Did it Happen?

Elegantly, Jahnavi walked in her sober, well-fit kameez-patiala, showing her identity card to the airport guard. He was mesmerized by the politeness, which was not normal, through shifts, through years. She held Ekalavya, her six-year old son tightly by his backpack, and managed the numerous chains on her bag, in an attempt to put in the card. The guard helped walk in the son, and before he looked back, Jahnavi was gone.

Just like one of the swirls of her patiala. The guard was harassed and everyone got busy in looking for Jahnavi. And looked for measures to handle a very haphazard, utterly motherless Ekalavya. No CCTV footage could feature anyone making a rush, or bumping into anyone to gather any kind of attention. Meanwhile, a decision was made to Ekalavya's incessant, "Daddy, Bombay. Daddy, Bombay." Since his 'Daddy' could not be contacted, he would be retained, and if any kind of inquiry came in then his missed flight would be unquestionably refunded.

Two hours had passed. There was no clue as to what would be the next plan of action on the part of the authorities, except that it was to be kept as media-away as possible. In a busy Department of IT, at a more or less slack session, JM was busy correcting scripts. "Did the creche agree, J? To keep Eku?" concerned colleagues were asking her. Distractedly, she chirped, "Yes. One finally agreed to keep him even after my hours are over at college." She pulled out her mobile phone, and punched in some numbers. "Call him and find out if he is fine."

"Ah, giving hubby a chance today?"

"Yes. Ex. He must be of some use, no?" Jahnavi returned to her scripts.


A huge bomb-blast at the airport got everybody glued to their phones and TVs. When Jahnavi got bored of her marriage, she could get rid of her husband, but with the son, she had no option. Whether it was love, or a mere biological bond, she still could not understand. She needed to do something, about doing away with such feelings of disgust. It was while coding one of the programs that she came across an extremist group's plan of blowing up a part of the Delhi Airport.

Incognito, she volunteered. Earlier in the morning, she told Ekalavya that they were going to meet Daddy. As soon as the she had punched in the number, the militant from the other end activated the carefully planted bomb inside the bun in his tiffin-box. She was offered $20,00,000 to do so. She settled for $10,00,00 and feigning a loss, went ahead living the life she wanted.

Removed from academics, she took a loan to start-up an Indian-bun industry, having sowed her savings at a Swiss account. The first indulgence she made was to buy the tickets at the Royal Box of the Wimbledon Finals.

With no memory of either her husband, her plot, or Ekalavya.

Motherhood is fucking over-rated she told herself as she paid for the ticket.

Once I Owned a Husband

How much better would it sound, to replace the 'husband' with Ferrari, or an Omega? It would be sad, all the same, with the past-tense of 'own', yet, once I genuinely did own one. Or, people around me made me own one. What? Am I kidding? It was all but that. I was owned. I was forced some ridiculous conditions to fulfill before the marriage, I was advocated of the encompassing love that I would get from the family, and their culture, I was defeated to alter my surname -- into one that is as pathetic to attach as it sounds next to my name. I was convinced that love conquers all, and how liberated I feel now, when I find that it is indeed, not. Not in the name of a surname.

Adultery, alcohol-abuse, anxiety -- none of these were issues that lead to the dignified D-word. The cross is always silent, if you do not choose to listen. Adultery, alcohol-abuse, anxiety -- each were outstanding possibilities to own a husband and henpeck him. But, he owned me instead. With his expectations and lack of being able to standing tall to them. He owned me with his desire, and love, and his overpowering knowledge of everything.

To have a chaotic child, and to have a daughter dressed in invisibility -- there is a difference. Words garb her now, in lovely innocent sunshine and fresh rainfall. She smiles like dew. There are no frostbites.

What is it to own a husband? To have him sign my expenses? To have him question my taste? To have him war over cultural diversity? He becomes the effervescence husband-material. He protects. And pays. Did anyone say I wanted either?

Thus said, I decided I had enough of owning one.

Regret free, I disowned him.

-- Veera. 

(They say it means to be brave. Now they are disappointed that I lived up to my name.)

Junk Thoughts

I have always wondered how nice it would be to paint sound. Or empty a palette with memories. Would you believe that I am a fast-food dispenser? Well, no. I am the one who takes the orders, punches the codes and sends the alert for the delivery. I smile unwittingly each time I greet a customer, and keep wishing that I were an author instead -- trying to capture the emotions with which they come in and ask for food. What, you thought there were no stories there? Let me take you through.

