How's married life?

I've had so many people ask me this in the recent past that I've thought of throwing the enquirer from the balcony, over and over again, much like in Jodhaa Akbar. Honestly, it's not about the question itself - I have myself unflinchingly used this as a conversation starter with newly weds several times. What annoys me is that -you are only allowed two answers - 'great' and 'good'. No one wants to stop and hear even a syllable more than that. That's probably because my audience is either the much-married-well-meaning-aunt- who-doesn't-really-care or the Don't-talk-to-me-about-marriage-I'm-too-cool-for-it-friend.

It's not the easiest thing in the world to explain how marriage makes you feel. But there definitely is a difference. Something that can still be felt even if you strip off the years you have known the person, the languages you speak, the Gods you believe in (or don’t), the food you eat or the person you are. Companionship.

When your teachers asked you to pick a partner for lab, when your professor told you to pick a team mate for project work, has there ever been a slightest doubt of fear in your head?
I have had it. All the time. Oh, God. Will she work with me? I hope he's not already taken. God, please please, don't let me end up with that girl. That guy is lazier than me, please, not him. Sometimes, if you are lucky you end up working with a person you like, good vibes, good chemistry, good results. You then team up for a couple of projects and there is a certain security - when the next project is announced you only look back at the person and smile, amidst the noisy deal making. The small joy of knowing you have a great team-mate without having to clamor for it, without having to worry about being there before someone else does.

Marriage is like that. It's like finding that perfect activity partner for life. There's someone to split those calorie heavy molten lava chocolate cakes. Someone to bring you home safely when you are many a happy drink down. There's no sitting alone on the roller coaster cars anymore. There's someone to yell at the driver to stop when you are busy retching on a highway. Heck, now there's even an excuse to order that ultra heavy Death by Chocolate. And yes, all of the above works both ways.

It's a pretty cool thing if you think about it. This one's there for good and can't complain about how s/he hates to work with you. (Even if s/he does, it doesn't really matter, they are under contract for life). So there, that's how it feels. Really. I would recommend it. For even if you have to sit through Iron Man, you know you won't miss 'Sex and the City'!

How's married life?

Maid of Honour

Leaning on our refrigerator in my newspaper column-sized kitchen, I stared intently at my maid. There was a continuous jet of water from one of the taps and she was swiftly passing soaped vessels under them. Once the assortment of steel, melamine and ceramic had had their express showers, from where she stood, she expertly threw each of them into their designated storing places.

Wait a minute. Isn’t she supposed to wipe them dry before you do that? Not like I remember what mom used to do. A quick memory access does not yield too many image results. Now accessing science section. I’m pretty sure the water remains helps in breeding of dangerous microorganisms. I look around for a dish cloth. 1 found. Only I, a classified female with a colour vocabulary of 435686543779, can’t figure what shade it originally is.

I dash inside my slightly bigger Happy-Birthday-Sonia-ad size room while mentally constructing signs to explain the phenomenon to the aforementioned only-Telugu-speaking help. My head deeply buried between some aging clothes, I’m searching for that elusive piece of unwanted cloth.

‘Mein jaa rahi hoon, madam’. *Bang*. I’m leaving for the day.

‘Whaat? Wait! Hey!!!’

Great.

Lakshmi walked into our lives quite by chance. Our ex-maid Latha had barely been working for a month when she wanted to go back to her village for a short vacation. So she entrusted Lakshmi with the 10–day job and lied to her (Ref: Our cook) about how much we were paying so that she could pocket a neat margin. As luck would have it Latha didn't turn up for several weeks. By then we had given Lakshmi all the specific household instructions and had also begun a crash course in Telugu basics to communicate her.

Then one day Latha landed at my door. (Of course the whole conversation was in Hindi, or what I thought was Hindi)

‘I’m coming from the 1st’

‘No, I think it’s better Lakshmi comes. She’s knows everything now, she does her job well and we don't have the time to train you again’.

‘But I only told her to come for 10 days while I was away’

‘You didn't come back in 10 days. You didn’t even come back in a month. ‘

‘She wont come’

‘She will. We’ve spoken to her’

‘She doesn’t know Hindi.’

‘Neither do I’ (Didn't you get that with my smart gender assigning throughout this conversation?)

Her pupils became one tiny spot in the horizon and i could see her nerves throbbing. She stepped back. Her whole body was shaking now. I grabbed the pillow next to me and was ran some defensive moves in my head. Will she hit me? Will she spit at me?

She turned in a huff and ran down the stairs. That was the last I saw of her.

From what I hear (again thanks to my cook), Latha went and confronted Lakshmi the next day. She told Lakshmi that she is not to work with us anymore and that we have asked Latha to resume her services right away. Luckily for us, Lakshmi had the sense to pay no heed and turn up to work the next day. I’m still trying to figure out in what language they communicated.

Actually,it’s not their fault. Because all we do is compare all our help to our ex Man Friday.

Shankar was almost part of the house we moved into. He would sweep, mop, wash clothes and dishes. He would dust all the furniture and make our beds. He would pay all our bills, buy all our groceries and even fix fused bulbs. He would supervise the carpenter or plumber who came in and would even whip us an occasional omelette if we were too lazy. We couldn’t imagine life without him, he was truly heaven sent. Till the day he vanished into thin air. With my room mate’s phone. And the charger.

Well, I’m glad I don't have to bother about such issues a few weeks from now. For I’m moving to the *promised* land. Where I have to do all above mentioned things myself. Including the work of the carpenter and the plumber.

