...

My podgy little index finger
Was still warm
And moist
From being held in your hand

It gripped an iron rail
I felt it grow strong
And cold
The day I learned to stand

Aftershocks

The bai walked in today with a warning: “Don’t eat fish!”
“What??” I asked.
“That storm that came some days ago? Did you notice that so many men died, but no fish died? The fish are eating the dead men! If you eat the fish, then you are also eating the dead men! Don’t eat fish!” she explained.

While sweeping the floor, she stopped midway. “In my village, a girl has come from the storm area. Poor thing has only one tattered dress and is not even married. All the villagers are giving her something or the other. She says she came from the storm area.”

I opened my mouth to give her a million reasons why the fish in the Arabian Sea could hardly have fed on people who died hundreds of kilometres away, and a woman from Chennai would not travel to a village on the outskirts of Pune to seek help from those who need it almost as badly. Somehow, I did not see the point in getting into a debate.

Am curious to know where my countrymen and women are getting tsunami-related information. Are there myths being written in villages while you and I catch up with the latest on-site pictures online? But then, aren’t there myths being written through those latest pictures, which turn out to be fake the next day?

I opened the newspaper to see the two little girls selling lemonade to raise money for tsunami victims. An aww-inspiring gesture that sums up another set of common-man’s reaction to the tragedy. The common man who sees the real picture through the fractured prism of the Occident. And jumps in to rescue the world in its own way. And another myth is born.

(I know. This post does not make sense to me either.)

Cheep Thrills

One day not long ago, I decided to convert the tiny balcony adjoining my kitchen into a breakfast joint for my feathered friends.

I began with scattering breadcrumbs on the ledge, but the health-conscious birds informed me that refined white flour was not going to get any customers. I switched to Arhar Dal, which I had stopped eating because it was not of good quality. Apparently, it wasn’t good enough for the birds either.

I was about to give up in despair, when Mammageddon arrived and suggested I use bajra (millet). A packet of the same was duly procured, and grains were scattered on the ledge. I stood by the window of the living room, which offers an excellent view of the balcony without disturbing its occupants. I waited. After fifteen minutes, one sparrow “Came. Pecked. Left.”

In the evening, a lot of the bajra was still there. “Wait a few days. The sparrow will inform her friends today,” Ma said.

The next day, Mrs. Sparrow brought her husband along. I left the balcony door open by mistake. Mrs Sparrow, assuming that this breakfast joint could be relied upon for constant food supply now, boldly flew into the kitchen to examine the gaping hole in the ceiling (for the fan) as a potential home. I had to rush in to inform her that my landlord would not allow me to sub-let the flat.

The morning ritual became a habit. I put out bajra before I had a glass of water myself. In about ten minutes, sparrows, pigeons, and crows began their rounds. I sat perched upon the window ledge and watched the spectacle.

On the first of January, I reached home at 9 in the morning. There was a ruckus on the balcony. A dozen very loud sparrows were perched on the horizontal bars of the iron railing, looking like musical notes that were singing themselves out. They were livid at me for being late. Feeling ashamed, I put out the bajra even before I put the lock and key down.

As I put out the bajra today, one hungry sparrow-lady arrived on the ledge while I was still standing there. With one “cheep” that probably meant “Would you leave already?” she shooed me away. Her pals joined her as soon as the door was bolted.

They follow a hierarchical routine, my feathered friends. The sparrows come first of all. Then one pigeon arrives. The sparrows make room for it. Then another pigeon arrives and hovers around the sparrows, fanning them with its wings. It tries to land ON the sparrows! “Oops! Madam, did I step on your toes/beak/wings?” “Pardon me sir. Is that your tail under my pink claws?” Being stupid and clumsy is very helpful if you are trying to make your way through a tinier population. Anyone who has dragged two trolley-fulls of luggage at an airport and left half a dozen co-passengers in need of knee-replacement surgeries will know what I mean. The sparrows just up and leave in disgust.

The pigeons eat and eat and eat. The sparrows gang up on the downstairs balcony and make some attempts at guerrilla warfare, but the pigeons promptly put up the stupid and clumsy act again.

