The Train

I couldn’t really think of a better title than this. You see, the train is a bit of a foreign object to me, the kind that you know you were once acquainted with, but which you struggle to connect with now. Until the age of 12, I travelled across the country by trains. Living in the south, and having relatives in the north gave my family enough of a reason to spend days and nights on this fascinating object. In the early years, I remember we used to travel by sleeper. I don’t remember much about those days, except that the moment we started travelling in the AC coaches, I remember missing the wind. So even though travel in the AC coaches was supposed to be a step up, to me, it meant giving up one thing that I had loved longer than I realized I did so.

In any case, that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the train rides. Looking back, what I can remember is a multitude of random images and videos that are burned into my memory – learning to play and acing the art of playing rummy and other card games with the family; walking to the pantry car clutching tightly on to the cup of cup-o-noodles and asking for hot water; mami coming to drop us off at the Delhi station, and always with some delicious dinner to go; bhai and a friend of his lying down on the top berths eating moomphali (peanuts) by removing the outer shells, which they discreetly placed on top of the heads of unsuspecting passer-bys; crouching on the toilet and waiting to do my business while watching fascinatedly as the ground raced by underneath; mamma neatly laying out the bedding at night only for it to be a complete mess by the morning (or a few minutes); worrying every time pa stepped off on to the platform that he may not be able to get back on the train in time; jumping up and down the berths excitedly from different places; watching the rail tracks criss-cross as though they were moving with us; feeling extremely proud each time we successfully crossed that point where the two coaches are joined; watching pa stand at the doorway and hesitantly approaching him, only to be pleasantly surprised when he’d let me stand by his legs near the edge of the doorway, feeling like a daredevil.

And then suddenly, just like that, the travels stopped. We moved countries, and subsequently, also our mode of travel. At the age of 15 I took my first solo flight, and from then onwards, it seemed I never stopped. Travelling across countries, trains were hardly the most feasible option; yet somehow, we stopped travelling by them even when we came to India. I mean, yes, we could afford flights now, so it just made more sense to take those, but coupled with the limited time we always had, travel now became more about getting to the destination than the journey in between. Everyone was so busy with their lives that it never even occurred to us (or to me) that I could travel by train from one city to another.

And so, here I was, a 25-year-old girl who had not only not been on a train for 13 years, but had also never done so alone. Basically, when the opportunity to change this cropped up, I jumped at it – both in fear and a determination to set things right. My first journey last month was about 28 hours, and I was travelling with a friend who resolutely refused to travel by AC, so after all those years, I found myself in a familiar and not-so-familiar bogie. The wind – it was just as I remembered it; the toilets – even more so; the hijra who lifted up her skirt when a passenger refused to hand out money – not so much. But over all, the journey was fun. I spent it in parts sleeping, looking out the window, reading a book and sitting on the doorway (which was a first!) with my friend as we chatted into the night.

But I knew that this was still the relatively easy part. I’ve spent the last year hearing a lot of friends recount what an amazing experience it is to travel by train, particularly alone. So I was determined to give it a shot. In an attempt to control my parents’ already rising heart rates, I decided to travel by AC instead of sleeper. I kept a book handy, charged up my laptop, picked the side lower berth so as to get the best window view, and made my way to the station. The train was, of course, delayed. And the station is hardly the same as an airport where you could just plop yourself on to an empty seat and read your book as you wait. Firstly, there isn’t anything that qualifies as a seat. Secondly, it was just so damn crowded! And everyone looked absorbed in conversations with either every single member of their family who had decided to drop them to the station, or busy with a phone. Option number two was closed to me since I had recently lost my phone. So, steeling myself, I found the place where my coach would stop, took out my book and tried to look as nonchalant as I could while standing in the middle of the crowd and reading.

When the train arrived, I’m proud to say that I was one of the first inside (no, I didn’t push anyone out of the way, thank you very much). It turns out that the fear of missing your train during the few minutes that it stops for can really pump your adrenaline. That and the huge family with over a dozen suitcases I saw making their way towards the coach. Inside, there was no place to put my suitcase, since the Indian railways seems to have an unofficial rule that each passenger must carry at least three suitcases as big as themselves. That was sorted after a few minutes of moving things around. Next, I settled in on my seat to look out the window, and instantly I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t see anything. Granted, it was dark, and the laws of physics would dictate that the window of an AC coach does not allow for gazing out at night, but even the few lights that passed by looked messed up. The doubt was confirmed in the morning, when I realized that my window was the one window on the coach (or the train) that was too messed up to see anything through. All you can see is glass. And tiny water droplets. To top off the journey, the berths next to mine (in the next cabin, if that’s what it’s called) were filled with a family consisting of seven children. That’s right – seven, and the oldest of the lot didn’t look older than six years old. Basically, when one started crying, the rest took it as their cue to follow. So the night was certainly musical.

But more than anything, I think the part that’s disappointing is that – I’m bored. I mean, sure, I exchange a few sentences with my other passengers occasionally (mostly to complain about how late the train is getting), and the rest of the time I’m trying to pass time with my book or my laptop. But still, the time is passing so slowly. I really don’t know what my friends were going on about when it comes to travelling alone by train. I suppose if you’re the more talkative type, then this grants you opportunities to start lifelong conversations with random people. But that’s really unlike me. So here I am, sitting on my berth, staring out at glass, missing the company – with my parents, with my brother, with my friend. Because, I really do have some great memories on the train, but most of them involved other people. Alone, all I care about is reaching home. All I want right now is the destination.