17.06.2016, counter number 4 observations:-

Order no. 2138996530: A confident man, guilty of having to have his breakfast on burgers smartly called for his choice. He didn't even consult the menu -- which means he is habituated to such a living. I asked him, as was protocol, if he would consider 'upping' the drink for some more money, which would save him some more. He waved his hand, collected his bill, and sat down at a morose corner. The cleaning was still in process, yet, had it not been too, I am quite assured he would have gone on to sit there. It was more like his personal throne. In sometime he came up and took his tray, munching on some fries as he took his seat. Now this man, clad in a sober blue shirt and a grey trouser, accompanied by his inevitable laptop bag took a bite of his burger. While at home he would have perhaps bit on a toast and looked into the headlines, here he opened his phone. And he furiously typed. The burger went soggy. I almost for bad for him. He was clearly having a fight. What could have brought that about? He wanted children and may be his wife did not? Stories are same whether from highrises or huts. Perhaps he was running away from a deadline which he could not abide by? My next order was on the way.

Order no. 2138996723: This was a clear case-study. Not very rich students, a boy and a girl here, bunked their classes, removed their ties and carefully studied the menu, as if inside a classroom they were conducting an experiment. They whispered, and pulled out individual contributions before they asked for a meal and two drinks. Time -- that is what they essentially bought. When the actual amount was declared, they countered me on why the price was higher than printed. I patiently, or, like a parrot, explained about the taxes. The boy was willing to cancel an item, but the girl silently held his arm, and like the Queen of Egypt took out a secret note from somewhere and pursued with the order, head held high. I thanked them as they went for the most invisible corner. As they left I could hear faint debating over expenditure. And then, once their tray arrived, they disappeared into what they wanted most -- a meal in each other. 

Order no. 2138996875: Miss Malini and company have arrived! I mean, the typical gang of growing wives, whose husbands leave them the day and after they are (oh so) tired of holding paper packets, they dump them at the centre round sofa, some gossipping away, others giggling, while a couple of them come up for the order. "Any deal of the day?" I smile and tell them the extra-large combos and they get happier at the calculating their extra-large savings. They request a service on the table and are happy that it would be delightfully catered to. The two of them join the Miss Malini gang with additives of their savings victory. Must be discussing sex-positions they fantasize about, in real-life tales, over chicken legs.

Order no. 2138997214: Here is finally the fat-boy who loves to grub on any and everything. I often wonder how his parents never notice the subtle red sauce mark that inevitably falls on his shirt pocket. Love is really, really, just a mere four letter word. For me it is the ping of the sms which declares that salary has come in, for him it is the ping which displays the number assigned to his order of pure fat. He eats, chews, gulps, licks, repeats. Not just with his mouth, his eyes function too. I quite like him -- the fat-boy, whwo enjoys his food. There is an utter simplicity about him, a selfishness which is unapologetic to declare that he doesn't want anyone to share his food. Possesive, yes, that is the word. It is a marvel to watch him eat, yet.

Order no. 2138997536: And finally, the order which makes me happy. Someone who surrenders as to what I would suggest. These are the people I like. I have the choice in my hands to serve them, like hospitality. Here is a girl, smart one, with probably her boyfriend, who comes up and asked, "What should we eat? We are very, very hungry. You say." Boyfriend nods. I request her to look into the menu, as per my job demands, and thereafter too, she insists I do the choosing. "Veg or non-veg" I customarily ask. "Non-veg," she replies. I give them the best combo deal, and ask them if it is enough. "Sounds yum, go ahead" she says. I ask her again, "Coffee or Coke?" She asks back her boyfriend and they agree with the Coke. They pay, sit at any available seat, wait. They come over with a smile to collect the tray, say a "Thank-you" and move on with the eating. Nice, clean, happy. They seem the kind who indulge in such food when the day is longer at the mall and a healthier option doesn't suffice to their time availibility. 

