Grow up!

Another year about to end, a year that saw many blogs :) Many ups and downs. Things I would want to change , things I can ... things I cant ... So many losses, many more gains. New Starbucks outlets in Mumbai, infinite marriages and happy couples. People leaving back so many memories that you can sit back and cherish as the small tear builds up in the corner of your eye. Before that eye becomes so full that my vision gets all blurred, I decide to distract myself with some I-dunno-why-I am-blogging blogging :P...

After almost a year and a half, I am home for more than a week and it seems so much different . The Kakas and Kakus in the society seem to have hair grey-er  than usual. Sarika more busy with her stuff , Swati with Whatsapp. Baba is retired and Aai more busy than him :P. Funny how things change. I wish i had never grown up :(

Whats in the name!

  I am sure that is what the author thought when he christened his book. When I first read the title , I was absolutely sure I did not want to read it. Indian authors have failed to stimulate my grey cells more than once. Lets face it, not all can write like Shashi Tharoor! But then I read the author's profile. MBA from MDI Gurgaon [although I find MBAs nothing more than glib talkers] , publishing house of his own and another book to his credit. I had read Amish's Shiva saga some months back and this MBA from IIM -Calcutta had  surely impressed me with his story telling, if not more. So I thought I will put my prejudices aside and give Sachin Garg a chance. I clicked buy on flipkart.com and so started my tryst with "Its first love ... just like the last time"

  The title says a lot about not only the book , but the author. And if Sachin Garg was listening , please do not give titles which might make us think you are out being sarcastic and funny . Your first reaction when  you read the title was the book will be somewhat like a guy meets a girl , then another , then another mistaking his infatuation for love every single time. But you will be wrong , every single time. The last page refers to too many characters adding paint to your illusion. 

  Describing yourself as the simple boy next door who gets the scarred/broken/blemished princess is as cliched as it could ever get. But never mind. You keep telling yourself, you are giving the writer a chance here. So you swallow the criticism with a burning heart and a twitched face. Also the story involves many who come and go with the passing pages whereas the young lad and the princess stick to every page of the book. My friend Sachin, you might love them a lot but you are not helping the story in anyway by doing so. 

  As the book progresses , you realise that the guy was not going to fall for any more girls than the one princess who was a progeny of a bad marriage , not making you happy at all . Here I would like to point out that in the foreword I remember the author saying that we pass through different stages in life and our definition of love changes in every single stage and so on. Dear author , you just fell in so-called love for a year , saw your princess through some heartbreaks and personal losses in one year. That my friend does not qualify for different stages of life. 

   Also, if you use college as your backdrop, please make sure it makes its existence felt. For people who have enjoyed their colleges more than stretching on their single bed with their dates in a room outside campus, COLLEGE means a lot to us. Just putting random sex and porn talk in the book does not keep the readers glued. Unlike me who finishes each book she picks, many of you would have surely abandoned the book midway. 

   Finally the last page ends with an afterword from the author [which I felt was not absolutely unnecessary ] The author claims to have laid bare his life in front of the audience. My last advice to you, bare yourself when you think it might excite the onlooker, the reader in this case . Be a Khushwant Singh , be a Shobha De , be a Amitabh Bachchan before you think you should. For now, noone's interested ;)

    

Death of a Superstar

     Kaka has and will always be my favourite Hindi filmstar. To start with , my father was a huge fan of his. I could say I saw my father in him [except for the fact that he was richer when it comes to having some hair on his head :)] Everyday morning , I woke up watching my father making tea for all of us, singing old Kaka songs. Sunday morning used to start with the loud "Mere sapnon ki Rani" playing on Rangoli on Doordarshan. All three of us settled in front of  the TV, toothbrushes stuck in the mouth, butts resting on the feet tucked back. My mother swaying slowly in the kitchen as she made the breakfast. My father sitting cross-legged on the easy chair holding the newspaper completely opened in front of him, but just low enough to watch Kaka circle the Ghats in the jeep. 

     Very honestly, I have heartily cried in each Rajesh Khanna movie I have watched. May it be Amar Prem, Avtaar, Aap ki Kasam , Anand or Baawarchi. He was no macho who will kick some ass in every movie. He was the star who would happily die in the end. Its the humane characters he played that must have made him such a rage. The emotional scenes would see the blood rise in his cheeks, his eyes gleam with the hint of tears. A face so expressive, gestures that said so much more than words. And this was a man who stayed four train stations away, in his Bandra bungalow which we pointed out everytime we crossed and yelled " That's where Rajesh Khanna stays ".

