Overheard a conversation on the bus. Two guys sitting behind me were animatedly discussing their last evening. They were friends who worked in different organisations and were going to work at the same time. So this is how it went - I only became aware of the conversation midway, and that is what I report below:

Guy 1: ... and X kept calling and calling! First on my regular number, then on my second number. I was in a client call and couldn't get out! Guy 2: I know! Same here! X kept calling me too and I was stuck in work, couldn't even pick up the call. I was just sitting there, sweating! Guy 1: I had to finally aexcuse myself and got out of the meeting room to answer him. I thought it was an emergency, and it was! Guy 2: I think that's the time we connected, right? (I am immensely invested at this point, visualizing some sort of calamity happening in Person X's life, who desperately needs these two to pitch in. Now wait.) Guy 1: That's right! And it was a bad, bad situation! (Guy 2 makes agreeing noises.)They had almoooost taken over everything, and X just wouldn't have been able to hold them off. Even with the three of us... (pregnant pause where they relive the trauma and the close shave) Guy 1: ...even with the three of us, it was hard. We finally had to get the dragons in! That was how we saved the day. (second pregnant pause where they relive the close shave and the success) I tried to turn my head and eyeball the two dingdongs, but they were exactly behind me, so it would have been rather rude.

A little splatter

She stood on the platform and looked at the incoming train with curious dispassion. It was a train. It had mass. It had speed. 

Didn't Newton's apple have those as well, she wondered vaguely. 

Oh yeah. Apples didn't leave a splattering of flesh and blood and bones behind when they fell. Or maybe they did, if they were overripe. She had never seen apples splatter. 

It sounded ... interesting. Apples, people. What did it matter? It should be an interesting experience. How did apples feel when they splattered? Did they feel any pain? Or were they too numb already? Already splattered inside? 

How would it feel to splatter, she thought idly, and was almost afraid that she didn't feel ... anything. Not fear. Not pain. Not inhibition. It was such a simple thing. All she had to do was stand on the edge as the train entered, maybe extend a leg over the side. Just a little. It was so easy to lose balance. So easy to splatter. Maybe she will feel something then. Something other than this vague experimental curiosity about apples. Other than the blank numbness.

This train didn't stop at the station. Or did it? What station was it even? She had no clue. 

But as the train blew a fierce whistle and entered the platform, scattering away the crows from tops of overhead wires and making the people reading the day's newspaper look back, she gently extended one foot beyond the edge. 

It didn't feel much, after all. 

Gender bender

So I was walking down to unlock the gate this morning, with my cat's offspring in tow. Two boys from the neighbourhood were taking turns to ride a bike and saw me at the gate. I called out to them, and they noticed the kitten behind me. Of course they had to stop and check out the new member in the locality.

"Is that Jack's baby?"

"Who's Jack?" I'm slightly perplexed; we have stray cats here, who are mostly attached to individual houses but visit other households as well, and get fed almost everywhere. So each cat can have different names in different households. 

"Why, the white cat who had kittens in thaaat house?" They point vaguely at some house yonder and look at me reproachfully. How could I not know Jack?

"Oh, that Jack," I hurriedly back down. I still have no clue who Jack is, but since Puchu had her kittens in the house next to ours, she can't be Jack. "Nope, not him."

"I know," pipes up the other kid, "This is Meenu's baby!"

"Nope," I have to disillusion him, "This is Puchu's baby."

They are confused. Puchu is my name for the white cat who frequents our house and whose kitten is following me, but they probably call her something else. They, however, struggle valiantly to get to the bottom of the matter.

"The white cat?"

I nod.

"With a black tail?"

I nod vigorously, to show that they are on the right track. Secretly, this description fits about five cats in the neighbourhood. Of both genders. 

"Jack." They reassure me gravely after considering all five options. "This is Jack's baby."

As luck would have it, Puchu chose that moment to drop gracefully from the boundary wall and stroll towards her mewing kitten. My audience stares at her as understanding dawns. 

"Ah!" They exclaim in unison. "That's Jack's brother!"

The delights of being around innocence! 

Ghost alert!

Our garden of beetles and snakes also hosts the paranormal. Here's proof of the haunting, and the background story. 

