Creeper: II

On the damp wall, gray slate rooved,
an unexpected visitor
is meekly cowering.
And from the dusty windowsill,
of the mothballed room,
transfixed, I stand watching.
The creeper, crawling its way up,
abhors the welcome
extended by the existing, botanical tribe.
Climbing high, its focus is unwavering.
And in the dying light
of the winter sun,
the creeper spreads its darkness.
Eclipsing the shadows
of the wall's previous tenants.
The creeper is alive,
its heart, like mine, is beating
through the concrete and granite,
I hear a swift, sonorous throbbing.
The creeper's movements leave behind
onyx stains on the walls,
like entwined inky veins
sprouting on taut skin
of fists clenched into balls.
From the heart of the house,
through the window, I watch,
the slow dance.
The crawling creeper, inching closer,
urges my pen to write
the eulogy hanging from its tip.
It consumes, one by one,
and all the old lives are gone.
Like a finished sentence and a resolved fight.
Suddenly, with not even a quantum of light
to flicker off its sharp edges,
the kinife plunges swift in darkness.
The creeper is beheaded.
I smile, rejoicing in the bloodless massacre.
The heaving mansion, having had long to prepare,
survives yet another attack

pink shoes

Pink makes me happy. It acts as the perfect anti-dote whenever I am feeling gloomy. I know it has the same effect on many other people too. Therefore, it surprises me to realise that God forgot to include such a beautiful colour in the rainbow. Everyday while walking to and from school, I am automatically drawn towards the pink shoes on the third rack of Uncle Deb's shoe store. They are such beautiful shoes, they make me think Cinderella would have traded off her glass slippers had she seen these. They are pump shoes with a little bow and a pointy toe. I especially love the glittering stones encrusted on the bow. They look like the soapy drops left on the bathroom mirror every time me and my brother have a soap-fest in the tub.The beauty of the shoes are more enhanced by the hue of the rack they have been put on. The stark mahogany strip of wood serves as the perfect background, making the shoes look alive. Also, the black and brown leather boots on either sides of the pumps make for an arresting contrast.My brother thinks I walk too slowly near the over-bridge (that is where the shop is). I think that annoys him. How can I tell him I deliberately do that to get a good look at my favourite shoes in the world? He is a boy, he would not understand these things. At least mother does not seem to mind my slow pace. May be she likes it too. It gives her a chance to catch her breath as well. Had father not been working both shifts to see us through these trying times, I would have coaxed him to buy those shoes. He would still buy them, only if I let my desire be known to him. He loves mother too much to deny her a chance to look her best during the festive season. My mother is beautiful otherwise too but the pink pumps coupled with her cream chiffon saree would add a lot to it.My mother works very hard but she is equally hard on herself. I don't think that is fair. She says fancy clothes and shoes are for the upper class ladies who sip wine while discussing poverty with their friends. This thought disturbs and saddens me in equal measures. Would I too own only two pairs of sandles when I grow older? Things were not always like this. I remember a time when mother, fresh out of her bath and smelling of soap and talcum powder, would sit on the verandah with us every evening. Her gold rimmed reading glasses never left her nose, much like her big brown eyes never left the book. My brother and I privately joked about the flies in the house loving mother as much as we did. After all, her untouched lemonade only managed to quench their thirsts. I don't remember when exactly it happened but for a long time now, mother has neither opened a book nor has she looked as happy as those olden days.
I love walking my children back home from school, it gives me a chance to spend at least some time with them. Had it been in my power, I would have never put them in the government school. The school's hours are inhuman. They only suit people who either fear leaving their kids alone at home for too long or those who want to save on electricity bills by staying away. To me and my husband, both reasons seemed valid. Left to their own, the kids would turn the house into a bazaar setting, leaving battered toys all over the floor. They would also forget to turn fans off while leaving one room for the other. My older daughter also likes to keep the television on while she busies herself with other things. It is always muted and the child can never explain why. I sometimes wonder if the television helps to fill the gaps that we as parents are unable to fill, despite (or may be because of) our best intentions. Speaking of my daughter, pink seems to rule her world. Maybe it is just a girl thing or may be, it helps to dispel the grey atmosphere at home. It has been a couple of days since I first noticed her slowing down her pace every time we passed by Mr Deb's shoe store. It seems she has her heart set on a particular pair and it isn't hard to guess which one. Mr Deb's shoe store has been around for a very long time now, much before my 12-year-old daughter was born. It has always been the common man's store, the house for sturdy, work-men shoes. How did a pair of pink, glittering, fairy shoes find their way in is a puzzling question. The mere absurdity of the thought is annoying. Much like the tune of a song stuck in your head, the lyrics of which you cannot seem to recall. The longing in her eyes is free from any veil of maturity. The child is too polite to ever mention her want for them but I am her mother, for chrissake! If I don't understand her, who will? Times are hard, especially after the latest tribal clash broke out. My husband Manzeel is hardly at home now. The people need the few remaining doctors to work unearthly hours but the government of course, has nothing to offer in return. I don't remember when were we last paid our salaries. Was it four or five months back? But it is just a pair of shoes that she is craving for. I can definitely get them. Also, Mr Deb is a family friend. He would understand if i can't pay the full amount right now, in case the shoes turn out to be other-worldly expensive. And I think they are the perfect size. She is almost as tall as I am now. I must try them on. If they fit me, they should fit her too. Oh! How disappointed she would be to find them gone from the shelf! I can almost imagine the astonishment on her face once she finds them sitting pretty in her own room!

