Bethebiggerperson

Bring the ball back. Baby sit all day. Offer someone a lift. Give away free advice. And your tiffin.

Help the backbencher you’ve never acknowledged before.
Help someone with change. Someone else with directions. Or with mathematics.

Let someone else get ahead in the queue. At the red light. And at the jogging track.

Push the door. Bring an extra cup for your next table neighbour.
Do someone else’s overtime. Drop her home. Pick them up. Leave the change.

Help someone with their homework.
Share your favourite tee. Your Wodehouse. Your morning newspaper.
Offer your pen. And your shoulder.

Let someone else use the ATM first. Or the STD booth. Or even the washroom.
Give up the window seat. Buy the balloons you don’t need.

Take a picture for the honeymoon couple.

Give mom an off. Pick up the phone. Open the door. Share your umbrella. And your seat in the bus.

Help someone tie a knot. Or open a shoelace.
Let the lady order first. Read the newspaper to grandpa.

Give up the remote control. Pick up the pen from the floor. Return a lost ring.
Walk someone else’s dog. Take care of your neighbours’ letters.

Offer a toothpick. Or a tissue. Help someone wrap a gift. And finish a meal.

Hold the table when he fixes the bulb.
Hold your breath when she is sleeping.

Pray. Cheer.

Hangovers

Not all hangovers cause a headache.
Not all hangovers last a few hours.
Not all are a consequence of drinks and debauchery.

Some stay with you for days, some last months. And you could be completely off alcohol, I bet.
I experience this other category of hangovers often.
And only people like me who wear their heart like pride on their sleeve, who scream when happy and howl when sad,
who obsess equally over a lost nose ring as they would over a lost love, would know what I mean.

Sunaina, I suspect you’re like that too.

No black coffee can cure a hangover caused by long conversations you’ve had with someone without really speaking to them. Or interactions that are beyond words and other such restrictions.
A drop of lime wont cut the hangover of a lingering smell.
There are song hangovers, author hangovers.
A line you’ve read in a book, phrases and words that will keep playing in your mind, cause some.
Trips to the mountains.
Accidentally discovered lanes.
Rainy days.

My longest ever is all thanks to Clint Eastwood in the Bridges of Madison County.
And don’t even think of offering a cure.

Talk to the stars.

Tell your story to a beetle when it rains. Exchange few words with an aged book. Chat up with a street dog. Gossip with a gold fish. Talk to froth before you blow it off. Share jokes with a bubble. Whisper to a tree trunk. Talk to a lonesome dew drop. Chat up with a butterfly. Speak to a creeper. Talk to the mike. Say ta to sign boards. Make conversations with old photographs. Have a word with those long letters. Call out to the walls. Talk to your playing cards. Argue with a tough question paper. Discuss life with God. Talk to the ceiling in the middle of the night. Reason out with a fat bill. Get in touch with the wanton wind. Complain to a shirt stain. Utter something to a blank screen. Fight with a videogame. Mutter something to a firefly, rain, and to your rag doll. Talk to an old wound.

I'd like to

Travel and touch every wild flower ever grown

Learn to say ‘no’

Be fit

Learn to read and write in Urdu

Teach children in the mountains

Bungee jump

Stop trying to please everyone

A house atop a very tall building and enjoy the rain hitting against my windows. Own one in the mountains with bougainvilleas for company.

Read as many books and then open a book cum tea hut with those books and some fine tea. Then have long and heady conversations about authors of those books and passages from those books with complete strangers

Go without feeling unhappy or depressed or low for a month at a stretch

Visit the bridges in Iowa

Send mother father on a luxury holiday

Be a professional actor

Enjoy rice without guilt

Taste every brand of beer in the world and read up all the literature available on whiskeys

Write a few books

Write handwritten notes or letters to people I have wronged

Write handwritten letters or notes to people who have wronged me

Write a handwritten letter to my father

Buy my mother a house she always yearned for

Put photographs in order, preferably in a black scrap book and give titles

Learn to pull back

Own the best fragrances in the world

Forget

Let go

Resume Hindustani classical classes

Have a massive library at home

Soak in each and every piece, word, anything ever written by Gulzar

Read all the books ever written on magical realism

Figure out how I’m so good at making some of my dearest people uncomfortable just by being around. Change that

