Attack and Recover

There is this mode of therapy in psychiatry called Desensitisation. And unlike a lot of terms in psychiatry, it actually means what a layman might assume.

A person walks in with a diagnosed phobia. You expose them to a small dose of the entity that provokes this "irrational fear". Give them time and space to recover. They return. Rinse and repeat.

Thing is, these doses start out small, but increase progressively. Much like with vaccines, you help this person to slowly build up a response that soon kicks in instinctively. Bigger the threat, bigger the response. Ready for The Forbidden Forest, immune to Aragog.

Attack and recover. Attack and recover.

There's an alternative. Flash desensitisation. Just in and out. A huge dose of stimulus, almost stunning the mind into a sub-habitual response. And then that becomes the learnt response.

Attack and recover and stop. Fingers crossed.

Would you like a consistently low baseline mood, with no significant peaks of happiness and no significant troughs of misery either? Sounds like a fair deal, not having to cope with massive setbacks. Things will never get too rough. And if you've never been too happy, you never know what you're missing out on.

No attacks. No recovery.

Or would you like a state of wilder highs and lows? Intense sorrows to match intense joy, but with a markedly higher baseline mood. It sounds like the definition of living a little, but it could just as well be a recipe for torture to the soul. To have to take the shitstorm in your stride because hey, secondary rainbows every summer.

Attack and recover and rise.

. . .

Seems to me that it's often a progression through the four stages, in that very order.

You take the small hits, you cope. You suffer a big blow, you pause and regroup. Maybe you wall off all future blows; now there's no need to cope. Then one fine day, you step back into the ring - you take a punch, you throw two back, and you give meaning to the process. You rise.

.

There's agony in watching someone pass through the stages, even knowing that it will pass. Watching them allow others to drag them through the stages. Ain't nobody mess with ma homies and their mommas, that kind of agony.

Worse when the others play the victim card to a hungry audience that laps up drama but is impervious to dignity. If only you could card the victim at the door for legit being juvenile; too immature to enter the real world, byebye now.

Feel like an angry warrior on behalf of your homies. Not that they ask it, but because it infuriates you to watch the self-proclaimed victims vilify without a break. Where is all the decency to which they feel so entitled?

Attack and attack and attack. Recovery must wait.

Not Poetry, Not Prose

It's not like I'm traumatised about my last post but it is weighing on my mind. Perhaps because normally, men say/pretend it was an accident. They either brush past you and get lost in the crowd asap or mutter an apology as they're compelled to walk past. When you glare back or hit, hurl an abuse or snap at them to hold their elbows in, they comply and look away duly chastised. Sometimes people around you join in in giving the man nasty vibes. Big help. But we're just so used to being felt up or brushed against. The next time you see a woman turn around looking disgusted, disgruntled but not too shocked, you know what could have caused it. 


In contrast, what I wrote about was just so overt. Not even a facade about it being an accident. He moved in with an intention, he ran away to avoid the consequences. Such a conscious act. I think that's what shook me up more than anything.

It would be very cliched to talk about being scarred, mentally or otherwise. But scars are demeaning. Ugly leftovers from ugly times. They hang around even if you're "over it" and they almost always evoke a reaction from you. I suppose it would approach high prose if I was to talk about how they remind me of goats being branded before the kill. Shall avoid.

But indulge me here for a while. Picture it for yourself. You were unable to see his face, it was turned away for the entire duration of your chance encounter. He could walk past you on the street tomorrow and you may not be able to identify him. He could be the guy standing behind you in the line at the ATM, or one of two people you share an auto with tomorrow morning. You still wouldn't know. I don't know.

I don't get how this works. I'm not sure I want to figure it out. Would that evening go down in his mental record as just one of many such incidents? Was that his idea of scoring? How does the bugger sleep at night and look his mother in the eye? How long until I stop wondering if I ran as best as I could? Am I ever going to stop picturing myself walking down a road with restless eyes and a sharp not-quite-a-stone-but-not-quite-a-rock in each hand? I detest how I now walk around with a grim expression and a tense jaw. I feel like I'm not being true to myself, but right now, that's what feels right. Convenient.


