Kaizen - Day 1

I haven’t written in a long while. Not unless you count the occasional postcards, letters and emails. My fingers have been aching to write (or type) but every time I sit with my laptop, my mind is as blank as the screen in front of me.

A couple of nights ago a friend and I sat under the moonlight talking about issues of gravity. Our conversation, as is the case of most late-night terrace conversations, meandered from our personal definitions of happiness to the economics of love and the cusp of change that our generation is at. I don’t remember how we then meandered towards discipline but we did. Like most people who like to call themselves creative, we despised terms that had anything to do with organised structure. But after many years of low artistic productivity, we had resigned ourselves to the fact that discipline is not just an art, but a requisite for all art.

“If only it weren’t such a boring word – discipline,” I said.

That’s when he told me about the Japanese term - Kaizen. He didn’t do a great job of explaining the term and neither did I bother looking up the exact definition. But he did give a brilliant way of implementing Kaizen in daily life.

Pick a thing to do and a time to do it. And every day, at the exact same time, do that thing for just one minute.

Sounds easy right?

That’s what I thought, except that I woke up an hour after my “scheduled” time on the next two days and instead of going ahead and doing it, I pushed it to later telling myself that I would be breaking the rules of Kaizen if I didn’t stick to the time.

Today, I have decided to give it a shot without falling back on excuses. So even if there isn’t much written here, consider this my first day of kaizen.

And for now, the goal is to get to Day 23 without any misses.

Fingers, toes and elbows crossed.

Jungle

I was gifted an interesting contraption yesterday - a latex-covered foot-long rod. Before you get the wrong idea, let me tell you how it works. You hold the thicker end of the rod and do a swish-and-flick movement. Like in that scene from the first Harry Potter movie where Hermione teaches Ron how to use a wand.

Except, you swish-and-flick with force. The rubber-covered rod magically extends to thrice its size. It transforms from an interesting contraption to a lethal weapon.

It was a gift.

From a father to his daughter.

----

It’s a jungle out there.

It’s not easy being a girl.

A woman. Or even a child.

It’s not easy being beautiful.

Pretty. Or even plain.

It’s not easy being a Hindu in a saree.

A Muslim in a burqa. Or even a Catholic nun.

----

I remember the first time it happened. I was at the medical store buying Crocin for Appa. Just as I was settling the bill, I felt a pinch on my butt. I was so stunned that I didn’t turn back - afraid that he would do something worse to me.

I was wearing a mid-length skirt and a loose top.

I was in fifth grade.

----

He was family. That’s what Amma told me.

He visited us one Sunday afternoon. Amma asked me to serve him lunch.

He chatted me up and asked me to feed him a morsel. I did. He sucked on my fingers in a way that made me feel dirty.

I ran to Amma and complained. She asked me to go complete my homework.

I was in sixth grade.

---

One day, I was home alone when a garment salesman knocked on our door. He was selling pant and shirt pieces. I had just started dressing in western wear and was interested in what he had to offer. He said they even took up tailoring orders and offered to take my measurements. I still regret having accepted that offer. Over the next half hour, he went on to strip me off my dignity even while I was fully clothed. I should have cried for help but the embarrassment of making this incident public stopped me.

By the time he left, I was sobbing openly.

It did not stop there. A few days later, he followed me back to the apartment and entered the lift when I was going up. He tried to kiss me. This time I fought back. I pushed him away, stopped the lift in the middle and ran out.

To this day, I get terrified every time a stranger enters home when I am alone. To this day, I take the stairs if there’s a lone man in the lift.

This happened in tenth grade.

---

Sometimes violence can be closer than you imagine.

He was my neighbour. He was my friend. I liked him. I looked up to him.

He liked me too. In a different way. I didn’t know it then.

We would sit for long hours on the terrace. He would tell me stories and I would share my dreams with him.

He was like the big brother I never had.

One day, he asked me for a kiss.

Without thinking twice, I planted a kiss on his cheek.

That day, the equation changed.

He made me sit close to him.

He touched me - not in a friendly way.

He held my hand - even when I told him I was uncomfortable with it.

He kissed me by force.

I should have told Amma about it. But I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me.

I was in eleventh grade when it happened. It stopped the next year when we moved to Chennai.

---

Chennai.

I had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. After successive bouts of depression, I switched from college to correspondence and stayed all day in my room, staring at the ceiling, thinking of painless ways to end my life.

The only upside to it, I barely went out. Life was peaceful, at least on that front.

----

My 21st birthday.

I was in Bangalore, waiting for the bus one winter morning when a boy cycling past me whistled out loud - “Hey sexy”. He looked like he was 12. Thirteen at most.