FUN @ FUGA

L to R: Lavanya, me, Sunny and Tony

THE BEST TIME I EVER HAD

THE WALL

My oldest memory is of hiding behind a closet in the most secluded room of the ancestral house that i grew up in. The hiding wasn't a part of any game, it was a part of my behaviour everytime people came visiting us. I hated such visits. I disliked my cheeks being pulled. I detested answering inane questions about what I wanted to become when I grew up. There was never anything in common between me and them. Never with their kids either.

I didn't mind going out of station to visit those very relatives though. That was because the change of scenery gave me the chance to sit in unknown environments and introspect. I was never like anyone. I never understood how could girls my age spend hours on end discussing a shade of a crimson nail varnish. I didn't much understand the fascination that boys had for sweat either. Unable to fit into either of the two worlds, I created one of my own. A world where thoughts served as geography and emotions worked as topography. A world where I didn't have to listen to anyone because there was nobody else inhabiting it.

What started as a fascination, soon grew into an obsession. People started judging me. If some thought I was snobbish, others suspected me to be emotionally imbalanced. My parents got worried too. They hated me when I picked up a book/magazine whenever we visited someone. Or when I refused to come out of my solitary shelters. I was blown away. I failed to understand how my peaceful foray into the concealed folds of my imagination could be considered much worse than the boisterous strides that my brother and other kids took into the lives of the grown ups. I never disturbed anyone yet, I was always looked down on. The other kids were considered normal while everyone seemed to agree about me not being so. Sitting alone on a favourite rock behind the servants' loo while everyone else watched television on sweltering hot afternoons was
inexplicable. This embarrassed my parents. No one ever complained about me breaking fences or window panes. They complained about my mental flights of fancy. My mother's occasional nags multiplied manifolds, both in frequency and intensity.

Unable to bear the taunts and jibes any longer, I tried my best to open up. What started as a serious attempt at acting came naturally to me in a while. I was opening up to anybody willing to lend me even their half-deaf ears. On serious contemplative nights, the pace scared me. Even left me slightly sceptical. Was I opening up because I missed not doing so in my younger days or was I trying to fit into a world I have always been running away from? Was it the case of the embarrassing misfit trying to mend her way? Whatever it was, the fact remains that the wall that I had so ceremoniously created as my shield started to crumble, ever so slowly. For the first time in my life, I saw light. The light of a different perspective. Unique experiences have the power to be blinding with their novelty. In my case, the blinding light was exhilarating. I
started befriending people across all ages. I even became accommodating and put up with all their idiosyncracies. My popularity soared...