On a side note, I found that the one spot that has remained my favourite across these 25 years and sleeper / AC trains is the doorway, and standing there by myself, all I could think of were those times the much tinier version of myself would carefully sneak around pa’s legs, hoping I could stand there for as long as I liked.

Well, I suppose I can. The way this train is going, Bangalore isn’t getting here any time soon. 

The End of May

It's that time of the year again, with June and school just around the corner. A new year. New teachers. New books. A rush to the bookstore. Carefully going over the required booklist for bhaiya, and then the same for me. Counting the number of sheets we'd need to cover the books. Oh wait, they come in already cut up smaller sheets now. And they look different. More...orangy than brown. Why'd they have to change it? Oh but....this might make covering the books much easier. And we need to decide our stickers. Uff there are so many options. I don't know which one to take. I pick some at random. I don't like making decisions. And we need some pens. Yes, this is the second year my class will be writing with pens. That means I can buy the micro-tip pens like bhaiya. No more of those ink pens. Thank god, they used to be such a mess. Back home, the four of us get together. We have a big job ahead. I hate doing this, because it means school is starting. But it's also so much fun to do this every year, and the books smell so nice. I don't know whether I actually enjoy this or not. Mamma is in charge. She begins by taking a book and placing it over one of the sheets. The sheet is a bit too big, but mamma says she'll just fold it. No point cutting so much. I remember in the earlier years mamma had to spend so much time cutting those big brown sheets. She aligns the book carefully, then opens the front cover. Folds the side. Then opens the back cover. Folds the side again. She closes the book and holds it with her left hand, picking up the scissors with her right. She quickly cuts off all the corners in a neat diagonal shape. Next she cuts the inner side, but this is a little harder. I know. I tried last year but kept doing it wrong. After cutting it, she passes it to us. Pa has gone out of the room because of a phone call. I let bhaiya take the book, because I don't like folding the edges. Somehow they always get bent at the wrong places. I watch him carefully fold the inner flaps between the outside cover, and then breathe in relief as the hard part is over. Now he just has to fold all the outer remaining flaps inside. That part is easy. Even I can do it. But I cut tape and hand it over to him so that he can stick the flaps. Mamma has already started on the next book. She tells me that I could try to do the fist part - placing the book on a single sheet and folding the sides. This will help her go faster. I try to do that. The book keeps slipping every time I fold it from one end. I stick my tongue out in the side while trying to concentrate on the task. I had just finished folding one side before mamma takes it from me. She had finished her part already. Disappointed, I take the next book, trying to g a little faster. This time, I'm able to finish my job before mamma. But bhaiya is having difficulty cutting tapes by himself. So we decide to leave that part for later. Pa comes in, but seeing the big pile of books we have already finished, goes out again. Finally the pile grows larger, and then there are no more textbooks or notebooks left. Mamma looks tired. She says the rest is for bhaiya and me. I don't mind. The remaining part is fun. We break for lunch, and then the two of us come back to finish the job. I cut the tapes, he sticks them on the books. When that is done, we separate our stack of books. He takes his stickers, and I take mine, and both of us quietly try to put the stickers clearly in the centre of each book, without letting it tilt on any end. And finally, only one thing is left. Bhaiya picks up a pen, and offers one to me. This year mamma won't be filling in the stickers for me. I take the pen and carefully start writing my name in capital letters, silently admiring my own handwriting. It feels strange to write the class and section - it makes me feel so much older than I am. We check the lists before writing the titles on the notebooks. All the writing takes a long time, but finally, we both are done. We stack up the books neatly, and pick up all the pieces of paper lying around, throwing them in the bin. The bed looks clear. And the books look so nice sitting on the table. Oh but school is starting. I wish it wouldn't. I wish we could just do this ritual every year and not have to actually go to school afterwards. 

Low

There’s a feeling. Of something heavy weighing you down. Of a thick suffocating cloud that refuses to allow any light. You know you’ve done something wrong. Idiotic, actually. The kind you never thought you would do, or at least, hoped you wouldn’t, though in all fairness, you probably never even considered the possibility of the situation before. You’re disappointed, angry, upset, and to top it off, dreading making the call telling your dad what you did. Knowing he’s going to be all of the above, and more so. It doesn’t matter if you’re 18 years old and have missed an exam because you saw the wrong schedule, or if you’re 25 and have left a ridiculously expensive phone in a cab while roaming around in a different city by yourself. In both situations, you can’t help but going over the past, second by second, thinking of every little thing that you could have done differently, but didn’t. Or looking towards the future, wondering if there’s the slightest chance that you might luck out, and your mistake might be made up for. Hell, the rational side of you knows it’s not the gravest of situations – in hindsight, it might even make a good story to tell. But in this moment, when all you have is the heaviness and the thick clouds, the only thing that sounds even remotely tempting is burying your head into a pillow and hoping to wake up to a better scenario.

