A rush of blood to the head

Its 17 degrees outside, the air is smoggy and I am breathing ringlets of smoke. I love these mornings…when I sit alone and look outside. Being a late riser, unlike my roommate, I hardly experience this solitude often.

The sun has not risen yet and the street lights are still on. It’s a sublime feeling to watch the city at this time of the day, with no horns honking or noise from the nearest construction site. The silence settles over me like a blanket. The empty streets beckon like an old friend. I can see a cat scurrying by and lone walker pass by, away from the cozy confines of his room and comfortable wraps of his quilt. Its difficult to look beyond the street light, as the road disappears into darkness, but more particularly because of my wretched myopic sight.

I have goose bumps on my arm, it’s not just the chill in the air that’s causing them but the surreal feeling that my surrounding gives me at this hour. It’s like all existence comes to a full stop.

It's been ages i have felt this calm. Not a single distracting thought flitting through my head. No strain of emotion, no wandering reflection on relations; past, present and future, no worries over ambitions, no regrets over the paths taken, things done or left undone, no competition to worry about, no one to dictate or appraise. My existence seems to boil down to the very famous Shakespearean dilemma …”To be or not to be”

Listening to the soulful rendition of a jilted lover…playing over my headphones. I look yonder and imagine, what would it be like not to exist? To fade away into the darkness …to walk away from all the worldly comforts with a backpack and very little money. To trudge the solitary path and not having to look back and wonder, what if?

I am jarred out of my waking trance, by the irate sound of the alarm from my room. It’s time for my roommate to wake up and perform her daily rituals before she heads to college. I know she’ll put the alarm on snooze at least once before she wakes up.

So, I take one last deep breath of the dank air and heave myself out of the chair. It’s time to hit the sack and delve into the abyss of my bizarre dreams, which perhaps even Freud would have a hard time deciphering!

To the Capital...

With a lil’ less than excess baggage on me I flew into the Delhi International Airport a week ago. I had a spark in my eyes and a spring in my step. Two whole weeks on my own in the city I have always dreamt of living… things couldn’t get better! As I heaved my baggage and headed to my temporary aboard, I reflected back in time, to the evenings I spent fighting with my folks over my wish to graduate from this city’s esteemed university. Hmmm..Its been five years since those crazy evenings, every moment of which I prayed and reasoned with my parents, but to no avail! The media was no ally of mine then, the number of reported incidents of molestation and rape were the foundation to my reverted plans of grads.

As the taxi made its way through the thoroughfares of India’s capital I smiled to myself for the nth time that day…quite frankly, work was the last thing on my mind. I was looking forward to gallivanting on the streets and a reunion of sort with my friends.
Though this was not my first trip to Delhi, it was the first where I’d see the city beyond my viewfinder!

In spite of belonging to a city with its own share of rich heritage, the Capital of India has its own charm. The multitude of regimented traffic on the wide roads, the innumerable number of white ambassadors with “Government of India” on their name plates, the frequent motorcade of the next important Mantri, the planned layout of the city in the new parts, the presence of policemen by numbers throughout, at any given time, CNG autos and buses, Phirangs in their Indian avatars by hoards, loudmouth jats, lecherous men, indifferent women…I would only repeat the sights of what men and women before me, have hailed the city for, over and over again!

Rosy as the picture may seem, I got to experience the murky side to the city swiftly. My work took me to Noida( which was made known to me, stands for New Okhla Industrial Development Authority) a 45 mins ride in the overcrowded State buses. Since, my experience with Mumbai local trains, I am pretty much confident about any form of transport. So I didn’t bat an eyelid when I climbed on to one of the buses the first day of my work. What I didn’t expect in the congested interiors was strange men making overt physical advances! An elderly man standing next to me, ordinarily whom I would have referred to as uncle, had a blatant lascivious look on his face and refused to move away in spite of being shoved constantly. I had heard of the perturbed and repressed sexual energy in men, but had never expected such an obvious show in public.