Guilt trips and stolen thunder

I saw an amazing movie last weekend. An engaging movie is always a rare occurrence, yet Reservation Road was truly different. For it actually made me think - beyond the Intermission food choices, the post-movie options and other 'loo'ming decisions.

This is the story in short. Dwight is a single dad with visitation rights to his son Lucas. One fateful night, driving back from a game with his son, Dwight runs over 10-year old Josh, killing him instantly. Dwight hesitates for a mere second, before leaving a bereaved Ethan weeping over his son's body. What follows is an amazing portrayal of suffering, of guilt and pain, with some unwavering and true-to-life performances from the cast.

It led me to think - how much guilt can a person handle?

Frankly, if I were in Dwight's position I would have definitely considered, at least for a whole hour, the option of hiding the whole thing away. Of acting like it never happened and then beginning to believe in it. After all, it is the option of free life over no life. If you can ignore the guilt. If only.

How much hidden guilt can a person live with? When does it start hurting? How big should a sin be to actually matter? What counts?
Lying to your parents? Stealing a good -looking pen? How about reading your best friend's diary?
Fine. Let's go by the global rule that no one should be harmed in the process or as a result of it. Then, does stealing office stationary count? How about poisoning (God forbid) your neighbour's pet. Or ruining someone's chances at an interview? Really, where does one draw the line. And then, when you decide to stash those memories away, does one ever feel like letting it go? To someone, to anyone?


While this was merely a mind stirring thought, the wonderful piece of cinema had more in store. Ethan is slowly eaten away at the lack of response from the Police. With just one clue, they hang on, make a few inquiries and are ready to throw the towel in without, according to Ethan and most of us, any substantial effort.

For heaven's sake, that's America. One thing they've managed to get right is the Policing. Or so we thought. They would be glad to know they have good company in their fellow compatriots here.

A couple of months ago, at my wedding, an uninvited guest took off with my mom's handbag. It contained gifts of gold and cash worth a fair bit. For hours the whole wedding party were immersed in all kinds of basic investigation, rummaging through wedding gifts, asking people, calling the misplaced phone, drawing out suspects, going through videos, etc. Wasn't much use. A complaint was duly filed at the nearest police station. "Forget about it" - public voice.

The next day we scanned the hundreds of pictures that were collectively taken and watched the video for the millionth time, drawing out at least 23 different suspects among the eleven of us family members (aged 8 to 80). I must admit that it was quite some fun, turning into prime investigators, coming up with hypotheses to why the lift operator could have teamed up with the priest in the master plot to steal the bride's gold. There were some hilarious moments too, like when the whole family was lined up in front of the video, ready to take a picture of the stolen handbag to give as evidence. Hardly a few minutes later, the stolen bag was found under a coconut tree in the porch. Without the valuables, of course. The perpetrator had been just a few metres away from us, inside our premises, dropping off the bag, all while I was busy clicking pictures of a TV screen.

Anyway, like the tech-savvy new age family we are, we scanned the hall's CCTV videos and got a long shot of the culprit. (Of course, he was not part of the elite 23 suspects circle). So we took the bag and the video clips to the police with a brief description of what the guy looked like. Well, I must say they weren't too happy with our efforts. They told us they would like a clearer, close up shot, preferably in white background with his eyes no less than 12 mm away from the top of the picture.

While the rest of moved away from the scene of crime after the holidays ran out, my supermom was still on the trail. No one messes with her. She unearthed more videos and actually worked with some visual graphic professionals to get this shot of the culprit.


Now that we got the police got the matrimonial picture they wanted, they still aren't ready to move their well-fed behinds. We are now working on getting his current and permanent addresses, PAN card number, family tree, current salary and job description, bank account details, besides a well written accurate horoscope.

If you do see him anywhere, please buy him a ticket for Reservation Road. I will reimburse you and even buy you a free ticket. He should know my pepper spray is still unused and so are my karate skills.

For the larger sin, mister, was stealing my wedding thunder.

Guilt trips and stolen thunder

I saw an amazing movie last weekend. While that itself is quite a rare occurence, Reservation Road was truly something different. It actually made me think (beyond the Intermission food choices, post-movie options and other 'loo'ming decisions).

This is the story in short. Ethan and Emma are doting parents to Grace and Josh. Dwight is a single dad with visitation rights to his son Lucas. One fateful night, driving back from a game with his son, Dwight runs over Josh, killing him instantly. Dwight hesitates for a mere second, before leaving the bereaved father weeping over his son's body. What follows is a completely natural unfolding of events, with some unwavering and true-to-life portrayals from each cast member.

Dwight suffers in guilt and Ethan in silence, as the Police drag on the case with almost no leads and barely any clues. The lack of response eats into Ethan who grows away from his family and hires a lawyer to follow up on the case. The lawyer is, of course, Dwight. I'm not going to reveal what happens because I wouldn't want to take away from you this brilliant piece of performance.

Frankly, if I were in Dwight's position I would surely have considered, at least for a whole hour, the option of hiding the whole thing away. Of acting like it never happened and then beginning to believe in it. After all, it is the option of free life over no life. If only you can ignore the guilt. If only.

Of course, here we all empathise for poor Dwight. After all, even a slight blot on his record could snatch away any access to his son. But if he was single would things be any different? What about the rest of us? How much guilt can we all handle? How small should a sin be to not require you to own up to it?

Moving on

I still remember the first time. Everything was so impulsive. And for a brief moment, guilt-ridden. Since then I've asked myself so many times why I did it. Maybe because it felt so right. And incredibly magical. For when I felt you against my skin and looked into your eyes I just let go. Of my reservations, inhibitions and my senses.

