Passers-by

The subtle comfort of the winter sun,
On this frigid skin.
It's a brief gain,
It's a fleeting regard,
Awaiting nightfall... whilst it withdraws its favour.

The fervent wind,
Again
Blows in my path
Its enchantment
Its enigma
Awaiting the solitude...whilst it withdraws its pursuit.

I embrace the sun,
I salute the wind.
Even if for a while,
Kind to me were they..
I walk along. Resolutely.
Awaiting the realisation..whilst I withdraw my delusions.

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken

— Oscar Wilde

POISON

Adobe Backup File.

My eyes steadily glanced through the list of contents of 'My Documents'. Adobe Backup File. A plain yellow folder sat innocently amid a numerous "Bluetooth Exchange Folder", "My Muvees", "Updater5". I spent 30 seconds staring at it. I knew that was it...his personal folder. Smart guy, he had named it so intelligently. It could easily be passed off as a program file.

But I had to come to a decision, whether or not I wanted to open it.

I double-clicked on it, confidently.

What happened next was incredible. There were more than 500 items on the screen, running into a couple of pages. And NOTHING was organised into folders. I could see this muddle of photographs, a hundred VLC media files strewn all over, and very oddly named Word files. My heart started beating faster and I grabbed my cellphone and dialled his number.

It rang...2rings-4rings..I pressed the phone tightly to my ears, in anticipation of him answering quicker. It clicked, "Hello!" said a cheerful voice of a young man in his early twenties. "Umm..hey. Whereareyou?", I tried to sound normal, but I am sure my words tumbled out rather urgently. He laughed. "Keep talking to me for another 5 minutes and I'll be in front of you..", he said jovially. As soon as I heard that, I pressed the End Call button.

5 minutes. 300 seconds. Before my mind would go about breaking down those numbers into milliseconds, I inserted the pen-drive irately into the USB port. I quickly checked the size of the file- 4.59GB-3235 files, 106 folders! Damn. How would I copy it all in 5 minutes, now4?

The copying of documents had begun. I ran my fingers nervously through my hair , and rest my back against the wall. My body was trembling. Why was I doing this? What would happen if he caught me intruding his private space this way? How horrid he’d feel!
My gaze shifted violently from the tab on the windowscreen of the laptop to the surroundings. There was tension and jitteriness taking a complete control over my senses. My heart thumped wildly against my ribs.. I just wanted to cry..

I jerked the pen-drive out of his laptop abruptly and put in back in my bag. The contentitous windows were closed and I rested the machine on the floor of the campus. My nerves loosened and I buried my head in my palms and sobbed. Why, why was I being so distrustful?

"Oye!" he put his hand on my head. I inhaled nosily and lifted my face, to face his. "What happened?", he sounded confused. I watched his deep brown eyes scrutinize my face in apprehension. "I'm tired. A little hungry too" I said softly. Inside my heart, I was numb. Ashamed. And even fearful that I would be punished for this act of mine, someday. I could see a thick, black dot in my soul, fading and weakening out of its own helplessness..

That evening on reaching home I dropped my bag wearily onto the bed. Shaurya, my kid brother rushed out of the room- "Shut down the p.c. naa", he yelled from near the maindoor. I looked at him run out of the house with his cricket bat, so care-free, so guilt-free...

I inched closer to my bag and fished out that pen-drive. A sense of gloom bordered me as I opened Adobe Backup File. I stared at it blankly for sometime till I found something which caught my attention. It was a Word doc called ‘Yesterday’. I double-clicked on it...

"Everything inisde and outisde me is still. Absolutely still. Like someone is holding it so steadily, so assuringly. My inhibitions, my fears, queries, experiences, all quiet among this force. Your presence.

Slowly, I'm growing oblivious to the scene. The cars, the lights, the people are fading into a blur. The voices are merging with the sounds and the noise is dying so gradually. I am living each second, each nano second. Your presence and mine, in this huge canvas of activity. "

Tears rolled down my eyes so feverishly..as I saw my name at the end of the page.
"To Srishti"

Bartrend Dutta

With a name like Bartrend Dutta, it was obvious that his clique would have interesting nicknames for him. 'Bartender', 'Bart' were the popular ones amongst other distortions that people had thought for his name. Dutta never make a fuss about the same. Infact, he felt lost and sometimes unloved when, for days together his buddies wouldn't gather below his window and yell "BARTENDER!" to call him for a game of cricket.

"What's in a name?", his mother remarked once in a conversation with Mrs. Sood, when she posed a query on the meaning of Bartrend. "Names are a mere identification" said Mrs. Dutta, as her eyebrows give a slight raise so as to highlight the word 'identification'.

