I Have Moved

An Ode to HMT

“It says willing or not. What do I opt for?” asked my mother, a mere 18 year old girl, to her brother who had accompanied her to the employment exchange. “Not means no. Negative. So say yes. Choose Willing” was his advice to her and perhaps the most valuable one that he has ever doled out to his elder sister. ‘Willing’ took her to HMT.

My mother grew up in a village close to Bangalore. Second of the seven children that my grand-parents bore, she was the first in her village to write a class ten examination and clear it too. College looked bleak as staying put for three to four years with relatives who lived in the city was not an option that appealed to my grand-father. At the behest of my grand-mother whom I consider to be one of the finest examples of a feminist, grandpa registered my mother at the employment exchange. The forethought of seeing a financially independent daughter made my grand-mother wage a battle for the same in what was predominantly a patriarchal family. She is certainly the family’s revolutionary.

The good old days saw a lot of organizations run by the government and I shall not be honest if I said that I am not envious of the jobs that my parents held.  Days after my mom and my uncle returned from the city after having said ‘Willing’, a letter reached them and welcomed my mother to HMT. Worried about the alien influences ofs the city which would mar the innocence of his daughter, grandpa’s denial of sending her to work was also nipped in the bud by my grand-mother. The deal was simple. She would live with her aunt in Bangalore for a year and then they would see how things would unfurl. Thus began her journey as an independent working woman.

She still recounts the first day of joining Hindustan Machine Tools. She was nervous and was accompanied by my grand-father. Things went smooth and she was inducted into the system. My mother officially became a working woman and stayed that way for four decades. Six months of living with her uncle and aunt made her crave for her own space and that’s when she decided to move out and timed it with my uncle’s arrival to Bangalore when he was recruited by ITI. I am talking about the late sixties here.

From then on, my mother never looked back. From being a trainee to a permanent employee, mom and many other women and men made HMT their second home. They worked from Monday to Saturday, had breakfast, lunch and tea served fresh and hot, made friends, made best friends, met ends, ran lives and homes and of course carved their own identities thanks to one employer who became synonymous for quality. People back at the village would marvel at the golden dial HMT watch that my mother wore on her wrist when she went visiting every weekend. A few years later, she married dad, who worked for BEL and had us i.e. my brother and I and it is me who has more memories of HMT second only to my mother.

As a toddler, I was enrolled into the HMT crèche and around me were children whose mothers worked with my mom. At seven in the morning, mom and I would be ready at the bus stop waiting for the blue HMT bus to arrive and once it came, off we went towards the enormous space whose belly housed us all for eight hours. I still remember the steaming idlies available at the campus; with sumptuous chutney that mom would feed me once we would get down from the bus. A kiss, a hug and I would sulk for an hour after having watched my mom walk away from the crèche. I wasn’t alone. Some were too little and cried a lot. The day went in sleeping, waiting for mom, day dreaming, walking to a play home (we would stop by a koi pond guarded by an iron gate waiting for a fish to fly out of water but the ‘aaya’ never allowed us to view that phenomenal event), waiting for the crèche helps to fetch our lunch from the factory canteen (I miss that food), waiting for mom to arrive and finally getting dressed to go home. Like fish to water, I would cling to my mom and would be rewarded with a juicy honey cake for my day’s toil on our way back home. I am yet to taste a better honey cake still.

We grew, all of us. HMT, my mother, me and all the others who were a part of it; but what grew by leaps and bounds was the confidence that the organization restored every single morning in each of its employees. A pride that I have a working mom engulfed me even at school and every single day I dreamt of being fiercely independent like her and so had many other little girls whose moms worked with my mother.

There were ups and down, highs and lows but we bounced back and every time we did, we prayed to God that he kept our pillar strong.  Other brands made an entry into the market and slowly, as is the law of nature, the old was being replaced by the new. Innovation sometimes becomes the mother of survival but where did we go wrong? That’s a story for another day. Mother voluntarily retired from the organization and threw a huge party for all her colleagues who had joined her in the same journey many years ago. Today, I dare say that by the end of our tenure in one organization, we end up making more acquaintances and fewer friends.

It broke our hearts a few weeks ago when we read in the news paper that the last functional fragment of HMT was being closed down forever. No one would wind the clocks again. Never.

Whenever I look at those marvelous three letters – HMT- my treasure trove of memories hypnotize me with the aroma of those juicy honey cakes and the cackles of my little friends at the crèche. Sometimes I wonder if they were surreal but I know that they weren’t. These memories are a part of my past that makes up the most of my present and future, making me the princess that I am, raised by a queen who taught me that I am a woman and I am born to rule.

Thank you HMT for without you, we wouldn’t be us.