Looking back, I'm happy some of my life's best memories were with you. Carefree days, beautiful sights, unspoken nights. Braving chilly winds as I clutched at your sleeve. Walking unfathomable distances knowing you were with me. At times, shielding you with my little hands, for whatever it was worth. You were my obsession, a completely inexplicable one. Would I struggle so much to understand anyone else? I wonder.

It always annoyed me - the way you would show up my flaws. Yet, there wasn't a single time I didn't forgive you. Not a single time. Not even the days you gave up on me. Or the days I couldn't see you in the eye. You were precious to me. And you always made me smile. In return, I reserved some of my best smiles for you. To cherish, to hold and to freeze forever in memory. It was all you. For when people saw me with you, I glowed.

You changed my life. The times I felt at peace just feeling your presence on me. The way you caressed my nose. How there was nothing more beautiful than burying my face in your back and just holding you. The way I searched for the nooks in you body to fill with me. And the certain joy of looking at life through your eyes. Something no one will ever understand.

You should know it's impossible to forget you. And to think you were never a part of my life. I can never stop wishing I had spent more time with you. Or at least done justice to the times we were together. Deep in my heart, I'll also keep hoping for that miracle reunion.

I'll miss you. Really. I'll miss holding you and making memories with you. I'll always regret never having told you how much you meant to me. But I guess it's time to move on.

There's just one nagging fear in my heart. And I can't stop thinking about it. I hope the lenses that came free with you will fit on to my new Canon.

Kissed by an angel

Thursday was a different day. One that I spent doing things I had been craving to for so many days. Things which gave me a lot of time to reflect on my life. Like a long soak in a warm bath. And a much needed conversation that left me in tears. I looked up at the dark clouds hovering threateningly from my grand window, wondering if this would be the day the city was waiting for. Brushing drenched images aside I added a slide to my presentation - with lots of boxes and arrows. Things which my work life was now surrounded by. I stepped out into the dark a full two hours later, carrying a small backpack and a heavy package that I'd received from home.

Bandstand is usually a lovely place. Most of the days I step out of office to the beautiful shades of sunset over the sea, trying to hold my own against the strong wind. It's crowded with huddling couples, eager rickshaws and an occasional movie unit. Well, today was not exactly the same. I squinted to spot a run down Premier Padmini amidst the drizzle, crossing the road twice to try my luck on both sides. No one wanted to make the trip.

Finally I flagged down a rickshaw and hurried into it, cardboard box and all, asking him to take me to the farthest point into the city that he was allowed to. We passed by the seaface, the radio blaring 'Barso re megha megha'. I hummed along, the sea breeze blowing the shorter strands of my hair all over my face. My super dramatic alter ego was busy, fancying myself as the pretty heroine under the gorgeous waterfall, splashing around and getting drenched without a second thought. ' Nanna re nanna re nannare na na re'. I put my hand outside the auto to catch the raindrops - what every second self respecting actress would do. And then suddenly the movie stopped, like a power cut in a village talkie.

'Yahan se taxi le lena madam'. Take a taxi from here.

A different final point for the autos. I took my own time paying him, hoping a cab would stop by us. No such luck. Getting down gingerly, I focussed on the road, hoping to see the yellow headed cabs flowing my way. Nothing. I surveyed the surroundings. Dark and empty, the drizzle was slowly morphing into a full flown downpour. Several empty autos. One stationary cab filled with four men. A lonely lady with wares of potato wafers and two Bisleri bottles under a small umbrella. This is Bombay, I thought, it's always safe. Finally a taxi. Damn. People in it. Several minutes passed on the empty road. No luck. The rain was falling heavily by now and I could feel the droplets running down my neck.

'Goa ja rahe ho?' Going to Goa?

I turned around sharply to see the Bisleri woman standing next to me with her little umbrella.

'Mahim', I said, managing a wry smile.

'Taxi chahiye?' Want a taxi?

I nodded my head, trying to decipher any hidden messages in her words. Things I usually suck at picking up.

She came closer to me and held the umbrella over my head and yelled out a name. Four kids came running out of nowhere like pixies from an Enid Blyton. They rushed off in different directions on receiving orders from the woman. One older boy stayed behind.

'Soch raha tha kiske liye chhaata pakadke khadi ho', he told her. I was wondering who you were holding the umbrella for.

She replied ,' Bacchi akeli khadi thi na.' The girl was standing alone, you know.

'Meri bhi do bacchi hai, tum jaisi', she smiled. I have two daughters just like you.

I smiled at her wondering what I should say. Was this a trap? Why would she do this?

'Mein pakad lun?', I asked, my hands already full with my things. Shall I hold the umbrella? Frankly, amidst the hundred thoughts that were running through my mind, none of them involved holding her umbrella. Yet I heard myself saying it.

I never heard her reply. It was muffled by shouts of 'Aunty' and 'Didi' that suddenly rung the air. The little kids ran towards us, followed by a taxi which truly seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Before I could react they shuffled me in, their grimy wet faces smiling at me from the different windows. From the one I sat at, I could now see her wares, cold and unprotected in the rain.

Stunned, I mumbled a 'thank you' under my breath and waved at the six excited children and the Bisleri woman. They waved till I went out of sight.

I reached home safely that night. Drenched, but safe.

Funny how sometimes it takes a total stranger to make you smile. Out of nowhere. With so little.