    Nothing will pretty much change. Just that now , it will be where he breathed his last ...

Some more clicks :)

D makes me click
She has hair curlier than me. A smile lot more sweeter.My kohl-eyed , coquette roomie D [Dinita]. Always listening to Coldplay ;) Downloading videos of old songs which are absolutely hilarious to watch. Laughing out of the blues as she stares at the laptop screen , with earphones plugged in , and the dinner plate on her lap. She is done with her dinner and she gets up to wash her plate and suddenly she sets aside her plate, hands at right angles to her body , legs slipping back, and she has burst into a weird-ass dance step and we all are in splits. Miss you da! Err.... Di ;)
Click!

E makes me click
Eggplant , better known as the 'BIG' baingan, has always been my favourite. Last Sunday, we were in for a thai treat thanks to Prachi. Considering the fact that I am not a big chicken fan , I knew I will be all for the veg gravy. The perfect red-orange eggplant and paneer gravy looked absolutely mouth-watering. And when I put the Eggplant in my mouth and it sorta melted. Thanks Prachi. Cant explain how yum it was , hence just a Click!

F makes me click
Facebook. I craze difficult to understand.  I remember Orkut was few years back. And I was so bored with it that I did not join Facebook for almost a year after that. And today after I dunno how many years, people still seem so addicted to FB. So much so that the smartphones feel that the Facebook app should be worthy of being a default in their phones. Worthy or not , it is sure worth a Click!

Why?

I have felt a lot burdened by people's views, their judgements about me , about what I do? And sometimes I just sit back and think why?

Honestly I really donot know why... But it must matter a real big deal , as I write my public personal diary. I am tired of justifying why I do something , why I think in a particular way. But when someone judges me for being me, it hurts real bad. I wear myself up my sleeve, I do not care if it sounds wrong. I put to words what I feel. Maybe thats why people find me out of sorts , too intimidating to approach. I am far from straightforward and I know that. Howeva I justify , whoeva I justify, howmucheva I justify... there will be one or the other who is not totally convinced. Its like a wedding, where there has to be someone who will complain.

It may just be better for me to stop thinking why and say why not! Why not be myself. Just stay the way I am. After all, like Scout said for Jem, " Its not like he killed the mockingbird! " 

Total Filmy ;)

Watching Friends with Benefits with roomies made me think. Long shot I know for a brain-dead movie to stimulate your grey cells. But again… I just started to wonder . How many of these have I watched. Everytime I call them names , but I watch them, the Katherine Heigl-Ashton Kutcher genre of movies. And if they were so bad why do they put money in them.

I do not know why others do, but I was interested in knowing why I do. I don’t believe in fairytales though they are nice to listen to once in a while. I don’t like soft toys . I haven’t dated anyone ever. I don’t believe in the concept of I-cant-live-without-you-ever. Then why do I watch them?

Maybe because I wish something miraculous happened and I met someone special. Maybe I hope that the one is right there and I am just not looking. Maybe I want to think it is not as complicated. Maybe it wouldn’t be as tough to find the one as I think. Maybe these movies which end in Happily-ever-after give me a hope that it will be happy after all.

Just Maybe…

Why dont I quit?

   At times, life is really tough on us. I still remember how elated I was when I got my Wipro joining letter on 10th Jan 2010. I was on 4 calls at a time. After waiting for 6 months, breaking my head over MBA books , teaching students in college, totaling the final marks of the accessed papers. It was as if I couldn't be happier. Relocating , leaving 22 years of my life behind did not matter at all. I was ecstatic.

   Next day I woke up as usual, got ready for college. Was dying to tell Pooja and Priti. I reached Mahim station and as I started walking towards college , I frowned at the dirty footpath. Looked at the good ole Raheja Hospital and the bus-stop to T junction. As I entered the college gate, the familiar smell of fish mongers in close vicinity. The small houses and shops in the baithi chawl at a stone's throw. The ice cream shop which was our regular hangout . As I approached the stairs , the smell of chicken fried rice and chinese bhel filled my breath. 