Most of all, I hate how I stiffen up every time someone walks by too close. It doesn't matter whether it's a male or a female, how they're dressed or what they look like. Be it at the rickshaw stand or on a railway platform or right outside college. My default mode involves being stiff and glaring at the world, a part of my mind devoted to considering how I'd block the guy closest to me should he decide to swoop in. Do I sound like a paranoid fool who's overreacting? Chances are that's how your mom and sister feel. Have a chat. See where your sympathies lie the next time a man around you is being abused and you're not sure if he really did anything, if it was a big deal. "Arre at most he only touched her na." Who gets the benefit of doubt here?


It's too convenient, telling the female that she was asking for it. That she should have double thought the time of the day, the way she was dressed. She should have know that's what the neighbourhood is like. That she shouldn't be laughing aloud while she walks, she shouldn't draw attention. You tell her how to keep herself hidden away. How to be inconspicuous. But it's really not about the clothes she wears, how attractive she is, what her "character" is like or what time your wristwatch reads. It never is. It has nothing to do with attraction. It's violence, plain and simple. So why does it not occur to you to talk sense into the heads of the men you know? How about addressing fucked up mindsets, the root cause? Tell your son what I'm saying and ignore that friend who thinks you're making too big a deal of this shit. This is a big deal.

I've shared this before. Once more won't hurt.

Please don't pull a Mulayam Singh Yadav on the world around you. He promised government jobs for rape victims in his state. You see, rapes will continue in this state, we can't possibly address that. But I will give you a job to make up for the violation of your self. Come forth and abuse the provision, dear voters. Come help me ride my bicycle.


I used to scoff at women who'd insist on ladies compartments in trains at all times. Now I dwell on what made them insist.

He Only Touched Her Na

Let's say we're making a movie, you and I. We need a story. A screenplay. A character.

A girl, almost a woman. Age: 20; the number suits the tag. In keeping with the law that Facebook confirms for us each day – even a boring female lead is more likely to hold the audience's attention than the average male lead could ever hope to.

So what have we here? A young woman, urban, easy on the eyes. A clean heart. Nowhere near perfect. Not exactly an outlandish creature. Too simple, we need to spice it up. Let's say she gets molested.

How shall we shoot it? A desolate alley, a flickering streetlight? She walks by a dark corner, shivering slightly, wearing her slinky off shoulder dress and her best perfume. A hand creeps out of the midnight shadow. A gagged mouth, flailing arms. She falls to the ground.. No no no, that's too cliched. Let's change it all.

6 pm, an open road. A bright summer evening, a pleasant breeze. The school is shut today, it's a bank holiday. Another festival when no one knows what they're supposed to be doing, but okay. It's a holiday. She's about to leave from home, she has an errand to run. She walks to the front door then returns to her room. Swaps her shorts for a pair of jeans. Why give the grandfather something to agonise over? An oversized shirt and modest jeans. Modesty modesty. She's good to go.

15 minutes. She's on her way back. Another 30 steps on that footpath and she'll be home. She approaches the corner, walking between wall and vehicle.

He moves in right at the blind turn. Rough hands on her front. Legs locked. A disgusting sense of violation. In hindsight, a peculiar lack of smell. She instinctively twists her elbow, jabs him in the chest. It's over before a count of three. A quick, violent fondle and he's running. She follows on his heels, faster than she's run in some time now.

The chase lasts longer than the action he got. It always does. Around three long blocks, twice as many turns and loops. Two pairs of shoes slap against the road. A constant stream of abuses. Men standing ahead stare at her; what makes her chase this guy? "Pakdo usko!" From behind her, "Arre but what happen medam?" He races ahead, clear about where he's going. She follows, clear only about why she's running.

Random thoughts flood her mind. Wrong day to have put on these worn out slippers. A big middle finger to anyone who later dares to say women ask for it. Abuses that rarely get considered are being yelled, men on the street continue to stare at her funny. The guy's athletic, fast, maybe 18. A striped blue and white shirt, smart dark jeans. He could well have been her junior in school. She wonders how she can think of anything just then. She wishes she'd managed to loop her arm around his neck. Kneed him hard. The skin above her left breast stings. Crazy montage. That bastard. Speed up.

She loses him at a sharp turn. It's a maze of bylanes, each as empty as another. She was a fool for asking people around there if they'd spotted someone like him. "Arre madam problem kya hai?" "Chutiye ko chamaat marna hai." Silence. Failure.

She's home now. Sweaty. Furious. Loathsome. Breathing hard. Itching to lash out. To do some damage, maybe rip off his balls. How could she? It hardly matters. She's mad at herself for not matching his long strides. For wanting company but not knowing what to say. Still so furious her eyes sting. She’s bruised and bleeding and it wasn’t her fault. She was violated, just because he could. Not because of how she was dressed. How dare people say this is part and parcel of being a woman?