Attend a ‘mushaira’

Shoot a documentary on women living in brothels

Do a Delhi to Rishikesh on foot

A cycle ride with someone in the fields

Participate in a marathon every year

Own a telescope

Watch Ijazzat once every month till I die

Raise a child

Do a Greece, Morocco, Venice

Stop searching for happiness outside

Control my anger

Fall irreparably in love with someone, fall like I’ve never been hurt

Accept that mother father will eventually grow old

Find a guru

Read out my favourite passages to the one I will love enough to share them with

Hold hands

Make a film

Be comfortable with the way I look

Stop waiting

Name someone’s child

Say final good byes to a few people

Accept the unrequited

Have stimulating conversations during sunset

Raise plants

Take a guilt free long holiday from work

Get to know mother’s secrets and not judge her

Breed horses

Visit Kashmir

Live in Northeast

Stop making the same mistakes

Recognize patterns

Detox for a month, no drinking, no lying, no escaping, no outside food, no anger, no flirting, no nothing

Make my mentors proud

Settle down mentally and emotionally, not literally and socially

Gift my Dad the best scotch whiskeys in the world

Go fishing

Say no to denial

Say no to defense mechanism

Get another tattoo

Pray for my sisters

Know where to stop

Have zero debt

Keep increasing my collection of coasters, matchboxes, piggy banks

Learn pottery

Learn a craft and then pass it on

Pay attention to directions

Save money

See a past life therapist

Trek more

Seriously work on being a good listener

Remember that distance breeds strength

Stop looking for warmth

Stop making a mess of relationships

Commit

Between me and the mountains.

From the thirteenth floor of my cold, figuratively and metaphorically speaking, office, I can see the mountains. Between them and me lie a few skyscrapers, a big slum, people going about town, trees and small jungles, hoardings and poles. And also, a 9 to no-time-to-return-home job, unsigned leave applications, responsibility and obligations, limitations, house rents and emis, city life, dreams and ambitions, literal distance, car that is not serviced, commitments, effort, permissions that ought to be taken, planning and pursuing. Someday I will cross it all. And get there.

I dig

ferns, little labradors, coasters, matchboxes, white flowers, lady bugs, turtles, bulky beer mugs, tea and balconies, photo-frames, creepers, swings, rugs, silver ashtrays, yellow paper, big watch dials, clocks, reading glasses, a bunch of keys, piggy banks, red threads, framed mirrors, low tables, strings, footpaths, railings, railway station benches, white sheets, curtains, bookmarks, smell of varnish, glass bottles, envelopes, brown paper, typewriters, fresh towels, wet pebbles, well sharpened pencils, wet eyes, earthen pots, stairs, straw and hay stacks, toe rings, big windows, sand, mud after rain, caps on boys, calves and collar bones, cycle rides, wanton dupattas, interesting strangers, train journeys, snails and gumboots, hugs, gardens, running tracks, cobble stone streets, incense, gray, cold floors, clefts, parapets, birds, quilts, lazy afternoons, early mornings.

Why must the degree vary?

When you’re in a new city, how do you decide who’s more of a stranger?
The one who randomly approached you somewhere or the one who initiated a conversation at work?
Come to think of it, are both not in the same category?
Why then do you believe and trust someone who meets you in familiar surroundings, say your workplace, or at a friend’s party but be suspicious and wary of the one who approaches you at a coffee shop or a bar?
How come the one who approaches you on the street or a Barista is more of a stranger than the one who showed interest in you at work?
Is it not a possibility that the stranger you trusted because the surroundings were familiar betrays you as opposed to the other one who may be totally harmless.
In a new city, how do you decide who is more of a stranger.
Is everyone not one?

Both

We’re caught between discipline and debauchery.

The quest to choose either is eternal; the rate of success, almost zero. Both are equally tempting. The jogging track pulls you and so does the nearest watering hole. Between the post-run high and the post-drink high, how do you tell the degree of which high is higher? You’re forever falling from grace when temptation calls and at the same constantly making an effort to keep control. Suppression is just as common as the tendency to ‘say-it-all, do-it-all, go-with-the-flow’. One-night stands reluctantly co-exist with the search for true love. Hearts that curl up with fear of commitment also nurse the desire to commit and surrender to someone like they did in old love stories. Stability and wanderlust are both desirable. Smoke filled late hours of the night and fog full early mornings, how do you ever make a choice?

