Meri jaan

होंठ झुके जब होंठो पर
साँस उलझी हो साँसों में
दो जुड़वाँ होंठों की
बात कहो आंखों से
मेरी जान
मुझे जान न कहो मेरी जान



In my present opinion, the most romantic lines possible.

The picture is blurred for two reasons: one, that this was the only one I could find. And second, that some memories are etched as blurred in the mind forever :)


Footnote: Black and white recollections brought forth by Shazia's latest post.

Behind the pillar

When the bride and groom entered the church I quickly found a pillar behind which I stood hidden for the entire service, where I had a good view of the ceremony, where I could quietly take pictures and where no one would bother me by making idle conversation about how she looked or how his sword shined. Behind the pillar I found some private moments to well up a little, say amen and cross myself every time the priest did, close my eyes quietly for short, quick prayers for her and to fight back the tears that threatened to smudge my mascara and wreck the brave front I was putting up.

My best friend is now married to an officer in the Indian Navy. I do not know why she is the only person I ever refer to as my best friend. I do not remember the first time I met her (although I know that I was 8 and she was 9 years old) and I do not remember any moment that would help qualify her best friend status (except I know that the last fifteen years were full of them). The tears that I held back pricked my eyes for the knowledge of those fifteen years.

But there was also the knowledge that the next fifteen years are going to be different. Behind the pillar dawned the realization that a new phase in life is here. A phase that had not arrived when I was 22 and has quickly decided to settle in now that I am 23. A new phase where direct instructions to ‘find someone’ will be commonplace, where unabashed queries about my relationship status should not surprise me. A new phase where I must become accustomed to conversations like the following:

.. Erin, in the midst of a long talk about life on one’s own and on one’s own terms said, “You’re going to be like me. You will study till you’re thirty; all your friends will get married. You will feel lonely and long for companionship and long to have kids, but you will have to wait. You cannot get married during your PhD, it’s too much to handle.”

.. My grandmother, while I was explaining the long procedure of applying for a PhD abroad and saying that I will be 28 or 29 by the time I finish, interrupted and said, “You must get married before that! 28 is too late!”

Despite the arrival of this phase, I feel unchained and free to make choices – about whether 28 is too late, or whether marriage during a PhD is feasible and even about what loneliness is. It suddenly seems like I, and everyone around me, is making or going to make choices that are life altering. My cousin might get married. I’m thrilled at the idea of standing behind her and giving her away at a church ceremony. I’m going to pick a whole new country to go live in for half a decade and make a career out of reading geeky papers. I will live on my own, cook for myself, maybe even buy a car. My friends will make these choices too – about where they’ll live and what they’ll do for a living. We’ll do so much, see so much, learn so much and be so different. It’s ridiculously frightening, all of this, but so exciting. Because it shall be life altering. At 23 and at 28.

And so when I emerged from behind the pillar, I managed a toothy grin. And I feel remarkably upbeat today.

Caveman Departs

Not from his opinions, sadly. He returns his keys to Erin today. I am not certain if I will see him again. I am also not certain how I feel about that. I’ve never had such bizarre conversations with anyone else, but I have also never had a flat-mate before. And he is an irreplaceable one, because I am rather unlikely to meet another caveman in this lifetime.

So Caveman, although I might not miss arguing with you, I will miss doubling up in laughter about something Erin did; I will miss being bullied by you; I will miss you when I discover I’ve forgotten my keys at 3 a.m. and I will hate to find the television off and the living room dark when I return home every night.

Wanderlust

Blink

From the roof of a building the sun can be seen turning into a deep red as it sets behind a dome. Four minarets shoot for the sky around the dome. They are black against the orange sky. They were white against the blue sky this morning. There is an echoing cry for namaaz from a mosque that draws you to it. As the heavens turn from a pale orange to a midnight blue, little lights come on gradually throughout the length and breadth of Istanbul. Traffic moves as little yellow dots under little orange street lights. The numerous domes that were white and blue by day are lit up orange by night. Amidst the faraway noises of the traffic, we listen. To the namaaz. To the hundreds of voices speaking in unison; to the rustling sound of so many souls kneeling at once.

