I want to trap time. I know it can't be done. Still.

Its the kind of evening that makes me want to run down the three floors of my hostel room with my gang to our tea spot. Go for a single cup, but end up drinking gallons of it over crazy, long, controversial, crazier conversations. I want to bump into classmates. Expand the circle of talk till its just us.

Feel the chill and complain about it. Complain about the lack of hot water and hotter meals. Beckon the department store uncle and tell him that his Maggi is our survival tool. That without him our stomach's would be crying.

I want to make fun of the walkers while my own paunch grows in size with the junk consumed. I want to buy little bars of chocolates for my mates and feel their smile warm me up.

Lets run down that lane with our jingle. We were always juvenile. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Shame is something we left outside those walls. Cause within them laid freedom in a sense that will never be known elsewhere.

We are scattered, but there is a bond that unites us now. And will forever. Some are still experiencing the freedom. I envy them. I ask them to enjoy it more. On my behalf.

I want to raise my hand in class and spoil the rest of the prof's lecture. Debate till he/she turns red. Till we exchange winks and divert the boring topic into a needless argument that'll tickle our ribs for long.

I want to read out my paper in class and defend it. Ask for a break cause the eye lids have embarrassingly started sticking to one another. Yes. I want to read the soft-board and yell at atrocities teachers commit on students. I want to sit in a corner of the seminar room and doodle. Let the words spoken in the room form a cozy bed and pillow for me.

I want to shake that tree and let the road be carpeted by the shed yellow. I want to stand there and make fun of Bollywood. I want to see those raised eyebrows and tell myself that they don't know how to enjoy life's moments.

I want to cry laughing at the imitations of professors done by my classically talented folks. Its something that is the birth right of every student. I want to click pictures on my phone of the sleepy heads and threaten exposure on social networking websites.

I want to finger the dust off the shelves of journals and books in the dungeon like library of mine. I want to spend the day searching for that one book. Then heave a sigh of relief when I triumph in procuring it out of a corner. Gloat at myself and issue it. I am shallow in a lot of ways.

I want to wake up early and take my run through the fog around the ring road. Say hi to the mess bhaiya on my way back and ask the menu of the day. Give him a look of disgust. Laugh with him over it and still swallow what he serves and calls food.

I want to wash my bucket of joy and hang them with perfection. Fold them once dry in a manner that looks ironed crisp. I want to sit on the mess table post-dinner squashed between population wanting to burst into debates. Violent discussions that'll rub off sleep and leave everyone dark eyed in the morning.

I want to stick posters. Announce to the world about performances that'll make them scream for more. Obviously, work towards it through the nights with my bunch. With butter rotis and crispy vegs. Gradually moving to rotis and lesser crispy vegs. Pockets torn.

Work on group assignments that'll require more co-ordination than reading and structuring. Last minute be the motto. Then, now and forever. Sit in the visitors room till the guard starts giving out suggestions and offering beverages to keep us awake.

I want to chase the cat munching on my dustbin. Offer it something better. The warden's dustbin. Plan plots to exterminate pigeons from the face of the Earth. Yes. We were ruthless. Only in plans.

Now that I have entered the parallel world I was trying to create and escape into, hi to those are a part of it. Bye to the rest. See you later.

And you know that she's half crazy. But that's why you want to be there.

Though the temperature isn’t exactly as low as it should be, it does look like a winter morning. It’s gloomily cloudy and it smells cold. Yes, funnily it smells and doesn’t feel cold. You should be here to know what I am describing. I would love to go to the beach now. Lie near the shore. Let the water tickle my outstretched feet. Let the warm sand rub my back. Have my book in my hand and let the breeze turn the pages for me. Serene and solitary.

I have switched from the rib-tickling tales of a rebellious priest and his arch rival communist mayor to a treasury of Indian mythology. It’s beautiful so far. The pages are new, yet there is something antique about it. I guess its the ancient tales typed on them that make them different and special. I love the calligraphy on it. Reminds me of the calligraphy pen Pa got me a really long time back. It still has its price tag on it. I was always scared to use it. I know the shelf it’s on. I am far from it right now, but when I get closer, I will use it. Write something for Pa with it.

I am doing something I love more than anything else. It can’t be the only thing I do cause some things don’t change. Some opinions don’t change. But I am proud of myself in a strange sort of way; for having kept the embers of my passion burning all through. They will burn like this today. And they shall burn like this forever.

I want to learn how to weave a carpet. Inspiration: a beautiful picture I just saw of a man sitting behind the wooden machinery that was producing the most colouful piece of art. From barren nothingness arises a splash of design in colours of one’s choice. I know I’ll love the feeling after having completed a piece.

The TV has been endlessly screaming for the past several minutes now. And what is one it makes me nauseous; the sickening background music, intolerable voice modulations and the insufferable dialogues. Just why people watch it is beyond me. I pray sincerely that I never reach a stage where the TV becomes my best friend. Never.

Give me a canvas the size of a wall. I want to splash colours on it. Use anything but a brush to paint on it. Go unconventional. I don’t want to show it to anyone till I finish. Maybe I won’t show it at all. Paint it black after I am done. It will be something I made for myself. It will remain mine. Or, I’ll paint a huge Calvin and Hobbes on the white surface and worship it. Yes, I have a strange sense of religiosity.

And she feeds you tea and oranges

That come all the way from China

And just when you mean to tell her

That you have no love to give her

Then she gets you on her wavelength

And she lets the river answer

That you’ve always been her lover

And you want to travel with her

And you want to travel blind

And you know that she will trust you

For you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.

Suzanne- Leonard Cohen

Well, I had a dream I stood beneath an orange sky.

I woke up this morning groggy and sat cross-legged on the bed facing the window. There was a silent breeze brushing the sun's early strands. I closed my eyes and tried recollecting my dream. I remember snippets that don't fit together. They are pieces of different puzzles. I had more than one dream.

Somewhere a friend is snuggled under a warm blanket refusing to leave the bed. I want to make chai for her, snuggle in next to her and have a long talk. Its been too long since we met. A lot has passed between us. More than half of December has gone. And I haven't shivered even once. I am nearer to the equator. I can't complain. It is geographically impossible. My wish.

Reading has taken a stand still although I have a set of new books piled in front of me. Each wanting to be touched and flipped. Each wanting to be heard out. I will. One and one. All of them.

I made what I was supposed to. It came out well, served its purpose and made the person it was made for happy. Satisfaction swept in that evening. It was beautiful. I could do with more such evenings. Many more. And they shall happen in time.

I have been listening to a lot of music these days. And when I say lot, I really do mean a LOT. I have been breathing, eating and obese-ing on music. Genre irrespective, I have had headphones on my head all day. My grandmother now thinks I have transmogrified (Calvin style) into an extra-terrestrial specie.

I am going to return to watching Prison Break now. I will return with more that is in my head.

The good old days really were.