Desired disease

Was reading up the net, which is when I stumbled upon a website explaining Alzheimer's in detail. Splattered with a whole lot of medical jargon, most of which flew above my head. What I gathered though was that the disease has a vital effect on your memory. You lose it, bit by bit, in patches. You forget things, names, people, places, where you are, what you are doing there, your purpose, where you kept your glasses, so on and so forth. The disease or the mind chooses by itself, things that it will forget.

Now here’s my personal angle to the disease. How would it be if we could contract a certain sort of alzheimer's in which we could choose what we want to forget? You lose just the memory that you want to lose.

You could choose to forget smells that come back suddenly while you’re walking down an avenue and take you back to places you’ve been running away from all this while. You could also choose to forget some good people, some bad ones. Or for that matter, piercing words that vaguely indicated that your parents loved you a little less than your smarter, more intelligent sibling. You could choose to forget the sinking feeling in your stomach when a loved one left the city. You could choose to forget betrayals. Regrets. A bad childhood. You could also make a choice and forget the three most painful years of your life. You could then choose to forget some people in total, the way they smelt, talked, walked, reacted, not reacted, smiled, felt. You could choose to forget nasty remarks by relatives. And light moments that are over and cause intense pain because they are over. You could choose to forget hand holding around the car gear, long walks by the ocean, romantic train journeys, shared sunrises and sunsets. You could also choose to forget the texture of someone’s skin.

Roll on

What a rolling stone gathers, only a rolling stone knows.

When it rolls down the mountain and sticks to a thorny raspberry bush, it gathers resilience, it tastes pain, it learns the meaning of hurt.

When it is pushed from behind, it gathers courage and snaps out of the pain, moves ahead. It allows wounds to heal and pain to subside.

The rolling stone lands on a winding road, gets pushed around by fast paced cards, which is when it gathers that it must move faster if it must survive.

The rolling stone at every stage gathers experiences and lessons that encourage him to keep rolling. From the mountains to the city and beyond, the rolling stone is always on the move, pushed by strong gusts of winds that blow every now and then, throwing it in various directions.

It’s only the rolling stone that gathers friends and foes. It’s the rolling stone that gets hit, hurt, played with, loved, used. It’s the rolling stone that sets out on a journey, unaware of the destination. But reaches somewhere everyday in its own little book.

The spirit of all you rolling stones I acknowledge and appreciate, I am one of you. Roll on.

The inevitable.

Go Goa and you don’t lose something? Well, your trip is incomplete. That holds true at least for me and I am sure I can speak/write on behalf of my fellow psychos.
Materialistically and metaphorically speaking, here is a list of things that people usually lose in Goa .

Mobile phones, bags, caps, sunglasses, one sock, one shoe

Sense of time and sense of control

Sleep

Direction ( in every sense of the word)

Mini luggage locks

The white sand beneath as the waves come rushing by

People. As though it were a big school fate

The colour of your skin

The size of your eyes

Many lose their virginity

Inhibitions (I hate this word, but it kept coming back, so just getting it out of my system, please don’t judge me)

Speed

Chappals

The entire point of the post being, I lost my camera!!!

Off-season

Some people come into your life like untimely rain. Brief. Relief. And totally unexpected. Before or after the season. They’re not meant to be around for long, they will not return the next day. They refuse to be bound or rot in relationships. They pour, and leave you either cold forever, warm momentarily, or simply goose fleshed with their touch.

Inside, I'm a gypsy

I have felt my feet screaming with pain whenever I have stopped.

I talk to clouds, narrow my eyes, stare at the sky and expect it to react, and wait for rain as if it were my friend from grade two.

I never mind dust settling down on my face.

I walk, walk, walk through the city, stand on the edge of the train, hold the pole from both my hands, and throw myself behind, letting my unkempt hair sweep across the steel bars behind me.

I feel one with the wind that has blown over cities, lakes, rivers, and mountains, carrying messages from the ones I haven’t yet met.

