whose hand

Seen for 5 days in Bangalore (on RBANMS school ground wall... where the exhibitions usually take place):
READ HOLY THIRUKURAL

Seen on 6th day:
READ HOLY THIRUKURAL
THEN READ DAVINCI CODE

the tug

He was asked what he loved about Bangalore.
He said, "Well, it's home."
I thought no one could put it better.

Then he was asked the same question:

And he said, "Well, which Bangalore are you talking about?"

No wonder I keep wanting to go back. And not.

pink, thank you

I, invincible economy shopper, will venture into a store only if it says SALE, or if it is fridge-sized. Or, as I found out yesterday, if the shop is run my an old muslim man (long white beard mandatory).
He didn't need the pesky nephew stationed at the dupatta-camouflaged entrance to call out to passing people on the road: "Madam, skirts, bags, fashion tops. Naya style aaya hai madam." And as you walk on, "Just look, madam. Arey, dekhne me kya jaata hai madam?"

This old man just sat there sipping his tea, looking through his billbook. He looked up as I glanced in that direction. He waxed his wrinkly-eyed smile at me and asked almost apologetically, "Kuch chaahiye beta?" I managed to utter "bag" while still willing my insides to stop falling for this age-old trick. But I was already walking up the steps, following a tea-boy who had stuck his head in the direction of the shop, signaling me to walk with him.

He was already standing up by the time I got there. I got the feeling I'd just missed a swift dusting of wares.

"What would you like? Leather bags?"

Only when I tried to move my hand to point in answer, did I realize that someone had thrust a glass of tea there. Elaichi. By the lingering tang in the air, I knew he'd had ginger tea.

"No leather. Cloth you show me." But I just went ahead and touched around. I walked into what looked like the next section. Some other old muslim man approached me. "Oh, ye kisi aur ka hai?" I asked to the general direction of the old men. Oldman1 assured me that the shops were different, but I could look anyway. They'd settle accounts later.

After some pottering about, I confided in oldman1 that I was a journalist and was tired of people's jabs about the kurta and jhola stereotype. Could I have a cloth bag that was cheap and best, but not a jhola?

"Bunty aur Babli dikhaaoon?"

Now, I knew the DDLJ tunic. The Tridev bhandni Shroff scarf. The Kuch Kuch Hota Hai 'cool' chain. The Mr.India chiffon sari. The Chaalbaaz transparent raincoat. The Rangeela mini-sleeveless dress. The Pyar Tune Kya Kiya haircut. The Dil To Pagal Hai neckline and sports bra. But this was new. And suspicious. These new-fangled filmi clothes/accessories came with film industry gold weight. Their brand name and short-lived fanciness made them expensive. Economy aunt was yelling in my head.

But the old man had already slung a bright pink bag across his shoulder. "Full work (embroidery and chamki) on handle. Plain body. Rani pe accha tha, nei?" I frantically thought back on the movie...

http://www.indiafm.com/firstlook/buntyaurbabli.jpg

When he saw some recognition light up my face, he produced a full-length mirror from somewhere to show I could be a Rani too. "Par chamki hai," I said, screwing up my face. Then he fished out another pink, less bright than the previous, but Babli enough. I liked immediately.
So now, I have a Bunty aur Babli bag to take with me to the other world when I die. Maybe now I'll get Abhishek.

