Cheap Thrills

Irrespective of the gruelling and gut-wrenching angst I feel about the condition of the wage-earners, now, more than ever, I cannot but be grateful about my privileges which include food, water, shelter, company, sanitation and broadband. Yet, after doing all one can in one's capacity, one cannot be unhappy and not count the blessings in the form of cheap thrills, can they?

Having outgrown carefully coated nail-polish shades and the excitement of home-cooked pizza from the scratch, I have realised such moments of happiness are rather short-lived. They turn into habits in our control. But cheap thrills continue. Like landing upon movies as are Dum Maaro Dum and Fatso. And suddenly discovering that one had reserved a blob of butter in the deep corners of the freezer. Or be prepared and walk up to the sink to see there are no dishes awaiting a wash! Mine comes in the form of Diljit's commentary over his cooking and Karan's (my cinematic father) children.

While I am an attested fan of Taimur Ali Khan Pataudi (and his father), the Johar twins are way too much fun! Around lunch thrice or sometimes everyday in a week, they blabber their way in their father's closet, or loo, and make a cute case-study for how children can take their parents' case rather unwittingly, and lovingly :)

As for Diljit, always a fan of his outlandish yet symphonic styling and his profuse humility, every night, whether or not I have my dinner, I religiously follow his amazingly simple cooking, made delicious with his expert commentary which regularly feature the love life of Jeera and Asafoetida, the social distancing of Haldi, Namak, Laal Maerch, and the god-like presence of tomato-coriander-chilli blended into a paste. It all simmers up to the grand lesson of (hold your breath), "MAH SABZEE-MAH RULEZ".

I shouldn't be saying this, but gosh I will miss these once the lockdown is over (quickly covering my coy face from your holy attack).

Flavour of the Lockdown

Will it be too harsh if I titillate your palette in such rationed times? Well, forgive me, without a drop of amber to relish, without a strict diet to follow, all I can think of is the joy of planning what to cook, prepping for it and eventually eating. It is indeed deeply meditative.

Not one to have tried Dalgona or sourdough or even any three-ingredient wonder cake, I discovered talents erstwhile unknown to me. So long satisfied only with my knife skills and patience, I will share with you my journey with wheat flour.

While Assam and Bengal should have cemented my commitment towards rice, it was actually an uncharacteristic affinity towards the smell of freshly made roti (that always came from elsewhere, and not my home) which drew me towards it. Over time, of the many things I developed I also grew lactose intolerant -- later routed to the relationship between the gut and the mood. Yet, the smell was one which stirred in me an undisputed hunger. I had also tried to learn the skill from my mother, I won't lie, but realising the number of steps involved and the amount of perfection required to master a perfect circle, I gave up. Yes, without trying. I mean, you got rotis everywhere, anyway!

When we had a house-help to cook for us in Delhi, I had the choicest of soft, small and deliciously made rotis. The size was often called out by my esteemed colleagues too, yet, I cared a fig. And then, lockdown happened. Lovely readers, I wouldn't be exaggerating if I declared that I found the zen-like equivalent of playing Candy Crush in kneading a dough. Caressing it with the right amount of water, or oil, to build a baby dough is as satisfying as the endless Instagram videos on clay/play dough. What I intend to say is, suddenly, the long process seems to have been absolved by the sheer enchantment of rolling out shapes (began from states of India, to triangles, went to somewhat a circle, and has now reached a circle). To those who have often told me what is the difference between a watch worth 1k and one which is upwards of 20k, because they both show time, well, so does your roti! Don't complain of its shape, it will taste the same. But who am I to kid? I swear there is a difference in taste.

Dear ones, over these last weeks, I have become a fan of the modest wheat flour mixed with the versatile semolina, seasoned and fried well. Without a doubt, it dishes out the fluffiest, crispiest smiles.

:)  

Quarantined

I thought and debated, on whether or not to write on this, and finally decided to do it. Ever since March 1st, I have been home, with the exception of 10th March (which was Holi). So, until yesterday it was roughly already 60+ days of "staying home", "staying safe"; basically doing everything that has been deemed correct. In fact, we have been obeying everything so much so that all shopping and getting things indoor have also been done to the t (we sanitize everything at the main door itself). I have been downstairs once every week to take the car for a spin within the block, which has been exceptionally cautious about maintaining social distance, and decorum in all the three parks. The day before, I had an anxiety attack about life in general, and thankfully, I surfaced. Things were going on well yesterday morning, when, undeclared, an event unfolded.

Tending to my plants in the veranda, I loitered about to overhear the unnatural number of people assembled downstairs. With my superior curiosity and affable social skills, I, of course asked around, very casually, "what happened there?" The lady in the opposite balcony replied, "Not there, over you." Dear readers, someone tested Covid positive in our next building. By the time I could respond, the shock of it being right there hit me hard. Over the next twenty minutes, as if in fast forward motion, I accumulated too much uncomfortable information, including "quarantined", "barricaded", "sealed" etc. etc. The patient was already at a hospital, and her family members tested negative.

Dear readers, if you thought this was going to be a rant about "my quarantine life", you are mistaken. This is an out and loud appreciation post on the community kindness I witnessed thereafter. Within a span of maximum two hours, the said building and two on either of its side (Delhi buildings share walls), resembled a crime scene from one of the many thriller movies I have seen. The bright yellow Delhi Police barricades screamed out in the achingly silent zone. The women leaders of the RWA efficiently created a WhatsApp group with all members of the three buildings. The group also has our SHO and the local inspector. Every instruction in being conveyed and acted upon in the group with the response time of under 1 minute.

To be frank, I was sure to touch 100+ days of self-quarantine. Yet, this morning when I woke up to see the PPE angels arriving on site to sanitize the buildings, our cars, our parks, I gulped the gravity of it all. Even our garbage has been mandated to be disposed off in a particular way. Not one to reveal my political inclinations, I reiterate the democratic support that these unknown neighbours have been lending at such an abstract time. True, our world is undergoing healing, and we will emerge more empathetic and compassionate than ever before.

Till then, watch the Malayalam movie "Virus", and be assured, we are safe and being well taken care of!

Naming of the Shrew

On the strangest of Saturday afternoons, of no high-school, no tuition, no TV, Bhargavi made the strangest of observations: people hardly try to belong to other sun-signs, Maths is useless in real life, rain is over-romanticized. All of 15 then, she never lived in her present, Bhargavi perused now. She had sketchy memories of her school days, but strong ones of her many misadventures. Like the time, she wrote a letter to a boy named Pallav, overwhelmed with the beauty of his name. When she needed loud music to immerse herself in. Her first kiss inside a car with the neighbour's visiting grandson. Childhood remained in sepia-toned pages of an album lost in heaps of gathering dust.

Bhargavi's smile faded when in one of her first online chat sessions she came to know that an extremely fancy "Cadbury_Boy" was actually Gokul Roy. For her, it was a worse than the stale equivalent of Neha and Puja and Priyanka, and Sandip and Arindam and Saurav. Where do people with fancy names reside? With whom? While she did settle for "Sindbad_the_Sinner" who turned out to be a Rishi, her heart went back to Gokul. What could she do now? She was having stimulating exchanges with him, both intellectual and otherwise. Yet, she couldn't allow herself a Gokul in her life.

Cut to three years later, in an inordinately decked mandap where Bhargavi was taking the ceremonious seven rounds with Gokul. In her mind, she was listening to conversations of the guests.

What an awfully loud person she has settled for!
She went for the package. Do you really think she loves her?
Her make-up is too casual for a wedding.
Their age difference is terrible.
What an awful name! 