Blink

The sun has lit up its first snow-capped mountain for the day. Soon all the Himalayan peaks that circle this little, hidden meadow will be golden. The dew on the grass will dry. The cloudless sky will turn a paler blue. The water in the tiny lake moves gently as the breeze blows. The water almost looks like it smiles. There are a few minute yellow flowers that peep out from the green grass. They nod their small heads happily in the wind. There isn’t a soul in sight. There isn’t a sound, but for the breeze meeting the water and the spades of grass. We run. The crispness of the morning bites into our faces; our bare feet are moistened in the dew. There is no horizon. The mountains surround us. You could say they trap us. But we run. We run fast. We’re free.

Blink

Everything is sand. The earth, the horizon, the Pyramid, the air. Sunlight blazes down; blazes back up. Blinds. A wind blows. Stings the skin with sand. The world here would be the colour of sand if it weren’t for the pink, blue, green, turquoise, lavender clothes of the tourists. But there is an absolute silence about this place in spite of the hustle-bustle. It fills the mind, the silence, when you stare awestruck at your surroundings. A silence of hundreds of years. The silence in which they’ve stood. In this silence, under the sun, stung by the sand, beneath a solitary, leafless tree, we stand. Motionless. Staring. Absorbing the enormity. And the blinding sunlight.

Blink

Dry leaves are tangled in our hair as we go racing on cycles along this narrow mud path somewhere outside Auckland. The four o’ clock autumn sun filters through the trees and makes wiggly shadows of us on the forest floor. We giggle. We race faster. We reach a clearing. We jump off our cycles and fall onto a mound of dry leaves. And stare at the sky. Brilliant blue with streaks of white. A wind blows. Covers our faces with leaves and rearranges the white streaks in the sky. The air smells of wood. There is a stream gurgling somewhere. Leaves whisper. There is a house in the distance. Its chimney puffs out light, grey smoke. We close our eyes. And take a deep breath.

Blink

Far beyond the white sands of a tiny Asian island, the sun has long set into the horizon of the Pacific Ocean. The moon has risen. The dark sea sparkles in the moonlight as it brings white, foamy waves to the shore. The waves make friendly sounds as they splash. The trees along the beach mutter back affectionately, their wood creaking in the wind. We sit by the remains of a sand castle that just got washed away. We stroll into the cold water and squeal in joy. We splash about, chase each other. We swim. And as we float on our backs to let the moon bathe us in her light, stars slowly begin to stud the vast blackness that engulfs us. Flickering, twinkling and conversing, somehow.

Blink

A grey, dull, narrow, cobbled street in Venice. We can hear hundreds of voices around the corner, but not a soul in this street. We’re missing something fun. We must catch up with it. We must turn around the corner. We walk. Swiftly, excitedly. And turn. Suddenly now, there is sunshine. There is a riot of colour. There is the canal crowded with boats. Coloured, antique, rickety boats. Sidewalks and bridges filled with people in their summer dresses. Multi-coloured, pied dresses. A string of buildings overlook the canal. Bright, with colour and with sunshine, with flower pots. People are shouting, talking animatedly; boatmen are greeting each other. A white summer hat occasionally reflects the sun and momentarily blinds you. We put our chins in our hands, our elbows on the ledge of the bridge and watch. Life. And how alive it can be.

Blink

It’s a warm, sultry Caribbean night. On a crowded waterfront. A Latin tune plays. Dim yellow-orange lamps light up the streets, the tables. The light filters through wine-glasses, bounces off forks and spoons, and twinkles. It dances along ripples in the water and winks. A gentle breeze blows. There’s a bridge somewhere with lights shining. There’s a city far away whose lights sparkle back at us. Music gathers rhythm. Feet tap. The clinking of cutlery and bursts of laughter interrupt the music then and now. Skirts rustle. We dance. The world becomes a blur of soft, orange shades and happy sounds. As we twirl. As our tummies ache with laughter, as our jaws hurt from grinning with glee. As we are suspended in the moment.

