In the course of time

I grew up in a slum in Bombay. The kind of place everybody wants to escape only to end up in a place—Nashik/New-Bombay/Pune/Gurgaon—that makes you nostalgic about your past. It had everything imaginable. The good. The bad. The makeup. People from all the three communities were present (nope, never met a Sikh/Parsi/Jew/etc there—perhaps the place was too poor for them). We never witnessed a riot, not even during Babri demolition or the following bomb blasts of ‘93. We may not have had the basic rights but we had our basics right. We respected and cared for each other. There was no scope for naarebazi. The Hindus in the neighbourhood lent their carpets for the grand namaaz on Friday afternoon while the Muslims helped with the pandals during Ganeshotsav and participated in the Holi pyramid. Well, the Christian community was the icon for the rest as far as the importance of education (read: literacy) was concerned. We effortlessly embodied the spirit of basti. People, back then, loved the city for accepting them the way they were—broken, luckless and hardworking. It’s easy to sit in an air-conditioned room in 2016 and blah about secularism while conveniently forgetting that the Western idea of secularism is bound to be counter-productive for a country like ours where religion is practically woven into our consciousness whether a person is rural or urbane. What these misguided conversations usually highlight is the distance between reality and notion. Fortunately, the chawl i was/am from didn’t care for such labels. Maybe that’s why there was no tension regarding who ate what or who prayed to whom. The Hindus were happy with their vegetarian/meat diet while the Muslims relished their beef and the Christians fearlessly showed their soft corner for pork. Non-Hindu kids gathered for prasad whereas the non-Muslim kids gathered for niyaaz. What mattered was the sweetness of the food offered, not the mumbo-jumbo of myths behind it. There was noise everywhere and yet, in that chaos, we found a diverse semblance. Things changed only after 9/11, thus proving once again the power (of narrative) USA enjoys. Suddenly, the conversations during lunch/dinner began to turn bitter and paranoid. Still, on the surface, there was no evident animosity. The walls that united the one-room houses remained polite but then, manufactured anguish has a way with our species. Interestingly, i left the place and moved to Nashik in 2002, the year that remains significant. My family moved to New-Bombay within two summers. I revisited my slum (the thing about this word is it sticks with you irrespective of the buildings that mushroom over time) in 2007 to teach secondary school kids English. I carried on till 2011, the year i joined journalism full-time. I haven’t rerevisited the place since. But what i noticed during those four years, in touch with the kids i taught, was the drastic shift in attitude. Something was clearly missing. When i was a kid, the friendship we built with our neighbouring kids triumphed our differences. The kids i encountered on a daily basis in a tiny classroom back then seemed to have let their differences triumph. Armed with with their limited vocabulary, they couldn’t even hide their prejudices. A perverted version of religion had become the norm. Some Hindu kids were suddenly proud of their perceived greatness. Some Muslim kids were seeking a hero in Zakir Naik. Some Christian kids were clearly brainwashed about the superiority of their God. And ‘some’ is more than enough to make the ‘most’ divided. An idea or an ideator refines with time, yes. However, if it’s not for the better, what’s the point of evolution? If it instills unwarranted fear of the unknown in children’s minds during their formative years, what good can possibly come out of it? Facts are going to be abused in places like these. The chawl i remembered was the one where only one thing got abused on a daily basis: English. We called chewing-gum ching-gum, station taeshun, brown-pao burun-pao, slice-pao si-lace-pao, lantern lal-turn, bottle baa-tal… the list goes on.