Kissed by an angel

For days I've been meaning to write about this city. I've endlessly sniggered at all my Mumbaikar friends for thinkign that their city is a different world, a place much better and much different than what the rest of us lesser mortals have set foot on

Pieces in a Kaleidoscope - III

She passed the waiting taxis and stood on the road, looking to flag a running one. From her two months here she knew only the ones on the road agreed to go anyplace she wished to. She climbed into an old Fiat and surveyed the insides. Recently done up in gaudy colours, the huge speakers were

Fangs of separation

I stretched lazily and walked up to my window. A sweeper raking specks of leaves from the pale green grass swathed in the morning sunlight. A stray mongrel waited by, confused. I squinted to see who else was lounging around after breakfast. Just one more morning, I thought. At this window.

People deal with farewell and separation in many different ways. They try different ways till the one time they find that they have truly cut themselves successfully away, without much damage. They develop networking and social skills and try hard to keep in touch, in hope that one day they'll never have to say the dreaded word. I hate saying goodbye - to places, to things. Especially to people.

Some people deal with it by slowly taking it in. By savoring and enjoying every last second. With the things they always wanted to do. By taking pictures, by graciously accepting that this is going to be the last time. They wish they would cry and get over with the sorrow but then the tears disappoint. Because they have already grieved enough.

Sometimes, you want to say goodbye by spending all your time with that person or in that place. Doing things you have always enjoyed doing, living the life you have always led. Perhaps with a implicit reassurance that nothing will change and nothing should. This is when you want to believe that this going away is just a small deviation in the master plan of life.

Some people deal with it by keeping away. They immerse themselves in packing, running errands, in things which would take them away from dealing with the pain, and in the process those precious last few moments. They simply don't want any memories of saying goodbye. That would ruin the lovely picture they have in their minds.

Some people just walk away, out of your lives, in a precious second. Some people cry. If it needs some alcohol, so be it. Some people say nice words. Some others hug and kiss.

I blog.

Leap of faith

I always admire the picture that shows on my fone when I get a call from home. Mom's chilling out in the sofa with my cat Puchoos happily snuggled on her lap, lifting her head and enjoying the caresses. One such time,right in the midst of the picture-gazing, my mother's excited voice from the other end made my ears perk up. Quite cat-like.

My parents had, with a new found business contact, visited an astrologer, a specialist in the field of 'nadi jolshiyam' or 'astrology that is sought'. Apparently, centuries ago, the period when every village happening was later made into a legend, a Goddess wanted to know about the people who would be born on earth. Her following of saints took up the task and wrote down the life histories of every human being who would ever be born on this earth, each inscribed into a leaf. Wars and natural calamities destroyed a lot of these but about a few hundred years ago, the remaining inscriptions were recovered and translated into a more recent comprehendable Tamil. These were then auctioned off by the British and bought by rich Tamil families who maintained it for years before handing them over to different astrologers. These little biographies are said to be matched to a person by his/her thumb print and not the date of birth unlike other forms of astrology. This because they believe that a human is born when it is conceived and not, like the rest of us swear by, time of delivery. So even though the saints might have written the futures of thousands of people, each astrologer only has the leaves of those 'destined' to go to him. I patiently listened, waiting for the twist in the story, the critical point where my semi-sceptical mom would have fallen hook, sinker and line for this too-good to-believe faith. I didn't have to wait long.

After giving their thumb prints, the man brought sets of leaves that matched them, she said. He started off not knowing anything about them, even their names. He would ask 3-4 basic questions to find out which leaf was yours and once all the answers matched, he would declare your leaf found and write down the matter into a notebook and then explain it to you. Hmm. Mom was stunned out of her seat, she said, when he found her leaf and told her my grand mother's rather uncommon name. He also mentioned some unusual details of our family which he could never have guessed otherwise. Details of her siblings and children followed, complete with marital status and location and even the age at which she would seek out this form of astrology. My dad had a similiar leaf found and read out to him. Both were even told, much to their amusement, what they were and where they lived in their previous lives.

I got back home in a few days and the more I heard about it, the more curious I got. I don't really believe in astrology but this one seemed too entertaining to miss. And maybe disprove. I thought of all the ways they could have found out the details, like how much the business contact knew and how much my parents would have absently relayed. There was no other way to find out than to book myself an appointment.

I went to the small house, tagging behind my mother. There were pictures of Hindu Gods and Goddesses all around. After awhile we were called in to where the astrologer was seated. I pressed my right thumb into an old Camel stamp pad and made two impressions. There was a young boy, an apprentice who stood by. I keenly observed the astrologer, trying to keep my eyes on him and my prints to see how he was going to match them. He wrote down numbers beside them and gestured to the boy who went in, without as much as taking a look at the notepad. He returned in a few seconds with a bundle of long rectangular palm leaves bound together with white rope.

Sometimes you genuinely try to look at these things with an open mind. Something about it could be genuine, how else would they unearth so much of personal information. A faint glimmer of hope that this man and his bunch of leaves could perhaps get me hooked to this and actually believe in it. I waited with bated breath.

Are you above 20? Yes. Above 22? Yes? Born in 85? No. 84? No. 83? No. 82? Yes.

Ok. Not much rocket science in there, I thought. My eyes focussed in and out of the dull picture of an unknown deity behind him.

How many letters in Tamil does your name have? Five. The first letter of your name begins with R? No. V? No. P? No. L? No. S? Yes, I said.

My left eyebrow was now slightly above the normal level. What next, I wondered.

Is you name Shyamala? No. Sangeetha? No. Savitha? No. The last letter of your name, Na? No. Tha? No. Thi? No. Ra? No. Pa? No. What is it? 'Ya'. Is your name Sathya? No!

How did I even think this would be genuine. I crossed my legs, folded my arms and sat back. I glanced at my mom. Was this how he guessed Grandma's name?, I asked with my eyes. She returned a disappointed look that told me even she thought this was unusual.