So I had spotted two frogs doing the double-back in the garden, and it was too good an opportunity to let go. It was night time, and it was drizzling, which was both good and bad. Bad because of visibility and the danger of moisture getting into the camera, good because the drizzle took care of the mosquitoes so I could take my time observing the...event. I decided not to risk the Nikon. The phone camera was handy, and accordingly, I spent some time being the voyeur. As an aside, I must admit I was pretty impressed by them frogs. You wouldn't have known that such squat lazy figures could jump so nimbly while...umm...not breaking the position. The Kamasutra folks could have taken tips. Photo somewhere in my Facebook. 

But this story is not about the frogs. This story is about paranormal activity in the garden. 

Once I was back inside the house and admiring all the frog pics, I saw some dark shots. "Ah, blank shots", I thought. I must have pressed the Click button without realizing. All that slickness due to the drizzle.

Then I noticed a faint outline of what seemed like a part of face peering at me in closeup the last pic. Wha..??!! I pinched it out for a better look but after a point, it just became grainier. I called up the other apparently blank shots and zoomed into them. A couple of shots were too dark to make anything out, but at least two more showed a part of a face. Again, pretty close to the camera. Since I was there alone, out in the garden, focusing on two frogs, there was NO way anybody should be peering out from my camera! 

I wasn't sure whether to be shit scared, or whether to be thrilled that somehow, I had managed to gather solid evidence of the paranormal. But I sure was glad that I escaped unharmed! Whatever it was that showed up on film didn't do anything else at least. To be honest, I was rattled enough to stay away from the garden for the next couple of nights. 

A few days later, I was still trying to figure out how to react. Should I just put a lid on it and forget I ever saw anything odd, or should I keep probing? Which was the more rational way to go? I had unconsciously pulled out the pics and were going through them again when that outline looked kinda... familiar? I looked closer. Sure enough! Wasn't that the zit I was trying to get rid of? And since when did ghosts wear glasses?

Yeah. I had accidentally pressed the front camera of my mobile. Those pics were the result.

Of Confused Dogs and Butterfly Effects

As a rule, street dogs love me. They consider me part of an extended canine society.

When I return home at night, they charge at me from all over the place like long-lost twins. They try to climb all over me. They pull at my shirt to make me play with them. And they wag their tails so vigorously that their entire rumps move in time.

All very welcoming, of course.

What I forgot in this everyday routine was that these were all my friendly neighbourhood dogs.

On my way home, there is also this one dog whom I have never been able to befriend. It is rather strange how dogs too have specific natures. This one has taken a dislike to me at the first glance. If he sees me on the street, he barks hard enough to make people come out and take notice. And he keeps barking at me in a way that makes me want to slink away with my tail between my legs. I’m sure his ‘owner’ is convinced by now that I’m up to no good.

However, it is also a little embarrassing to change one’s route for no better reason than a perceived slight from a barking street dog. So I was returning home at my usual time the other night, weaving in and out of shadows thrown by trucks parked on the road, when my dog noticed me. As usual too, he erupted into a volley of gleeful barking.

Since I was still in the shadows, his companion – this one a friendly dog – heard the noise and came out barking too, to investigate. Soon as he saw me, the barking turned into a friendly yap, which of course confused the first dog, who was banking on reinforcements against me, not a Hallmark card. He turned on his friend with the glare reserved for turncoats, and subsided into desultory barks at me all by himself. Sort of a one-man army, so to say.

By this time, all the activity had percolated to the other side of the street. Three more dogs had heard the barking but couldn’t see me across the street. I was still hidden behind the trucks, and they were some distance away. They therefore thought the barking must have been after some passing car, so not to be left out, they started furiously chasing a random car coming down the street. I could see the driver was perplexed at the sudden hostility for no good reason at all.

I could have enlightened him, but some things are too convoluted. Just put it down to the Butterfly Effect.

Sorry

Sorry. Such a sorry word

For all emotions that clog my throat.

A measly statement. Common. Cramped.

That rolls off trite lips by the rote.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you.’

‘Sorry, is this your seat?’

‘Sorry, I forgot to get your books.’

‘Sorry, could you please repeat?’

I need a stronger word to say

I hated myself to cling on so.