The Mandi called Marriage

Before you married couples -new or not - shoot daggers at me over the title, hear me out. I have nothing against this institution and am a firm believer that one shouldn’t enter it if one is not sure or ‘sorted’ about the path one has to take in life. Having said that I shall also reiterate that the entire gamut of ‘Arranged Marriage’ has turned into a Mandi (no reference to the Shyam Benegal classic though sometimes I can’t but see a similarity) turning some into traders of the best goods.

At 32, I find myself surrounded by three kinds of people. The first type that consistently reminds me that my biological clock is ticking and that I shouldn’t delay the matter any further.  The bunch almost sounds like teleshopping network which first tries to attract you towards the product and then scares you by saying that the ‘stocks are limited’

The second type consists of people who talk sense, for instance a Hindi professor who taught me at school said “Careful when you are choosing a partner for you have to spend an entire life with him” when I bumped into him on my way back from work. This type is armed with good market knowledge; hence advice can be banked upon.

The third type is of course the gang who has not an iota of concern about my future yet is curious about every move of mine so that I can deliver fodder for thoughts and gossip sessions.

Though the ‘deliverables’ from my end according to type 1 are at stake, I must remind this particular gang that the clock ticking away is mine, and the predisposition of winding it or not lies with me and nobody else. So back off if you like your molars.

I like the second type. Nobody is nosy in that gang and they know where to draw a line. As far as the third type is concerned, have you ever seen an independent parasite? Distance yourself and they shall go away from you if not from the world. But do keep your eyes and ears open for the ‘goods’ when they come in as not every trader in the ‘souk’ sells you legit ones.

I may sound harsh with this deliberate comparison but I have every reason to do so. Having come across a few prospective grooms myself, I find my enthusiasm shrink after every encounter. Call it my misfortune (I’d like to call it otherwise) but the few men I have spoken to have exhibited (pseudo) liberal values and then turned cold turkey.  One of them gingerly added me on Facebook to fake keenness but his passion disappeared when he figured out that I wasn’t a grey market customer. In short he was putting up an act to please his masters, much against his own will.  

Male bashing isn’t what I have resorted to here in this post and I must insist that perhaps people on the other side of the fence may have similar diatribes against my ilk but I don’t intend to speak for them. This is my story and for once I refuse to shadow write.

I haven’t given up either. I am an Indian woman and I know how to shop. I look for the perfect fit, durability, warranty and unabashedly ask if the material shrinks when washed or if the service center of the brand will help me troubleshoot errors through a phone call. I believe in strong investments.

What I am yet to learn are bargaining skills.  

The Ideal

“The girl looks alright, is a classical dancer preparing for her first stage performance,  works as a teacher, earns a decent salary. When she met us she said she would continue performing on stage if the extended family permits else would give up dancing. She also said that after marriage she would continue to work if only her husband and his parents would allow her to. When we first met her she had draped a lovely saree, had jasmine flowers fixed to her mane and was well behaved” waxed my uncle eloquently about his nephew’s fiancee to be. The pride in his face shone brightly as my mother sat in rapt attention soaking in every information about the bride to be while I drowned myself into questions that perhaps the girl herself many not have any answers for. Why was an educated urban girl so submissive?

We are modified creatures. All of us. Taught to behave, respond, think, react and percieve in a way which the familiy we belong to, families we associate with and of course the society we are a part of deem acceptable. As children, we are taught to fold our palms and bow our heads in front of dieties in deep obeiscance, we are taught not to question the elders who laid the foundation for the lives that we now live, we are told that a man is a man and woman is a woman, the former a stronger sex and the latter the weakest which does not adhere to the goddesses we worship who without consulting their better halves held a scepter in their hands and slaid their antagonists. We are made to believe that life consists of milestones. We are told that the destination is what matters the most and not the journey. We are judged if we harbour thoughts against what is instilled. As children we go through character building routines and as adults preachy sermons which are never tailor made.

What gets ingrained importantly in us is a trait that forbids us from being an entity. Submission.  

The more submissive we are the more it adds to our repertoire of being well brought up children, culturally rich and socially acceptable. Compromise is the synonym for submission. Or so they say to deprive us of our liberty.

Why do we allow ourselves to be defined by others? Why is a submissive being worshipped and why is a rebel an outcast? Why is a rebel called a rebel when all she wants is to put herself ahead of people in a few situations?  To be more specific, why should the girl give up on her passion for a boy whom she has met and known only for a few hours? Why should she allow the reins of her life to be handled by somebody else who would perhaps not have the forethought of steering it in a course which she would prefer? Does she respect her preferences at all or has she been taught not to?

Marriage sounds more like a chore today than an institution. People claim that there’s a gaping hole in the roof and a deep crevice in the foundation of this institution. I differ. It remains intact but less occupied. Reasons vary from one marriage to another but some marriages are abandoned because the act of submission became a mundane parlour trick which loses it’s gleam and shine. The mask falls, the voice from within cries and the submissives rise to their feet.