Now the second last letter, he said. Concentrating hard and trying to figure out, I guessed, what normal Indian names could fit the given pattern. A baby name book would help, I mused, rather than ancient palm leaves. The session went on for awhile. He 'told me' my mother's name and my name after a letter-by-letter guessing game. He knew my dad's name so we were spared of the ordeal of going through his rather long name. He then proceeded to again' tell me' what line I was in. Since no astrologer can ever guess HR, I took my ex profession, software, as a valid answer. After all with more than 80% of the educated youth there, it was a safe guess for him. Then on seeing my mom's doubtful face, he made some quick calculations with my age and said that I have now studied further and could possible be either in the same line or in an administrative, managerial line. Wow. Smart.

It was a smart business model. Yet, my parents insist that for them he didn't do much guessing. He apparently took their parent's names out of thin air. With no prodding. Some of my mom's friends testify to this too. One of them even had their future husband's name accurately given at a time when they hadn't even met. How could so many people stick by this unexplained foresight?

Either my astrologer didn't get my leaf and just pretended to or the whole thing is a big sham. The former, in my humble opinion, would anyway mean the latter. I later looked up 'nadi astrology' on the net. Several interesting pages appeared with many good-looking testimonials and pictorial proof that there is some sort of truth associated with this. After many discussions with others who have had this experience, mine seemed the most bogus of them all. Without even an ounce of stun power. Yet, there's something about this mysterious way of foretelling that still keeps my questioning. Maybe some day when I have the time and patience, maybe I would try another astrologer and get some answers. Till then I can recount the way he guessed my date of birth and smile.

Jan-Feb? No. Nov-Dec? No. April- May? No. . . . . . . June? Yay!!!

Before 15th or after 15th?

The last leg

After lunch yesterday I walked up to a little office in the administration building of the business school I go to. I gave them my student roll number and collected the green registration card with my picture on it. Picking up a pen I looked at my own handwriting.My name neatly scrawled in different ink on five different dates. I paused for a moment before I gingerly put my signature for the last time and turned away. The last leg of my academic life.

I have pictures of my first day at kindergarten in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. Four years old, neatly dressed, a blue cotton bag on one shoulder, a red penguin water bottle on the other, giving an impish smile at my dad. After close to a year of a lot of fun there, they gave me a 'Diploma of kindergarten'. Needless to say, I was on a high for a whole week, my first recorded high. Ever since, school has always been joyful for me. I was one of those eager kids who hated missing school and would go almost forty minutes earlier than the first bell. The wonderful life of friends, books, grades. And a few teachers I hold close to heart.

What women want

A brief attempt at unravelling the great mystery. In honour of my friend Rishi who gave me the idea. Dedicated to all the confused men around. Just say sorry :)


She: ' Just say yes or no. No ifs or buts'
He: ' Ok... No.'
She: 'No????'
(pause)
Fine!'
He: Ok. Bye
She: Fine! Gbye and Gnite!

She stares at her fone secretly wishing she could bang it down. 'Men!'.

She wakes up, by habit trying to remember what she dreamt of. Then she remembers the argument. What a loser, she thinks. Wonder if I'll see him at the parking lot. She does. Walks away, avoiding eye contact.

'I wonder if he ever realises what he did. Hurting me like that. I bet he's regretting it right now'. She turns on her laptop trying to immerse herself in the jargon and matrices.

It's around the time he has lunch, she thinks, picking her keys and staring out the window. No sign of him. A second helping? Maybe he'd be here by then. No sign. Some fruit juice? No sign.
'What an absolute moron. Maybe he just doesn't like to say sorry.'

3 pm. No email. 4pm. No offline messages. 5 pm. Nope- no phone calls and no smses either. And then suddenly footsteps outside her door. She holds her usually heavy breath, trying to concentrate and recognize the steady sounds coming closer. A knock. On the neighbour's door. She heaves a disgruntled sigh and goes back to her wired world.

9 pm. 'Maybe I should call. Maybe that will open him up. Give him an opportunity to realize what a fool he's been. Or maybe I should just pay him a visit.' She gathers her books, her keys and her phone and then stops. She puts them all back and waving her hands, walks up two flights of stairs. She steadies her breathing, goes to the door and puts her hand on the knob and turns it.

He turns to look at her, an expression of relief crossing his face. She walks in, trying to suppress her smile and look angry. She sits down at his table waiting for him to speak.
' Ok. Here goes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just worried about what the others would ..'
' It's okay. But I was upset too. I'm not totally devoid of emotions, you know!' she smiles. ' I just had to come and see you. I was thinking about it all day and I knew things would become alright if I came.'
' Thank you. You make me feel much lighter. Dinner tommorow?'

How nice that would be, she thought, brushing her dreams away. She turned the knob, it only went half the way. She paused, then turned it the other way. No luck. She rushed back to her room, picked her stuff and walked to her car. ' Well, he's getting more time. He better come around by tommorrow.'

Next morning she meets him at the parking lot.

She: 'Left early yesterday?'
He: ' Yes, Around 8'
She: ' I came to your office. Around 9'
He: ' Oh. What for?'
She ' What do you think?'
He: ' It's ok. Your apologies are accepted.'

She: 'Whaaaattttt?????'

Pieces in a Kaleidoscope - II

This post and the one before is my attempt at trying a new style of writing fiction. Pieces of vivid descriptions to be stitched together by the reader's imagination. A thousand patterns can be formed depending on what you perceive, much like a kaleidoscope. Do let me know what you see.

