patience.

Haath chhoote bhi to rishtey nahi chhoda karte
Waqt ki shaakh se lamhe nahi toda karte...

-----------

I remember, in particular, these lines delivered by Gulzar himself at the end of the song. An exquisite metaphor wrapped in beautiful, simple, poignant poetry, addressed to a weaver and rendered in the voice of a much-admired poet:

Mujhko bhi tarqeeb sikha koi, yaar julaahe
Aksar dekha hai tujhko taana buuntey
Jab koi dhaaga toot gaya, ya khatam hua
Phir se baandh ke aur sira koi jod ke usmein
Aage buun-ney lagte ho.

Tumhare iss taane-baane mein lekin ek bhi gaanth-girah
Dhoondkar bhi dekh nahi sakta hai koi.

Maine toh ek baar buna tha ek hi rishta, lekin
Uski saari girrhein saaf nazar aati hain mere yaar julaahe…

Mujhko bhi tarqeeb sikha koi, yaar julaahe…

Translated, it reads:

Teach me your method, friend weaver.
Often have I seen you weave your threads together…
Every time a thread breaks, or runs out
You knot the loose end or tie it to another
And continue with your weaving.

Nobody can spot any of those knots in your weaving, though -
even if they tried.

The only thing I have ever woven is a relationship
But all its knots and loose ends are so clearly visible, my friend.

Teach me your method, friend weaver.

I could go on and on...but there is hardly any point in listing about a hundred and fifty songs :) Old music is something I frequently turn to when I miss home, but it has the dual, rather paradoxical effect of making me feel better and more homesick at the same time! Which are your favourite songs? :)

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

P.S. This post is dedicated to Ma and Papa. Aren't parents the most wonderful people in the world? :)

Hmm. I see.

For those who refuse to believe what they are going to read now, I have documentary proof. Wire INR 60 into my account so that I can scan the cards in and send you a soft copy. As of this moment, I am broke.

Where were we?

Glasses. Thank you.

I have been wearing glasses for eight years now. When the telltale headaches and blurred vision first began in tenth grade, the prescription read: Left -1.25, Right -1.5 --- 6/6. Over these last eight years, those figures on the prescriptions have varied, rising and falling and staying constant till, two years ago, when I went for my annual eye check-up, the optician gave me a pair of glasses with a power of -0.5 in the left lens and -0.75 in the right. And because my employers were footing my medical bills [;)], I went ahead and requested anti-reflective coating as well. Hey, don't judge me...I was also spending 10 hours a day in front of a computer screen working for them!

Ask any constant user of vision correction glasses and he will tell you that it's always a good idea to head to the optician's when your head begins spinning if you so much as read the label on a bottle of shampoo. It has been happening to me for some time now, so I figured a visit to the neighborhood optical store was in order. I went this afternoon.

The optometrist examined me and my glasses and declared that the right lens of the specs needed changing from -0.75 to -0.5. "The power in the right lens has fallen", he added for good measure. "And this anti-reflective coating needs reinforcing. We'll have it done by the evening. It will cost you 1,650 only."

Gulp.

"Unless it is an emergency", my father's words rang in my head, "always get a second opinion on any medical issue, especially when you're away from home and the family physician."

"Right. Thanks", I said, picking up my things. "I'll be back later."

I fled the store and wondered what I should do next. It made sense to get a second opinion on the change in the power of my lenses, especially because the wrong glasses can do damage that goes beyond splitting headaches. So I headed to another optician further down the road.

This one emerged from behind his gigantic machine and gave me a grim look.

"The power in both lenses has risen by 0.25", he announced. That wasn't all. "Your left eye is beginning to show signs of defect in cylindrical vision. You already need spherical correction, obviously."

Uh, what?

Now, I do have a vague idea what cylindrical and spherical is. And it shouldn't surprise me that my eyes are beginning to show more signs of defect. As my grandmum declared when I first obtained glasses, it is surprising I didn't need them earlier. Defective vision runs in the family. Apparently, the last person known to have perfect vision all his life was my grandmum's great grand-dad.

"Two thousand four hundred", this man declared with grim satisfaction. "If you want new frames, those will be charged for separately."

Thank you. I said I would be back in the evening if I decided to place an order.

Stepping out, I spotted a third optician's signboard about fifteen stores down the road. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought as I hiked down. Might as well have him telling me something else needed changing.

"These spectacles you currently use will do just fine", the doctor said, switching the machine off. "Your vision is exactly what it was when you got those made. However", he lingered, eyeing my glasses, "it's been a while for that anti-reflective coating. I suggest you get it replaced."

"Twelve hundred", the clerk totted it all up.

"Thanks. I'll be back in case I need to place an order", I said. Paid the fifty bucks for the testing and escaped.

And that's how I decided that I'm sticking with my current pair of glasses. If three opticians have three entirely different opinions on the state of my eyes, I guess it's safe to assume that these old things will live yet. An hour of traipsing through Kamla Nagar, 190 in testing bills and a headache that had nothing to do with my vision...kind of a costly reminder that it's time I stopped being too lazy to fetch my glasses and put them on when I sit down to use my computer or read myself to sleep.

The finale to the adventure came when I was telling my sister the story. "Hmm", she remarked, "Given that those three exhausted all the options among themselves, I wonder what a fourth optician would have said. You want to visit the big store at Hudson Lines?"