I just looked at a video a friend of mine had made a long time back. A six minute video capable of slipping the floor off my feet. It has random flashes of several photographs with a soulful melancholic music in the background that can churn one's stomach even when its full. Mostly a collection of memories of twelfth grade from the summer term to the winter term, through the days of play and study, till the farewell- both formal and informal.

Most of the faces are now distant remembrances. We've lost touch. Some are still important in life. Very important and have helped through times of darkness and despair, joy and celebration. A few are of those that aren't exactly called friends but joke buddies. You share nothing of your life with them but end in a laughter riot if met over a cup of coffee. What is shared is light naughty moments of school. Flashbacks that'll be cherished forever. That'll make me smile with a tear even decades from now. Blessed are those moments. And blessed am I to have shared them with such a wonderful bunch of people.

Pictures can make one feel the place it has been taken in. Activate the olfactory sense to send a warmth through the body. A soothing warmth of affection and belonging. Sometimes even enable recollection of conversations that happened before, during and after the photo shoot. It is a fascinating experience- the sudden sensory overload.

I could feel the cold water gushing from the taps of the water cooler. A favourite destination to escape from boring classes and meet friends for secret chit-chat. I could hear the gliding of feet over the marble flooring. We were banned from skating over it. But who cared! I could hear the the yelling of a certain teacher who has yelled at all of us without fail. Her stomping up and down the stairs chasing us back to class. Us- well running helter-skelter to end up at the play ground for a head count. All safe or some down? The neem tree was the permanent club meeting spot. I think every badge holder has announced a meeting under the neem tree. It would be nice to sit under it again and talk to her. She has listened to many like us over the past decades and will continue to do so. It has held us all though the branches. Never to let go.

The dance classes were historical. Where the pretty girls danced conscientiously, the boys shot imaginary pistols in the air while the harassed teacher attempted to correct the 'thun thun' position. Epic failure. The legalised bunking for club activities, house events, annual functions, well just about anything we could come up with, is sorely missed. The long conversations in the quadrangle. Some ending up in quarrels resolved, some well... unresolved.

We didn't have a canteen then. The joys of hot food lay beyond the walls of the institution. Just outside the side gate. In a corner. Were our samosas. And kachoris. We did buy them. Eat them. Relish them. Not only for the taste, but for the mere unlawfulness of it all. We were rebellious in our own meager ways. The embers are still within. I guess they provide the warmth I was talking about.

The last day of summer vacation in the final year meant signature campaign. Pocket tearing rape-like sequences. Inked cheeks. Inked any-exposed-part-of-body actually. It was our day of marking uniforms with permanent markers. My shirt and skirt still lie folded neatly at the bottom of a pile in my cupboard. The permanence of the pens lies proven. It shall, hopefully, forever.

The farewell is always a joyous occasion at first, which later turns into a red-nosed wet-eyed ceremony. Where boys make fun of girls only to realise that its one of the things they'll miss the most. Teachers reveal stories and anecdotes that suddenly strengthen the bond between us. They weren't that evil after-all. Its nice to go back once in a while. Smile at faces that show signs of aging. Receive affectionate hugs and naughty winks. They are kids like us. They reveal that side after we become alumni. Its one of the things I have cherished after passing out. A mature, yet juvenile relation with the gurus.

I miss sitting on the green grass, plucking it with boredom after a march past. The lifting of trophies won after several rounds of throat aching cheering and hooting. The backslapping, hi-fi-ing and fist punching. The torturous assemblies on cold shivering foggy mornings when most entertained themselves with smoke circles. Yes, we thought it was cool to smoke without a cigarette. Some of us still do. Standing outside the classroom as a form of punishment had its own advantages. One could get a peep into the classes around. Eavesdrop on gossip and generally socialise with passersby. I miss cribbing about the hideously red lipstick which was a permanent feature of all cast members- gender, age, role irrespective.

There are many things I wish to put down, but for now this is enough. Watching the video once has triggered all this. Watching it again will trigger more. Without doubt. Until then, miss you all and love you.

Did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day?

I want a room to myself. I want to paint it blue on two adjacent walls and white on the other two walls. On the white corner I want to paint a tree. Blue it will be. Let it grow from the corner and branch across on the whiteness on either sides. Adorn the walls with pictures and posters that'll make me cry with laughter. Wash them with memories of the happiest and most loved people. Have a window that'll give me a view of the sky when I'll lay beside it at night. Let the stars wink me to sleep. Let the moon read me a bed time story. A shelf of books that'll smell old and friendly. I want to stick glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Have a stain-glass lamp hanging from the window. Let the sun sparkle through it and spill into the room. Let every breeze waltz around the wind chime. Allow it to drop in a 'hello' as it passes by. I want a Kaleidoscopic that'll show me new colours and patterns every day. Set against the same world, it'll be pretty nevertheless, without fail.

My hands are numb with glue. I have been sticking things other than the pieces of my scattered life. The table's turned into a workshop. Whether something creative will emerge from the debris strewn across is a million dollar question. I have to answer it in a few days. I will.

Justifications are tiring. The need to explain every move one makes. Every choice chosen. Every road traveled. Etc. I will, on days like these, lean on my painted blue tree and let things be. Let the branches soak my frustration and grow stronger. Let me grow stronger as well. A strange symbiotic relation that would need no words.

I have been reading about the psychology of pain. It is interesting to look at the several views people have about pain. Unlike happiness, which we tend to think comes in greater degrees to others, pain is a feeling we attribute with magnified intensity to ourselves. Tell those who wish to comfort us that they will never know the feeling. That it is worse than anything they have ever felt or will feel. Relativity is twisted to suit one's needs/desires. Is pain that cannot be attributed to an organic lesion false? Can one claim it is a case for psychological intervention with certainty then? Does the need for psychological intervention mean one is not strong enough to deal with one's problems? Does the blame then point to the sufferer? Does the sufferer become the cause and effect of the pain, unlike in the case of a lesion where the cause and effect can be separated? Does the sufferer, from a victim, become a perpetrator?

Its a gloomy day and its rubbing off on me. Sigh.

We're living in a den of thieves. Rummaging for answers in the pages.

The wind is violent today. It is insistent on blowing me away. It brings with it a new sweet smell. Usually smells bring back several memories. But this one is pure, untouched and un-smelt. It is not of the past. I am not reminiscing, for once. Though the future is still swimming in uncertainty, I feel a strange sense of control. It may not last tomorrow. So I shall let myself afloat. For now. For today.

The Little Man is thinning on my right hand. It has been a great journey of love, dreams, desires, and hopes. I have grown with him into a little woman. My aspirations are different, but our enthusiasm is similar. Our restlessness, even more.