Survival of the spirit

It's that time of the year when the so-called 'Spirit of Mumbai' gets invoked. It's very similar to the imaginary fourth seat that you demand for in a crowded local train. They don't exist but still do somehow for convenience. This seasonal garment has nothing to do with the fabric of humanity. It's an abstract reality, that's all. A function of necessity more than a root of compassion. You can't sit at home for long no matter how much it rains. Your financial conditions don't permit. So you venture out, keeping the cogs of the city running. And the ones who have a way with words term it spirit, not helplessness. That's how the language of a city unable to rectify the wrongs speak. That's also how an island city keeps itself afloat. It knows no other method. This is it. A poetry abandoned by reality; a lullaby cautioned by nightmare. If only there was a way to figure out why does the city clog after a heavy rainfall EVERY SINGLE YEAR without fail. How is it even possible for a metropolitan to be not prepared—consistently. Two monsoons ago, i was trudging along on the railway track towards Kurla station after our train broke down at LTT. On my way, i stumbled upon two lil' rats soaked and trembling on the rail. The two must have lost their families to flood. Fortunately, none of the people walking by bothered them. Perhaps, both the species, no matter how different they are, are one in the spirit of survival.

Brown pride and dark underbelly

I've often heard hip-hop is best left to the blacks. Apparently, the whole genre loses its sheen when Indians try to imitate the art form. Which is also why Mumbaiya rappers get derided for their unflattering attempts. I counted myself as one of the critics not very long ago. I found Bombay-based hip-hop artists way too wannabe to be taken seriously. This was before i stumbled upon Divine and Naezy. These young artists are brilliant not just in their expression but also with their substance. There is an undeniable volume of honesty in their work. They speak about the place (read: chawls) they come from and that too in a language their neighbours understand. They don't seem to be putting on a cape to look cooler than they already are. 

For instance, check these lyrics from Divine's Jungli Sher:

Chhota sa main ladka

Chhoti cheezon pe main bhadka

Mere daal mein nahi tha tadka

Ghar mein baap ke roz ka lafda

Dafna mushkilon ko

Meri maa ki kamaai ne

Baap wala role nibhaya mere bhai ne

Tairna sikha khaai mein

Isiliye shabdon mein gehraai hai

Zindagi toh ek ladaai hai

Jo paiso mein samaayi hai...

And here are some from Naezy's Haq Hai: 

Mumbai ka mai chokra

Ye nagri hai ayyaasho ki, ameero ki

Sitaaro ki, funkaaro ki, ghumkhaaro ki

Gareebko ki, fakeero ki

Bas daal roti ki bhi kadki hai, majboori hai

Maal daaro ki tadki hui tandoori hai

Bhadki hui maa ro ri hai

Khaa k maa ki lori wo

Ladki bhooki so rahi hai

Wo tarsi hui si thodi hai

Khaane ko bhi wo ro rahi hai...

Both of them seem to draw inspiration from their surroundings. They observe and they feel and they write about stuff that really matters to them. Poverty and illiteracy are some of the two recurring subjects addressed without any resort to self-pity. There is anger in their voice but it's tempered by their inward looking attitude. It's remarkable how the words chosen somehow maintain the balance between the problems exhibited and the solutions proposed. 

They collaborated for a song titled Meri Gully Mein and you don't even need to have a past in the slums (like i do) to get attached to these engaging lyrics:

Tere shooterooo ka khaas

Meri gully mein

Poore shehar ki awaaz

Mere gully mein

Pray aarti ya namaz

Meri gully mein

Maa pe gaali tho chamaat

Mere gully mein

Police aayi lagi waat

Mere gully mein

Ek number saari baat

Mere gully mein...

I'm a copywriter by profession and i basically write for the graphic designers. So far, i've made it a point to NOT pretend to understand design. Similarly, i stay focused on lyrics and pretend not to understand music. To me, words matter. The sincerity behind them matters more. And in the above mentioned cases, that's evident in abundance. It'd be great to see many more such rappers emerge from the darkest of underbellies that are left unsung. They shall be brown and they will be noted hopefully. The way a white guy named Eminem was 20 years ago. 

Weather to stay or leave?