But some remain there.

While I sat feeling sad for the girl, the same chavinistic voice shook me from my reverie and said “I think it’s time you agreed on SOMEONE and got married yourself. Let’s not waste any time here shall we?”

We Bought a Zoo

  We bought a zoo. A zoo filled with men women and yes a few animals. We are not too sure if the men need more cages or the women. Animals? No, they aren't harmful. They just need some love, loads of food and some potty training. The women, ah they need leashes to keep them tied to the corner of their cages so that they don't claw each other apart. They will growl, throw tantrums, scowl, scream and fuss about the plainness of the leash but we are giving them no choice. They need to learn how to adapt. Some women will adapt but are going to try and change the zoo but such women won't be encouraged. We like the zoo the way it is.

The men you ask? Now, they can't be leashed as they are too strong so we have to tranquillize them all the time. We can't risk broken cages, manipulations, coups, agitations and a mutiny against the zoo. How do we tranquillize you ask? Booze! Plenty of it! We add some fake ego too. Just to keep them subdued and nobody seems to complain. They are enjoying it.

The children you ask? Well they're outside the zoo in the world. Breathing without fear, living with hope, laughing aloud and being children. Careless and free. That’s how they ought to be you know. 

The Sabbatical

“Quit your job, sit at home and hunt for another one. Every part of your soul which seemed lost will come back to you. No need to hunt for it” was my brother’s response when I brought up ‘Soul Searching’.

He’s true, so true to an extent that it can be used as a ‘quotable quote’ in one of those self-healing or motivation workshops. And if these workshops need a live example, Je suis la.

So far I have searched for my soul thrice - not that my life or my visage bears any close resemblance to Voldemort who cut his soul into seven pieces and hid them in historical artefacts to remain immortal – and it was the third time that I was reassured that my soul was where it is supposed to be, right within me and not anywhere else but the three sabbaticals that I took opened my eyes wider to the world. Let me give you a very brief insight into these ‘self-imposed breaks’.

I finished b-school and I started working for a leading radio station. I had a great job, a great boss, a great pay and a great life. Two and a half years of this greatness had made me secure and confident and that’s when I decided to venture into the wild. I quit my job without having another one in hand. I desired a break and I got one much against the opinions that my family and my boss housed. I made lots of plans, executed some, failed at some yet what kept me sane was the financial planning that I was adept with. I was the ant from the ‘ant and the grasshopper’. I had stored for the rainy day and I was warm. But like any ant I was running short of my stock and I had to get back to the field. That’s when my second job happened.

I lasted there for six months. Not my fault. I went in during a time when the organisation was a little confused about the domain they had hired some of us to work for. Six months and I figured that drastic changes might shut that department forever hence I quit. There again, I had saved. I had become a robust ant.

The third job happened and I stuck around for longer i.e. 2 and a half years. My 20’s were soon depleting and the job did not help me feel secure. I had made new friends, I had evolved in tastes, I had finished a few ‘phases’, going through a few and this time around I quit as I felt I was more secure at home. I had dwelled for too long inside ‘Bane’s Pit’ and if I wouldn’t have made a jump –with or without a rope- I would have festered someday or the other. I made a jump, without a rope.

It felt great. I had come out of a muggy tunnel and the fresh air that I breathed was a harbinger or fresh hopes. I had wind beneath my wings (I still do) and I can pranced better than a deer. But prancing and flying would not help me make my ends meet. I needed a job and a secure one at that. While at the helm of making my choices to frame my future what has intrigued me is the reinforced faith in me by people I love and the absence of those who were once upon a time inseparable.

My family has always been supportive of every decision that I have taken. They know that I will find a way out of this sabbatical and I am only waiting for the right opportunity.

My friends have stood by me, encouraging me whenever I felt low, recommending companies, jobs and people. Some have gone to the extent of putting a kind word on my behalf to people who might matter the most in my job hunt.

Relatives hemmed hawed and left. I couldn’t explain what I was looking for nor did I want them to understand anything but it’s the inseparable ones that left a lasting impression on my soul.

I am no longer a part of their weekend plans nor am I on their speed dials. ‘I have been busy’ is a lame excuse I receive despite the visible display of pseudo weekend shenanigans on social networking sites. Being frugal with my expenses has earned me a ban from the pseudo (I dare to mention it twice in this paragraph) high-flying ‘yo’ kind of people who once called themselves my friends.

Peer pressure has never affected me nor have I lived my life to please anybody else. I don’t feel the necessity to harp about my weekday or weekend activities on a ‘Wall’ to make myself visible to people. This was a sabbatical which wasn’t planned for and till I find another source of income, I may not visit the usual restaurants that I frequented nor would I be seen in places where I might have to turn into the ‘Grasshopper’. But if I am being judged by these acts of mine then I must say, you’re judging too soon.