The TV has been running nearly all day. From one channel to another, its the same story. A story that makes my blood boil. Yes, they are called soaps. I wish they'd rinse themselves clean with it. They get filthier with each new production. I am amazed at their increasing viewership. I am either degrading in patience, or the TV viewing community is gradually losing its strings of sanity. The grey matter fading into a numb white. Scary. The ladies are more heavily clad in ugly jewellery and pokey sarees. The men are using more vulgar language and torturing the women. The children are increasing cranky and spoilt. The elders are well, the less said the better. The evil mother-in-law has taken a new avataar, worse than its predecessors put together. The spineless good-at-everything, but always-ill-treated daughter-in-law is more subservient than ever. She resigns to her fate and begs her husband to not protest against the atrocities committed on her. She even encourages him to take her mother-in-law's side for she is the head of the family. I want to slap them. Hard.

Sigh, I have been ranting most of the day. I really wish the wind would carry me away to a place with silence and sense.

Trust is probably the hardest thing to achieve and the easiest thing to break. You try and build it up to a crescendo only to plummet down due to a mistake/misunderstanding. Reason ceases to exist and life becomes a whirlwind of justifications, subconscious self-questioning and unconscious guilt. I guess its a part of growing stronger. As they all say.

The year's coming to an end and when I look back (reminiscing now) I feel strangely happy. Its been a quick year like all others, but different in so many ways. World views have changed. The world I live in has changed. Physically. Socially. And metaphorically. Its going to be a warm December, strangely. I didn't start the year with resolutions. I never do. In a way I have lost nothing. But, somewhere I have lost myself to the year. To the places I have been to. To the people I have grown to love. To the gushing river in which jumps were made. To the long late night walks. To the spaces of rehearsals. I wonder how much of me is left now. I am ready to lose more next year. To what? Only time will tell.

Censorship blankets honesty. The World adorns a belt of chastity.

I wish to write.

Keeping my grip on the pen tight.

Let the thoughts flow by.

Like the first rain filling a river-bed dry.

But what happens when there is a dam.

A surveillance of who I really am.

I gotta find my way home.

I have been living like a nomad over the past few months. Wake up each morning to a new routine. Each day is defined and made use of by the moment. Perpetual uncertainty. It was hard initially, for I was so used to regularity. But now, I am flowing with it. Some days are more rapid than others. Louder than others. Sweeter than others. The 'others' are dealt with patience and hope. I am aging in both.

New friends have been made with words that are gently whispered in the ear with rhythm and those that are inked in black on sheets that embrace me. I converse with them everyday over a cuppa of hot something. We get lost in each other. Always.

Its a newer city. It has changed since I last walked it and breathed it. Nevertheless, it is treating me well. A new relation is growing between us. It is bitter-sweet like most. New routes have been traversed and explored. It will continue this way for a while.

The Colour Purple lies finished, with its back to me. The colour is deep and moving. Its hard to let go of it. I think I'll be purple for a long time to come. The Little Man awaits me. Its about a boy who's 2 inches tall and out to conquer the world. I would love to join him. Pack a bag and walk the stretch of the earth. I've always wanted to do it. I shall. Someday.

I've used up 8 packets of M-seal since yesterday. You might think I've turned into a master sculptor. I would like to think the same. Its a beautiful crown, that which I am supposed to make. Hope it turns out as pretty as I expect it to be.

I want to go back to 355. Pull down the curtains, give them a wash and hang them back up. Smell the room turn fresh. Open wide the balcony door to oversee the mist rising to hug me from the baby green foliage that spreads across on the ground below. Listen to the pigeons flutter and argue. Run down the aisle beckoning people for a meal. A meal we are sure not to relish, but its the eating together that is important. Take the plate out in the warm sun and chat more than eat. Fold my clothes neatly in piles and clear the bed that is a beautiful blue. Smile at the soft board that has faces, old and new, smiling back.

I have not been a huge lover of the winter season, but I must admit I miss it. Much more than I thought I would. Hands turning numb under the tap. Cheeks blushing pink outdoors. Holding on to a freezing bus pillar, only to get off at a stop that'll serve the warmest and tastiest parathas. Give and receive bear hugs. It might be cold, but the blood runs warm.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there's a field. I'll meet you there. - Rumi.

Maybe thats where home is for most of us.

God ain't a he or a she, but a It.

Its a quite afternoon. There is a soothing warm breeze dancing around the wind chime. There is silence, except for a few distant honks and the buzzing fan overhead. I could do without it, but I'll let it spin. It would be natural for one to feel drowsy on an afternoon like this. Not me.

Music is something that connects one to the soul. Not just of oneself, but even to that of the instruments and the players/singers. Its a strange communion that leaves one feeling light and loved. It may or may not have words. Words, one may or may not understand. It still feels the same. Mostly.

The Colour Purple is depressing. And I depressingly love it. The characters are raw and innocent. Their sufferings genuine and heartbreaking. I will finish it soon and not know what to do.

Theatre has, and will always be my first love. I love the stage at my feet. The wood creaking with each step, urging me to move and conquer it. I have done it before. Its time to do it again. Soon.

Appreciation for poems varies the most I think. What one might think is a masterpiece, will turn out to be a piece of rubbish on which another can wrap his/her chewed gum for disposal. Its actually fascinating, more than frustrating, at times. I think a lot depends on how you read it. The intention you give it. Unlike prose, where the author has an overstated meaning for each line, poets like to leave everything in oblivion. If you like to paint yourself in that oblivion, you'll breathe it and survive.

Choices are something we all complain about having in reduced numbers. We never get enough to choose from. This can't be relative deprivation if it is universal.

There is something so comforting about old hindi songs. Actually anything old for that matter. Photos. Books. Friends. Coffee shops. There is a pervading sense of security. I may be wrong, but I don't feel it now.

I am engrossed in Arun Kolatkar's poetry. He writes the simplest things in the most beautiful way. Who ever thought the description of a baby being bathed would be a fantastic theme for a poem! I love him and will continue my affair with him now. Adios.

Jupiter is catching a bus this year.

I turn the music up, I got the records on

From underneath the rubble sing a rebel song

Don't want to see another generation drop

I rather be a comma than a full stop

Its the penultimate month of the year and as always, it seems to have come too fast. Its been a life changing year, like every other year. A lot of new people have been met. Old doors have been knocked. Unperceived goals have been sought. Familiar places have been re-visited. A few favourites have been revised, furnishing the pages with more fingerprints. New books have been inked to the list. The taste buds have feasted more. The nights have been haunted with bizarre dreams and the feet have tread more gradients. New hugs have given warmth, while lost ones have been missed.

There are heroes in the sea weed

There are children in the morning

They are leaning out for love

And they will lean that way forever

The Jupiter is closest to the moon today. Apparently, it happens once in a hundred years. Hmmm, I feel historic, now that I have witnessed it. But it isn't the breaking news on TV. For once. The sky has always been an intriguing space. Small dots, that are actually magnanimous in size, wink every night- tirelessly.

The buses haven't changed and thankfully, neither have their fares. The conductor gives me a glace of recognition. He's seen me before. A gazillion times. Its the same girl who lost her balance every day, while trying to hold on to her several bags, sanity and the pillar together. Its been a couple of years, but I have still not lost my charm. I still fall. I still stumble. I still like my bus.