Unable to concentrate, she hardly had any honeymoon, and slided into a habit. She resumed her chat sessions under a new name, "ColdCoffee" for herself and settled for "Disco_Dancer" and "Hot-Chocolate". Aware of her virtually successful infidelity and crushed by the raging good governance from her now husband, Bhargavi was twice distanced and thrice dead already. She needed a change, a new detachment to attach herself to. Ably, she fought and also won herself the divorce.

With no Gokul in her life now, she did not need to alter his persona. Instead, with a very deep look at herself, she rechristened as Jennifer. Truth could often kill with its kindness.

Love-Letter (LXVI)

Manav,

I have been spending hours at a stretch on the silly screen of the smart phone, till angles, plains, shapes, patterns started speaking in circles with me. As I maximize efficiency in chores, my observation highlights the inherent nature of your science underlying everywhere, and the fuel of my artistry which sets it in motion.

In the delicious blend of a cocktail, or the alignment in the clothesline, the brunoise and batonnet for a given recipe, or the placement of curtains so that sun-rays are blocked but sunshine isn't, I think of billions of reasons why I don't take your calls anymore. This crisis has certainly made us independent. While social messages speak of familial ties, and spending time with loved ones, I am relieved that I have been blessed with my own space, with none of your 7498261 asks of the day, and night to bother me with a face and a smile to put up.

As the first round of the lockdown neared, I feverishly prayed wishing for it to extend. The mirror stands garlanded in fairy lights, as I solemnize my being without you, as I learn from my mistakes of youth, and as I prepare for a resolute next-term. It is surprising when we survive social expectations only to be outwitted by our own feelings, our deepest demons. Do you remember Malti, our morning maid? We share same lives, partners abusing us relentlessly, shamelessly and continuously. What have we done to deserve it? If it is love, it isn't enough, and it isn't love.

Hence, this stays written to you, to celebrate a life with love for oneself, and enough letters to convey that your share is erased. Do not return to break the symphony of my geometric life.

No more yours,
Pallavi.

Be Careful of What You Wish For

Gurkeerat and Ekalavya's love challenged their cultural divide. It was what modern legacies were made of. Sailing through college fests, stalking social media, incessant cups of coffee dates and dinners later, they moved in together. There was no question of marriage, as neither family would understand. It would lose them precious time, and with their full-time jobs, they couldn't afford the drama of anticipation, exaltation, and lack of resolution. Having spent a winter together, spring announced the extended lockdown. 

Their Sunday was same, uneventful. Their Sunday nap was same too, shared with a common dream. The field was shining golden, and the sky was swaying with green leaves. From afar, they could both see each other on the field together, racing towards a well. The rusting bucket yielded them with two unassuming India-Post envelopes. Addressed "Gur" and "Luv", the neatly handwritten names took them by surprise. Who could know them by the names they called each other?

'ASK FOR A SUPERPOWER AT YOUR BEHEST.' Gurkeerat, tight-fisted, clasped her eyes shut to look for clarity.

'ASK FOR A SUPERPOWER AT YOUR BEHEST.' Ekalavya, tight-fisted, smiled at his own clarity. 

"Are you ready to ask, Gur?"

"Let's, Luv."

Luv asked for freedom. He could think of nothing better at that time. Gurkeerat completed hers.

The evening had spread out with no deliberations of an ensuing Monday. With the second sip of tea, they found out about their same dream. Mildly taken aback, and not knowing whether to believe the other, they stretched into time's silence.

"So what did you ask for?" He hurriedly added, "I bet you said something like flying, or becoming invisible, my sweet Gur?"

Sure, just like with your commie attitude you couldn't have thought of anything better than elusive freedom! As Gurkeerat smiled, Luv interrupted, "Oh wait! I know what you are thinking!" 

"Tell me, Luv, what was I thinking?"

Luv enacted out her mannerism, "Luv knows me best! Should I really tell him that I did ask for my favorite superpower - to become invisible!"

Gurkeerat broke into a riot of laughter. Her prayer was, "Luv should never be able to read my mind."

Do dreams come true?

Sweet Gur was going to ensure a peaceful end of lockdown where Luv didn't have the slightest inkling about her long phone-calls with Hasan. And once it was over, Luv would have his freedom from the web of lies she had weaved. Be careful of what you wish for.

Business

I remember certain memories from my childhood rather vividly, one where my biggest victory was in finding means to avoid studies, spending afternoons on the terrace counting colourful kites, cycling into lanes and by-lanes, playing cricket with cousins and breaking numerous window-panes (and being thrashed by mother thereafter), participating in quizzes just to get out of my girls' school and meet the Don Bosco and VKV boys, have  Re 1/- Tasty ice-candies'; sneaking into the kitchen at midnight to sketch on pumpkins, gourds and eggs weird expressions in an attempt to scare my mother, the next morning! And, waiting for the weekend to travel one hour on super-fast buses to the other town to meet grandma (for the first hour) and sit (like a princess for the rest) in my uncle's shop, on a wooden bar-stool kind of seat of honour.

While at my uncle's stop (fancily named "Three Leaves" but renowned as "Babul Da'r Dukaan" [in Assamese]), it would fascinate me to observe the variety of small talks customers would have with my uncle, or his assistant. Once they left, I would urge them to tell me more about the customer. My favorite thing in the shop was not the glassed-Cabdury box, nor the variously sized jars holding various candies. They were the many-sized brown paper bags upon which I would unendingly doodle as I listened to the conversations. Yes, they were my formative years in gathering gossip, amidst learning how to pack tea (he was also a tea wholesaler), and expertly opening caps of Gold Spot, Thums Up, Limca. The giggling girls of Womens' College would crowd at our shop for their daily quota of drinks. I think it gave them a high to have a drink at the college Librarian's husband's shop. His shop was the smallest on that road, but the busiest, and in retrospect, I conclude it was because he has been a great conversationalist. That impressed me too. From my mother side of business, shoes are their specialization, and I used to be engrossed in watching the sales-guys pulling out exactly the pair from the dark and mysterious godown behind the well-lit showroom (another fancy name "Half & Half"). As I kept cash here, I could not understand the maths of profit, and remained fixated at how happy and content a customer would leave with a new pair!

While academics happened to me, I would love to believe that business runs in my blood. No, I am not good at bargaining with vendors (primarily because I respect them way too much, literally putting myself in their shoes), nor am I good at calculations.Yet, I think I do have a certain art of negotiation needed for the most democratic act of conducting business. It is my dream, and now in spite of my degrees, my aim is to own an all-purpose store where customer is god. S/he isn't discriminated on the basis of religion, caste, nationality, gender and/or hierarchy.

With over a dozen years in the service industry, the being answerable part is extremely demanding. In shops, people come, ask, take goods, pay money, leave. Additionally, for the writer in me, they'd bring in as many stories :) If you disbelieve my story, this photo below is from one lunch break at my last office. I never smiled this bright during my tenure there.

Alas, good results ruined my life. 

Day 1: Tomorrow

What is tomorrow? Another set of 24 hours.
What will be tomorrow? A new set of possibilities.

Decisions have made days, and now months dissolve with the collective economy. Yet, they don't stop tomorrow from turning in, for the sun sets only to rise. And the rivers would flow. I do not know if I will continue with these countdown blogging, or finally have a sip of the miniature gin which I magically discovered from a safeguarded shoe-box. But I have definitely decided to harvest, like in my beloved Assam, Punjab and well, WB, crops are, a better version of myself. I didn't hear any Rongali Bihu pepa, or Baisakhi dhol nor did I have any mishti indulgence, yet we owe it to ourselves, as if someone willed this global lockdown to introspect what we had/have become. Will it change my habits? I doubt. Will it accentuate my tastes? Hardly. Tomorrow is certainly filled with uncertainties.

