spies came out of the water

I wonder if we've become a police state. And the police isn't always just the guys in khakhi… it's the nosy lady on the ground floor apartment; the maybe too-powerful theatrical media; hungry Uriah Heep lawyers; political parties making up 'ideology' over biryani; patchily scripted film personalities; the man speeding the screaming dirty Qualis he thinks is his dick/manhood.
Everyone wants to gun everyone else down. Actually, I understand that: the tendency to push people around. Especially when it's easy.
What I don't understand is how we let them. And live like fugitives, full of fear. And tell ourselves we're quiet because we want to be amused.

(Although The Hindu has written a first page Magazine article about the Kushboo issue in as stern a voice as the grand old paper can muster, it's forgotten to mention the real slap on the chastity protectors' face. The Madras High Court's observation last week: "The court is pained at the way these two women have been treated. They have the freedom to speak their mind. These protests... is this your culture?" And then asked the big-mustached police to work a little bit and please prevent such illegal protests if they happened again.)

new pal

His only job is to open the gate, shut the gate, and in between retrieve the screamer kid's ball from the sunshade every five minutes. He told me his name thrice, all when I asked, but I nodded without paying attention. I try to squeeze every bit of English out of my Tamil just to get him to dismount the wall he climbs every time I so much as look at him. It's a class thing, a friend said, but I naively want it not to be.

Today is ayudha puja, and on Sunday everyone in Sri Ramachandra Apartments was washing his/her bike. I rode off to work, came back with the same dried-up-and-unsuccessfully-scraped-off pigeon crap and all the slush in the city. But I wasn't going to clean it if it meant having the shirtless prowler attack me. The Prowler is an uncle who circles the apartment block and asks quick questions every time he sees my flat mate or me... "What time does work get over?" which means am I loafing (=going to night club with boys) till now; "You must be eating out everyday..." which means I'm the 'modern' girl they will ever despise; and "What salary do you get?" which means do you earn more than me. He was funny for 2 days. But then he tried to convince me to cover a wedding as national news, and I have been on the run since.

Anyway, watchman walks up to me yesterday and says, "Amma, neenga mind pannalena, naan unga bike-a thodachidava?" (If you don’t mind, can I clean your bike?). Offended at the presumption that I wouldn't clean my own bike (where would he get such an idea?), I quickly assured him that I would do it myself. To that,
"I don't mind, really. I'm here all day. Sunday I can do."
"No no, in Bangalore, I washed the bikes of everyone in the house. I'll manage."
"Oh, but now you're alone. You must be thinking who you'll clean for...”
(Laughing) "No no, I don't have such sentiments..."
"I understand, ma. It's ok, you don't have to pay me. But please, I can't see anything in such condition!" Then as The Prowler approached, "Ok madam, you go upstairs now."

The next day, Reddy was sparkling. Even the pigeons didn't want to crap on so shiny a surface. (Instead, they came to my balcony and relieved themselves on the broken fan blade). It hasn't been an ayudha puja with pori and sweet boondi, lemon, agarbatti, and bruised fingers... but in many by-the-electricity-meter conversations I have found in Palani the greatest bitch in town. Our victim: The Prowler. Apparently, The Prowler can never start his scooter in the morning.

tatabyebye

... since not much is being thrown in anyway.

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.

what to call him

'Boyfriend' sounds like he'd drop me home in a car (because the city isn't nice to girls at night), kissing my cheek lightly while he said a tender "goodnight, sweetheart". It sounds like he'd take me for a well planned dancing and drinking date, and hold my hand when I'd go to the dentist.

He'd be someone everyone assumes is my ride to the theatre (even if it was a group thing). He would know what clothes I had ("Why don’t you wear that black sleeveless thing with the V-neck?") and pat me proudly on my head if my earrings matched my shirt. It would also mean he is supposed to carry my luggage, and be nice to my friends even if he wants to strangle some.
Still, they call all boys with girls that.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" they'll ask, if they see her with him more than twice. "You want come for Sarkar? I'll get two tickets for you?" It makes the boy someone I picked off the department store shelf marked 'Boyfriends'. And I'd like to ask what he'll be called if he was 30. Boys don't automatically graduate to husband, you know.
And it makes him single-roled. And makes us a unit. No personality, no idiocity, no separate lives.

Lover, I'll call him. Smiling, quiet. Light on his feet. Sexual. And not my conjoined twin.