The two screams clashed
exchanged swords.
Looking straight ahead,
Quiet, hollow-eyed.
The black and white gymnasts
Jumped, tumbled,
Got mixed up,
Till it became a deathless lull.
Escape, run-
The feet were rooted,
The chair was floored,
Thirty five prisoners.
The familiar, back to
The familiar.
A panting, an urge,
Wanting to get inside:
Inside, inside- outside.
The quiet eyes longed,
Hollow, behind the retina
The longing, the reaching,
Miles away.
23-10-2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
DEATH OF A COCKROACH
Women act when men are asleep. I killed a big cockroach when the household slept.
He (according to me all cockroaches are male, there’s no logic to it) was waiting for me at my bedside as I prepared to retire for the day. He is the guy who waits until dark to spread his little legs and scuffle around, antennas quivering in the air and scaring the daylights out of any woman.
The moment I spotted him, I climbed onto the safety of my bed, while my mind raced for a solution. But there was only one, kill the little ‘devil’ myself. Courage comes not from protection but from being alone in a dire situation. I stealthily removed my slippers, keeping an eye on him. Raising a slipper high above my head I attacked, throwing the footwear hard on the unsuspecting cockroach’s back. That was a moment of pure guerrilla warfare. Not sure whether the enemy was dead or not, I hit again. Eureka. His life had flown.
The dead body had to be removed from the scene of crime. Picking him up on a sheet of newspaper was an option. But I hesitated. The antennae seemed to quiver. Was I being delusional? Had a leg moved? Maybe keeping the chap at an arm’s length might do the trick. I stole down to the back of the kitchen to fetch the broom. The cockroach was in the same position as I had left him. Keeping a safe distance I pushed him out of my room into the corridor. Should I leave him there for the others to discover in the morning? It was not a particularly bright idea.
I decided to play a game. Using the broom as a hockey stick and the dead insect as a ball, I dribbled him down the corridor, into my parents’ room till the French window. What joy to play the national game after so long! But my delight was short lived. My little game had breathed life into that blasted demon.
Uttering a war cry I beat on him with the broom repeatedly, each time gaining more strength and courage. And I had a cheerleader. My mother awoke and was encouraging from the rings. Shouting to keep up my morale, I finally flung him out of the balcony and onto the street. Triumph was written all over my face.
But my father slept soundly throughout the battle. I guess I would have never murdered that cockroach had he been awake.
21-09-08
He (according to me all cockroaches are male, there’s no logic to it) was waiting for me at my bedside as I prepared to retire for the day. He is the guy who waits until dark to spread his little legs and scuffle around, antennas quivering in the air and scaring the daylights out of any woman.
The moment I spotted him, I climbed onto the safety of my bed, while my mind raced for a solution. But there was only one, kill the little ‘devil’ myself. Courage comes not from protection but from being alone in a dire situation. I stealthily removed my slippers, keeping an eye on him. Raising a slipper high above my head I attacked, throwing the footwear hard on the unsuspecting cockroach’s back. That was a moment of pure guerrilla warfare. Not sure whether the enemy was dead or not, I hit again. Eureka. His life had flown.
The dead body had to be removed from the scene of crime. Picking him up on a sheet of newspaper was an option. But I hesitated. The antennae seemed to quiver. Was I being delusional? Had a leg moved? Maybe keeping the chap at an arm’s length might do the trick. I stole down to the back of the kitchen to fetch the broom. The cockroach was in the same position as I had left him. Keeping a safe distance I pushed him out of my room into the corridor. Should I leave him there for the others to discover in the morning? It was not a particularly bright idea.
I decided to play a game. Using the broom as a hockey stick and the dead insect as a ball, I dribbled him down the corridor, into my parents’ room till the French window. What joy to play the national game after so long! But my delight was short lived. My little game had breathed life into that blasted demon.
Uttering a war cry I beat on him with the broom repeatedly, each time gaining more strength and courage. And I had a cheerleader. My mother awoke and was encouraging from the rings. Shouting to keep up my morale, I finally flung him out of the balcony and onto the street. Triumph was written all over my face.
But my father slept soundly throughout the battle. I guess I would have never murdered that cockroach had he been awake.
21-09-08
Sunday, August 24, 2008
THE CLOSING CEREMONY AT BEIJING 2008
The Dragon breathes fire and flies
The sixteen day Olympic extravaganza has finally come to an end, and what an end that was! China, the host country put up an excellent show this time, bagging a hundred medals, with the highest total of 51 gold medals, defeating the hot contestant the United States. The closing ceremony though beat all records with a magnificent show of Chinese skill, colours, and foremost their discipline and unity. The thousands of Chinese men and women in yellow, red and grey costumes with tiny lights attached, swayed together to the music. The flying men, the elevated silk strips, the Beijing Olympics logo on the tower, it was all choreographed to perfection. The flag bearers of 204 participating countries marched in, while the athletes poured in from all sides in jubilation. What was remarkable was that the volunteers too were acknowledged with their twelve representatives receiving a bouquet each. The Olympic spirit of higher, faster and stronger was evident, with over thirty world records broken and 85 new Olympics records set.