He didn’t touch me. He didn’t even ogle at me. Then why did I feel violated?

----

Back to Chennai.

Men on motorbikes grabbed my breasts while I was riding pillion, a look of triumph in their eyes as I cried out.

Men brushed themselves against me when I travelled by bus.

Men drove dangerously close to me when I walked on the roads.

Men ogled, whistled, hooted.

Men.

Men.

Men.

---

I got myself a pepper spray.

I kept my hair short after reading a newspaper report that said women with short hair are less likely to be victims of sexual abuse.

I wrote about it - hoping for catharsis.

I cried myself to sleep when the memories of it came back to haunt me.

---

Today.

My heart beats faster when I see a minivan approaching me.

I break into a sweat when I notice the man on a motorbike looking at me.

I pull out my pepper spray when I’m on a deserted road - be it night or day.

I maintain a steely expression when I go walking.

I stare down men who stare at me.

I try to be brave, but I am afraid.

Very afraid.

To write or not to write

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). When I signed up for it in late September, I had no clue life would become such a dizzy haze.

I have a great idea for the novel. I've sketched out the character in my palm-sized pink notebook. The details and sub-plots are dancing around in my head. I'm waiting to breathe life into these characters. I'm waiting to tell their stories to the world. I'm waiting to write. But I'm not able to. And no, it's not writer's block.

I suppose I jinxed it for myself. Over the last six months, people have been asking me about the wedding preps and I have been giving them my standard - "Oh there really isn't much to a wedding. And ours is just a half-day affair."

How wrong I was. There's so, so, so, so much to a wedding that my mind hurts every time I think of it.

You strike one ToDo list and a longer one looms intimidatingly over your head.
You send invites to one bunch of friends and you suddenly remember a long lost set of friends whom you have to email.
You think you have finished all the mind-numbing shopping that your wedding trousseau demands, when you realise you forgot to buy the purple bangles.

Phew! Just writing about all this tires me out.

But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I actually enjoy this madness. It's just that I wanted to give myself a valid excuse for not sitting down to write my second novel.

Oh! I'm getting married by the way. His name is Naresh and he is the coolest guy I know.

Triumph

For the last one month, every attempt I make at writing has been the same.

I open a Word doc. Type a few words. Read them out. Make a face. Delete the words. Type a few new words. Read them out. Make a face. Delete the words. Type a few new words. Read them out. Make a face.

I sometimes feel like blaming him for it.

I haven’t written a word since that incident three weeks ago.

It happened on June 22. The night was going to bed. The day hadn’t woken up yet. Life seemed wonderful. Naresh and I were riding the bike to Besant Nagar. We had registered for a half-marathon. I was doing the 10k run while Naresh was going the full distance. Having ignored the training schedule until the penultimate day, we were visibly nervous. But we pep talked each other enough to get convinced that we could do it without collapsing mid-way.

We were on the big bridge near home when I first noticed him. His was the only other vehicle on our side of the road at that time in the morning. He must have been around 19. I remember looking at him and wondering what such a young boy could be doing out at this hour. ‘Probably getting back from a party,’ I thought to myself as I turned away.

The next instant, I felt someone grab my breasts.

I have tried explaining what happened next. I have tried describing how I felt. I can’t. Sometimes you just don’t find the right words.

I take the same bridge every day – at least twice a day. On my lucky days, I am usually deep in conversation. But when I have only my thoughts for company, I often see flashes of his face. What I remember is not the way he violated my body. But the look on his face when I screamed. I will never forget the look on his face. The look of triumph.

Click

Sometimes
Over the phone
I wait
After you have
Hung up.


Every time
I hear
That click,
I feel
A twinge
Of sadness
That tugs
At my insides
As if
To remind me
That you will
Never
Be mine.

Touch

Last evening, I decided to walk through the gullies of Thiruvanmiyur and Besant Nagar to spend quality time with myself at the beach. The sun had long set but you could still feel its warmth. The breeze seemed to have gone on a vacation. After just five minutes, large patches of sweat had formed on my back. But it didn’t bother me.

I walked about at a leisurely pace, taking in the sights and sounds of life in the bylanes. The grandpa playing catch with his grandson. The little boy trying to catch the hen. The two girls standing on the road, pointing fingers at a political hoarding and whispering into each other’s ears. The clock repair shop that was in serious need of repair. The volleyball match in progress.

I was walking in a happy daze when a grey-haired paati stopped me on the road and said, “Dear girl, don’t mind this paati’s words…”

I stopped to listen. I thought she would ask me for money.