   I started ascending the stairs. My breath seemed shorter than the usual. There was a lump in my throat. I was to leave all this behind me. All that I knew. My first job. All those happy 4 months. I reached the office panting and puffing. Knocked the door open , missed the small railing at the entrance and almost fell into the room. There they were sitting , giggling at me with a she-has-pulled-it-off-once-again look. I did not look back at them with a frown , not with my tongue hanging out to tease them. My eyes were full and they immediately knew something was wrong. Something about which I was so happy yesterday, I wished it would have never happened. 

   Today when someone asks me when are you quitting :) [people really must hate me being around :P] I look back at that day. Fateful , unfateful I do not know. But that I feel that lump yet again. I remember the friendly tears and goodbyes. The other unwelcoming and jealous eyes, as if they were going to strip me naked and attack me with the buckled Nazi belts. Pooja's and Priti's eyes , saying please don't leave, as they say goodbye.

   I don't know if I am ready to go through all this yet again or maybe as yet.....

Fix me!

When you try your best but you don't succeed 
When you get what you want but not what you need 
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep 
Stuck in reverse 

Sarika called chirping gleefully, "Pune Pune Pune". I had prayed hard that she gets Bangalore for job location. But it was not meant to be. I started retrospecting. The time when I said bye to all of them to come to Bangalore. Then again after going to Pune, fighting hard to come back. It was all I wanted, being in Bangalore. Doing my post graduation. I never thought of what I needed then. It was when Sarika joined in Mysore I realised what I did need. Someone I loved dearly to be around. Someone to take care of . Someone who could take care of me.

When the tears come streaming down your face 
When you lose something you can't replace 
When you love someone but it goes to waste 
Could it be worse? 

As Chris Martin hummed softly in my ears, I started believing I had lost something I will never be able replace. It will never be the same going back. All I had were memories of when we were together. Ofcourse it couldn't be worse.

High up above or down below 
When you're too in love to let it go 
If you never try you'll never know 
Just what you're worth 
Tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears come streaming down your face
And I
Tears come streaming down your face
I promise you I will learn from all my mistakes
Tears come streaming down your face
And I

I could feel my breathing loose the usual rhythm. Lungs trying to pull in two breaths at a time. Face mildly shaking in response. Eyes so full of tears that I had to spill them. I sobbed softly to myself.

Lights will guide you home 
And ignite your bones 
And I will try to fix you


I hope someone really does!


Buhbyee lil sis!!!

What makes me click

A makes me click
Ankola. My usual summer holiday destination. My grandparents house. The backyard full of coconut , jackfruit and mango trees. The wobbly wooden staircase leading to the attic. The old , dusty attic with floor made of wooden planks . As I open the intricately decorated large wooden box, a huge cloud of dust blows into my faces. I move my hands madly in thick air to shove it off , coughing heartily. In the depths of the box, the old termite infested black and white photographs. I pick the first one, its Aabu and Babai. A lump in my throat, water welling up my eyes. Worth a Click!

B makes me click
Bangda Fanna Upkari. My mother's speciality. The masala , red black hue with 30-30 red chillies ground to paste with the fish tenderly cooked in it. You can feel the delicious spiceball go down your food pipe ! The eyes water, the hanky tries hard to restrict the runny nose as you look up from the plate for more... Click

C makes me click
Corner House. Arguably one of the best icecream parlours I have been too. If you have had a bite at Rustomjee's, Fort, Mumbai or  Naturals , anywhere ;) or Mahalaxmi Cold Drinks , Ankola, or DBC at Polar Bear, Infosys Mysore, you cannot just call anyone else best without a fierce argument :) But the thick , creamy chocolate icecream and the vanilla with fresh cream and mangoes opens the faucet of water in my greedy mouth. The kiddy eyes feasting on the buckets of icecreams below "Do Not Lean Over Me" There goes a Click...

More clicks... But just not yet :)

The Beauty Shop

Even as babies, girls dream of being called "baby" . And for that, they always are ready to go the extra mile. Oh yes! They dream of beautiful mani"cured" nails , beautiful pedi"cured" feet. Can you take a break from all the curing !

I was so busy waking up early enough to catch the "Good Morning Disneys" and be up till I finish watching the DD National's  9.30 p.m. movie that I would rather sleep in the night than dream :) But as a girl child , I never remember having an undying want to have long painted nails .As our school allowed nails neither long nor painted, girls used to grow their well-hidden toe nails till they tore through their canvas shoes. 