It's still bright outside.

The Revolution Needs You To Revolve

There’s something very fucked up about you and I. We don’t seem to realize what’s going on around us. To use language favoured by MBA grads, we’ve internalised all that’s wrong with us. To put it plainly, we’re idiots who don’t give a shit.

Sure, fucked up is as fucked up does. That’s the beauty of subjectivity at work. The lack of superlatives and the redundancy of overused phrasing further our regrettable idiocy. Which is why even scalding coffee that’s low on sugar qualifies as a fuck up, yes.

Some of us are luckier than others. And that’s all it really is, luck. Much as we’d like to harp on about merit and opportunities and destiny, it’s really just a series of episodes of lucky luck that led us here. You and I can read this blog post on a slick web browser while millions out there can’t. It doesn’t mean that’s what we were meant to do. Or that those millions were meant not to. We just kept getting lucky when it mattered. And that’s actually okay, except that we don’t seem to get it. Even when we do, we tack on a smug smile and continue as before.

That’s the problem. That’s why we’re fucked up. We can appreciate the nuances of coffee, even wine, but not of what’s really needed of us as individuals. We’re immune and insulated and blissfully unaware. Therein lies our failing. And our lucky remedy.

I have come to understand from books, movies, personal accounts of the wise and even pop psychologists that we all go through phases. So there is a phase of innocence followed by a phase of awakening. Some rebellion, some vengeance, some realisation and some complacence. For some of us, an extended phase of dispensing counsel. I have also come to understand that each of these phases is as important as the other. None negates another. That the sum of phases is what makes you who you are; the sum is always constant.

Permit me to say that it’s too bad the sum does not seem to consider the ratio of its parts. For if it could perceive that the innocence and the complacence far outweigh the awakening, it would protest. If it could tell that a shortlived summer of rebellion featured only to be able to register its presence, not to mean anything, it would throw that neat, double spaced record of phases straight at our faces. And it’s too bad it can’t.

For you really don’t need to be a commie to proclaim that the working class has it bad. Or a radical activist to step in and alleviate the tribals’ woes. You don’t need to be a pseudo secularist to voice your concerns about the minorities. And you aren’t a gullible fool if a stranger’s words motivate you. Wanting to change the system doesn’t make you a silly idealist who doesn’t know what to do with his time. 

It's in your head.

But taking note of all that’s wrong will take up much of your time. Trying to comprehend how people cope will take up some more. And in the time that is left, you must identify how you can help and get down to it. If anything, it will routinely frustrate you to tears that there is so much that needs to be done – not just so much that you want to do. And just before your lower lip starts quivering, a man will stop right by you. He will peer into that overflowing stilted trash can that sways in the breeze, fish out and drain a styrofoam cup jutting out of the mess and walk away in search of his next sip of coffee.

I Put The Vent In E-Vent

I just got told that everything I blog about has simply turned to ranting. You mean that's not a good thing? But don’t you like reading rants? Isn’t it something you can relate to? No? Okay. I also got told what I ought to write about instead, but more on that later. 

It all made me gape a lot. I also blinked a lot. Sometimes, blinking a lot helps, hence this post. This post is not a complaint, and no, it is not a rant. So if you are that blunt buddy with the sugarfree soul, read. And if you aren’t him, tell me if I really do rant all that much.

This post is closely tied in with that age-old discussion about why one blogs. The discussion can be reduced to two sides – for-the-reader and for-the-blogger. One side suggests you go find a diary to confide in and the other side goes, “Hullo! This is my diary!” Me, I stand on the fence and watch both sides read my blog. 

I tend to do this more often than is wise, standing on fences. And reducing every problem to its most basic form. Wise men would approve, even if it does backfire sometimes. Yeah, I loved school-time math. No but seriously, have you ever wondered why people rarely enjoy debating the what-came-first dilemma seriously? Because it’s just too damn basic superficially, they simply do not want to bother with it.

Anyhow, I tabbed to this blog to see just what I’ve been writing about. There was that subtle rant about Bombay being romanticised, that’s one. Then the bad haircut, but come on, even your wise but balding grandmother would’ve ranted about it! That goof-up about when my univs were to begin. Surely, you sympathise..? 

This.

