Responsible Behaviour

Everyone has only one thing to say when you get married or are about to. Okay two things. Two words, to be precise. Stability and responsibility. The two most boring words in the dictionary.

Then why do people do it? Get married, I mean. For S&R? Bleh. It is these responsible and stable adults who make marriage sound utterly boring. Screw S&R, I got married for fun and friendship. I got married for multiple F-words. How very irresponsible of me. Ha!

Think about it. Look around you at responsible people. What do they look like? What do their faces look like? The only lines on their faces are the unhappy, unseemly ones. I'd rather have laugh lines, or whatever they are called. Stability too, is overrated. A happy unpredictability is a must in any relationship, I say. Ah, when you don't know what the next day is going to be like - filled with wild, screechy, angry noises or, happier, wilder, err... pleasanter noises.

I married to be free and not tied down, and maybe that's why I don't feel that way. I read somewhere yesterday that Keira Knightley feels liberated by marriage. I feel that on most days. And frustrated on others. Marriage is a fine line between liberation and frustration. Remember to quote me on that.

To the Bakery

This is an introduction to another character in this story. I don't know her yet, but I'm waiting to find out. I think I like her. I'm sure you weren't expecting this after Destination Parenthood. I wasn't either!

To the Bakery!

I clear out the kitchen counter to make room for my new machine. But before I place it ever-so-gently on the counter, I give it a tight hug and a slight peck on its shiny steel surface where it reads KichenAid. Aah! No better words have ever been written! 'Imagine what beauties we will bake together, my pretty!' I am busy relishing this moment when a flash of white light blinds me.

‘If you’d only ever hold me so close! Now I’m a bit worried about gifting you this!’ Mayank says smilingly and then proceeds to click a dozen more photos of me and my beloved. I unabashedly display my affection for my new love and happily pose away.

‘I think you should give it a name. And a gender too. Please let it not be a man! And don’t call it Shahrukh, or it’s going right back to the store!’

‘Damn, that was my first option: SRK 2012.’ I raise my eyebrows and pout my lips in plea and he bends forward and pretends to put my beloved back in its terrible box and take it away. ‘Nahiiii,’ I shout dramatically. Just as Mayank prepares his juicy filmy retort, his phone rings. He places the machine back on the counter, pecks me on the cheek and leaves to take the call.

‘Just you and me then, Shahrukh…’ I plonk myself next to my birthday present and begin reading the instruction manual.

Destination Parenthood

Hi, I feel a new story brewing within me but I don't quite know what it is presently. Would you like to join me on this journey till the end? Don't know what will happen next really. I'm writing it as I post. But do keep your feedback coming. And remember, this is FICTION! Here goes section one:

Destination Parenthood.

‘It’s like I have two hearts now. One that belongs to my wife, and the other belongs to her,’ he says as he holds his three-year-old close to him.

I smile vaguely. I must, I suppose or what would he think of me? Haw! A mother to be who has simply no interest in his experience of parenthood? Despicable! I really want to roll my eyes at him but I dare not.

There are so many things I want to say to him: Hey, hello, good for you but I’m not interested. And so what, everyone has a child…what’s so special about you and yours? And finally, I’m just three weeks pregnant and I don’t get any of this. Truth be told, I never wanted this … this child, anyway.

All right, hold the bus. Don’t go all judgemental on me. We thought about it. You know, about letting ‘it’ go, terminat … okay, that’s too harsh a word… but well we discussed it. And I’m not ashamed of that, even though the whole time all I heard was my mum gasping from heaven. We just weren’t ready. I still am not. But here we are, three weeks and an ultrasound later, listening to Gopi chacha’s fatherly adventures. Sigh.

‘The first few months are actually the easiest and the toughest at the same time…’ Rita chachi’s voice phases in and out. The first few months once the baby is here – out – ouch – and here we are three weeks into the pregnancy. I can’t even imagine my life once this baby comes! I’m freaking out. I try to catch Abhishek’s eye and pray that the fake telepathy we claim to have becomes real for just one second. Look at me. Look. At. Me.