Suddenly, I find her hand on my left breast. “You shouldn’t walk with your breasts uncovered. You must wear a dupatta,” she said in chaste Tamil.

I brushed her hand off and resumed my walk, at a faster pace. The happy daze in my mind was replaced with a buzz of thoughts, not pleasant ones. Yes, she was just an old woman. Yes, she probably just meant to give advice. But strangely, I felt violated. Not only did I disagree with what she had to say, there was also something about the way she touched me. Something wrong.

Thankfully, a friend’s called just then. A short phone conversation later, all was forgotten.

Until.

An hour later, I was sitting by the walkway at the beach, petting a stray dog when I felt someone touch me on the back of my hip. There was something warm about the touch. Something innocent.

I turned and found a round-eyed toddler smiling toothily at me. Before I could turn around fully and make my acquaintance with him, his family whisked him away. But that little touch had made me happy.

In the same evening, one stranger had made me cringe, another had made me smile. With just a touch.

The poetry of a South Indian living room

The poetry of a South Indian living room with its skewed symmetry and chaotic aesthetic. Where footwear is meant to be removed before entering and arranged in neat rows in the verandah. With the welcoming smells of curry leaves, garlic and coconut oil, and on special days - ghee. The faded sofa cover neither matches the cushion, nor contrasts it. Blouses, petticoats and trousers decorate the chairs around the dining table. The lady of the house enquires about the status of your stomach before asking after your health.

The wooden cabinet in the hall proudly showcases photographs and medals of the son - the swimming champion, snaps from the daughter’s graduation, and images of the grandparents’ black and white past. In a corner is a tiny picture of the balding father’s office farewell. The mother’s artwork fill the gaps - emboss and glass paintings, quick stitch, cross stitch and crochet.

The centre table is a jumble of newspapers (all of them The Hindu) and a few magazines.Weighing them down is a copy of Webster’s as thick as the Maami’s forearm. If the Maama is a fan of The Hindu crossword, then a copy of Roget’s Thesaurus too.

The television is flat and conscpicuously large. Under it is a DVD player; next to it is a music system; on top of it is a Tata Sky box - all four remote controls are covered in transparent polythene kept in place with coloured rubber bands. It was the Maama’s idea, “So what if it looks odd, as long as it serves the purpose.” An astute mind will know what the Mama said about the remote control was actually meant for the living room.

Those forgotten kitchen aphorisms

All through my high school, Amma held a job as a Hindi teacher in another school. This meant that she had two sets of children – “you both” (my brother and I) and her “other” children (the ones in her school). Every time my brother or I misbehaved, she would say, “I have had enough of you both. My other children never throw spoons at me.”

“But you are their teacher. Not their mother. Even I wouldn’t dare throw my spoon at my Hindi teacher,” I would say, shivering in the thought of my Hindi teacher, the tall, bespectacled, and forbidding Premalatha Ma’am. Shanky would nod in assent, possibly imagining his own tall, bespectacled, and forbidding Hindi teacher.

Being a working mom also meant that Amma’s evenings would often be spent in correcting answer sheets and preparing lesson plans. So when it was time to cook dinner, she would enlist my help. After complaining about the injustice of things, and how I was the only one among my friends who was forced into helping her mother, I would ultimately shut up and do the work.

As we rolled chapattis and made the accompanying curry, Amma would give me various kitchen tips. The right way to peel garlic, how to get the bitterness out of cucumber, how to cut onions without tears, the best way to roll rotis, how to make your dough softer.

“Amma, why are you telling me all this? Anyway, I won’t be cooking when I grow up,” I would moan.

“Oh, so you will eat out every day, huh?” She would ask.

“Mmm… I guess so. Or I’ll hire a cook. Oh, even better, I’ll marry a chef,” would be my reply.

We would then digress into the topic of marriage. The kitchen aphorism would lay forgotten on the cutting board, only to be swept off into the bin once the day’s cooking was done.

Twenty years’ worth of water has flowed under the bridge. I live by myself and cook by myself. I have not married a chef. I can’t afford to eat out every day. Nor can I afford a cook.

Every evening, when I get down to cooking dinner, I look at the vegetables lying in front of me – uncut and uncooked – and I wish I had paid just a wee bit of attention to my mother’s words when I was younger. At least then I wouldn’t have to spend 20 minutes every time I have to peel half a dozen pods of garlic.

The Wait

4.30pm

The sun blazed overhead
She rushed out
Forgetting to wear her sandals
Remembered
Half-turned towards the shoe-shelf
Changed her mind and started climbing the stairs
Noiselessly
Reached the terrace
Out of breath
Looked around
No sign of him
Heaved a sigh
He had promised to meet her at five

4.45pm

The afternoon breeze had cooled
She stepped off her perch
Placed one foot on the open terrace
Then another.
Smiled.
The floor would be the perfect cool at five.
She heard a noise from behind.
And turned hopefully.
It was the wind against the door.
No sign of him.
He had never surprised her.
Never turned up before time.