In spite of the overbearing auto-drivers of Pune, this trip to the capital has had me swear unto myself, that I shall never pick a fight over the fare. The absurdity with which the rickshawallahs charge the customers left me baffled. The minimum starting from Rs.20/-, these men had the nerve to ask for Rs.100/- for a distance of 4 kms. No wonder people choose private mode of transport here! I completely understood their plight! The first down payment for a Wagon R is probably lesser than the amount you spend on autos in a whole month!! The surprising part of this was every auto had a working meter which they refused to start.

The fact that I have spent larger part of my adulthood in a city like Pune, has had me accustomed to late nights on the streets, frequently. What left me stumped was that the streets here were deserted by 8 in the evening! A METROPOLITAN CITY five times larger than a city born out of a cantonment was stranded by its very own at such an ungodly hour!
I know two or three incidents do not count for forming a lasting impression nor is it a sufficient argument. But the fact that the Capital of India is nicknamed the “Rape Capital” has had me bewildered for that was in fact, not an exaggerated lie.
Where the Chief Minister of the State is a woman herself, the last thing that the city assures is safety of any kind for the women folk. Unlike my friends back in Calcutta or Pune or even the vast metropolis of Mumbai, my friends in Delhi are terrorized at the concept of walking on the streets any time after 8:30 pm!

I came to the city with hopes..conjured from my vivid imagination. What I came with, was far less than what I experienced. But, what I experienced is far less than what I imagined.

On my way back, as I sit and reflect on my stay, I feel a bad after-taste in my mouth.

The delights of Dilli are at galore, from the lighted India Gate at twilight, evening walks through the winded paths of Connaught Place, shopping at Janpath, haggling at Sarojini Market, the delectable milkshake at Keventer’s, the yummy pasta at Big Chill, the famed Dilli ki sardi, the oasis of intellect in JNU, the snob appeal of DU, the UN-pitted roads, the disciplined traffic that most of my fellow Indians would give their right hand for!
But the enchantment breaks when I reach out to experience the place beyond its touristy attractions.

I sign off with this thought in my mind, perhaps the impressions through my viewfinder were in fact illusions, for I suddenly feel Enlightened!

Oh, Calcutta!

As my craft touches the tarmac, and the pilot announces the temperature outside, the sides of my lips turn up in a smile, cause doesn’t matter what time of the year it may be, the clamminess in the air never fails my expectations.

Kolkata…the erstwhile Calcutta, a prosaic city situated by the Ganges, surrounded by long bustling streets amongst the grandeur of the imposing buildings of a bygone era. A City which boasts of beautiful kohl-eyed women and dhoti clad gentlemen. A city which regales in cricket and a cuppa of tea more than an Englishman.

There are some things about Calcutta which cannot be justly described in the few words that my vocabulary boasts of!
It is something beyond the lackadaisical aura about the City. Beyond the idiosyncrasies of the local men and women. Something more than the century old Howrah Bridge or the over-crowded stands in Eden Gardens. Something invisible which binds us all…a thing which is beyond comprehension for an outsider!

The city of many facets. Where the old and new find equal appreciation. Where inequalities exists but not when it comes to politics. Where all you need is 20 bucks for a lavish meal. Where music is not just Jazz…and art is not, only for a niche gathering.

For an Artist it is a city of Myriad colors, which he sees in the faces of the young and old.
For the Foodie it is the city of the scrumptious delights, which he finds in the fish Curry and the mishti doi(s)!
For the Man with a Nikon it is Pandora’s Box, waiting to be unlocked.
For the Bhadrolok, it is the city of never ending adda and chai! Of the age old marxist ideologies or the inane banter of politics over a game of bridge!
For the Historian, it is the city of immeasurable heritage and culture!
For the Intellectual, it is the city of the likes of Amitav Ghose, Jhumpa Lahiri, Amartya Sen.
For the Youth it is the enthralling city with a pace of its own, not too fast …never too slow!

It is oft quoted among wise men that, you need to belong to a City to understand it.
And to appreciate Calcutta you need to fit right in! Whether you live in East Hampton or in New York City, you remain true to Calcutta, to the Music, the FOOD and the never-ending Adda!