Three crows fly in formation to the ledge. All the other birds disappear. I wonder if crows dig bajra, or just get kicks out of ruining the party. The peck uninterestedly and leave. It is many minutes before anyone else appears again.

I’m planning to buy a water bowl and build them a swing soon. My own bird circus!

P.S. They are eating so much bajra that they are running up bigger grocery bills than me!

Answer the following

Q: What is a five-letter word for a pizza topping?
A: Guilt

Q: Complete the series: Login > Compose > Insert Address > Insert Text > Send > …
A: Regret

Q: What is a four-letter word for death?
A: Fear

Q: Complete the series: Create > Like > Enjoy > Love > Cherish > Depend > …
A: Kill

Aa Aa Eee Oo Oo Oh!

Overnight, Ze Inkpot of Ze Crackpot has swapped the Lagaan look for the Raja Babu look.

(Please to tell me if it be hurting your eyes too much.)

On the collaborative writing front, a set of predictions for 2005 is put up here.
If you go there, do check out the sketches of the chhamiya and the dude. :P

Peace to all.
No broken bones to me.

Fortune Favours the Bold, eh?

Saw Alexaaaaaaaaaaander (correct pronunciation) yesterday. Some observations:

1. A grand sweeping canvas does not an epic make. We live in times when most fancy hotels and heritage resorts look so majestic that even the most ambitious film sets look like good imitations at best.
2. Child actors rule! Having seen Mughal-e-Azam over the weekend, I cannot help generalizing. The two scenes with Salim junior and the ten with Alexander junior left an indelible impression upon me.
3. There is not a single line of dialogue that I carried out of the theatre with me. So many scenes were crying out to be written as dramatic, memorable pieces. (Mughal-e-Azam hangover again) Coming to think of it, I haven’t heard a memorable line in a Hollywood movie in a long, long time.
4. War scenes have been done to death. After Troy and company, I can only yawn through kilometres of footage of kilometres of army lines spilling each other’s blood. I would have shot the war as duels between eagles!
5. Alexander is a good Aryan boy and the Persian king is an Osama clone.
6. Babylonians wear jewellery from Jaipur and Sambhalpuri Ikat from Orissa. They wear Gujarati shawls when it gets chilly.
7. If you cross over the Hindooooooooookush (correct pronunciation) and enter India, you land in Assam. Incessant rain and elephants just don’t happen at wholesale rates anywhere else. For detail, check mosaic tile maps circa 300 BC.
8. Based on accent, some Greeks are Hispanic. Some are Irish. Many are too drunk to be coherent.
9. How can you have a hero die of malaria and heartbreak? (Thanks, Heretic.) So you can have a bizarre Indian Maharaja kill him. No comments on the portrayal of India (the land that has never been conquered by anyone ha ha) and Indians (beaded beards???).
10. It’s an epic minus a soul, a feast without salt. Unless of course, Angelina Jolie and some snakes are good enough for you.
    
    Urgently Needed: A really bold approach to an epic.

Bug

.
Shh!
Don’t Move!

There
Is
A
Bug
On
Your
Collar

THWACK!

Gone.

You are welcome!

So, what were you saying?
You’re through with me?

Rise and Shine!

When God kicks off a year with a weekend, you know He’s got his heart in the right place.

Instead of my usual stay-at-home-and-brood New Year’s Eve, I had the option of either:

- Making myself and others miserable
- Enjoying myself and making others uncomfortable

No prizes for guessing which one I chose. Papun Dada and family were made to put up with the non-smoking vegetarian teetotaler on NYE. They did a phenomenal job. Witnessed thought-provoking conversation after ages. Dada is hereby named Host of theYear for 2004 and 2005.

Saw Mughal-e-Azam with one of the Bong ladies on Saturday. Her persistent intrusion of my personal space, together with comments like “sniff sniff: boys are not worthy of such love”, has me realllllllly worried now.

