Revelations of a motley mind.

I go through phases of silence and those are moments when I wish to write the most, but thats not what happens. I don't pen what I feel and then regret having let the moment pass without having any written proof of it. I still feel everything but its not the same. There is a constant fear that I will lose it, that I am losing it with every passing second and that I have lost most of it. Slight smiles, a deep sense of satisfaction at the smallest of gestures, a joke between friends that becomes a secret, a walk down a road with shaded trees and scent of mangoes, a train journey with books-sleep-companionship...

Its World Theatre Day again. I scarily remember last year's today with pristine clarity. I remember what I ate, with whom I ate, the conversation I had and what I wore. Not because it was special, but because it was as plain jane as it could be. And thats what scares me about it the most. That I remember the mundaneness of the day. It must have been a vulnerable moment, that which I was going through. For it is etched so deeply.

I travelled again, for my love. It was a successful affair I must say. It was appreciated. But more than anything else, I loved doing it. Lighting. There were the usual reds, blues and pinks but this time I was behind the board. I had my super special blue. The hands slid with ease and I loved every moment of it. Red charts haunted me for days. The sticky tape glued it to my unconscious. It was a true communion that night. A little boy came up and asked for a flower in the purest voice. Our hearts swelled and we parted with the whole bouquet. The sweetest joy of the evening. Packed and exhausted we sat at the station for a delayed train. We were tired but content. We stood out from the crowd but we were together.

The floor was burning. The water overflowing from the tank sizzled as it kissed the earth. It spread and slowly formed a moist mushy puddle for the dog to have its cold nap. The lady shook off the white garments that glowed in the sunshine, from the clothesline. She danced around as her feet burnt on the terrace. The leaves from the trees are browning and thirsting for a shower. Summer.

Fountainhead. I replace Architecture with Theatre and the book makes most sense to me. I love it so far. Scares me in bits at the harshness of the characters. It is true to an extent but I tell myself they are only words and let the fear pass. Each person in it is so distinctly described. I can almost feel them sitting next to me. Roark making his sketches at the table. I can here him sharpen his pencil. Keating banging the door on me as he leaves the chapter. Catherine just asked me for a tissue to wipe her tears. I am going a little insane which is why I have picked up another book to read alongside. Short stories by Parashuram. They make me laugh out loud with streaming tears. What a contrast. But I am dealing with it now. Better, hopefully.

Theatre is not a business, not a career, but a crusade and a consecration to a joy that justifies the existence of the earth.

Sets. Costumes. Sounds. Lighting. Acting. This year. I sign off today as a theatre artist. Goodnight.

Do you think there's a heaven?

The stage was set. A neat pile of platforms were arranged in the centre. Each platform breathed of timeless usage. Nails jutting out from every corner. It would be life threatening to walk on them, sit on them or just walk beside them. But that is our set. We will love it for the next 120 minutes.

The lights don't always work. They hang there lifeless and ignored. There are patterns of dust on them that look prettier than a lot of stuff that is sold as modern art. Not that I despise modern art. I just love lights more.

What is a filter? The Japanese wale? Nahi, we don't have them. So, we use the sheets of coloured transparent paper that remind one of class 5 projects/ sweet dhabbas that are covered with 'amber' sheets. We had our blues, pinks, reds, ambers and greens. And yes, they looked blue, pink, red, amber and green. Japanese wale got kicked out of business for one day.

There was electronic music all round. People don't know what a rehearsal means. In a couple of dictionaries it seems to mean a time when one plays loud music, walks across the stage (mind you, they are not actors), runs across the stage (again, we're not talking about actors) while the actors are prettily sitting life threateningly on the platforms delivering lines. Aghast at being seen as absorbed into the stage. Being seen as a piece of furniture that seems to be producing some sound. It did bother. A lot.

But we prevailed. Like always. It was beautiful.

Although the city was pink, like someone said we painted it, not just red but with myriad colours that'll colour our vision for days to come. Maybe months. Maybe years. Actually, maybe this lifetime.

Train journeys are always fun. The laughter over food, games and gossip. The stretched out legs with huge blankets to keep them warm. The cards strewn over them. The solving of the mystery of the missing chappals. The war with roaches in coaches. The morning and evening walks at random stations. Eyeing remote places that we'd like to settle in later in life, once retired, invariably adorned with a big mango tree and vast expanse of open spaces. However, I feel by the time we age to retire the vast expanse will be commercialised. Lets retire now. Lets sit under the tree and tell our stories. Its what we all love doing the most. Lets live it.

The cold kept me snuggled in a blanket. A TV remote was held after months. I've forgotten how one watches TV. But I managed to watch a bit of a movie without guilt. Sherlock can do that to anyone. It was a city known to me. There were places to go, people to meet, but I chose to stay inconspicuous. There was something in the air that told me I won't be able to deal with it all together. Withdrawal it still is. It'll never go but I shall be more courageous next time. Walk down those lanes that have made some of the deepest marks and cuts in my soul.

Its funny how one can be alone in a group. A crowd is different. But in a group you know, you can suddenly feel detached. The strings that were holding you snap. Then there is free fall. A sinking feeling that churns the stomach to a great height of discomfort. Its human I guess, but its also human to want to know why.

The sea washes away a lot of filth. Both literal and metaphorical. The air around always refreshes the body and mind. Clears. Purifies. Detoxes. Emerges out a fresher self. Ready to face more. Ready to get more dirty. Both literally and metaphorically.

I lost a friend. It was tragic. I miss him. I wish he'd called. Told me what it was that bothered him. I would have told him to stop. Would have given him a hug. Held his hand till he stopped shaking with fear. Shaking with rage. Shaking with uncertainty. I will never get to see him. His dimpled smile will haunt me for long. Ironical that happy things become haunting. His number is still stored on the phone. I wonder if he'll pick up if I call. Talk to me from heaven. I hope there is one. I want him to be happy there. Very happy, for once. And for all. I love you.

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.