For me, the canvas shoes tore as it is,for I tried to fit my feet into them, without untying the laces. My father , very particular about his shoes, watched me haplessly struggle with them every morning. My mother has always complained about my deep cut nails and my ugly fingers and feet. Till date, I absolutely despise painting my nails and my lips. My ex-roomie's patented comment for me each time I went out ," Your torn lips , dry skin... you are so embarassing , I do not want to go with you." One day she got so frustrated that she took me to the chemist , forced me buy a lipguard tube and creams all the while jabbering away about the cosmetic shop she had for her supposed-to-be wardrobe.

This morning as I went around shopping with my current roomie, I realised she was no less, only that it had never been so obvious in her case. We were walking down the road , sipping our semi-cold lime semi-soda. And suddenly I feel my free hand being grabbed and pulled in a direction unknown , on a road untread. The soda in the other hand flying in mid air, which could have landed back in the glass if it was the usual Tom and Jerry show, but not this time. This time it gets displaced only to spill all over the road leaving a sticky trail behind.

And before I know I am in this huge comestics store. Its smells a little weird though I have smelt it before. Its a waxy smell of the lipstick coupled with some powder that tickles the insides of your nose. Its different :D , someone inside my head says. My friend starts her quest for the perfect lipstick. Apparently it was supposed to have some kind of vitamin stick in the centre and lipstick outside. It repairs and beautifies the lips together, I was informed. Nice , I thought to myself. All I have done to anything on my lips is to eat it ;) Lipstick included. So I never bother to waste money in buying it, its taste isnt that great to be honest.

As for my friend , after she had tried all the brands available in the store on her hand. Oh yes, her hand was full with colour meant for the lips . Not to mention the plethora of calls being made to find the brand she thought was perfect. And just when I thought she had got the one she was looking for, her new wide-screened phone lights up.

"Hey it is Elle 18"

"Are you sure? I found one in Revlon!"

"No , I am sure its Elle 18"

"Ok" , she turns to the already-dejected shopkeeper, " Sorry, this is not the one."

And just like that we leave the shop. I am really happy to be out of the shop :) But just then my friend turns back and quips "Lets try the next shop!"

Why does it always rain on me!

    I complain about the AC not working all day. Sitting in one of the remotest corner of the office , I dance and sing to myself in the seat with earplugs on , so that I just get over the AC breakdown. Suddenly it does not seem as hot as before. I realize I am out of water and I go out for a refill. The drapes over one of the glass panes pulled up. Tiny drops of water covering them. Skies outside grey, the buildings drenched in the cooling showers. I rush back to my seat , push some change down my pockets and make a dash to the cafeteria. The sweet smell of the rains takes me spiraling down the memory lane.

April, a year before :

All my friends leaving. Everyone in my project gone. My friend-next-seat puts his bag to his shoulder.

 " See you then " 

 " I will come with you downstairs to see you off"

 The lift opens, " 10th floor"

 " You too must go back to Mumbai too" 

 " Maybe some day" , we exchange what-can-I-say looks.

 " Ground floor. Have a Nice day!" interrupts the voice in the lift.

   We reach the tower's main door and its raining. We wait in the lobby chattering away happily. Looks like the rain is subsiding. We exchange good wishes. I know I am going to miss this friend. Who will tell me about sites like jango , snapdeal , telugu movies and about his crazy guys night outs ;)  We smile weakly at each other and then he turns to leave.

   I call P  for tea, our regular tea time. And tea drenched in the flavour of rain, makes it all the more enjoyable. All umbrellas taken. I decide to make a dash to P's tower. As I run out of the tower, suddenly the rains come pouring down. I am drenched head to toe. My headphones are on and I cannot hear a word as its thundering and pouring like crazy. As I haplessly look around for help, I see him smiling at me.

   A smile I will never forget. I didnot know him , had never seen him before but half-pity, half-jovial smile just made me forget that I was in a real bad shape. He shook his head in disbelief, closed his eyes with the smile pasted to his face. The song in my ears became louder and clearer.

"You're beautiful its true! I saw your face in a crowded place and I dunno what to do!"

April , a year later:

   I am at the door again , the rains wetting the lawns. The same sweet smell. I cannot help but feel nostalgic. But the story is not the same this time around. No friend to say goodbye. No P to call for tea. I don't look at the umbrella stands. Just hop out in the rains. As drenched as a year back. I turn back to look where I saw him. But the place is empty. And once again, just like that , the same song is playing on the playlist but the lines that grow louder are different this time.

"But its time to face the truth, that I will never be with you"

IndiJoe... Oh no !