The Happy Place

It was cold, not such that it had you shivering from head to toe, but enough for the three-year-old girl to be bundled into a knitted, pink sweater. She picked at it uncomfortably, as she gazed out at the big lake around her. Boats dotted her vision, moving slowly across the water as the grown-ups who sat in them huffed as they pedalled.

On her own boat, her parents sat across her, pedalling the boat with an unhurried ease, while her dad kept one hand on the long stick behind. On her right, her older brother chatted away excitedly. The four of them were on their way to Mussourie, a few hours away from home, and had stopped for boating on the lake that had become customary to these trips.

As she listened to her brother going on and on about his own skill with pedalling the boat (he had done it for a minute at the max), she tried unsuccessfully to enjoy the wind and the water. Finally, feeling that enough was enough, the girl decided that it was time to speak up for herself. Plastering a frown on her puffed-up cheeks, she folded her arms for extra effect, and heaved in annoyance.

“Even I want to pedal,” she said.

Her parents looked at her in surprise. “But you’re too small for this,” said her mother, while her brother sniggered on the side.

“You let bhaiya do it!” she persevered. “Even I want to try.”

“But – “

“Sure,” her father said, cutting off her mom’s objection. Her mother looked surprised, and was about to say something again when her dad gave one of those grown-up looks that she seemed to understand.

“Really?!” the little girl asked, trying to mask her nervousness in excitement.

“Yes. But you’ll have to switch seats with me,” her father said, and proceeded to show her where to place her footing as the two of them carefully switched seats with each other.

As she plopped down on to the seat of power, she suddenly wasn’t too sure about what to do. Her mother, who was now sitting next to her, spoke up.

“Okay, now put your feet on the pedals. And start moving them forward, like this,” she said, as she continued pedalling calmly.

Following instructions, she put each of her buckled shoes on the pedals, and then pushed.

And pushed some more.

And a little more.

But the pedals wouldn’t move. Not even when she scrunched up her face from the effort, and put out her tongue in the unconscious way she always did when trying to concentrate on something.

The pedals just wouldn’t move.

Trying to ignore her brother’s snigger, she glumly looked up at her dad. Thankfully, he wasn’t laughing. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “It takes a lot of strength. You’ll be able to do it when you’re a little older.”

And with that, he took over the pedals from his own seat, and motioned for her brother to take over from her mom, and the two started pedalling the boat in reverse.

Turning to her side, she pretended to look at the lake as she fought off the urge to cry, as the feeling of uselessness spread all over her, ringing deafeningly in her ears. In fact, it took her a couple of seconds to realize her father was talking to her.

“What?” she asked, turning in front.

“Can you turn us a little to the left?” her father said. “We’re getting a little close to the edge.”

Confused, she asked him how.

“That stick,” he said, motioning to the stick behind her that she had noticed earlier. “It’s for navigation. Turn it towards you.”

Turning sideways, she put her hand on the navigation stick and pulled it towards her, half expecting it to stay where it was. To her surprise, it moved easily, and slowly, the boat also started to turn.

“You mean I can control where we’re going with this?” she asked, as the smile slowly started to find its way back on her face.

Her father nodded, explaining how the direction of the turn would depend on which side they were pedalling from.

The three-year-old nodded as she listened. “So, you mean that if mamma and I were pedalling, I would have to move it in the opposite direction? Hmm…that makes sense.”

Then, as though suddenly remembering her own age, she turned to her mother and asked her if she wanted to navigate. Smiling, her mom shook her head slowly. “Why don’t you be the navigator today?”

The words seemed to drop a load of responsibility on her, but for once, instead of feeling like shirking away, she sat up straight. Now this, I can do. With a big smile on her face, she turned to the other three passengers. “Alright, I’m going to get us to there,” she said, pointing to the far end of the lake with one hand, while the other firmly moved the navigation bar in the proper direction.

“And after that, pa you tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there. And bhaiya, you tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there. And mamma you too,” she rambled along.

“I’m the navigator,” she said proudly, oblivious to the tired looks exchanged by the others. This was going to be a long day of pedalling.

**************

A friend of mine once told me, maps were my happy place. Looking at maps, figuring out directions, and navigating from one point to another – these are all things I love doing. Sure, the most I’ve ever put this in practice is at amusement parks and the occasional (alright, once in a lifetime) walking tour of Montreal city with a friend. But the simple fact is, I like knowing my bearings, and the best way for me to do that is by looking at maps. Even when going on road trips, I love being the navigator, which is why I was very annoyed when the GPS came out. [Of course, it might be worth mentioning here that I have major motion sickness issues, so technically I can’t even look at a map while in the car, making the whole navigator role quite pointless.] Although, I have to accept now that the GPS allows me to understand maps in an entirely new way, which is exhilarating in its own way.

I remember telling a cousin once that I first need an aerial understanding of my whereabouts before I can figure out the street level directions. A frequent hazard of operating in this way is that I often talk in north-south-east-west while others talk in left-right. It’s made me realize how few people really understand directions in this manner. A friend once told me that wherever we face is north, and east, west, and south change accordingly [I swear I felt like throttling the friend at this point]. I find myself surprised that most people don't actually look at the sun to figure out which direction they're heading in on a regular basis (yes yes, I do that. Get over it). 