But you brought out the best in me

And I was loath to let you go.

A word to say how much I rue

Against your wish I made you stay,

I knew you were too nice

To just get up and go away.

I was awkward, selfish, rude

Country bumpkin blinded by crown.

Sorry is too weak a word

For all the guilts that crush me down.

~30 April 2013

The deal

I know you don’t need me that much

And that I crave for you so much more

I don’t mind if you don’t, honey,

We’re not here to settle a score.

Who says it’s only fair halves

That can make each other a whole?

A play’s thin with just a hero,

And none in a supporting role.

In every relationship, they say,

There is one that gives a bit more.

So you bring just six percent, love,

And I’ll get the ninety-four.

~29 April 2013

Mind games

Lately, I cannot remember a thing.

I forget all birthdays, I forget movie plans,

I forget the book I promised to lend,

And think up excuses of having lost it

Or given it already to some other friend.

I forget what mom asked me to get

And wander vaguely in market stalls

I never hear when the phone's ringing

And I forget to return missed calls.

I forget to team my clothes and shoes

I forget yesterday's cricket score

I forget what I meant to eat

And stand in front of the freezer door.

I forget the poems, I forget the poets,

I forget the singer and the song.

My cheques have started bouncing back

Cause my signature is all wrong.

My memory has turned into a sieve

And everything seems to filter through,

But however desperately I may try

I cannot seem to forget a thing about you.

~12 December 2012

Mediocrity

I know I'm only average

And I don't want to reach for the stars;

I'm happy to take part in battles

And leave the others to win the wars.

I don't want to be the wave

That crashes noisy on the shore,

When the water quietly lapping

Can wear away so much more.

I don't want to start my group,

Win a prize or act tough.

If I can make a little difference

In my world's corner, it's enough.

~20 October 2012

Unguarded moments

The woman in the window seat

With faraway eyes and a private smile.

The woman who scowls to pull out her phone

But answers with a softened profile.

The woman who perks up at work

Hopeful at every message beep.

The woman who loves to read happy endings.

And the woman who cries herself to sleep.

The woman who idly doodles

As if she didn't know just what to say.

The woman whose laughter crumbles

The moment her friends look away.

Little vignettes that jolt me, and tell

That must be how I appear as well.

~1 October 2012

My firefly

I didn't notice you at first. A quiet flicker

In the darkness of my night.

But as you turned up every sunset,

I began to look forward to your light.

And light you did. In the utter darkness

Your spark seemed to illuminate me,

Make my long and sleepless night

So much friendlier, much less lonely.

But just as i got used to you,

You stopped flying in to my window.

Did you burn out? Did you get hurt?

Or did you find somewhere else to go?

The other fireflies now seem too dull

None can ever have that special fire;

A million daily flit past my window

But you are lost out there somewhere.

Never lose your fire, my fly. Go, glow.

Light up another sleepless window.

Let your white fire wash another soul.

Work your magic. Make another woman whole.

~1 October 2012

Beauti-Fool

When I dress myself in trousers

That play down my womanliness,

When my mother rants about the pimples

That seem to have sprouted on my face,

When my friends shove me into the parlour

To do something about my hair --

And not to come out until I stop

Looking like a perfect nightmare.

I can't tell them it feels wrong

To put up a pretty face to hide

The pimples and the greying strands --

Beauty is what you feel inside.

~8 July 2011

No-Kia

I lost my phone.

Big deal, right? You can't throw a stone without hitting somebody who hasn't. You know the drill: block number, lodge complaint, get duplicate SIM, hunt for a decent handset. And hope to f****** god you hadn't added any new numbers after that last synchronization.

Right. The catch is, this is my fourth phone to be replaced. Or maybe my sixth. Or seventh. My friends -- though I'm not too sure if they do fall in that category -- will be able to tell ya better. Personally, I couldn't care less.

But my friends, they thrive on such lapses in my judgement! They consider my phones a permanent source of entertainment, and not the let's-see-what-new-songs-you-added variety either. Even before I got my first cell, I had faced umpteen friends lamenting on the fact that I don't have one yet. 'But of course, what's the point in your getting one?' They'd immediately tagged on. 'You're going to lose it anyway.'