What you can see in the badly shot picture—where the unintended object (building in the background) is better exposed than the intended one (trees in the foreground)—tells a bit about the weather in our city. A tale of confusion perhaps. It's October already after having the hottest September in over seven decades. Asking for a proper winter would be too much but still, cooler nights won't harm either. Of course, posting a paragraph on this climatic disorder won't make a difference but still, a picture is worth a hundred words if a thousand gets boring. The nudist almond tree that you can note seems to be feeling cold while none of its standing peers is willing to shed their greenies yet. I don't know what the point is but that's how it works, right? Leaves are shed while humans pile on thick clothes. As of now, even the former has become more of a rare phenomenon while the latter might not happen at all in Bombay this year around.

Mob justice

What is it about our cops that makes people prefer to stay away from them? Instead of approaching the police to resolve problems, often the public decides to take things into their own hands for a speedy solution. Something of this nature happened on Wednesday night at Govandi railway station. With the rain beating down in the background, three men were taking turns—as if they were Bollywood heroes—beating the daylights out of a suspected pickpocket. According to them, he had tried to nick a wallet from one of them. When i intervened and suggested that they should hand him over to the railway police, they brushed me off, saying, “Public dhulai se hi aise log seekhte hain,” and continued bashing the man. This went on for a while before the trio called it a night and let their 'perpetrator' go free.  

Nodding is possible

The untimely drizzle in parts of the city might have come as a relief to some, but where there was no precipitation, there was continued perspiration. Also as expected, the so-called rain was followed by high humidity and further high temperatures throughout. No wonder sleeping without sweating is nothing less than a task—at least for the unprivileged lot. And in such a scenario who wouldn’t want to sleep with the open sky above, especially when you’re certain that it’s not going to rain anyway?

Unfinished business

Local trains are fodder for a great deal of entertainment… sometimes, even when nothing happens! Recently two men squeezed into a packed train at Kurla, and one happened to elbow the other. As is inevitable, an argument ensued—although, if common sense had prevailed there was no need for even a mild exchange of words. But sense is not common, specially in crowded locals. So, the encounter spiralled into a full-fledged altercation with one man challenging the other to get out at the next station and settle it with fists. That may sound like a polite invitation but it was simply because there was no space for maara-maari in the compartment. As it happens, the exigencies of commuter travel prevented the dust-up, as one man was going to Chembur and the other was unwilling to accompany him. And thus the other commuters missed a free dose of entertainment.

Half full, full empty

I can relate to the local train. When it's empty, it wobbles a lot while the breeze seeps in from all directions. It makes a strange yet harmonic clanging noise as the hanging straps collide with the rod above. It seems like it's moving faster though. A zen monk sans the demons. But when it reaches the next station, there is an underwhelming sense of wasted energy and time as the passengers aren't oozing out. That emptiness is unbearable. On the other hand, when it's full—brimming with people literally stuffed in—the train has a purpose. So many hold on it and that's a worthy feeling. It's willing to carry the load and wouldn't even mind if some unlucky souls lose grip hanging outside or some get knocked out on the jaywalking railway track. To the train, the reputation of being full of passengers is more important than the infamy of being a mass murderer. Being a human who has his ever-changing phase of holeness and wholeness, i can totally relate to it.

Byproducts of progress

Crows, rats, owls, dogs and cats—wittingly or unwittingly—help in keeping our city clean. While facing starvation, they put their dignity aside and find the grub in garbage. Nothing astonishingly new in that. What's worth noting here is the rising number of filth and the decreasing number of bins. For what can't be explained, our urban planners (if there are any) don't count the need to put trash cans in adequate numbers at appropriate distance. Even a cleanliness-obsessed citizen would lose morale to such apathy. And believe me, he does. 

  Which brings us to the question: is littering an urban phenomena?

I've been to villages. Quite a lot of them, actually. And one thing is common to all of them. They are clean. You don't see vile polythene carriers strewn helter-skelter. On the other hand, there's hardly any wastage. Consumerism is low and practical minimalism, high. Yes, it can't be denied that lack of development is to be squarely blamed for the relative orderliness. But then, even small villages are slowly getting a hang of urbanity and the first sign of this change are the plastic bags half-buried on the side of the kaccha roads. 