I'm not sure why I suddenly chose to write about the incident above. I think it might have something with constantly being met with incredulous expressions from people saying 'You mean you actually know directions?!' Or it might have a little something to do with a friend recently asking me to talk about something that I'm actually good at for a change. Or it might have something to do with gazing out at a lake here in Bhopal and the many pedal boats floating around on it. 

The Acceptance Letter

Dear Ms. Mittal,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

I stared at the words, clutching tightly on to the sheet of paper in my hands. I read the letter over several times, fixating on the first few words. It’s not real. You know it’s not real, I told myself over and over again. But even as I repeated the words, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement, and perhaps, a surge of hope.  What if…? No, it can’t be. But what if…? I bit my lips in an attempt to keep myself from squealing out loud, not out of concern for my fellow passengers, but to conceal this very important letter from everyone else. Of course, I didn’t realize that at the same moment, my brother was sitting on another berth of the train and reading a very similar letter addressed to him.

It’s been…maybe 13 years since this incident happened, since that 12-year-old version of me found a little envelope tucked into my bag on the train to Bangalore. My family and I had just spent a few days in Delhi with my cousin and her family, and were making the customary 2-days-2-nights journey back home. I had just been about to settle down with the fourth Harry Potter novel (having recently discovered the series), when I saw the envelope containing two letters. The first was, if I may take the liberty of calling it that, my Hogwarts acceptance letter. It was a good thing I opened that one first. The second was a letter from my cousin – a fellow Harry Potter enthusiast – explaining how she had always wanted to receive such a letter ever since she started reading the books, and that she thought my brother and I might have liked to get one too. I looked over at the berth on the side, and saw my brother grinning away at a piece of paper in his hands.

Now, those who’ve never read or enjoyed reading the Harry Potter books may not truly understand the significance of the moment. It’s just a bunch of kids trying to make themselves a part of some fantastical world. Well, yes, it is. But there’s a lot more to it than that. I know every person who has enjoyed these books would have had his own reasons for doing so. For me, I think the reasons had a lot to do with the idea of extraordinary – magical – things being possible in the life of an ordinary kid. And that’s what we all were. Ordinary kids. With ordinary problems. Stuck in an ordinary world. And these books took us into a world that was narrated to us from the point of view of a kid who was just as baffled and confused and scared as any of us, and over time, as this other world become more familiar and started to make sense, we fell in love with it. At least, I did.

And because this was a world that was knowable only to wizards and witches, of course it was entirely possible that it really did exist, and we muggles were just never aware of it. So that letter, that acceptance letter, was not so much about being told that you possessed magical powers (though that bit was cool too), but more about receiving an invitation to officially enter into this world that we loved, this time, not through someone else’s eyes, but our own.

I’m rambling, I know. But these books have that effect on me. As someone who has read all the books a countless number of times, jumped at the chance of answering any and every Harry Potter quiz out there, written an entire philosophy term paper based on these books, and proudly accepted the title of a Heek (Harry Potter Geek), I [and maybe the people around me] have to accept occasional hazard of being unable to stop talking about the books once I start.

But I’m not sure why I’ve been itching to write about this incident in particular for a while now. In all honesty, I’m quite sure I’d forgotten about it. Most likely, so have my brother and the cousin who gave me this letter. But recently, I heard someone say that it might be interesting to write something about the Harry Potter books in a children’s magazine, and all I kept thinking was – what else is there to be said that hasn’t been said already? And just like that, this memory resurfaced. [Perhaps it was prodded by a recent conversation with my brother on these books, or the fact that I recently travelled by train in India after almost 12 years].

It’s a memory that is simultaneously and bizarrely very personal and possibly far more universal than I can fathom. I mean, who knows? Maybe I’m not the only person to have dreamt of receiving the Hogwarts acceptance letter. And maybe I’m not the only person who ever did.

:D

The Death Day Celebration

[This is a story that I started writing a while back, but never got around to finishing. Right now, I'm not sure what it is: a stand-alone piece, or a work in progress. Either way, a friend suggested I should consider sharing it, so here it is.]

*********

“Why do people wait until after someone is dead to write a eulogy?”

Shefali looked up from her book at her friend, only to find her staring into space. “Because,” she replied, confused, “…that’s the definition of a eulogy.”

Riya looked unconvinced. “But think about it – what’s the point of getting together and saying all the good things about me after I am dead? It’s not like I can hear you.”

“So you’re saying we should have eulogies for people while they’re alive?”

“Why not?! That way, at least we know what are the good things others see in us. Imagine how nice that’ll make the person feel!”

Scribbling something quickly in her notebook, Shefali ripped out a small part of the paper and handed it over. “Fine, here’s my eulogy for you.”

“‘Riya, you’re weird’?!” she read from the paper. “I said good things!”

Shefali just shrugged and continued with her work. After a few minutes, she looked up. 

“So, if we wrote eulogies before your death, what would we do after you died?”

“I don’t know…think of all the good times we shared, laugh at all the weird moments, drink in my memory, and then move on with your life I guess.”

“Sounds more like a celebration.”

“Exactly.”

*********

“…was a dear student, and her presence is going to be sorely missed. A natural leader, she always took initiative in…” his voice droned on. Shefali couldn’t bring herself to even look at the university representative as he spoke, his words sounding hollow and meaningless. You didn’t know her. Just stop talking. She closed her eyes in an attempt to stop more tears from falling out, but it was a useless attempt.