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend

Somewhere along in the bitterness

And I would have stayed up with you all night

Had I known how to save a life

The Colour Purple beckons me now.

P. S.- The lyrics incorporated are a result of my listening to them while writing this. And the title, well lets just say that a fall in the bus shook my sanity out.

Shore Side Story

The morning was spent at the beach after months. I teased the water. Squatting near the finish line of every wave, I remain untouched. I liked it this way today. Maybe not tomorrow.

I was late for the sun rise. It was up, but shying behind grey clouds that were to shed tears later in the day. Every now and then it peeped out, sparkled and blushed red at its reflection in the undulating waters.

People. Politics. Past. Aspirations. Crabs. Fears. Plays. Zeb and Haniya.

We talked. We laughed. We awed. We cribbed. We loved. We didn't cry. There was no need.

We ended our morning glory with hot breakfast. It was just perfect.

Since morning, I have been listening to three songs obsessively.

1. Suzanne- Leonard Cohen

2. Every Teardrop is a Waterfall- Coldplay

3. Every Little Thing She Does is Magic- Sting/ Symphoniticies

Now I'll go listen to them again. And again.

Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is opinion - Democritus

I stepped on those stairs after a really really long time. The sound it made breathed familiarity.

I traced my fingers on the walls that had absorbed the echoes of lost chatter, anger and laughter. The reverberations made my heart skip a beat.

I walked into the hall that I had swept and laid carpets on. My fingerprints are still on them, but they have been masked by the several successors.

I felt the breeze through the window I had sat by. It tickled my ear; it had missed me.

Crumpled manuscripts, stained by repeated handling, were pressed between younger fingers. I have held those papers. The words printed on them were different then.

Faces I knew have more lines on them now. Yet, there is a twinkle in the eyes that tells me that memories are keeping the hearts youthful.

The binding on the books have changed, however, they still smell of the places I took them to; the fallen flowers against which they laid on the ground, when I rested my eyes from them.

The tables have been painted a fresh colour, but they haven't erased the markings I made on them.

Scribbled notes are still passed.

Suppressed giggles are still heard.

Things, actually, don't change as much as we think they have.

Its been a while since I left that place. I have moved on, but there still remains a part of my jigsaw there. It always will. And every time I go back it'll fit into me and rekindle a me that is long gone.

It is a bitter-sweet symphony, that's life.

Diwali Distress

Today is one of those days when I want to write but have nothing exceptionally interesting to write about.

The neighbours, colour-blindedly, have painted their half of the two-storey apartment the most hideous pink ever invented. Yes. It means that while one half is this disgusting colour, the other has an ever-peeling-off white-washed contrasting look. Beauty. Not to mention that one side of the ever-peeling white-washed first storey apartment has an ever-peeling yellow colour. In between the upper and lower atrociousness is a tide-ad-like white strip that was actually painted to cover up the previous appalling florescent blue colour. Well, the blue still peeps out of the large gaps left while painting the white. You get the picture. I hate it.

Diwali.

Olfactory senses: fresh paint, varnish, burnt crackers, burnt food (which is a result of endless discussions on festive proceedings with neighbours/friends/family), new clothes, floor disinfectants, insect repellers etc.

Auditory senses : Bursting crackers. Crackling oil. Blaring Bhajans in Jagarans. Squealing babies. Roaring children. Bellowing parents.

Gustatory senses: Glutton delight time.

Visual senses: Polychromatic spectacle. Name the colour. People buy it. Wear it. Jewellery. People buy. It pokes. People still wear it.

My sixth sense tells me that I have lost control of all my senses and that I should retire.

Silence O.K Please.

Zip. Zap. Zoom.

Certainly driving isn't as easy as that. So TV car ads of this century: please get realistic.

Yet another list.

1. Fact: There are obviously other cars on the road that suffer from similar zip-zap-zoom syndrome increasing the chance of a head-on, side-to-side, back-to-front, front-to-back or well any angle collision.

2. Myth: The Traffic Lights are government's permanently placed Diwali illuminations.

3. Fact: We live in a country where the Right of the Road belongs to species other than the Homo Sapiens.

4. Myth: The mobile phone is a device that tells you who is driving behind you, ahead of you, beside you or is a foreteller of avoidable accidents.

5. Fact: The peddle between the clutch and the accelerator is called a brake. It is meant for use.

6. Myth: The horn is a musical instrument.

7. Fact: The zebra crossing is a striped strip meant for people to cross the road on. So don't wait for a zebra to cross on it. Let the people cross.

8. Myth: The mirror in front is a unique accessory meant to check if the hair is gelled properly or if the eye make up has worn out.

9. Fact: The road is not like the brain. The left side doesn't operate upon the right and the right side doesn't operate upon the left. If you want to turn left, be on the left side of the road and NOT on the right side and vice-versa.

10. Myth: It is a lie-cence. It isn't. Please make sure you KNOW how to drive before you get the official document.

I just realised my previous post title had a please too. What a pleasing personality I have I say!

I am brain dead.

Bye.

Mr. Ravana, please stand up.

“Hahahahahahaha”

“Hohohohohoho”

Am I celebrating a premature Christmas?

No.

These were the opening lines of Ravana’s scene yesterday. Come Dussera and the whole neighbourhood throngs at the Ramlila Maidan of the locality. Age/caste/class/religion/gender no bar.

We have been ardent followers of the last-day-of-the-navratra mayhem. So last evening my brother, father and I set out for our yearly laughter marathon. The chairs were set. The eye piercing bright-pink satin curtains drawn closed. Incomprehensible bhajans were being sung deafeningly by the mandali. We were early.

We seated ourselves equidistant from the stage and the to-be-burnt Ravana that stood quite malnourished compared to its previous avatars. In his good old days he used to have Kumbhakarna standing next to him for company. The recession has spared no one. Sigh.

Suddenly the singers muted themselves, and emerged from the wings Hanuman with his, handful in number, Vaanar Sena. They did a little disco jig to entertain us while the other characters, I presume, were getting ready. Soon enough, Rama and Lakshmana entered the scene and settled themselves on the thrones looking rather jaded. Nine days of acting can take a toll on anyone. While the audience was filling up, Rama and Lakshmana sat like statues with the rest attempting to hop-shoot-fly as they sabotaged the mike periodically to bellow- ‘Jai Shri Ram.’

But what I was waiting for was my favourite bhajan that’ll put even Metallica to shame; a beat-iful number- ‘Ram ji Ki Sena Chali.’ It gives me epileptic fits every time I listen to it. Its another thing that the thunderous loud speaker seemed to send waves that penetrated one’s chest as though someone were administering a cardio pulmonary resuscitation. Pardon the medical metaphors. It’s a genetic habit.

