Just another day?

It is way past midnight. My kind of time. It also happens to be the beginning of the day, a new year for me. I want to give myself several things, make many promises, walk distances and learn from my mistakes.

But that can wait. Today I am missing Nanima – from the kid years of going upto her shyly with a sweet or something wrapped, the wrapping being the only significantly alluring thing to her last birthday where she wept and wept because she knew it was the last.

I could not afford too much vanity even on my special day because I shared it with her. For some reason, instead of feeling resentful, I always felt honoured. I’d pinch the loose skin on her upper arm, hug her tight or run my fingers through her smooth hair.

For as long as I remember, I slept with an old shawl of hers – irrespective of the season. It was a bluish-grey, the colour of a sky about to explode with rain. She liked what people around called ‘English’ colours: salmon pink, lavender, sea green. And she smelled of Yardley talc.

I can still smell it and feel the softness of that shawl, although it is not with me. The years took their toll and soon the shreds at the edges moved towards the middle and I could see through the little holes that formed. I cannot recall when and how it became just a memory.

Sometimes I would listen to music under it, making a tent of that shawl. Within it I’d hum and sway.

When I was much younger I would even roll the shawl and make it look like a baby, give it a face by tying a ribbon round its ‘neck’ and cradle it in my arms, place it on my lap.

I did not need toys.

How safe I used to feel beneath it, often covering my head…then there would be voices shouting, “Sar par nahin odhna chahiye…” As a concession I’d slide it to my lids and breathe heavily into it with my mouth open and try and catch that breath in my palm.

It felt warm and nice.

I have slept beneath various duvets, comforters, razais, but nothing has felt quite the same.

That shawl was my companion, my confidante. It has witnessed me giggle away as the adults cracked jokes assuming I was asleep within its confines and it has wiped my tears and showed me the dignity of drying the wet patches before they became visible to anyone else.

There are many things we remember people for and what they give us is often not to be measured and counted. The shawl was a metaphor for all that I got.

Happy Birthday, Nanima. I know you were born in faraway Africa, but it was a special birth. Mine was more ordinary except for the storm outside as I made my way into the world. There have been many storms, within and without. I have yearned for tranquillity; sometimes I even got it.

It has been an interesting life.

I bought myself a kaleidoscope the other day. After a while the changing colours and patterns begin to look too familiar! So I peep in, then out, in and out – it is a wonderful give-and-take between my small inner world and the vast horizon.

I know I still bother you, talk to you about my little problems. You are that shawl of my childhood.

Let me tell you something: I still bite whatever covers me to quell the tears when I am deeply hurt. It often ends up looking like a smile.

Sometimes, it does transform into one.

Get the hell out of the way!

Oh my gott, my dear Mumbai has been judged the rudest city in the world! Must I keel over and feel like lightning has struck me (that would be cruel, for lightning in fact did kill a girl recently)? Or must I get all ballistic because this is just so rude? Or should I get self-righteous and start giving examples of how we ooze kindness from every pore?

“Reader's Digest magazine sent reporters into the principal cities of each of the 35 countries where it is published, to conduct a survey of local politeness. Three tests were employed: dropping papers in a busy street to see if anyone would help; checking how often shop assistants said ''thank you''; and counting how often someone held a door open.”

1. Assuming you are walking down a busy street and going someplace with a bunch of papers, why would you drop them? That reveals carelessness on your part, not rudeness on the part of passersby because I think it is extremely rude to eye anyone’s personal papers.

2. In Mumbai shop assistants will unfurl yards of cloth even if you look like the kind who would not wear much, so it is you – the customer – who should be doing the thanking. And anyway, having travelled to many parts of the world, I have not encountered too many ‘thank yous’ after a purchase.

3. What doors need to be opened?? Most doors in Mumbai are already open. People leave lift doors open, store doors ajar with airconditioning seeping out. Our chemists have open entrances, gates are left wide open for strays, thieves and visitors.

Returning to the invigorating subject of rudeness, it is such a huge relief compared with the “Helloji, how’re you ji?” of Delhi, or the “Bhalo, hain?” seemingly sweet as rossogulla enquiry of Kolkata, or the rocking of the head with the accompanying, “Good no?” down South.

Mumbai does not ask you how you are; it tells you. In a fast-paced life where people discover who their neighbours are after they have been killed, there is something comforting in the thought that you are given directions to the state of your well-being. And the fact is you are as good as you are made to feel.

Yes, we Mumbaiites have been accused of brazenness, of being callous, uncaring. We are perhaps all of these and we make no excuses. I like it if someone tells me they are busy rather than saying, “Oho, pliss come, come, anytime” and then the person disappears or makes you wait.

Mumbai traffic moves like a turtle, but you won’t find rickshaw drivers climbing on to the pedestrian walkways “for shortcut”.