India’s absence and presence
For those watching the show at home, it was saddening not to be able to spot the Indian flag bearer Vijendar Kumar, the boxing bronze medallist. Nor were any members of the 56 strong Indian contingency to be seen anywhere in the crowd. The Indian presence was felt though through the little girl of Indian origin who received the football from her Chinese counterpart, symbolising the handover of the Olympic Games to UK, to be held in London in 2012. Though the Olympic flag was handed over to London’s Mayor, the exchange which took place in front of the double-decker bus seemed much more important, indicating the strong Indian presence in the UK. With a large minority of Indians, especially Gujarati and Punjabi expatriates, can we expect an Indian presence in the opening and closing ceremonies in London, maybe a bhangra or Bollywood number? In fact Bollywood surprisingly featured in the women’s team rhythmic gymnastics, when the Israelis pirouetted to a song from Om Shanti Om.
UK’s turn
UK showcased their plans for 2012 towards the end of the ceremony. After the exquisite Chinese show, UK’s urban-centric performance seemed a rude shock. It was post-modern, with London’s roads, red double-decker buses, and diverse populace dancing in front. The dark green townscape which emerged from the bus seemed bleak in contrast to the Chinese vibrant red and yellow, while the pop singer and guitarist dishevelled in comparison to the neat, slim Chinese women. London’s logo, showcasing the British flag, had harsh straight lines while the Chinese logo seems drawn with a single stroke. But maybe it’s too early to judge. Let us give the British their four years to prove themselves. Till then, let us rejoice in the Asian domination of the Beijing Olympics 2008.
The sixteen day Olympic extravaganza has finally come to an end, and what an end that was! China, the host country put up an excellent show this time, bagging a hundred medals, with the highest total of 51 gold medals, defeating the hot contestant the United States. The closing ceremony though beat all records with a magnificent show of Chinese skill, colours, and foremost their discipline and unity. The thousands of Chinese men and women in yellow, red and grey costumes with tiny lights attached, swayed together to the music. The flying men, the elevated silk strips, the Beijing Olympics logo on the tower, it was all choreographed to perfection. The flag bearers of 204 participating countries marched in, while the athletes poured in from all sides in jubilation. What was remarkable was that the volunteers too were acknowledged with their twelve representatives receiving a bouquet each. The Olympic spirit of higher, faster and stronger was evident, with over thirty world records broken and 85 new Olympics records set.
India’s absence and presence
For those watching the show at home, it was saddening not to be able to spot the Indian flag bearer Vijendar Kumar, the boxing bronze medallist. Nor were any members of the 56 strong Indian contingency to be seen anywhere in the crowd. The Indian presence was felt though through the little girl of Indian origin who received the football from her Chinese counterpart, symbolising the handover of the Olympic Games to UK, to be held in London in 2012. Though the Olympic flag was handed over to London’s Mayor, the exchange which took place in front of the double-decker bus seemed much more important, indicating the strong Indian presence in the UK. With a large minority of Indians, especially Gujarati and Punjabi expatriates, can we expect an Indian presence in the opening and closing ceremonies in London, maybe a bhangra or Bollywood number? In fact Bollywood surprisingly featured in the women’s team rhythmic gymnastics, when the Israelis pirouetted to a song from Om Shanti Om.
UK’s turn
UK showcased their plans for 2012 towards the end of the ceremony. After the exquisite Chinese show, UK’s urban-centric performance seemed a rude shock. It was post-modern, with London’s roads, red double-decker buses, and diverse populace dancing in front. The dark green townscape which emerged from the bus seemed bleak in contrast to the Chinese vibrant red and yellow, while the pop singer and guitarist dishevelled in comparison to the neat, slim Chinese women. London’s logo, showcasing the British flag, had harsh straight lines while the Chinese logo seems drawn with a single stroke. But maybe it’s too early to judge. Let us give the British their four years to prove themselves. Till then, let us rejoice in the Asian domination of the Beijing Olympics 2008.
Friday, August 15, 2008
CHASING MOMMA
Momma Sea is acting difficult nowadays. She’s getting more illusive by the day, and today, well, she took me for a nasty joyride.
Momma had always been there for me during my childhood. My best moments were spent frolicking in the salt water, swimming vigorously towards the large waves only to dive inside their belly, being tossed in the shallow side to end up with sand and salt in my eyes, nose, and inside my shorts pockets. The only time I cried in public was when I was denied a rendezvous with Momma Sea by our instructor who took us out for a swim. That was the worst imaginable punishment ever, worthy of shedding tears and of course undergoing the humiliation of being spotted in the act. Boys don’t cry, but I believed that I, a girl, should never ever be seen crying in public.