You get the point? Smacks of the Greek tragedies. Doomed even before being born.

So I had a point to prove. My first baby lasted an entire year and a half. Or maybe even two. I'm sure my friends have forgotten THAT! And then of course Euripedes caught up with me. My phone got dunked in Sprite. And I haven't been able to live it down yet.

Ok, I agree it's maybe not exactly what the Nokia stress tests have in mind, though if you really think about it, why ever not? You have a phone in one hand, along with some books or stuff. You have a PET bottle of the fizzies in the other. You shove the stuff in the left hand into a plastic bag you're carrying. You take a swig from the PET in the right, close your eyes to feel the cool caress your throat, and thrust it into the bag before it gets warmed up, forgetting that the cap hasn't been screwed on tight.

Not really that weird, right?

The next one had quite a boring finale. It stayed with me for all of two months, I think. When the time came, it slipped quietly out of my pocket in some cab seat. I still have the dress. I still feel the pocket for the bugger. I still remember how people laughed -- quite nonchalantly, like a prophesy fulfilled.

I am a little hazy on the family tree after that. Maybe a coupla phones later, I changed jobs, retired my old phone because it was hiccuping a bit, and got a spanking new one with a spacey keypad that wouldn't cramp my fingers while texting. That got pickpocketed in a bus. But who can keep track of a mom, two huge shopping bags, a fancy-ish dress being ogled at in a crowded bus, AND a phone?

Result: Another round of raucous laughter.

I wonder if they started betting on it then. There seemed to be such an air of anticipation! Chance acquaintances who really had no reason to be in on the sad habits of Nokia-snatchers in the city would come up and merrily ask if I still have that last phone.

'Which phone?' I ask cautiously.

'Why, that XpressMusic you had?' And then they'd split into wide grins. 'You mean you got a new one?'

And then there are these regulars who would greet me with a hi-long-time-no-see-is-that-the-last-phone-still. End with a lift of voice. Cheerful anticipation written all over their sorry mugs.

So people started behaving like addicts deprived of their shot when I actually managed to stay in Mumbai for two whole months with two whole handsets. No slips. No cab leftovers. No buspicking. No quiet melting away. No Sprite.

And then, last Friday, I discovered Eurip had revisited. The phone case was empty. So was the bag. The jeans pockets. The backpockets. No phone. Nada. Nil. Zippola. Zilch.

My friends ODed.
They haven't quite stopped celebrating.

So I'm looking for a new set of friends. I'm ready to disown all the current ones.

All frequenters to Nokia shops, please contact. ASAP.

~3 April 2011

Amchi Mumbai!

Two months in Mumbai and I'm a convert!  An embarrassed convert, perhaps, but one nevertheless. Ok, granted the city has traffic snarls like you don't even have nightmares about  (our 15-minute journey to workplace used to take at least an hour, and that is on the better days <_&lt and autowallahs have a mind of their own  (we averaged our morning refusals to five each day, and about four more would just go off and not pay any heed to us jumping up and down on the street), but that seems to be it. The place gives you freedom to be what you want to be like, and that is something Cal can never do. We used to wear almost any odd thing and go out , and return home at around one in the night on a regular basis, and never ever did we feel any threat. Why? Because, wonder of wonders, Mumbai has no roadside Romeos.   

I remember the first time I realized this.  Our bunch of three girls used to travel around the city in all odd hours, and since this was our first time away from home, it had a heady rush of freedom, which we enjoyed to the fullest!  So this time we were returning home, late-ish, say eleven at night. Considering that it's a new city where we didnt know anybody or any routes, that wasn't too smart. Then one of us went looking for an auto, took too long, and the other went searching for her. I was waiting for them to return. Suddenly I realized that it was late at night, I was a lone woman standing on a seedy-looking pavement full of unsavoury characters milling all around me, and I had no conveyance! I caught a breath and tried to discreetly gauge how bad it was. Should I run? Should I start walking towards the direction my friends had gone?  Our cell phones weren't working that day for some reason. After a brief pause came my second realization...I wasn't feeling threatened in the least! The people around me were just ordinary people wrapping up their roadside shops, or walking to get some fresh air, or just hanging about with buddies. And NOBODY was in the least interested in me!   They were the same nice friendly folks we had seen everywhere else, whether it was the sun shining in the sky or the moon.  

