Magics
A stunning promo video. Everytime I watch it I feel the way I do when I’m in Bombay at Marine Drive watching the sun set after work.
A lot of people don’t like this song. But I do. Very much, in fact.
Today
I detest writing long posts. Nothing bores me more. Maybe some things but whatever. But I love Bombay so much that I’m prepared to write a long one.
I’ve gushed about Bombay before. Yes, I adore the city. Almost everything. The only thing that doesn’t interest me about Bombay is its utterly vapid so called aristocrats. They dull.
Coming back to class (because I’m so goddamn politically correct), I’m leading a low class student/hostel lifestyle. You know fill water in the office because I can’t afford to buy water, eat vada pao instead of some nice Chinese, stay in a rat infested place etc. I love it. Except for the rats. They gross.
As a result of this, I’m now travelling one hour each way by II Class local. Where the spit is more obvious. And the vomit stains don’t bother you anymore as you watch a kid rest his hands on the sill.
I love the local. I’ve said this before, I know. But wait. The story gets interesting. If not, you love me too much to berate me so I win both ways. Like I was saying, the local’s awesome. I love watching people and apparently they love me also. They include me in intimate conversations and smile encouragingly when I trip over the right words in hindi. I feel awfully light-hearted and young when I get off the train. Then of course I get mauled, but we’ll save that story for later.
So today was no different. I had a small headache before I got on the train and I was hugely irritable because the tea tasted watery. (Yeah. So?). And the stupid train was crowded and I didn’t get any place to rest my ass. So I stood and read my book with a frown I could feel, my face scrunched up like a chubby walnut.
And then I heard loud claps. Which usually means someone is getting married. Or there was a eunuch on board.
She came clapping loudly, waring a yellow saree and a bright green blouse. For effect. And then she stood in the middle of the little corridor singing.
She stopped.
And touched someone’s cheek.
‘Paisa de, re. ‘
The lady who looked violated stayed still not moving a muscle.
I looked on, mildly interested.
She repeated what she said before; this time with a tiny chuck on the chin. No response. This time she shoved at the woman who swayed slightly her arm flexing at the effort.
‘Paisa re, baba.’
By this time everyone was looking at the two women. The sudden silence grew.
And then the train jerked to a halt.
At which the eunuch screeched. With her hand to her heart. Literally. ‘Aaaaaah’. Like a man playing a woman in theatre. Like a man being hugely ridiculous.
For a second we stood there dumbstruck. And then we began laughing. Every single woman there. Loud laughs mingled with little ones till the laughter reverberated around us in a satisfying sense of companionship.
The eunuch smiled. A nice smile. Not like her previous bullying one. We smiled back at her. Purse strings loosened. Money was pressed into palm.
The train moved again. Chugging along. She sang and moved her bony hip. ‘Dhadak Dhadak dhua udaaye re’. Each Dhadak syncing perfectly with each chug of the train.
How lovely to feel quiet joy sometimes. I love Bombay. And its beautiful people.
I love it.Assumptions
I always wonder how a person who blogs would be in real life. Would he be confident? Would she be as dreamy? Would he like dogs as much? Is her life as dark as she blogs? Is he cute? Is she? Is it a guy or a girl?
It turns out people are nothing like their blogs. I should know. I spout endlessly about how my blog is only a fraction of me. A bit of my life I like to share.
But it is great fun to discover these people and break preconceived notions. A delicious thrill just before you come face to face with the person who knows your most intimate dreams and loves without knowing your real name.
A sort of comfortable companionship exists even though you have never met that person before. Because the first-time awkwardness, judgment, curiosity, nervousness and am-I-looking-fat?-thoughts has been dealt with the first time you verified the word verification.
It’s amazing how comfortable things are. Maybe it’s because that person already knows you. Even if it is only a little bit of you.
I like blog meets. So there.
P.S. Crapper, you were right. I was going to blog about this. :)
People I like I
(Two people sit around. One smokes, exhaling through the mouth. The other is glassy eyed.)
He: Yeah. She pretty much ripped my heart out and stamped all over it.
She: Dude. The fucking smoke is in my face. Gerrof!
He: Shit. I’m glad you’re here. (smile)
She: I know. It’s raining. (smile)
We’re the Royalty of Irrelevance. Satpal and I.
The only reason I like him is because he never asks me questions. He’s there. We sit around, watching the rain and drinking tepid tea.
There’s never anything new to talk about. Both he and I do nothing. Our friends are boring barring one.
Yet.
So you understand why I like him, right? He’s comfortable and completely asexual. Like warm socks. Or a midnight phone-call calling to ask for assurance.
One of my much-adored people. Lads and the others, I present my favorite friend who burps very very loudly – Satpal D.
In Bangalore
Please meet me. I have a week free and I don’t know what to do with it.
This is specifically for Amuls. And the others. If you want that is.
Mourning
We haven’t been taught how to mourn effectively. We’ve been taught (by example) to squelch the grief and pretend life moves on.
So how’re you now?
Oh friggin’ awesome! I’m good! Never been better!
Sure life moves on. But with the gaping void that tumbles life around. Because if something is to be mourned about, it must have been a pretty big part of your life, non?
So you have this huge sadness and your life is upside down. What must you do?
<<Shrug>> LIFE. GOES. ON.
I remember when my grandfather died. He was one of the biggest influences in our lives. And when he passed away, everyone was shattered. Devastated.
But three days later, all the grief was carefully hidden under school uniforms, clocks, tiffin carriers, tests, disinfectant and work. Back to work! No one mentions it (the sadness) anymore.
Even now, when occassional pangs come by (when I see nunge or hear someone say muttakose) I shake my head and pretend that sadness isn’t a part of me anymore.
We still haven’t gotten a dog. It’s been two years since my dog died. We remain in tacit denial of our grief. (A, you now know where I get it from, don’t you?)
For such an extravagantly emotional community we can’t mourn. Whattapity!
I’ve learnt to be this way. So damn difficult to un-learn it. I can’t mourn. I can’t.
Because I don’t know how to.
Maybe I knew once. And then I had to unlearn it. Like those lefties made right handed.
Shit.
Heh
this is what I was.
Your past life diagnosis:
I don’t know how you feel about it, but you were male in your last earthly incarnation.You were born somewhere in the territory of modern USA South-East around the year 1600. Your profession was that of a jeweler or watch-maker.
Your brief psychological profile in your past life:
Such people are always involved with all new. You have always loved changes, especially in art, music, cooking.
The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation:
There is an invisible connection between the material and the spiritual world. Your lesson is to search, find and use this magical bridge.
Go check yours here.
I wonder what my future will tell me. Maybe that I’ll have to take my exams over again. Because I haven’t studied anything. :(
Shitty lesson I learnt man. I should have learned to patent my watches so that I could enjoy the benefits of my past life now.
Exams
Will not be functional for a bit. Both my blog and I.
Inconvenience is regretted.
bottom dweller
Its funny how I end up at the bottom of everyone’s priority lists every time.
It’s like you put all our names in that little jar and shake it. And mine floats all the way to the bottom. Every-bloody-time. And I wait in painful apprehension each time to hear my name being called out. Ha!Someone kick me.
Funny isn’t it?
And the funnier bit is that I actually believe these people when they make promises. Even after they have broken my heart a billion times before. And I’m not even the kind that hands out second chances.
But wait, the punch line is yet to come.
Then when they allot me that special place in the back of their head where dental appointments and family-dinner-with-fourth-cousin jostle for space, I have the cheek to feel bad and cry.
And these people are the ones who are most important to me – friends and family.