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She waited on the wooden bench, quietly checking the people walking across. She strained her eyes to see the end of the platform. It was empty except for a naked boy of about 2 crawling to his sleeping mother. Maybe it was a joke, she thought and looked straight ahead. And then she saw him. A sigh of relief, a joyous smile.

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They sped down the road, under the shadows of the tall neem trees, her childish laughter resounding for miles. She giggled loudly as the first drops of rain hit her face, her brown eyes gleaming with excitement. A pothole unsteadied her. She caught on to his shirt, screaming in delight. They stopped at a closed shop, waiting for the rain to stop. He looked at her shivering in the cold and kissed her cheek, affectionately.

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She stared at the screen. Her nimble fingers flew across the old keyboard and she typed furiously, trying in vain to put all her thoughts into words. Then she found the backspace key.
She froze for a moment, thinking if she would regret this later. She fiddled with the keys, her hesitant fingers matching up with her wavering mind.
She hit 'send' and gathered her belongings. She slowly walked out of the room, making up tales in her head to convince herself that everything was alright. Nothing was wrong. No one was drifting away.

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The light was dim. The music was soft, almost non existent. There was nothing to stop her - it only took a question to bring it on. From a million miles away she opened up to him, and he to her. Nothing mattered anymore and neither remembered the backspace key. Excuses, misgivings, battered feelings. Assumptions, reasons and explanations.

It had all been over 7 years ago. Yet, this was closure.

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When was innocence lost?

Pieces in a Kaleidoscope - I

She rested her chin on the grill and looked out. Myriad of bright green hues battling for sunlight. Childhood memories ran in her head and she smiled, turning to look at him discreetly. He met her gaze, his laughter travelling all the way to his eyes.

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She looked ahead, words floated by, she wasn't listening. He held her close for a brief moment and whispered into her ear. She closed her eyes and shut the lone tear out from the world as the cold wind ruffled her damp hair.

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He looked up at her, unsure of what to say. She paused, suddenly concious of how much she had spoken. He shook his head and gently rested his head on the wall behind, thinking of the days gone by. Deafening silence marred by insignificant voices behind. She fiddled with a piece of paper slowly, looking down at it with intent.

A few seconds or a dozen hours.

She felt his eyes on her and looked up. A tiny tear gingerly made its way down her cheek as she bit her lip. Fears of the past clouded her mind, she brushed away her thoughts as she picked a strand of hair off her dress. She prayed, dont let it happen again.

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Does every relationship have a name?

The Holy Trail

It was the morning of the wedding of my close friend. To be celebrated in the temple town of Trichy or Tiruchirapalli, it would've been a sin to not visit the temple. So that's quite precisely what we ventured out to do at 6 am. A middle aged brahmin couple cheerfully volunteered to accompany us and guide us through the labyrinth of the ancient temple. We didn't have the heart to tell then that all we needed was a hi-bye flying visit that can be declared to the outside world as an extremely devoted trip to the Sri Ranganathar Temple.

After forty minutes of waiting in the queue that led to the sanctum sanctorum, we reached the entrance to it. The ancient carvings on the stones had lost much of its beauty since someone had decided cement and paint would be nice to adorn the upper end of it. That the waiting area made me claustrophobic and I was squashed between two aged grannies was of not much importance. We finally reached God. Or so we thought.

The priest near the gold-covered stone idol was hurrying everybody who had waited long for the moment. He would let you a super short glimpse of the deity and barely enough time for you to clasp your hands together before showing you the way out. Just as we were about to step in, we were blocked to let in a family of 6- they had paid Rs 20 for a shorter wait and a smarter detour. We waited and looked at each other wondering if we should've paid too, for a second happy of the existence of the hurrying priest.

We slowly inched our way into the tiny area, stole a quick glance at the idol and hiked up our skirts to hurry out when the inviting voice of the priest caught us by surprise. He not only gave us welcome smiles but also a patient explanation of the God there , his wives and the temple's history. He went on in sudden fervor as we exchanged bewildered looks among us- wondering what could've brought out this surprising change. And then we got our answer.

Clasped in my friend's hand was a 500 Rupee note. The priest finished his talk, looked at her hand and said ' Pray and keep what's in your hand as an offering to God'. She didn't. As we came out we were stopped by another priest-like man with a receipt book asking us to make donations. We hurried out in silence, disgusted with the experience.

My relationship with God. It's a task to describe it.

My earliest memories of praying include learning shlokas or hymns from my grandmother- not knowing the meaning or even the right words. To this day that's how I recite them- like Udit Narayan sings in Tamil. No feeling, no emotions, nothing. But if a God does exist, I'm sure he'll know me by name.

As a school going kid, I used to visit the nearby temple every single school morning, discussing with Her ( no, not a feminist, just that it was a Goddess) my daily worries and little triumphs. As was the norm there were tiny bribes involved - like the deal to walk around the temple three times every Friday in exchange for a full score in Math. I have been to Sabarimala four times- the last two of which I had to be carried part of the way since I ran a temperature- now I'm officially banned to enter there till I'm 50. I have distinct memories of regular visits to the school chapel, kneeling down closing my eyes and feeling the space around, the sheer silence of which still enchants me. And the cool white marble of the Saraswathi temple at Pilani, reminiscences of sitting on those steps and waiting, waiting for I-don't-know-what. To this day, most of my visits to Kerala involve a trip to Guruvayur where I would not just encounter another hurrying priest, but also be forcibly dressed in skirts/ sarees and accept my untouchable status. A couple of months back, when I felt a burning desire to go to a temple, I took a 9 hour journey to the Golden Temple in Amritsar. The simple 'langar' food was the tastiest I had had in a long time.