And that was when I converted to a Mumbaikar!  

~3 April 2011

By your leave

Why did you put up with this much?

You should have left long time back.

But no, being the sweetheart that you are

You insisted on cutting me some slack.

Patient. Kind. Gentle. You were

So much more than I can ever be.

You reassured my darkest fears

And almost made me believe in me.

You should just have stopped long back, my love

Your efforts are all in vain

It’s only harder for me to remember

How to piece myself back together again.

~29 May 2010

Canonized

When the wise men preach noble words

Calmness, balance, and restraint,

They seem like such fine ideas!

Impressive, if slightly quaint.

And now I’m forced to follow those codes

To hold back and limit the self–

I tell you, if this continues

I’ll be a blasted saint myself!

I’m tired of weighing each word

On the thin edge of a knife

I’m tired of measuring out

In proverbial coffee spoons my life.

I’m afraid of letting myself go

I’m afraid of scaring you away

And like a careful diplomat

I double check each word I say.

I want to shout, I want to laugh

I want to be wild, I want to be free

To tell you over and over again

How much you’ve come to mean to me!

But I know it’s the one sure way

To lose our link at once

So I squeeze my words right back

Practise some more restrained balance.

I don’t know how the saints get wise

What they do or where they go

But when I go to bed this night

I’m going to check for my halo!

~5 April 2010

Confession

You want me, don’t you, honey?

You say you like my brown skin.

The rest would be too rude to say

I am neither pretty nor thin.

You seem to love me for my hair

You like that it’s thick and strong

You want to run your fingers through

You want me to wear it long.

You say you want me for my smile

Though god knows it’s just a trick;

Any woman worth her name would know

How best to make her camera click.

I, on the other hand, have nothing to say

I can’t wax poetic at all–

For what you lack in handsome and dark

You make up in being too tall.

I don’t think you’ll set a ramp on fire

I don’t find your looks to kill

I don’t know if you’ll turn heads twice

But I find I want you still.

~12 February 2010

Denial

That one much-maligned emotion

Overused, clichéd, much worn out

Boxed in, wrung dry, of

Every nuance that it can sprout–

Like the patriarch, too strong

To let any in the fold stray,

Like the battered wife, too agreeable

Ever to have her own way.

Why would I want to shackle myself

Around, within, beyond, above?

No, no, and a thousand times no!

I refuse to be in love.

~2 February 2010

Beyondness

I have sipped from the bottle

I have shrunk through the door

I have glimpsed the garden beyond

That I had never dreamt before.

It was a land of magical sights

Where flowers bloom all wild

Where colours hum in every shade

Where fragrances seep mild.

It was a land that freed my heart

That made me feel untamed

That led me think I am a part

Of longings unnamed –

I have glimpsed the garden. And now

You push me back to my cell

Dreary, little, dark and dank –

Can you blame if I rebel?

29 May 2010

Not mine, but yet...

I can not say you are mine

We are continents apart

Our link is thin, a tenuous line

Cruelly unreal at heart.

I dare not say you are mine

Though close to my heart you stay

In crowded cities, quiet corridors

Sudden glimpses through the day –

I dare not say you are mine

Yet every morning I wait

Check my mail a hundred times

So I don’t reply late.

I dare not say you are mine

You’re not really real, are you?

A figment of all my longings, wishes

That I have built in you anew.

I dare not say you are mine

Good that we never may meet

You will always stay this way

Just as I wish you, my sweet!

My image, my story, my beautiful poem

My warm and gentle sunshine

Since you do not exist beyond my thoughts

Are you not already mine?

O kokila

There was a piper on the train today.

So what, you’ll ask me. There are so many who sing and play on the local trains everyday for charity. It’s their livelihood. They are operated by gangs who mutilate them. Or they fake blindness. Put out sob stories of how they lost their jobs when the jute mills closed down. And try their luck on crowded local trains.

You are right, I’d say. As a rule, I only give to the old people who have clearly not been part of a racket, but who would have a tough chance of survival if not for us. But this piper was not just another beggar.