The shore slowly disappeared over the years. Soon, gentle Momma had become rough and even claimed a few lives. A board was put up in three languages saying that swimming in the sea was prohibited. The big ugly black rocks now stood between me and Momma and so did the law. I didn’t know what had hit me. Why was Momma no longer accessible? Some people told me it was some submarine tunnel responsible for it, others spoke about erosion. All I knew was that I couldn’t bob up and down with the gentle waves nor feel the thrill of discovering a shallow spot deep into the sea. It was like a large part of my life was unlived because I couldn’t meet Momma. I waited for the day to come when someone would tell me that it was all a bad dream, or that the shore would soon reappear and that I could swim again.
I couldn’t meet Momma for six to seven years. But strangely enough, I stopped missing her. The pain was only renewed when I later met her far from the usual spot where I used to swim as a little girl. Momma was waiting for me a few kilometers from town on the East Coast Road. But our meetings were annual, at the most bi-annual. This hurt more than during that long absence of six to seven years. Our reunions were also marred by the angst of growing up, the loneliness of being the only girl familiar with Momma. While the boys helped out the other whimpering girls, I was left alone with Momma. But I couldn’t do her justice. My heart was not in it.
A few months back I found Momma closer to home near the submarine tunnel area. It was just like the old times. Though I was alone with her for a short while, I did the justice of feeling the water around me, keeping me up, slapping against my sides, surging over my head and plastering my face with wet strands of hair. I enjoyed every moment of it. It felt like homecoming.
But since then the appetite has grown. I often dream of Momma in weird forms, with walls, with scary, mighty, unpredictable waves, with deep ends. But I can’t meet her alone. I need others with me, and to gather a bunch of Momma crazy boys and girls is a near impossible task.
The urgent hunger to feel salt water on my skin was too strong today. I decided to visit Momma with a most unlikely bunch- my parents. They agreed on the condition that I swim alone, which was fine with me. My destination was the submarine tunnel. But guess my luck, not a soul was present in or out of the waters. I can’t handle Momma all alone. Somebody has to be around. My heart began to sink. I had a feeling Momma would let me down. Then we spotted another strip of beach far to the right, with families strolling about. The sea was bluer on the other side.
The detour to the other side was through the dusty Cuddalore road to Veerampattinam. And since it was a national holiday, the vehicles seemed to be celebrating by being all there on the road and letting out toxic fumes. What made it worse was the angry face of my tired mother chasing my father and me on her bike, wanting to stop us and take us back home. And to my bitter disappointment, the road to the Veerampattinam beach was blocked by an unruly, drunken crowd. Vehicles could go no further. I was so angry I could kill somebody. Luckily I didn’t have a weapon in hand. We affected a U-turn. Instead of the eagerly dreamt wet, fresh feel, I was having a layer of dust on my face. On my way back all I could think of was my bad luck, the long ride which hurt my butt, my mother’s explosive anger and string of harsh words and the wild goose chase to meet up with Momma. I even weighed my chances of bumping into her in the future. The odds were against me.
I don’t know when I will be fortunate to meet Momma again. All that I can hope for is that the shore comes back or that I shift to a place where Momma is easily accessible with a bunch of Momma’s own kids like me. Till then the dark hours will be spent tackling big waves and coming up against a wall and the daylight hours in wishing I become a fish in my next life. 15-08-2008
Momma had always been there for me during my childhood. My best moments were spent frolicking in the salt water, swimming vigorously towards the large waves only to dive inside their belly, being tossed in the shallow side to end up with sand and salt in my eyes, nose, and inside my shorts pockets. The only time I cried in public was when I was denied a rendezvous with Momma Sea by our instructor who took us out for a swim. That was the worst imaginable punishment ever, worthy of shedding tears and of course undergoing the humiliation of being spotted in the act. Boys don’t cry, but I believed that I, a girl, should never ever be seen crying in public.
The shore slowly disappeared over the years. Soon, gentle Momma had become rough and even claimed a few lives. A board was put up in three languages saying that swimming in the sea was prohibited. The big ugly black rocks now stood between me and Momma and so did the law. I didn’t know what had hit me. Why was Momma no longer accessible? Some people told me it was some submarine tunnel responsible for it, others spoke about erosion. All I knew was that I couldn’t bob up and down with the gentle waves nor feel the thrill of discovering a shallow spot deep into the sea. It was like a large part of my life was unlived because I couldn’t meet Momma. I waited for the day to come when someone would tell me that it was all a bad dream, or that the shore would soon reappear and that I could swim again.
I couldn’t meet Momma for six to seven years. But strangely enough, I stopped missing her. The pain was only renewed when I later met her far from the usual spot where I used to swim as a little girl. Momma was waiting for me a few kilometers from town on the East Coast Road. But our meetings were annual, at the most bi-annual. This hurt more than during that long absence of six to seven years. Our reunions were also marred by the angst of growing up, the loneliness of being the only girl familiar with Momma. While the boys helped out the other whimpering girls, I was left alone with Momma. But I couldn’t do her justice. My heart was not in it.