free to dismount

I keep expecting someone to stick a worn hand in front of my face, wiggling an index finger. I keep expecting to hear "2 rupees madam". Each time I drag my bike out of the parking lot, I brace myself for the unavoidable, almost enjoyable fight with the token-man.
"Two rupees-a?!" I would say, and keep my eyebrow up and my mouth open in the "aa" shape — a tried and tested expression of incredulity.
"Aanh, ok ok," the parking attendant would say. "One rupee, 50 paisa," he’d demand, looking urgently in the direction of some other motorist trying to slink away without paying the parking fee.
Or there’d be a little word-tussle about how he never gave me the token/ticket.
Some people would give him Rs.2, but insist that he took their bike out of the stand. After all, the Corporation was paying him. He had to earn that extra 50 p. But I don’t think any of the parking guys really cared what the bikers thought. Moving a featherweight Scooty wasn’t much of a deal anyway.
Each day, it was the same. We might smile at each other today, and look through each other tomorrow. But everyday, without fail, we’d repeat the same ticket-and-paisa charade, as if yesterday didn’t happen at all. And no one really wanted that extra 50 paisa either. It was the only way we would ever talk, probably. We’d exchange big fat lies about one being poorer than the other, I’d grumble about how the world was out to swindle me, and he’d hiss about how I could drink coffee for Rs,25 but not pay him half a rupee. We both knew where we stood, but we’d haggle anyway.
Fun, it was... Not the kind of fun you look forward to or anything, but a routine that never changed. A momentary jolly.
Here in Chennai, I can park anywhere but in the middle of a flyover, and no one asks me anything. Coins and change have lost significance suddenly. When the chemist (I think I insulted him by referring to him as ‘medical shop guy’ to a friend) gave me 3 one rupee coins as change, I could sense grief welling in my heart. What for is their existence? Sniff.
But the little area outside Khadi Bhandar near my office has a parking attendee. She wears a cap, from under which half-dried mallipoo pops out. She blows on her whistle proudly, gesturing to cars and bikes to park behind the yellow line. "They all know to buy cars, but see if even one idiot knows to park properly," she curses under her breath to no one in particular.
Maybe I’ll park my bike there one day. I’d like to know if she thinks I’m a good parker.
Till then, the chilrai (change) can come of use for a pile-them-up game when boredom strikes, groundnuts, platform tickets, tea at a chai shop, or a khaara biscuit.

ka-ching!

Automan (irritated): You want to go to bank first, and them home?!
Me (Very carefully): Umm.. Yes.
Automan: ATM? Or State bank? If it is public bank, you will be there long enough for me to go have bath, get married and have kids. And then I can give them bath also. ATM means go inside, chak, zzzhup, chadak, chinnnng! Over.
Me: No, no… ATM only. Fast-fast I'll come back.
Automan: Good. I like the youth of today. Umm… can I also withdraw money from my ICICI ATM on the way?

sunshine again

"I've spoilt myself living in Bangalore," I thought, one zany day, "Let me treat myself to some Chennai."
So here I am, in the city of wide roads, little smartypant kids who know every Rajnikant, Vivek and Vijay dialogue,
shockingly gutter-mouthed motorists,
wisecracking automen telling their passengers "petrol rate yeri pochu ma…" (petrol rates have risen) just when papers announce that there will be no price hike,
music and film festivals that turn into 'tamizh vazhga' (long live tamil) fiestas,
lording of The Hindu, lording of amma,
Sun TV, set-top box, HUGE movie hoardings,
super kaapi,
jasmine and oil smelling hair,
winding flyovers, in-city buses with scrawny college boys dancing on top,
women who don't hesitate to grab dirty old men by their collar and throw them out of moving buses,
wise men who scramble away from the women's seats,
disappearing monuments,
the exultant "tamizh thaana?!" on discovering tamilians from other States,
Koovam, Spencers mall,
begging mafia, water mafia, sand mafia… oh, there's just so much!

Aside: Somehow, the word 'Chennai' has just no effect. So official, it sounds. So I will say Madras. Colonial? So be it.