Yet, for all things that tomorrow might be, it won't be a number. In my blog :)

#LockdownExtended

Day 2: Working Out

I am in a constant state of working out. If you disbelieve me, am I not stretching the tendons of my brains to make the wisest permutation combination of vegetables and grains? Even as I reach to Day 2 of my blog-entries, counting-down the end of lockdown, I have prepared well for an extension declaration tomorrow. I miss placing and winning bets.

Contrary to Day 21 jitters, we have enabled our senses to adjust to newer environments. I should not be saying it, but I quite like this social distancing - no unnecessary meeting people you end up judging as foolish, no mandatory appearance issues, no proximity with immaturity in general. Oh! the things we used do to battle boredom pre-Corona.

Only, you must have a tremendous appetite for self-motivation. And trashy movies. Over the past two days, I have heard Ek Hi Rishtaa, Dosti: Friends Forever and Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. I might take up Caliphate tonight. The deal is 3:1, and your sanity is safeguarded! What are your plans?

Stay home, stay hydrated!

Day 3: Sign

Around evening, exhausted from a day well-spent in procuring groceries and cooking (inclusive of planning, cooking, boxing, cleaning, and well, eating), I found my eyes heavily drooping, and my attention wavering away from today's Sunday Suspense on Radio Mirchi. I asked M, is it me, or are the birds extra chirpy today. She didn't have an answer. I even stressed that this was the kind of chirpy unison I remember from the Janta Curfew evening. And then I felt it. A distinct rumble in my tummy, which I was certain was not of any hunger pang. I went out to the balcony, to be greeted by this sight:

M confirmed the earthquake, as was trending by now on groups, but we were more focused on the sight. Scores of new birds, brown on the top and yellow around their stomachs were swaying on the branches of this tree, right across our balcony. Incidentally, my favorite one :)

And momentously they flew off, right after about five minutes into the earthquake. Just as magically they had appeared, the entire lot of friendlies flew into an oblivion. It does sound abstract, or possible that they screeched because they were aware of the tremors. It really doesn't matter that I neither know the name of my tree or them birds. They did pull me out of my trance-like siesta state, but not for once I have a complaint. As the leaves weave music, they added an uncharacteristic and unforgettable charm, which I have failed to capture with my embarrassingly unsteady hands.

Do you believe it was a sign? 

Day 4: Bhutan - The Kingdom of Happiness

Around August of 2014, on a once a month phone call with Elkay, I suggested a trip to Bhutan. It gained surprising momentum from her, she was proactive in online ticketing during that time and we planned the trip with inputs from previous travelers for October. Yet, the tickets weren't confirmed until the last minute. 

It was Ashtami in Calcutta, Elkay had landed in the morning, and though our train was from Sealdah, we opted to avail the Kanchankanya from Bidhan Nagar, where it halts exactly for 1 minute. Considering Elkay's suitcase size, I was slightly pessimistic, but her logical reasoning (something about converting a minute into sixty seconds and how many students can board a train in that time etc.) won over. My friend Abhijit, magically, helped us with the confirmation of the tickets, once the chart was prepared, and we now planned whether to take an auto, or cab to BN Station. I faintly remember it was an auto and me telling Elkay, that way she could pay a fleeting visit to Goddess Durga as well! Needless to mention the mysur pas she had got were almost all consumed by Ritoban and others. After my socializing with common platform vendors (I used to go to Barasat via Bidhan Nagar station), we stood at the point where we expected our coach to be. The rest is a blurry until we sat. We had made it, and were on our way! The joy erased all my pessimism. 

On the 3rd at Hasimara Stn, we were greeted by long-haired Deepak and his white Wagon R, which was to be ours for the rest of the trip. As we drove to Jaigaon, we checked into the horrible Hotel Kasturi. Devastated, we fought with our travel agent, and to get away from the crowd we made the 5 minute walk into Phuentsoling in Bhutan. As D helped us with the permit, among other things, we dined there with the famous local beer, Druk.

4th as early in the morning as D would agree with, we started from Phuentsoling to Paro. He gauged the kind of travelers he was carrying as we stopped at waterfalls with no name. We then walked endlessly on the highway, and spent a lot of time grazing alongside Chuzom-Chu. For lunch we stopped again at a roadside shack for ema dasi, with a wonderful dam view. Next we put up at Mandela Resort, and went to hit the town. Here, we had experienced the amazing Paro airport view, with road, river, runway - an image which stays on.

Just as we were being happy with our resort, we got to know that our agent lied about complimentary services. We tried to curb our temper, but found that the Monastery was closed. We went to TOger's Nest, but didn't trek, went to National Museum and were bored. Didn't even make it to Dzong with our sour moods. Post lunch we stopped by Paro-Chu, and spent a lot of time on the riverbed. I believe we soaked in the beauty in silence, and were determined not to stay pissed anymore. With Elkay developing her migraine, and an approaching thunder, we were desperately looking for coffee. Having found none, we made D stop at GREFF, of Indian Army, where after exchanging gestures on finding a closed canteen, we ended up making our own coffee and dosa, For this we were charged no money, and I remember Elkay leaving the person some murukkus. As it started drizzling, I took the front seat and the road was now a friendly companion of the mighty rocky mountains and now Thimpu-Chu bathed in moonlight. We reached Thimpu and checked in a hotel which said our booking was not for the night (Chophel Norkey resembled Hotel Decent of Jab We Met). Our travel agent now realizing the already scores of errors, set us off to Peaceful Resort. Beautiful and true to its name, we walked through the last night of Chuzu festival, an overcrowded flea market.

We spent the 6th in Thimpu, where we began late with the National Zoo and completed our trip just seeing the national animal, Takin. We had more adventure outside, as we ventured into tasting a fallen fruit, which turned out to be a peach. (I did this in Prague and Kodaikonal too, guess I have a thing for fallen fruits!) After mandatory visits to National Library, King's House, Ladies Monastery, Heritage Museum, we were asked to shift to Hotel Taktsang. By this time we had genuinely gievn up on our fate with hotels, and resolved to waste no further energy creating hatred in the trip. The next day, we were greeted by a monstrous sized Buddha statue at the Buddha-point, overseeing the entire city. Thus completed, we were on our way to Punakha. 

How often does one sit on road blocks and create stories revolving around a mother (Elkay)-daughter (me) and a father who left the mother? As peddlers screamed "mechhoo-mechhoo", we started enjoying life in Bhutan. I have never been more in love with the Himalayan range than when we glimpsed the Dochula Pass, where the never-ending terrain against the pristine blue was quite intoxicating. The Kochu-Mochu rivers meet by the Dzong at Punakha, and the melody of the river is as enchanting even in my memory today. Here, D's niece took us on a dirty-trek to the deep river from which I was anxious to get back. On our way back we saw the moon-mountain :) 

The lesser spoken of, the better. Seeing a moon-rise from the intersection of two huge mountains on lakhi purnima is rare, a perfect painting. Her restaurant felt like running one of one's own. Soon, Elkay and I were chopping-cooking-cleaning there too. At Wangdue's exclusive Dekiling Hotel, we resided next to a bedside of mountain. 

On the 8th we started from Wangdue for Bumthang and basically spent the whole day in car, stopping at almost all waterfalls. The stretch to Pellela, of insanely unbound mountains - do not ask me to explain the drive (post 4 pm after making Maggi at someone else's restaurant again in Thromsa). Once night fell and the mist/fog/cloud touched us, it was the most terrifying drive I have ever undertaken. I kept speaking shit with sleepy D and were paid a surprise visit by a Takin. With only the sound of the river for company, we got off at the first sight of a plain, switched off the car headlights and were illuminated by the amazing, almost magical moon. Traveled another 20 kms or so to finally arrive at this woodhouse called Tashi Yangkhel. I can still hear the river, in extreme motion. Arrested in the extreme emotions of the front seat, of "terrifying beauty" it is a memory I will cherish for my lifetime.