A few months back I found Momma closer to home near the submarine tunnel area. It was just like the old times. Though I was alone with her for a short while, I did the justice of feeling the water around me, keeping me up, slapping against my sides, surging over my head and plastering my face with wet strands of hair. I enjoyed every moment of it. It felt like homecoming.
But since then the appetite has grown. I often dream of Momma in weird forms, with walls, with scary, mighty, unpredictable waves, with deep ends. But I can’t meet her alone. I need others with me, and to gather a bunch of Momma crazy boys and girls is a near impossible task.
The urgent hunger to feel salt water on my skin was too strong today. I decided to visit Momma with a most unlikely bunch- my parents. They agreed on the condition that I swim alone, which was fine with me. My destination was the submarine tunnel. But guess my luck, not a soul was present in or out of the waters. I can’t handle Momma all alone. Somebody has to be around. My heart began to sink. I had a feeling Momma would let me down. Then we spotted another strip of beach far to the right, with families strolling about. The sea was bluer on the other side.
The detour to the other side was through the dusty Cuddalore road to Veerampattinam. And since it was a national holiday, the vehicles seemed to be celebrating by being all there on the road and letting out toxic fumes. What made it worse was the angry face of my tired mother chasing my father and me on her bike, wanting to stop us and take us back home. And to my bitter disappointment, the road to the Veerampattinam beach was blocked by an unruly, drunken crowd. Vehicles could go no further. I was so angry I could kill somebody. Luckily I didn’t have a weapon in hand. We affected a U-turn. Instead of the eagerly dreamt wet, fresh feel, I was having a layer of dust on my face. On my way back all I could think of was my bad luck, the long ride which hurt my butt, my mother’s explosive anger and string of harsh words and the wild goose chase to meet up with Momma. I even weighed my chances of bumping into her in the future. The odds were against me.
I don’t know when I will be fortunate to meet Momma again. All that I can hope for is that the shore comes back or that I shift to a place where Momma is easily accessible with a bunch of Momma’s own kids like me. Till then the dark hours will be spent tackling big waves and coming up against a wall and the daylight hours in wishing I become a fish in my next life. 15-08-2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
LET'S BAN CRICKET
Today is a historic day for India. The 25 year old Abhinav Bindra won gold in the men’s 10metre air rifle in the Olympic Games at Beijing. India is winning a gold medal after 28 years, after the glorious period when our hockey team reigned supreme. What is more important is that this is India’s first individual gold ever. Bindra, who is an Arjun awardee, was pitted against the world champion and beat him, which is no mean feat. He also caught up by two points in the final round, with a total of 700 points.
India is ecstatic. Congratulations are pouring in from all quarters. The PM, the President have all congratulated the young shooter. People are celebrating on Chandigarh’s streets; TV channels are interviewing his parents who gracefully give their son all the credit for his hard work; state governments are offering him 5lakhs to 1crore rupees. I’m sure there are commercial endorsements and more awards from the Indian government on the way too.
This victory raises various questions regarding Indian sports. These questions have been asked a number of times before, but since the answers are yet to come, the disturbing queries remain. How can a large country like India not produce promising athletes and medals at the Olympics year after year? Hockey was lucky in the 70s; Leander Paes and Karnam Malleshwari gave us the Bronze, while Rathore made us proud with silver; and today we have Bindra with gold. That is it. For a country with 1 billion people we have only a handful who wins against the odds. And the odds are mostly at home.
Most athletes come from poor backgrounds. Though they have talent, the training, the equipment all requires professional grounds and coaches. Most of all it requires money. We are not a poor nation. Yet we do not have the money to spend on sports. The old adage of all work and no play is deeply entrenched in people’s minds. It seems especially so in the Indian Parent’s and the Indian Government’s mind. A good example is the movie Chak De where girls are discouraged to play hockey both by their families and the Sports Committee. But as in all Bollywood movies, the girls’ team wins in the end. The case is very different in real life.
But India is willing to spend crores in sports, which is in cricket. That is where the hitch lies. Cricket is not a sport in India, it is akin to religion. If the Beatles said they are bigger than Jesus, well, cricket is greater than the God of the thousands of Gods worshipped in India. Twenty-twenty, IPL, one day matches, test matches, all this ‘bogus’ is not sport, it is entertainment. This fact seems especially controversial and debated since IPL.
Cricket is also a slow, meandering, boring, colonial game. As John Abraham’s character in the movie Kabul Express aptly puts it, cricket is nothing but 22 men scratching their crotches on the field. Cricket occupies prime time in the Indian media and the Indian psyche. And the harm it does to India and Indian sports seems almost beyond repair. It is a hegemonic game, enchanting and hypnotizing people. It swallows up people’s time, energy, and money. Worse, it is the main cause for India’s repeated poor performance in the Olympic Games or any other International Sports event. If the money and energy spent on cricket and its hyped and highly publicized players were spent on spotting and training talent in other sports, India would have many more Abhinav Bindras.
