Blue bottles

My materialistic wishlist:

1. A pair of Jimmy Choos. Black with satin ribbon tie-ups.
2. A laptop.
3. The umbrella from Benneton. The red one.
4. A copy of ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’.
5. A DVD of Casablanca.
6. A trip to Paris and Turkey. And Morocco.
7. My own room.
8. A pair of black Oshos.
9. A Pinacolada. Non-virgin.
10. A decent pair of glasses.

Some moron spit on my beautiful white Fab-India kurta.

As I walked past a window of a dirty bus, a projectile streak of red spit traveled from red puckered lips, through the humid air to land, rather morbidly, across my kurta.

And in my best Hindi, I looked up and said…

“Saale!”

And shook a fist.

Should have paid more attention in Hindi Class.

Oh!

The inadequacies of being a South Indian in Pune sometimes overwhelms me!

Have you ever sat down to finish a jigsaw puzzle? Ignoring the cold floor and the cramp in your leg, you painstakingly press pieces of coloured cardboard together, hoping they’d fit… Wishing they would.

And as you get closer and closer to the end, the newsprint you’ve spread underneath get covered with a picture that looks a little like the one the Box promised you it would look like.

And there you have it, with four more bits left to fit into the picture. And there are five gaps left behind.

That moment when your expectation turns into disappointment. Into anger at the waste. Oh, the waste! Into incredulity at it’s happening.

At that masochist’s patience that takes over you to ‘finish the damn thing’. And then you see, a jigsaw shaped hole in that ‘completed’ picture that lets in the newsprint. That hole with it’s knobs and niches which lets all the fun, effort and expectation out. Like a leak in a holiday boat.

And that’s what Sonia Faleiro’s book The Girl is like.

I’ve read Faleiro’s work before (thanks to Jayanth). It’s stunning, moving and wise, all in one.

But her book is such a let down. It’s simply unmoving, pretentious and well, ugly.

The words are there, all right. But the heart isn’t. It has the touch and feel of a book that you know/think is going to change your life. But it lacks the brilliance… that humanness of a book which will unlock a secret part of you. That part of you which irrevocably mutates into something alien yet comforting.
Like new neighbours. Or re-found old friends.

Which is surprising. Because she seems like a woman whose words can take you beyond and back. Who will show you that world. Through your eyes. With her words silently guiding you to a land where her characters are warm blooded and alive.

But it doesn’t. It simply fails to.

It could be shoddy editing. Or the slimness of the tome. Or my bias towards Arundathi Roy.

It could be anything.

But it isn’t.

Oh yes. Life can suck a lot more.

Since when did 800 kms become such a far way off?

I miss home.

And it’s people.

And my darlin’ who watches from heaven, his caramel/violet eyes smiling down at me. All dogs go to heaven right?

I’m lonely.

Wet.

And cold.

Irritable.

Homesick.

Tired.

And know more about Hindu Succession than I ever want to know in Life.

So I’m wondering, Can life suck a little more?

The year was 1986.

A baby girl was born to two people in an empty hospital somewhere in Karnataka. Healthy, moody baby. A sweet smelling, adorable baby.

The parents looked at each other and smiled. The mother, exhausted and in pain. The father, exhausted.

It was a tired yet happy smile. A smile filled with hope, a 900 bucks salary, a fountain in Medical College, a ‘jamun, holding hands in the darkness of a theatre playing a Rajkumar movie and some other pretty wonderful moments.

How much happiness could an a baby in an old, scratchy blanket give?

Despite the pain.

Despite the additional costs. (Diapers cost so much. What about Farex?)

Despite the growing up.

Despite priorities changing.

Despite the ‘other’ men in her life.

Despite the fights and the ’sermons.’

Apparently, a lot more than they bargained for.

For it was 1991.

A baby boy with a pointy nose was born.

The smile had changed too. It was filled with a white Maruti car, a ‘quarter’, a burnt mattress, a surgery, a change of hospitals and a jealous 5 year old.

How much happiness did 2 babies give?

Despite missing the Flute class.

Despite the numerous ‘losses’ of shoes.

Despite fights and screaming.

And calling names. (No saying ‘moron’ in this house)

despite fights over ‘hierarchy’ and ‘respect’.

Not too much, I think.

‘Coz it’s 2006.

And it’s just been the two of us…

*Thanks God on bended knees*