I smell the earth and I like the fragrance that varies with seasons.

I have a collection of anklets.

I swing to music playing in my head.

I make eye contact with pigeons who go all amorous on my window ledge.

I enjoy the company of streets.

I never let heat bother me.

I never fear strangers.

I smile for no reason.

I sit anywhere, eat anything, talk to anyone, stop anytime and move on any day.

I tie my hair with twigs and keep ferns to remember pages in my books.

I prefer the cold floor to a warm bed.

I know the mountains are waiting for me.

Inside, I’m a gypsy.

Take the test.

Somewhere between late night and late evening comes a time - two hours that can make you or break you, that define, redefine, test you and your character.

You are alone, in a new city, away from cushions of family and the good ol' gang of friends. Work is over, sleep is on its way, but still is a couple of stations away. You've left work, you don’t want to meet the walls at home today, you are in a taxi, crossing flyovers overlooking tall buildings in a city that has made tall promises to you, and you’re hoping they’ll be kept. There's a bombardment of thoughts, new feelings are rising and falling, you're growing and evolving and experiencing at a pace faster than ever before. You are tired, but not enough. You are hungry, but don’t want to eat alone. You are alone, but you’d rather be by yourself than be at the mercy of others you still don’t know. These two hours that can drive you away from yourself, and pull you closer to things you would in all sanity stay away from. Pain is intoxication; it takes away your sense of reasoning.

These are the two hours can make you commit the biggest mistakes of your life and leave behind a tangled ball of regrets. These two hours need to be conquered my friend, they are responsible for what you eventually turn out to be. Depending on how you deal with this time will decide whether you sink or rise.

You may end up compromising on your self respect and make an untimely call to someone you have been trying to stay away from, the two hours may ruin two months of hard work. The two hours may make you sit in a café all alone far from home, dazed and desolate. The two hours may also make you bitter before time. Your eyes may rain these two hours, whatever the season.

You need to get a grip, it’s crucial. Look at this in between time which has nothing fixed. No meeting. No schedules. No obligations. You need to make it work.

Go,

Take a walk down a busy street, smile at strangers, have hot coffee, read two chapters of the French book translated in English, buy a flower from the street urchin and make her day, make polite conversation with the cabbie, watch a Clint Eastwood classic, have tea by the dhaba and get to know the life of those who don’t concern you, go to the church randomly.

Conquer this time, don’t let it conquer you.

When Wednesdays Rocked.

I don’t believe in rituals as such, but for two years, I followed one religiously. Without fail, I made it to the blue walled, smoke filled, surreal underground quarters of Turquoise Cottage with a few dear friends.

I refuse to call the five hours spent at TC every Wednesday, a memory. Perhaps because I don’t want to give this chapter a closure (Bennet, you used this word very generously in your post titled ‘Me’, I borrow it for mine) by shoving it away in my stock of memories. It just might be one of my denial trips, but what the heck, denial has held my hand many a times and helped me deal with life.
It’s natural to ask why I would attach so much importance to a place loosely referred to as a hangout for the advertising types on a media night.
I strongly differ with that opinion, and so will my friend Vikrant (a crucial link of my support system), because for us, TC was not just time well spent, it was a place where lifetime friendships were born, many a heartbroken evenings were spent, many undercurrents flew, many loves were lost, many drunken promises were made, most of them were meant, many songs were sung in pain and joy, many glasses were intentionally broken, many drinks were shared, many embraces exchanged, many slurry conversations with no head no tale but straight from the heart were made, many eyes met, many strangers were befriended, many dreams were woven.

The narrow lane leading up to the stairs already made you bump into twelve people you knew. There was something strangely warm about this place; you’d end up embracing people you would not even acknowledge outside. They may not even fall into your purview otherwise; here they were part of your universe. Maybe that’s what they referred to as the Turquoise Cottage culture.

Completely opposite to the thrill of the unknown I am going through today, there I felt a comfort that comes only with years of knowing something. Two deeply contrasting experiences, both equally special. The feeling of familiarity was just as intoxicating as the pints we guzzled down like water. Guess it was the ‘personal space’ in a crowd that I will never find anywhere again. Confirming one of my previous posts, I must admit that I had an equation with Turquoise Cottage and I shared my own unique relationship with it.