5pm

The sky was more blue, less yellow.
She squinted at the sun.
Looked down at the matchstick men.
Trying to spot
A dash of yellow
In a sea of gray.
Her alarm beeped.
It was 5:01.
No sign of him.
A mental note was made.
Get Boy a watch

6pm

Overhead, a flock was heading home
Below, the sea of gray turned thicker.
Her eyes darted about – restless.
Left, right, extreme left.
Suddenly she saw it – the yellow.
Her eyes danced.
Her lips began to break into a smile.
Stopped.
A lady in gray picked the yellow bag
And entered her house.
No sign of him.
She shrugged.
Wasn’t the joy in the wait?

7pm

The sky turned amber, deep blue and then grayish-black
She had finished the whites
The greens and the reds
She was counting the blue lights now
The yellows – she would save for the last
She heard a low rumble – her stomach.
She hadn’t eaten since lunch.
No sign of him yet.
Blue light number thirty four.
Blue light number thirty five.

8pm

The stars had begun to form shapes.
Her tongue was parched.
The rumble in her stomach grew louder.
She continued making faces 

At the make-believe mirror in front of her.
Frown. No.
Deep frown. No.
Angry eyes. No.
Flared nostrils. No.
Sad smile. No.
No sign of him yet.
Back-turned. No.
Disappointed nod. No.
What face was she to greet him with

9pm

The moon seemed farther away than usual.
An hour.
An hour before the terrace would be locked.
She made up a new game.
He will jump down from the moon.
He will parkour up the walls.
He will come sailing in a hot-air balloon.
He will steal a helicopter.
No sign of him yet.
He will hire a crane from the construction site.
He will come riding on a giraffe.

10pm

The stars had disappeared. So had the moon.
The watchman climbed the stairs in slow measured steps.
She said one last silent prayer and looked downwards.
Still hopeful.
The sea of gray had thinned.
No sign of yellow though.
A drop of tear trickled down her cheek.
She wiped it hurriedly and turned
Just in time to stop the watchman from locking her in.
No sign of him yet.
Maybe something happened to him.
“I hope he is alright.”

10.10pm

She crept into the house.
Picked up the phone.
Dialled his number.
It rang twice.
He answered,
“Hi! Are you OK?"
“Yeah! I’m sorry about earlier today. I had to go out.”
“That’s ok.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Terrace. Five sharp. OK?”
“Ok.”
“Bye.”
“See you.”
She went to bed on an empty stomach.
A smile on her face.
Waiting for tomorrow.

The Luncheon

Do you remember that afternoon we were all sitting on the floor in a shapeless circle, sharing the contents of our lunch boxes?
I wasn't particularly hungry then. I ate only because i wanted to sit by you.
Do you remember that question we were discussing? And your answer. I remember it. And i wished then that i was that girl. I still wish it.
Do you remember my reply?
I spoke about someone else. Something else. 
It got me thinking - have i ever done anything sweet for you?
I couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer to it that afternoon.
Today, i think of it again. 
Today, I have an answer.
And this - is it.
Poetry. 

I remembered the lines i had written for you - on sultry afternoons and rainy evenings.
The words i had read out to you in the wee hours of the night.
The words that seemed so effortless - that they almost took me by surprise.
I hadn't attempted verse in seven years.
I had almost given up on prose as well.
And then you happened.

No, you weren't a gust of wind.
Neither were you the stormy rain.
You were more the quiet drizzle, the gentle August breeze.
That blows softly all over you - just when the drops of sweat are about to trickle down your forehead.
You made me a poet - again. 

And though we know so much of each other
That our farts and burps have ceased to cause shame
I still feel conscious now, as i type out these words
A strange consciousness that comes not from being watched but from the prospect of being read.
Do you like my words?
Do you find my poetry poetic enough?
Or should i stick to prose.
Should i simply say - I love you.
For i really do.

To the stranger at the beach

Dear XY,

I never thought I could fall in love with someone I have never even met. I am not that type of a girl. I don’t have crushes on celebrities or characters from books. I don’t dream about knights in shining armour riding towards me on a white steed and sweeping me off my feet. I have never been in a damsel-in-distress situation. I don’t like romantic comedies. And I dislike the entire concept of candle-lit dinners.