No wait, you know what? There’s a reason I created a label And I Vent. Blame Blogger for not letting you hide posts filed under that label. Also, and yes I actually checked, might I add that the label Solutions has four more posts that And I Vent? And that the two labels have four posts in common? No? Fine. That is also okay.

I guess that sudden verdict was, amongst other things, a dismissal of everything I’ve posted here lately. Which is just fine, except that it isn’t exactly fun to hear. Should I type that out in caps? No? OKAY!

The alternative suggested, however, was easily the nicest compliment I have ever received from the blunt buddy in question. It's decidedly personal stuff, perhaps too personal for me to share and you to care about. I consciously avoid blogging about it, but I got told I should "because it's nice". Can't promise I will, but if I do, this is where it will be posted. And hey, maybe that will stop me from ending up as a cranky old lady with a cabbage-y house full of cats... I bet that's a prominent cause on some cause-list on the web. 

See, I told you this post is not a complaint, and no, this is not a rant. It even has a corny title!

PS - Blinking a lot isn’t really good. In fact, it looks like it’s half bad to blink a lot. Conjunctivitis, Parkinson’s, seizures... no, not good at all. If you really must know more, here, read.

We're On The Edge

Visitors to this city are almost always in awe of its pace. Its liveliness. Its sheer force of existence. They think this city is something special; I think this city is on the edge.

Much has been said about the overworked transport system. The inevitable delays, the fashionably late Indian Standard Time. About the fighting spirit this city breathes into its people, about the safety its women enjoy.

Some Indians think this city is a lesson in assertion. Spend a few years in big bad Bombay and you will learn to stand on your own two feet. I beg to differ. Spend a while in Bombay and you will learn how to fight someone who tries to stamp your two little feet. If anything, this city is a lesson in survival. Irritable, defensive survival that reeks of sweat and aches with hunger. Take it all away and we won't be us anymore.

We trudge on, for hey, we're lucky to be surviving in Bombay! We overlook the fact that Bombay is the hallowed place we make it out to be because of its faceless crowds and their desperate attempts to fulfil a day's work, not inspite of them.

It is not that Bombay works much more than is normal - Bombay just sees a lot of other stuff that overpowers work. Work happens mechanically, on the side. We're preoccupied; we're pissed. We don't understand that deftly juggling travel alternatives during a strike isn't streetsmart, it's silent acceptance. But you can't blame us for overlooking such stuff. These oversights allow you to romanticise our city. We're just too busy protecting our toes from the crowd.

Our lives have the same issues as yours. The same concerns, the same drama. We just dwell on them differently, secretly but in the midst of the screaming match that is a regular officegoer's travel companion.
It's all too vague for you, isn't it? You must be convinced I'm exaggerating. Others from my city would agree with you. You see, we fret and fume within our minds but we really don't notice these things anymore. We've imbibed the idea of maddening crowds. It's alright for our fancy AC buses to carry 80, not 40. It's okay to spend two hours at that posh counter for some inane work.

We aren't brave. We aren't overachievers. We aren't brokers of dreams and we aren't champions of coexistence. We're just oblivious blocks of flexible minds, regular people caught in a crowd.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts

My life has been a series of eventful haircuts. Bad haircuts. What has stayed constant, however, is the two-clause format of comments they attract. “Your hair is really nice ya, you should have done this and this and this to it instead.”

The saga began when I was in kindergarten; it continues today and shows no sign of ending. Mind you, that is the hallmark of the best tragedies that have ever been written. They are eternal.

Like all things eternal, eventful haircuts deserve to be scrutinised. Why must some of us always look like we’re sketches in the making? What gives people the right to be paid for screwing up somebody’s hair? Why do other people always have perfect hair? Am I a bad person? Is someone out to get me? Who even decides this shit?

Who stole my mojo? >.<

One way of foreseeing a bad hairstyle is to consider how you feel about it right before the scissors get busy. Even the vaguest variant of “Oh let’s be done with it already! It’s only hair, it’ll grow back” is a warning sign. Walk out that door.

Avoid telling your stylist that you want something low-maintenance, “just a simple wash and dry style” is worse. He will treat you like a project. Like a teetotaller at a bar. You will be that no-gooder he must bring over to the world of serums and straighteners.