Order no. 2138997724: I am bored informing you about the range of people already, if you aren't yet. This one is a mother and daughter, who come over to the mall like they have come to explore Mars. My colleagues smirk when these kinds are around, I don't. I take up their order and try to guide them through. Well in Mars, nothing can be much known, can it? You need help. So the mother is scandalized when a cup of tea costs what it does, and the daughter assures her that it is fine by her budget. Mother tries to cut down on the exorbitant menu, while daughter insists she knows what she is doing. Who knows if she does, or she is just trying to pay-back her mother with some sort of adventure, like she did when she was taken to a joy-ride, ten, may be fifteen years ago. The daughter knows Mars, but behaves she does not, just to accompany her mother in the novelty of the information. She shares the love. Or atleast pretends to.

My day, on the other hand gets more and more hectic with the static punching and repeating. In the meagre breaks that we are given, I sip on the same sugar-syrupped coffee and sit with my back resting against a cupboard stacking papercups for employees. I think that is why the customer pays so much for beverage -- they pay for us too. It gets very tiring, the shifts and the vast change in discussion. Inside it is just a poor Miss Malini gang, all they speak of is sex and porn, and attempt funny metaphors out of the menu. 

I am only surviving all this because I need the money badly to pay for the applications abroad. They had told me I was over-qualified for the job, I agree. None of this makes sense. I want to leave the puppets of people I see everyday and unfold new ones elsewhere. But I know it will be the same in other skin colours. Moulds do not change often, uppers do. Souls remain the same, while faces change. My break is over, and I am pushing myself to go to the counter.

If only Elsewhere was a place where one could sit, write and earn one's own coffee.

Who Am I?

If I were a theatre practitioner, I would surely be made to do the line "who am I?" in a dozen ways -- with stresses on different the different words, and subtlety on the others. But I am Rudraani, and I have not yet watched Kungfu Panda 3 and I only ask this to myself when I see myself from another person's point of view. So I want to look through what Antara thinks when I am dressed for the ice-skating thingy in my simple black jeans (which by the way is from Zara), and blue UCB t-shirt. She must be thinking "oh, rich bitch." If only she knew. No, not that I steal from my parents to wear what I wear, else how could I wear had they not bought or introduced me to those, but I know of the fights that flare up in my family over finance, and I know what it takes my parents to maintain the image they grew up with.

I live in denial. I am sixteen, and I cannot help it if the demands of my peers ask me to 'be" and "behave" in a certain manner. I was narrating outright to my cousin this evening that when we had a second-hand Indigo, how I used to ask my driver to drop me outside the school gate. I study in an elite school, where even Hondas are meh. So, finally when Dad did away with the Indigo, and we were/are left with our Fortuner, I make it a point to ask Rakesh Uncle, our driver, to drop me inside the school. However petite I am, I like the fact that I come out of a big car, with my Kipling bag on my shoulder, casually hung, as if it were a rucksack. My parents did not buy me that. My rich uncle did, but I dare not confess that to Anoushka or Antara. What will they think? I like taking tiffin to school which has exquisitely baked items made by Mom, which she could have rather earned from had she sold them, but though I try, I cannot bring myself to say a "no" to her. I like being rich. I like rich. That's who I am.

Art and athletics apart, I suck at studies. I know I will barely pass my tenth, which, those younger to me will pass with vibrant, flying colours. But, I actually do not aspire for that. All I wish is a life were things remain as they had been. May be my tense is wrong. But hey, my taste isn't. I like what I have acquired. My Dad is broke, I know, and he doesn't know I do. My Mom's family is trying to help us out, and they think I do not know. But I do, yet, I feel sad that I do not feel sad. Who am I? A shadow? A lie?

If I ever look at boys to date, I do a thorough background check on their cars. I wish that much attention from me went imto my projects. But I am used to such lavish lifestyle, and I like living the lie that we still are in it. My parents are good human-beings, we even had a genuinely nice pet, Pluto. They gave him away saying "he was getting too violent." Like I could not understand. Of course, Pluto was used to certain food habits which they cannot afford any longer, and thus he was sold off, like the Indigo. 

We have a huge duplex. It might soon go too, and yes, we will move to a fantastic apartment, but like me, Mom too is in a denial. I have gone against my grain and done bad in my studies so that they are forced to bring me down to another school, but my stupid aunt has such high contacts that even the school authorities keep giving me chance. I know at what price it comes. I feel guilty to ask Dad to bring home a tub of Baskin Robbins, but it angers me even more that he does. Why can't he say aloud that he can't? Or why can't Mom declare that he shouldn't?