Bought a Hemant Kumar CD, as a New Year gift for myself, to replace the tape that I have worn to extinction. Put on the music and switched off the lights. Prepared far-too-crunchy-to-be-called-cooked veggies and far-too-limp-to-be-called-cooked chapattis for dinner in the dark. Bong lady came over (uninvited) to eat by candle light and cried into her daal roti dinner while the music played. I prayed the CD would end before I did.

Visited a Delhi friend (along with other Delhi friends) yesterday. Note: first instance of groupism. Had Delhi-like food. Realized I had never missed it much.

Forgot my cellphone at home on the first working day of the year. Have a happy 2005 All!

New Year Resolutions

- Think (high time)
- Feel (a lot more)
- Live (if possible)

Laasht and Final PJ of 2004: If some readers get started on their mission in life, Happy New Iyer to them.

File > New

The cursor throbs
Against the white screen
The tease beckons me
To tell all to Microsoft Word

As if by blackening the screen I will become white again.

Mammageddon Befriends The Bongs (In Bangla), Wonders Why I Crib So Much...

Then Realizes Why When The Unwashed Bong Ladies Demand To Be Cooked For And Order That We Supervise The Electrician Working In Their Flat While They Go Out For A Movie.

That just about sums it up. Just imagine all this happening at 2 billion decibels with the background aroma of unwashed feet.

Urgently Required: A knight/knightie to vanquish these formidable foes. No Bars.

Have you always been like this?

This question pops up every couple of months. This time, it was a colleague and before he (or I) knew it, I was strangling him and asking, “What on earth is the “This” supposed to mean?” He coughed to indicate that he was dying, popped his eyeballs back into their sockets, and looked at me with unadulterated horror. “What happened?”

Mostly, this vague question is asked by seniors/superiors and I have to just say “yes”. The last time it was asked, the unworthy crush was standing close by and launched into laughter that vaguely resembled an aria by an asthmatic hyena. One angry stare reduced him to a pile of ashes on the carpet.

Now I am not at all averse to answering questions. Ask me anything and you can be sure you’ll get an honest reply. You can also be assured that you will see me with my foot in my mouth and my arms lashing my back (complicated yoga posture: regretaasan) five minutes later. But I have to know what you are talking about to be able to answer your question, right?

Have I always been like this? Yes, I’ve been increasing in size irreversibly (sigh) and changing pattern unlike a leopard, but I have always been like this. No wait, like what? This time, I was bent on finding out.

“Like what?”
“Like a character.”
“As in…a character??”
“As in a strange person who is living inside you and sharing your body.”
I looked like I was dividing 3248548272032 by 596587543 in my head.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
I tried to calculate up to ten decimal places.

All the people in the world cannot need to have their head examined. It has to be me.

Note: The Mammageddon series has been abandoned because of lack of inspiration. This space being the only spot in the world completely subservient to my whims and fancies, I can do this and nobody can stop me. Any readers who got their hopes up have only themselves to blame.

Mammageddon

You can prepare all you want for the attack, but it will all be in vain. Today, I remember my dusting and Maggi-detoxification efforts with cynical laughter that brings tears to my eyes.

Ma left this morning. My junk is organized in a way I never thought possible. The kitchen utensils magically fit in the limited space awarded to them. The maid has actually started burning calories in the process of cleaning. It’s a whole new world…

In a move that proved the complete lack of logic among Dilliwalahs, the mater caught a cold and contracted tummy trouble two minutes after landing in the warm and clean city of Pune. We spent three days eating boiled potatoes and stew, which was very ennobling spiritually I am sure, since it was third degree torture for the body and mind.

A heart-to-heart chat one midnight revealed that the aforementioned organ is wrongly situated in the cranium of the parent and is completely absent from the earthly existence of the offspring. Ma said she often heard me choking on tears while on the phone with her, and my mind flashed back to her evening calls that I answered while chopping onions for dinner.

Shock of the millennium: Mothers are not nice angelic people. They are devilishly devious. Yours truly has been paraded before numerous prospective in-laws without knowing that this despicable activity was in progress! Interestingly, she has been rejected by all of them.