We woke up on the 9th with the most beautiful window to the world! Warm within the mountains' embrace all through the night, I say out of purposeless joy. The turquoise river sings along, the pebbles glittering it up and emanating an immense delight of tranquility. We went to the Burning Lake and trekked down to a place they say is protected by mermaids. As we got back from town, I wished the world the peace of the mountains, and the mountain range. I could have died of the beauty in that world of no-wifi, no-tv, no phone. It was overwhelming.

On the 10th we traveled back the length of Bumthang to Thimpu. At enticing landscapes, we halted and lay on the green grass under the blue sky. Elkay put stones on my back for relief from backaches. Our spirits were surprisingly rejuvenated even as we predicted another miserable property waiting for us at Thimpu. But we were miraculously transferred to Bhutan Centennial, the room size of a mini baddy court. We were excited at the damage control, yet, we were sad. Our trip was nearing its end, as the next day we went to the Station. As we witnessed the Jimjo slide, the fog-mist mountains bid us the perfect farewell. It was such a world of difference to take one step back to India, the air heavier, the people unhappier, the roads dirty. 

To say the least, never again trust a travel agent blindly. And, I am still there Bhutan, I love you...

Day 5: Lessons

As we mentally prepare for the lull of the days to extend, it is well to say that we have all had our fair share of learnings, and I'd like to share some of mine. I think the greatest takeaway would be that as a race, we adapt well. We have travelled from our collective complains to greater understanding, from panic attacks to wise living, and from delayed days to productive ones. My most favorite takeaway -- cost of living is not as expensive as cost of lifestyle.

Having said that, I will endorse certain time-tested beliefs:

1. Any addiction is really based upon accessibility: my last drink was on the 10th of March, Holi.
2. Nyakras (torn pieces of never to be used clothes) are essential: used extensively for cleaning, they are companions for life.
3. Hygiene is a habit we must internalize: even for post-corona era.
4. It is okay to dilly-dally to your career call, but be determined to find your passion and meditation: you have to understand this without any explanation. 
5. God is within us and our innate goodness: and propels us to be kind.
6. Life is uncertain, style is eternal: hope you are wearing your favourite watch and dabbing your signature perfume.

For what is life if you can't turn your lemons into lemonade? The gin and tonic will wait. Cheers!

Day 6: Common App

Not my best, but one of my quickest, and one which made it to multiple colleges. Ironically, I love empty drafts wherein I fill in a story built around mu understanding of the student profile. Enjoy!


Time: Summer Vacation.

Character: Me, 9 years of age.

Ext. London street. Unusually crowded, with cast, crew and cameras.

Of the Hyde Parks and Tate Musuems that I could be in, I landed up there, at that time. Someone had rightly said, “timing is everything.” It would be wrong to say I wanted to be an actor ever since I wanted to become something in life. No. I wanted to be a Superstar. The superstar who would open his arms, and all would be happy and well. The superstar who could redeem one out of their sufferings. There he was, Shah Rukh Khan, shooting for the accident sequence in Jab Tak Hai Jaan. His presence commanded the audience’s and passers-by’s awe.

Time: Present day. Dusk.

Int. Crouched over a laptop, room decked with posters of world cinema.

I too wanted to be like SRK on the big screen – either fighting off the bad guys or romancing the prettiest ladies in typical Bollywoodesque songs, in exquisite locations. I would often try to replicate what I saw in the cinemas by balancing myself on a tall chair, in front of my dad’s old handheld camera. Soon, I auditioned for small roles but I could never be as good as I imagined myself to be. One of the reasons was because I never had the confidence to deliver a dialogue in its essence.

It changed when I got my first iPad on my 12th birthday. I had access to a high definition camera at all times, so I started shooting my own short films on it, just to be a part of the spotlight. I would often convince my cousins to help me shoot, but I was never really satisfied with the final product as I couldn’t replicate those starry childhood images. This made me search the internet extensively in order to learn to make those images come to reality. I started discovering apps that helped me use special effects, and enhancing my in-depth knowledge of basic editing softwares like imovie. Soon, with experience behind the camera I started to not just perform better as an actor but make my films look seamless and fluid. I started spending extensive time on YouTube, watching, and comprehending the narrative of film-making from tutorials and fancy travel videos to brilliant short films and intricate animated ones.

Inspired to make an aesthetically pleasing film myself, I shot my first travel video in 2017, named _________, and there was no stopping me after that. What felt like minutes was actually hours, perfecting every shot with its color correction on a software which I somehow managed to download for free, as my parents weren’t willing to spend almost INR 25000 on it! Once the video was out on YouTube, the appreciation and attention I got from my friends and family was overwhelming. No gift or love had ever made me feel quite that way, not even acting itself.

Film-making enabled me to look at life from a different perspective, create various stories and make my audience live them with me. I was learning about something that I had fallen in love with and I actually recall calling my camera “my soul mate”. My parents even sent me to New York Film Academy for a week long summer course to be sure if this is what I wished to do all my life. I interacted with like-minded people from all over the globe and heard everyone’s stories. I learnt to value money, time and most of all, support. I became more confident and developed my acting skills at the same time. The craft has shaped me into the person I am today. To sum it up, my path did change slightly, but only for the better. In the words of my favorite superstar SRK, “Confusion is the route to all the clarity in the world.”

Day 7: Flight

29th February. Yes, it's true that it comes once every four years. So do such incidents. Moving around in public transport in Calcutta during my years at college and university, and even as I began my teaching career, I gave in to WB government's annual saga of monsoons. It is the same story - same water-logging, same blame-gaming the then opposition, and same solutions to be launched for the next year. To no avail, of course. A great thing about Calcutta though is, it is kind of limited merely to the monsoon exclusive months. Delhi, is a different story of extravagance. One rain, of any kind, and the result is not Calcutta-style poems overflowing on social media, but unending prose of traffic, even though there ain't any visible water-logging. With this introduction, I return to the 29th Feb of 2020.

Dear readers, I was flying back from Calcutta to Delhi, supposed to land around 5.30 pm-ish. I've a thing for pre-booking my seats, and having overcome (rather, found resolution to my nerves in movies) my flight anxiety, which I had suddenly developed about five years back (how time flies), I found myself sandwiched between - excuse my racism here - two Chinese/Japanese/Korean passengers, well-covered in masks. It was the beginning of corona precautions, and I hadn't taken any. I had downloaded Beta (the trashier the movie, the better) though, and DDLJ was my back-up. It was a wonderful flight, with the superbly miserable movie. The girl on my left even indicated if she could watch it too, as there were subtitles. Obviously, I had no problem, and we laughed (co-ordinated on Dhak Dhak Karne Laga) - she without listening, and me having listened intently. We were approaching the climax when the pilot announced descent, around 5ish.

Suddenly, the flight took an almost Top Gun like momentous upward tilt, as the crew disclosed that heavy rains were lashing Delhi, and there was no way we could land now. Readers, at this point my palms would have ideally turned to water, but the pleasure of being able to end Beta in-flight delayed it. The Chinese/Japanese/Korean girl opened her mask for a bit and mouthed "very nice though tacky" (I swear) at the end titles. The flight was circling dark clouds endlessly, and as I moved on to DDLJ, the girl opened her window pane to soak in the weather (oh horror!). I tried to tell her, pull it down and check out India's best movie, but she was kind of intent on experiencing the major upheavals. At one point I think she gave up, and started following SRK and his pranks in Zurich. The pilot matter-of-factly informed to expect severe turbulence now as we were entering some godforsaken arena of stormy clouds. Passengers were jittery, noisy, disturbed and wide-awake. I was listening to Ho Gaya Hai Tujkho To Pyaar Sajna, just noticing that I needed a chocolate now, when we touched down, without any warning! I can still feel the impact, believe me. I checked the time, it was around 6.25 pm and the flight taxied for another good deal till we finally got off the flight around 7ish. On landing, the pilot did extend an apology for his decision, but when I got to know later that as many as 14 flights were diverted to Amritsar, Lucknow, Jaipur and Ahmedabad that evening, I did not have any complaints. It took another good hour to get an Uber, and I finally reach home around 9.30 pm.