I also intensely dislike the notion of ‘love at first sight’. Each time someone mentions that phrase around me, I snigger inwardly. Sometimes, I forget and even laugh out loud. I receive looks of pure hatred from the speaker of the phrase. I shrug, smile sheepishly and try to change the topic. I usually avoid confrontations.

Until recently, my world consisted of my books, my writing, my brother and the evening walks by myself on the beach. And though I was never too happy, I was quite content.

Why then does everything have to change? Why does life have to go topsy-turvy? Why have I become the very kind of person that I once detested? And why don’t I detest the person I have become? Why?

It was exactly two weeks ago that I first saw you. You stood there, in black tracks and a blue tee, hands on hips, right at the edge of the beach, gazing into the distance. It was as if you were waiting for a signal of sorts. I remember noticing that the blue of your tee matched the blue of the sea. You must have stood there for over half an hour. Perhaps longer. All that while, I stood just a few metres behind you, wondering what it is that you were waiting for. Your lady love to return from her trip? I hoped not. I hoped that you, like me, were standing there to soak in the sound of the sea. You waited till dusk had set in, and then you turned and left.

After that day, you came to the beach at exactly the same time each evening, dressed in exactly the same attire. And stood for exactly forty three minutes gazing at the horizon. And each day, I would watch you, and wonder about the story of your life. A million thoughts raced past my head. Sometimes I wondered if you were mourning a terrible loss. Sometimes I wondered why you never changed your clothes. Sometimes I wondered what if you had eyes on the back of your head and could see me all along. And sometimes, I wondered if I could ever muster the courage to come up to you, lock my hand in yours and gaze at the sea standing by your side. I imagined several other such scenarios with you, but I never once imagined a conversation between us. Maybe because I was already so comfortable with the silence we shared.

After the eight day, you stopped coming. It has been six days since I saw you. On the first day, I thought maybe it was because you had some errands to run. On the second day, I thought you might have caught a fever. On the third day, I feared your lady love was back. On the fourth day, I imagined you got bored of gazing at the sea. On the fifth day, I grew restless. Today is the sixth day. And I am afraid. I am afraid I have lost you even before I met you. I am afraid we will never meet. I am afraid I will never be able to tell you that I love you. For I do. I fell in love with you the very first day, the moment I saw you standing at the edge of the beach with your hand on your hips, gazing into the distance.

And do you know what it is that I am most afraid of? That I might run into you sometime, somewhere, and never recognize you because I never saw your face.

Yours
Z

It was magical...

It has been a long while since I last wrote. In the last two months, I have often wanted to write – sometimes because I was angry, at other times because I was hurt, and at times because I was sad. But today, after a long while, I want to write because I am happy. It’s not that the last two months have been unhappy. They definitely haven’t. But writing requires a certain state of mind – and that has been eluding me for quite a while now.

Yesterday was different. Yesterday was beautiful. Yesterday made me happy.

It was the Rooftop Film Festival. A bunch of friends and I were attending it. And though they were around all the time, as were a couple of hundred others, I felt alone. It was a nice kind of alone-ness. Not the sad lonely kind, but a happy kind of solitude.

We were lying down under the open sky. Whenever the film or the talk got a tad tedious, I would gaze at the stars. The friend on my right was an astronomy enthusiast and pointed out some of the constellations. After a while, I drifted off from our conversation and began inventing constellations of my own. Here was an elephant’s bum, and there was a lady with long-flowing hair. And up ahead, to the right, was the little boy with a bat in his hand.

The first movie began. It was one of my favourites – Before Sunrise. And it contained one of my favourite scenes. The one in the church where Ethan Hawke tells Julie Delpy about the Quaker wedding he had been to. It’s the most romantic description of a wedding that I have heard. The couple kneel down in front of the congregation, and they just stare at each other. Nobody says a word unless they feel that God moves them to speak or say something. And then, after an hour or so of just staring at each other, they’re married.

At the end of the scene, I had a weird sense of happy-sadness. Happy, that something so beautiful exists. Sad, that I had no one to share that moment with.

I slept through the latter half of the second movie and most of the third. When I woke up, at the end of third film, I happened to glance upward. And what I saw, took my breath away. There, on what I had thought was a moonless night, stood a slim crescent shining bright in the eastward sky. It was magical.

At the end of the fourth movie, I glanced upward again, hoping to watch the crescent as it faded away. But it was already gone. Instead, in its place stood a bright, orange ball. I smiled to myself. So what if I only saw two of the four movies completely, I got to witness two miracles. I am happy, once again.

Letter 1

Dearest A,

You must be wondering why I didn’t address you with the letter that your name actually starts with. I wonder too. I also wonder why I can’t be seen with you in public. Or why I can’t hold your hand. I wonder why I can’t call you whenever I feel like it. Or why I must constantly watch my back even for those few stolen moments that we spend together.