Of this, that and the other

There's a nip - more than a nip, actually - in the air. The sort that skims lightly over bare arms and raises goosebumps. The cold is just new enough to be pleasant, and just sudden enough to take you unawares. And when you hug yourself, trying to huddle up against it, you feel warm and cosy and snug, and break, instinctively, into a smile...Old Man Winter remembers us, after all!

Just as you remember him. Just as you remember the shaft of sunlight that stole into your room every winter morning with delicious warmth. Just as you remember the thrill of being allowed to sleep till seven because school began at nine in the winter session. Just as you remember drawing trees and smiley faces - and graduating to signing your name - on the bathroom mirror when hot water baths steamed it up. Just as you remember New Year's Eves at home, when the warmth from sweaters and shawls paled before that of togetherness. Just as you remember scooting across your room barefoot to get the slippers you forgot somewhere else in your house, giggling as the cold floor bit the soles of your feet. Just as you remember marvelling at the first rosebud of the season, so tender and timid and beautiful and brave. Just as you remember wondering, from November to February, how you could ever have needed electric fans and refrigerators (and, for the rest of the year, how you could have done without them). Just as you remember cuddling up to an indulgent parent or sibling, enjoying the blessed warmth that relationships bring.

Just as you remember consistently missing 8.40s all through third term, the firmest determination notwithstanding. Just as you remember the sense of achievement that came from lugging a bucket of hot water all the way from the boiler to the first floor with minimal splashing. Just as you remember becoming a permanent fixture - with or without your books - on the College lawns every afternoon every day of the week, and all of Sunday. Just as you remember the fragrance of orange peel on your fingers every lunch break. Just as you remember the walks to Nirula's and the moongfali-wallah's after dinner every evening, recognising friends in hooded and sweatshirted figures passing by, and greeting them with a smile and a "Hi" that was invariably accompanied by a spiral of smoky winter breath. Just as you remember huddling with three other friends under a blanket meant for one, watching Pretty Woman for the fourth time and swapping notes on Mr. Right, then burrowing in with books and notes, shameless guilt for unprepared-for tests written large on every face. Just as you remember how completely you fell in love with the city no matter where you saw it - Daryaganj, the Red Fort, the University, CP, South Ex...Delhi's soul is never as beautifully consummate as it is in winter.

Just as you remember walking with friends to the nearest dhaba for hot, butter-soaked parathas and milky tea. Just as you remember lazing in the living room, spending whole Sundays doing precisely nothing. Just as you remember laughing as you tried, unsuccessfully, to block a chink in the window pane with newspaper. Just as you remember being, just being, with people you may or may not have been the closest pals with, but who were an undeniably integral part of your life. Just as you remember staring at the moon through the December fog, startled out of inevitable trances by a flock of white birds flying across it in perfect V-formation.


All part of one life, even if it does seem to belong to a distant other that seems too fragile, too perfect, to be true. All part of a life that promises as much as it has brought.


My sweatshirts smell of mothballs and memories.

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


Before I sign off, there's something else I have to write about. A very simple gesture that made my day and lifted me, single-handedly, out of the blues.


The last few days have been difficult. I didn't sleep very well last night, and found myself beginning today running late. So I skipped breakfast and rushed to the department. Class was demanding - MIS is always demanding of concentration and patience - and there was a meeting right after the last one, which meant forgoing lunch. The meeting left me irritable and - I hate to admit this - angry. All of which means that by the time I got back to my room, I was tired, hungry, mad, blue and in the throes of a bad headache, which did nothing to improve my mood. I decided to give the cold hostel lunch a miss and headed out without quite knowing where. My feet took me to McDonald's pretty much on their own, so in I went, thinking some iced tea, a McVeggie, and a glance at the day's papers would do me good.


I left the counter with my tray - with my burger and iced tea on it - balanced on my right fist (yes, a loaded tray on my fist), in which I clutched my wallet, phone and keys. Standing near the ledge which held the drinking straw dispensers, I tried pressing the lever with my left hand. Now, I knew this was a bad foolish idea, I knew I should probably set my tray down before I got myself a straw, but I was already put off by other things...so I didn't bother with what was, technically, the right thing to do. Not even when the glass of iced tea skidded to the edge of the tray. I simply focused - in my scattered way - on the dispenser.


The glass toppled and iced tea spilled all over the floor.


Chagrined and wanting to kick myself, I went apologetically to the counter and requested that the spill be mopped up. They handed me another glass - I wasn't expecting one and I wasn't about to ask, after how stupid I had been - and the floor was mopped promptly. Tray balanced exactly as earlier - I think I thought I'd be more careful this time so the need to carry it more sensibly didn't occur to me - I tried reaching on tiptoe to the newspaper on the rack a foot above my head. Again, the right thing to have done would have been to set the tray down, pick the paper up, retrieve my tray, and head to my seat. But no. I stood there, glass and burger halfway to tilting over, trying to reach the rack. Uncharacteristically impractical. Says a lot about how blue I was...when, out of nowhere, a hand over my head lifted the paper from the rack and held it out to me.


Looking up, I saw one of the security guards from outside the restaurant standing on the lowest of the steps to the counters, smiling politely and waiting for me to take the paper from him.

I broke into my first spontaneous smile in three days.