  Which brings us to the illation: the culprit is not modernity but incompetence. 

We know how essential plastic has become in our day-to-day life. What we may not know is the potential danger it poses to our future generations (if there will be any). A replacement is going to be costly and by the time something comes up, the ugly polythene pile one witnesses while travelling in a local train will have turned uglier. At the same rate, the plastic bags will be fully buried on the rural roadsides.

  Which brings us to the remedy: it's high time crows, rats, owls, dogs and cats ate plastic!

Over and above

In case if you haven't noticed yet, monsoon is abandoning us. The seasonal love affair is gradually coming to an end. It can't help but move on to wetter pastures leaving us baking under the sun. For some reason, umbrella personifies this connection between the sky and lesser mortals. Of course, sunlight and celestial dust touch us too but rain ki baat hi kuch aur hai. You know exactly when it hits you except when you're busy under Rihanna's umbrella. Moreover, we don't come across a lot of people who use it to avoid sunshine or heavenly powder. The poor thing not only protects us but also teaches a few lessons in life—provided you're paying heed. The beauty about this humble non-living creature is it has learnt to forgive the weather. An umbrella acknowledges the universal truth that there ain't no point in arguing with the clouds. Or the mighty sun. When it's open and wide, it's either keeping you dry or drying itself from the warmth outside. Of course, when the wind is harsh, all its philosophies go for a toss, including itself. Every once in a while, it loses itself too and the blame falls on you. But then, it's not monsoon unless you lost an umbrella or two...before it bids us goodbye!

Walking the distance

Him: "Do you want me to kiss you? I can do that. Although i've seen it happen in movies, i haven't done it before. But there is a high probability of us getting it right. On top of that, the nocturnal beach is going to help us too. However, there is a catch here. As soon as our lips collide, the space that separates us will be filled with an intimacy that will alter everything that's between us. We'll never be the same again as expectations will roll in and make themselves at home...."

Her: "God! You think too much and talk much more. Alright, just keep walking then."  

The next morning he woke up in his house with a mix of regret and relief. He was sad for being such a control freak but glad too that he didn't plunge in like others would have in his place. Whichever way one tilts the argument, both of them learned last night that a smooch can't possibly last longer than a laughter-filled conversation. 

In the meantime, the dried sand were engrossed in a deep kiss with his sandals.

One-eyed wonder

The greatest difference between pigeons and sparrows is that i've never seen the latter fight amongst themselves for food. At least not on my window sill. I feed both of them daily. Separately. In my case, sparrows are the early birds who get the grains instead of worms (for the record, they are pakka vegetarians unlike what most of us assume) while the pigeons arrive later for the same. Given the depleting state of the little birds—along with monsoon frogs—in our city, it's heartening to see them mark their attendance without fail. And like i said earlier, they don't have petty quarrels. They are tiny and cheerful creatures. Pigeons, on the contrary, exhibit a behavior obnoxiously close to what humans call assholes. Plus, they make SHITTY enemies. And they are very delusional. Have you seen them follow an absurd ritual of turning round and round on the spot? They believe it'll create tornado or something. Idiots. Speaking of which, two pigeons got into a tussle for some reason this morning and in the brutal heat of battle, forget their border and tumbled into my kitchen. It was so intense that one of them deftly poked its beak into another's eye. At that very moment, the fight came to an end and both rushed out of the window. Only to return a few minutes later to finish their breakfast. One with two eyes and the other with just one.

Our city, my life!

The media keeps talking about Mumbai's spirit. Especially during tragedies. A bomb blast here or a falling bridge there. But nobody really knows what Mumbai's spirit is all about. It's like the word 'rehabilitation' in that epic movie called The Shawshank Redemption. Nobody really knows what they are talking about. Unless someone with a voice like Morgan Freeman's tells you what it really means. 

Here's a lowdown (in Naseeruddin Shah's voice, if you may) on what Mumbai's spirit actually stands for and how Mumbaikars inadvertently exude it in their daily life. These are just some of the many instances...