I turn a deep maroon to say that all it took to ease into the city, and sweat along was the end of my Bangalore prepaid SIM card. Come new Madras number, and I've said my last "tata!" to Kempegowda. Shame. Shame upon me.
The last two days have been spent house hunting... Before I actually got on the task, I figured I'd see a real estate ad in the papers, make an appointment to meet the landlord/landlady, see the place, fall in love with it, and instantly go curtain shopping. Leave alone home accessories, I haven't still found one piece of floor I would like to step on everyday after work. And a wart-sporting, steel-scale-holding budget witch follows me around, rapping me in the knuckles every time my eyes light up at a wonderful, but annoyingly expensive house.
I now realise I should've kissed the walls and doors of my home in Bangalore a lot more. Sigh. I hear the new décor trend is to paint your walls white and then keep them unclean enough so they turn other shades. That way, there is even a surprise element to it all.
Now, in the search for my new home, I've walked into snail shells, brothels, palaces, convent dormitories, prisons, religious conversion centres, and nice homely little houses. But what I cannot believe is the number of people who've appointed themselves my real estate agents. From friends to aunts, colleagues to Vasantha Bhavan (VBs- a south indian fast food restaurant near office) waiters & cashiers, neighbours to shopkeepers… everyone's in on it.
I walk into VBs for coffee and "You got it-a?" has replaced "Hello, ma". We all pour over the classifieds, laughing over every ad that says, "24 hours water supply" and "fixed rent 3000/- negotiable". After all, during eight months of college, I only ate every meal there and translated complex demands like "no skin in coffee, please" and "I have strands of hair in my sambar" into tamil.
But what has now bound me to them for life are their offers to let me stay in their houses if I didn't find a suitable accommodation. ("My house is always open for you, ma... but it might be little humble for you..." Humble?!! I don't see anybody offering to let me stay in his 8 bedroom house...)
The kannadiga manager first tripped over himself with joy when he found I knew Kannada. After that, he refused to speak in any other language, and kept announcing our Indiranagar connection to all the waiters as they nodded with interest sufficient enough to keep their jobs.
Hmmm... maybe moving wasn't such a bad idea after all. The Madras grin is as beamy as Bangalore's anyway. The only addition is the squint in the sun-tortured eye. All else is happily warm. So things couldn't be brighter.

habba time!

It's the second year of Bangalore Habba (= festival), and people are already planning their lives around the Odissi at 7:00 p.m., the kannada plays at 6:00 p.m. and the classical Indian music all day. What about work? Come on, this is Bangalore...
And the shows are all free of cost.
Ah. This city spoils us all....

Amit Heri, Ranjith Barot and Keith Peters at Bangalore Habba 2003


Vani Ganapathi last year


Dr. Suma Sudhindra, with 8 Veenas and a 12 member Indian percussion ensemble

glee, glide, no glum

There should be a teashop at every parking lot in town. Not a bistro or café (said with overplayed contempt and head toss), but a chai shop.
Peshal (special) tea, lemon tea, saada tea: Sighs in little plastic cups. You can’t hold it stylishly with an elite pinky stuck up in the air. You can’t caress it with both hands, like you can your daily coffee mug. You can’t place it on a table and sip from like a straw. You can’t pour it down your throat, without touching your lip, like from a steel glass. You have no option here, tea lover. The frail little plastic cup must be held gingerly, with index finger and thumb, shifted from right hand to left with a “tsss!” when the heat singes skin. And oh, how the heart wrenches when a few drops of the cherished wee bit of chai fall on the footpath…
The empty-plot-turned-parking-lot is very convenient for this chai wala. He sits in an old red and blue Taj Mahal counter behind a mossy wall that rises up to his waist. No tea stains on his vest, mind you. Or the pungent smell of old milk. He looks like he just stepped out of a bath all the time.
“Lemon tea, saar,” I tell him, and show a ‘V’ sign with my fingers. He beams at me like I said I loved him (I do, truly) and repeats authoritatively to his assistant who’s well hidden behind the tea flasks: “Yeradu lemon tea, maydimege” (two lemon teas for madam). All I can see is two hands swish-swashing around the flasks, slicing a lemon, and clapping with a finishing flourish.
“Red-ready”, his boss mumbles and beams at me again. By now, I know that I’m not the only recipient of his super beam, as I hear more tea buyers around loftily declare that the chai wala “really likes me”. One college girl even said, “Why is he smiling at me like thaaat, ya? Creepy fellow…” Hand over that tea girl, it ain’t for the pompous.
We take our lemon tea and sip it quietly, holding the little cup in the only way we can/must. A whiff of tingly citrus freshness. I watch the steam waft its way up, warming my nose. Every sip takes its time… stroking awake each taste bud, carelessly, idly.
One little plastic cup of glee. Gingerly fondled two days ago. Lounging in my mind still.