Mumbai has little time for niceties and that is the nicest thing about it. You don’t have to plan to meet it with fake smiles. Mumbai welcomes your scowls and you merge with it effortlessly.

This sounds suspiciously like love. Perhaps love is the rudest thing two people can do to each other…

A Flower's Journey

The bouquet was in the bin. I had picked out one flower -- a light violet beguiling towards a deep purple fringe. It was the only one that had survived.

Drooping at the stem, it might have been fighting death, not giving up just yet. Had I breathed life into it as I snuggled the bunch close? (Or had I killed the rest?!) It must have been the one closest to my nose and lips as they let out warm steam that might have vapourised into the ether but left that slight fresh air on a cellophane graveyard, its noisy crinkling sound, its spotted design twisting at the edges.

This one flower I had taken three days after its arrival and put it in the vent. The idea was to later place it between the pages of a book, a squashed forlorn reminder. The book is called A Map for Lost Lovers.

Do petals have a direction, do they map out a course? Do lovers?

When I returned it was not there. It probably looked completely out of place, a stub of a flower -- adding nothing, taking away nothing.

Some things are nothings.

It is a mapless world...

"Khud apne haath se Shehzad usko kaat diya
Ke jis darakhat ki dehleez pe ashiaana tha..."

It is not `musing`

I feel trapped because although I am outside it, I have been weaved into its gossamer pattern.

I became a character in his creation. I have known S for almost ten years. It has been a long-distance friendship that took its time growing. He was certainly not just another reader, although that is how we first 'met'. I found him to be perceptive and sensitive. The fact that he was a published writer made dialogue with him that much easier. He understood me, and I valued his critical comments. He began to involve me in his life, his traumas and few triumphs; I was chary of discussing mine, but over the phone it is easy to catch me out. And he did. Of course, I still managed to keep my distance, and except for the obvious details, he knew little. He wanted to know more, much more. Curiosity is natural, but I was not ready to reveal too much...

I would say things like, "One thinks like this, but life has its own plans..." I probably thought I was sounding philosophical, but by using "one" instead of "I", I was not really protecting myself. Besides, it was clear that whatever he might think or feel, he truly wished me well.

I had always admired his resolve. He would say, "I am trying to get these ten stories written by month end", and they would be. Unlike me, he needed no prodding. I found it strange, for he seemed to be such a drifter whereas at least professionally I wasn’t at that time. I thought I was disciplined enough, but where was that ambition to 'make it'? Is that not what the world is about? He was certainly not someone who'd kill to get far, yet he had loads of common sense. Or so I thought.

Until that day. The postman carried a huge packet. It was a collection of his short stories that were to go for publication. I tried to give him honest feedback, which was why he had sent this lot to me. I was riveted by the first one, found the next tepid and the next and the next...till my hands froze when I came to a particular one. The title gave no inkling of what was to come, but as I pored over the lines I was stunned to find that it was about me. I could feel the bile rising in my throat and tears stinging my eyes. Is this what he thought of me?

He had used one of our conversations and taking the essence of it he had completely twisted things out of shape and added fantastical elements. I was disturbed for I had consciously worked towards maintaining propriety. He had in a sense taken me, peeled off my skin and covered my face with a mask that he had been imagining. It wasn’t a lewd story, just outlandish. Worse, it was well-written. Had I not known it was me he was talking about, I might have liked it...

But it was clear, and confirmed by him. I was far too angry and being the kind of person I am I dashed off a note (these were regular handwritten letters) asking him to please tell me what made him do this. Why had he distorted the conversation and added completely bizarre elements? He wrote back to say that this was in the genre of magic-realism. If he was hallucinating, so what? I should not worry too much...

I waited. And things were back to normal. I forgive easily. I told myself that no one would know it is me, except for a few people. I was fooling myself...at the time it was written, and were it published then, it would have been so obvious. I have had my time under the sun, and to hide from that won't change the fact that the shadows would loom large.

Fortunately, he got involved in his poetry and this was put on the backburner. We continued being friends as though nothing had happened. I had managed to wipe this out of my mind when I got an email the other day. He said he was making a roster of people he owed apologies to. He wrote, "I remembered that you took substantial umbrage to my short story when I sent it to you a few years ago. Well, I have decided that I am not going to publish the short story anywhere and also want to make it clear that it is in no way a comment on your very fair and beautiful character."

I feel trapped. I have not replied. I don't know what to tell him. If I say, thanks for understanding and your idea is lovely, would I not be curtailing his creative expression, something I value so much? Do we not take slices of our lives and squeeze the drops like lemon to add tanginess to bland meals or zing to a drink? If I asked him to make a few changes and camouflage it, would it not amount to tampering and taking away his right to the free flow of words, which again I consider precious?