The place was quite a crowd puller, especially on Wednesdays. Happy hours all night was the obvious reason, each of us had our other unobvious reasons to drop in. For the four of us, and specially for Vikrant (his girlfriend hated the place, he loved it) and me, TC held some sort of a mystical attraction. Probably because he and I as people are the obsessive-compulsive sorts who fall hopelessly for anything, it could well be a nightclub. We’d lie, beg, borrow, emotionally blackmail, bear traffic jams, and do much more to get there. And walk in chest bloated.

Kingfishers, Floyd and best friends for company made for a heady concoction. Fools from diverse backgrounds, similar issues and hit by the same universal emotions would sing together atop their throats, holding their hearts and letting go off their walls. Occasionally as you sang ‘Numb’, your eyes would run into someone else across the alley singing the same words, and you’d wonder if that person shared the same pain as you, his intensity because seemed similar.

We’ve stood on tables, we’ve sat on the floor, we’ve walked around with our eyes moist and we’ve sung out throats soar.
The hunger for the place still remains alive in our hearts.
The fire still burns.

Alphabetically speaking

Atop a building, I'll one day own a house with big windows that open into the sea and palms that walk into my room.

Bougainvilleas are flowers with no fragrance. A steady reminder that we’re not the only ones imperfect.

Cats arrogantly walk about my building compound when I come home tired. They look, and then they look away. Sometimes they even pretend to see through you. They are typically the pseudo advertising types.

Darkness I fear, nights I fancy.

Elevators fill me up with anticipation, there’s always someone you don’t yet know to look forward to.

Friends really came out in the open with their affection and how much of it for me, when I left Delhi. It takes an exit to realise a lot many things, I figured that a month ago.

Grandma, I love you.

Hills do to me what honey does to bee, money does to man, fire does to moth, magnet does to iron, diamond does to a woman.

Ink pens go best with pale yellow ruled pads.

Joseph Heller’s Something Happened was discovered by me tucked under a pile of books in an old church in Simla. It has dark yellow pages and it smells of so many years. I dry flowers in it.

Kettles make my tea that much more special.

Love.

Monsoons make me want to sing and swing around a pole in the middle of the street.

No is the smallest, biggest word. I haven’t learnt to say it yet.

Ohio has bridges I want to stand under, holding someone’s hand. Just the way Francesca held Robert’s in the Bridges of Madison County.

Pakistan gave us Abida Parveen, Farida Khanum, Nurat Fateh Ali Khan. Nothing else matters.

Quaint little cafés in McLeod Gunj killed me.

Rum goes well only with old friends.

Saffron calms me down.

Trains make me want to jump out of them – it’s that free I feel while travelling in a train. Trains mean the spirit of Bombay, wind howling in my ears. Trains mean travel, they mean trips, they mean tunnels, an occasional rainbow, they mean fields, they mean stations you get off for tea, they mean childhood, a deafening sound, they mean tracks that meet for a second and then part ways, they mean speed, they mean window seats and drizzle. They mean my favourite station, Summer Hill near Simla.

Umbrellas remind me of that song from the film Ijaazat. What soul stirring lyrics.

Vanity helps you with your self esteem once in a while.

White flowers are a weakness.

X boyfriends, I loved them truly at some point.

Yesterday, I had two accidents in a row. One in the auto, and one when a piece of hot iron rod fell on my hand at work.

Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance lies in my library, half finished. An addition to the list of unfinished businesses in my life.

Counting

One tattoo. One love. One mom, one dad. One last cigarette. One black coffee. One-sided affair. One way traffic. One big decision. One final goodbye. One long run. One regret. One holiday in the middle of the week. One night at bandstand. One second look. One pleasant surprise. One disappointment. One bad experience. One tragedy in the family. One Naseer-ud-din Shah. One Marquez. One Gulzar. One Abida. One last piece in the plate. One pet turtle. One last sip of beer. One soul mate. One big search. One fragrance from the past. One heartbreak. One Taj.