chromium fest

It's all about bananas it seems. Trucks careening with six to eight foot banana stem propped up on their sides; little boys riding bicycles with two foot banana leaves balanced on their handle bar; shop fronts adorned with ugly purple banana flowers.
It's Ayudha puja. I wake up and walk out on to the road. Every year, it's the same scene. Exactly the same. Every vehicle in every house will be out on the road, from huge weekend getaway car to tricycle of a three-year-old's imaginary friend. They'd be showered and scrubbed, dusted and buffed. I remember even picking at tyre grooves to scrape out dried dung and unknowingly crushed bugs. Foot mats, seat covers, engine rags… all washed (till at least half the grease transfers into your nails) and hung out to dry.
One kid per house is appointed to run to the flower market to buy garlands. The younger you were, the cuter your wide-eyes would look as you stumbled through "Uncle, vondhu haara kodi. Mummy kaas kottidhaare." (Uncle, gimme one garland. Mummy has given money). It always worked. We always got some extra flowers and a festive grin for our cuteness. It's an art I had perfected. Sigh. But age caught up with me. '
Now some smart-alecky boys strut confidently to the old flower man (now with more grey chest hair peeping out of his vest and more irate about the inflation), and haggle for half the price. Who will tell these "street smart" boys that those cynical assumptions about the world being out to swindle the innocents does NOT include this toothless smiler?
Another bygone pleasure was this neighbour aunty, who for years, had brought out her TVS Champ and walked around it, thoughtfully rubbing her imaginary stubble, as if figuring out where to begin cleaning. The bike ALWAYS looked like it had been through every mori (drain), thorny shrub, kuppathotti (garbage bin) and stagnant-lake-with-stinky-green-film-on-it (moss?).
After the preliminary up-down, aunty would go find rags, buckets, polishing creams, hose-pipes, brooms (to sweep away the sand dunes that would keep forming magically under the bike), toothbrushes (for those hard to reach places), drumsticks, detergent and used tea bags (donno why).
For the mega clean-up, she'd lift up her sari, Rajnikanth style. To egg her on, we'd cleverly give zhup-zhup sound effects. Then yell, "Cleaniiiiiiiing…. auntyyyyyyyy!!!" while excitedly jumping all over the place. Thinking of it now, I don't know why she laughed merrily at us. Cleaning aunty?! Oh god! I wouldn't be flattered.
But a good 4-5 hours and loyal cheerleading later, it would be like the heaven shone upon goodness. Chromium spangled us to blindness. And the vanilla milkshake after a long day's work (we cleaned our cycles and gave our tonsils to cleaning aunty, didn't we?) ensured that we remained, forever, cleaning aunty's little helpers. But aunty's gone abroad to her sons now. Wonder who screams their lungs out for her there.
Until some years ago, I hated only one thing about the day. That my bicycle could never crush the lemons-under-the-tyres in one powerful go. So in 8th std., I cheated. I cut the lemon a little. Just enough for it to give under the cycle-wheel. Now... I'm old enough to own a bike that can crush an elephant. Ahem. Ok fine. Can crush a melon? FINE! Can crush a lemon without kitchen aid.
I know these things seem exciting only in hindsight. On Friday, when I'll have to handle three dirty bikes all on my own, I won't enjoy it... Dad's impeccable logic: The one car I clean is equivalent to three bikes…. (Last year it was two bikes. I never liked progressive math). I will crib and whine about cuts and bruises on my hands as I try to reach never-touched-before motor parts. But I'm going to make redeeming vanilla milkshake this time. (resolute head shake) For the whole street.
Ok for my family.

reddy!