Somewhere in the transition between a girl to the half girl- half woman I am now, I may have lost some faith. I stopped believing in the numerous rituals that did not make sense the thousand Gods of the Hindu faith and their few thousand wives. I stopped praying everyday, those hymns were now reserved for rare temple visits and disturbed nights. Maybe it was science, maybe it was sheer arrogance -but I didn't believe in paying thousands to astrologers who claim to be able to appease the Gods. It was not just about God, suddenly it was about astrology, about religion, about customs- anything that could be held at ransom by my logical self. If I was born equal to the holy priest, why would he have to perform a purifying ceremony if I touch him? Why does he drop the Blessed offering into my hand from atleast half a feet above? It was perhaps the blurred line between God's so called agents and God himself that now became clearer.

I could be talking for many people in my generation and the one after. For us, God is a possibility. There could be a supreme power - but the power certainly has no name, no form, no gender and definitely no agents. Your life is what you make it to be and your peace is when you think it to be. The simple calm of a church and the power from the holy fire is what emanates from us and what we attribute to it. Not the other way around. We honestly don't care if our soul goes to heaven or hell- or even if there is such a thing as a soul at all. What would perhaps make perfect sense is a silent conversation with God, on all things bright and beautiful, stupid and silly, frivulous and inane. For us, God is in ourselves, in our family and in our loved ones. We look into ourselves to find courage- and in those unimaginable times, hestitatingly seek the unknown God. Other than that, the supreme power would only be a faithful companion, that voice in the head which silently listens when you want it to. And shuts up when you want it to.

I would probably teach my kids about the big power up there and the thousand gods and goddesses that go with it. The hymns and the idols and the holy priests. Not to mention heaven and hell and their admission criteria. I would give them the peaceful secure childhood I had with God to lean on and then slowly let them figure it out on their own. Maybe its unfair of me to latch on to God for so long and now lessen the faith. Whatever it is, God, I think you might owe me a blessing.

Crossroads

Some call it the beginning of adulthood, some call it the quarter life crisis. A girl’s journey to become a woman is, more than anything, highly puzzling. What follows are the thoughts I put on paper for the forthcoming issue of my alumni magazine- Sandpaper.

As I looked at the mail that had just landed in my inbox a few million random thoughts crossed my mind. Attached were wedding pictures of my close friend from college and standing with the happy couple was another friend with her husband, visibly expecting their first child. As I regretted not being there, my eyes instinctively landed on the wall behind me. My old poster of a cozying couple with much torn edges and very visible creases stared back. I don’t even know why I chose to hold on to the one relic my college hostel room was identified with. It had no place in my life and certainly none in a B-school. I told everyone it makes me feel at home. Frankly, I think it just makes me feel younger.

Is the honeymoon over, I wondered. Twenty four is a funny age to be. It’s when your opinion has suddenly begun to matter and strangely, you don’t seem to like it. It is the age when they stop forgiving you for acting like a kid and start expecting you to know how to handle one.

Friends of mine think they might still be a little too young to marry. But of course, you really cannot be taking competitive exams now- for when you graduate there might not be many eligible bachelors left. A corporate woman then? Maybe not, because for all the gorgeous women of this generation, three years is a long time to be working on the same job. For the thousands of women who joined the workforce three odd summers back, the crossroads of life are now taking form.

Is there such a thing as too many choices? I thought about my close circle of friends. As independent young women with the freedom to step forward in time or back into domesticity, we are a lot pampered for choice. Gone are the days when working women were the toast of the day. Today it’s suddenly cool to stay at home, look after the kids and make aromatic candles. We can study at the best colleges, get the highest degrees, give up everything for the man we love and move to unknown lands. Who is to stop us? Hot shot careers could well be giving way to chocolate chip cookie baking lessons.

As we needle our way out of our protective environments, the comfort of being the new employee, the junior student, the blushing bride, there’s an overwhelming amount of challenges and decisions thrown at us. We grapple with them, mostly alone, too independent and proud to ask for help. The truth is, we may not be as tough as we claim to be. We wax eloquent in public on how strong we are. And yet we crumble at the thought of calling a close friend to condole the death of his beloved.

Today no one raises as much as an eyebrow when I tell them of my plans to start a restaurant and author a book. Another close friend just made a successful shift from a software techie to a well paid finance executive- with a one year MBA. Except for some student loans, there’s nothing to stop her now. Just as I write this more and more women are changing lanes faster than we can imagine, all to pursue something unusual and more fulfilling. We are breaking stereotypes to form niches of our own. We want to be fashionable and comfortable, silly and suave - all at the same time.

It is true. We now like to pay our own bills. But we aren’t going to deny men the pleasure of opening our
doors and pulling out chairs for us. After all, there can be nothing wrong in a little pampering and that’s exactly how we like our lives too. Among all the generations of women on this earth we are probably the easiest to live with. And the most difficult to understand.

I thought of the bright and sunny days spent at college. When the next quiz and submission used to be the big obstacles to our carefree life. When girls would huddle around the night canteen at midnight to discuss the next hot topic of discussion. When most of our plans for life ended with the campus job or a flight to the states. When the next best thing to look forward to would be the next movie, not the next wedding. And how much things have changed since then.

As we stand in the way, with the million others zooming past us, there is only one big question. What is life all about? Each of the paths we take may lead us to some kind of successes, but what is it that we are putting at stake? Our careers? Our families? Our capabilities? Or plain personal satisfaction?

I closed my laptop and reached out for a glass of milk. If this were ‘Sex and the City’, now would be when the camera pans out and the credits roll. Like many others, I wonder what the next episode holds in store.