Honestly working continuously for days without end , weekdays and weekends all alike, takes its toll on you. You are exasperated, irritated and sour all the time. I felt like smashing crockery like Connie at times. Thank God we do not have lot of porcelain around here.  My brother calls to ask if I was labouring away on Labour's day too. He wants us to get together, oh yes the regular 6, and just chat over some good food. Then he had bowling planned for the evening. I look down upon me with great pity. While everyone is gonna have fun , I will be sitting at home , drinking my horrible tea about countless times through the day and breaking my head over some piece of code. No! I am putting my foot down ...

 " Whats special ? Whatever it is I am in ! ", I bellow into the phone.

" See ya May Day, Hay Day " , I hear from the other end. Thats all I needed. Not to know where why how. Just the fact that I will be off one day made me feel psychotically happy.

After working in office till 9.30 on a Monday which saw not many people coming in, I got home all tired . Had my evening bath followed  by dinner and again logged in to check if something new had come up. My roomie gave me an oh-no-not-again look but then retired to bed when I did not pay much heed. As the time ticked by I slowly moved from sitting up straight cross legged to sleeping on the abdomen on my bed to gradually pushing  my laptop in place of my pillow and dozing off on it. Wasnt much surprised to see Greek Latin typed on the browser tab when I woke up at somewhere close to dawn. Then switched off the lights and my laptop and slipped into deep slumber. 

Next day when my eyes opened it was already 10.30. A perfect start for a day taken off :) Had my tea which arguably tasted better. And I hear the muffled rings of my phone. Somewhere in the abyss called my bag lay my phone ringing to be answered. My hand battled its way in, cutting through infinite plastic bags , newspapers, pens , I found it ... still ringing. It was my brother.

" Are you ready?" The mouthful of tea stuck in my throat. Amidst a bout of coughing , watering of eyes and staring at the ceiling to come back to life, I finally managed, " Now?" . " Ofcourse the reservaton is for 12.30" I look nervously at the watch, it says 11.15 and I have to reach where?

 "Indijoe, you come to our place and we can drive down together." 

"I dont know the place , you give me directions and I will see you there."

" No , you come to my place. I insist" 

" Ok then"

I make a dash for the bathroom and in a matter of half hour I am out of my place. Surprisingly I get the bus in time and reach my cousin's door at dot 12. They pick me up and we reach the place in time to see the other 3 seated . We all gear up to dig in :)

My brother and his friend tell us stories of  "the" Indijoe in Carlton Towers. As they described the mouth watering dishes delicacies they served there , the glutton that I am, started dreaming of the perfectly cooked chicken , tender fish and the colourful tarts. The soup was served . Tomato it was. And the dreamy bubble took a jerk. Not a big fan of soup, I tried to swallow it as quickly as possible. 

Without further ado, the waiter served the hors d'oevres . And he kept the plate of the veg ones right in front of me. So I thought why not. First thing I put in my mouth ... Cauliflower! I look at the waiter with what-wrong-have-I-done-to-you look. He sure does not read me right because next thing I know , I am being served more of it. I do away with the flower and help myself with the chicken starters. Though not the biggest of chicken fans, the schezwan pops surely are good enough to pop them in, in quick succession. 

Now is time for some salad and bread. Not a big ghaas-phus fan, I head for the chicken salad and spiced bread. The chicken salad was good. I loved the way the perfect cubes of chicken , pepper and onions mixed in mayo , chilli sauce and generous amounts of herbs and spices. Things or rather the food was looking up . I again set out pushing through the growing crowds lining up for the buffet. 

Yes, the crowd. When we reached , it was sparsely populated but with ever passing minute there seemed to be more and more people flocking in. It was then I realized why my brother had made the reservations well before time. There were lines right from dishes to the salads, the chaats, pasta to sweets.

Somehow the chaats and roomali roti counters right next to the pasta counter did not seem right. I did not want the chaats so was not much of an issue. The custom-made pasta was very good. The thick white sauce, generous amounts of cheese and the corn. Corn ! My idea because I love corn, reminds me of the corn and cheese enchilladas I have in Crunchy Munchy. After the pasta , I thought of trying some main course. But the desserts were so appealing to eyes that I dare not fill in.