But just before I could reach my emotional orgasm, things started falling apart. The gap that I had made in my wall to let others peek inside me started widening. Everything moved at supersonic speed. All I could do was stare in horror. Brick by brick, the wall was being felled by everyone I had known and even come to love. They were not satisfied by what I was willing to reveal, they wanted more. Much more. My emotions were being fished out, examined, judged and discarded. The desire in people to keep doing that showed no signs of slowing down. I felt naked. "You are a fool." "Oh, so sentimental." "Stupid woman." " What a selfish bitch." "Who does she think she is?" "She ruined my life." "I hate her." " Go away, I don't need you." "Don't bother about me." "Leave me alone." "Liar." "And she thought she is smart"...

I imagined it to be a nightmare and tried my best to shake off my slumber. But there seemed to be no end to it. No one heard my pleas. Not even God...

Time has passed but the wounds have not healed. They are as raw as they were to begin with. Some have even started expanding and crippling the crux of my soul. I frantically tried to build up my wall again. what I managed was a run down version of the previously sturdy structure. A dilapidated refuse of a life-beaten recluse. Nothing can be undone. My bareness has already been seen and mocked at. I was judged when I was inside my shield, safe and protected. I was judged even more harshly when I tried peeking out of it. I have learnt my lessons, albeit the crueler way. I will NEVER leave my wall or whatever is left of it again.
To borrow Ronnie James Dio's words: DON'T TALK TO STRANGERS, THEY ARE ONLY THERE TO DO YOU HARM.

A young girl's guide to Indian geography

I have had the priviledge of living and working in the two great geographical divides of the country: the part above the Vindhyas as well as the part below it. Broadly speaking, north and south India. While 'unity in diversity' sounds wonderful on paper, it hardly packs any punch in real life. In other words, the paper tiger becomes a pussy as soon as it comes to life. Honestly, India is too big to have similar features running over the length and breadth of the country. Imagine how boring life would have been had people all over the country displayed similar traits. Ok, let me come to the point. Imagine how boring life would have been had men all over the country displayed similar quirks, twitches and behavioural defects. Indian women are spoilt for choice.
While north indian men are brash, brawny, rich, brazen and inclined towards most things blingy, men in the eastern part of the country are reserved, opinionated, idealistic and hide-under-mommy's-pallu types. Men from the western part can be divided into 2 broad categories: the dhokla downing studs from Saurashtra and the vodka guzzling ones from Maharashtra. While the former might sell you off for money, the latter can (after way too many vodkas) sell you off for something as inconsequential as another drink. (They might also sell off everything for you if you play your cards right but the jignes patels would never!!). there is also the 'once neglected now hep' north-eastern region. Indian men over the world are not really famous for their sartorial sense and that is because the north-eastern ones have not yet been discovered in a big way. One look at their lithe DKNY, Paul Smith and YSL clad forms and you know that you will have to suffer a lifetime of competition at home in case you decide to date them. Imagine arguing with your guy about the flaws of Miu-Miu shoes! In 9 cases out of ten you would give up either because its too "eeew!" or because you would fail to comprehend his accent (and at times, his English).
As we reach the southern regions, i develop cold feet. Just the thought of categorising them gives me goose bumps. First, because you find variety here like you find nowhere else. And second because...ok, lets tell you about the second reason later, okay? Coming to variety, you have Kannadigas, Telegites, Tamils, Malayalees, Coorgs, Tulus, Konkanis and maybe many more. Many say that you can differentiate between your regular Kannadiga from your regular Tamilian just by looking at his nose! I havent yet been able to master that art but i have some unique tricks up my tiny sleeves too. You might not agree and you might even take offence but i really would not care. Apart from accent, many other things give them away. Kannadigas know their rock music like few others do, Coorgs know their guns n rum like its nobody else's business. Konkanis have 'charm' writ large on their faces and Mallus are smarty pants who would talk their way out of trouble. Tamilians could do with a little bit of charm and wordliness and i would not comment on the men who speak Telegu (as i haven't yet met too many of them). Now, coming to the second reason why i dread describing them is although they have differences galore, one thing binds them all: they are all bloody hard nuts to crack. If i could tell you for sure what anyone of them is thinking at the moment, i would consider writing this piece a waste. Since i am still writing, it means i dont think i am wasting my time doing this. Which indirectly means that i cant tell you for anything why they behave the way they do! 17 years of studying various behavioural patterns (i like to believe i started at the age of 5) and i might be able to tell you the taste of donkey's shit but not what makes them so complicated.
To be continued...