Well, once the Ravana was ready with his nine heads. Yes. I said nine because we believe in physics and the principal of balance. If there is a central head that cannot be shifted, we make do with four on each side, irrespective of the fact that during the famous battle when Ravana found his extra heads inconvenient, he quietly stepped into the wings and got one of his minions to remove them. Voila! A one-headed more comfortable, hence more confident Ravana surfaced.

It was interesting to note that during the battle Rama and Ravana exchanged pleasantries. ‘Don’t step too close to the edge of the stage.’ ‘Avoid tripping on the mike lines.’ ‘That make-up looks superb.’ Personally, I would want Ravana to enter a dance competition. The grace and panache with which he waltzed around the stage was unparalleled.

The battle was the laughter bomb. Those not participating in the battle (this happens when one side has more people and they have to wait for their chance to fight) posed like body builders centre stage, much to the delight of the photographer. Here, I would like to establish that the fight sequence comprised mainly of Rama and Ravana revolving around the stage like two planets in an orbit. It is also imperative to bring to your notice that while Rama revolved with his bow and a set of arrows, Ravana did the same with his sword and vice-versa. In the midst of this circling circus they employed a new theatrical technique- that of stills. All of a sudden all the characters would assemble at the centre of the stage and form a still- mostly of Ravana in the centre with Rama stepping on one of his thighs and all weapons pointing at him. Picture taken. Disperse.

This happened more than a couple of times. Similar formations. Different positions. Only problem- they were all smiling. (This, however, is a technological problem as we have invented cameras that click pictures only when people are smiling)

Highlight of the day- Ravana’s abrupt death as the Mayor, the Chief Guest of the evening, arrived. Flutter of an eye lid and out of the blue Ravana is horizontal. Hanuman bends the mike to capture Ravana’s finale act- ‘Raaaaaaammm… Raaaaaammmmmmm…’ Anyway, we obviously need a politician on stage saying- ‘Truth will prevail. The unjust will be punished… etc.’ One could have just rewound and replayed all their campaign speeches.

We probably hailed the gods a gazillion times as the itinerary of the evening had to have fill-ups. The fill-ups were undoubtedly getting the audience hands up and letting out religious roars.

The moment that we had all been waiting for finally arrived. Combustion time. As Rama and Lakshmana strode through the aisle towards the to-be-burnt Ravana, we had our hand up again. Religious roar number gazillion+one. It was lit and a string of fire crackers blew off. The children screeched in delight. But. Post the singular string of a couple of fireworks the plan of the whole Ravana setting ablaze flopped. Ravana was still upright and alive with fluorescent red lights for eyes. I’d love to say it was an epic fail, literally. Pyro-technological error.

Solution: just poke the thing with a fire stick. Kaboom.

End of story.

There was a lot more I wanted to say but I’m so sleepy that the words are now doing a jalsa in my brain. It was an eventful evening with tears of laughter streaming down our faces. We haven’t laughed this much in a while. It felt good.

Will we go for it next year? Always.

Myriad Miens

An obsession with alliterations.

Stained coffee mugs that echo foregone conversations.

Scratched tables that have felt a number of hands.

Of evenings spent singing old songs.

An inbox filled with years of messages.

Monochromatic photographs.

Creaking of steps over a barren wooden stage.

Of red curtains and green rooms.

A Chinese whisper in a boring class.

Washed hair and cool breeze.

Fog sheeted dawns and dew washed foliage.

Long walks taken singularly with ear phones.

Warm hugs on cold days.

Scent of old books and rained earth.

Of nights spent under the stars.

Fresh paint on clean sheets.

The comfort of re-watching movies.

Washed clothes and shrunken sweaters.

Pink skies and orange clouds.

Strummed guitars and beaten buckets.

A hot cup of tea brewing in the kitchen.

The sting of pain balms and ice packs.

Pawed love and human wrath.

Long telephone gossips and laughter.

A blue wardrobe with grey t shirts.

Nail biting last over matches.

Yellowed newspaper cuttings of heartthrobs.

Lives locked up in cartons rediscovered on cleaning.

Of midnight wishes and growing older.

Family feasts beyond illuminated walls.

The loss of vivid imagination to morbid rationalisation.

Of plans to travel and conquer the world.

A soft board pinned with memories.

Now, I want to go live a few of my dreams.

Monotonous Monologues

An old man rests on a parapet. He swings his legs on either side of the freshly built wall and places his meal in between. He chews it slowly while gazing below at a mother and a child standing under a yellow street lamp. Its twilight. The lines on his face suggest years of toil and hardship. But for now, there is certain serenity that embraces his aura. A good days work. Remembrances of childhood maternal affection. A mother's hug. His calmness is infectious. I don't know him. Still.

It has been infernal, weather wise. So much for hallucinating a forthcoming winter.

Beckett and Kesey are eating my days and nights away.

The festive spirit is here, once again. Nine days of loud music, sumptuous food, vibrant attires, social meetings, energetic dances and so on. Am I kicked about it? Certain sins are attractive but I seek inner peace.

Dreams are a reflection of one's subconscious. That part of the iceberg which is just hidden below the surface of the sea. If so, I need help. If Freud were to analyse my dreams he would have given up Psychoanalysis and taken up a more innocuous profession like brushing a crocodile's teeth. (So said a friend a long time back) What does dreaming in black and white mean?

Over the past few days songs, photographs and certain aromas and hues have taken me back to distant memories. Does it mean I am living in the past like my today's horoscope says? I'd rather see it as a foresight. Ironical I know, but I think it means I am about to have a eureka moment that'll lead to the creation of the most sought after machine of all times- The Time Machine. The ability to travel across temporal dimensions. The ability to go into the future is under construction, however. Nevertheless, it does not mean that once you go back into the past you cannot return to the present. Wait a minute! If the voyage to the future is under construction, then for the past the present will be a future instance, meaning I mean (another past reference of an English teacher who spurted 'meaning I mean' a good 70 times in an hour's class with obviously no context of reference) one might get stuck into the past then...

I solely blame One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for my current mental stimulation.

Dusk Tales

As I hang the freshly washed, damp clothes to dry, something about the evening takes me back to the lush green grounds on which stood a stage and a few lights- rehearsals of annual functions. The hustle-bustle backstage in a curtain-created green room. The long lines for abhorrent hideous make-up that turned everybody's lips a luscious blood red, sex irrespective. The multi-tasking teachers who would pin up costumes to prevent faux pas, do head counts of cast, yell at mischief mongers with third eye vision, gossip with colleagues about other colleagues etc. The last minute stage back-drop disaster management. The munching of dry noodles, chips, gulping of sneaked in bottles of cold-drinks; yes, for many souls it was a picnic, much to the distress of teachers. The constant shushing. The several rounds of truth-dare and dumb-charades while the torturous speeches continued endlessly. All this is sorely missed and more.