Not a paneer lover again, I did not try anything in Veg. I laid my hand or better, laddle in my hand , on the fish curry and white rice. Cooked in Bengali style , was the Bongs' favourite Rohu. Honestly I did not mind the curry though the opinion at our table was not the same. Maybe I am always biased when it is comes to fish. I so love it that in any form , I cant help but love it. Although when in comes to Filet-o-Fish , I would beg to differ.

After that started the biggest anti-climactic end any meal ever could have. The chocolate pudding was the one I had always an eye for. Chocolate is one thing I can absolutely never say no to.  I believe you the first you put in anything made of chocolate should be your teeth. And so dying to do the same, me and Prachi made way to the dishes counter. But the line ofcourse kept us from reaching the last of them. We stood there waiting for over 20 minutes just to get the plates. People around looked equally harrowed by the same.

Finally after a long wait , we got one plate hence atleast Prachi could start. Some foreigners tired of the lines, unavailability of plates and the suffocating gangway where the buffet were laid, quit returned to their tables empty-handed. Finally , the plates were available. All waiting for plates got them. The Manager made sure even the foreigners were  called back and served their fill. Finally after an half hour's wait, I got the plate and I headed for the pudding I had been looking forward to since past 2 hours. I have always believed in second helpings so I took economically the first time . And it proved to be wise. I collected the Kiwi mousse and the mango and orange pastry too. I thought I will keep the icecream for later as I have them every other day. I had half mind to skip them honestly. All excited I reached the table and scooped a piece of the pudding and put it in the mouth. The first thing I realised was there was an excess of egg used here. The smell of the eggs filled my nose , mouth and my sinuses.The pudding lacked the necessary sweetness. The star of the show had let me down. I really felt let down . I just nibbled all the other sweets in my dish only to be disappointed all the more. 

I decided I could not have it any more. I tasted the much talked of mango icecream but nothing could make up for the pudding. We paid the bill and made our way out. Though there were parts of the meal I really loved, all in all, for me, it was a downer. Maybe you need to work harder to get up from the ashes of Carlton !

Always Good ... Never Good enough

Everyday is like an rendezvous with life. More like an interview.

Its 8. I lazily rub my hair off my eyes as I hear the door locks click shut. I hardly remember ever being on time for the interview. Only my roomies rushing out of the house can possibly wake me up. I lazily folded my sheets with the brush sticking in my mouth. Eyes hardly open. Brain numb though some self-righteous part still praying it not the day when I have to wash the crazy curly locks which I wear on head everyday. Being a boy with a soldier cut would have been so awesome.

In the semi-zonked state , I get done with all the getting ready part. Mind you it is like time bound sequence which takes a total of an hour to push me out the door... And then as I walk to the bus stop , I tell myself how I could be better this time around. Hoping the night long effort is going to turn its magic on. All that I hide in those hideous wrinkles of the cerebrum will help me shine on. And suddenly the biker right behind me honks the horn into my ears, looks at me as if I striped him off the FOOTPATH for racing past the other frustrated car-horn honkers. I give him I-swear-to-God-I-will-kill-you. He gets it and slips by.

I am too preoccupied by how am I going to face this new day. New questions. New faces throwing it at me , new voices going round in my head. How will I do today? Will things go well? If not how bad? Will it be a reject again? Will all the practice over the toilet seat, in the balcony, in the middle of the night when all were fast asleep really work? Or will I make myself look like a rotund big mouth who does not make sense ever?

As I take my seat in the bus, my mind is abuzz with thoughts. I listen to some hymns and aartis from my phone to just stay calm enough to reach my destination. On my way downtown , I am busy reading off my cellphone what I think might just prepare me better for the day. A hope I never give up. Maybe I wont be as bad today! Maybe I wont see a disapproving smirk on my listener's face today. Maybe today they will just give me an appreciating nod.

As I barge into the office , I have the headphones on full volume plugged in my ears so that I could possibly be sound-proofed from all the techies peeping over the hedge of their cubes , giving me you-aint-sort-of-our-types look. But I try best to keep to myself. Not that I do not like mingling with people, but somehow I fear people dont like me much around here . Sometimes I simply miss having someone like Pooja, Monika or Dipti around. But somehow I have too many thoughts on my mind to just sit and retrospect.

The rendezvous is on and so is on, the heat on me. I pop some gum and try to face it . And he turns back and asks, "are you nervous?" The pen in my hand fumbles. The gum seems to have sucked in all the juices in my mouth and my throat parched. I feel the blood leaving my hands and feet and rushing to my face, making them weak enough to shake slightly. Pulling my self together, I mentally go through the whole exercise I had done for this very moment and with some confidence I muster, I put the first ball in the hoop.