But I can’t complain. Some things are just not meant to be. And you and I are one of those ‘some things’.

I still remember the first day I actually noticed you. It was at a party. I was just getting to know your friends. They were quite friendly. Some said hi. Some lingered on to have longer conversations. But you stood aloof. You didn’t even notice me, even though I was wearing one of my favourite sarees. It was then that I decided to inquire about you. They told me your name. I liked the ring of it.

A few days later, we bumped into each other at the tea stall. You were alone. And I was feeling rather lonely. (I didn’t look it though, did I?) We spoke about one of my favourite things – bookshops. I remember offering to take you to one of my favourite bookshops. It has been almost two months since that conversation. Two wonderful months.

That day, at the tea shop, you looked at me a little oddly. I wondered why. Later, you told me it was because I reminded you a lot of the girl you first loved. Soon after, you told me you loved me. That was the happiest day of my life.

It was a scene straight out of a fairy tale. We were on the terrace. You and I. The sky was our roof. It was a starry night and a cool breeze was blowing. Simon and Garfunkel were singing “The Sound of Silence” in the background. A few minutes later, I told you I had to leave. And I hugged you goodbye. The moment I touched you, I felt something electric pass through me. I shuddered inside. Was this for real? I had known you for all of three days. It felt like much longer though. We walked in silence. Out of the terrace. Onto the corridor. And there, just before we were to get onto the staircase, you asked me for a goodbye hug.

A rational me would have asked, “Didn’t we just hug goodbye?” But rationality was lost on me that night. I turned to you, placed my arms around your neck and lay my head on your chest. And we stood that way for what seemed like eternity. I could hear your heartbeat. I could feel your breath on me. I could feel myself melting in your arms. I could feel myself falling in love with you.

Three days. A few conversations. A long walk. Two shared cupcakes. One night on the terrace sitting on a bench under the starry night listening to Simon and Garfunkel. A long hug. A kiss. Love.

Whoever said that thing about falling in love when you least expect to was right.

I wish that person had added a statutory warning though. I wish I had known then that I will have to live each day knowing that I can’t have you. I wish sometimes that I don’t love you as much as I do, for it hurts.

But then again, I think of the wonderful moments we share. The stolen kisses. The late night conversations. The occasional trips to the tea shop. The long walks in our secret lane. The day I almost got married to you at the Armenian Church. The days I lay on your arm in the sands of the Marina Beach, drawing make-believe constellations out of the stars. The day I broke into a bright smile when I realised that the red seeds I was giving you were in safe custody. The days we sneaked onto unknown terraces. The days I snuck into your house. The days you snuck into mine. The days I sang songs to you to put you to sleep. And the days I sang songs to you to wake you up. The days I said little prayers for you each time I saw a small shrine. The days we shared soups, salads and more. The days I poured the coffee into your dabra because you had butterfingers. The days I fell asleep listening to you. And the days I woke up in your arms.

And though I agree that every session of laughter is followed by one of tears and heartache, I will not give up loving you. For even two moments in your company makes the heartache worth it.

Yours forever
S

My friend Sanjog

I met an old friend yesterday. Someone I had known since I was 17. We were meeting after almost two years. Incidentally, in the eight years that we knew each other, we had met less than a dozen times. But I still like to call him a good friend. Funny, considering that there are people I meet on a more frequent basis but who don’t yet qualify as good friends.

Many of my good friends, I realise, are people I have met just a few times. Invariably, it is an accidental meeting that turns into a conversation, which in turn results in an enduring friendship. There are times I have made friends without even meeting them. Letters. Yes, hand-written letters and emails have resulted in some beautiful friendships.

Sanjog was one of the first friends I made through letters. Or rather, through emails. Sanjog happened to read one of my travel pieces in The New Indian Express. In that piece, I had written about how I backpacked alone across a few towns in Tamil Nadu. I received quite a few emails for that particular piece. But his stood out. Perhaps because like me, he too was fascinated by goat shit. Or perhaps like me, he too was a Virgoan.

We began writing to each other. Long mails. Really long ones. And then we would talk occasionally over the phone. I still remember the day I told Sanjog I was quitting The New Indian Express to travel. He was at once shocked and happy. Happy because I was going to travel to his state.