Pain beyond a point makes one immune to pain itself and I have reached a point where lightning by a passing cloud barely gives me a scratch leave alone a wound.

It is me today; it could be you tomorrow in a sabbatical. What helps is to know who your friends are and who aren’t, spring clean the phone list, check if you have compromised on your values and if you have been successful in keeping your sanity intact despite adversities and disloyalty then sit back and relax for you don’t have to search for your soul. It is there where it has to be, within.

Oh and you’ll get a job too.

Married

“Her new way of ignoring people and important issues is by burying her nose in a book”. The jibe was directed to me while I had actually buried my nose in a book. “I would have married a book if I could help it and would have been happier than your wife” was the repartee that shot out of my brain cells which eventually stayed there as I was keen upon keeping the peace and tranquillity around me intact.

True. I bury myself a lot in books these days. I quit my job a few days back and decided that I would take a week’s data break which meant no mails, no twitter, no instagram and no mindless surfing. I wanted to read. More than what I am used to. So what’s new in it you may ask but let me tell you something; when you are surrounded by people who take it upon themselves to criticize every atom of another person’s being and do not even once hesitate to harp about things which might not affect them at all and might not happen at all to begin with, you grow tired of their oration of the day to day mindless events.

I am happy with my tech break. Honestly, nothing comes out of being there on the ‘net’ all the time. It only results in battery drain of your phone and increase in data tariff. And nothing has come out of listening to mindless matters.

It is not the same with books though. Every book has a story to tell and every book lets you converse with it about the subject it is well versed at and if it is not equipped with the same within its covers (hardbound or paperback) it will stop talking to you unlike human beings who pretend to know everything and make a fool out of themselves. For instance I would prefer reading a book than talk to a cousin of mine who in sheer desperation of keeping up with the conversation announced that she loved Sharon Stone and ‘his’ acting. She meant it. Sorry Ms Stone.

Books keep you company better than some men and most women. What would you prefer, a best friend harp about her true life ‘saans bahu story’ or Candace Bushnell talking about Sex and the City with a dash of Cosmopolitan? I can walk into a coffee shop with a book for a date, sip a cuppa of cappuccino, read my heart out and walk out feeling wonderful. Now I want a man to do that to me without turning up late. Then I can consider keeping the book inside my bag.

As much as I hate to say this but books are easy to dump. I have had blind dates with books. What I mean is that I have walked into a book store, read the summary and picked it up only to discover that it hasn’t lived up to its cover. That is when I dump them, meaning I stop reading them or read them entirely for the sake of having bought it and never go back again. Like a one night stand. I reread a lot of the ones I love by the way.

I have something to talk about and it goes beyond bollywood, Hollywood, current affairs, clothes and accessories. I don’t intend to sound like a man but my conversations have gone a level above the usual. Most often dad and I talk about people, their adventures, their deeds and misdeeds and credit them for who they are or were. It definitely is better than talking only about breast implants on a leading lady and liposuction on another.

I don’t lend books. Nobody gets to take them home. To me it is as sacrilegious as sharing a loved one or a spouse. So don’t come home and ask to borrow. You will see my blunt side if you do.

I retreat to my quiet corner. I am at peace with a book. I drift to another world away from the chaotic one I live in and I successfully have the ‘my time’ everyday which most people complain of. Look, for the rest of you it need not be books. It could even be music. So spend half an hour before bed listening to a CD or radio all by yourself and you will realise you sleep a better person.

I wish I was married to a book. It would last more than the ones that happen with humans. I love them more than kindles or any other book reading device with due respect. Ten years from now if you find me dusting books in my own book store don’t be surprised. Instead, stop by, say hello, buy a book and I might give you a discount too. For you know I would not be selling books but companions who go a long way with you than many.

Love Thy Skeletons

When was the last time you arched your brows, took a deep breath and spilt some expletives from your mouth at the very sight of bigotry against you? Seems like yesterday when someone you knew tried to peek into your closet and got tempted to pull a skeleton out? It happens to all of us, to you and to me, to him and to her and to the many on the face of this earth.

Imagine walking into a restaurant and finding your foe at the next table. The first few minutes of this revelation makes both of you uncomfortable and the next thing you know is that people around the foe are giving you offensive stares victimising you perhaps for mistakes which you haven’t made. You are desperate to know what the foe has whispered into their ears. In turn, you do the same, you turn towards your friend and whisper something to him/her making your friend turn towards the infected table and cast a ‘if looks could kill,the table and its occupants would have been turned to cinders’ look.