His telepathy with the samosa is much stronger, as it turns out. Why am I not surprised? Okay, must find a way to change the topic on my own – I am a confident, strong, independent woman, I say to myself. Go. ‘Aur, chachi, when do you plan to join back work?’ And suddenly, I’ve got more attention than I can handle. Oops.

The Joys of Masihood

Someone asked me recently how it felt to be a masi. I answered thus: I feel like a mom, almost.

That’s what it is, I guess. Ma jaise…but not quite. It is like experiencing motherhood through your sister. And how lucky I feel to be able to watch both my sister and niece grow each day. And I see a dad being born too. But me, I have always been a masi – I am convinced. Have we ever lived without this scrumptious little treat, this beautiful little doll, our Janya? How?

Ah, the joys of masihood…watching a baby grow and watching your sister transform into someone you never thought possible. This must be what they call ‘the miracle of birth’, for isn’t it a miracle how one tiny life can change so many people?

Run, Forrest, Run!

I've been running - prepping for the 10K run in October but I'm afraid I haven't made much headway yet. The thing I find toughest is being consistent and I think that's why I am not able to break my 3K run. Speed isn't great either and by the time I hit 3.5K, in Murakami's words, 'my legs start to scream'.

But I haven't given up. I am going to keep trying. While reading 'What I Talk About When I Talk About Running' I came across a passage that really motivated me and directly addressed my problem of consistence and persistence. This is what he says:

"I never take two days off in a row. Muscles are like work animals that are quick on the uptake. If you carefully increase the load, step by step, they learn to take it. As long as you explain your expectations to them by actually showing them examples of the amount of work they have to endure, your muscles will comply and gradually get stronger. It doesn't happen overnight. But as long as you take your time and do it in stages, they won't complain - aside from the occasional long face - and they'll very patiently and obediently go stronger. Through repetition you input your muscles the message that this is how much work they have to perform. Our muscles are very conscientious. As long as we observe the correct procedure, they won’t complain."

This is a lot like how our mind works too...and how channels and habits of thinking are created. We must not be slaves to our mind...and our mind mustn't be a slave to our muscles! Got to show 'em who's boss!

In more exciting news, I've bought myself a Pedometer I lovingly call speedy peedy (don't ask why). This way I can run in the open and still keep a track of things and that's a good thing.

Run for Sanity

I thought, hey, it’s time to start a new blog. And then I realized I already have one with an apt name for my latest passion. I am still in search of sanity, and I’m making a run for it.

Hi guys, it’s been long since I wrote … I think I’ve lost ‘it’ but whatever ‘it’ is, I’m going to get it back because, well, writing was always the first love of my life. And that’s why I hate it so much. Confused? Join the club.

So what brings me back? I’m training for a 10k run in October. Ten k, you say? What’s the biggie in that, you wonder? Well, I had started off thinking I’d run a marathon, that’s back when I thought 10k was the length of the marathon! Ha! It’s not! A marathon is about 42 kms! Who the hell can run for 42 kms! Apparently, lots of people do!

I’m starting small. I have never been a runner all my life. You remember how our ‘physical training’ teachers in school would make the entire class run around the field twice, maybe three during ‘P.T. period’, just as a formality? Well, that too was a struggle for me. Even at that age. And I am ashamed of it. There are many things I wished I could do in my life, one of them was to be able to run. Makes you think, huh?

I have spent the last one and half years trying to get myself into shape. This meant I would go for a walk for 20 to 30 mins every other day, for some time I joined aerobics classes which took place thrice a week for an hour, and again later I joined a gym where we did varied things every day, from kick boxing to weight training, interval training … the works. My stint at the last gym lasted about four months and it was more rigourous. It was while working out here that I discovered my dream of being a runner could become a reality. You see, the instructor was just feeling lazy one day and asked us to jog around the hall for 10 mins. Yeah, right! Ten minutes, continuously! I won’t be able to do this. The last time I had tried to run on the treadmill, I had to stop after about three mins because I would get breathless. But guys, I ran. I ran for ten mins and I could keep going.