And then, after almost a year of emails and phone calls, we met at the Cuttack railway station. I stayed with his family for a whole week before heading off to Kolkata. And what a delightful stay it was. Sanjog was busy filling in applications for universities so I ended up spending a lot of time with his mother. Tripti Aunty is a beautiful woman. One of those ideal women you read about in your history textbooks. She and I would have long conversations on spirituality and psychology. She cooked me many Oriya delicacies and treated me like I were her daughter. I shared her joys, sorrows, her wardrobe and her life. A few days before I left, she told me, “Don’t call me Aunty. Call me Chitthi (mother’s sister). I am like your mother only, no?” I had to look away, lest she see those tears of joy in my eyes.

Later that month, I returned to Cuttack to travel around Orissa with Sanjog. We went to Keonjhar, Kondodhar and Khiching – three lovely places that I will dwell upon later. When I left Orissa for the second time, we both knew we wouldn’t be meeting each other in a long while. And even though we haven’t met each other in almost a year now, Sanjog and I remain close friends. In fact, like I was telling him just the other day, he is one of the few persons I would label “Best friend”. It might sound juvenile, but who cares.

Since last Feb, which was the last time I saw him not counting the 10 minutes I spent with him in the railway station on my way back from Kolkata, Sanjog and I have been in constant touch over phone. We talk twice or thrice a week. He is now my friend, philosopher, guide and punching bag. We have shared many laughs. I have cried to him a couple of times. And we have discussed almost everything under the moon. We have eaten rosogullas on the highway, almost met Maoists, explored ruined bungalows in the middle of a jungle, met a 94-year-old sadhu who survives on berries, and cooked Maggi. No wonder I call him my best friend.

Archana

“Archana”

“Achna”

“Ar-cha-na”

“A-chna”

“Archanaaa….”

“Achnaaa…”

After the third failed attempt at getting Archana to say her name right, I gave up. I smiled at the imp and turned to continue feeding Sonali. Just as I was putting the spoon to Sonali’s mouth, I felt a tug at my sleeve. It was the imp. “Ar-cha-na,” she said as she turned and ran.

It was impossible not to like Archana. Her button-like eyes, her curls, her cute little smile – it usually is love at first sight. I still remember the day I met her for the first time. It was my first day as a volunteer. Now, the ward I worked in had two sections. The one I volunteered at had severely handicapped children while the other had mildly handicapped. So on my first day, I spent the earlier half of the morning cleaning and feeding the kids in my section. At 10, we had a tea break. I was just opening the cupboard to take my backpack out when I felt someone tugging at my kurta. I turned, and there was this lovely little girl with big button-like eyes and lovely Goldilocks-like curls. And like I said, it was love at first sight. Turns out, Archana had wet herself and wanted me to change her clothes.

Soon, we forged a bond. Ok, who am I kidding. We didn’t forge much of a bond. Every other day, she would run into me, or I would run to her, and we would play with each other for a little while. But Archana was the easily distracted kinds so within seven minutes, something or someone else would have caught her fancy and she would be gone.

And one day, she was gone. The sister told us that they had put her in the toddlers section. This section was in another building – for children without or with very few handicaps. Archana had slightly deformed hands and feet. And the sisters thought she would become better if she was in the company of healthy kids.

Now, I volunteered in the toddlers section as well. So when in the afternoon I was changing into my apron to enter my section, I was feverishly hoping for two things – that Archana be in my section, and that she recognize me. I walked into the section and hesitantly looked inside. Wonder of wonders, there was the button-eyed, curly-haired imp. Only she was not smiling. “Archanaaa…” I shouted. She looked up. And smiled. A sweet simple smile that made me not just happy, but proud. Proud that I had been recognized.

All in a day's work

Airline refill ink. Dirty pink CD cover. 500ml Slice bottle with Bourbon free. Off-white handkerchief with blue border and dirt stains. Bouquet of dead flowers. Buddha painting. Fluroscent green bandana. Nine rolls of white chart paper. M-seal. Purple cotton candy. Comic Sans. Red thread. Tinkerbell. Johnny Depp. Sexy stubble. Red and black spectacles frame. Dull gray mobile cover.

A deep breath

She was drinking a glass of water when he walked past. She knew his routine by now. He would go up to his terminal, blow kisses to the Monroe poster behind his monitor, turn on his system and head to the water cooler. She blushed at the prospect of a possible interaction. Hurriedly finishing her glass of water, she dialed Customer Care on her mobile phone and acted like she were on an important call. He came, filled a plastic cup with a mix of cold and hot water and drank from it. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and wondered what perfume he was wearing. And he, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and cursed himself for forgetting to wear perfume.

Animal Farm

Not so long ago, on a hot summer afternoon, we embarked on a journey. It was a journey like never before. A journey into the hinterland of Tamil Nadu. A journey into a land where bulls were not beasts but reincarnations of Bheema, a land where pigeons were not messengers of love but veteran racers, a land where roosters didn’t just announce the dawn of a new day and rams didn’t just produce three bags of wool. It was a strange and wondrous land. It was a land worth falling in love with.