I thanked him warmly, feeling very, very, very grateful for that simple gesture. He didn't have to do it...but he did. And he didn't expect profound gratitude for it, but I was profoundly grateful. Not just because he saved me and the food from another disaster, but because - and I still can't find the words to explain how or why - he suddenly made me feel a lot better. Lighter and happier and better.

To people like that gentleman at McDonald's...for simple thoughtfulness that can lift whole clouds and make so much difference...thank you :)


I expect I'll be a regular here in the next few weeks (at least till last-minute panic for sem-end exams sets in...and I'll probably end up blogging about that too :). This weather tends to do that to me! So long.

Scatter Diagram

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken

your best friend always stickin' up for you

even when I know you're wrong

Can you imagine no...five hour phone conversation

the best soy latte you ever had...and me?

This is one of the phases I dread getting into. Before you read any further, be warned that this post is being written in an unusually blue, pensive, near-maudlin mood, and is likely to blot the sunshine from your room for a couple of minutes. If you'd rather not attend a gloomfest right now, feel free to let your cursor hit the top-right corner of the screen :)

Where was I? The phase I dread getting into - allowing the past to get the better of me. I don't know if it is the weather, the smoky, wintry-smelling air, the time of the year, or just a series of badly-timed conversations and recollections - or sheer solitude. I doubt if it is this last, because, as a rule, I guard my silences and spaces rather fiercely. I'm guessing it's something about this time of the year and all that it brings. I'm homesick, and a little worried, and also direction-less in a way I do not either understand or like. I'm missing people I don't want to miss, thinking about times I'd rather not think about, talking to people I don't want to talk to about things we're all better off not discussing.

I'm not doing anything, which is very, very difficult for me to handle. I'm as fond of a carefree life as the next person, but...this is something I'm no good at. I'm thinking about relationships that never were, people I will never see again and time wasted so ridiculously, it doesn't even merit mention as wasted time. And I don't know why I am doing this. It is just not me. I'm perplexed. Perplexed doesn't even begin to cover it.

Anyway, I spent the evening lighting diyas. I've already gone into spiels on how much I love the sight of a lit diya...but it's so beautiful that it is worth a second mention :) Something in me reacts instantly, instinctively and rather passionately to a flame...I could stare and marvel at it for hours. One astrologically-inclined friend philosophised, "You're a fire sign, that's what you are. That's why you respond so naturally to a flame, that's why you find it so beautiful...". Uh, yes, trouble is, I love beaches and waterfalls and the rain...and wild horses couldn't drag me indoors when it is breezy, and I can stare at the sky for hours on end, especially early in the morning or late at night...so where does that leave us, Watson?

'Elementary'?

I'd say.

As usually happens with my writing when I can't think straight, I've gone and written everything in my head out here. Not everything, actually. Some thoughts are the sort you shy away from putting into words, because then they start appearing a lot more significant than they seemed - or, to put it honestly, a lot more significant than you'd like to admit they are.

My head is filled with a hundred thoughts, and ninety seven of those are thoughts whose magnitude or meaning I am yet to come to terms with. I will, in due course, but it's time I signed off now.

Wistfulness

In all these years away from home, I have learnt to handle practically everything on my own. Everything - bad food, homesickness, illness without having someone to fuss over me, devastating grades, heartbreak, loneliness, bhang-induced highs on Holi, packing and unpacking - and practically moving house - twice a year, doing my own laundry (and learning, the hard way, that whites and pastels are best not bought), living on a budget, cooking my own meals, fretting over my decisions or patting myself on the back for them. It hasn't all been uphill, though...I've celebrated my proficiency at changing light bulbs, my confirmation after six endless months of probation, danced in joy over an assignment that fetched a 23.5 on 25, dealt with the impact of vague crushes, grinned like a maniac at my phone when Citibank sent me their first text, informing me that my salary had been credited to my account, felt superhuman after having negotiated three peak traffic hours to get home, revelled in the bliss of travelling alone and being officially incommunicado, been trusted with responsibilities and (heh heh :) secrets, and learnt how to tie a saree, not to mention some micro, macro and development economics, and human resource management, all by myself.

And you know what, it's tough to deal with a rough patch alone...but it's tougher still to have something to celebrate and have the people you most want to share it with, not around. I've managed both - all said and done - with decent aplomb. Oh, give and take a few inexplicable-to-the-world blue moods or hyper-excited happy dances.

But the one thing I'm still not used to is having to be away from home and family on festivals. In six years now, I haven't celebrated Holi, Diwali, the Pujas or New Year's Eve with them. And much as I am capable of handling everything else, this one thing still leaves me a little wistful. A phone call - or several - is not much of a substitute. That is not to say I haven't had some very memorable celebrations with friends in College and at work. I'd be supremely ungrateful if I said I didn't have fun and stow away some beautiful memories. Yeah, now that those friends are far away, too, the memories just get more intense and the festivals just a tad more lonesome :) I was brought up in the sort of family where Friday evenings and Sunday mornings and afternoons were earmarked for something special. Simple, but special. Holidays meant time with the extended family. Dinner time was for conversation and laughter...and festivals meant celebration. Small rituals - spring cleaning, food particular to the occasion, having the gulal or crackers ready, planning the drive around the colony - went into the making of beautiful Holis, Diwalis and Dussehras. And if something like that has been part of your life for as long as you can remember, it's part of who you are.