• When an overpacked train arrives at Kurla station, some poor souls alight demoting it from its overpacked to packed status. And amid this spatial trauma, somebody standing next to you on the platform says, "Yaar, andar jagah hai!" 
• When your mother doesn't speak Marathi and your neighbour doesn't speak Hindi. But that doesn't stop them from gossiping. 
• When it's hot like hell outside and still there's no place to stretch your limbs out.
• When vada-pav replaces a meal.
• When commuters quarrel for the imaginary fourth seat.
• When the potholes speak for themselves and Delhi rolls on the road laughing.
• When Mumbaikars read about rapes in the Capital and angry silence follows. 
• When it's too late to let others down and too early to give up. 
• When people fight on the street and more people gather around them because everybody can afford to miss their schedule but nobody wants to miss on live action.
• When couples (both married as well as unmarried) realize that the world is basically turning into Taliban. 
• When Bollywood is considered as a compliment, not a derogatory term.
• When the migrant in you doesn't feel lost. At all. 
• When you unequivocally acknowledge Parsis' benevolence.
• When you have no clue who the Baghdadi Jews were or what their contribution to our city is.
• When somebody asks you "Where are you from?" and you say "Bombay" as the question wasn't "Where are you to?". 
• When you cross track because time is more precious than life.
• When a person falls from a bus and your humanity runs towards him/her.
• When the rent is too high and your gumption, too low. 
• When you have a problem with Big B being a farmer in UP but no problem whatsoever with him endorsing Gujarat tourism.
• When you haven't attended your school reunion nor your school friends' wedding.
• When you wave your hand at the bus even though it's going to stop at the bus stop. 
• When you wave your hand at the approaching train because habits are habits.   
• When you won't get a house for rent if you don't follow the same religion the housing society does or come from the same region the housing society does.  
• When you get down from the plane and you know this is where home is.  
• When Sanjay Dutt is the only reminder of the '93 bomb blasts.  
• When chasing local trains is the only form of exercise you get. And you don't wish to miss it.
• When you respect the three defense forces but don't give a shit about the police force or the traffic policemen although these underpaid 'corrupt' people ultimately serve us more.
• When the heavy rain makes a guy offer to share his umbrella with you. And you're not a pretty girl. 
• When your Tamil colleague is celebrating Mumbai Indians's win against Chennai Super Kings.
• When you've made peace with the pace of life in this devilfostered place. 
• When a Maharashtrian knows there were six Marathi films releasing on a Friday (like it happened on April 19) and still opt for that one Hindi film (Ek Thi Daayan in this case).
• When you wonder why people in SoBo are fairer than you are. Also, you thank god for making them cloth-intolerant. 
• When Navi Mumbai is that fancy place with a lot more space than it actually has. 
• When you know Gateway of India but you don't know that the last unit of British Army walked through it, making us truly independent.  
• When the college students believe more in being socially cool than in being politically active.
• When you don't bother to know who the corporator is but you're damn convinced that s/he is not worth voting for. 
• When the city is crumbling and you're essentially busy doing nothing.

Protesting against oneself

Your station is approaching and you're peeking out of the window. You know you've got to get down. But you somehow don't. You stay seated as if you're protesting against yourself. You don't have the will to move your ass and leave the compartment for good. Maybe you're too elated to have finally 'earned' a window seat and you don't want to relinquish it. Moreover, you don't even care that if you fail to act within the allotted 18 seconds, you'll have to get down at the next station. And commute back home. However, the countdown begins. Mumbai's local trains, like time and tide, stops for none. You keep looking out of the window, staring into the nothingness that makes you travel between this point and that. You don't even know anymore what is nice and what's unnice. You don't expect anything interesting to happen to your existence. Your friends from school are yet to stare out of the window. Or maybe they are better off in some other place where humanity is not humiliated in overcrowded public transports. You are one of the zombies now and you've accepted your future. You're probably never going to walk and explore or stand and stare. You've learnt that your life is going to rattle on the railway tracks within the periphery of this godsmitten city. You'll never escape the loud throes that engulfs everybody on this island nor will you ever travel alone again. You'll always be in the company of strangers who smell worse than you. They'll be called your co-passengers and they shall fight for those imaginary fourth seats that lie in front of them. With such fellow-morons around, perspiration will become your act of silent defiance. You must surrender yourself to make it or else you'll be left behind. On the platform. Outside the train. The city is not to be blamed nor are its inhabitants. If you really wanted to break free, you would have. By now.