I caught the tune even as I was boarding the train. The uninitiated will probably miss the significance of the last statement. You have to be adequately skilled at spotting a gap in the thick crowd jostling to get in the train, and you have to be adequately agile to manoeuvre yourself into that half gap, all the while clutching your bag and clothes so they don’t get torn off. It is a challenge revelled in by the newbies and paraded as an art form by daily passengers, who love to make up horror stories for mere bus-commuters at work.

I caught the tune as I was sliding expertly into a gap. Probably a phone ringing, I dismissed first. But as it continued loud and clear, I noticed the player. He was standing a little away, behind groups of loud train-friends bandying weekend experiences across the compartment and a hawker selling hairclips and earrings and scrubbers. Just a reed pipe he was playing, the kind children buy at fairs and forget within a week. And – I don’t know if you have ever experienced this yourself – I could feel the noise recede. It was as if the entire screaming compartment, the clanging train, the whirring fans overhead, the wind whooshing by outside, all, all, had been switched to mute till only the piper and his haunting strains remained. There were only strains of ‘O kokila torey shudhai re’ – a song about the lonely black bird who has unearthly melody in her veins. So much of melody that she cannot stop long enough to build her own home, instead laying her eggs in the crow’s nest where her fledglings grow till their music sets them apart from the cawing of their nestmates, and they become outcasts too.

When I finally came out of my trance, I inched up to the piper. It is not accepted for me to simply go and say I revered him for what he had just played. A little introduction is expected.

‘Where do you come from? Where is your house?’

‘The Bangladesh border,’ came a laconic reply.

‘Bongaon?’ Bongaon was the last station on the route, and next to the border.

‘Village’s an hour from the Bongaon station. On foot. Half hour by a cycle van.’

‘You don’t come frequently? I haven’t seen you earlier.’

‘No. Need a lot of money for my medicines. Come on a collection when funds run out.’

I had noticed that he was shaking violently all through. Probably some neurological disorder. Strangely enough, it hadn’t affected his playing. Yet.

It is difficult to describe what I felt. Awed. Humbled. In a trance. Close to tears. Frustrated. All of it together. The frail piper’s skill will go unnoticed. Our music directors, when scouring the country for fresh talent, will never get to know or bother. And there will come a day when he will no longer be able to hold his pipe still. Perhaps I could have done more. The money I had given him hadn’t felt like charity; it had been my acknowledgement of the music he had offered me. Perhaps I should have done more. Perhaps I too am hiding behind excuses. But he got off in the next station, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what else I could have done. He was no beggar, I could sense that. He wasn’t looking for sympathy or guilt-money, his responses to my queries had been nonchalant, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. It was only when I said how awed I was by his rendition of ‘O kokila’ that his face had brightened and he looked up at me. At that moment, it seemed the player and the songbird had blended into one – the music and the loneliness, the pleasure and the careless anonymity. The piper and the kokila do not stop for charity, their music is for themselves.

time and again

I wish I could be your watch

And hold hands with you

All day long.

Wake up with you, and yawn

An early-morning face

On both of us

Wish I were there

When you switch on

And log in...

See your face

When you get my mail

If you smile, if your eyes

Crinkle at the end.

I'd wait for you to turn to me

Through the day, to ask

It it were time, if it were time,

And I'd say, No and Aye.

I'd be there with you

Through the meetings, to know

If you tyrannise, or let them go.

And in the evening, I'd still be there

Holding your hand

I just wish I were your watch

And spend some time with you.

23 May 2007

Layers

Returning home at night, alone

Sometimes the lights go out

A second of blackness, sudden pause, to

Make sense of the world about.

The same alley, the same homes

Familiar shapes loom around

Uncertain, unknown. Silhouettes of ink

Melt into the next without a sound.

Slowly, slowly, the eyes adjust

Learn to look up from the street

See beyond the always seen, where

Darkness with the starlight meet.

Hear the gentle rustle of the leaves

As the coconut softly sways

Smell the subtle kamini

Missed so often on other days.

Look up, the faint white clouds

Lazy cross the sky from east to west

With a rare breath of fullness

Draw deep the air and fill my chest.

And I realize I'm smiling wide

Feeling blessed for the moment's sake

The lights were out, the houses mute

But the alley had come awake.

23 Nov 2008