The sun sets with a whiff of forthcoming winter. Certain smells always linger and take one to a distant memory; a memory that cannot be relived but felt with a similar intensity. Actually, its not just the olfactory sense that is capable of such feats; there are many things that can rekindle remembrances. The brain is an intriguing organ.

Vivid Vivacious Visceral Visions

Dreams.

(inspired by P. G. W.) I mean it is from him that one learns to complicate the utter simplicities of life. It is delectable on some grounds but not on many others. God bless technological savants who produced the digital dictionary. If I were to hold the Oxford in one hand and the P.G.W. omnibus on the other, and make references every two minutes, I would have either made six-packs by now or had a hernia operation. The latter more likely, of course.

Living next to a kachchi basti has its own consequences. It has been there as long as I can remember, only it has grown topographically from its utter kacha-ness to concrete pakka-ness. We are witness to many events periodically- long-drawn filmi jagrans, flamboyant weddings, high-decibel verbal spats, Amitabh Bachchan-put-to-shame fight sequences etc. Whoever made 'boom', 'pow', 'dishoom' sounds while fighting! Films teach us wrong. Utter wrong. Blood does not ooze like a holi-water-balloon, for one.

Sea of Poppies has been a delight so far. Although I can't help but wonder how a foreigner would read it. It is so complete with local lingo and subsumed in the Indian Social Structure that I think someone not from India will conjure a very different interpretation of the book. But I guess it'll be beautiful in its own way.

The weather has been as unpredictable as the Indian Cricket Team. I have been getting bowled out by the googlies of the clouds; dismissed by run-outs as I run between creases trying to save the clothes from getting wet on arrant false alarms.

Since morning I have heard 'Find My Way' by the Gabe Dixon Band 7 times. I am now delusional. I retire.

...

Fast-tedious-ness of it all.

I know we are all sick and tired of it but I do need to vent it out.

1. Anna fasts (after house-arrest/location controversy/time-period issues etc.)

2. People write (like they do about most things- in extremes)

3. Camera men shift focuses between an ever-increasing crowd and the figure on the pedestal.

4. Inter-State coverage of a 'freedom-like movement'.

5. Same panellists. Same comments. Same debates. Same critiques. Different channels. Different garbs. Different hosts. In the capital.

6. So called nukad natak performances/ celebrity appearances and reappearances.

7. The re-emergence of the Topi. The re-definition of fashion.

8. The weather report succumbs to the Doctor report.

9. Opposition parties get a free agenda to throw mud at the Centre.

10. So how many supporting Anna have actually read his bill?

11. Anna is Gandhi?

Well, more than anything else I am tired of the assumption that if one isn't supporting him, one is propagating corruption. Anti-corruption is, has and can only be Pro-Anna. Fail.

Why this sudden outburst? Credit goes to today's newspaper report that states that Anna will tour the country and answer those opposed to the Jan Lokpal Bill and not give up till the government passes the bill. "If required, I will again start an agitation again, if not from Jantar Mantar or Ramlila Maidan, then from some other place in Delhi," he said.

Are we ready for another round of mayhem? Is holding the government at ransom a picture of democracy? Many might not support me but I do not stand by this means of achieving an end that we aren't even sure of. At least I are sure that it isn't going to erase corruption the way we erased bad test scores from the face of the Earth while we were in school. Aren't we heading towards a parallel government? Is there a guarantee that the Lokpal won't be corrupt in the future? Aren't you scared that you might have to deal with two corrupt bodies, only one more powerful than the other? Time will tell which would bypass the other in terms of power.

Fasting is not a solution to problems, for otherwise the whole country can start starving until death to achieve ends. Anna is not Gandhi and , yes nobody can be Anna, so we can drop the 'I am Anna' slogan.

I don't wish to call this a 'people's victory'. It is Anna's victory. He got his candy bar. Or at least got the government to ponder over the provision of his candy bar.

We live in a country where The Butterfly Effect is best seen; actually better still, cause we needn't go to other side of the world to see the blizzard. One flutter in the capital and the nation has a storm. I don't mean to say we are a bunch of idiots but its true that it doesn't take much to gather a crowd. We are a bhed-chaal republic.

I believe in civil society. I am a part of it. We all are. Civil society does not mean being anti-government. Really. (Note- I am not vouching for a cabinet position by making this statement)

I have my own grudges against politicians/ redundant policies/ criteria of election candidacy etc. But I wish to have a more civil-intelligent-educated approach to dealing with the issues at hand. I seek an aversion from the immediacy to tread towards extremities. Strengthen democracy by working with it and not against it.

Enough for now. I am going to go and attempt fasting until death till I get to act with Naseerudin Shah on stage. Harming democracy? Hardly.

Turn a New Leaf

I finally overcame my sloth sin and changed the look of my blog. In many ways turned a new leaf, literally. I always found it tedious to go searching for an appropriate blog theme/layout. I'd hunt for eons, pick one 'perfect', 'beautiful' theme/layout/template (I am tired of the synonyms) only to find the download erroneous.

Well, little did I know blogger itself had set aside a provision to give your blog a make-over; mix and match as one wished. What a discovery. I spent quite a while setting the 'new-look'. It might be a redundant discovery, that which I have made, but I still feel proud of myself and hence shall gloat for a few minutes. (smile of satisfaction)

Anyone looking at my blog might think I have become Captain Planet, out to save the world from toxins and other hazardous substances generated by the vulgar licentious souls amongst us. Paint the city green, in other words. Honest confession: I have always wanted to sneak out in the dark and have a world-saving moment. Not to get published in the next day's front page, like Superman (aka- Clark Kent- how easy to click one's own pictures and get them glossily printed), but still.

Lethargy prevails after all this toil. The standard Tamil expression fits best here- 'Pah!'.

More later.

I am still biting my nails, but Thank You all.

Those schoolgirl days, of telling tales and biting nails are gone,
But in my mind,
I know they will still live on and on,
But how do you thank someone, who has taken you from crayons to perfume?

It isn't easy, but I'll try,
If you wanted the sky I would write across the sky in letters,
That would soar a thousand feet high,
To Sir, with Love

The time has come,
For closing books and long last looks must end,
And as I leave,
I know that I am leaving my best friend,
A friend who taught me right from wrong,
And weak from strong,
That's a lot to learn,
What, what can I give you in return?

If you wanted the moon I would try to make a start,
But I, would rather you let me give my heart,
To Sir, with Love

Every Teachers Day I wake up with this poem in my head and remember all the kind souls who put up with a brat like me as a student. I have grown to love you and respect you more. Thank you.

Oh the juvenile excitement fails to die out.

Yesterday my brother brought home the School Magazine. A book that compiles the year's activities in words and pictures. Since he's in the same school as I was, it brings back memories. The book does feel different now. It has shinier pages. Rather all the pages are shiny now compared to the earlier versions that I used to get. Swank.