So much about the name, but what about the other details of his personality? Bartrend had a calm demeanour, calm only because he did not communicate his tides of chaos and stress to most people. Otherwise, he was pretty much like his peers- stumbling all the way with the process of 'growing up'. His eyes were beautiful, and most girls would agree. They were doe-shaped and perfectly concluded into the shape of a line which appeared when he laughed. There was nothing extraordinary about his voice, his looks or his gait. He was safely classified as normal and much to his relief.

His nature highlighted the tinge of love and forgiveness he held which was more apparent to the others, than he could have possibly expressed. In the fast-paced life, he was but another individual in the crowd grappling to reach that high rung in the ladder, where there was a breath of fresh air and down below a view of million heads bobbing up and down restive with their struggle. He was a nobody, and he was comfortable in the blankness of that anonymity. It gave him room for experimenting with success and failure...

There was a spark of creativity in him, but only to the extent of being sort of futile and untamed. If that were to be channelised into something concrete, he'd fret and spot an opportunity for a quick exit. His ingenuity needed no structure, no outcome. It existed for its own sake.

Bartrend involved himself in various activities, be it sports during school and college days or getting down to learning a musical instrument or a new language. Such an array of exposure, surely did its bit in developing his personality. He could hold an audience's attention with his speech; sometimes his antics. His sense of humour was unpredictable, though it was never labelled as 'humour' but he managed to distort ideas well enough to generate a slight jest.

His irritability, usually when he felt hungry, tired and sleepy all at once was something his family members had gotten used to. But there was no presence of anger as such in him, which didn't mean that there was a certain understanding as a substitute. It was just a tendency not to dwell too long on certain things..

Bartrend Dutta's life was distinct, and quite visibly so. A few of us, actually wrote about him on our blogs, and why not...his presence was to be shared if not literally, then atleast virtually.

JustaThoughtInTheMiddleofWork

My Ideal Date: A plate of Dahi puri, with a generous helping of the dahi on the hot ragda-filled puris, maybe at a dhaaba by the beach. Twilight. Sunset. A long conversation. And still 1 hour to spend, before leaving for home.

:)

A Slice from the Whole

There was one New Year's eve, that I spent with Toosh and Malt, at her Adenwalla home. Just three 15-year old girls and a home loaded with gin/vodka/rum. But nothing exciting happened. We circled around the glass almirah which displayed the alcoholic liquids, and held a 5 minute discussion on how each one tastes. Ofcourse, at the end of which Toosh gently unlocked the cuboard and pulled a bottle of gin, and we happily gorged on our 'Gin-Golas' (yes, that's what she made o them)

As the clock striked 12, we huddled in a circle and screamed. Not that this act had any meaning to its occurence, but we still did it. And we did it for anything-Roswell, L.J.Smith, Pasta-salad, Urvi's first boyfriend or Bon Jovi. Honestly, school felt like it didn't happen in this lifetime..

I was different, I must say. Very un-girl, yet not tomboyish. I was quiet in my disposition, but I participated actively in times of mischief. That difference with respect to the mass, was visible, and somehow all 7 of us were damn proud o it! ;)

Faukland Marg!

I have only seen fat coffee-table books and certain documentaries made on 'sex-workers', and I have always wondered, if the photographer directed those women to pose that way- leaning close to a shabby entrance of two-storied structures. It was only when we walked down Faukland Marg, I realised how that 'picture' was borrowed from the real, and with very few deformations of the truth.

The place situated somewhere between Charni Road and Grant Road, is something similiar to Kamathipura, the (in)famous Red-Light area of the city. 3 of us, planned this trip long back, with much fuss over should we click photos or not/should we dress like tourists/ who is embarassing to whom by leading this venture et ecetera. From the mood of the talk, you can reckon that we were absoultely oblivious to what lay ahead.

So, we landed at Faukland Marg on that not-so-bright Saturday morning after crossing too many roads, and jumping over a zillion potholes.

I looked at those women, too many standing on either sides of the pavement. Women wearing glazy tight clothing, suggestive in their attire, trying to lure customers. I managed to catch a glimpse of a deal between one of the prostitutes and her prospective client through the corner of my eye. She seemed ugly, with a maroon coloured lipstick rubbed unevenly on her lips, and talcum powder masking the original complexion of her skin. As we walked further down, my eyes caught the sight of a 11-12 year old girl, who stood amongst the other older prostitutes. I couldn't help notice the conical bra on her, all done to make her appealing enough to attract the right attention. It was only making her posture awkward. I was taken aback at this sight, and was highly saddened by it. The solemness after that, was over-powering all other emotions.

I made sure that I also survey the supporting environment which compelled me to glance up, to the 1st floor of those dilapidated structures on both sides of the road. There were really small rooms that I saw, and windows which were poorly covered with thin, shabby curtains. I wondered how they did 'it' with such less privacy. I recalled how I had also heard tales of cots being arranged on the road in the night-time. A shrill ran down my spine, and I immediately discarded the thought.