This is the life I wish I never have. I am happy being mediocre and content with a Kwality orange ice-candy. I am glad this is just an essay and that literature allows me to become whoever I wish and dismiss to become. You know what, my name is not even Rudraani. Nor I am Anoushka, or Antara. I am just doing a random test-writing to see who I can become, and who I am not.

Which brings me to my original question, who am I?

I am Zoheb. Zoheb Walia. 

Script submitted on "Who am I?" by Ishika Rai. I am just a story-teller. I lead you to many misleads.

Plethora of Passwords

While all along I have adorned my silver lines as an object of gorgeousness, what has not quite dawned upon me is how I am actually ageing, I am in my mid-life and rightly so, I have forgotten all about the factor of forgetting. Dear, dear to grow up amidst the open rush of passwords! Telling, I tell you! Earlier it was still easy, but now, you have to have to put in alpha-numeric-special characters, with permutation and combination, mind you.

Here I am, scratching those same silver lines trying to recall which account had which password, and which email account saved them. It would be a curse to call it a mere vicious circle. You-forget you-create- you-forget. It goes on. And on. OTPs, mails, newer passwords -- I mean this is what life has reduced to, THIS!

If only passwords were not a platter and people weren't corrupted, it would have been so much easy to do things, put in my name, and whoosh! Transaction completed. But do we live in Hogwarts? Oh wait, even that place needed passwords. Well, then I am in definite soup. Thick, thick soup. 

 

I am so confused with all the alphabets and numbers that having the thick soup comes easy now. That's all I can think of. And well, to think of thinking, "alohomora" is a good password. Or even "wingardium leviosa", thank God for JK Rowling. I am gonna die, die very, very soon of trying to remember.

Its best rather, to drown in buckets of beer, chilled Miller, and forget all about "to-do's", for a while. Intoxication is a strange thing, it gives you the authority to forget. So, here people, all that I was supposed to write has gone out of my senses, and you aren't password protected to see it through!

I will write a bigger piece later, have stored tons of stories in my sensible mind!

Once I Had a Wife

Yes, once I had a wife. I have one now too, but the one I once had is still the one I love. We have been divorced about a decade now, and we have some casual chats, but somewhere, deep down my entire entity, I wish she were with me still. Agreeable that she was, she accepted flaws in herself, and then condemned mine. But it had come like a bolt. I was rich, though I am way richer now, and my eccentricities that the world applauds, seemingly irritated her. And, oh, she was so good on bed.

In fact, now that I have two children -- a son and a daughter -- I know the daughter came in because all the while I was making love with my present, I swam in my past. It was her whose face and body drowned me into my intensity. I wish I could name my daughter after her, just so that I am able to call out the name as many times as I want. Which couple does not have differences? But I was (am) old-school enough to relate that love conquers all. If only she were here, she would go "tut-tut" at my fossil-beliefs. Or, my rather bad English. This is my fourth draft and I have taken the help of Google several times to change mym sentences into better sounding ones.

I contradicted myself in many ways, to think of it rationally now. While I wanted her to be the 'hep-wife' who would party and drink and drive andd play a sport, I also wished secretly that she did not go out to work, or cooked meals like my aunts or mother did. While I indulged her into the best of alcohol, I could not take her liking towards cigarettes. While I was glad she was earning, I would rather have her not earn and serve me breakfast instead. I encouraged her to paint, sing and hoped she would take me seriously, but she knew I was saying all that just so that she would remain a house-wife. I liked calling her "Wife." I don't understand why she disliked it. I wished to be a part of her friend-circle, but she was categorical about keeping things neatly packed as where they should be, and like a careful gardener, she would attend to each. This is her language, by the way. I was so impressed when she had explained herself in such a manner. I remember I wished to make love to her that instant! But the deadly D-word came up. 

I now have a wife, Anindita, who is exactly what I wanted Shirsha to be. Oh, that's what her name was. I mean, is. She cooks for me, manages me and the household and sings good too. She is a loving mother and caring daughter-in-law. Coming out of a bad marriage makes one doubly diligent I think. Perhaps, that is what has kept me and Anindita going. Else, it is still Shirsha all over. 

Especially now that we chat often, and I see her rising up the ladder, on her terms, I agree with her conditions. She would not be this person if she were with me. I would have loved her anyway, but now, from a distance, I love her even more. And that is my problem. I could never stop loving her, even while Anindita and I are great together, Shirsha is the invisible constant that works best -- the mere thought of her gives me a punch in the pit of my stomach. 