Two for joy. Two faced people. Two months of monsoon. Two flashes of thought. Two night packages. Two minute breaks. Two major mistakes. Two secrets kept from all. Two curbed desires. Two trips to the mountains. Two kilos to lose. Two lost mobile phones. Two different opinions under one roof. Two directions. Two strangers. Two lovely coincidences in one day. Two wandering eyes. Two words of sympathy. Two episodes of Sex in the City. Two drinks that make happy hours.

Three best friends. Three-tyre trains. Three years before school. Three wishes. Three special words. Three-day weekends. Three charming sisters. Three ex-girlfriends. Three childhood memories. Three big balloons at the redlight. Three colours of patriotism. Three years in college. Three-hour classics. Three clubs in one night. Three mood swings in three seconds. Three very lonely evenings.

trainee superstar

fourteenthmarch.blogspot.com

Bombay

My charm for cities continues even in this post. This time, I speak of Bombay – the city I am learning to make friends with, the city I am just about getting to know. And the experience, by the moment, by the second, is exhilarating.

Way past my teenage, I experience the thrill of the unknown. The fact that I don’t know anything and no one knows me is constantly throwing open a rainbow of possibilities and I am all ready to jump into this ocean of discovery.

Don’t remember the last time I felt like this. Actually, I do. Precisely five years back. When I was fresh out of college and looking to start my career. When I was no one. Nothing. Zilch. Not even the pampered trainee. When life was over flowing, and when i walked through the streets of Delhi carrying a rucksack of dreams.

It was a juncture where every small achievement was big. Every discovery was meaningful.

Today, the feeling repeats itself.

Ranjan, you were right. Your words ring in my ears even today. You said. “Bhavna, You will manage famously well!” Thank you. I am.

Eagerly waiting to discover-

trains and their correct platforms

tides and their mood swings, their highs and lows

how rain feels, for forty-two hours at a stretch

the difference between east and west, the suburbs and the rest

the feeling of being closer to the sky ( top floor houses do that to you)

shortcuts to home

the length of my love affair with town

my strengths, my weaknesses, my fears, my future, my likes, and dislikes

new phone numbers, new road side cafes

how seasons smell and how long they last

ancient churches, old mosques, antique shops

faces that will become friends

the exact time the sun enters my window

home delivery numbers and who to trust with coming home

how often do I remember family and friends or do I stop remembering them at all

distances

love

life.

Good ol’ friend.

I stand on the other side of the one hour forty five minutes flight from Delhi. And here in Bombay, I discover my real sentiments about the city I left behind.

It certainly did not mean concrete, a lonely street, towers, flyovers, railings and red lights to me – I know that now!

It meant lovely bougainvilleas peeping out of white villas. It meant the whiff of cardamom on winter evenings. It meant trees that bow to welcome.

A city is independent of its people. A city is its own person. It is an individual.
It can be moody, cold, rich, dry, warm, cultured. It’s sometimes a wanton woman, and sometimes, strong and silent. Some cities are intense. While others frivoulous as hell.

You make your own connections with a city; you form your own relationships with it. Most of all, you have your own equation with it. Which is why when you go back visiting even after years, you still smile at the old clock tower. Which is also why you blame it for changing if it does.

May the city, my old friend city, never change.

I will visit soon.

Fifteen years in Delhi

I knew the parks. The potholes. The people
Plays. Prices. Petrol Pumps

I knew the forts. The flowers. The fests

I knew how winter smelt and how long the monsoon lasted

I knew those seasons that brought in whiffs headier than tequila shots

I knew autumn and pale yellow leaves that loved being crushed

I knew wind that howled while the rain sang

I knew the daily sunsets and the occasional sunrise

I knew the borders and I knew the bars
And with them, I knew the happy hours

I knew C P remained closed on Sundays

I knew where you could bargain and where you must not

I knew the dhabas under the flyover and the five stars equally well

I knew that streets were wide and the mind-sets, narrow

I knew the seasons and the reasons
I knew the lies to tell and the truths to hold back

I knew the open terraces and the colourful kites

I knew six different routes to home
I knew five different excuses to get out of there

I knew the streets and the street dogs
I knew the summer sweat and the thick winter fog

I knew the kids who waited for their school buses on winter mornings
I knew the old auntie who had no one to wait for but still did, every evening on the cane chair

I knew the waiters at Turquoise Cottage.