Defending a dead noose

Dear oversensitive lesser mortals, this piece I'm about to write is basically an attempt at beginning a sentence with Kasab, pausing with mercy before ending it with killing. So please don't hold your moralistic breath and choke on it. Thanks in advance.

Last week, we got rid of Kasab. For good or bad, we're not sure yet. In all probability, we'll never be. Long live politics but more about it later. However, given the hype the whole secret hanging in Pune created, it seems like a major chunk of our populace is rather glad that the 25-year-old Punjabi (no, he didn't speak Urdu just in case you're one of those ignorant morons who think all Pakistanis are Urdu-speakers) is no more. According to them—and the obedient media in tow—his killing (yes, capital punishment is an euphemism for murder) provides an emotional closure to the grieving families of those who lost their lives on that fateful night of 26/11.
     First of all, it doesn't. People who lose their loved ones remain so till the end of the time. Nothing can possibly repair that damage. Nothing. As far as Kasab is concerned, the idiot visited our city with the sole intention of dying. He was on a suicide mission in case you've forgotten. Come to think of it, we were winning (if at all there was a contest) by keeping him alive. The diplomats who were fighting our case (terrorism is the word) at international forums would be better-equipped to explain the sheer delight of having a failed suicider locked in a high-security prison. But then, the public acts in a certain way. Let's call it the cowardly attitude. On witnessing a car accident, they go surround the car driver instead of helping the victim first. Something similar happened with Mumbai attacks. Nobody bothered to check on the 164 victims—forget the 308 wounded souls. We always look for the easy way out. We want action and it doesn't matter whether it fruition to a reasonable outcome. And in this particular scenario, what better effigy to burn than a warm-blooded young Pakistani? No wonder we gave into prejudice. For beginners, we merrily believed everything our newspapers spoonfed us about him. Not that it matters whether every little detail reeked of veracity or not but NOBODY questioned ANYTHING about him. There was way too little that ever came out of that little room he was interned in to start with. On the outside, it was cute how the otherwise cynical analysts readily convinced themselves that the government was diligently spending every single rupee of the alleged 29+ crore slotted to keep Kasab breathing. Just like we conveniently accepted that the deranged crook was being fed biryani on a daily basis. Yes, we may have taken our Atithi Devo Bhava crap way too seriously with him but then, he was also the only living proof of a Paki terrorist on Indian soil (Afzal Guru is one of us considering the possibility that Kashmiris are one of us). In any case, our scammed politicos have pushed numerical digits to such an extent that a few crore doesn't sound like a raw deal. Nonetheless, during the time he was in our jail, not a single Pakistan-sponsored terrorist attack took place in India. In the meantime, only a few over-smart local Muslims and over-stupid Hindus were involved in some recorded stray events, proving a point in how much we suck at terrorism!
     Going back to politicians, don't you think it's not a mere coincidence that they hanged the fall guy just a few days before the start of a turbulent winter Parliament session? For humour's sake, couldn't they have waited for five more days to coincide the hanging with the fourth anniversary of the dreaded day? Ahem. Just to be clear, I'm against death penalty. In my mind, eliminating one life in exchange of several lives doesn't add up well. We need to separate ourselves from our villain. Besides, for a nation of 1.22 billion, we've executed only two people in the last 15 years. Isn't that a shame? We are not even good at LEGALLY bumping off people. C'mon, don't tell me we don't have criminals who have committed deeds heinous enough to *deserve* death. Having mentioned that, i don't have a clue what we should have done with Kasab if he
were alive today. Maybe we should have given him the worst imaginable punishment... by sending him back to Pakistan! All things said and done, he was a misguided youth and the place where he comes from, there are dreamless kids raring to bask in his much-awaited martyrdom. Nothing can stop them from crossing an imaginary line, be it on water or on land. Anyway, I'm glad that Kasab was reportedly hanged. Since we've already lost Yashji to dengue, we couldn't have afforded to lose Kasab to mosquitoes. Image ka sawaal hai, boss. And as for the hanging part, it was just another day for Kasab.