How I wish I could write, I still have my wife. But she would hate me for that. And I cannot risk that anymore. I miss her one-liners, and her orgasms. I miss her too much to risk the casual friendship we now share. I had gulped down more than I could swallow, and the burps continue to remind me of that.

Of Shirsha. My wife. 

Love-Letter (LXIV)

Shloke,

How different can a toothpaste taste? I did not know until you left. And how unwarranted was that going? Again like the tube of toothpaste we get used to, trusting it with sleepy-eyes, morning after morning, when one fine hour it refuses to come out. That is the moment we realize it is gone. It is a threat. As is your absence. I woke up this morning, as usual at my 7.30, lazed pace to take it in that you were gone. Initially it felt like everyday, when you considerately let me sleep and slip out without a sound. But when I went into the washroom, there you were. Your lather remains off your shaving-gel, blocking the holes of the basin.  

The day passed. It is now late into the night and I am back to where we belong. There is a soft lullaby of an impending harsh storm playing outside. I missed you so badly, that I realized I know the thirty second beep of the microwave that goes off once you are home. It has not been twenty-four hours yet, and you must have crossed the Pacific. I missed your call when you must have called in from Hong Kong. Oh how I regret it. And post-dinner, I regretted it so much that I went out of my bed and back to the washroom, for a cigarette.

How naughty we had been in there, remember? How complete with each other in utter surrender? That is when I decided to brush my teeth with your toothpaste. And that is when I got to know how different toothpastes can taste. It tasted like your kiss -- refreshing, soft and captivating. I touched your shaving-gel and yes, it reminded me of maps I charted in your stubble. And that was when I knew I had to let you know I still love you.

I have decided to give us a chance. I wish you were here to make it, "we have decided to give 'us' another chance." If only life were as easy as letters...

I would know where to end, or how to begin.

Shambhavi.

Of Sunsets

It was dusk without the colour that defined it. On such an evening, Suhasini opened her balcony door and stood against the railing -- her cup of tea clutched in her hand, and a half-lit cigarette in the other. Arbitrary lights in arbitrary flats inside her complex were coming to life, unnecessarily. The sun was most adamant to set. She had a particularly unremarkable day at the office, and she needed to get out of it. The pent-up anger found its way in the number of spoonful of sugar she put in her tea. Nothing was going as she thought it would.

Kavya, her roomie was in her hometown. Ever since that night when she had accidently stepped into Suhasini wrapped all over Aditya, she had been avoiding her. Suhasini could not understand who could be the possible problem, Aditya or her. But she had more important things to segregate than thinking about Kavya's absence. The lack of competitiveness at her workplace lately, bored her royally. She could not believe that there were no obstacles and that her ideas were gladly accepted.

She looked at the sun. Bloody go down, you! She looked down at the crowded swimming pool. Happy children howls could be heard. How easily you idiots are happy having completed one lap. Go for the next, cmon! She went in, lit another cigarette and came out. That chubby boy in yellow, yes, my bet is on you. Cmon Fatty, bum that girl, beat her, cmon. Suhasini was completely engrossed in the strokes when suddenly her phone beeped in.

"Yes, Aditya." She looked bored.

"No, I am on field." Fatty, fast, cmon!

"Sorry honey, not possible. I might be late. Plus, I want to be by myself, so..." Yes, yes, go Fatty!

"Whatever, Adi. Your choice. Hang up, bye." How could you lose from that far, Fatty? Damn you.

Suhasini looked into the mobile in her hand and without thinking twice, banged it on the floor. It dispersed into immediate pieces. It was finally night. She sat on the raised platform, her back against the railing. She was on the last cigarette in the packet. Damn. She was very angry now and somewhere regretting that neither Kavya, nor Aditya was around. She stubbed her cigarette and just like that, jumped off the balcony. It would be difficult to say whether she or her last stub landed first.

Like her mobile phone, immediate parts of her body lay harmlessly on the ground. The soaked children were screaming in shock. Suhasini made the jump from the fourteenth floor. Not many knew that the entire floor was devoted to special services and Suhasini was attended to by Nurse Kavya and Manager Aditya. Her family was affluent enough to shun her in luxury.

Like the adamant sun, Suhasini finally set.  

Letter to Self V

Hi!