And that was it. I could feel my feet suddenly. My fingers had jumped to life. I was reborn with some sort of un-understandable confidence for which I was longing all this while. And suddenly the rendezvous had gone from being a slow, part-broken down car drive to a lift by Schumi in the German Grand prix. Rejuvenated and unhindered , I proceeded no the path which said never back down. I had played my part well. He said an occasional good once a while. Now was the time to judge for them . Time to judge me.

My heart was pumping fast. The rendezvous had lasted long but I had done much better. Things finally had started to look up. I was far more positive than ever before. Will this be it? Anticipation ! Drama ! Climax ! Action!

" Sneha! "

" Yes "

" Sorry but maybe you were not good enough "

ERROR ERROR ERROR

Bored!

At times , just staring at the computer screen , looking at colourful waveforms, "grep"-ping for errors, filing bugs , attending meetings just seems so meaningless and futile.

Why am I doing this? Yes I find it interesting. But still do I have a right to get bored? I dont know why but I am just bored.

Listening to the same songs, sitting on the same chair , in the same cubicle. Filling the same blue bottle of water, staring at the bottle of hand sanitizer on the desk and thinking why did I even buy it.

I open all possible mailboxes to see if something less boring comes by [I dont hope for anything interesting, I am not so much into "Positive thinking"]

Then I open my sad blog, scribble some nonsense, discard it three to four times. Then I get bored of that too and so I just "PUBLISH POST" :P

Every Teardrop is a waterfall...

I miss home a lot these days. More than evident from my blogs. But I reason myself and calm my nerves. At times I am so unbelievably practical that I surprise myself. Always a voice inside my head kept telling me,

Sar phool woh chadha jo chaman se nikla ,

Kamyabi usse mili jo watan se nikla.

My uncle told me this when I first told him that I will have to move to Bangalore for my job. We, in my family, take immense pride in being practical and independent. And those words just were oil to an ambitious pyre burning inside me. Yesterday night, for some reason, as I cooked my dinner. I again heard those words ring in my head. I smiled softly to myself and went on.

Today as I sat in office, I called my father. Generally I call to discuss if the market is down or if we are playing some real good cricket or some investment plan . But his voice was disturbing composed today.

"Your uncle is no more"

"Why dint you inform me?"

"I thought I will break it to you slowly"

"Ok will call you back later"

One moment of complete void. As if everything around me just froze. Couldn't feel nothing. Lost every sense of expression. I walked to my seat so disturbed that before I knew I was out of office again.

Dint know which way to walk. Dint know whom to call. Dint know what to say . Dint know how to say. As if I were shot in the head by a mind numbing bullet.

I closed my eyes. He is right there. His thick silvery white hair falling over those dark rimmed, big glasses. Him flashing the patent dimpled smile. Sitting on the easy chair in our hall, one hand raised in air quoting his Shaayari, occasionally peeping into the small pocket diary in which he had noted it . His voice as crisp and as cheerful as ever. Those eyes look straight at me. "Show me your Marathi notebook" The most dreaded part of all his visits. Him going through our pathetic Marathi essays. Marathi was always a school-time nightmare. Telling me all the corrections. "Next time when I come, it should be better"

Suddenly, the tears push open my eyelids. And they just keep flowing with no end. I haven't cried so much for years. I wore my specs whole day just to avoid everyone's gazes as I walked the passage. Tried to listen to some romantic , funny , pop numbers . But nothing could lift my spirits up. Absolutely nothing. I have always believed I am emotionally very strong , to an extent of being cold. But it was as if some part of me just died.

I wish he could come back on his old Bajaj just like old times. Sit with all this brothers, chatting over tea, discussing his philosophy of life. Singing aarti with all of us for Ganpati like Chanda kaka. One last chance to tell him, how much I love P.G. Wodehouse just like him. A chance to say my final goodbye.

As for my essays , they will always wait for him ...

Music makes me go round!

A song is like a beautiful necklace adorned with pearls of words, strung together with the thread of music. But sometimes this definition of mine seems flawed to me myself. Sometimes these very songs defy it for me and transpire into something I cannot put to words. I just feel it as the hair at the back of my neck stand. And it is not the words, nor the music. It is just the feel of the song which I cannot define in the so-called definition.