Which is why I still give my room an especially thorough cleaning before a festival. Also why I make it a point to go shopping for garlands, diyas and sweets, and then spend a couple of hours doing up my room. It's why I stand in the balcony and watch families celebrating, and thank my lucky stars for having had the chance to know what that kind of celebration is like. It is also why, in spite of the nostalgia and the homesickness, I know I will enjoy the festival and be happy and thankful, because that is what festivals are all about.

Diwali is around the corner, so it is time my room got that spring cleaning I was talking about. And there is something so eternally beautiful about a lit diya, it is hard to put into words. It's my favourite festival ritual - lighting diyas. So here's thanking all of you - family and friends - who have given me reasons to feel festive...and here's thanking you, God, for the aforementioned family and friends! Happy Diwali, everyone...and have a beautiful year ahead! :) :)

The Unforgettables - I

1. Rain in College
2. Walks to Gwyer Hall in winter, breath forming smoky wreaths
3. Casa 7, Gurgaon
4. May 7 - 13, 2008, Mumbai & Goa
5. Breezy evenings at L-7/3
6. Power cuts at K-14/20
7. Early morning rides to work - the road empty, glistening and beautiful
8. Sunday lunches from August 2007 - June 2008
9. Walks on the terrace of 32 U.B.
10. June 20, 2007
11. December 9, 2007
12. Kandisa at 2 a.m. in an empty Allnutt South
13. That feeling of triumph at having finished packing at the end of first and second year. The struggle to get the trunk downstairs. The attempts at tricking the Office into believing there were only 3 articles of luggage in the LCR.
14. The breathless dash to Allnutt South at 9.58 p.m.
15. The stars from Andrews Court
16. The shades of green in DLF 2
17. Impromptu lessons in Marketing at MGF Metropolitan
18. 10.30 p.m. phone conversations - the ones that have become a habit
19. The French window in the five-seater
20. Holi 2008
21. Univs 2006



To be continued.

At breakfast today, someone switched on the TV in the common room. The screen flickered on to reveal VH1...just as the video of Green Day's Boulevard of Broken Dreams began. That song brings so many memories back.

Can you believe that I actually walked out of a class still in progress? I did, just now. I can't believe I did that - walk out of Organisational Psychology class, for heaven's sake! I live for the behavioural aspect of this discipline that I have chosen to study. But then, all this only goes to show how badly I needed to leave. I couldn't take another minute in there.

All this is not usually like me. In another way, though, it is typically me. I guess I should just take the rest of the day off and go for a walk on the Ridge.

A Love Note - and a Confession

Hi,

So I guess it's time I came clean. I thought this last year and a half had put enough distance between us for me to be able to look at you objectively, for what you are, and smile formally and walk past you. I couldn't do it. One look at you and I knew I was a goner - like I'd always been with you. You'd known all along - right from that moment we'd parted...right from the moment, in fact, that we first met. I'd been the one pretending it was all over. Oh, who was I trying to fool anyway? You know, now, that you're my weakness, so I might as well tell you the truth.

Do you remember how it all began? I do, like it was yesterday. It was something new, just like my new job and new flat. Everything began together. I still remember walking into Barista on my third day at work, just before I left for home. That's when I first saw you. I remember hesitating before I walked up to you...

All I remember after that is how I sought you out whenever I could. On a good day when I felt sunny, on Mondays when the thought of the week stretching ahead left me blue, when I was confirmed after probation, every time I was low or exhausted or simply irritated with a boss who could do little else but find fault, you were the one I sought out. I'd come running into the coffeeshop and find you there, waiting. And I would smile. In you, I found something to smile for, something to cherish and dream about most of my waking hours. I found myself losing myself in your nature - such a beautiful blend of opposites. Crusty and business-like on the outside, you sometimes had me fooled even when I thought I'd got to know you reasonably well...but all doubts vanished when we sat under the stars and whiled away time before I had to go home. That was when I was reassured by how sweet and soft you have always been inside. You've always been nutty - but then it's who you are, and I wouldn't change anything about you for the world.

Which is why it was so difficult to say goodbye when I resigned after I was accepted into this school. I remember my eyes misting over as I beheld you one last time, allowed myself those last few minutes of happiness, that last delighted smile. We could meet again if I chose to...but I chose to end it there. The Barista outside the office was where it all began, and that was where it would all end. It made sense, I thought. It had been going on far too long. You had become an addiction...and you know how my defences are about addictions.

So I don't know why I stepped into the Barista on Bungalow Road this evening on a whim. It's been a year and a half, like I said, and I thought I'd gotten over you. I wasn't even expecting you there (although, on second thoughts, why shouldn't you be?). But there you were, sweet and warm and waiting, like always. That was it - there was no turning back. I stood at the door, transfixed, and I knew in a moment of epiphany that I had only been harbouring needless illusions all this time. I never really got over you. I don't think I can. So I walked up to where you were, and my eyes must have given me away, because the man behind the counter smiled politely and said, "Good evening, Ma'am. Would you like a brownie?"

Mr. Fudgee the Brownie, I love you. I always will.

Yours, always,

Crossworder

P.S.: I wish Barista had named you something else, though.

Leaps of Faith

There was this focussed, decided, determined, frizzy-haired girl who drank the occasional cup of coffee and got all her curls chopped off every ten weeks. Then there was a lost, bewildered child-woman, who would do anything that gave her some definition and identity for the confetti that had spilled out of her happy jar. Occasionally, as she gathered the confetti into damp fistfuls, she'd look up determinedly, muttering fierce promises to herself.