It goes on. One waiting for the other to leave and god forbid if the two of you bump into each other again in the rest room then I can assure you that either of you is gazing at the mirror to gauge the other’s expression (in my case I always look at the clothes) to decipher the inner meaning of the ‘whisper’ that floated from ear to ear at your début earlier at the restaurant.

As long as one can talk, one will always contribute to the ever flowing fountain of rumours in the universe about anybody or anything. Rumours become hot topics for discussion when all else fails to break silence. Now you know why your parents asked you to read newspapers every day? They never ran out of topics.

Let us consider the ‘whisper’ that was born at your sighting at the restaurant by your foe. It could have ranged from ‘you know what he/she is the one who’s sleeping with him/her’ to ‘ he/she is the one who gets a promotion every year despite warming the chair’. I have only thought of two examples here. The permutations and combinations can give birth to many rumours irrespective of the necessity of its conception.

Some rumours may be true about you and some completely false. But what irks you is a fact that the creator (read foe) has many skeletons dangling in his/her closet too but his/her interest lies in yours alone. The bigotry kills. For once you feel that you don’t deserve it but in reality neither you nor I can do a thing about it.

As long as you are breathing and even after that there are going to be many who will know the true you and then the many willing to create nasty rumours about you, putting their own murky pasts at stake. What can you do about it?

Simple

Accept your weakness and your mistakes. Accept a fact that everybody on earth has contributed to their skeleton collection but hey, they are your skeletons and no one has the right to peek into your closet.

You alone hold the discretion to discuss your skeletons and if anybody who may not fall into your category of confidantes questions you about it, you have all the rights to refuse an explanation.

Accept the biggest fact of life that the world is a small place and you will bump into miscreants and offenders without any warning. Make sure you act normal as it will definitely make your foe extremely uncomfortable to stay around you. If you are not guilty of spreading a rumour about him/her and if he/she is guilty about spreading one about you then trust me the foe will panic and make a mess out of the ball that you silently sent hurling to the other side of the court.

Remember, the world has many people but the ones who care about are those who will stand by you and accept you the way you are. Just smile and walk on.

Dusk

It is dusk and it was dusk when I fell in love with you.

It is dusk and many have gone by but there don’t seem to be many left.

Maybe in another lifetime, I shall lie down at dusk next to you, kiss you beneath the pale sky and make love to you when the moon is high.

But that would be another lifetime.

But it is dusk and I remember falling in love with you at dusk. 

Your Name

It was just another day at work, mundane, bland and as usual I was multitasking – switching my view from the software that I work on to the many pages on chrome ranging from Gmail to Facebook – whilst keeping my mind off a chatathon which had commenced in the neighbouring cubicle.

That’s when I saw your name on the Gmail chat list in green – available – and that’s how my very perfectly mundane day ceased to end.

For one whole minute I couldn’t take my eyes off your name. You were online and your chat status signalled that you were available. How I wish you WERE available.

Suddenly the world around me seemed to dissolve into a deep abyss. I was oblivious to the passersby or the chatter. I could neither shift to the software I was working on nor to another tab on the browser. I fell into a pensieve, revisiting memories that I had kept hidden for some time now. 

I remember getting excited whenever your name appeared on the chat list ensuring endless conversations ending with a smile on my face. In that little box on the corner of the screen, I shared my secrets, my joy, my pain and my world with you. That little box was where we met, day after day, strengthening our bond, closing in the distance that lay between the two of us. It was in that little box that I fell in love with you.

One day, you turned from green to grey. Perhaps you need some time away from being green was what I thought. Little did I know that you would choose to remain that way forever. The little box – my escapade, my Pandora – only popped up when I had a lament against you or when I lashed at you out of feminine frustration but it never turned green.

I came out of the pensieve and found myself still staring at your name. The chatter around me hadn’t ceased and I have no clue if some passerby had caught me staring at the screen. I couldn’t care less.

I stretched my hand longingly towards your name to feel it half hoping that I could feel your finger touching mine. Hopeless me but I waited. Thought you would open the box for old time’s sake. I waited, but it only took a few seconds to uncross my fingers.

You were gone. Your name went from green to grey. 

SHE

I saw her looking at me.

She was standing right in front of me, about a foot away or two, looking at me despite the numerous objects that could distract her attention I secretly wished that she looked away. I loath being scrutinized by her looks.

Her looks. Piercing through my body deep into my soul. Scrutinizing every bit of my existence.

She tried well to hide but my growing familiarity with her looks gave away the questions that she intended to ask me. She was waiting for my nod.

I nodded.

“Who are you?”

A wanderer – not lost yet not found either

“What do you want?”

Space – Physical, virtual, ethical, spiritual but spotless

“Are you screaming?”

If you could only hear me from within

“Your path of reclamation?”

The one which I alone can find and I alone must tread on

“Sooner or later?”