But will this really happen? Will the ‘Indian crowd’ ever tire of cricket? Will the sports authorities and sponsors want to invest in less popular and glamorous sports like rowing, boxing or swimming? Will Indians appreciate a synchronized dive as much as a ‘fixed’ game of cricket? Well, these questions will take time to be answered. Till then, let’s ban cricket.
11-08-2008
India is ecstatic. Congratulations are pouring in from all quarters. The PM, the President have all congratulated the young shooter. People are celebrating on Chandigarh’s streets; TV channels are interviewing his parents who gracefully give their son all the credit for his hard work; state governments are offering him 5lakhs to 1crore rupees. I’m sure there are commercial endorsements and more awards from the Indian government on the way too.
This victory raises various questions regarding Indian sports. These questions have been asked a number of times before, but since the answers are yet to come, the disturbing queries remain. How can a large country like India not produce promising athletes and medals at the Olympics year after year? Hockey was lucky in the 70s; Leander Paes and Karnam Malleshwari gave us the Bronze, while Rathore made us proud with silver; and today we have Bindra with gold. That is it. For a country with 1 billion people we have only a handful who wins against the odds. And the odds are mostly at home.
Most athletes come from poor backgrounds. Though they have talent, the training, the equipment all requires professional grounds and coaches. Most of all it requires money. We are not a poor nation. Yet we do not have the money to spend on sports. The old adage of all work and no play is deeply entrenched in people’s minds. It seems especially so in the Indian Parent’s and the Indian Government’s mind. A good example is the movie Chak De where girls are discouraged to play hockey both by their families and the Sports Committee. But as in all Bollywood movies, the girls’ team wins in the end. The case is very different in real life.
But India is willing to spend crores in sports, which is in cricket. That is where the hitch lies. Cricket is not a sport in India, it is akin to religion. If the Beatles said they are bigger than Jesus, well, cricket is greater than the God of the thousands of Gods worshipped in India. Twenty-twenty, IPL, one day matches, test matches, all this ‘bogus’ is not sport, it is entertainment. This fact seems especially controversial and debated since IPL.
Cricket is also a slow, meandering, boring, colonial game. As John Abraham’s character in the movie Kabul Express aptly puts it, cricket is nothing but 22 men scratching their crotches on the field. Cricket occupies prime time in the Indian media and the Indian psyche. And the harm it does to India and Indian sports seems almost beyond repair. It is a hegemonic game, enchanting and hypnotizing people. It swallows up people’s time, energy, and money. Worse, it is the main cause for India’s repeated poor performance in the Olympic Games or any other International Sports event. If the money and energy spent on cricket and its hyped and highly publicized players were spent on spotting and training talent in other sports, India would have many more Abhinav Bindras.
But will this really happen? Will the ‘Indian crowd’ ever tire of cricket? Will the sports authorities and sponsors want to invest in less popular and glamorous sports like rowing, boxing or swimming? Will Indians appreciate a synchronized dive as much as a ‘fixed’ game of cricket? Well, these questions will take time to be answered. Till then, let’s ban cricket.
11-08-2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
THE TEA CEREMONY
“Chotu, ek cup chai.” Chotu nodded and disappeared behind the dirty curtain. I put behind my ear a strand of hair which had strayed out of my small pony tail. Sweat glistened on my forehead; I was looking for a hanky. “Shit, I forgot it”. I used my hand instead and wiped it on the side of my T-shirt.
The small eatery had a few customers. It was past rush hour. The men on the other table were eating samosas and red chutney which reminded me of Agastya Sen’s chutney which said I’m diarrhea, or something of that sort. “I forget the exact statement; will have to check out the novel. It was a pretty quotable quote. There I go again, me and my pathetic puns.”
I looked up. The painting hung on the newly white washed wall was like a student’s first water color attempt. Actually the wall seemed to speak more. It said: profit, renovation, newly painted walls, and maybe extension and more profit? Where would the next branch be, nearer to home? “No use speculating. Stop doing that.”
The men had finished their samosas. The red chutney had also disappeared down their throats. “Diarrhea, diarrhea! Oh, shut up.”
Chotu, who was going up and down clearing the table and serving the next customer, finally brought my tea, a small, hot, steel glass. “Tumbler, how can you call a glass a tumbler? It’s a glass.” I raised my eyebrows and breathed deeply. Why do people never learn? “Linguistic differences, cultural differences, social differences. Wow that sounds so impressive.” I smiled a self-satisfied, self-righteous smile. For a moment the grass was very dull and brown on the other side.
Malai was floating on the surface of the brown liquid just like it used to in my mother’s cup. I felt the urge to dip my finger in, scoop up the malai and lick it. It just stayed an urge, a small one with a very short life span. Kshanbhangur was the word. Right, it was a kshanbhangur urge. My Hindi teacher would die satisfied. Hindi classes meant unripe mangoes with salt and chilly. My mouth watered. My friend had learnt to cut mangoes at the age of 15. Ten years down the line I was still knife-paranoid. “What are restaurants for?”