To think of it, this was barely a month ago. A time when the most effective solution to any of my frivolous problems was Bollywood. These days even the experience of buying grocery feels more turbulent. With the lockdown extension now looking more and more probable, and needed, god knows when we will be landing suddenly into safety. Till then, readers, please find your own Bollywood, and stay home!

Day 8: My Family & Other Animals

It is no secret that the only animals I like are well, human beings. Yet, today, given the happenings of the day, I am compelled to share an instance. Call it habit, call it luxury, first thing in the morning I like the door to the balcony wide open, and the curtains pulled apart. The sheer curtain is enough to stream in enough sunshine for my liking, and normally, I sit here and work on the table, or more often on the bed.

Owing to the lockdown though, I am using the other room frequently, with the TV playing the choicest of pathetic movies on one of the free DEN channels. M, has been practicing a song since last night, and was doing the same in the living room, with earphones snugly tucked in. Amidst the clash of her Rabindra Sangeet and random hindi songs on the TV, I suddenly heard a scream. It was definitely a sound to which I responded, not a word. I ran and found M scream, "Monkey! Monkey! Monkey in the room!" After implementing various micro-second strategies, we could finally lock the balcony door. Here's an account of what exactly happened:

M was deeply engrossed in listening to a Suchitra Mitra song (I am assuming eyes tightly shut). When she blinked them open, she found a full-grown monkey daintily seated atop our makeshift dining space, apparently supervising the house intently. She was so shocked that it left her silent. Next came her scream (the sound, not the word), to which the monkey, now confused at why should a human scream, picked up two eclairs toffee of four, and made its way into our balcony. As M chased it with an unnerved soul, a wooden ladle, and a semi-immobile me, the monkey rested on the balcony railing holding onto the door-knob, not allowing her to do the door. By this time, my tulsi plant had witnessed the monkey dutifully and diligently unwrap the two toffee wrappers and have them. It must be the chewy taste which made it leave the door-knob finally (I do not have any better explanation). M rushed and pulled the door. Ever since, of course, she is on a double duty of sanitizing the entire monkey-route, and digging out her most elite invective to my affinity for "let the sunshine in!"

After some uncontested listening, I returned to the TV room, pale and troubled. I opened the door to this end's balcony and saw local dogs chase something wildly. Yay! They were barking the monkeys (yes there were two!), who were now on this side, out of our block. The last I saw they were mingling with the tall trees, and the dogs were on car-rooves in their loyal attempt.

Dear readers, a week-old table mat, several bottles, the bedsheet, and I don't know what else, have all gone for a wash. As I switched on the washing machine, I could only think of one logic -- during such times of social distance, when M has no audience, the monkey was really lending her a patient ear. The song? Kandale tumi more.

Indeed.

Day 9: Food

The title is quite direct for a couple of reasons, a) because I am perhaps having the healthiest food of my life right now, yet, b) I have never craved so much for junk food ever.

I had an amazing lunch today -- rice, methi saag, kumro makha, poppadum, raita and even a couple of pieces of grilled chicken. Yet, my heart is as restless as are my fingers, which retreats to Swiggy to order a bucket of KFC popcorns, or CR Park fish fry. I am quite cheap that way, even though the best is here, I can't wait to savour the unhealthiest.

People who know me well know very well how deep is my love for a diverse cuisine, an adventurous palette which welcomes with equal fervor a steaming hot plate of sheddho bhaat accompanied by boiled potatoes and eggs (preferably duck), generously drizzled with mustard oil (not ghee) and potent green chilies, as much as buckets of french fries and Calcutta biryanis. This entire winter with a wedding in the family, and trips to Amritsar, I was feasting regularly on the seasonal sarson da saag and makki ki roti which obviously has to befriend a dollop of unsalted butter and a chunk of imperfectly-shaped jaggery, and finished off with the bejewelled gajar ka halwa. The homeliness of a profound bowl of meifoon noodles ornamented with the best of dry chili chicken, an entire wok full of local crabs in Bhubaneshwar, or Delhi kebabs and firni, my copious appetite sometimes makes me think how come I have not yet written something on food by now. Oh yes, fish. How I had fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner during my submission and convocation vacation, even grilled pomfrets in the evenings! It is a wonder that I have not yet turned into a fish myself.

And chips. Plain potato chips. I will bring in an incident here. We were travelling to Colombo from Delhi via Mumbai, and my friend Looney (do not underestimate the frivolous nature of her name, she is an Assistant Professor, English) was travelling from Calcutta to Dublin via Delhi. It so happened (unplanned) that our layoff time at New Delhi airport was more or less same, and so we took it for granted that we could catch up for a good goss-session. She asked me what she would get for me, knowing particularly well that I would ask for the greasy Bhowanipore chips, and that was exactly what I asked for. Yet, as luck would have it, we saw each other at the same terminal, from glass barriers but could not meet, as some official reason would not permit us to be at the same place at the same time. I could have mourned for so many things then, dear readers, but no, all I mourned for was the jumbo greasy packet of plain potato chips. Later, she informed they accompanied her plate of rice and dal in Dublin. So, yes, chips. Lots and lots and lots of chips, contested only by the greedy amount of my orange consumption -- yet another thing which turns me into a monster -- the excitement of peeling an orange on winter afternoons and discovering their sweet or sour character. Like love :)

Growing up in Assam, humble home-cooked, rice and fish heavy food was a part of our regime, with little or almost no access to restaurants. Leafy vegetables (I loved them) were eventually discarded from my intake because of a health condition, as was milk. Thereafter, discovering food through TV (TLC) offered me a high I didn't know existed in me. I also discovered my affinity towards knife-skills, and was later told I inherited it from my uncle (not the knife, the skills). Assisting in the kitchen became an activity I now looked forward to, as evenly cut vegetables would make for the perfect pnaach mishaali torkari. By no means an expert, or even good cook, I am a scientific one, content in my role of donning the apron to sous-chef, yet patience is the virtue which is the piece de resistance in my kitchen sanctum. And the pleasure of eating, my meditation.

Day 10: Princesses

Princesses. Petite, pretty miserable creatures of nature. I wish they were as forgettable and pardonable too. The audacity with which they swirl their imaginary wings, ungrounded and unwary, is tedious. Tedious, if you are in a close proximity, else really, why else would you care for such airs? The proximity is so dangerous, the cacophony of their sweet and giving demeanor so disturbing, that it could beat the lure of extracting honey and being attacked by bees.

Their immaturity, and its consistency, to say the least is commendable. It is amusing to observe a spoilt and rotten child rotting further in an ageing body, frilled with pink laces, and exorbitant brands. Brands for which they don't pay with the money, they don't earn. Papa pays. Why should I complain?

Because I have a trigger alert for under-mediocrity, and my response may not exactly be kind. Yet, I am mature, and stay silent for the sake of my own sanity. Everything is being recorded for posterity, when I survive and write my masterpiece. One of my characters will also make a clinical postmortem of the certain species called 'bosses'.

Till then, I look into alphabets and fireflies to find me a pin which could burst the bubbles within which princesses reside.

Day 11: Letter

Dearly Beloved,

How is it that the world is so severely lopsided at the moment? And how is it that those who inhabit it, a century away, are behaving the way they are? I mean look at us, so tolerant of 'waiting' as prepared by the wars, and look at them! From the moment they are awake, deeply engaged into that mobile phone of theirs. Groggy-eyed they dawn all attention to news and numbers, and as the day shines on there is an outpouring of silly memes and messages - that's what they call them. Oh, how intolerant they are, and how deeply impatient.