A recent survey discovered that Bangalore’s ‘pothole density’ is less than 5 potholes per km. "That is lower than many other cities, so don’t you dare complain about roller-coaster rides and your irrational fear of mass spondilitis!"
But I cruise through these inane little reports knowing my brand new (and shiny red) Pep will glide over any damn pothole. Of course, I’m not allowed to subject it to experimental or purely self-aggrandizing ill treatment just for kicks till I make 1000 km. So I do an insipid 30 kmph, frequently being jolted out of my skin and shamed to unbathed nakedness when an impatient old kinetic Honda honks, discovers some plastic still covering the body armour, and HAHAs pompously. His assumption: new bike = new rider = LL = worthy only of treatment meted out to cyclists (also unfair, btw). And that means footpath-scraping. I bite down scathing remarks about his chappal still flashing its price tag, because, well, I’m the bigger person on the newer bike. With cheaper, more handsome chappals from a guy who sutured Gabbar Singh’s shoes. (Yes, it matters)
You know the unsettling quiet brought on by blocked ears? When you feel like screaming "I’m too young to not be able to eavesdrop anymore!!"… only, you can’t hear yourself scream. And turning a deaf ear to your own voice is just wounding. After years of zipping around in a joyously noisy oldest model Scooty, disquieting silence is what I experience today on the Pep (the slick new Scooty). I almost panicked. Why can’t I hear metallic clanging?! Why can’t I hear put-putting as I pause at the traffic signal?! Why can’t I hear a sickly wheeze when I accelerate?! "Well honey, I’m new, two strokes more than my thatha, and you just paid a bomb for me," the Pep seems to murmur.
So now I won’t try my best to hear an assuring all’s well clang. I will set my sights on the red zzzzzzziip I’ll be on the road instead of the green horse wagon. I just sold nostalgia for new paint. and I christen her Reddy.

rainman

There’s much angst about icy cold raindroplets on a warm neck as people run under shops for cover. Strangers don’t really talk to one another. Words just fill spaces, and conversation begins over the din of the rain, like quick comments uttered over a standing ovation, to the person nearby.
"Five days of cricket, and not a single drop. It should’ve rained this madly then. We wouldn’t have had to see India lose that horribly."
"Yes, yes. It was another kind of wash out, no?" (laughs at his own joke. First guy politely chuckles along)
"See now, KEB will say ‘male saar. So power cut’. Half a reason they need for power cut."
"Yes, yes. All these IT companies will have current, though. One day they don’t write a program means the world will end, no?"
"My son is in Infosys. He says they have UPS. That's why there is power."
"Oh. Infosys is very good company. They have ethics, morals. Not like Wipro and all."
"My son-in-law, who works in Wipro…"
"(very quickly) Of course, your son-in-law must surely be a gem. But every company will have crooks. That doesn’t mean there won’t be good people."
"What sir, these days government is only criminal. Why look at private fellows?"
"Yes, yes. Thank god Lok Ayukta is there in our Bengloor to catch these dirrrty officials. They forget that being government servants means they are our servants also."
"Who is whose servant saar these days? The maid in my house wears brand new sarees everyday, has TV, fridge and VCD player also. She told my wife that day that her daughter will not do housework like her. See what ego they have these days?!"
"Like that she said? Che che! Why not ask you to clean her house? Hahahahaa!"
First guy’s cell phone rings. He answers it in tamil: "Yennappa? Andha cheque paas aacha?". He looks heavenward, sees the rain has let up, jumps over a puddle and goes away. The other man looks at the first guy go, sighs and walks into the shop and sits at the counter.
I’ve decided. That shop is going to be my permanent rain-stop. Little tellable tales are born there.