“I’d now like to invite some of her close friends to come up here and say a few words about her.” The words seemed too far away to register in her mind. Flashes of the two of them sitting at the canteen interspersed with the sight of her blood-stained body on the hospital bed. Her breathing grew heavier, and she felt a fresh round of tears starting to form.

“Shefali. Shefali!” Joe whispered loudly next to her, nudging her in an attempt to get her attention. Opening her eyes, she saw that everyone was staring right at her, expressions reflecting understanding, sorrow and unease. Turning to face Joe, she looked at him questioningly, not bothering to wipe the tears.

“It’s your turn,” he said, nodding towards the stage.

She heard him, but couldn’t find it in herself to process the words. Slowly, she turned towards the stage, finding the university rep looking at her in impatience. Clenching her hands in an effort to control her emotions, she got up from her chair and walked towards him, refusing to look at the faces of all the students sitting in the large hall. With every step, the desire to run away from that room grew stronger, but she managed to make her way to the stage and took her place at the podium.

Looking up, the first thing she noticed was white. White shirts, white kurtas, white t-shirts, an occasional white sari. Those who could not manage to find white attire were trying subtly to blend in with beige and cream-coloured clothing. Riya loved blue, the thought came unbidden to her mind. Pull yourself out of it, she told herself. This isn’t a party. And the next second, another thought crept in…Riya would have loved a party.

‘Just say a few words about her’ they had told her. Few words…how on earth am I supposed to describe her in a few words? ‘Anything nice that you would have wanted her to know.’

“I met Riya during the first week of college,” she said softly, but the mic carried her voice to every corner of the room. “At first, I thought she was really dull and boring.” There were a few hesitant chuckles in the crowd, overshadowed by the silence. What am I doing here?! She screamed internally. Who are these people?! Most of them didn’t even know her. Why are they here?!

Just get through with it, and then you can leave. Shefali ploughed on. “As it turned out, she was neither of the two. She was caring, and helpful. She was always there for anyone who needed her. She was…” her voice faded out, as a memory that had been lingering in the edges of her mind became more prominent. For a few seconds, she stared at the crowd, seeing only the face of her best friend sitting on the canteen steps, reading a note on a paper and scrunching her face in mock-annoyance. The crowd shifted in their seats, unsure whether to interrupt or wait patiently.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter what she was like, because she can’t hear me right now,” Shefali said, her voice clearer than it had been for the last few minutes. “There’s no point in me standing here and talking about what a nice person she was. Those of you who knew her, you already know it. And those of you who didn’t, well, you missed out. That’s all there is to it. She’s gone. She can’t hear me. And this is the last thing she would have wanted.”

With that, Shefali walked off the stage quickly and strode towards the exit. No one stopped her. No one even knew how to respond. But it didn’t matter to her. For the first time in days, she could feel a sense of purpose returning to her.

**********

To: students, faculty, friends

Subject: Death day Celebration

Dear everyone

This email is with regards to Riya Sharma, who was a student at our university and who died in a car accident last week. For those of you who didn’t know her, please feel free to ignore the remainder of this mail.

I’ve spent the last one week being shocked, depressed, lost, crying my eyes out, cursing fate, questioning why, being angry, and mainly just missing my best friend. In short, I’ve been mourning.

But standing on that stage at the condolence meeting, I realized that Riya and mourning don’t go together. Riya was happiness, joy, laughter. She loved life, and the last thing she would have wanted is for us to stop loving ours on her account. She once said to me, “I want to be remembered in such a way, that every time someone thinks about me, it brings a smile to their face.”

We need to bring those smiles back, because what we owe her is our laughter, not our tears. And so, I’d like to invite all of you to Riya’s death day celebration. It’ll be an evening filled with her memories, a space to share your best moments with her, and of course, an occasion to drink to her wackiness (because let’s face it, any party according to her was incomplete without alcohol).

Dress code: preferably informal (since Riya hated formal wear), and bright colours. Go wild.

This Saturday, James Hall, Room 307.

Let’s send Riya off in style.

Shefali

************

The walls were decked in balloons. As she put up the last bunch of them up, Shefali wondered if she was overdoing it. After all, Riya hated balloons. She’d spend hours with her ears covered just in case there was a chance one of them might burst. Well, too bad for her. If she didn’t want them here, she should have been here herself to say it, she thought. Feeling the beginnings of anger and gloom, she shook her head and put up the last bunch. Maybe I’ll add a balloon bursting game just to piss her off.

As she looked around the hall, and some of her friends trying to pull it into a proper shape, she couldn’t stop the smile from creeping up her face. One wall was filled with pictures of Riya with friends and family. At another part of the wall, were random memories that they had jotted down, with space for many more. The music they had stolen from her own playlist – a random collection of old Bollywood classics and ridiculous catchy new tracks. And of course, an entire corner of the hall was filled with more than enough drinks to satisfy even Riya. Looking upwards, Shefali sent a little message to Riya. Bitch, you better enjoy this. You’re getting more bhav today than ever. 

Respect Your Elders

“I’ve never really understood this whole “respect your elders” thing. Personally, I think we should respect everyone unless they give us a reason not to, regardless of their age.”