I gingerly touched the hot glass. I’m never good at handling hot stuff. No pun intended. I withdrew my hand and kept it on my lap. I suddenly realized I was sitting slouched. “No wonder I get a budi.” I straightened. My father sits straight, so straight that people think he was in the army and fought in the Second World War. “I should repeat that joke to someone otherwise this tea will remain undigested.”
I blew gently into the cup. Ripples formed on the surface and the malai moved to one side. Ripples just like in the physics class experiment in the dark, hot, crowded room; ripples in the bac a ondes. Ripples means physics, uncertainty, boredom. Ripples mean that over-smart teacher whom few like.
I finally tasted the tea. It was perfect, the amount of sugar, tea leaves, milk. Was there masala in it? My mother would know. She would probably make a face and say this tea doesn’t taste good. I don’t remember a single instance when she liked her tea. She should have been a tea taster. Maybe I’ll suggest it today and get the usual negative reply. I’ll yet do it, I believe in nishkama karma. That felt just like Calvin.
Then I burnt my tongue. I always do that when I drink tea or coffee. My tongue would remain sore for the next few days, but the taste buds would be intact. Nevertheless I drained down the glass. How much tea can a small, steel glass contain? “Why is tea not served in bigger glasses? They can charge a bit extra. This is not fair. Or maybe it is a trick of the trade. Maybe the unsatisfied customer will want another cup. Then the shopwalla will make more profit than a single, slightly more expensive cup pf tea. Instead of buying one big cup of tea costing 6 Rupees, the customer will pay for two small cups costing 4 rupees each. I didn’t know I could be good at business and profit making.” I would bore some friend today with that argument.
I got up to pay. Out came my black wallet. “Kitna hua?”
“Six rupees.”
“Not chaar?”
“No, chota cup four. Big cup six. You take big cup.”
I vowed never to drink tea again. It would only burn my ego.
The small eatery had a few customers. It was past rush hour. The men on the other table were eating samosas and red chutney which reminded me of Agastya Sen’s chutney which said I’m diarrhea, or something of that sort. “I forget the exact statement; will have to check out the novel. It was a pretty quotable quote. There I go again, me and my pathetic puns.”
I looked up. The painting hung on the newly white washed wall was like a student’s first water color attempt. Actually the wall seemed to speak more. It said: profit, renovation, newly painted walls, and maybe extension and more profit? Where would the next branch be, nearer to home? “No use speculating. Stop doing that.”
The men had finished their samosas. The red chutney had also disappeared down their throats. “Diarrhea, diarrhea! Oh, shut up.”
Chotu, who was going up and down clearing the table and serving the next customer, finally brought my tea, a small, hot, steel glass. “Tumbler, how can you call a glass a tumbler? It’s a glass.” I raised my eyebrows and breathed deeply. Why do people never learn? “Linguistic differences, cultural differences, social differences. Wow that sounds so impressive.” I smiled a self-satisfied, self-righteous smile. For a moment the grass was very dull and brown on the other side.
Malai was floating on the surface of the brown liquid just like it used to in my mother’s cup. I felt the urge to dip my finger in, scoop up the malai and lick it. It just stayed an urge, a small one with a very short life span. Kshanbhangur was the word. Right, it was a kshanbhangur urge. My Hindi teacher would die satisfied. Hindi classes meant unripe mangoes with salt and chilly. My mouth watered. My friend had learnt to cut mangoes at the age of 15. Ten years down the line I was still knife-paranoid. “What are restaurants for?”
I gingerly touched the hot glass. I’m never good at handling hot stuff. No pun intended. I withdrew my hand and kept it on my lap. I suddenly realized I was sitting slouched. “No wonder I get a budi.” I straightened. My father sits straight, so straight that people think he was in the army and fought in the Second World War. “I should repeat that joke to someone otherwise this tea will remain undigested.”
I blew gently into the cup. Ripples formed on the surface and the malai moved to one side. Ripples just like in the physics class experiment in the dark, hot, crowded room; ripples in the bac a ondes. Ripples means physics, uncertainty, boredom. Ripples mean that over-smart teacher whom few like.
I finally tasted the tea. It was perfect, the amount of sugar, tea leaves, milk. Was there masala in it? My mother would know. She would probably make a face and say this tea doesn’t taste good. I don’t remember a single instance when she liked her tea. She should have been a tea taster. Maybe I’ll suggest it today and get the usual negative reply. I’ll yet do it, I believe in nishkama karma. That felt just like Calvin.
Then I burnt my tongue. I always do that when I drink tea or coffee. My tongue would remain sore for the next few days, but the taste buds would be intact. Nevertheless I drained down the glass. How much tea can a small, steel glass contain? “Why is tea not served in bigger glasses? They can charge a bit extra. This is not fair. Or maybe it is a trick of the trade. Maybe the unsatisfied customer will want another cup. Then the shopwalla will make more profit than a single, slightly more expensive cup pf tea. Instead of buying one big cup of tea costing 6 Rupees, the customer will pay for two small cups costing 4 rupees each. I didn’t know I could be good at business and profit making.” I would bore some friend today with that argument.