This may sound silly to people who are fitter than me, or generally fit. Do you guys know you are a dying species, by the way?

All I need right now: my two legs, shoes,
 Murakami and  lots and lots of water :)

Anyway, it’s week two of training. In the first week, I jogged for two kilometres continuously, which took me about twenty minutes. I have ramped it up to two and a half in about thirty minutes. Today I ran in the park for forty minutes and I feel good. I usually run on the treadmill – saves me from the weather and lets me keep a check on the time, speed and distance covered – it’s easier, I realized, than running in the open. Since the marathon will be on the road, I have decided to run outside at least once a week.

I don’t know if I’ll make it but in all this, I really hope I transform into a runner. I’m not much of a go getter, more of an easy-going gal, so I can only pray that this passion stays on. But for now, I’m on the move and happy!

My message for today: DON’T TAKE YOUR LEGS FOR GRANTED! 

Dots of Life

I touch the leaves

Press the flowers between my fingers

Circle the garden and look outside the gate

cars are passing.

I find a stone sitting carelessly near my feet and draw patterns in the sand that fills the flower pots

The flowers bend towards me with curiosity

I carelessly drop the prehistoric pen leaving the flowers to study their new decorations

I hear a car honking and I rush to peep over the garden wall

It pauses lightly and then turns away

I do too, and begin writing on the bricks with small pieces of a broken pot.

No one's coming home to see me today 

Fighting Fire

The scene was set. It was that time of day when neither day or night exists. It was moments before dawn would break and shatter the wholeness of the dark night. The two kings stood facing each other, separated only by the thin line that distinguishes light from dark and day from night.

Like fire he burned, bright and golden, his steady arms radiating that shine and power possessed only by the sun. His fierce eyes, rimmed with dark kohl looked restlessly ahead at his enemy. The time of beckoning was here. One could not see his features clearly for there was a strong light illuminating from him, but mainly because he was their king and they feared him deeply. They had heard that in the battlefield, a brief look at King Agni could lead to a death so painful, that even the Gods dared not to show mercy on the dying man. It was hard to believe that that same king of kings was the provider of their world of warmth.

In the black of the space stood firmly King Shvet, poised like a statue, cold white fumes emanating from his body clad in silver armour. He stood still, much like the stillness of a cold winter's night. If one looked very carefully, occasionally one could trace white puffs of air flowing out of his lips, indicating any signs of life.

Just as the moon and sun adorned the sky, time stood still and the battle cry was sounded.

To Agni, it was a distant call. He was already in the air and his clawed hands were raised above his head. His body blocked a part of the infant sun as he met the king of the night at the line of change in the sky. Shvet's once immobile body now moved with sharp swiftness. His silver armour shone and clinked as it cut through the cold air. Heat thrust itself forward towards the icy night and the spectators helplessly witnessed this wondrous display of light and dark, the red flames meeting the silver fumes with sparks.

The might king dropped to the ground, cracking it where he fell. The line began to blur.

I woke up to greet a brand new day.

Ek Baar, Akele

Kabhi apni parchai se bhaag jaane ka mann chahta hai
Run, like no one's looking
Go away, without caring
Nobody calling out to me, to just vanish like I have always been invisible...

Itni bheed mein lagta hai main gum hoon
Ab tanhai mein khudko khone ka mann karta hai
I find myself dissolving into the crowd...afraid that I am not who I thought I was
Convinced, that I am not who you see
I want to dive into depths of myself while no one watches

Kabhi chashma uttaar ke dekha to sab dikhne laga
Kabhi sheeshe mein khudko dekha toh laga koi hai jise mein janti hee nahi
Take away the mirrors, take away these things that surround me
Even my reflection, my shadow...There is no one's company I seek

Aaj maine ek akela panchi udte hue dekha
Aur achanak se apni yaad aa gayi
In that moment I felt like I am missing out
Could I ever dare to go missing?

Pehli baar, imaarto ki beech sukoon mila
Logo ke nahi, 
Is there a somewhere where no love, no friendship
Can even touch me?