I remember waiting to get the year's magazine every year, flip through the shininess to find out if I was smiling out of the pages. It was an honour to be on the magazine. More honourable if you were smiling out of it more than once. Well, one would expect the excitement to die down. Mature to know that the school magazine days are over. The real life isn't about shiny pages and is definitely not picture-perfect. Epic Fail statement.

This year's magazine had an old picture of mine. My heart was alight. I felt the same excitement I used to feel when I was 11. It hasn't died down and I guess it never will. Some things never change.

So be it.

Untitled

Well, I have had what you call a writer’s block for a long time now. A disease better known as laziness- for the common licentious soul wishes to sound profound at whatever it does. I have read many blogs during my sabbatical and come to the conclusion that people write just about anything under the sun- well, some say that’s how it should be. Valid.

Now, for some news on my front- I am at a crucial stage of my life- in Bollywood cinemas it is the path-breaking moment of every hero’s life. The point from where his saga of greatness starts, mostly. It is called Berozgaari (unemployed). Since the cinemas fill us with such optimism I refuse to feel let down by the fact that I am still salary-less. I shall await my heroic moment with patience. That day shall come. Sometime. Soon I hope. Period.

Like I said I have seen people write about anything they feel like with strange titles that I am yet to fathom. Math and integration seemed simpler. Not that I was ever good at it, but still no harm in praising oneself about something one will never indulge in for the rest of her life, sincerely hoping so. (my heart goes out to my younger brother)

Its going to be two months since I bid farewell to a place that took away a part of my soul for keepsake. 355, third floor, IV wing. I remember writing a post as soon as I had joined the place; complaining about how it was full of opinionated people who were intimidating from the word go. Hmmm, can’t believe I am saying this but I think I miss being intimidated upon. There was something in that air that you loved to breathe it (no, I am not referring to the non-polluted purity of oxygen). I miss the canteen, for obvious reasons of being a glutton. The cheap food. The cheap talk over the cheap food. Oh the sheer cheap-ness altogether. I met eleven heads there that put together with mine were close to the most explosive material ever made. We made noise, a hell lot. We laughed, heads off. We cried. We argued. We did everything that a Malory Towers book described. We put the Addams family to shame with our wackiness.

I had certain topics in my head that I thought I’d write about:

1. Ghulam Ji’s (in)famous comments.

2. Delhi Police’s claim of Delhi as a ‘safe’ city.

3. My brilliant driving lessons.

4. The new ice-cream flavor in my life.

Etc.

But now that I have a gush of memories flowing in my head I shall try and pen them down. What are the memories about?--- Koyna Hostel Life and my Phamily.

I am a list-making person, hence if you put your head through the pensieve you’ll get a description of my memories in points.

1. One thing I miss terribly is getting up to see a horde of love messages on my phone—‘Meera darling, my love, wake me up at 8:00. I have a class at 9:00 that I must attend. Thanks so much sweetie. Big hug and kiss.’

‘Eeyore love wake me up at 11:00. I have to go to CP to meet…… Love you. Slap on your forehead.’

You get the picture. I miss my mornings running from room to room waking people up- some gently with love, some-I wish I had a bazooka in my hand. I miss being the human alarm.

2. I miss my ever-green breakfast of bread and butter with my breakfast partners (one was constant but some others gave guest-appearances if I had succeeded in waking them up). And yes, when I say ever-green I do mean it literally as well; for there were days when we had colourful bread- patches of green, pink and blue. It was wonder bread.

3. I miss my marathon to classes with my ghetto. I miss sitting in class and looking at blank faces, sleepy faces, faces that winked at you out of sheer boredom or at the crack of a shady inside-joke. I miss raising my hand and questioning or arguing in class.

4. Jaundice kadi, Koyna lawns-paneer, Toxic bengan… obviously these aren’t things I miss eating, but I do miss talking about them. I miss sitting in the mess for hours supervising people’s eating; forbidding them from playing with their food or wasting food, on most occasions. Let me be clear that my services were restricted to my Addams family and that not everyone was party to my pravachans.

5. I miss being a floor doctor. There weren’t any fatal mishaps so I think I managed well.

6. Now that I just gave a banana to my grandma I realized that I miss my Tuesday banana breakfast. Its another thing that when I packed 5-6 bananas the mess-wala thought I was a total nut. Clarification: they weren’t for my consumption. I had several sleepy mouths to feed.

7. I miss washing clothes with music my ears and loud across-the-wall talks with my fellow dhobi-ghat members. We did curse the winters- it was unbearable to wash clothes then. The water would prick the hands and post rigourous scrubbing they would be white and pink. Fair and Lovely users if you wish to have a fair face I have a cheaper full-proof method- please keep face submerged in the tap’s water in December/January for half an hour. Guaranteed fairness with pink blushes.

8. I miss tea-parties- the consumption of hot tea with high-calorie munchies over gossip and general non-sense.

9. I miss the outlandish activities of the ‘Twelve Mindless Women’ which includes the outrageous shopping sprees, the movie madness, the late night maggies, the super-late night ‘disturbing content’ talks, the dramatization of scenes and songs from the time-less Bollywood mobhies, the in-the-middle-of-the-road choreographed dance sessions, the PSR antaksharis. Etc. The utter filmi-ness of our life.

10. I miss the bus rides, the auto rides (which includes the fight sequences with the auto-wallahs), the walks… actually every form of transportation we used; for we made a joke out of everything.

11. I miss our family dinners. The prolonged eating-talking-laughing till the mess workers shooed us away with their horrendous weapons (brooms which you might think are harmless but I dare not say what all they swept).

12. I miss being ragged- Boo, Autistic Octopus, Eeyore, Grandma… Some of my several avatars.

For my 11- I miss being a 4 year old with you. I miss being an 80 year old with you. I miss you. I love you.

P.S- I am going to keep the post untitled. Meaning I mean, I can’t think of an appropriate title.

People Who Matter.

1. My foot-in-mouth disorder sufferer.

2. My peptic ulcer.

3. My tigger.

4. My breakfast partner.

5. My chocolate-loving-non-brushing root canal.

6. My awesome cook.

7. My no-nonsense taking loud mouth.

8. My sleepy sinner.

9. My jaani who I'll marry after age 25.

10. My grass eating goat.

11. My penguin.

12. My GRA of GRAM.

13. My khotya.

14. My son who sings 'Mother Meera comes to me'

15. My daughter-in-law.

16. My Julie mother.

17. My jaaneman.

18. My bucketopolaidis.

19. My 1st class best friend.

20. My bilingual disorder sufferer.

21. My Mandan Muthappa.

More in the offing.