The next thing she knew, she was several years into adulthood, focussed in a lost sort of way, sure of only a few things - but very, very sure - and had discovered a new philosophy she liked to claim as her own. From twelve cups of coffee a day, she went to the other extreme and decided she'd never depend on a cup of anything to perk her up or keep her awake. She is still clueless about what to do with her curls, but they have a mind of their own now. And she likes to walk around with a tub of Play-doh, the book she's currently reading, and a small notepad and her crayons in her bag, for when time takes her unawares. Over several years, she suddenly found her best friend (they have the ugliest fights, but then both agree each was the best thing to happen to the other). They were neighbours and were hardly acquainted before this. Beat that!

I don't know how many of you remember this Lakme ad from some 18 years ago. It had a series of shots of Aishwarya Rai as (what was then) the perfect picture of urban chic, and (what still is and will always be) the ultimate essence of spunky, happy, vivacious girlhood. They had the refrain from She's Got the Look from Roxette's Look Sharp! in the background. I remembered the music - and I discovered the song recently. I don't know why, but I love the number. I could dance down the street to that one!

Has anyone out there ever done this - decided against doing something, ever again...and gone and done it on an impulse? I do it more frequently than I care to count - or than is good for my morale. And then, I stay mad at myself for quite some time...till I start getting mad at myself for being mad and wasting time and energy and not doing something more productive. That's how it goes...and then (no, don't say anything yet, I know a lot of us do this...what I'm asking you about is going to follow) I do something equally stupid...stupider, if possible, so that I can get mad at myself at that. That distracts me from the first bit of lunacy. Then I just get fed up of being mad and go find something productive to do.

The other day, someone said, you know, you ought to befriend and keep in touch with people you can ask for help later. I thought that wasn't only selfish and pig-headed, but also really sad. What, all your friends are people you may or may not like or have something in common with, but who can do things for you? Eh, I'd like to think I'm more self-sufficient than that. Not a saint, just self-sufficient and perpetually short on patience.

And so I wander down life's lanes, going wherever, doing whatever. And when I am - often, deliberately - clueless, I sit and write a post about this, that and the other.

Checking In

I haven't been around for a while...though, would you believe it, I've written some five posts in my head in the last month or so. They just never materialised into anything here. But, this afternoon, I want to write. The last ten days have been a change from the routine - even if so in superficial ways. The Saturday before the last was exciting - one of the three occasions a year that I dress up in a saree for. The saree is my favourite garment...but I wish I had enough grace for it. Trying, trying :) :)

This weekend was interesting too - the annual convention, a two day long affair. Blasphemous though I may sound, I enjoyed the International Business chapter better than the Human Resources part. Trussed up in a black business suit for the better part of two days (and feeling like a penguin, if I may add), I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the discussions on red and blue ocean strategies and financial engineering...AND the 20-cover lunch. ;)

What else...I'm happy because I was finally able to give someone a piece of my mind (I sometimes have very misplaced notions of niceness). I'm glad that a long-term project is beginning to yield results. I'm astounded at the number of people falling in and out of love around me, and thankful that I've managed to retain my sanity so far :)

The Pujas are here. Today is the third day, and I'm homesick like I always am at this time of the year. I miss the smell of dhoop and fresh flowers and bhog, and the sounds of the dhaak and cymbals and the conch and chants. I miss the colours of autumn and the vibrant hues that the Goddess comes decked in. I miss the camaraderie and the anticipation surrounding the festivities, both those that are happening and those that are on their way. I miss the peacefulness of the mornings, the golden afternoon light and the pulsating energy of the evenings. I miss the feeling of crisp new fabric against the skin. I miss the smell of camphor.

There's so much that I want to write about. I'm just grappling with a writer's block of sorts. I'll be back soon :) Till then, have a great autumn! :) :)

Push

I've spent all of my adult life in Delhi...by the time I finish postgraduate studies, I will have completed six years in Delhi/the NCR. Over the last year - maybe a longer time, actually - I've often caught myself wondering if it's time I moved on. I am essentially, constitutionally, a nomad. Since last year, as I said, the idea of moving to a new city - a new place with new weather, a new language, new pluses and issues, new quirks and idiosyncrasies - has increasingly appealed to me. I'm beginning to tire of the city and its ways. And I think it's best to leave while you can do it without feeling compelled to. Yet, I could never be a hundred per cent sure I actually wanted to leave Delhi, in that I thought I wouldn't mind staying here either, if it came to that. Kind of a limbo, I mean. No concrete reasons...no professional logic, no academic purpose, and personal reasons too nebulous to explain or even to count - sometimes, even to or with myself.

Until this morning.

This morning, the city made my mind up for me.

Part I

Walking down the street the other day, I spotted her slipping between the shadows. It was her first appearance in weeks, so I asked her where she had been all this while.

"I needed time off. I still do."

"So why are you here? You won't get any space here. There isn't enough of it."

"There's never enough of it", she sighed. "I'm not the only one looking, you know."

"You still haven't explained your presence here."

"Do I have to, now?" she shot back.