Aaj apne naa hone pe yakeen aane laga
In a crowd, I went looking for me.

Feeling Mumbastic: When it rained like Mumbai in Delhi

This morning was quite a wet one. Wild Wild Wet, I'd say. Delhi's not the most prepared for any sort of emergency, natural or man-made, in spite of the fact that it's the capital. So rain like this is both disastrous and hilarious.

It was quite a sight. My mom and the maid were running around the house with piles of newspaper and a puny, squeezed out dusting cloth. All the doors and windows of the house were open and the water came pouring in, as if in buckets. The electricity went out and within a few minutes the invertor gave in. So now we couldn't help but open a few doors to let the light in. My sister was shouting at my mother in concern since water and marble aren't really mom's best friends. My mom, on the other hand, was too caught up in saving her house from drowning. We live on the first floor.

Since my sister, jijoo and I had to leave (it seems strange now why we just had to leave), all the umbrellas in the house were gathered and distributed. By all I mean two. A third one was reserved by mom for the purpose of house conservation. There was brief dialogue over why going to the passport office in such weather was imperative (for didoo and jijoo) and why office work could not be done from home (for me). Fast distracted by the tonnes of water falling from the sky, the conversation was submerged under the sound of cloud bursts and we all left. While sharing an umbrella, my sister and I (of course the damaad gets his individual one) found ourselves drenched from front and back respectively.

As soon as we got into the car, the impended dialogue resumed. Why were we going anywhere, my sister asked. I was busy laughing. Jijoo desperately wiped the screen of the car while he drove.

I made it to office somehow and the parking was now submerged. Getting in was quite a treat. A welcoming committee of housekeeping boys and guards stood at the gates, furiously sweeping the water out from the main entrance. My CEO was the only other person in office. I walked to my desk drenched from head to toe and looked down.

I was wearing my bathroom slippers.    

I am Generation Why Not?

Aren't we a very 'public' generation? They call us generation 'Y' but I'd say we are more the generation 'Y NOT?' Seriously, nothing is off the table.

I don't quite mean it as a compliment. I mean, I guess it has its benefits but how open is too open? And honestly, it's a bit scary when everything goes.

We update every breath we take on facebook and twitter, but no one really knows who we are. You may have 1200 friends on facebook but only 1 or 2 are with you when you need friends. The world knows where you went on vacation, but no one cares to know why a vacation was needed in the first place.

We talk about sex like it's a new flavour of ice candy available at the corner of every street. We wear less, talk more, stay out and don't know where we come from. We like noise, we like speed, we blink faster. We love colours. Our senses are out of control. We talk of peace a lot. About wanting it for the world, but we hate silence. We tell people we don't know that we love them. We love but we don't care.

We stand for everyone's truths because it's convenient not to stand for anything. We revel in ignorance and call it being chilled out. We really know how to chill out. We hang out. We pass out. We freak out. Inside is not a place we know. Inside is not where we go for answers.

We are easy. Sometimes, we are easy-going. We see the bigger picture and forget the minor details. We click a lot of pictures. We are cool because we don't care. We don't care about what we wear and what we say. We use people and words carelessly. We think innocence is passe and so by the time we are twenty, we are actually thirty-one.

We pout. We kiss and tell. We laugh out loud. We paint towns red. We hoard. We are outsiders to ourselves. We 'have a life' because we party. We live on virtual websites.

Eyes Wide Open

Some days are not ordinary. Some are just about average. Some exceed your expectations and on some, you barely make it through. Today is one of those and all those days.

I woke up in the morning feeling inadequate, unhappy and dissatisfied. There is nothing that I am doing wrong but nothing felt right. I don't suppose anyone can relate to this bizarre emotion, perhaps everyone can. But that doesn't matter much today. Nothing does. This feeling of restlessness is all-consuming and selfish.