Are they not missing out on the treasure of moments, the awakened silences, and the palpable beat of the soul? Behaving like unbridled children, not knowing what to do with the limitless possibilities of a given day. Or am I being predatory and unkind to their achingly similar days? But we have had our share of sameness too..

Yet, to think of it, unlike you who put your head in an oven, and me who stepped into the river with a pocket full of stones, they survive, they strive to live.

Faithfully yours. 

Day 12: On Censorship

Is such censorship ever justified? If so, who or what should determine which books are read and which are forbidden?

Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) reads, “Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.”

Apart from being unconstitutional and violating international law, censorship is a matter of imposing privilege upon choice, ‘choice’ being the ethical concern here. It is one thing to exercise parental supervision – only till the point an individual is not of legal ‘adult’ age – it is absolutely criminal to disrespect the intellect of the reader owing to the (un)relativity of the content of a book with its political or personal ideology.

Censorship of book essentially means an opinionated moralising over readership. It is a value superimposed on the subject, content or more specifically on the mind and purpose of the author first and then on the readers. In simple terms, when any view and expression is a threat to an institution or ideology, it is prevented from being circulated with a propagandist measure. This tampering with content, including a curtailed or monitored circulation, impacts readership. Given this rationale, it is obviously never justified, because an individual’s expression as author and an individual’s freedom of accessibility as reader, assimilation and interpretation of the same cannot be moralized and affected. It is perceived as an act of colonization of the mind and is totalitarian in its approach.

Books that have explicitly challenged accepted norms of hierarchy whether in the form of the structure of a society (political) or sexuality (personal) have posed as a threat to the power dynamics of hegemony. Such a step is out of the fear that the agency might feel, threatened that the streak of change or message lurking in the book will have the potential to inspire minds to think beyond and break the existing streams of control. Thereby, censorship dismisses choice.

Influential in the way they provide insight into real events and issues in a relatable manner, books like George Orwell’s 1945 classic "Animal Farm" was banned in the USSR for its revealing depiction of the communist reign. Today, it is the go-to political manifesto regardless of geographical affiliation. Radclyffe Hall’s "The Well of Loneliness" (1928) voices the plight of women with alternative sexuality at times when society was far from being inclusive or sensitive to the needs and existence of an individual who deviated from the norm. The novel acts like a plea for a right, owing to its explicit manner of stating living beyond defined boundaries.

"Rangila Rasul" by Pandit Chamupati MA was scrapped years after its publication, in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh for its explicit religious controversy aimed at Prophet Muhammad. Recently "The Polyester Prince", Dhirubhai Ambani’s biography, faced a harsher fate, when Harper Collins couldn’t even publish it following an injunction slapped by the Ambani family. Similarly, the salesman’s voice in a land of venture capitalists, a black protagonist, or a domesticated woman’s creative realm – speak up for the content and language of the marginalized. Experiencing that thought or voice, as part of the margin or without, verifies Isaac Asimov’s judgment. We may choose to oppose a perspective, but there should be no limitation towards the acknowledgment of any presence.

In spite of evidences of embargo upon creative rights, it doesn’t justify censorship by any plausible means. Rather, forbidding content is both propagandist in flavour and remains against human rights of information and aesthetic experience. To conclude, if anything, there should be an investigation on the history of atrocity which silenced and suppressed any voice from being.

*My essay won the Boston Trustee Scholarship Essay* (sadly, not for me)

Day 13: Fancy

After thirteen, twenty three, forty seven, how-long-has-it-been days of cleanery, moppery, cookery, nursery, and lonery one would expect to sleep like a baby what with the myth of hard work giving you better sleep.

But bang at 6 30 am the eyes open as if on guard duty for the day and one moves about the house like a zombie spying dust particles in nooks and crannies like spelling mistakes in unedited prose. The household stretches out in front of you like a two hundred page thesis in MLA format without pagination. The curtains yearn to be pulled apart as if roadside drama awaits.

You think of watching a good movie but after the credits roll you suddenly remember the boiled eggs in kitchen counter needing to be converted into a curry. Rice, daal, curry, curry, daal, roti, rice, yogurt, oats, carrot, beans, and sometimes fish. If eggs come can chicken be far behind? But rationed. And there is no junk whatsoever. Now that we are unhappy what shall we do? What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?

In the evening I put on a T-shirt, tracks and my faithful Nike to travel to the park and go round in circles. I have been going in circles ever since. In my plans to walk, and my determination to undo it. There is cookery and cleanery but no poetry.

Poetry has gone down the kitchen sink with the amber dish-washing liquid in a kitchen sink drama. I stink of soiled lemons. At night the Muse comes in my dreams like Medusa with her tangled spoons and forks for hair. "What's with that wig you're wearing?" I ask. "It's not a wig you stupid Yo. It is a  Relief Fund where you have donated one spoon. Shame on you."

She is showing me her long manicured nails which wave in the air like ribbons for an inaugural ceremony. I am being offered a pair of scissors shaped like a pair of stethoscope.

Excuse me, I have to go now to do some foppery. The times are out of joint, O cursed spite! That ever was I born to set right!

Day 14: Creativity

While the term creativity itself has been limited with various definitions and post-it quotes, what is it but the expression of one’s truest self – unhindered by the fear of failure and sociological implications? Not only does it allow us to explore the world around, it is also a mirror to our deepest self – a personification of our feelings and beliefs. This unbridled expression comes to me only through the means of the written word.

Yes, I would like to call myself a writer. A monotonous moment becomes an adventure with my vivid imagination. I guess I could thank my overthinking nature for it! And I have turned it into my muse, rendering endless possibilities to a given instant. To this, I find prose the most befitting – unrestrained by rhyme and accommodating any number of reason. However, like the matter itself, I believe the manner should not stay inhibited too, thus explaining my venture into some poems as well. Thoughts, as made famous by Virginia Woolf, are like a stream of consciousness. What would I write if I were to bind my fluid feelings with genres?

But writing too, is an exercise. As opposed to my initial thoughts of only spontaneity, it is a cohesion of rationality, clarity and thought, which is further bettered only with revising and rewriting. In the process of becoming a better writer I have become a much better reader and understood to value regularity and discipline. I have recently not started writing my novel "Stasis" and have not completed either the prologue or two chapters. It is a science-fiction based on extraterrestrials’ experiences after landing on earth and meeting flowers. People have gone extinct, of course. And thus, it has not started, for who will remain to read?

To conclude, writing has not merely helped me recognize myself but also given me the biggest life-lesson, as put by Sylvia Plath, “The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”

Day 15: The Week that Wasn't

1 

The conference had ended much later than its schedule and Chitrangada was feeling a deep need to speed up. People around her were recovering from their typical academic lackadaisical tossing and turning in their seats for a formal goodbye. Goodbyes which would comprise more conversations and promises of socialization, with a renewed zeal to take discussions forward in adjacent coffee houses or roadside benches, or at an acquaintance's terrace, with endless fags and drags and cheap beers, smoking out and washing down their pent up anguish with words. Chitrangada was in a hurry. Of nothing much but to meet her fiancé. For nothing more than discussing an inevitable break up. However reticent she was, with a distinct distaste towards words, Chitra preferred to keep her communication precise. A sudden text message and disappearance, with clouds of conjecture and assumptions brewing and bellowing around a concrete reality as serious as undoing an entire relationship, was definitely not her thing. Shuffling into her bag for her car keys, she walked out with sure footsteps such that no one could pull her into post-conference ruminating sessions!