Guilt fangs

The rock band had to be photographed. They held their guitars and grimaced in mock passion, the music supposedly too high-pitched and satanic to be humanly audible. This is ridiculous, I said. You’re not actually playing, and you’re standing next to some stunted shrubs and faking musical ecstasy for the photograph. ANYBODY can see that you are not plugged in! But yes, you... mr.drummer, you’re quite the man. Holding up the sticks, your face registering eye-popping, jaw-dropping shock that your drum kit suddenly vanished into thin air, and looking thrilled that now you have only your god-given instrument to play with, is totally rib-tickling. Ha ha. I could laugh till all my teeth fall out.
"Oh alright," band leader said, bizarrely under the impression that I was being sarcastic. "We’ll move elsewhere."
So scene 2: near next bunch of shrubs. The photographer asks them to seem friendly, and pretend to be normal. It has to be explained that accosting the keyboardist is not normal, and that a college rock band doesn't need to look like they have rocks in their heads.
As voice levels go up, the watchman (let’s call him W) walks up to us (I cringe to say "us") and points to a signboard on the grass. In tamil, he says, "Can’t you read the board? It’s written that you can’t take photo! Hut! Hut! Shoo, go away…"
We all look the board: "No smoking. Please don’t sit on grass." The idiot band members laugh that W is pretending to be literate.
I tell W that we’re from the press, but he doesn’t care. "You can ask permission from manager," he says and starts walking towards a door. I ask the photographer and the screw-loose bunch to hold on till I go do some begging in the manager’s office.
The manager doesn’t let me say a word, but shows me every surveillance camera that’s installed in the building. "Boss has told us not to let photos be taken. If you still do it, this man will lose his job," the manager says, pointing to W. Maybe he’s exaggerating, I think. But what if he isn’t?
I go back to the scene of crime. I report my findings and suggest that we take snaps in a place where we won’t end up getting somebody fired. The band vocalist grinningly says, "Too late. W has already lost his job, then."
Huh?
"We took the photos when you took W inside," the drummer says, proud about his new-found defiant streak. High-fives are all over the place. W doesn’t understand what’s happening. As we all leave, he tells me, "Thanks ma, you understand no?"
I look at the drummer and vocalist now lifting their collars and doing the school-boy "yesss!!". I wonder where I can find a loaded gun.

Game theory yet again

Parking-lot guy Anand was staring at the number plates of all the two-wheelers lined up.
I have been told never to trust the intentions of someone who dares to charge 50 paise extra from poverty-stricken earning professionals (who are most probably parking there to make their way to buy the latest cell phone with a cannot-do-without camera). Plus, hindi movies have taught me that plucking off a number plate from an innocent bike and planting it on a hit-and-run vehicle driven by a criminal (who will also disguise himself astonishingly well with a paste-on moustache) was as easy as turning a roti on the pan.
So I squinted suspiciously at Anand, as if by letting less light-play in my vision, Anand's evil ploy will suddenly be apparent to me. Hmm… our prime suspect is mumbling something.
I know I'm onto something. I decide to move in. To buy time, I pretend I can't find my key. Anand is used to such carelessness. He probably thinks I don't deserve a bike. I have him fooled THIS time… haha!
Ok I am now close enough to hear him softly chanting something. Every 3 seconds, he rolls his eyes upwards, and his fingers wiggle a little. I move closer, acting like I'm tightening the screws on my helmet vizer. Anand's right thumb is moving quickly, placing a light touch on each section of his fingers. His lips are only slightly apart, still mumbling.
My eagle-eyes zoom in to his fingers again. The pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. Uniform. School. Homework. Number blocks. Fingers. Counting. Add. Subtract. Maths.
Anand spends his workday turning boring vehicle registration numbers into complex maths puzzles. "Timepass, may-dam (madam)" he tells me. So do numbers with more than 4 digits freak him out? After letting out a shockingly shrill ultrasonic laugh, he says the only thing that confuses him is the TN (Tamil Nadu) registration.
The tamilian in me reacts with an indignant "OYE!!" together with imagined angry lungi lifting action (sure to scare people shitless), while Bangalorean in me grins conspiringly at Anand. I don't think Anand cares how I react. He's more interested in (6623*3475) + KA03.