"Yes." I didn't want to begin, but then, she'd started it. "You're never here when you're wanted. Never around when needed. You come and go as and when you please, and the rest of the world be damned. You aren't as dependable as you claim to be, do you know that? And I'm not sure you're wanted here, either." She'd asked for it, I rationalised.

"You didn't invite me over", she pointed out, calmly. "I came on my own. You don't have to bother with me. You were going somewhere, weren't you? Carry on, please."

I turned. Something didn't feel right.

"And how have things been with you?" She was quick to notice my face softening.

"I've been OK", I lied. She had no business knowing, anyway. "Good, in fact. I've been good. What about you?"

"You know", she was looking at me quietly, "if you can't look me in the eye when you're talking to me, it doesn't matter whose eyes you can meet."

"So how many friends have you made? Fallen in love yet?" Light-hearted banter is always a safe way out.

Or is it? Her face fell, then hardened.

"I have nothing left to give. It's not like I don't try, you know. Sometimes", she went on, her voice low and uncertain now, "I miss my days as housekeeper. They called me The Girl with the Broom. I opened windows every morning, all of them, and I loved flicking my checked duster over the furniture and the curtains. Ever seen a shaft of sunlight enter a room?", she sounded like a little girl now, "Ever seen dust dance in the sunlight? Little gray specks?"

"I don't know", I said, doubtfully. "I suppose it's a pretty sight."

"Not pretty", she said, straightening. "Fascinating. Do you know rain is the purest form of water?"

"Natural distillation?" I hazarded a guess. I was never the chemistry teacher's favourite. Geography, though, I was a natural at.

"The purest form", she was saying, "the cleanest. Ever heard the wind blow past the reeds? It whistles."

"Where were you housekeeper?" I was curious now.

"Don't pretend you don't know", she sighed. "That's where you came and borrowed me from."

"But you haven't told me why..."

"It doesn't matter", she said, abruptly. "There's nothing left to keep house for. They moved out long ago. There's nothing there. They were foolish...they took neighbourly charity a little too far, if you ask me. But there it is. It's none of my business, really. I was sent by the agency. I have excellent references, by the way."

"And what do you propose to do with them?" my question sounded sardonic. I was only being curious.

"I'm teaching myself French. I use the backs of the sheets to scribble notes on."

Is it only a coincidence that, with the exception of the last, all the posts on this page (the ones that appear after this one, obviously) have been written on a Monday? I wonder.

Cookie Crumbling

I thought he would.
He didn't.
I thought he wouldn't.
He did.
I thought I shouldn't.
I did, anyway.
I thought I wouldn't.
I have.

Kolkata, Chronicled

Day 1
My train is running four and a half hours late. I've called Ashu Da, the caretaker at the guest house, to let him know that I will be checking in tomorrow instead of this evening. That done, I'm sitting with my nose pressed to the window pane again, staring at the palm fronds outlined against the evening sky. As phones enter networks, calls and messages begin pouring in all over the compartment. Airtel sends me a "Welcome to Kolkata" message. I'm thankful for the welcome, but I wish they wouldn't charge me roaming. Oh well, we can't have it all.

The train pulls into Howrah Jn, platform 16. It's muggy and the place is buzzing with activity. Armed with my smattering of Bangla, I am feeling at home already. I've been to Kolkata before, just never really stayed there. This trip promises to be interesting. Before I get too happy, though, I sober myself with the reminder that I'm here primarily to carry out a not-so-fascinating time-and-motion study. Will do, will do.

Day 2
My first taste of Kolkata traffic, and the jams it is notorious for. I go from Alipore to Tollygunge, and then head to Camac Street, where the office is situated. Traffic lights refuse to go from green to red, and I am alarmed by the increasing number of people stepping resignedly out of cabs and legging it across the streets. How long IS this going to take?? Jyoti from the office calls and wants to know if I am the intern from Delhi, and if I intend reporting at Camac Street this morning. I am, I assure her. I'm, uh, stuck in a jam somewhere near Fort Knox. Oh you're almost here, she says, and I hang up in relief.

Office is decent. People are nice and helpful, and more than willing to help me figure my way about things. I have already sworn off cars for the rest of my stay, and am given minute instructions on where to find the closest Metro station. Time-and-motion study begins two hours into the day. So far, so good.

Lunch is an astonishing array of vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes. Tea (had twice a day with a generous dollop of adda) includes biscuits, nimbu pani and the occasional sandwich if you ask for it. The best part, of course, is the customary mishti at the end of every meal.

Come 6 pm, and it is time for my first brush with the Kolkata Metro. Everything is new and familiar. I queue up for a token - a habit I've fallen out of in Delhi ever since I bought my travel card - and head through the rotating gates for the platform. Trains come every fifteen minutes. I've just missed the latest, so I get time to look around while I wait for the next. This one is the Maidan Metro station, and the walls are adorned with paintings of sportspersons. I try and figure out the Bengali alphabet painted on the boards and walls. A train comes thundering in. I think hard and quickly - this one is headed to Dum Dum. Is this the train I should take? This, or the other one? Where am I going? Tollygunge? Then it must be the other train. By this time, the doors have slid shut and the train has thundered off, effectively leaving me with only one option - take the next. For a second, all the thundering makes me feel like I'm in the middle of a Harry Potter story, at Platform 9 3/4. The next train comes in, and the display reads Tollygunge. Of course, I brighten, Tollygunge it is. So I hop in.