The long-winded thoroughfares, the over-zealous natives, the cramped shacks, the imposing British architecture, the kurta clad, jhola carrying, bespectacled, pot smoking youth, the musty smell of the sacred black waters of Hoogly river, the screech of the tires as the unruly bus drivers race against each other, the impending danger to one’s life as one attempts to cross the roads, the weekend shopping crowd at Esplanade, the dhaks during Durga Puja, the frenzied opinions on Sourav Ganguly and the BCCI, the holler of the conductors, “aaste! Ladies”, deserted streets on the frequent Bandh days, the assemblage of people in front of a TV during the cricket season, the intoxicating whiff of Charminar and ittar from the gentleman standing next to you, the sumptuous smell of the roadside stew, the bulbous puchchkas tantalizing one’s palate …
The sights, smells and sounds never ceases to ASTOUND!

Living 2000 miles away from all this, at times makes me yearn dearly for the simple pleasures that my city has to offer.
Watching the sunset at riverside, getting stuck in the Nor’westers, haggling for cinema tickets sold in black, celebrating India’s wins as if it were Diwali, playing cricket on the empty streets on a Bandh day, roaming on Park Street on Saturday evenings, jam sessions of Rabindra Sangeet and Bangla rock! I miss them all!

At times it becomes difficult to justify such a city, when measured up to concrete jungles, cosmopolitan outlooks, plush lifestyles, fast living and high thinking.

But, even merely visualizing Calcutta as one of those highly glossed photographs taken from a sophisticated digital camera in comparison to its original jaded monochromic elegance is like destroying the essence of the city from within.

As I dismount the plane and look around. It has been six months I have been away. I take a deep breathe, I can distinctly smell the rancid odor from the nearby waste disposal site. I smile to my self again, nothing’s changed! I am Home again!

Viva La Vida

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
Once you go there was never
Never an honest word
And that was when I ruled the world

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People couldn't believe what I'd become

Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?

I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world...

A Shot of Caffeine

Visiting a coffee shop regularly has its reasons. It could be the music that they play. It could be the coffee that they serve. It could be the sights and sounds of the place. It could simply be the people around you…or it could be because of that brown-eyed guy who you start searching for moments after you take your favorite seat.

What is it that attracts one towards a place over and over again in spite of the variety of choices that are up for the grabs? What is it that makes it a habit in a person?

For me the intricacies of this habit, good or bad are hard to delineate…

Unlike most of my peer group I don’t like lazing around at home after a hard day’s toil, when given an option to gallivant around on the streets. This trait probably has to do a lot with my genes rather than pressure from my peers.

And in spite of my self-proclaimed attention deficit syndrome (ADS); I still like to wind up my day with a hot mug in my hand sitting on my usual seat. Smoking my preferred brand, looking into oblivion or simply cackling about inane things with my dearest friends, all the while surrounded by faces I have come to know over time!

The coffee shop in my neighborhood is certainly not one of its kinds, but despite the commonness I have come to love the place dearly each passing day for the five years that I have spent in this city.

It’s a pleasant feeling to walk into a place, where even though you have never spoken to any of the visages that you see recurrently, you can’t help but start looking for them as soon as you sit down.

I look around…

I see the short guy sitting in the corner as always, hunched over his laptop, with an Ipod in one hand and a smoke in the other. I have secretly named him “Mr. Dependable” for in spite of this short stature, there’s hardly a day when you will not feel his presence around you. He is always thronged with people around him, no matter what time of the day it is. I wonder if he ever eats or goes to work. For he never leaves that chair except to order another cup of caffeine.

Not further down him I see the weird old man, who never fails to come in regularly. Each day he sits there all by himself, reading a fat book or reading the paper for hours together. Wearing the same worn out tee-shirt and jeans and smiling at nothing in particular, he never fails to drink his four cups of coffee a day. I wonder what he does to earn a living.