I happened to put my ear to one such song very recently. I am a huge movie buff, language not withstanding. I remember watching this Marathi movie some years back which had this song. Very beautifully made movie, some extraordinary performances by the protagonists – Shivaji Satam and Neena Kulkarni… Uttarayan, so it was called.

Last week my sister visited me, we were listening to her playlist as we were heading to my cousin’s where some of the most tempting prawns were waiting to be chomped and pushed down our foodpipes [Sorry, couldn’t help mentioning :P] And she happened to have this song in her playlist. Fresh from her college, away from home for the first time, she said these songs reminded her of home. A place she and me called home since born. Her eyes told me how badly she missed home and as I listened to the song I understood why she found solace in it.

Dhund Hote shabd saare dhund hotya bhaavana ,

Varya sange vaahata tya fulan paashi thamb naa.

I will accept many of the imageries used in the song I did not understand, thanks to my not-very-superlative Marathi. But as the song filled my ears, the voice as soothing as it could get, struck an unknown chord. I don’t know which instrument they used or it was simply a synthesizer that churned out some of the softest emotions from the song.

The soft ghungroo like beats in the background reminded me of the seven years they danced with me in the dance classes. The slow entry of the tabla and then its dualling with the flute and the keyboard, brought back those choir practices at school. The still interludes were intertwined with the frames of me jumping around in my Vyayamshaala, playing badminton in the society or collecting dry twigs and leaves for our poorly improvised day-light campfire . And as the song broke into the stanza, our skating session on the terrace suddenly was interrupted by the uncle staying right below.

The waves banging on the rocks took me to Marine Drive where we sat idly smelling the salt in the air, seeing the sun go down with all the huge, archaic buildings looking out for us from behind. The drizzle in the background sounded so much like the one I saw from the 5^th floor Digital design lab, drenching our quadrangle, sending all the class-bunkers off to the stage for shelter. And as the last drops of the rain water trickled down the sloping mossy roof-tops, the singer hummed the end.

No words said nothing,

Nothing said the tune.

Don’t know why I felt I had drowned,

Though my boat had kissed the dune.

Miss You !

Sitting idle in office, waiting for a release which will not happen soon, I look at my Desktop and smile meekly. No its not because I am happy about being jobless for some limited hours. It’s the wallpaper that makes me feel good. No no no!!! It’s not some super hot actor [that smile would have been naughty :P ] , it’s the sparkling red Ferrari Spider gleaming amidst flashbulbs going agog. Talking of that, I can’t help wondering , was it my mother's call some 10 minutes back that made me happy?

Ever since my mother asked me not to set foot into the house till my lil sister finishes all possible 12th exams [ and yes they are a real lot!] , I have been feeling a sense of longing for home which otherwise isn’t all that strong, I must accept. I talk incessantly to my mother. I discuss monetary and other logistical matters [:P] with my father every second day. I talk nonsense to both my sisters [that is if they let me talk though : D]. Still something keeps bothering me.

I am just 24 freight-hours or 2 air-hours or 20 road-hours away from home. Also the revolutionary changes that have come into effect in our telecom industry , no I am not talking of the 3G scam for a change ;) , have helped my cause. I am always hanging out with friends, doing nonsense, trying and enjoying every moment. But the second I am alone my head takes off in a direction totally unknown. Slowly but surely I start thinking of the good ole days.

Everything comes flying back. Digging into Aai's delicious fish. Arguing with Baba about how pathetic our Indian team is playing [He is an incorrigible optimist when it comes to Men in Blue], getting pampered by Atya. Fighting with Sarika [we fight like wild cats], playing in the water clogged streets with Swati [it is super fun jumping in knee-deep water as if the world wasn’t watching].

Meeting friends at odd hours. Talking over phone as if there were no tomorrow [and no bill to be paid :P ] The streets I loitered in for years together. The maddening morning rush in the local trains. The streets smelling of everything from vada pavs to dosas, dhoklas to samosas , masala pav to chicken kebabs. The familiar looking ticket conductors, the groups of ladies singing songs in the trains, the colours of Dadar market , the hues of chowpatty sunset, the walk down Marine Drive.

I left a part of me behind in Mumbai. No doubt making a horcrux would have been really painful for you-know-who. Every call from anyone in Mumbai brings back everything in one go. The breath seems too short to take in the smell of the city. My heart feels heavy, the words I utter become unclear and my eyes moisten just reminiscing the 22 years of my life as "Those were the best days of my life".