It is very different from the Delhi Metro, but equally entertaining. I love the Hindi translations of the warning signs pasted all over the compartment. A Rabindra Sadan, Netaji Bhavan, Jatin Das Park, Kalighat and Rabindra Sarobar later, I am at Tollygunge.

The guest house is comfortable, and Ashu Da extremely considerate, telling me where I can find the switch to the AC, and getting me chilled water and tea even before I can ask. My roommate, an extremely tall, talkative 26-year old from Mumbai, shows me around the building, tells me all about her office at Salt Lake, and extracts a promise from me: when I visit Mumbai next, I have to stay with her. Dinner is good - sweets again! - and I tumble into bed, exhausted and overwhelmed, and brimming with excitement. I reverse-calculate before I set the alarm: I have to reach office by 9.30. The Metro took 15 minutes from Tollygunge to Maidan. On foot from Maidan to Camac Street takes ten minutes, so that is 25 minutes. Tollygunge station is 15 minutes from here on foot - so that is 40 minutes in all. Throw in half an hour to get ready, for breakfast...alright then, 8 am it is.

Day 3
Ha! From guest house to station, station to Maidan, Maidan to Camac Street - all by myself! But I think I should buy a new Kolkata SIM card for my phone. Roaming is killing me. We'll see about that in the evening.

Day is ok, more interviews, more note-taking. Turns out one of the members of the team is a senior from school. She's delighted and so am I. Lots to catch up on.

I'm eating like a horse.

I leave office at 6 pm, and walk down Camac Street before turning left into Park Street in search of an Airtel outlet that can sell me a local SIM. I find plenty, but no one is willing to sell me a SIM unless I produce a photo ID and proof of permanent address. I scout seven shops, and draw a blank everywhere. Can't blame them. I should have thought of the ID back in Delhi when I was packing for the trip. That disappointment aside, I get to explore Camac Street and Park Street thoroughly, admire the beauty of history side by side with modernity - it's glorious- and, above all, find Flurys! I try to locate the Park Street Metro station, and end up walking the length of Camac Street and half of Park Street again. Eventually, I hit a pavement that looks familiar, walk down it, and find myself heading back for Maidan. I've just spent the last half-hour walking in circles.

Back to Tollygunge in the evening. Some MLA is delivering a speech on a makeshift stage right outside the station. The air is thick with the aroma of samosas and tea. Back in my room in the guest house, it dawns on me that I haven't eaten any sandesh yet. Sacrilege, I call it.

Day 4
Alarm, snooze, alarm, snooze, alarm...RUN!

At the station, I sprint from the ticket counter to the platform, run into the train waiting there, and throw myself on the nearest seat. "Welcome to Kolkata Metro", the announcement booms, "the next stop is Belgachhia."

Belgachhia??

I rush out of the train, tearing past the crowd that has now gathered by the doors, which are about to slide shut. More running, and I am now at the opposite platform, waiting for the train. At work, Senior from School takes us all out to lunch at Peter Cat to celebrate her birthday. More walking down Camac Street. By now, I'm in love with the place.

On my way back, I stop at a little shop for sandesh. For some reason, it has struck me only just now that I see a daab-seller outside Middleton Inn every morning on my way to work. Why am I not having any?

There is a power cut at Golf Link Apartments, where the guest house is situated. Kids are running all over the stairs, playing hide and seek. I can smell fish frying. Ashu Da tells me he can get me some if I like. I need to tell him in advance, though. Hmm.

Day 5
Should I take my umbrella? Shouldn't I? What the hell, it never rains here anyway. They seem to have plastered the walls of the editing studio with new posters of Tollywood movies. One, in particular, seems heavily inspired by the design of the Anywhere But Home poster. The sun beats down with all its fury. As on Days 1, 2, 3 and 4, I am bathed in perspiration by the time I enter the train. The way the passengers ride in the Kolkata Metro is unusual - as if by some tacit agreement, men and women occupy alternate compartments, each compartment becoming all-ladies or all-men by default. So, even if there is a seat lying vacant in the neighbouring row, no lady steps towards it. Quite a change from the Delhi Metro, where seating arrangements - even where 'Ladies only' or 'Physically challenged only' are specified - are uniformly unisex.

Glancing out of the window at about four that afternoon, I can see the sky darkening. By the time I finish interviewing Prasun Da about direct contract employees, big drops of rain are beginning to pepper the ground. I'm exhilarated, like I always am by the rain, but I'm also beginning to worry. I don't mind getting drenched, not one bit. But it is getting darker, and the rain heavier, by the minute, and transport is going to be affected, says Sweta. She wants me to wait for the rain to abate, but I'd rather leave right now. So I walk out into an empty Camac Street. As I pass people sheltering under awnings and in doorways, I am met by stares of frank astonishment. I confess I am beginning to feel a little awkward, and louts gawking unabashedly are not helping matters. It's raining hard now, and as I sprint down Middleton Row on my way to Maidan station, I am conscious of feeling like a rather confused duck. Into the station, onto the platform, into the train...a quick rick ride in the storm to Golf Link Apartments...home and dry. When I open the cupboard to pull out a towel and a change of clothes, light glints off the tip of my umbrella, and for a second, it winks wickedly at me.

Day 6
Strangely, all I remember of the whole rain fiasco this morning is the cheery "Welcome!" that the rickwallah shouted out in response to my fervent "Thank you, Dada!" as I hopped off his rick.