I know, even without a sorting hat, you have been pulling up magic tricks one after the other, some of which have fallen flat on their fat faces. But the few that worked, have been nothing short of art. Catering to novelty, in itself, is a challenge, and by the third day, you have done sufficiently well. In a coded contrete jungle, you have managed to find colours. From a classroom to a newsroom, would you call it an escalation? Why not? Go ahead. Pat your back. You deserve it.

You are basically a chaos manager, even with anxiety written all over you. For how different is the classroom than a newsroom? Some listen, many don't. But you, you keep learning, as eagerly as ever. Yes, in spite of that I have had to write to you, because I know how hollow you feel when you don't write. Not that you can't. I know the names of your next protagonists just as well as you do. I know what you want to do with them. But, for a while, take a break. It is okay not to have an internet connection at home yet. It is okay to not be able to concentrate on writing while you are caught up in cleaning copies.

I know how difficult it has been for you to handle handbag thefts and ac-crash. I know how you have been braving everything with dignified gentleness. Once in a while, you know, you can scream too! Tear apart from that tempered face. Certain people respond to certain things in their way. Like you. You would rather not work anywhere, we all know. Just sit and write and earn, yes, lots, I cannot forget to add that. But how bad have you done to yourself?

You are driving across NCR like a pro, you are working in nine-hour shifts without a complain, you are listening to music and having home-cooked food. Yes, you are living it all. For once, don't ask; believe. How else do you think this letter would have been written? You, of all people, know ghost writers can never match up to your articulation. Bring it on. Within some more time, the stories are going to roll out.

Roll out to create new roads,

K.  

  

A Back-to-Back Shift

How in God's name did I ever think that I will not be able to do anything worthwhile? You know what, darling readers? I might just be the Superwoman that the three Powerpuff girls are. Or, I might one, someday soon, win an Olympic Gold. Or, no, this is NOT an or, I will soon become a bestselling author. It IS going to happen. Wanna know why this sudden conviction?

Coz holy-molly-queen of folly it is fucking 10.30 pm and I am fucking enjoying my night shift, which ends in an hour, and-AND I am not bothered by the fact that I have to report at 6.30 am tomorrow. For all these 32 good-for-nothing years that I have spent NOT reading (or subscribing to) newspapers, I am more on the second by second happenings around the world, than ever. And strangely, even though I am still sufficiently disinterested, I like the bits and bytes of learning.

It is always so enriching to be around young people, in an office which has a pub-like feel. I mean, the only thing REALLY missing is a dispenser puking Buds. And today, of all days, I am convinced that I AM a good teacher, AND, a bloody good teacher at that. For who is a teacher who stops learning, who does not understand the necessity of being shameless enough to ask for help?

My back is broke. Cmon. Nine hour shifts. But unlike my spine, my soul feels like a spring. Ready to stretch back. I am making miserable headlines, and fantastic content. My colleagues are slapping me and kissing me (both exaggeration), and I am quite enjoying it. You know why? It's all done openly. No back-biting. Thus, the back is safe.

So long, Edward II!

I am returning tomorrow with a "Letter to Self V" which I forgot to put in my flash-drive. I am gonna be back to words. For, who is the Queen of them all?

The Lady of Letters, of course!

Letter to Daughter XVI

Chinks,

As you snore softly in a rhythm which defies the best of music, head on my lap, your story book falling off your clutch and your pencil-box with all its contents outside and around me, I cannot help but thank the stars for you. Look at your bright blue Crocks, so tiny and shiny against my big Grey one. We had shopped together for it at another place, which now seems another time. I do not grudge that you are growing up very differently from me, and I swear I will never bring that unfair comparison between us.

Times have changed for Momie too, honey. Naani has been a notorious bundle to manage. Goodness! So, this is to thank you that you haven't been one. I know you had to leave friends behind too, and that you had all the butter that was served to us without even thinking that Momie will get to know. Yet, having you here, your snore now a heavier one, is such a reassurance. I do not know how we are going to manage the time, between you, me and Tucks -- none of us are ever sane. Our car will stand out in its W amidst all other cars beginning with a D or a U or an H. But the roads will remain the same for each of the cars to tread upon. 