I got up to pay. Out came my black wallet. “Kitna hua?”
“Six rupees.”
“Not chaar?”
“No, chota cup four. Big cup six. You take big cup.”
I vowed never to drink tea again. It would only burn my ego.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
THE LONELINESS OF THE FEMALE RUNNER
The red Puma head-band is plastered on my forehead. Hair tied back, I feel free and fresh. The shoes are soft and comfortable, the arm band tightly tied round my bicep. My feet start moving on the road. The same rhythmic movement repeated thousands of times over the past decade: the movement of freedom, pain, tiredness; the movement of loneliness in a crowd.
Why did school hours not spent studying seem so painful? Shakespeare was a special pal in high school. He was better than the puny boys in class or the alien seniors. At least he didn’t speak; he was just there to be read. He let me be alone. Mostly, he didn’t force me to speak, joke or be giggly. He let me be silent. Heathcliff was more real than my friends. Georgette Heyer’s world was far better. At least the heroine got the hero in the end. There were no heroes in the ‘real’ world. Actually I didn’t belong to the ‘real’ world. I wore little shorts or divided skirts on the outside, but inside I wore gowns and danced at balls and spoke with Victorian humor. It was all so confusing. Was I really living? I later came to know of the Bovary syndrome. Flaubert did have insight after all. The evening breeze changes parties. It seems to be mostly against me. Sweat drips from my hair onto my neck. It rolls down my back and into my shorts’ elastic.
My friend chatted more than usual with our senior. They had exchanged some music. I heard of their wooing. Another told me of the caresses of her partner. I was surprised. They were fast. My juniors followed suit. I heard of the great ‘love stories’ of my seniors, the elders, the teachers, almost everyone had a story, except me. It was ‘love story’ saturation. Then I seemed to hear no more. I only saw: how my friends all left single hood and me far behind. It felt lonely. Of course, I had Gandhi, Renoir and Satyajit Ray, the praise of my teachers and the proud look in my parents’ eyes.
Then I saw the young man with the big biceps, the charismatic one and the one who always looked irascible. They made me want the impossible. I dreamt in vain. I didn’t feel lonely for a while. But it actually worsened. Soon Desirafe was born, so was Angus.
Shakespeare wasn’t a friend anymore. The ‘real’ world seemed to strike back with a vengeance, a lonely fish out of bookish water. It was Guilome’s birth. The boys selling shiny flying toys on the road get in the way. The men and women out on a stroll gape open-mouthed. The dogs are unaffected. My calves tighten.
Guilome and Desirafe were fed by silence and more of Guilome and Desirafe. It was like a dumping ground, an endless landfill which threatened to explode one day. The assigned project lay untouched. The TV was blaring, the women dancing and the men singing. The couple was talking sweet nothings, the camera on a soft-focus mode. The ants crawled to a presenter’s voice, it was some exotic island. A pact was signed amidst much controversy and heated discussion. Then it all went blank and silent, or rather blue. Nothing seemed interesting anymore. What a sheer waste of fifty minutes. Desirafe sighed, grumbled. Guilome screamed. Nothing can be done now, it’s too late. My feet keep moving. My mind keeps racing.
Wednesday’s newspaper had an article on relationships. Young couples, changing trends in society: ignorance, precociousness, the influence of the media, the ever-alluring West. Also, Saif Ali Khan had changed his girl friend, so had some cricketer. My friend gave me a call. She was going out with her boyfriend. She wouldn’t be free this weekend to hang out with. I called another friend. She seemed to have the same story. I cycled down to the coffee joint. It was yet hot in August and the traffic hadn’t changed one bit. The coffee prices had increased by 5 rupees. Damn the inflation. And why did they keep a table for two when I was alone? Why not for singletons? What’s wrong with the world? What’s wrong with me? I moved out of there before I beat up someone or show a finger. Desirafe was hungry, growling and ready to taste blood. Instead I taste my sweat which runs down my nose into my open mouth. I’m gasping for breath. My stomach is cramped. I need air. My legs are yet moving.
Loser was a household word for me. Angus ruled my life. Guilome and Desirafe fed off me. I felt Desirafe on my lips, on my stomach, sliding down my back. He was all over me. The attacks were worst at night. I woke up feeling tired and helpless. “Desirafe, Desirafe” that’s all I could hear, think of, want and feel. I wanted to kill Desirafe. Then probably Guilome and Angus would also die a natural death. I needed to find Desirafe outside me to destroy him. I can see the end. The rounds are over. I stop and double up. My t-shirt is drenched.
I’ve to pay the tuition fees. The bank loves to torture people in the afternoon, making them stand in long queues at 2pm. The fan near the main counter is out of service. The windows are small and the panes are broken. This is the side effect of higher education. I look around for familiar faces. I’m too early as usual. My friends are a lazy lot. They love the thrill of the last moment. I spot a tall guy with a goatee. I don’t know him, maybe he’s new.