On most days I forget why I am here. I forget what I want and what I want to do. These days turn into months and then years. Then finally a day like today appears and I am filled with sorrow and helplessness. I don't ask any questions today because I know the questions and I can clearly see the answers. But I am overwhelmed by the wave of time that has overtaken me and this emotion that leaves me without warning, without a snooze alarm, awakening me less often than it does. Yes, comfort is comfortable. And contentment is overrated.

Someone else operates me today. I am not who I am when I am sleeping the rest of the days. Perhaps this is who I am really, and must be at all times. But sleeping comes naturally, and waking is such an effort. And I waste today in pin-pricking myself into wakefulness that I want should last this lifetime. Poke. Poke. Poke.

Eyes wide open.

Harry Potter will always be 'the boy who lived'

So I just saw the last Harry Potter movie (Deathly Hallows Part II) and still recovering from it. This is an important moment in life right here, not just for me but I think for many of us.

The first time I had picked up a Harry Potter was when I was in class VI, around 12 years old. At 22, Harry Potter has been a part of my life for ten years, and will be forever more. In a sense we've all grown up together, Harry and me, Ron, Hermione and the rest of the gang at Hogwarts. We've seen Sirius enter Harry's life and then leave, we've seen the wise Dumbledore lead and die and we've seen the end of Voldemort.

This being an emotional moment, here's a list of five things I will miss about Harry Potter:

1. Dumbledore

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
1881-1997

The wise old man of Hogwarts will be missed most by me. My favourite character with the best, deepest dialogues. I feel sad but I must remember, in Dumbledore's own words, "For the intelligent mind, death is yet another adventure." Thank you, professor, for everything.

Tom Marvolo Riddle
Lord Voldemort
1926-1998

2. Voldemort
You-Know-Who will always remind me of all that is wrong and evil. How power corrupts and how there is always a choice and that choice makes all the difference. Truth alone triumphs. every, single, time.

3. Magic & Quidditch
I will miss the spells, some of my favourite ones being 'accio', patronus charm, and also the dark arts. No other sport will be ever as exciting as Quidditch on brooms. Will also be missed: Snitch and Firebolt.

4. Hogwarts
This magical world of Hogwarts. Moving portraits, living ghosts, magical feasts, moving staircases; what a school. One question: Will I get admission?





5. Dementors
These terribly fascinating creations. Two thumbs up to Rowling for having created something as frightening as these flying skeletons in cloaks. Brilliantly depressing stuff.



There are so many other things, but this is all I can think of right now and it's tough to type with tears in ones eyes. This is a series of books I will preserve and make my kids read. This is a series that defines our generation. This is my classic. I heart Harry Potter. Forever.

Bi-Cycle Diaries

So, I am twenty-two, and I am learning how to ride a bicycle. I can understand how amusing this could be for all you bicycling experts out there, who mastered this art (yes, art) at ages 7, 8 and 9. Clearly, I felt at that age I had better things to do than cycle and it was only till very recently that I realized what I was missing out on.

A few days back I decided I wanted to cycle. I don’t know why I wanted it, how I could achieve it and when I’d do it, all I knew was that I wanted to cycle. In the words of Freddie Mercury, ‘I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike.’

Step one was to arrange for a bike. That was going to be the only difficulty, I had thought. One phone call and that was taken care of. Step two, find a teacher – that was easy, my boyfriend readily agreed, even when it was decided the time to cycle would be 6 am (true love, huh?). What a sport. Step three was to bike.

Day One: It’s ALL about the bike

The wake up call was dreadful. Neither of us wanted to get up and were waiting for the other to cancel. But somehow we were on the road, the new cycle by our side and on the road by 0602.

I don’t care what Lance Armstrong says, for me, it was all about the bike: because it was too high for me. I had to hop on every time and it was tough to ride, knowing I may not be able to touch my feet. It’s funny, I was scared of falling, if only a few inches!

It was a workout, for me and Aman. More so for him, because he had to hold the bike and run beside me, and hold it again as my steering wavered and I headed towards a neighbour’s BMW.

He says he let go for full three seconds and I steered well, right before heading abruptly towards my right and falling. I figured that was progress.