Harry Belafonte, I Love You

Well, it started in Vienna not so many years ago
When not enough folks were getting sick
A starving young physician tried to better his position
By discovering what made his patients tick
He forgot about sterosis and invented the psychosis
And a hundred ways that sex could be enjoyed
He adopted as his credo "down repression of libido!"
And that was the start of Doctor Sigmund Freud

Well, Doctor Freud, oh Doctor Freud
How we wish you had been differently employed
But the set of circumstances
Still enhances the finances
of the followers of Doctor Sigmund Freud

Well, he analyzed the dreams of the teens and libertines
Substituted monologue for pills
He drew crowds just like Will Sadler
When along came Jung and Adler
And they said by God, there's gold in them there ills!
They encountered no resistance
When they served as Freud's assistants
As with ego and with id they deftly toyed
But instead of toting bedpans
They wore analytic deadpans
Those ambitious doctors Adler, Jung and Freud!

Well, Doctor Freud, oh Doctor Freud
How we wish you had been differently employed
But the set of circumstances
Still enhances the finances
of the followers of Doctor Sigmund Freud

Now the big three have departed
But not so the code the started
No, it's being carried on by a goodly band
And to trauma shock and force us
Someone's gone and added Rorschach
And the whole thing's got completely out of hand!
So old boys with double chinsies
And a thousand would-be Kinseys
They discuss it at the drop of a repression
And I wouldn't be complaining
But for all the loot I'm paying
Just to lie on someone's couch and say confession!

Well, Doctor Freud, oh Doctor Freud
How we wish you had been differently employed
But the set of circumstances
Still enhances the finances
of the followers of Doctor Sigmund Freud

I

I am an actor.

Happy World Theatre Day.

...

Some days one just wishes to RIP.

Too bad those days are becoming oftener.

The Seven Rapid Conquerers

Japter 1- The Plan

Hmmm, on your marks, get, set, WAIT. ‘Where did we say we were going?’ Twelve heads don’t always function in congruence. Actually they never function in congruence; one of the many reasons that the dream trip we kept planning met its RIP at the conception stage itself.

With three babies off to the sweet land, one immersed in books and a reluctant one the secret seven set off to partly fulfill the mission. Of course it pained to be reduced in numbers but then sometimes things just don’t go the way we want them to.

Jaipur/ Dharamshala/ Agra/ Rishikesh- tippy tippy top which city do you want?! (I am amazed we actually came up with plans to each place like professional travel agents) Google be the hero, mostly. J

Not to bore you with details- dreadlocks (Rishikesh= hair of a rishi) prevailed!

Japter 2- ‘Bus lelo bus!’

I am not kidding. ISBT Kashmeri Gate is one place where tickets to buses are sold like veggies in a market. I won’t be surprised if they come up with an ‘Ek ke saath ek free’ offer! I don’t remember seeing so many buses ever. After getting lost, playing ring-a-ring-a-roses we saw our dream bus calling us- ‘Rishikesh Rishikesh’

Yes, we were now on a bus. Packed. Excited. The trip was finally happening. I think even before we sat down we started eating. Gluttons we be forever.

Seven hours of a rickety ride, which included talking, laughing, periodic shushing at the realization of humanity around, eating, absolute nonsense situation analyses and bouts of sleep, took us to arms of our Heidi-fantasy. – Mountains. Shimmering water. Blue Sky.

Japter 3- Dine and Dance

As fancy as it sounds, let me burst the bubble- dine= a huge loaf of bakery bread with cheese spread that we generously spread and dance= un-coordinated motion of limbs to old shady Hindi songs.

Seven people in a four bedroom suite can bring the roof down literally. Sleep brought dreams of ‘rapidly’ (thanks to Nabesh’s geography skills) paddling over the white sparkly water.

Well, there isn’t much to this chapter, so let’s proceed to the one that has the defining moment.

Japter 4- Bisht is the Best

‘Who all are coming?’

‘Seven girls.’

‘Oooh. Age-group?’

‘Early twenties’

‘Ahaaaa. Please wear shorts and come. No sarees and salwars.’

‘’

Obviously we started off by thinking that he belonged to a please-expose-legs-for-us-to-see category of men. Braving it, we marched forward after having breakfast in yes, our shorts.

The journey from the motel to the Bisht office was out of a ‘trip to the alps’-guidebook. Motorized Heidis running down the hills we clicked every turn and rock. Our dream was closer to accomplishment. The excitement sky rocketed when we saw our beautiful orange raft waiting for us.

I must admit here that Mr. Bisht did turn a few spirits wary with his like-you-know-who’s hmmms.

‘Have you girls rafted before?’

‘No.’

‘Hmmm. Know swimming?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Has anybody fallen off the raft while paddling?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Has anybody died while rafting?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Ok, girls. Be careful. They’re your guides.’

Anyway, we went to the start point and forgot everything. The water was inches away from us and the mountains a few feet. We were in heaven. All padded we were ready for our battle. After preliminary instructions we sat put on edges, literally with our paddles.

‘Forward’

‘Stop’

‘Back’

Trust me it’s not as easy as it sounds.

Now I really can’t put our experience of crossing the rapids in words. It’s something everyone should feel. So, please go raft for yourself.

But what can be written about is our jumping into the cold Ganges, swimming , floating into eternity (special reference to Tuki), bumping into each other, tangling of ropes (Nabesh, Kazoo, Radhoo) and rescue missions (Mufasa and Fra).

Excerpts from the water conversations:

‘Where’s Radhoo?’

‘Under the raft.’

‘Chaudhary I am coming.’ (paddle paddle paddle!)

‘I want to stop drifting.’

‘I want to be near the boat.’

‘Who’s leg was that?’

‘Who’s that blue helmet bobbing?’

Everyone did finally get into the boat. Goal achieved.

Next on the agenda was cliff jumping to which initially only one consented but later pulled two more brave souls. 22 feet of free fall into the water- I won’t say more.

Drenched, dirty, exhausted we emerged victorious after two and a half hours. Pulled our raft up on shore and refueled with a banta each.

Japter 5- The Return of the Gluttons and Shopaholics

Bathing in glory the stomachs rumbled. Famished we were. After changing we walked to a nice restaurant to satiate ourselves. Boy, did we eat? No we hogged.

Our food stories don’t end with a meal. We are futuristic people. Bakery being everyone’s weakness it was obvious we’d buy everything he had. Apple cake+ banana cake+ chocolate cake.

‘One piece each?’

‘Nahi Bhaiya. Poora pack kar do.’

Loaded with tuck we drowned in the hippie-ness that surrounded us. Each bought a souvenir to commemorate our historic trip.

Japter 6- Jhula + The End

Ram, Lakshman and Ravana (soon Sita as well I assume) have jhulas named after them. It’s quite similar to the roads that are named after politicians. We saw all three and treaded over the two brothers. The water was at its shimmer-best with the sun setting, giving all its light to the water to absorb.

While two of us were blessed by the goo(d) others found peace in the distant humming of bhajans.

After climbing a 50 something stairs to get to the road for a tempo, we sat and left for the last stop- the bus stand. However, our adventures never end the expected way. On our way we passed by a bus whose driver yelled ‘Dilli Dilli’. That’s it. Tempo stop. Fly. Miraculously hop into the bus.

The journey back had its own adventure stories that we’d rather keep etched in cognitive history.