Hearing the unsaid

There's always something unsaid. That part of you dies with you. Lest that happens, we try to blurt it out and make those words survive a few more days. Perhaps verbal posterity matters in this ever-decreasing space. Don't believe me? Ask that guy who fell for this girl he saw on a railway platform. It was a bright day with mild wind teasing the otherwise humid climate. And like thousands others in the city, he was waiting for the local train. But before the serpentine stretch of boxes could arrive, somebody else did. This angel lookalike with her hair bouncing on her shoulders was walking towards him but not to greet him. The ladies section was a couple of steps behind the spot our hero was standing and this girl was sashaying at her own sweet pace to reach there. He just knew what to do. More importantly, he knew what to say. All he had to do was wait for the point when she's exactly linear to him. As soon as that happened, he leaned forward and whispered in her ears "You're beautiful!" while she brushed past him. Unfortunately, she didn't even look back or laugh or smile or wink or frown. Sometimes you don't hear the voice of emotions and sometimes you simply overlook. However, that afternoon, something else happened. Despite our hero's brave efforts, words remained unheard. Loud music on earphones often does that to humans.  

A minute in the loo

The highlight of an otherwise dull day was standing next to Ang Lee in a washroom. Yes, you can claim that I piss and tell. Who cares? He's one of the finest filmmakers to ever grace the world of cinema. To top that, it was one heck of an extraordinary experience though it didn't last very long. I was just going about my business when the corner of my left eye caught a pale figure. And when I rubbernecked to see who it was out of curiosity—because the whole room was empty if you exclude me and he could have chosen any other spot—everything came to a standstill. The time crystallized for a moment and I stopped urinating out of sheer awe. Kegel would have been proud of what I did to my bladder at that very moment. In fact, the urine in my system went back to where it came from. The worst part, however, was that I've never been more tongue-tied before in my life. If I knew what was going on, I would have said something to the effect of "Sir, I'm going to tell my grandkids someday that you and I pissed together once upon an era". Alas, this memorable dialogue was not to be delivered. Besides, he had this Zen monk smile on this face while accomplishing what he arrived there for. I'm happy that he smiled back at me. I'm happier that I kept my foolish thought to myself. I'm happiest that I didn't bother to accomplish what I arrived there for.

Twisted by tongue

I'm weeping while I'm typing this piece. No, I'm not the sentimental kind for sure. Just that my amma feels it's a cool trait to cut onions sitting nearer to my PC. Funnily enough, she isn't shedding a single teardrop. Perhaps mothers have struck a secret deal with the most consumed vegetable on this multi-tongued planet!

Speaking of tongues, what language are your dreams made up of? It could be very different from the one you think in. Better still, it could be anything from your mother tongue to English. Yeah, I do realise that English has become the debut language of a considerable amount of Indian populace. But we can't overrule the reality that English is and will always be a foreign language. They won't ever accept us the way we embraced their so-called language of angels. Having said that, it wasn't forced on us so the colonial baggage is just a historical conjecture. On the contrary, English makes us feel better about ourselves but then, so does ignorance. Progress has a price to pay. However, what gets my goat is the fact that there are some of us who are in perpetual denial of where they come from. They simply detach themselves from every shred of ethnicity as if it's an incurable disease. They feel that it's a natural side-effect of being cosmopolitan. Anyway like they say, to each his own. But if that is so, it's high time we owned what is truly ours. After all, a language doesn't take as much time to perish as it takes to birth and evolve. Especially in a dream city shrouded in absolute fakeness.