I needed to rest so I stopped. Rest for Aman, or in this case any cycling expert, meant, well, cycling. I can’t believe my Everest is his leisurely, walk in the park.

I know it’s going to get more frustrating as we go along. I may fall and I know I will get impatient. I have learnt an important fact of life on day one: no one likes abrupt breaks on their path to freedom or happiness (or anything that resembles them). It is only satisfying if it is a smooth ride. And right now, my ride is far from smooth.

But I am happy. I am doing something I gave up long back. I don’t know if this is worth writing about, but then everything is. One thing is for sure, this diary is to remind me of a moment, an episode in my life where I decided to learn something new, and hopefully, irrespective of my age, I will continue to do so.

I have been coming up with some theories as to why I want cycle, all of a sudden, out of the blue. I feel it may have something to do with wanting to complete unfinished businesses, tie the loose ends. I may have given up on things worth holding on to and not given up on things and people I should have fast let go of.

As I grow older, I am coming to realize the lack of control I have on my life or anyone else’s for that matter. The only thing I want to control for now, is that steering. I want to ride my bicycle. Perhaps, this is a call of nature, my nature, an expression of my innate child-likeness, the need to be free, to be faster than I am on my two feet, with the wind singing songs in my ears.

And my last theory, it is the need to achieve something tangible, to conquer a skill, and as I said earlier, to finish something I should have a long time ago. But will I? 

Mera joota hai Japani and all that

Songs from the dinosaur era blared on the radio and I was forced to listen. What was worse, I was forced to appreciate. You had to, when you were visiting an uncle who had a cute son whose attention you would do anything for. Pretending to like archaic music was the least of my worries right now.

Col S.P.S. Khanna, aka Laali uncle sat in his arm chair sipping on his whisky (on the rocks) and I sat facing him, on the close-to-comfortable sofa chair with a glass of roohafsa in my hand. Roohafsa, I had realized over the years, was the safest drink at a family gathering. It suggested you were amiable, you didn’t drink ‘hard drinks’ – which meant you were a ‘good girl’ – and most of all, it meant you were born of this generation, but comfortable with things of the past. Yes, roohafsa was the perfect mending-the-generation-gap drink.

Laali uncle was a man of few words, and too many drinks. In our family circle, drinking had always been his thing. The first few moments with him were always a little tense and awkward. There would be monosyllablic conversation, mostly yeses and nos, and an occasional ‘very fine, very fine’. But then, after he had downed his fourth drink, I would see a transformation, a metamorphoses; soon, our Laali uncle would be narrating stories of his army days, his eyes so bright and his decibel level so high, most others would stop talking and listen in rapt attention. Another drink and the music would get louder and he would be humming tunes, another and he would be singing along. Once, he actually took off his left shoe, held it in his right hand and with his drink in the left, he danced to ‘Mera joota hai Japani’! My mother later joked about how he had changed his mind about taking his trousers off (since the song also said, ‘Ye patloon Inglistani’), since both his hands were preoccupied.

After drink number seven, you’d see uncle twirling around on the floor, his arms spread out, like a sufi in a trans. By the time the night was over, Laali uncle would be nothing like the original. He became the showstopper, the performer, and we, an enthralled audience. I often suspect he was the reason I became inclined to drinking; that glass of whisky, an elixir, a magic potion of transformation.

I looked at my glass of gulaabi liquid in contrast to uncle’s jewel gold one and sighed.

Just then, there was a loud clambering sound, as if to break the silence (uncle was on his second drink only), and he walked in. My stomach lurched into my lungs and an involuntary gush of breath left my mouth. Short, spiked brown-black hair, perfect Greek god-ish cheek bones, a slightly podgy nose, chaffed lips (oh those lips!), and a tiny goatie peeping from underneath, sheltered by his lower lip’s voluptuous curve. I felt a sudden urge to tickle it and I wondered why. This man was perfection. He wore a plain black tee with jeans and held a givson in his right hand. Before I could study the details of what possibly hid under the tee, he spoke. And I melted. In my head, a tiny version of me broke into a slow dance.