PK and VT in CP

We met after so many months. In fact, we planned this one-day meeting so many months in advance!We both were not in Delhi and yet fixed the venue to be CP.

I stood inside the Metro train, squished against the glass door, by the Trade Fair crowd. Going from station to station at snail's pace, I worried I would make him wait -- as always. It's not like I plan it that ways. But something always comes up. There was this one time when I reached the spot bang on time. But still I kept him waiting -- because he got there BEFORE time.

When we finally met, he was wearing a light colored jacket. Reasonably dressed for a November in Delhi, I thought. Look at me in my crumply old kurta! We hugged and continued an old conversation wherever we had last left it. It did not feel like we were meeting after ages. We walked past Wengers. He was hurrying me towards the new Bercos.

"PK, please can we eat first? I am hungry!"

Sitting in Bercos in familiar ambience, I munched on crispy honey chicken with seasame seeds on top. I gulped down some fruit beer. Oh this was heavenly, I thought. We spoke about things, this and that, and people. We spoke about life in general. Then, chewing on a toothpick, I walked around in the inner circle of CP. He and I browsed over those pirated books. They have become really expensive, I lamented. He told me to not buy these books. He always tells me. I always stop by these books. It is a ritual we always did.
We walked towards Janpath and realised that the Snow White store was missing from the inner circle. I have found out that they have closed down. Not that I ever bought anything from there but I still missed it. I bought some gifts for the new friends I had made. We shopped at the Hidesign store. We walked through the smelly subway tunnels. We passed beggar children and hawkers selling us tiny white hankerchiefs. We walked past the expensive Khadi shop and Regal cinema hall. It was playing 2012. In Hindi.

We walked down one of the radials and went into that Barista located next to People Tree. Mighty expensive everything has become, I commented like an outsider. In there, I tasted heaven in the form of a cup of hot cafe mocha. We exchanged gifts, unwrapped them, admired them, thanked each other, repacked them. We spoke nonstop. About what, I wouldn't remember now.

Towards the end of the day, we walked towards Shivaji Stadium. The familiar bus terminal with all those rickety buses and the shady bus drivers. One by one, the buses came and went. We sat in the bus stop drinking from a bottle of Bisleri. It was getting dark and he told me I should go home soon. His bus was also here. I saw a DTC 910 coming and heard the radio blaring some Himesh number. After a moment of hesitation, I jumped onto its footboard. He was startled for a second and then smiled in approval.
I thanked him for a beautiful CP day, found a seat, adjusted my scarf and looked out of the window. Without a second thought, he took out his cell phone and called out to me, "PK, smile".

Thank you, VT. It was a special day.

A Fairytale

Once upon a time, there lived a girl. She created and lived in a world of her own. It had magic and love and everything good. She grew up and got a job in a big company that had a lot of promises for her. So there she worked for a while and one day, while she sat at her desk typing mundane things, she realized she should go on a quest. To find what other things existed in this world. So off she went on her journey.

The girl travelled through paths she had never known, existed. She crossed oceans and rivers and forests and mountains. She saw sights, met people, found things. On and on she travelled. Until one day, the girl reached the mouth of a cave. She could not see what was inside, or where it led, or if it would ever end. Taking a chance, the girl entered the cave and fumbled with the darkness that engulfed her. She was afraid but she fought hard not to panic. Her myopic eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness. She walked and walked. Eventually, she found a stream. It was beautiful, she thought, as she rested. She drank the water and devoured its sweetness. Suddenly, she realized she was not alone.

An old man who almost looked like an ancient tree, sat beside her, peering into her eyes. The girl was startled, but not afraid. “What is it that you are looking for, girl?” he asked. “I am really not too sure” she replied honestly. “Ok, then I will tell you”, he offered. “You are looking for some answers to questions that your mind has still not asked you. You are chasing elusive dreams that many dreamers have chased before you, in their lifetimes.” “I don’t thinks so”, she said feeling offended. Slowly, it dawned on her that she had many questions, this girl. And the answers all just seemed too vague. She was dejected. He continued, “What is it that you want in this life? What is it that you live for and truly look forward to finally achieving?”