Sooner it must be for I have wandered a lot

“I hope you do”

Her looks softened. I knew she had no more questions. Yet I knew she would come back with more if I took to wandering again. She looked away. I wish she had looked at me for some more time but I knew and she knew that a reflection on the mirror lasts only till the individual looks at the mirror.

The Wedding

So what are you wearing for the wedding?" - Clothes of course auntie (with a smile to camouflage my irritation)

Take all your sarees and go to 'Mata Bangles'. He knows better to accessorize women for weddings." - Thanks a lot auntie, will do (can I now have my lunch in peace)

So have you packed all your clothes and other stuff you need for the wedding?" - Errr....ummm... No we still have a week 

You have lost weight" - yes, I gym everyday

You have put on weight" - no, actually I have lost some

So it's you next" - Well hehehehe (I've heard that one before)

Why aren't you wearing a saree" - Wanted to freed myself of a catch 22 situation 

You see there is a guy in america who wants a girl" - (I thought there were many guys in america) No auntie not interested in guys who live in america

You see this guy in america does not want a girl who wants to live in america after the wedding" - (who's this Jack Sparrow I say?) Well let him come down to India and settle here auntie. I shall think about him after he gets his first pay cheque here.

Ninna line clear" (your line is clear now) - Well hehhehehe (when wasn't it clear by the way)

Give or take a question and two that came my way, I can finally declare my brother married. Please note

that I shall not play host to any other wedding in the near future. It really is tasking to get back to the normal sphere of life after one, and that too in the family.

So don't bug me with 'When's yours?'

My Room

I had managed to pack my few precious and fragile artifacts and cadeaux amidst the barbaric acts of violence manifested upon my books and clothes by a team of movers and packers when I realised that my room was almost empty. The last of the carton boxes left the room along with the barbarian handling it, leaving me with an empty room. My empty room.  A room that I had occupied for six years. 

A room where I grew.

 

My parents relocated to Malleswaram from Rajajinagar, in Bangalore - just a month before my naissance - with my brother who was seven. The house that the four of us moved into (technically 3 and a half as I was yet to make my grand appearance) was big enough for four people but had only one of each facility like any other old houses built to house a grand family of five perhaps. A veranda, a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and 'comme les francais', les toilettes (one). 

Brought into that house in full flesh five days after being born, I grew up in a locality that housed a temple at one end of the road and a bar – yes a bar – on the other end. And let me make it clear, I had never felt safer before. The inmates of the bar took to liking my family, called my mother ‘amma’, dad ‘sir’ and the two of us i.e. brother and me, putta and putti (little ones).  Whenever I pass by, I look fondly at that house. I lived there for 22 years in all innocence and happiness and then dad and  mom realised that the once upon a time large house started squeezing around us as the ‘putta’ and ‘putti’ were all grown and required their own turf.

That is how I came to occupy ‘A Room’.

My Room.

The very thought of moving into a new home excited me.  We were taken to a newly vacated home in Malleswaram (don’t become a sinner by asking why didn’t we consider any other area in the city) for a ‘decco’. The house was on the first floor and opened to a huge living room flanked by two rooms onto the left and right respectively. Trust me having lived in a single bedroom and a single bathroom house; I was elated beyond imagination when the room with the attached bath was awarded to me.  We moved in within a week. And thus began my journey in a room that was mine.

And for six whole years, it was mine.

A room where I grew.

A room to which I carried everything that I had ever possessed  and tried squeezing in the innocence that was mine. But again, you can only fit a few things in a room. You have to let go when you have to let go. And in that room, I let go a few things which had clung to me, some on my own and some taken away.

The room was a witness to my first love and first break up. Right from the frenzy of the romantic ardour taking over my senses to the tears that flooded my eyes and rolled down my cheeks whilst the floor supported my body which couldn’t heave itself on its foot thanks to the pain in its heart, the room saw it all.

The room witnessed a bonding between my best friend and me like never before. It is between these four walls that secrets, wishes and desires flew from the lip to the ear. We spoke without having to bother about walls and their ears. This is where I learnt that everybody grows up and that your best friend is bound to make decisions that might not comfort the bond that you share with her but life in its fullest form is different from one to another. We all have to go our own way. Don’t we?

It was my refuge from a world that never came to accept my school of thought. I would lock myself up and stay in till I felt at peace. The room was a perfect hideout in the middle of the night to run back to ‘Harry Potter’ thanks to the gnawing curiosity in my mind the story created. The reason was always’ Mom I need to visit the loo.’ And she knew I wouldn’t use the other one. I never slept in my room though. I can’t sleep alone.

A million other memories are attached to my room.