Q&A

Question: Today's a rainy day. Would you like to...
(a) Grab some chai, breathe slow & smile as the steam from the cup warms your cold nose-tip?
(b) Think up rain-description lines that haven't already become damp sqids?
(c) Mentally list all rain songs from 'November rain' to 'Rain ise falling chama cham cham'?
(d) Wear pullovers, gloves and monkey-caps and fake some shivering & shuddering pretending you're in kashmir?
(e) Call home to spin a yarn that you'll be late because you're stuck in the rain, when all you want is to long detain that obscure sojourn.
(f) Take off your shoes and stare at the shrivelled up, pale and impeccably clean toes and remember the bygone days of liesurely taken baths (when there was time to do the Liril song in the shower/waterfall every morning)?
(g) Not worry about the washed clothes getting wet outside?
(h) Catch dad to make tiny paper boats that must most definitely not sink?
(i) Play lagori with your neighbours and make sure you jumped into puddles just to be rugged and dirty when you went back home?
(j) Pray like crazy that the power goes off just so you could hear the "yaaaaaaaaayy"emanate from every house in your lane?
(k) Tease a rich kid for having an emergency light when you had candles that are definitely more fun?
Answer: All of the above. Pretty pleeeeeez....

Appidi podu, podu, podu...

All that hysterical yelling and screeching was cruelly jolting me awake. Whyyyyy this utter disregard for my dreamworld?! Ok, whose vocal chords were so touched?!!
It turns out that my maid (who shall henceforth be referred to decently as Janaki) was making her presence felt. No, she doesn’t live with us like in some more prosperous homes.
… (Aside)
I had once heard a silver-spoon-still-in-mouth-at-16-years-of-age friend drawl, "Bahaduuuuur, paani lao" from a bedroom right next to the kitchen, where all the water she needed to drink was. 12-year-old Bahadur would stumble over himself to bring a glass of water placed neatly on a little sliver tray (probably kept in the drawer marked ‘Water Trays’ in the ahead-of-the-times modular kitchen). He wouldn’t ever take his eyes off the floor, except maybe to look at how much Tendulkar had scored. My friend would set the half finished glass of water aside, and after 10 minutes, when she reached for it again, it wouldn’t be there. Bahadur. As invisible as can be. Just doing his work and blending back into the walls.
...
And here was Janaki bringing the roof down with her bellowing.
At that decibel level, it was hard to make out what she was so happy about. Some glasses of water were handed to her, a chair softly slipped under her legs and a little prodding of her knees to get her to sit down. (all the while, I was playing Distracter Uncompare, making eye contact with Janaki. Believe me, it isn’t so easy when the subject is non-stationary).
Once she sat down, she brought out this bundle of what looked like cake, and said, "Happy Barthaday!!" with some remnants of the high pitch.
WHAT?? Oh no. Had I forgotten my mother’s birthday?? What a shameless, ungrateful, cold, compassionless daughter I was!!
Just as I was mentally scripting the most eloquent apology speech, amma said very sweetly, "Happy birthday to you, Janaki." And the girl who was just unabashedly calling upon the whole neighbourhood with her hysterics was now blushing a deep maroon.
It turns out that it indeed was Janaki’s 19th birthday. And she had been reminding me about it incessantly only for the last three days. Major guilt trip. Quick salvaging required.
In about 10 minutes, her little cake was beautifully redecorated with some powdered sugar, some chocolate syrup and 19 birthday candles (On finding those still lying around, amma threw a look at dad, her expression triumphantly saying, "So NOW look how things we don’t EVER throw away come in handy..")
We all sang "Happy bird-day toooo youuu" very tunefully (it’s a family of AIR singers, you see…), with some classical intonations and Janaki cut the cake amid applause (ok. Not applause. Clapping by 3 sets of hands. Technicalities!)

Me: So what are you going to do today?
Janaki: I will see Gilli with my friends. (For those you thought "huh?", Gilli is the super-duper-hit tamil movie starring dappankoothu-doing Vijay. Will explain dappankoothu another day)
Me: Oh, which theatre?
Janaki: Che! Theatre?! We will bring CD… (Shove THAT in the face of the chaps on TV who say ‘Don’t buy pirated tapes. Watch movies in the theatre.")
Me: Ok, you want holiday… ?
This digging of grave, which meant her being stuck with all the housework, could not be tolerated by amma. She shot some 15 arrows (of all types shown in DD’s Mahabharath) at me with one sharp look. I shut up and turned my attention back to Janaki.
She was so thrilled about her barthaday. And amma was especially happy to see her madness. She had seen Janaki sell her gold earrings to pay her brother’s school fees some days ago. Amma had decided to do something about it. Something that involved going back to that pawnbroker when Janaki wasn’t around.
The best part of the morning? Listening to Janaki go about her work singing "appidi podu, podu, podu..." (also a tamil song starring Vijay) and finishing off every line with "happy bird-day"(remixed version).
 