The girl thought hard. Her mind went back to the times that made her truly happy. When, some late nights, she would be woken from her sleep with an unexpected phone call. The times she has caught herself passing time in idle daydreams. She remembered how precious those moments were, when on Saturday afternoons, she would sit by the window listening to old songs. She yearned for meaningless conversations in the balcony. And those times when silent company was precious. There were those unexpected times when someone told her that she was loved and wanted. These are the things, the girl realized, that made her truly happy. But how could she get them and keep them forever? Aren’t these the moments that come by unexpectedly? Can these be planned? If it could be, then what was the fun? The girl was quiet for a long time.

“I don’t need anything”, the girl finally spoke. “I am happy.”

“Good. You have found your own answers”, the old man’s face wrinkled with an ancient smile.

The girl stood up, turned around, and walked back. All the way back to her empty work desk, where a colorful screen saver danced on the computer screen.

The end.

...

Have you ever had the feeling of being rootless and floating about aimlessly?
Like a dried leaf in a forceful stream?
Is that a good thing?
Sometimes, when I try to lighten myself by shedding off meaningless baggage, I feel I am losing a part of me with it.
Is that normal?
Is anyone listening?
I would never know, I guess.

Immortality

I was reading "The Selfish Gene" written by Richard Dawkins, recently. Chapter 11 from the book caught my fancy. He presents an idea about memes. For those unfamiliar with the term, a meme (pronounced to rhyme with ‘dream’) is “a cultural unit (an idea or value or pattern of behavior) that is passed from one person to another by non-genetic means (as by imitation)”. To put it simply, a meme is the cultural counterpart of a gene. An idea, a phrase, a figure of speech. It gets even better. A joke, a song, a poem, a painting.

I just realized that even though a person lives, ages, and eventually dies, our memories about her keeps her alive. (It is true for men as well!) My grandfather passed away in 1986. I was five years old and I can count the total number of times I have met him. While some of my luckier counterparts have spent years with their grandparents, I had the chance to meet my father’s father just 2-3 times. His passing did not evoke any emotion in me. I remember my upset father lying on the bed in deep thought. (Maybe he was sad that he was 3000 kms away from where his father was.) Last evening when I spoke to my father, we cracked an inside joke and laughed. When I hung up the phone, I realized that the joke was a generation older. It was something that my grandfather has passed on to my father, who now passed it on to my siblings and me. To me, my grandfather immortalized himself with that joke.

Immortality has always enticed us. All historical accounts tell us of ambitious alchemists, scientists, and explorers who went in search of the “Elixir of Life” and other items in the similar vein. And all that was required was to sing a new song or cook a new dish. So, go ahead, create a meme and become your own god. Be immortal.

Winds of Change

I have always been resistant to change. I find it very challenging to accept change and start things from scratch.

And yet, it happens to me one too many times. Each time I resisted it with as much might as I can. But it was inevitable. Like the first movement from Kuwait to India. I had absolutely no idea of how life was going to be. I think I fared pretty well. Considering the fact that we were Gulf War refugees and had lost almost everything we had. The second movement came when I had to move back from India to a reconstructed, post-war Kuwait. I remember crying into my pillow worrying what awaited me. I even told my parents that I am willing to live separated from them but please will they let me stay back in India. Of course, that was not accepted.

Seven years later, I moved back to Delhi. It was a very different world. This time I had actually left home. Close to ten years were spent in Delhi. But that too with a lot of movement. I led a sheltered life in my first three years with cousins. Two years in the hostel. And finally, four years in my new house. And then one October evening, I flew out once again. I have spent a year in the US and not really realized it. I have already moved twice.

These were all physical movements. But what about the movement of my thoughts, my being? Philosophies have changed. Beliefs have changed. Friends have changed. Is change going to be the only surety as life goes on? Is this the only aspect in life that I will be able to rely on?