So there we were, my guide and I, riding through Theni’s backyard on a black motorbike, making scheduled halts to talk to the sportsmen and unscheduled halts to prevent dehydration.

First stop: Pannaipuram. Home of the well-known Illayaraja and the little-known Rekla racers. While we admit that we love the music of the former, we were more interested in the tales the latter had to tell. Pannai Kumar, the local DMK District Youth Secretary took charge and held an impromptu workshop on the dynamics of the Rekla race. On the face of it, a Rekla race looks chaotic – the bulls, the men on the carts, all rushing madly to the finish. But when Kumar told us about the hours of sweat and blood that goes into the process, we were truly bowled over.

At Markainkottai, Sellapandi told us how he feeds his rooster badam and boiled eggs to make it stronger. Vellaivi, his current favourite rooster was duly displayed. All of a sudden, the big fat rooster (weighing a good three kilos) was thrust into our hand. While we buckled under the weight and the fear of holding a fighting rooster, we must admit that it was an adrenaline high.

We then set off in search of the Jallikattu bulls. Unfortunately they had gone grazing. So Ranjith of Kottur showed us some photographs instead, and even the yellow-green t-shirt that the bull chasers must wear. We looked at the fierce bulls in the photographs, thanked our lucky stars that they were not around, and got going.

On the last leg of our whirlwind tour, we met MS Mariappan of Upvaapatti. A walking Wikipedia, Mariappan seemed to know something about everything. The weight of a Rekla cart, the politicization of Jallikattu, the unique characteristics of Kombai dogs, the exercise regime of a racing pigeon, and the diet of a fighting ram – he knew it all.

After a long and fruitful conversation, we left Upvaapatti and headed to the bus stop at Periyakulam. On the rickety bus ride back home, I looked out of the window at the full moon and imagined those animals, each looking up to the same moon from their sheds. Would they too be wondering what tomorrow held for them?

Road trip

You know you are driving in Tamil Nadu when you see a signboard that says “Toll Booth” in Tamil, Hindi and English and you notice that the Hindi bit is neatly blackened out. Ah well! Nice start to a road trip, I say sarcastically. And immediately I am accused of not being a true Tamizhan by my fellow passengers. Thankfully, it was all just friendly banter.

And that was how the trip began. It was a typical ecoLogin trip – until the last moment I didn’t know the destination. Nor did I know when we would be starting off. So I had my bags packed and ready, just in case. And like I had anticipated, the call came at the eleventh hour asking me to get going. So at an ungodly hour in the morning, we set off for Kolli Hills and Salem. Below is a list of random musings from the trip:

Chandru, our CFO, is a deeply devout man. It was quite apparent from the fact that we stopped at more than one temple to break coconuts for the Gods. And it worked; our trip was largely accident-free and incident-full.

Though I am from Kerala, I realized over this trip that I prefer Tamil Nadu’s landscape. It is so much more varied. There are so many more hues of greens, blues and browns.

Hairpin bends and I don’t get along well. I am always chanting the Hanuman Chalisa on any trip to the hills. The 70 hairpin bends at Kolli Hills, however, were more exhilarating than scary.

Eating fresh pineapples on the hill-top is definitely one thing I wanted to do before I died. I just crossed that off my list. J

Dancing in the rain at a farm is another one on my “Things to do before you die” list. I crossed it off after my rain dance during a storm at a farm in Tiruchengode.

Ditto for cooking up for a big bunch. I hate cooking, but strangely, loved every moment of the cooking I did with Balaji’s mother at Tiruchengode. I made chapattis for the entire team. And they came out in pretty good shape.

Team meetings at twelve in the night. Nothing new. Except that instead of a boardroom, we were sitting on the floor of well-wisher and activist Piyush’s house in Salem

Riding on the back of Piyush’s jeep was definitely THE highlight of the trip. We stood on the back and waved at the villagers, saluting at little children along the way. Full on Rang De Basanti feelings,

A walk in the stream, buttermilk and green mangoes can be a heady combination. Especially after a short trek on a sweaty April morning.
Kambu koozhu (Jawar porridge) is an acquired taste. And I am yet to acquire it.

Team meetings at two in the afternoon are even more usual. Except this time, it was in the middle of a forest, with a stream flowing by. The temptation to jump into the stream was hard to resist.

So yeah, now I know better – always expect the unexpected on an ecoLogin trip.

Small mercies

The only good thing about yesterday's world cup win was the fireworks.