Respect your elders

It’s what we were always told

Respect your elders

No matter what they do

Respect your elders

Even if they are wrong

Respect your elders

Even when they hurt you

Respect your elders

Even when they disrespect you

Respect your elders

Why?

Because they are your elders

So?

Respect them

Huh?

They know more

They’ve experienced more

They are right

Even when they are wrong

But doesn’t respect have to be earned?

No, they are your elders

But shouldn’t respect be deserved?

Doesn’t matter, they are your elders

What about people younger than - ?

Stop it. Just respect your elders

What does age have to do with - ?

It does. Respect them

So by surviving, they’ve earned my respect?

Stop asking, start respecting

Respect your elders

It’s what we were always told

Respect your elders

No matter what they do

Respect your elders

Even if they are wrong

Respect your elders

Even when they hurt you

Respect your elders

Even when they disrespect you

Respect your elders

Because they are your elders.

The Cord

Hey there little bro

Happy birthday!

Although, I suppose

Big bro would be more apt

You were, after all,

Born a few seconds before

I remember how eager

You were to get out

To take that first

Breath of fresh air

And as you left

That cord

The one that held us together

Snapped

And blood

Oh my god

So much blood

It spilled everywhere

Yours

Mine

All intermingling

All wasting

All flowing out

And as the blood overwhelmed me

Blinded me

You began to look different

No longer the companion

I had known all this time

I remember screaming

Asking you to stop

But somewhere

I couldn’t stop myself

And in that moment

I knew things had changed

Several decades have passed, brother

And you’ve hurt me

More than I could have imagined

Though if truth be told

I’m sure I’ve done the same

No sooner than we had taken our new breaths

Than we were fighting over the same toys

Crying new battle cries

All the while

Rubbing the scar on our sides

The one that got ripped

When you pulled apart

Or was it I

Who pushed you out

The scar that still bleeds

From time to time

Sometimes

I look back to the days

Before we were born

When we were one

Playing

Laughing

Dreaming

For a future

That had looked a bit different

Because this future

The one that’s become our past

And our present

This wasn’t what we had dreamed of

It’s been far too long

Living in this hatred

And I’ll admit

I never understood

That ripping us apart

Was actually

Your first breath on your own

A breath I resented

I was angry at you for leaving

Since you tore me in half

Angry at myself

For not being able to stop you

But it’s been 68 years, little bro

68 years

You realize how long it’s been

Since we played together

Laughed together

Dreamt together

Of a future

That’s different from our past

And our present

But I get it

Too much has changed

The hurt is too deep

I don’t ask for love

I don’t ask for the old days

But perhaps

An end of the hatred

An end of the hurt

And a moment

Where both of us

Can wish ourselves

A happy birthday

And actually mean it.

We, the Racists

You told me stories

Of Dark forces and Dark Lords

And all the while I thought

But…

You told them to avoid the sun

For fear of becoming dark

And all the while I thought

But…

You sang songs

Praising the fair skin of women

And all the while I thought

But…

You came to me for marriage

And looking at my skin, turned away

And all the while I thought

But…

You said fair is beautiful

You said fair is lovely

And all the while I thought

But…

You told me they were racists

Enslaving those of darker skins

And all the while I thought

But…

We, the Racists

I’ve been trying to think of a more creative and subtle title for this post, but, really, nothing seemed to sum up my opinion as well as this phrase. In case it’s still not clear enough though, I’m just going to come out and say it directly:

I think Indians are the most racist group of people I know.

The last time I mentioned this in a class discussion, I was met by some horrified, angry remarks. I get that they’re not easy to digest, but before you lash out in retaliation, take a few minutes to process the words.

No, I’m not saying Indians are the only racist people in the world. I grew up on stories from the west of the dark evil queens and the fair innocent princesses. Even some of my favourite sagas have built their entire plots on the basis of the dark side of the force and the dark lord (though, to be fair, Harry Potter does also have an extremely evil character that prefers pink and frills).

But Indians take this obsession with fairness to such a great level that it’s ridiculous.

From the moment we’re born, we’re judged on the basis of our skin colour (amongst various other things). We’re told again and again to ensure that we either don’t become darker, or else do everything within our power (and often beyond) to lighten the skin. We spend half our lives watching celebrities sell us fairness creams, and the other half applying said creams.

Why? Because fair is lovely.

And this doesn’t end in childhood. In their long list of “wanted qualities” in marriage advertisements, the need for a “fair girl” will surely be in the top three requirements – possibly competing with a particular caste and an intact hymen. People who come to the wedding will often congratulate the groom’s family for getting “a beautiful and fair bride.”

Why? Because fair is lovely.

One argument that these advertisers and fairness cream manufacturers make is that they’re not creating the racist attitude – it already exists. They’re just responding to the need of the masses and helping out the people who need such products.

It’s not like they have the power to affect or shape minds.

It’s not like people will care when their favourite celebrities endorse fairness as a better way of life.

It’s not like anyone will ever make the subtle connection from “fair and lovely” to “dark and…?”

On the brighter side, it's not just "fair and lovely" anymore. Thanks to our extremely sensitive and considerate media and manufacturers, we now also have a ""fair and handsome"! After all, "mard ho toh mardon wali cream lagao!" [a whole other issue that I'll stay out of for now].