Chitra stepped into the slow juncture of bright dusk giving way to a murky twilight. But her attention veered to something else: she spotted a young lad, with an ordinary blue suitcase, looking vaguely around and before her mind could register anything, Chitra found him speaking to her. There was an earnestness dazzling in the stranger's eyes and she couldn't help but strain her ears to block away the birds' rapturous homebound celebrations to listen to him. His face was familiar, thanks to the three-day long conference, but nothing more than that.

"Excuse me, could you tell me, which way do I go out to get a cab to the airport?"

Chitra had not moved onto the second gear within campus. Main road would be a while away with that suitcase. She was sure she would take him up and help him get a taxi. Only if he was comfortable and willing, that is. And it seemed this young guy was much more confident about Chitra and her car than anything else in this world at that moment. The awkward handshake instantaneously whispered it all into her ears - Chitra felt an uncanny excitement with it - a sense of fun, and surprise at this sudden incident. The stranger had an inescapable unkempt charm which had attracted Chitra almost instantly. Only one word crept up to her head: interesting.

It was about ten minutes that Chitra rode around the locality, with the stranger, exchanging scratchy but sure words. There was no taxi to be seen anywhere and for a moment both of them felt apprehensive. Airport was a while away. Chitra had a break up to accomplish, but reaching him to the airport felt equally important. Was it plain courtesy, or definitely something else? She couldn't pinpoint, till a cab was ushered in and Chitrangada saw him off for the airport. They sped away, each to their respective destinations. As Chitra came out of the coffee shop, alone, she felt a lightness of being, and relief. And under the dim evening the first thing she realized was that she didn't know the stranger's name. Life moves on.

2 

Coming to this city and attending the conference was a part of Udayveer's job and he did that without  much ado or emotion, saving bits of apprehensions, about his presentation and the not-so-familiars around.

The span came to an end and it was time for him to move. But the last evening became interesting when Udayveer invariably got late to step out. And as he did, he realized it would be a tough job to reach the airport. It was then that he could almost smell the presence of the lady. Somewhat scurrying and lost, Udayveer felt, he could approach her for a clue. But then this stranger made a surefooted gesture showing him the passenger seat and assured to get him a cab. There weren't many words exchanged between them. Udayveer didn't think twice. He shook hands with her, somewhat wobbly and then secure. Of what, he knew not. All he sensed was that the journey wouldn't be impossible. His apprehensions about delay and loss of directions were replaced by an extraordinary faith and excitement. Life does bring about these little surprises at times.

About ten minutes or even less, he was in a cab and speeding off towards the airport. The car and the stranger had disappeared in the crowd of an unknown city, but with a goodbye wave she left behind a taste of familiarity in Udayveer's heart, of a relief of gaining back lost trust. And life moved on.

3 

Chitrangada, after a long time, felt a strange clarity even without much of communication, in the airy presence of this newly known stranger. And Udayveer? He flew back to his familiarity, with a fresh piece of professional memory in his laptop bag. Alongwith, there was this thought of an ending line drawn by a light pencil, scratchy yet sure. Later in the night, the world somewhere saw them meet, Chitrangada and Udayveer, in each other's thoughts. Shedding the cocoon of unfamiliarity, they came closer to each other, in strains of thoughts, imagination and fantasy, all triggered in that moment that wasn't.

Day 16: peRFect

There is nothing Google cannot knock up about Roger Federer. That his parents worked for a pharmaceutical company, that he gave up school to focus on tennis, that he was an aggressive teenage racquet-tosser who howled when he lost. And that, Rafael Nadal was his nemesis. But they are both as important to the game of tennis, the one thing which is most important to me.

Ever since childhood, I’ve been intently passionate about extra and co-curricular activities, more than academics. However, witnessing my first crush leave for his tennis practices was my first interface with discipline. I did not need the alarm clock to tell me that it was 5.30 am when I heard the car sweep out of their garage. Having watched matches with him on TV and see him guitar on the composite Wilson racquet led me to hold it and enact as if I were Martina Hingis myself, smashing the lime-yellow ball out into the universe with the message that I was here to stay, and play. I will change the player to Serena Williams today though.

With the advent of ESPN and Star Sports, the world of Grand Slams curtained open. Those hours went by swift as an ace. And then came the moment. The distinctive red clay court of Roland Garros was like listening to the melody of a new language, confusing, yet exquisite. It was the 2011 semi-final of the French open, my beloved Federer pitted against his arch-rival Nadal. After watching the grueling five-setter, the match should have left me exhausted and disappointed with Nadal’s win. Instead, it completely washed me with some magic-potion where I started envisioning myself on the track of life.

In doing so, my readings of various articles on sports, played a key-role. In particular, David Foster Wallace’s ‘Roger Federer as Religious Experience’ was my first encounter with reading an academic version of the game. It brought out philosophical as well as technical aspects of fandom, and the game. Lengthy and well-researched reads such as these developed my patience with the curriculum and allowed me to read simple things with varied perspectives. I went on to translate from an easy conversationalist to a passionate knowledge-sharer.

Tennis is a game of excruciating timing and details, and what captivated me the most about it is how it made me feel more confident, thereby enhancing my concentration in other activities. The Wimbledons of 2008 and 2019 were a testimony to how even the greatest can not be the winner. Understanding grand slam rivalries rendered in me the ability to handle failures in life.

Sure, I have gained a finer nuance towards understanding the game over these years as I watched Federer win, be written-off and win again, but there was a deep philosophy I met on the way – the uncomplicated truth of being happy on the tennis court. He has rewritten the rules of longevity and numbers, and taught me with his swiss-chocolate smooth smile that sometimes one just needs to hold onto the basic postulates of hard-work and principles.

It is enough to ride out any storm, and things will only be ‘Betterer’.

Day 17: Watch Out

I do not remember my first watch. Clearly, it didn't have any lasting impression on me. My first favoured watch though, was a steely Swatch, mum had got me from Paris. When I was all of seven or eight, my mornings began with the sight of them winding their respective HMTs. I, on the other hand, cherished my non-fussy Swatch, and wore it with pride and delight from bed-rise to bedtime.

Some more years ago, I was party to an occasion between my grandfather and uncle, on the passing-on of an apparently simple looking classy black heirloom Rado. From scribbling a watch on my left wrist, to the glossy ads of Cartier on magazines, to the slight bulge on the date-display at 3 o’clock of Rolexes which caught my fancy, watches were to eventually become my favourite subject. How? Only time, beautifully crafted, would tell. 

Apart from sourcing old versions of foreign magazines such as WatchTime and The Watch Magazine, I became a keen cultural observer. I started studying watch collectors across various fields of business, sports, and movies, and knew exactly which model of Luftwaffe adorned John Mayer’s bank vault, and how well-customized Rafael Nadal’s Richard Mille was for the tennis court. I also studied how the next-gen collectors invested in old timepieces not merely as a hot accessory, but as a dependable asset in their investment portfolios. Little did I realize that in the garb of those ticking seconds I was studying Branding, Economics, Luxury Management and Horology. I started admiring History and its magnificence when I felt the gush of joy on having to wind an old watch multiple times to revive its soul. I may have even accidentally landed upon engineering as I leafed through DW Fletcher’s Watch Repairing as a Hobby.

During my visit to Dubai with my ex-husband, I had shocked him when I emptied my then college earnings into a fabulous Seiko. It was no longer a grave matter if one had to surprise me for any (rare) accomplishment. Every successful feat of mine, would be handsomely rewarded with a model of my choice. With absolute delight I wear an inherited watch from one of my favorite aunts. The culmination of my PhD last year brought me a promised Tissot and a solar Seiko.

Surprisingly enough, it also took me to the Jaipur Watch Company in India, which integrated numismatics with horology to create a completely Indian craft. Visiting their factory felt like being in a candy store, and I was lapping up the vision of amalgamating the panache of contemporary design with the antiquity of history. It was here I understood the quality of being exclusive and discerning. To many of my friends, I do come across as a bore when I start unfolding the saga behind their new watch, but it is well worth it!