“Would you consider giving up your job after marriage?” my mother asked. Am unsure if she knows me AT ALL after all the years I have spent being a parasite on her! Have refused to answer any questions on the topic, hoping that experience has taught her already that she is blessed with an un-marry-off-able daughter. Spent some minutes in shock over having been rejected at first sight ten times in a row. Then gave up because I have a good reason to be really happy on another front.

More from the maternal visit as the week progresses. Look out for Mammageddon and the Bai, Mammagedon tackles the Bong Neighbors, and Mammageddon and the Fine Art of Shopping.

Parnography

Go see Raincoat.
I cannot believe I've lived to see Aishwariya Rai act.

Watching "Dev"

If you think about it, we actually live in a world where vegetarians cook men and women in a bakery.

Mehrauli ki Almaari

When my grandfather came to India after the Partition, he brought along my grandma, my five aunts, a sewing machine, and the all documents of the insurance company he worked for. Helped by their Muslim friends, they traveled to India from a village beyond Lahore. My grandma and aunts were wearing burqas and grandpa was reciting lines from Ghalib on the bus.

The family settled in a one-room house in Mehrauli, where my dad was born some years later. My grandma and eldest aunt sewed clothes all night for neighbors. Grandpa helped the insurance company establish itself in Delhi.

They bought bits of furniture left behind by Muslim families. One such piece was a wooden cupboard in black wood. It was about four feet wide, and would reach my elbow if I stood beside it today. It was called the Mehrauli-ki-almaari.

I remember the peculiar sound the cupboard used to make when opened. The wood was excellent: strong and durable. When its doors were pulled apart, they did not docilely part like wooden doors do, but they went their separate ways with a confident ringing sound that belongs to the world of metal. It had to be this way: it lived in times where people survived by turning the wood within to steel.

It was many years before I grew tall enough to see that the top was formica-covered. My earliest memories of the cupboard are from when it stocked cloth nappies and sheets for my baby sister, and I ran to fetch a new set each time she made it apparent she wanted a new one. The cupboard sat in my grandpa’s room, under the portrait of Tagore.

When we moved again, the cupboard came along. From a duplex three-bedroom house to a barsaati atop a taxi-driver’s flat. It sat quite comfortably in the only accommodation the family of a Punjabi self-employed professional could find in Delhi. It stocked a lot of stuff and made itself indispensable in the tiny house.

It soon moved along with us to the new three-bedroom flat, where it found no space. In a move that seemed natural, it was given to a neighbor who needed a cupboard. She paid a small sum for it, as she did not want to take it for free. The durable cupboard now sits in her dirty house and works as hard as it always did.

Why did we part with it so easily? Not getting attached to things is an unwritten rule in my family. There are supposed to be no emotions involved with anything perishable, and people are often put into this category. Be ready to get up and move without anything is the mantra: it seems to flow naturally from the journey across the border.

I had forgotten about the cupboard completely, till last night. I was reading Manto’s Black Margins, and all the snippets from his tale of the Partition suddenly coalesced into a black wooden cupboard for me. An impulse tells me to go home and buy it back from my neighbor today. Another impulse, coming from the same source, tells me to never think about it again. I stayed up most all of last night, hearing the opening and shutting of wooden doors with souls of steel.

Subah Ho Gayi Mamu

I fell asleep reading in the living room last night. My head, facing the window, was propped on a folded pillow. My feet were perched on a rolled rug.

At some point in the night, my hair released itself from its rubberband sty, and went on a rampage.

I was woken up at six this morning by my aching neck. When I flung the keratin curtain off my face, I saw a red sun rising from between my toes.

The Ten Commandments: Version 3.9

1. Thou shalt not agree with your colleague if she wants to invite your manager to see a movie.
2. During the movie, thou shalt not make jokes that your manager understands but your colleague does not.
3. During intermission, thou shalt not change you seats at some random person’s request.
4. Thou shalt not think up evil plan of playing joke on colleague who has gone out for popcorn.
5. Thou shalt not connive with a manager who is as evil and insensitive as you are.
6. After the prank, thou shalt not continue cracking jokes and making manager hysterical and colleague pissed off.
7. If the colleague gets really offended and disappears after the movie, thou shalt not accept the manager’s lunch invitation.
8. Thou shalt not take the seventh commandment lightly.
9. Thou shalt not be seen by three nosy female colleagues having lunch with cute-but-engaged manager.
10. If thou hast broken all the above commandments, thou shalt not go to work Monday, to avoid interrogation by totally unconcerned persons.