What am I in search of? I don’t know. But whatever it is, it is not here.
Maybe it is within me. Maybe I will realize that one day.

Disjoint Episodes of a Love Story

The June heat began early morning. With the mercury rising higher and higher, all you wanted to do was sit indoors, in front of the desert cooler with the constantly wet mats, sipping chilled Rooh'afza and lime.
They met that day. Clandestinely.
* * *
Eyes met, hands locked, lips met.
Faint scent of musky perfume.
Neat hands.
That taste of Rooh'afza again.
* * *
Sunset.
They were at their favorite outdoor café. The heat was milder.
Did it rain? Bikers drove past them, college kids strummed guitar songs.
He had his cold coffee while she played with a broken keychain.
It suddenly began to pour. They raced towards the car. Strains of a familiar song floated in from the distance as they sat beside each other, holding hands, watching the rain.
* * *
Late night.
They were at the famous chuskiwalla's stall in front of India gate. Weaving their way through the mob, they got crushed-ice-candies. Khatta-meetha. He recommended. She made a face because she does not like anything tangy. With sticky fingers and stained lips, he stole Khatta-meetha kisses from her.
* * *
Winter afternoon.
It snowed outside while he cooked for her. Whatever he cooked, his first ingredient that appeared was salt. She stood beside him and watched him in action. Steamy rice and vegetables materialised. Some paranthas, some pickle. A complete meal. She made a mental note of the dishes to wash.
* * *
She sits in cafes and watches people pass by. Alienated in a different country; in a different world.
He goes through each day thinking similar thoughts in the distance.
Both waiting for the next episode to unfurl.

Firdaus : Heaven

I lay in bed listening to the non-stop whirring of a helicopter and a panicky ambulance outside where I live. It was disturbing to picture what was going on outside, so I put a pillow over my head. To block everything that is now and to give me what was.

It would have been early evening. Much warmer. The buzz of dusty traffic and hawkers' cries. When you step outside your house, there are a few lanes lined with those beautiful trees. Those that bloom late evening with those white flowers and that sickly sweet smell. The scent lingers heavy in the air all through September and October. I love that fragrance. I associate it with everything that is beautiful. Late night, after-dinner walks in the quiet galis. A lonely ice cream man waiting for you to buy his goods. A tired street dog by the street lamp...

Dushhera Melas, lights, fireworks, raamleela, crowds, hot milk and jalebis. Glitter, movie songs, serpentine traffic jams, irreverant baraat on the road, emaciated rickshawalas. Metro trains, crispy honey chicken, cineplex movies, Khan market window shopping. Pandal hopping in CR Park, street food, unexpected bike rides to Old Delhi.

A friend's wedding. A power cut. A song. A story. A lazy Saturday afternoon.
All these made up my ten years in Delhi.

Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.
If there is paradise on face of the earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this

* * *
While I get back to my American chores, you might want to visit this related link:
http://oddthots.blogspot.com/2007/05/places.html

Then and Now

But that was a long time ago.

When a job meant covering a “story” of Sharmila Tagore cutting a shiny ribbon in IHC or Arun Shourie delivering a mundane speech at Kala Akademi.

When choir practice would end at 8 in the night and when he would wait for her across the street.

When Janpath and Coffee House were places to hide away.

When she would run barefoot. Over moist grass, just when the rains were over.

When he would travel in precarious rickety buses, standing on footboards.

When walks in the park meant tangy gol gappas and stolen light kisses.

Oversweet chai and frothy coffee.

Naps on her lap while she read and played with his ears.

Saturday winter afternoons in the feeble sun, peeling oranges.

But that was a long time ago.

When the choir practices discontinued.

Running barefoot was “eeky”.

Nachos and airconditioned multiplexes.

Office emails and ongoing projects.

Salsa lessons and BBQs.

African printed cups with steaming green tea.

Then, what is now?