Disclaimer: This is not an attempt to weave a heart-rending sad tale for a short story telling competition. It's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god.  :) 

kitne aadmi the?

did he really make shoes for gabbar singh? 'Little corner' he calls his shop. 'Fida' he calls himself. sitting in a seedy, wet, overly-mirrored (he said he was in a reflective mood) carton-sized store, surrounded by chappals that mirza ghalib, jahangir, allabaksh of shivajinagar, pooja tandon from vogue fashion designing institute and some penniless shoppers with honest faces would venture to buy. a "14-year-old" boy helps you try on some pairs... you get gingery sugarcane juice (Kempfort, take a hike!)... and the bestest part: unbelievable conversation!!
"oh,these kolhapuris chappals are fully hand-made... hamara (note the royal collective pronoun) export ka business hai. tamil nadu, hyderabad, mumbai, we export everywhere. you know, sholay? haaan... you know gabbar singh's shoes? abhi dikhatha hoon. (rummages in chappal pile at his feet and fishes out a huuuuge shoe, face beaming with pride of possession) we made this. (pause for effect) if you want, we can get it custom-made for your size."
i do some basanti bits, and he does some "arey oh saamba!". before we get to the "jab thak hai jaan... mai nachoongi" part, i quickly change the subject. who is that person shaking mohammed ali's hand in that framed photo? What?? YOU, MR.FIDA?? What?? You've met madonna and micheal jackson? some people just have aalll the luck.
i say this with deeply felt guilt: the conversation got me the chappal for half the rate. but i came back home with more gyan about how married life weakens your hair follicles & how a squint makes you lucky. wonder how i can wear-out my footwear faster...

ticket to heaven

this neighbour of mine passes by the little ganesha temple everyday on his bike on the way to work. unfailingly, he slows down his bajaj scooter, takes a quick peek inside the temple, takes aim & throws a red hibiscus with postman accuracy at the feet of the shrine. As his right hand comes back to the handlebar, his left does a quick salaam, and briefly touches his lips as he mumbles some half-word prayer. Both hands back on the handlebar, he vroooooooms off. All this in barely 5-6 seconds. If that shrine had sight, it couldn’t have seen anything more than a road-runnerish blur.
When I put on my best I’m-in-awe-of-you face and asked this neighbour about his deftness, he said, “You should try to think of god all the time. You’ll get moksha.”
Believe me, I tried. (Hey, I want a shot at moksha too) But the handlebar wobbles and the lip-brush ends up as a hard sock on my nose. Plus, I have to stop a few streets later to wear my helmet. The mini-prayer sounds like a word you can’t utter in church. (I’m assuming same rules apply for ganesha too) About the hibiscus, I don’t think stealing from the neighbour’s garden is the right way to go. Those little flower girls in front of the temple giggle at my antics. One cheeky one whispered that I was trying to get into the circus.
Oh maybe I’ll just burn in hell.

shiva thaandavam

small, dingy room. bedsheets and forgotten coffee cups strewn around. unnamed tapes and Cds that you want to steal. among them is a bearded giant who owns rhythm. he talks of tunes and the impossibility of their death. listen, he says, and tunes his mridangam. dhong-dhong. thuk-thuk. dheem. TA! dheem.
i yawn. he doesn't care. he plays.
eyes tightly closed. little gleaming beads of sweat taking flight as the head moves violently. a mental world of dancing shiva, wild hair and ashen face. whether i believe in that form of divinity or not, the sound i hear is absorbing.
he smiles at the end of it all. anoor anantha krishna sharma.
shivu, the giant calls himself. close.

:)

office romances were written about today.
knew that quick kisses are stolen on evelators.
i'm going to use the stairs today.
go colleagues go!