I had lost track of time. And when i use that phrase, i don't intend to be dramatic. I mean it. The gloom of my days effortlessly merged with the dread of my nights and before i knew it, i had slipped into the complex maze of depression. The labyrinths of a human mind are capable of the most bizzare emotions and the ones they churned inside of me had left me wrecked. In some twisted manner, i had found selfish solace in my depression. Selfish because i never stopped to think what it might be doing to my parents. To see their 21 year old daughter wasting away is no good sight for any parent and mine weren't exeptional.

I had a long discussion with myself one night. While a calm breeze blew outside my bedroom window, my soul was tormented by a storm. The momentary insanity saw me packing my bags with single-minded fervour and paved the way for my re-entry to Bangalore. I landed on Bangalore turf on the 4th of August. I must have come back wiser for i managed to find contacts, land up a job and start working from the 11th of the very month.

They say life altering chances seldom seem so to begin with. As far as my tryst with BM is concerned, finding another statement to describe my experiences would be difficult, if not utterly improbable.
The first few days remained uneventful. I hadn't a clue of what i was supposed to do. True to my self-depriciating nature, i even started wondering if it had been the HR's hiring defect which found me in that sloven little place to begin with. I thought i would never go home richer by even a single friend from this place. Almost 3 months later, all i can say is that i was too quick to jump the gun.

My life has changed and how! I have metamorphosed from being the ugly duckling to the swan princess, from being shy to brazen and from being Miss Nobody to being Miss Everybody!! Okay, all this was slightly exaggerated! Okay okay, all this was totally exaggerated!! I am still who i always was: awkward, hesitant, unsure and guilty. But as far as emotional encounters go, my hands were never so full.
Living alone in a city is not easy. I should know. I have been doing that for almost seven years now and i still crib. Most people say i have not yet found my 'rhythm'. Rhetoric never impresses me, I would not know what rhythm it is that i need to be on the look-out for. I just know that living without the all-embracing umbrella one's parents' love can get to even the staunchest of hearts. But sometimes, luck chooses to shine on a select few. Luck decided to do so with me and in the melange of unknown, cruel faces, i found one that decided to look beyond the superficialities and offered me a refuge. A fatherly shelter from a world that has forgotten how to be nice to me. Could i have found him had i not decided to cover almost 3000 kms from home? I guess not. Do i feel indebted to BM? With all sincerity, yes i do!

"Love? What a farce!" "Love? Elixir of life!"
The world is divided on its opinion about the most hyped feeling that a human being is capable of experiencing. Broadly speaking, people can be divided into two camps based on their opinion on love. There are those who swear by it while there are others who swear off it. I don't know which camp i belong to. But i would have missed out on experiencing some of the most tender moments in life had i not decided to give it one last shot. And once again, it was BM that provided the chance. I didn't have to look far; it was presented to me almost on the proverbial platter. I was fed on pulp fiction all my life and made to believe that love is when you zero-in on a person and go against all odds to get him/her. And true love is when you end up with the person and your mission is accomplished. Now i know better. Love is when you feel so much for a person that you let him go, despite the heartbreak. Love is carrying a half-baked and hopeless relation knowing fully well that it is just that: half-baked and hopeless.

My story cannot end with the 'happily ever after' tag as neither my life a fairy tale, nor am i a princess. But there is no denying the fact that i lived a life that could potentially make even Cinderella go green. If it could be made into a motion picture, it would definitely set the cash registers ringing!

When people ask me what made me take up a career in journalism after majoring in Sociology, i have a standard answer in place: My love for writing. Yet, in the past 3months of my journalistic career (which also happen to be the first three months of my journalistic career), i have written absolute zilch. Some people are asses, they like asking uncomfortable questions. Few of them have asked me about my bylines. Thank god, something has always come to my rescue.
But the question disturbing me is: why have i stopped writing altogether? I have never been disciplined enough to maintain daily journals but i used to scribble almost everyday. So what went wrong? Did my love for writing, like my love for everything (and everyone else) fizzle out even before it could possibly bloom? Why am i always starting things but never patient enough to reach the end? At this rate, i will soon exhaust all possible areas of finding love and life's meaning.
I am very disturbed.