The lane stretched over some 10 minutes. We walked hurriedly down the lane, making sure we don't oogle too obviously. The entire 'kick' of visting a red-light area somehow fizzled off, as it wasn't exactly pleasant what we were offered to view...

You know, I believe that by allowing a particular activity to dwell in the society, we are only accepting it more. Who hasn't heard of raids that occasionally take place in these brothels and dance bars, where girls are rescued and sent to homes and Shelters? But how many police officials themselves visit these prostitutes is another story altogether! Every thing rolls into its own irony, I thought!

Towards the end, after a session of looking to the right-left-right-left, one girl prostitute caught my glimpse. I was quite suprised to see her attention meander from those road-side fellows to us. She looked back expressionlessly at my face, then my bag and then at the red wind-sheater hanging loosely between the strap of the satchel. What could she be thinking? I, in turn gazed into her eyes. They were pretty...the only thing she possessed which wasn't vandalised by 'them'!

Hatred

There is no forgiveness.
There is no empathy.

There is a line of crimson venom
Bitter,
Distinct,
That separates me from you.

Let there be a punishment
Let there be a show

And an end
a scream...
and then a deafening silence.

An Old Friendship!

I had two pen-friends, Ananya and Arundhati, both cousins wrote to me for almost 7 years. It was just yesterday, when I pulled out that bag which had their letters, and immediately I sat to read a few.

The initial interactions were so fascinating, I observed. I used to describe Bombay as a city, and they used to write about Mangalore, that was where they lived. We indulged into elaborate discussions on our school, our friends and sometimes even our favourite movies and film-stars. Trust me, a collection of some very uncomplicated thoughts of three 12-year olds :)

Every fornight, there was a letter to wait for. Even my grand-parents were amused by the continuance of this unique friendship. Ofcourse, after stepping into degree college we dispersed, mentally. And it was okay..from both ends.

Yesterday, when I looked at those half-a-dozen "Happy Birthday Pru!!!!" cards and maybe some 2-3 photographs of the cousins, I felt content of having experienced even this portion, of what makes up a life! Indeed, the charm of writing hand-written letters to somebody miles away, describing details of one's life is a memory which registers itself so affectingly.

Today, I am in touch with them through ofcourse, the modern communication media...and we still haven't met each other in person. But as the circle has to complete itself, we will one day, and for a very specific reason.

:)

Pic of the Year

The Parsis.

I have seen Parsis very closely and almost for a decade. Now, this statement makes me sound like a really old person, but it's true nonetheless. I have studied in a Parsi school for 12 years, and have had the wildest of Bawa friends.

This particular post is dedicated to the gracious community, the one I really admire.

Have you ever been to a Parsi home? You have to, atleast once in your lifetime. You will see so much antique furniture- the quintessential granpa clock, a piano sometimes and beautifully arranged glass almirahs which boast of their Zoraster frames, their eternal flame and old crockery. Yellow light as opposed to a tubelight gives to the ambience a very sophisticated and romantic feel, which I think the Parsi homes are popular for. The dining table usually occupies a prominent section of the hall, and it is elegantly adorned with a laced tablecloth.

Certain Benaifers, Zenobias, Feroozas and Delzeens would probably cook up Dhansak, sali murghi, patra ni machhi and other Parsi delicacies, and host a Sunday lunch. The community is warm, friendly and jovial; dotes on good food, retro music and a quiet lifestyle.

Ofcourse, the term 'Bawas' does complete justice to their eccentricites. But trust me, everybody needs one Bawa friend in their life! Somebody who would sit down with you in an old Irani resturant and his honest and most effective advice would mean "bhuli ja ni, life main aavo-tevu chaltu rahe " over anda-omlette and coffee.

Am grateful to have spent that decade with a distinct Parsi touch. And I still have my eye on Arzan Khambatta's house...one day, I will have enough money to buy it :)

(And and, I wish to also, possess the traditional Iranian sari with an embroidered border and zari-work)

Point to View!

Technology will take over/substitute/upgrade further everything natural and simple.

I was horrified when I read about the 3G cellular service that a few biggies in the Telecomm sector are at. Right from airing 2-3 minute television episodes on the mobile phone (which are called Mobisodes, btw) to advertisers booking spots for putting on their adverts especially during the prime time which in this case is the office traffic (8am-11am & 6.00pm to 9pm)

It is insane if you ask me. A phone is an intrument that one can use to make/recieve calls. Is there really a need for m-commerce? I mean, is every invention going to upgraded and up-upgraded to give humans more of what they don't even 'think' that they'd ever want?

The world is going mad, and we are going with it.

Do, you even look at the sky?!

It's called a consolidation period.