Is it all very time-consuming? As a matter of fact, my love for watches also evolved me into an efficient taskmaster with a thorough understanding of time-management. In no way could I earn those masterpieces had I not managed my career, and then took to understand how even during recession, vintage watches made more sense than their gold bar counterparts. Watch collection had terrible similarity with art collection, and there is only so much of a difference between an investor and an admirer. While an investor would readily buy the immediate demand, the admirer would research, save and finally invest.

Is it consuming? Yes. I understood what separated a watch from a valuable. No, it was not the aluminium disk bezel, or the sapphire crystal glass, or the kinetic movement of a Seiko which beats with the pulse of a wearer. It was about upholding a lineage and protecting something with responsibility. It is about knowing exactly which time-piece to pass on to whom. As I clean my two decade old Swatch, I feel the same satisfaction as having completed (is it ever complete?) my research on art and literature. 

I understood the real value of time. Like knowledge, it is timeless.

Day 18: Opinion

For the past two days I have been going through my mail box. Reliving applications, rejections, love letters, documents, life, condensed in couple of email ids. Once and for all, I could quantify change. Having said that, I found "marriage" to be an essential element, and would today like to opine a bit formally on it:

When I was growing up, marriage, rather, a wedding ceremony was the singular most significant occasion for the families concerned and the society at large. It would entail an event of pomp and show, its entirety firmly tied to prestige, and the rituals deeply steeped in patriarchal traditions. Marriages still hold a very important place in the Indian society and reflect the high regard people have for communion and family, the association of happiness and contributing their bit to the “Big Fat Indian Wedding” scenario.

If we trace the social history of marriage, it was an institution built by men in order to sustain property within a familial legacy. Eventually, it reduced the freedom of a woman, regulating her to the marriage contract and making her the protector and nurturer for the children and the husband. The man, however, did not have any such necessary ties which would hold him down and limit his freedom of building connections with the outer world. The picture is gradually changing and helping women come out of the cocoon of the family and embrace the larger world.

However, with the advent of individual choice, personal ambition and the gripping modernist angst, I think this is the social ideal which will fade into obscurity the earliest. While more emphasis is being laid on fulfilling personal goals, the youth has started to consider marriage as a feudal institution that turns into an existential burden after the few years of initial excitement, as it has stopped being a license to parenthood, sexual independence and money.

In modern and developed societies across the globe, it is becoming increasingly evident that people are commitment phobic. The view and writing is not of a purpose to be critical of changing social dynamics but rather, present an objective commentary. And perceiving the scenario impartially, it can be imagined for the future that marriages will not be holding as much importance in the social scene and might be seen as backward and prudish in the face of progress. Marriage as companionship might be absolutely acceptable to a lot of people and a pleasurable partnership of choice.

If not completely dissolved, marriage ties need to become more fluid, the rites and rituals need to be redefined so that they are less dogmatic, chauvinist and regressive in nature. Finding any other way of living or building a relationship should be more acceptable and not be crushed under the hegemonic ties of marriage. As Chinua Achebe has also written in the short story Marriage is a Private Affair, it should become a personal and private affair, and not be limited to a social institution.

Pardon my content and tone today, dear readers. I am, as you must have concluded, perfectly capable of qualifying change as well!

Day 19 New/s

The newspaper never wanted to be one. Perhaps it was so destined. Like every morning, it reached the doorstep, slid through the gap above the doormat and lay silently anticipating the worse. Suddenly, it found itself hurled onto the table unmindfully by a lady. It knew more was to come. Thus began rounds of careful scrutiny, dirty glances, serious considerations and endless debates. The content might not have been its will, but the comments were certainly its predicament.

It tossed carelessly, accompanying tea, as they exchanged opinions. Some commented on the nature of the event, some expressed shock and awe, while some simply chuckled. Vernal showers - nothing was left out - from amusement to sympathy to disrespect and finally, dismissal. It was a lengthy day. Even the night brought no peace. When all excitement was over, a bored member of the household took upon the desire to scribble on the little white space available. Silent submission was the only option available, with ardent prayers to reach the dense shelf of old, useless newpapers.

The prayer was granted at long last. Faces disappeared, voices faded and darkness reigned supreme. Tomorrow would be a new day for sure, with a new substitute to go through all this burden of civilization. And just when life seemed to draw towards that much desired end, the lights went on once again. A little girl came out and walked towards the shelf. Hadn't it been enough for the day, it wondered...! And just as feared, it was dragged out of the shelf yet again. There seemed something new this time. The girl handled it differently. She was, unlike the others, so not-interested in the content. She opened the folds and gently added to its being new marks of existence. It found itself turned and folded in various patterns, until a result was achieved to her satisfaction. She now called it a boat.

She then placed it upon her table in her room and looked up at the sky.

It was confusing - this entire journey. What was it now - an old discarded newspapers or new-born boat of hope... It too looked up at the sky, bewildered.

One could only wait for rain perhaps...

Day 20: Unity

The day has been extraordinarily ordinary.

The only way I could beat the palpable fear of what-next this morning was by sinking into the even distraught Partition narrative. The proximity of politics and the stupidity of religious/class/caste rioters combined to evoke childhood curfew memories. Growing up in Upper Assam, there was always some curfew or the other, whether from the authorities or from those who challenged it. Armed men were a common (rather, soothing) sight, but the absence of "enemy" was an eerie feeling. In spite of seasonal differences, the nature of my family was to lap at every call. We were everything -- Bangladeshis, Bengalis, refugees, outsiders, also middle-class. I guess Partition prepared lineages and legacies to succumb, to obey. We never took it to heart, friendly puppies.

Last November, a chance writing of a Common App about a restaurant on the Wagah-Attari border enthused my interest in the narrative. As I revisited Amritsar, and stories on Partition, I realize how critically ruthless the drawing of borders have been. They scarred souls.Witnessing the hypermasculine performance, the paranoid patriotism (amidst popcorn chants of Vande Mataram), and the indiscipline of the crowd, spoiled the disciplined aesthetics of the Beating Retreat.

Amidst Bollywood beats which unites India like nothing else, I was left with an epiphany. A bird had just flown from the Indian blue sky into the Pakistani blue sky. Without signifiers, life would be so much more inclusive and plural.

All that unites us now is the uncertainty of the unknown.

#21DaysLockdown   

Day 21: Time

Returning to write on such an occasion is rather weird, where most of my musings have been with my darling Chhuti. Having sold my soul to manufacturing lies with words was a secure career, till I opted for yet another "courageous vs foolish" choice of freelancing. So readers, as you can understand, I got a good heads-up to the current scenario since around October of last year. Though, I did travel on and off, and had couple of big events lined up till about end of January, including getting done with my elusive Doctorate degree, being home made me feel most alive.

It came with its jitters -- an expa/ensive internet plan, a discipline with deadlines and keeping off the lure of day-drinking. Yet, I emerged warrior-like in the said scenario, even self-consoling myself about no secured salaries. Till a virus landed in our perfectly chaotic world, and set it uncannily calm. 

The infinite jokes and memes convert into an irrational digital consumption, absolutely and compulsively unhealthy. Thoughts of what-next are punishing especially from the economics point of view, but thoughts of now can be reassuring. My favorite tree (yes, I have one) is lyrical with the clean breeze, gardening is as good as parenting, and siestas are powerful. 

The solar-watch on my wrist had stopped functioning with due lack of attention. I winded it back to life with with its minor inaccuracies. As I stop ordering in, and venturing out, as I observe the social cycle of future history, time champions itself upon my understanding -- 21 is just a number, and in all probabilities, it might extend. Are we prepared to brace this break?

I will, as I write now, truly. Unlocked.

#21DaysLockdown