C, you will have a new place to 'do-poopy' and so will I. But we will make it our own, and create newer memories, like other spaces in the balcony. I am excited about the neon, reclined chairs in my new office and very, very concerned about how you will manage with your 'bown' ones. Momie is a junior with silver hair, and you are a senior with a new set of teeth. I cannot wait for the day when you will become tall enough to play badminton with me, or like I have done with my cousins, introduce you to the first sip of beer and the first puff of a ciggie. We will once again embrace the novelty. Look, if only you were awake, you would be able to read the language all over faces that we are passing in a jiffy. 

But, most of all I wait for that one day when you will read all these letters.  

I love you.

All over again,

Momie.  

Why Train?

The month of May has been a shame, as far as writing is concerned, that is. I began the month with the determination that I would end it by bringing about a change in my life. And yes, I did. The early days began with ruthless rounds of applications and rejections. I used to tire myself out being on the laptop so much so that I couldn't return to it to write the stories, which would thus disappear with the sleepless nights.

I am travelling first class on an excellent train today, not that I haven't before. Too many emotions have made me fat. Yes, fat. Initially, the rejections, next the new module of tests and apprehensive waits. Then came the problem of plenty, followed by celebrating one, each of which was accompanied by endless comfort food, chilled beer and mellow whiskey. People have blamed me for being fickle and inconsistent, but it is nowhere near to the vast inconsistency in a single train -- the luxury and the reality. I began life with sleeper class too. I lived reality for a very long time. Now, I thought when I dived for a decision, was finally the time to indulge in some luxury. Little luxuries like the attendant at call on train, and a new life with new roads awaiting me. 

I look forward to working hard and lazying harder. I look forward most to becoming sexy. I look forward to becoming cool by sweating it out on the badminton court and not by drowning myself in cans of Buds. I look back at the number of people who have loved me unbelievably and some who disliked me unnecessarily. I leave a city behind which houses most colleges in which I have touched the life of at least one student, and befriended an enemy in the authority. The city which hosts the malice of monotony with the same ease with which it has cushioned culture. I carry with me miles of memories and no colour-matching games. I have not been able to forgive myself for letting the stories slip away.

A person from my first college, with whom I used to chat unendingly, even until last week, surprisingly called me "Silence". He passed away last night. The bravest person, my favouritest person in the world willingly promised me she wouldn't die till I see her again. It is unfair to say she has been one of my HODs. The city gave me a lot in terms of characters. The city gave me my best friends in my cousins. We formed a holy trinity -- and it is difficult to imagine one left for Mumbai yesterday, I am going to Delhi today and the other will leave for California in August. We won't have those drives, drunk discussions and films. Not very soon, and certainly not face to face. I won't have my daughter's Granny-D across my last college, whom I could command to meet me for a car-chat, or an ice-cream. I won't have that best friend who gave me Granny-D, who has fought with me and taught me about the 'line of academics'. I leave behind my twin. My worst college's best head-girl, my daughter, was surprised this morning when she came in to hand a dibbi of halwa and saw my maid give me a BIG bar of milk chocolate. I added to her surprise that my car washer gave me a Milky Bar earlier in the morning. And I leave behind my student from that horrid college, once again, who taught me the tricks of thinking and taking these new tests. She instilled in me the power of the universe. I could go on and on. The horrid college gifted me some very nice people. The last and best college has been a dream to work in. Crisply put, it was an honour and honestly, I have never had to put so much of homework into my own studying before entering a class.

But I have a destination, and I need to curb my pace. I am not ashamed that I am carrying just one book in my five pieces of luggage. There are many notebooks of pride though, my favourite fountain pens and the Noodler's ink. I leave behind a strange set of loving parents, and a room of my own. I leave behind cases against my car and am desperately trying to be sad, but tell you what, the only thing I am sad about is having written so little in May. I could and should have told myself while trying to make those ring of smokes that the titles would dissolve like them too. Each time, I entered a class for the first time, I had jittery palms, but now that the news room awaits me, I am surprisingly calm. I am loving the inspiring pat on the back that my Professors are giving me saying its good to pursue what I like. 

This title "Why Train?" is for all those who are trained into thinking, "but, isn't air cheaper than first class?" Because in spite of being trained into "thinking", I am "expressing". I had to write. Because, I am not sky-rocketing towards my ambition. Because, I have just laid down the tracks. Because, what's the use of all the training, if you cannot live the one life you have, the way you want to. Why train? Just one step at a time. Fall. Get up. One sexy step at a time.  

I am, at 32, doing, what I should have done at 23. I was managing a marriage then. I am managing myself now. 

June 2nd, 2016.