A holler draws my eyes to a group not very far from where I sit; it is a group of young men huddled together. They look a little old for college students, perhaps working men taking a break after office hours. You can’t miss them in the evenings, each with his own smoke in his hand puffing away in a limbo. They are the ones who crack the loud jokes, whose laughter’s can be heard across the whole place, who will turn to look shamelessly at every woman who walks in, discussing politics or music, well just about anything under the sun. Surprisingly, you can’t simply help but smile at this eclectic bunch for their sheer idleness that connects each of them together.

The couple that always takes the shadowed corner, away from the eyes of the prying world. A demure looking girl in a simple salwar kameez, hand in hand with a run-off the mill cool dude in low slung jeans and a tee shirt which desperately needs to be ironed. While they sit there gazing into each others eyes with wonder lust and murmur in low voices, I cannot help myself from being judgmental and wonder how long would this last. As I begin to move ahead in my sour Jon, I suddenly see the girl pulling the guy forward and smacking his lips right on! The PDA leaves me baffled and to borrow a phrase “looks can be deceptive”!

A see a group of foreigners, plugged into their snazzy Ipods and their hands running sluggishly on their IMac speaking in their outlandish accents oblivious to the natives around them who candidly gape at them.

Two tables down sitting by themselves are two flimsily clad beautiful women, probably heading for a party or coming back from one. They sit there sipping their smoothies and intently discussing about lipsticks and glosses!

In the midst of the assorted assemblage are the jovial baristas in their bright orange uniforms making a living by serving coffee assiduously. This crew of dexterous men and women constantly strive to be on their best demeanor day in and day out catering to the demands of all their privileged patrons.

As I sit there contemplating to have another cup of coffee, I see a group of five entering; they definitely look like college students, chattering away with each other. They come and sit at the table next to mine. It’s motley bunch. There’s the “in-love” couple sitting side by side, surreptitiously exchanging glances, there’s the bored looking dude who looks doped up, there’s the shaggy haired singer who hums to the tunes that he deftly plays on the guitar. The man next to him smartly dressed in white and blue denims insists on wearing this Ray Bans despite no Sun in the horizon. They lounge around with a carefree bearing about them. Soaking in the evening air and company of each other. A while later a moderately handsome looking man joins them, he looks a little older to be in college but blends into the crowd as soon as he takes his seat.

The mood becomes upbeat, the clanging of the mugs, hi-fives and resounding laughter signal a celebration of its own kind.

The evening wears out…the ones who have other social engagements leave. The ones who are left sit there drinking the last dregs of the day.

The lights are dimmed, the shutters half closed. The last few trudge out slowly heading back to their own beds.

As I walk back to the confines of my aboard, I think of the people I have come to anticipate about. Like, the very cute brown-eyed gentleman in his shorts, the good looking bearded chap who has reappeared after long vacation, the short guy with the laptop, the wanna-be photographer. I wonder will I get to catch a glimpse of them again the next day, will I ever get to speak to them before I make my exit from the city, will they notice if I don’t turn up the again.

As all the questions whirl around in my mind I realize I have reached home. I impassively try to push all my thoughts away, at the same time fervently desiring that these people knew the significant parts they play in my thoughts.

That’s when I call it a DAY!

Stranded

I walked till my feet hurt.

Away from the holler of the crowd.

Away from the sound on the asphalt.

Away from the call of my friends.

I walked away till I hurt my feet.

Panting, praying, wishing life was a lil’ fair.

There’s no one to hold me back this time, for no one knows what’s on my mind.

I don’t blame them, its time they lived their lives.

I see darkness ahead…down that road, spreading its branches in the wild.

I don’t feel lonely anymore for I have been alone for a while.

I walked into the shadows, unmindful of the glare.

I walk away with only a glance to spare.

Life has become languid around me.

I seek laughter; I seek joy,

I search for calmness more than the other delights.

I seek Men of honor, Men who are not vile

Men who rise above their ashes to be someone more sublime.

I walk away thinking, yet nothing’s on my mind.

I come to a stop. I am stranded. I now search for my mind.