Granted, we don’t exactly put people into slavery for having darker skin, but that doesn't mean we're not guilty of racism. Were just less overt about it. In India, the racist sentiments have been so subtly (and often not-so-subtly) embedded in our minds since birth that we don’t even feel the need to question them. It becomes a way of life, such that we can comfortably watch advertisements on how using a fairness cream will ensure that everything falls into place in our lives, while we condemn and criticize “those racist American bastards” for their oppression of the blacks.

Hypocrisy, anyone?

It’s amazing how far we can go to convince ourselves that “we” are such a great nation who are above  all that.

We, the people.

We, the Indians.

We, the racists.

Would You Care?

If the world was ending today

Would you care

If the person standing next to you

Was dark or fair

Or fat or thin

Or tall or short

Or had a curved or a straight nose

Was a he or a she

Or somewhere in between.

If you found out

That these were the last few moments left

Would you care

If the hand holding yours

Was born within different borders

Danced in a different manner

Spoke a different tongue

Prayed a different way

Or didn’t pray at all.

If your fearful eyes found solace

In another offering warmth

Would you care if those eyes

Had seen different things

Cried on different occasions

Smiled at different worlds

Had had different hopes

Or if those eyes

Couldn’t see at all.

If these moments were the last

Would you carry banners

Denouncing those of a different race

Or region

Or country

Or religion

Or skin

Or sexuality

Or customs

Or clothes

Or weight

Or height

Or hair

Or nose

Or eyes

Or the shape of that speck of dirt on their cheek?

Or would you

Grab the first hand

Hold on to it tightly

Comfort and be comforted

And savour your last breath?

*

*

*

*

*

Would you care?

On Shit

Yes yes, you read the title correctly, and it isn’t a typo either. It does, in fact, say ‘on shit’ and not ‘oh shit’, because this post is neither a result of momentary fear nor an ode. It’s more of…a pondering, you might say, on the lovely topic of shit. So for those queasy readers, I’d suggest stopping here.

How did I come about this topic? Well, it really comes down to a conversation with a cousin of mine last night, an extremely understanding one who called me to check up on his poor sister who had been having four days of constant and extreme diarrhoea. When he got time between his maniacal laughter, he asked me why I had stopped blogging, and I told him that I didn’t have anything to blog about. His response: “blog about shit”. And being the oh-so-ever obedient person that I am, I decided to follow his suggestion after he assured me that he for one would definitely want to read this post. And so we reach here.

Let’s begin with the philosophy of shit. No, I don’t mean a ponderous curiosity on “what is shit?” If you do want to begin there, Wikipedia has an extremely detailed and explicit article answering that question, along with several others. Neither do I wish to adopt a Descartes-like stance and blurt statements like “I shit, therefore I am.” Though it might actually be true, but four days of doing only that might definitely make you question the reason of your existence rather than validate it.

But really, the question I am more interested is – why does the subject of shit make us so squeamish? Dogs shit all over the place without a care for who is looking. Fine, so for humans it’s a private act, but why is it such a taboo subject? We all do it [revert to the Descartes-inspired-phrase above]. How come we can talk about bloody gory murders and whatnot but not about shit? How come every time one of my little kids would run up to me asking permission to go to the toilet for this, I would cringe thinking “too much information.” On a side note, I have often wondered what is the socially respectable way of saying shit? Take a dump? Crap? Do number 2 [I really want to know who came up with this one]? Excrete faeces?

See, the reason I find this topic quite fascinating is that for all the squeamishness surrounding it, I have bonded with a lot of friends over this subject. Whether it’s empathizing with each other over “loosies” or discussing with utmost reverence the importance of shit in our lives, and with even more reverence debating the “toilet paper versus mugga” issue – it’s all been done. And what I recall from all those conversations is not flinching and awkwardness, but rather, a sense of comfort that automatically dumps itself on you when you know you can have such conversations. It’s like crossing a barrier – a rather shitty one.

As much as I would love to go on about the subject, I am afraid diarrhoea calls, and I must go validate my existence, again.

May the force be with you [not applicable to those having loose motions].

The Green Sofa

It first caught our attention several years ago, seeming a little out of place in its environment. It sat there, royally, ignorant to all the hustle-bustle around it. The green was not bright enough to be flashy, yet its dullness was somewhat dimmed by the largely duller surroundings. Its seat looked really soft; the kind that tempted you to want to jump down heavily on it. Of course, we didn’t know at the time that the sofa was a mascot for the ‘appearances can be deceiving’ slogan. It was one of those things you had to find out for yourself, apparently, as you massaged your rather disappointed behind.

Okay, I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I mean, let me say it straight up – I hate this green sofa. It’s a sofa situated in the departure terminal of Kuwait’s airport, and is the sofa that my family tends to sit on and have a last chat before the final farewell. What started as a pleasant surprise soon turned into a tradition, and I found myself, with every departure, grudgingly making my way to this sofa. Why grudgingly? That’s a little hard to explain. I think it has something with not liking those final conversations; there’s an air of the looming departure hanging over your head, so ever little bit of talk seems really forced. It’s as though you are suddenly sitting there to have a few more minutes with each other, but the price of those few minutes is awkward conversation. I’m not a big fan of long drawn-out goodbyes, so I found myself hating that particular sofa with a vengeance.