Still weeping because my Tulu isn't good enough for amma to acknowledge the kind of pain my untrained eyes are battling as of now. Or maybe she just wants me to stop being such a smartass—who loves preaching others on how things are—and log out of the virtual world to go take a bath on a Sunday.

Birthday girl

The white flower placed over her ear

greets you even before her face does the same;

Some personalities are loud, some insane,

Many are considered few amongst the rest,

Some are overlooked nonetheless.

But she's neither of them: unique yet not subtle.

She talks with the command of an age she hasn't grown yet

— youth and life and pain and strife and truth;

In any case, you end up listening to what she has to say.

It's difficult not to pay attention when her questionnaire makes your day!

There's a mischievous laughter that echoes

despite her words not intending so.

Maybe that's the beauty of an innocent soul, 

coiled inside that cast of a tough modern girl.

The classic maternal touch is evident like a 24-hour sun

When she feeds you while you pretend to be famished,

or about to die

and even when you're not.

All you've got to do is ask and whine a bit,

her drawer never disappoints you.

Like her heart and eyes, it's always full...

Perhaps finding a friend with food is oasis personified.

Perhaps finding a good friend today is life personified.   

NB: This doggerel (if you don't wish to call it a poem) is dedicated to Avantika, a dear friend and a lovely colleague.

Questions

What do you desire from life? Other than happiness? Will greed always lead to Greece? Are you content with the fact that you're not dead yet? Where exactly do you see yourself 10 years from now? Heaven? Hell? Home? Dead in office unnoticed by the peon? How come Rihanna doesn't like my lies? Which year shall ultimately mark the unification of an idea called India? Whom do you love the most? Does money matter? Why are Naxals the villains when they don't even have malls to boot? Was that you who once thought Orkut was cool? Is that you who thinks Twitter is cool? What were you doing last summer? Aren't we supposed to be wise? Will you let poor people get near you without scaring yourself? Would you hold my hand even after my palms turn sweaty? Can you gift her an orgasm for a change? Do you believe in stars? Do you want to be a star? Won't you be glad if your enemies vanished at once? Will you miss them? Should Obama get a second chance? Shouldn't PM Singh retire for good? Isn't it funny to have a Bengali-speaking Bangladesh but not an Urdu-speaking Pakistan? Do you converse in Smile? When are you going to watch all the stuff you eagerly downloaded? Will your Facebook friends be your pallbearers too? Why are mothers the way they are? Why aren't we the way we should be? Shall Hinduism survive the lure of the so-called organized religions? Whom were you referring to in your terrible poem? How many tigers have you saved till date? You no me? Will Mumbai Metro operate before or after the world ends? Is Ryan Gosling where Brad Pitt once was? Are you so broke that you fantasize money while masturbating? Why are we alone when there are more than seven billion of our kind out there? Where are the Mayans when you need them? Does music leave you entranced or drained? Have you fallen for that very person who doesn't care about your existence? What happened to Monica Lewinsky? Is she still good at blowjob? How many migrants should be sent back to where they came from? Do you snore louder than you whisper? Is it fair to support Tibetan and Balochi resistance while conveniently overlooking Kashmiri aspirations? Will refugees ever have a roof to call their own? Is black the new brown? Who's going to bully China? Can you do what you always wanted to? What are politicians really excellent at besides human failures? How come I've got more Pakistani friends than Indian ones? Would you travel far and wide before getting lost in time? May a Bhaiya call you a Chinky when you're actually a Madrasi pretending to be a Ghati? Why is North-East not explored when it is not explored? Will Sheldon ever come out of his nonexistent closet? To what extent are we stupefied by Internet? Why is the eternal Gulzar growing older? At what instance disappointments transform into nostalgia? Who are you?