Though, I am not a accomplished thinker like one and all.

There are times when Life strikes me odd.

The obvious doesn’t appeal to me anymore, I search in earnest awhile.

It is not about what I have, but about the things I could.

I walk away thinking what if…for once I could reach out in pursuit.

I’m stranded!

I’m afraid but I never let it show,

It scares me most to let the world know.

In desperation I look for a friendly smile.

I know what’s in store for me; if I walk back a mile,

I stop to wonder

I don’t stop to pray.

Some call me foolhardy but that’s ok.

And so, I square my shoulders, and look straight,

For it’s still not time to give it all away.

I start walking again.

My feet still hurt.

Away from everything…

For I have a lesson to learn!

THE WRITER WHO LIVED

What do you say to taking chances…well here I am taking a chance again…because all man can do is HOPE …

When I wrote my first letter…it was addressed to a guy..hmph! it wasn’t a love letter..well no way near it..it was more on the lines of letting my thoughts out to the world..i didn’t know how to express..i didn’t know how to be vocal about the mind that I carried every where…and that s how my frend my dear frend MAX was born…

I knew more than enough women (coz at that time that was the only kind around me) who wrote.”secretly…” but in the run..the secrets were meant to only emphasize the fact that…they could be only shared with the dearest..of friends.I never really understood the concept…but I shant crib coz..i had the pleasure of getting my hands on the juiciest and the darkest of the so called secrets. I was and have never been a cynic in life, but when it came to trusting women…hell! That’s where I drew the line forever. This distinction that I consciously made gave me a lot to think about. It was jus a choice that I took..a decision which was not really hard to make for a person like myself who was constantly lured by the other side of life. At first I couldn’t do much about it..simply cause..i wasn’t sure how’d guys of my age (mind you) read my desperation for association…but that again was the stepping stone to what I am today..No not a WOMAN hater..feminist..?? no way…but yeah… someone…who prefers to talk to herself rather than to the world when it comes to her own secrets.

I dunno where all that josh and the mantra of life went but its been over 10 years that I ve been writing and like all good things in the world despite of the fact that I enjoyed every minute of it…the earnestness with which I usually wrote, began disappearing…Sad!

I wont go back and think about why I stopped writing..coz it is one among the million good things that I did…without an effort.

When I write, I write my will, I write about my life..i never edit what I write..not the spell errors..nor the commas ..that I usually would had it been a eng lit paper..I write coz that is the only time I get to be myself…I take that chance and plunge into the depth of my unfathomable thoughts and swim at 100 miles an hour. Do reach the destination I want to reach…everytime? Perhaps ...perhaps not! Am never really sure about that because…by the time I stop to think…I’m panting so hard its difficult to delineate reality from fantasy. Its like the asana(s) all these gurus keep talking about on the tube. Its like the rush of the first smoke for a smoker. It’s like the shot of vodka…its like the whiff of your favourite curry being made… For it never really was the about what I wrote BUT the fact that I wrote..no holds barred!

Surprisingly I could never lie when I wrote. its not like if I tried I wouldn’t succeed..but I Jus chose not to do it..coz life for me is all about the pretenses that you can keep. Pretending while I write..is perhaps not part of that forte of mine.

Today I would like to be a lot of things that I am not…but I know I’d prefer writing down my thoughts on paper..much more than anything. At times i call it a BLOCK..at times I insist its jus another phase in life..at times I wonder was that jus another short lived story of my life…???

Sitting here seeing the world pass by, the evening walkers jog down the road, the laughter, the screeching of the breaks, the rubber on the road, the holler of the crowd, gunning of the bike, the twang of the nearest construction site….and the plethora of sounds that I hear every passing day I wonder…What I have become?

From a simple undulated, unadulterated writer to an ambiguous lone confused Actor?!

Right now it is like the cigarette smoke which fills the room without you noticing it, but when you butt it out, it leaves a distinct smell for you to remind you that you smoked that cigarette. Perhaps its time again to light the next one…and taking another chance at life…