That green sofa is long gone from the airport, and here I am, sitting by myself at my departure gate in Kuwait for the last time, writing what sounds to me almost an ode to that bloody sofa. Who would have thunk?

It’s weird. Kuwait’s not my home. It stopped being my home 9 years ago. The country is alien to me. Every time I visited, I was much happier inside the house than outside. If anything, that house where my parents live, where I used to live, is my home. And I’ve just spent the last few days packing up every little piece of that house as my parents prepared to leave. Yesterday, we were staring at a house filled with cartons packed to the brim. Today, it was nothing but empty walls (and the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the container). That’s 13 years’ worth of our lives stuffed into a container, or dispersed around. 13 years. That’s more than half my life. See, now that is what I should be writing an ode to. The house. My home. That sense of belonging.

But no. Instead, all I can write about right now is a bloody green sofa. No, I don’t miss it. I don’t even like it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe because the last 9 years, every time I have come to Kuwait, it was with a sense that I would soon be leaving it. And every time I sat on that sofa, it was with a sense that I would soon be back. But this time, there’s no going back. That’s a weird thought. It’s not happy or sad. It’s just different. Weird.

I tell you, these departure lounges have a weird effect on me. They make me introspective in a way similar to sunsets and all that. Of course, by the time I post this, I would be too far away from this gate to actually care, so I thought it would be best that I wrote this while the sofa was still hovering around my mind.

Adios Kuwait.

न जाने क्यों

जब सुनसान एक पहाड़ पर बैठो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

जब उभरते डूबते सूरज को देखो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

जब नदियों को पत्थरों से टकराते सुनो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

जब हवा में पत्तियों को झूलते देखो
तब ज़िन्दगी याद आती है

लेकिन जब ज़िन्दगी जीने की दौड़ में घुसो
तब न जाने, ज़िन्दगी कहाँ खो जाती है

*******

Written, standing on a hill top, gazing out, with nothing but silence all around.
Like I've said before, there's something about New Year's, Sunsets and Birthdays that make you so reflective.

तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

Because sometimes, I need to convince myself to do the things I want...

माना घर में अपनों के होने का एहसास है
बचपन से लेकर अब तक हर लम्हे कि छाँव है
तू उस छाँव की आड़ से बाहर देख तो सही
फ़ाटक के दरवाज़े को ज़रा खोल तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना रास्तों में पत्थर भी हैं, कंकड़ भी
पैरों में काँटों के घुसने के आसार भी
तू उन काँटों को सहने की कोशिश कर तो सही
उबलती रेत को कदमों से महसूस कर तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना रास्ते अक्सर टेढ़े हैं, सीधे नहीं
पलख झपकते योंही कहीं खो जाते कभी
तू खुद रास्ते से भटककर देख तो सही
पहाड़ों में कोई नयी दिशा बना तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

 माना सफर अकेला है, डरावना भी
चेहरा हर एक नया है, अंजाना भी
तू उस अन्जान से दोस्ती कर के देख तो सही
अपने आप में ज़रा खुद को ढूंढ तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना दूर तक मंज़िल का कोई निशान  नहीं
निशान  क्या, मंज़िल की ना कोई पहचान भी
तू मंज़िल को छोड़, रास्ते में जी कर देख तो सही
घाँस की ठंडी ओंस पर लेटे, तारों को देख तो सही
समुन्दर की लेहरों में कूद तो सही
खुली हवा में साँस ले तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

*****

Inspired by the man who loves pyjamas, the fellow poet, and a recent trip.

"I want to travel. You know, the kind where there's no planning, or too much thinking."
"That's the best kind of travel. The only kind, I think. Otherwise, it's a vacation."

The Man who Dared to Fly

Every once in a while, you come across someone who inspires you. I lucked out. This person never stops inspiring me. This post is dedicated wholeheartedly, completely, unabashedly to that person.

There once was a man

Who dared to say I can

My dreams I will fulfil

I refuse to sit down still

A second I won’t waste

And every colour I will taste

Why walk when I can dance

Why not grab every chance

Why keep waiting for a plan

Why not when I can

But wait, said the world

Its wings dusty and curled

We have certain rules

To keep in line you fools

You can’t just burst into song

In a group if you belong

You’ll stumble, you will fall

You won’t fly, you’ll have to crawl

This isn’t the time yet to fly

So don’t even bother to try

But his dance had already begun

And his song couldn’t be unsung

The canvas and brush had met

The paint had started to spread

His flight they could not stop

His wings they could not crop

Flying up towards the sky

He soared, he soared high

Peace filled his mind

He had left the herd behind

He won’t last, they all said

As they slowly continued to tread

For now, he can flutter about

But soon the excitement will fade out

He’ll realize he’s all alone

And then he’ll sit and moan

He’ll beg for a place to land

Then we’ll make our stand

We’ll show him we were right

He was wrong to make his flight

But the words were hollow, not true

As every second, his passion grew

They worried about him going astray

While all along, he made friends on the way

Together, they danced and sang

And all around, their echoes rang

Caring not, what the future would give

This was one life they meant to live

Appreciating every second of the beauty passing by

This was the group that dared to fly.