I am trapped because I don’t know how to react. I am touched by his gesture, but I do know there was an element of dishonesty in his story. Fiction is fine, but must you not only fictionalise facts but also make the reality look like a make-believe world with a make-believe character when you know her, care about her and are aware that she could break with just a little extra pressure?

I am aware that my life has not been a smooth train journey; it has been derailed often. It makes for interesting episodes and dynamics. But I seem to be the one not to have tapped into its potential. The other day a friend, who has recently got to know me, wanted to know about my other activities. I cheekily wrote back, "You mean, besides being a Muse?" He found it sweet...But I had just got S’s note and had a wry smile playing on my lips even as my eyes moistened. I was looking at the small water-color given by an artist friend. He had not framed it and, although it was to be a part of an exhibition, he had just told me to take it. Because, he said, "This is like you...see there are these stormy waters on one side and a silent stream on the other and mountains. You too are turbulent and tranquil by turns, but you stand rocklike when you know you have to."

I have still not trapped it behind any expected barriers, just put it in an old photo-frame. To remind me of his words, to make it appear like the picture it is supposed to be.
One day I hope I can be my own inspiration and I can rise as much in my eyes as I have been fortunate to have risen in those who really love me.

But I feel trapped by love as well! Will someone release me from the barricades I create?

The unbearable whiteness of being...

I was eyeing the scented candle as I stood at the cash counter. Suddenly, I saw many candles dancing before my eyes – it seemed as though the heat from their imagined flames was burning me. I broke into a sweat. The salesperson had to accompany me to the coffee area. This did not seem to be the weather, sultry as it is.

I reached home and fell on the bed.

Today I went to the doc. She said, “Where is the pink in your cheeks? You look white.” I stared at the tubelight as she checked my BP (low). The light was white and in its opacity a couple of moths had decided to die. Was I that white? Or the white of the ceiling speckled with a bit of dust? Or the white of the sheet on which I lay, a sheet that many had laid on?

The usual tests again. There are these chirpy young women at the pathology lab. I ask one to give me some sterile bottles. She says, “Do it now!” Huh? She first starts by tying an elastic bandage and asks me to ball my fist. She pokes into the vein and I see the dark red fill up a vial. It is magical…so little will tell me so much about myself. A printout will give details about things that make me tick and things that could destroy me.

And here I thought my mind was enough for the task…

“There is something raw about you,” he said.

He meant words. I think it is life. My own life becomes a spectator sport for me, with me as player, observer and – hmm – cheer leader? Where is the goal post?

I kick the ball hard; my feet hurt. The grass is wet and prickly. I am on my knees as I raise my face to the sky. A white blob appears. I did not know I had kicked the ball so high.

I like the whiteness of the cloud in a grey sky. It is like a stifled scream.

You have got to be really close to hear me. Or so far that you wouldn’t want to…

Karoge yaad to har baat yaad aayegi...

It was a small box, nondescript. There was something written on it – the name of a jeweller. I opened it. On the red velvet were two tiny bottles, their necks sliced off. The bottles had their labels intact. They were injections.

For 14 and half years I had preserved them. They were the last shots my maamu, maternal uncle, had been given before he was pronounced dead.

The last shots before he had looked into my eyes, his large eyes flashing with an unknown need to connect.

Those last shots that had pierced his flesh a few minutes before I had let out the piercing scream that would leave me semi-conscious.

Why had I preserved them? I know that a couple of days later I was in the room and found them on the side table. I knew that heart failure is normal. Was this evidence against anyone? Or was this to be a helpless reminder that when nothing can be done, then nothing can be done?

Had I preserved them to remember or to forget?

How can anyone forget if you keep a memo pad? You can. It is like those bottles with their sharp heads would tell me everyday that it was over. In those initial days – months – I would keep the box within reach. Then, with time, I moved it to safer places. Finally, it was in the last draw in the cupboard that I rarely use, the draw that cannot be opened unless I move a small seat I have propped against it.

I use this seat every day. It is a half sofa. It is a beautiful rust colour, a bit like flaming autumn leaves.

It is strange. Among the many things I found during my ‘looking for something but don’t know what’ time were foreign currencies in small change. Several countries had left me with heavy metal. I looked at them from all angles. Right now where I am they are worth nothing. Once I am on wings again, they may not buy me a piece of the earth to lay my weary head on, but they will surely make a homeless person in some alien street happy. Just a coin dropped into a bowl – for music played, for still statues, for hunger, for the desperate urge to live.

I ran my fingers over those coins and understood their true value.

In the black bag that held my discards, I finally picked up the courage to throw those two bottles. I ran my fingers over them too. And in one final moment of deep loss, I poked myself with its pointed edge. No blood.

Had it become blunted?

Or have I stopped bleeding?