The next week I see the goatee chap again. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I respond. A few days later I know him as Alberto. Months pass. I know the time has come when at last I taste blood. It is the blood of Desirafe. A great relief courses through my entire body. I’ve found Desirafe outside me in Alberto.
Why did school hours not spent studying seem so painful? Shakespeare was a special pal in high school. He was better than the puny boys in class or the alien seniors. At least he didn’t speak; he was just there to be read. He let me be alone. Mostly, he didn’t force me to speak, joke or be giggly. He let me be silent. Heathcliff was more real than my friends. Georgette Heyer’s world was far better. At least the heroine got the hero in the end. There were no heroes in the ‘real’ world. Actually I didn’t belong to the ‘real’ world. I wore little shorts or divided skirts on the outside, but inside I wore gowns and danced at balls and spoke with Victorian humor. It was all so confusing. Was I really living? I later came to know of the Bovary syndrome. Flaubert did have insight after all. The evening breeze changes parties. It seems to be mostly against me. Sweat drips from my hair onto my neck. It rolls down my back and into my shorts’ elastic.
My friend chatted more than usual with our senior. They had exchanged some music. I heard of their wooing. Another told me of the caresses of her partner. I was surprised. They were fast. My juniors followed suit. I heard of the great ‘love stories’ of my seniors, the elders, the teachers, almost everyone had a story, except me. It was ‘love story’ saturation. Then I seemed to hear no more. I only saw: how my friends all left single hood and me far behind. It felt lonely. Of course, I had Gandhi, Renoir and Satyajit Ray, the praise of my teachers and the proud look in my parents’ eyes.
Then I saw the young man with the big biceps, the charismatic one and the one who always looked irascible. They made me want the impossible. I dreamt in vain. I didn’t feel lonely for a while. But it actually worsened. Soon Desirafe was born, so was Angus.
Shakespeare wasn’t a friend anymore. The ‘real’ world seemed to strike back with a vengeance, a lonely fish out of bookish water. It was Guilome’s birth. The boys selling shiny flying toys on the road get in the way. The men and women out on a stroll gape open-mouthed. The dogs are unaffected. My calves tighten.
Guilome and Desirafe were fed by silence and more of Guilome and Desirafe. It was like a dumping ground, an endless landfill which threatened to explode one day. The assigned project lay untouched. The TV was blaring, the women dancing and the men singing. The couple was talking sweet nothings, the camera on a soft-focus mode. The ants crawled to a presenter’s voice, it was some exotic island. A pact was signed amidst much controversy and heated discussion. Then it all went blank and silent, or rather blue. Nothing seemed interesting anymore. What a sheer waste of fifty minutes. Desirafe sighed, grumbled. Guilome screamed. Nothing can be done now, it’s too late. My feet keep moving. My mind keeps racing.
Wednesday’s newspaper had an article on relationships. Young couples, changing trends in society: ignorance, precociousness, the influence of the media, the ever-alluring West. Also, Saif Ali Khan had changed his girl friend, so had some cricketer. My friend gave me a call. She was going out with her boyfriend. She wouldn’t be free this weekend to hang out with. I called another friend. She seemed to have the same story. I cycled down to the coffee joint. It was yet hot in August and the traffic hadn’t changed one bit. The coffee prices had increased by 5 rupees. Damn the inflation. And why did they keep a table for two when I was alone? Why not for singletons? What’s wrong with the world? What’s wrong with me? I moved out of there before I beat up someone or show a finger. Desirafe was hungry, growling and ready to taste blood. Instead I taste my sweat which runs down my nose into my open mouth. I’m gasping for breath. My stomach is cramped. I need air. My legs are yet moving.
Loser was a household word for me. Angus ruled my life. Guilome and Desirafe fed off me. I felt Desirafe on my lips, on my stomach, sliding down my back. He was all over me. The attacks were worst at night. I woke up feeling tired and helpless. “Desirafe, Desirafe” that’s all I could hear, think of, want and feel. I wanted to kill Desirafe. Then probably Guilome and Angus would also die a natural death. I needed to find Desirafe outside me to destroy him. I can see the end. The rounds are over. I stop and double up. My t-shirt is drenched.
I’ve to pay the tuition fees. The bank loves to torture people in the afternoon, making them stand in long queues at 2pm. The fan near the main counter is out of service. The windows are small and the panes are broken. This is the side effect of higher education. I look around for familiar faces. I’m too early as usual. My friends are a lazy lot. They love the thrill of the last moment. I spot a tall guy with a goatee. I don’t know him, maybe he’s new.
The next week I see the goatee chap again. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I respond. A few days later I know him as Alberto. Months pass. I know the time has come when at last I taste blood. It is the blood of Desirafe. A great relief courses through my entire body. I’ve found Desirafe outside me in Alberto.
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