Winter, wedding and six new sisters

I wouldnt know how to describe the last two weeks of my life. It's one of those times which you wish would play over again and again. It's the few days you have planned and waited for a whole year ahead. It's the moment you try and picturise a few hundred times before it actually happens. When your only sibling gets married and you are endowed with new family from a different culture, it's nothing short of a breathtaking experience.

When my brother told me about Ruth three years ago I was more amused than anything else. A white sister- in-law. Now that would be something, I thought.
Even without the novelty, I've always dreaded the day I'd have to share my brother with another girl. (Special thanks to Bollywood and Kollywood for all its stereotypes and sob stories). It's not that I've spent my entire life with my brother that I would hate the women who'd change that. I havent. In about 7 years Ruth wouldve spent more days with him than I ever have. It was about meeting the person who'd now be the most important woman in my brother's life. I couldnt wait.

A couple of fone calls, a few battles and many months later, the wedding plans began. It was exciting to plan for a wedding which would just have your side of the family and a handful from the other side. It was more like one big birthday bash. Mom and me wanted to extend the normal mallu wedding to beyond its usual ten minutes. (Mallu weddings are more like the instant versions- if you are in a hurry you know where to get married). We incorporated the mehendi and the sangeet and personalised it so that they would have a more 'Indian' experience. Besides we now had to live up to the 'Monsoon wedding' expectations. ( Special mention to Karan Johar for letting everyone think we always have dancing damsels and grooving grandmoms). Every wedding is a celebration, that of love, new family and of the event in itself. And we wanted it to be just that.

Looking back now everything seems like a big blur. The difficult run up to the wedding, when I had end term exams and everyone else was having fun. The relatives raving about Ruth. Me annoyed on being the last to meet her. And finally meeting her.
Meeting her was like catching up with a lost friend. In a coupla hours we were shopping for accessories like we'd done it all our life. The salespersons looked on as the multi-racial gang laughed and hopped around like children in a candy store. In half a day I had an accent which I annoyed most of my friends with. Everyone fell in love with Angela and Greg, Ruth's best friends. They loved to try every kind of food we had and at times while my eyes were tearing with the spice, they would return the dish asking for more 'chilly'. Adventurous, very.

It's tough to explain India to anyone else. How do we explain people standing just half a millimeter away from you in a queue. And the same distance between a couple in love is taboo?! Why do people give cash gifts of Rs 1001 and not in rounded off figures? Why is it that we dont hug people when we say goodbye, but cry and wail over their bodies when they are gone? What is it that keeps us from being natural and shedding tears in public? The best thing about my new family was that they could accept ' It's just like that' as a satisfying answer. ( I certainly couldnt).

The wedding was a ball. We danced, we laughed and we lived through all the chaos. I havent even been to any other 'mehendi' before but this one really rocked and at the reception we even got our otherwise-stiff-family to shake some leg. At the wedding my friends took the place of her family and welcomed us, the groom's family, into the hall. The decorations were lovely. The glowing bride looked more beautiful than any Indian bride I have ever seen. She glided in her saree exactly like I'd told her, as amused onlookers smiled on. I played the role of the sister, helped my brother tie the 'thali' on Ruth and whispered in her ear that this was 'the moment'. I dont think she heard it amidst all the noise but I thought it was one beautiful wedding. And it was just how we wanted it to be for her.

Me describing the wedding wouldn't be half as good as Ruth's or Debra's descriptions ( click on their names to see them).

The wedding was an experience. Not more than having Ruth in the family. And her lovely mom, Debra. The difference in this wedding was not that it was a mix of cultures, it was more about everyone being so eager to fit in and to make the other happy.


I'm really glad this is the way things had to happen. I'm happy my brother found Ruth for him and for all of us. Ruth and Debra are now officially family as also Ruth's dad and sisters and brothers. I now understand what my Dad meant when he said Indian weddings are not about two people getting together but about two families. This was truly one of those. Everyone from the US ate with their hands the entire trip and my family has now began hugging to say goodbye. When it was time for me to leave them, for the first time at any 'goodbye', I was in tears.

When I look at all the pictures I wish some moments would never pass. I wish we could always stay close to the people we love so much. I wish we never had to say goodbyes. But I guess that's just the way things are meant to be. Ruth- I'm glad it's you and noone else.

Peaches and cream!

What is it about fruits that attract a woman? Or is it just me?
The other day I was doing word associations with a friend and when I said ‘Sandhya’ she said ‘fruit’. FRUIT! Now why would anyone get reminded of a fruit when they think of me?
Later that evening, as I was cleaning my dresser, I had my answer. My face wash has peach and wild cherry in it, my sunscreen has orange extracts, my hair oil had gooseberry, coconut and lemon while my often neglected home facial tube lists its ingredients as apple, kiwi, strawberry and papaya. (I don’t eat like papaya!) My favorite body spray fragrances are sun-ripened raspberry and real mango with mandarin orange.
I think the love affair started when I got this mint flavoured foot cream. Now, the thought of applying something that smells saccharine sweet as mint to my foot was quite repelling. I could almost feel the ants waiting to carry me away. When I finally did use it ( after a couple of years) the effect was nothing short of regal. It’s not just about fruits, it’s more about edibles attracting me. The affair continued with Coffee Break and Kiss of Caramel (nail enamel/ lipstick shades from Elle 18). How could anyone ignore something called ‘cocoa butter’ for the face? It just cries out to me from the shelves- not to mention  strawberry face wash and the latest from Lakme - Daily Wear Souffle.    

Peaches 'n' Cream!

What is it about fruits that attract a woman? Or is it just me?