Luchi and aloo dum for breakfast...my day is made already!

I'm beginning to worry about my project. Nobody seems to know what to expect of me, and I certainly don't know what to do with the vast amounts of data I am amassing. An ABC analysis is not feasible, and I cannot get in touch with my guide because he is busy in Mumbai. I'm fending for myself and, I have to confess, I don't think I'm doing a very good job. To top it all, I'm running a temperature and my throat is sore after last evening's gallivanting in the rain. I just don't feel like doing anything, least of all examining the recruitment process for vendor employees. I cannot wait for the day to end.

The train journey back is uneventful. By now, I have made it my mission to read the English translations of all of Tagore's poetry inscribed on the walls of Rabindra Sadan. Not easy, because the train doesn't halt for more than two minutes, and the writing is minuscule, but the challenge makes it more interesting. I stop at a sweet shop in Tollygunge, and buy sandesh and mishti doi. Life begins to look up.

Days 7 and 8
Homemade food, endless siestas, an enormous balcony. Perfection.

Day 9
I have to start compiling all my data now. Spoke to my guide on Saturday. He says I must visit the company's KPO centre at Technopolis in Salt Lake. Which is all very well, except that it will result in more data that I will be clueless about dealing with. It is a decent day in the office, save for the tall, bespectacled gentleman who walks up every now and then and tells me, in painstaking detail, about all the 'important' work he does for the company. I wish there was some way of convincing him that I am NOT here as part of the company's annual performance appraisal process - I'm just a summer intern.

Back at the guest house, I catch up on the latest on the Maoist-Government face off. All the guests at the guest-house get into an impromptu debate over the fate of Bengal. Funnily, none of the seven of us is from the state. Ashu Da intervenes every now and then; now with his opinion, now with cups of tea, and finally with a firm reminder that dinner is getting cold.

I burrow into bed, feeling kind of sorry that time is flying by so fast.

Day 10
Nothing much. Am eating four big meals a day, practically living on sweets, and drinking nimbu pani by the gallon. Oh, and I don't mind the incessant perspiration so much any more. In the middle of the day, I go to Ashok Da and tell him that I want to help with the filing. His alarmed, spontaneous "Hey Ram!" elicits laughs all over the department. I pretend to be hurt; he makes up by treating us all to butterscotch ice cream.

Day 11
My mind is made up: I am going to communicate solely in Bangla with all the staff.

By the end of the day, they don't know if they're frustrated or helpless with laughter. Sweta asks me if I have a confirmed booking for my journey out of Kolkata three days later. If I don't, she says, she will be more than happy to help.

On my way back that day, I do manage to piece together the whole of Tagore's haiku in translation, at Rabindra Sadan.

"...let the evening forgive the mistakes of the day

and thus win peace for herself."

Day 12
I have to go to Technopolis today. I don't care if the sun is shining nice and bright - the umbrella is the first thing to go into my bag. I am running late, so I take a rick to the station. He says he will charge me 9 bucks. To someone who has given in to being fleeced on a regular basis by the rickwallahs of DU (they talk only in figures rounded to the nearest ten), this comes as a very pleasant surprise. What touches me even more is the smile with which he hands me two rupees in change when I give him a ten rupee note. "It's only 8 rupees", he tells me, "I forgot. Here are two rupees."

Midway through the day, Abhishek Da, the HR exec at the KPO centre, visits Camac Street and offers me a ride back to Salt Lake. The trip is a revelation in itself. Swank and plush, the office still does little, as he tells me, to make up for the monotony of the job and the low pay. Salt Lake itself is beautiful - lush and green and quiet; this natural beauty juxtaposed with the technological marvels that the buildings house - and are themselves - makes for a very interesting study in contrasts. I take a cab back to Tollygunge, requesting the driver to take me there via Gariahat. Gariahat is another revelation. Almost stuck in a time warp, it is an endearing mix of commerce and tradition.

Back in my room, I do some reading on IT and West Bengal. The state has a vast talent pool for MNCs to choose from, and attrition rates here are among the lowest in the country. I think of software engineers and diploma holders working at a CTC of 6,ooo rupees a month, supporting entire families with their salaries, and I know I have a lot of blessings to count.

Tomorrow is my last day here. I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Again, I can't say I'm entirely unhappy having to head back to Delhi either.

Day 13
So here I am, on the last day of my stint in Kolkata. I spend the day tying up loose ends, filling in details that I missed in the interviews and the analysis. In less than 10 days, this place seems so familiar, I could have known it forever. The monthly office get-together is scheduled for this evening. I know I cannot stay for it.

While the staff is away at the weekly conference call, I slip out of the office and walk to Flurys.

In the afternoon, over pastries and coffee, we exchange email IDs, and people promise to visit when they are in Delhi. Photographs are clicked, and I hand in my temporary ID and the office papers. One quick phone call to my guide, and I turn to my new acquaintances to say bye.

Day 14
I have an early-morning train to catch. As I drive over the bridge, looking at boats sailing placidly on the Hooghly, I wish I could stay some more. It is 6 am, and the city is just stirring awake. The majestic brick monument ('building' seems too small a word) that is Howrah Jn looms into view, and I turn to heave my bag out of the trunk. I'm glad I visited the city.

I’m also afraid to step on the scales ever again.