No matter what thou dost, thou shalt be branded a harlot.

In related developments, Swades is a good movie. Inkspill is a bad child.

The Five-Minute Downside

“Do you live alone?” they ask.
“No. I live on my own. There is a difference,” I say.

The noble reason for living on your own is that you are very independent within. The base motive is that you cannot deal with people switching on the fan when you don’t want it, or spilling food on the dining table. I am hoping there is a third reason, because I cannot delude myself into believing that mine is the noble reason, nor can I accept that it is (only) the base one.

Whatever the reason, the outcome is pretty good. On the whole, it’s a great way to live this part of my life.

But no deal comes without a flipside. And the independent life deal comes with a five-minute flipside for me.

Whenever I get home - whether it is from work or from meeting friends, whether it is at four in the evening or at ten, my heart sinks as I unlock the door and enter my empty house. In one smooth mechanical motion, I put the lock in its right pace, switch on the light, fling my bag to the chair, kick off my sandals, and switch on the music system. And since I have been listening to Raincoat for a month now, the music system greets me in Shubha Mudgal’s voice:

Shaam dhale sakhiyan sab laut gayin saari
Akele hum nadiya kinare

Of course I could switch to the Pink Pussycat (it’ll take me my whole life to get over this album name) mix on radio, but I prefer not to.

Maajhi tora naam to bata
Phir kaise pukarein tujhe kaise pukarein
Akele hum nadiya kinare

For these five minutes I am lonely, not solitary.

Bai-Lines

“Till you leave this place, I will take care of you. I’ll make sure you don’t miss your mother.” When a Bai introduces herself like this, she has more than a foot in the door, doesn’t she?

Sushila Bai is now my self-appointed guardian angel. She has a bad knee, because her drunken husband gave her an extra special beating once. She cannot kneel or squat to mop the floor, but somehow manages to do a decent job standing up. If I dissuade her from cleaning the house daily, since it is locked all the time, she insists I must not neglect the cleaning. Goddess Lakshmi does not come to a dirty house, she explains. Expenses.xls on my desktop tells me that I need divine help, so I succumb.

“I’ll cook Punjabi dal and chicken for you,” she said enthusiastically after running a background check on me. I informed her that I was a vegetarian, had never eaten Punjabi dal in my life, and preferred to cook for myself. She ran another background check, wondering what kind of a blot-on-Punjabihood I was.

“Are you married?” she asked me. She’d been working at my place for twenty days. No, I said, wondering if there were ghosts in my house that she saw and I did not. “Then why do you live alone?” Am yet to figure out the logic behind THAT one.

“After I finish working at your place, I go to work at Suresh Kalmadi’s house,” she once informed me. My egg-and-toast screeched to a halt on its journey down my throat. Turns out she works for his brother. Am honored, nonetheless.

“My son is a friend of the cable wallah. You will not need to pay 3000 for the connection. He will manage it in 600,” she offers. I am tempted.

Last morning she was late for work. Her drunken son met with an accident at 3 in the morning. It turned out that her breadwinning daughter-in-law had turned the unemployed wife-beater out of her house, and he was riding his bicycle “under a lot of tension.” Her “Sahib” (read drunken unemployed abusive husband) was in the hospital while she came to work. She was cheerful as usual. My horrified protests and comments fell on deaf ears.

She’s invited me for her niece’s wedding. I got a printed invitation card with my name on the envelope this morning. The diwali kandils that I finally pulled down last evening were promptly put into a plastic bag and taken to decorate her house. I can yell all I want about child marriage. She’s happy that the niece’s 17-year-old groom has a job.

There is so much this woman takes in her broken-kneed stride. Her grandma expired. Her son is in the hospital. Wedding preparations are on in her house. And she’s standing at the door with the newspaper in her hand at 7:30 every morning.