Blink

Hey, you :) You seem to travel with me. You are always there. Through many continents. Through many dreams. Through many worlds? Do tell me, though. Who are you?

Footnote: These are sketches of how I’ve imagined some places that I’ve never been to. My desire to travel has become overwhelmingly strong and I do not know what to do with it. Hence the post. The idea that groups of souls transcend worlds together has stayed with me since I read Many Lives, Many Masters. I often stare about wondering who is traveling with me. Hence the post.

Maulana Sahab

Today it is two years since I moved to Bombay and joined TIFR. Yesterday I decided that I have achieved nothing. In life or in this world. Because it is not in my powers to lift the burden off the shoulders of Maulana Sahab.

Maulana Sahab is a tiny man with a grey beard. He always dresses in a long, floor-length white robe and wears a maulvi’s cap on his head. This is not the most striking thing about him, however. The most striking thing is his smile. Sparkling, genuine, warm. And constant. No matter what, he smiles.

He is my Bua’s tailor. He stitches clothes for all the women in that house including me. We’re women ranging from the ages of 5 to 40, each with her own range of moods, tastes and specifications in clothing requirement. We’ve made him stitch halter neck blouses; we’ve made him copy FabIndia designs; we’ve made him stitch clothes for a five-year-old from little scraps of cloth left from the rest of our clothes. He still never stops smiling.

He sometimes overestimates and sometimes underestimates my size. Our conversations usually start this way - “Maulana Sahab, churidaar phir se phat gaya!”or “Ye dheela hai Maulana Sahab, main itni moti nahin hoon!” and he’ll just chuckle and say “Laao, isko kar denge.” With the smile.

He teaches in a madarsa. He and his family stitch clothes for a garment shop in Colaba. Sometimes we can’t locate him for many weeks. Sometimes there is a tragedy in his family; sometimes the rains are causing a problem in his home. But when we find him again, he is smiling.

Yesterday I went to Bua’s place after a month and inquired about him. It turns out that the garment store has cut his family off because they’ve found bigger, fancier tailors. Maulana Sahab’s family’s only source of income now is the madarsa and needless to say that it isn’t enough. He has little girls who he’s trying to educate and older boys who are hunting for jobs everywhere now. He came to my aunt and told her. He told her that he doesn’t have enough money to pay the fees for the girls’ school. If he doesn’t pay up, their names will be off the register. I wasn’t there so I don’t know if he managed to smile.

Bua asked him how much he will need. He said he needs Rs 1200 for the year for both girls put together. My stomach felt like it was dissolving when I heard that. 1200 bucks. If you ask me where I spend 1200 bucks and how fast, I will not be able to tell you. It almost magically disappears from my hands. It gets spent thoughtlessly. Its absence might go unnoticed. Its loss would barely be mourned. It gets no respect in my purse. In Maulana Sahab’s it will at least bring some smiles.

Bua had given him the money immediately. He came back later. You know why? To show her the receipt from the school so that she trusts him. If I were Bua I would have wept right there. She did not and I hope Maulana Sahab was smiling.

Futile Philosophies, Inane Emotions after Maudlin Maelstroms

Please do not fret if you don’t understand the title, I cannot claim to have thought of it had it not been for the daily dose of Barron’s. What I write today is a collage of myriad things I’ve learnt/decided/understood/accepted/assimilated lately. Let’s just think of them as threads of thought which when tied together find me a smiling face in the mirror every morning. If you think that this post is brindled (forcibly) with ‘GRE words’ then you’re damn right.