This is the place that comforted me when I faced bitter truths about life. And this is exactly where I learnt that every relationship goes through a test of time and just a few of them are rebels. The rest wither and die. I learnt that words sometimes lack density and not everything said is true. I learnt here that people who come into your life have no need to stay and some just wander to plunder and leave when confronted. Not everybody is your best friend. And throughout all this the floor of ‘My Room’ always supported me whenever I needed someone to sob to.

I changed jobs, I met new people, I befriended some and abandoned a few (I had to). And in the meanwhile from 23 I had come to call myself a 29 year old, someone to whom peace mattered more than any other possession and space mattered much more than the world itself. I lost myself, gave up looking and then discovered where I was. And when I was on the verge of that great discovery, time had come to pack my bags again.  This time neither had I outgrown the room nor had it shrunk in size overnight but I guess, my chapter in that room was over. I had to move on.

I know not what the other room has in store for me, I may change more rooms after this one but what ‘My Room’ holds, taught me and made into is closer to my heart than perhaps any other that I would live in.

I sat on the cold floor looking at my empty room. It looked exactly the same like the day it did when I first stepped in, when all of a sudden my brother walked in to shake me out of my reverie to ask if nothing was left behind.

I told him that nothing was left. He walked away. But I didn't tell him that something was still left.

Me.

Mon Dieu

Dear God,

Thank You! Thanks for this wonderful human life that you have bestowed upon me. I cannot imagine being a plant, an animal, a bird or something as gross as a centipede (due respect to your creative skills).

Thank you for having made me a woman. It is far better than being a man (your spitting image, I guess) who’s wired in a weird way. And they say I am from Venus.

Thank you for having made me strong, confident, faithful and slightly tolerant towards different species who have contributed nothing but unwanted anxiety (you could do something about them)

And thank you for keeping me single till now. I am sure you are not in a hurry to let my prince charming cross my path (what are you waiting for? Christmas)

That was about you. Now let us talk about me.

I have been a good human being. No doubt about that.

I have been there for the needy (friends who needed me post a break up, accident, broke and berserk etc)

I have sacrificed a lot and have not cried out loud about the same (except two days back when my folks snatched the remote from my hand and a few instances in the past)

I have been an epitome of hard work and dedication (no laughs about this ok?)

Stories of how I have helped people whom I know (especially getting them in to more problems) are well known.

I never forgot that it is you who has made my life so beautiful and I am glad that you have given me many moments to cherish (but you haven’t really upped your PR work post the Bryan Adams moment)

You have made me fair (not my skin! Duh) and have given me a mind that does a great amount of balanced thinking (still, you could have made me the oldest kid at home)

I agree that I have presented my ‘materialistic’ wants to you on many occasions so that you could sanction them. Petty things like passing marks in maths and great things like peace, tranquillity and a stress free life. You have fulfilled most of my wishes (math was my effort), conveniently ignored a few (read peace, tranquillity, prince charming, jimmy choo, Bentley and swarowski)

No complains. Take your time. But make sure you are listening to me this time.

Make my visit to the dentist ‘SMOOTH’.

A Story Called Life

‘So how is life?’ she asked.

‘Not as good as it used to be’ I said.

We smiled. She knew what I meant and I couldn’t have put it better. 

I could see various responsibilities – some willingly taken and some being thrust upon - manifesting on her face and she could see that I’ve been betrayed, taken for granted and mislead which in turn gave me a look of scepticism. 

But who were we to blame?

I remember listening to dad narrate the story of snow white, rapt with attention, a princess mislead into the forest where she slips into a deep slumber only to be awakened by her true love. A happy ending! 

The next evening it was Cinderella, ill treated by her family, only to escape in time for a bash after which the prince sought after her and married her. Another happy ending!! 

Rapunzel was next in line. Well the only problem she had was a mane that stretched to eternity which obviously got chopped off by the prince who fell in love with her and helped her escape from a tower where she was locked away. Happy Ending Truly!!!

Dad read these stories most nights to lull me to sleep, mom and I would watch the same on TV and I was induced into reading the same.
I read them.
I read them every night.
And every time I read them I believed that ‘bad’ doesn’t last long but ‘good’ does, the evil are weeded out and the kind hearted people can never be betrayed. In short ‘And they lived happily ever after’ would be everybody’s mantra for life. 

She believed them too. Just like me. And in the years that we grew up together we dreamt that some day over a cup of tea served in a dainty tea set we would discuss how well manicured our lawns were, how tough it is to match the lip colour with the nail colour and of course how all the best and close still remained our 2 am friends. Happy Carefree Life. 

But nobody told us that fairy tales belonged to the books alone and that l wouldn't find my prince charming just by acting dead, wandering in the woods or by stepping out at midnight and leaving one of my shoes at the party.

No one told us that life wasn’t always fair. That the word ‘Priority’ would play tricks which would either fetch us accolades or beat us down to pulp with criticisms flying at us from everywhere. 

