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.

Un-protect

Winter is just about setting in. Shows up sometimes, around late evenings and early mornings. Arms fold by themselves, the quilt becomes more important than the jogging track. And you know she's playing hide and seek with you.

But serious winter is still distant. And it surprises me to see people covering themselves with mufflers and shawls and jackets, freshly pulled out from the box bed.

Point is, why must you be so cautious? Why must the fear of catching a chill overpower the experience of cold breeze seeping through your skin, into your blood? The ‘what will happen tomorrow’ is consuming your energy; the ‘what must be felt now’ is taking a beating.

We are perpetually shielding ourselves against all things possible - hurt, love, relationships, failure, you name it. We build unseen walls, stronger the walls of the world put together. We form miles and cities, we create immeasurable distances. The fear of pain takes over the pleasure of experience . Words are measured, not spoken. Situations are weighed, not lived.

Come let’s sack the guards on duty. Let’s make a big hole in the wall. Let's not be shy if once bitten. Let’s drop the inhibitions completely. Let’s not duck with fear.

Winter is not here yet, let's throw away the jersey.