When I went to cast my vote last week there was this very old Gujarati couple before us. They both had walking sticks. They both had missing teeth. They both walked with a stoop. They both tottered to the desk slowly. The old man still had his helmet on; he had not left it on the scooter outside. They both held each other’s hands; I don’t know who supported whom. They shuffled their feet, made it slowly to the polling booth one by one, the old man first. He waited at the door for her after he finished. She reached him. They grasped each other’s arms once more and I watched their silhouettes walking away into the blazing sunlight. Life partners. Some people say they’re hard to find. Maybe we can see them canter past us only when we stop riding fiercely and hunting for them.

The Ahmedabad airport staff is inefficient. The boarding was incredibly slow. I stood tapping my feet and frowning, itching to take out my cell phone and message four people about exactly how I felt at that moment. Exactly how I felt. They should know. Someone should know. I finally sent out three smses, mentally cursing the uncle behind me in the queue who was disrupting my articulate sms composition by asking me what I did for a living. I sent ten more messages when I landed. I could not put my phone away for a second on the cab from the airport. When I reached TIFR, I ran to the nearest computer and changed my gtalk status to “Back in Bombay”. This is not so ridiculous though, I could have also written “Changed the bed sheets today” or “Burnt the onions on the stove” or “Can’t find my yellow earring”. We have too many options. Too many options to effusively express emotions, emotions we discovered that we had only when facebook asked us to “share our feelings”.

In kindergarten I had a classmate called Joshua. He was probably the naughtiest kid in the universe. He taught me to say “No. Way. Hozay.” When our teacher Mrs Turner would lose her temper she’d say “Joshua! Go put yourself together!” Joshua would then hang his head and go to sit on a little chair placed in the corner of the classroom, facing the wall. After five minutes he’d be back. Beatific as ever. Everyone needs time and space to discover themselves; put themselves, their thoughts, their years together. For some it’s an innate regular pattern; some have to be asked to sit on the chair; some itinerant souls find the chair on their own maybe five heartbreaks and three paper rejects later. When you’re 5 it takes five minutes for the discovery, at 22 it might take a tad longer.

At one point I dressed only in morose colours – dark blue, deep green, black, brown, maybe maroon. Never white. Now there is barely a colour I do not wear, and I have too many whites. I used to only wear miniscule, invisible earrings. Now, someone from a landing aircraft can probably see some of my earrings. At various points I’ve wanted to be an actress, an architect and a lawyer. Never a professional nerd. Now there is no other appropriate description of what I do. Things have a way of changing. They may be diaphanous first and murky later or vice versa. Decisions and opinions hence must never be water-tight and locked but rather malleable and flowing. If yours aren’t, you run the risk of finding the world all the way ahead in a happier place while you’re left with just your consistency. And therefore one must not be carried away with titles like ’made for each other’. You probably were, but you aren’t anymore. Or maybe you aren’t but you might morph into being so. To use the cliché: change is the only constant.

Last week when I fell sick, I hated the sight of sunlight on the curtains. I hated the smell of rice and daal. I hated the taste of water. I didn’t want the birds to chirp in the morning and I didn’t want my mom to squeal ‘little Anguuu’. When I got better and was getting off my flight in Bombay I even grinned because we were deplaning via the cool chute and not the stupid stairway. You’re doomed if you cannot enjoy azure skies and balmy breeze and loss of appetite is the worst thing that can happen to you.

Has anyone ever looked at you and smiled without knowing how badly you needed that reassurance from them? Have you struggled to find an appropriate way of thanking them? Did you discover that sometimes there are no words or gestures to express your gratitude or joy? It leaves you with a feeling of supreme inadequacy. But then you realize that a single word spoken was going to ruin the moment. Better crack a joke instead. Time escapes through your fingers like water if you try to hold it too tightly. If you have the courage to let it pass you by, often enough, it comes back, and flows mellifluously then.

Wisps of memories: sharing an iPod, walking home, singing along, memorizing lyrics; black nail polish for birthday gifts; little messy sketches of ‘Curly’; holding hands as a remedy for motion sickness; sticking Aamir Khan pictures on paper; fighting for cool points; spontaneous jigs on the street; high-fives; arguments about PCOs and CCOs. Seemingly meaningless, fleeting moments of joy. It turns out that you find friendship, love and life in ephemeral, evanescent moments like these. And these memories make not just stories, but tales. Timeless ones. Because while you’re busy singing or smiling or laughing with your eyes streaming, you’re not looking closely and some exiguous spades of grass sprout beneath rocks and then before you know it, spring is here.