No one ever mentioned that ‘Money’ would play a very important role in our lives. So much so that some relationships would be defined only on the basis of the riches and the goods that we have.

And no one ever told us that not everybody who we meet has a kind heart. They would lie to us, mislead us and betray us. No one told us about the scars such people would gift us with. 

Someday I will have children and I will read out the same stories to lull them to sleep. But the day when they are ready to listen to life’s story I shall tell them these: 

Fairy tales and life have nothing in common. Life is more beautiful. You only have to learn how to keep its beauty intact.

When surrounded by roses don’t get carried away by its fragrance that you turn a blind eye to the thorn that comes with the flower. Life has its share of ups and downs and certainly the good and the bad. Learn to accept them both. It creates a balance.

Money is something of course but not everything. Never trade your emotions for a few crisp notes. They can’t buy you back your lost emotions you see. 

And last but not the least; you are bound to meet a lot of people in life. Your gang of best friends will reduce from 25 in school to 1 by the time you are 30. The decline in the number doesn’t mean you are unpopular. It shows that only one person was worth sharing your joys and sorrows with. Just one person was worth all the time you spent with and that one person will be there no matter what and will stand by your side whenever you face the rotten eggs.

After all, it is life. Not a fairy tale that lasts only ten pages.

Proper or Economy?

“So, how are you going to travel to Mumbai? Train?” asked my grandmother when I called to tell her that I am travelling to the city of dreams for the first time on work. “Ajji, they’re sending me by flight. Indian Airlines from Bangalore to Mumbai and Kingfisher on my way back home.” What followed was an elation of sorts. My grandmother could just not stop beaming over the phone. Her granddaughter would be FLYING to Mumbai. FLYING. A privilege enjoyed by a few. To be frank not a few but by those who could afford flying from one destination to another or by those who worked for organizations who could afford plane tickets for their employees.

The news spread like wildfire. Grandma pictured her granddaughter (yours truly) well dressed, high heels, clutching a handbag and pulling her luggage at the airport, boarding a flight to be made comfy by a host of beautiful smiling women inside the aircraft. What she expected post my return was a call from my end to describe my experience inside the aircraft. She couldn’t care less about Mumbai. She has heard about it from my granddad.

I felt like a celebrity. From all the attention I got. Be it my grandmother or from the lovely stewards mid air.

Such was the song and dance that enveloped an airline user. By the way this was 8 years ago.

Today, the mention of the word ‘Fly’ makes my grandmother ask anybody just one question. Economy or proper?

She’s abreast with all the news and gossip that we grandkids feed the entire family with. So the élan with which she treated an air traveler has vanished.

She’s not the only one though. I boarded an economy flight for the first time when I had to travel to Ahmedabad. Someone who has always flown with Kingfisher and Jet, I expected a similar reception. I patiently waited for my turn to board and trust me the sight that met my eyes made me stop in my tracks. What greeted me inside the aircraft was a long narrow stretch of space lined with seats that looked like a well furnished KSRTC bus.

Reminding myself that the definition of economy has been through a metamorphosis I squeezed myself in the narrow aisle making my way towards my seat amidst a lot of people.

As soon as the pilot geared up for take off, I jostled myself out of my new found ‘economy depression’ and allowed some blood to flow to my face. After all, we were taking off, which means we would be served food in a short while from now. I was starving.

Straight up mid air when the pilot had settled comfortably, I saw an airhostess handing out menu cards. I was impressed. I mean, you call yourself economy but hand out menu cards to manifest your options? Fantastic! My heart was pumping extra blood.

But what drained the color off my face was the price tag attached to every option inside. What? You expect me to pay 75 bucks for a lousy sandwich? That too without extra cheese? Ridiculous.

I bought it. I was starving you see.

The lack of in – flight entertainment made me chew the lousy cold sandwich whilst looking at the vast stretch of beautiful clouds. That was the first time I wished I could apparate from one place to another.

The three hours journey seemingly was taking a lifetime when suddenly I glimpsed terrain. Green and brown patches of land below. We were landing. And slowly my soul which had slipped into coma was coming back to life. We were landing and for the first time three whole hours I was genuinely happy. My countdown to land had started.

Just a few feet above the ground my mind wandered to the most significant aspect of flying. Smooth Landing. Suddenly, my worst fears started haunting me. None of my expectations were coming true right from the time I stepped inside this aircraft. Do I cross my fingers or do I …………..BHAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

We landed. And how? I was curious if we had left a mark on the spot where our aircraft kissed the land.

Coming to think of it, the ‘Good Old Days’ as we term them had an elite sense of being and boasted of an unmatched quality. These days airlines have turned into mere Page 3’s of the aviation industry. Cram up everybody into a single place and call them celebrities.