Grateful, My Lord

There was a time many years ago when I used to watch a lot of television. I used to be crazy about celebrities and their interviews and their personalities and I would memorize anything they said that appealed to me. Now, I was never a fan of Rekha, but she happened to appear on Rendezvous with Simi Garewal once and I watched. Rather unexpectedly, she said something that I never forgot for the rest of my life. She said that if anything in this world except self-pity can move you enough to bring tears in your eyes, you’re a lucky person indeed. I was thrilled. Practically everything brings tears to my eyes. I must be very special, then. Seven years and many, many tears later, I have to say that the past few weeks have dissolved some of those illusions and brought life into sharper focus, or at least what I think is greater clarity. Four movies and some incredible amounts of introspection in these weeks have provided me the courage to accept that I am not special at all, but I am enormously selfish instead.

You see if I were to carry out some of my multivariate analysis on the reasons behind my tears in all these years, then many of them run the risk of falling in the self-pity category. And when I think about it now with my newfound clarity, I ask myself - pray, why in Heaven’s name should that be? Here are the worst things that life has had to offer to me so far (no, I have not shed tears for all of them) – myopia; uneven teeth (but no braces); frizzy hair; lack of aptitude for complicated mathematics; broad shoulders; extra weight that never goes away; absence of any special talent in sports; three, simultaneous, long-lasting pimples; an unsuccessful experiment in which parasites refused to grow; a fantastically dynamic and complicated romantic life; 80/100 in Hindi on my Class 10 final exams; chicken pox and typhoid. What a pathetic list.

Life has not closed in on me from all sides and trapped me so that I suffocate like the couple on Revolutionary Road. I was born many years after and many, many miles and cultures away from the Jewish concentration camps in Germany. I am also not deprived of the joy of the written-word like Hanna in The Reader. Neither has my life been destroyed in the swirl of a bizarre separatist movement in Rajasthan like that of the protagonists in Gulaal. And although my time and place of birth has not allowed me to escape the horror that were the riots in Gujarat; nothing, absolutely nothing that I saw or heard then comes close to what the characters of Firaaq go through. Who ever gave me the right to complain about anything?

So today I seek to redeem myself in my own eyes. I write this post to admit that I am ashamed of all the tears I have ever shed feeling sorry for myself. I write to accept that someone in a profession exactly of her choosing, surrounded by the most wonderful of friends, family and parents and living on freaking Cuffe Parade has no business feeling unhappy or grumpy about anything; not deficiency of zing in life and not myopia. I write to pledge that I will mobilize all my energies into visualizing the positive side, the bigger picture. I write this post with the hope that I will morph my life into one that is less selfish and that achieves more for people who genuinely have reason to mourn. And lastly, I write to say that I will forever be grateful. For everything. For crooked teeth. For frizzy hair.

Silly Girl II

Golden and yellow

She sat fluttering her wings,

Waiting for someone

To say interesting things.

She waited so long

That years flew by,

She decided she was a petal

When she really was, a butterfly.

Silly Girl I

To everyone she met around

She gave away her soul.

Then one day she stared about

And found herself alone.

For some strength she looked within

But found she wasn't whole.

Silent Words

I have found the words

I mustn’t speak

That can fill my heart

But not

Leave my lips

They are powerful

These words

And restless too

They hate to remain

Unspoken

So choose to be

Apparent

Sometimes in my eyes

Sometimes they flow as tears

Sometimes they spread

In my smile

Sometimes they take my hand

And rest it on yours

They are silent

Not invisible

Or maybe they are

To you

Yet I don’t give them

My voice

And hope

On another day

At another time

When my hand

No longer rests on yours

Perhaps

You will hear them

In the breeze.