That said, announcing “I want a change!” is the red flag. Just get up, make scary eyes and run. It’s okay to subconsciously want a change; chances are you’ll get it. But say it out loud and you activate those repressed creative juices in the guy wielding the scissors. He will make you his muse but will forget that you aren’t a mannequin. You will resemble a shorn sheep and let me tell you, no sheep pays to be sheared.  Reflective surfaces will crop up in corners you least expect them to. Strangers will be sickly sweet to you, the probable victim of a tornado. Acquaintances will go “What happened to you!??” and beyond a point, making up improbable funny stories will feel like a chore. Your sister will reassure you, “You still look good in the dark!” and you will spend ages consoling every person who ever played with your hair. I have no enemies I know of, but I’m guessing they won’t be very nice either. So as much as you may be sick of how your hair almost always looks the same as before, DON’T SAY IT.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts need to get a few things straight. It is not just hair, it will not grow back – that’s the Loch Ness of body myths. All these “hair care” products in the market are proof; they exist because Us Of The Bad Haircuts need them, not because they can actually fix anything. They’re like remedies for a common cold. Placebos.

Trash all that talk about hair that reflects your personality. I have had distinctly different hair at every stage of my life and I have done the same dumb stuff at every stage, hair-personality sync be damned. You gotta cope with it all.

Perhaps there is only that one, lone hairstyle that will ever truly suit the unique snowflake I am. Perhaps someone really is out to get me.

Too Much Scotch!

12:42 Belapur local and cab from VT. Okay?

No, not okay.

Not when the person you said that to doesn’t give a shit about just which train to take.

Not when you have a lot of time to go before you take a final call on which train to take.

And definitely not when you receive a reply that reads –

Exam kal se hai :|

I was always that calm, pulled together person where exams were concerned. Panic about misplaced pens, inadequate cheating supplies, nightmares about not waking up or reaching the centre in time for a big exam – I don’t think any of these ever plagued me. Even when I don’t have enough pens or enough time, I can stay calm. During the run-up to major exams, I cook and clean for the family, I watch movies, I do everything that could possibly make me worthy of a few crisp notes, if not a plaque of honour. But I don’t panic. No, sir. I’m that annoyingly calm exam-taker who actually dares to enter rooms looking pleasant, albeit late – yep, I’m that girl you’ve always wanted to choke.

Even when I have experienced the-feeling-closest-to-panic, it was because I couldn’t randomly picture a certain section of my notes the way I could picture all others - with line indents, punctuation and order of points, to boot. Or because... no, that’s pretty much the only reason. If that makes me a “nerd/scotch/scholty”, so be it. I like having my study material in place. Compiled. Organised. No shame there. It’s what I’ve been going on about for the last month. “I know the content re, but compile karna hai... so much work!”

Different matter that things didn’t quite go as per plan. Oh no, they sure didn’t. Over the past few weeks, I’ve baked and I’ve fried and I’ve popped thaaaat much corn. I’ve spent more time with the boyfriend than I did in the weeks before these – go me! I’ve pigged out and I’ve shopped and I’ve had “sister bonding time” with, well, my sister. I’ve talked until dawn and read the most assorted mix of things in months! I’ve caught up with classmates from junior college and released senti notes into cyberspace. More about the notes in another post. Point is, I’ve been busy.

Mom says these are ways I choose subconsciously to release subconscious stress about work and acads. I think these are ways I try consciously to foster healthy conscious denial about work and acads. But hey, she’s the boss. Though I do believe the notes are all organised up here, in my head. Aye.

But you know what the problem is? I’m still freaking out about having gotten the exam schedule wrong. Not even the order of exams, I got the frickin’ schedule wrong by a whole day! So yeah, I have an extra, unexpected day to study. I also have the worst kind of headache I’ve had in ages. I’m jumpy and dizzy and my head is still spinning. My mouth is dry and my throat is parched and I can’t stand how everyone keeps telling me to go to sleep. Writing this post was supposed to help; it didn't. I am abuzz! This just feels like a bad bad hangover.

PS – I’m not sure I spelt scholty right... it sounds like scall-tea, where scall rhymes with fall, but it’s derived from scholar, hence the schol to begin with. Autocorrect changed schol to school. See, it did that again! Meh. Guess I’m not a scotch after all.

Dude (Looks Like A Lady)

I'd write more often, I confess

There's plenty in this head, whattay mess!

But the thought of you hmming

And the thought of you haawing

Puts me off like a dude in a nightdress.

Why I Doodle

I don't write for you to know. I write to find out for myself.

What I'm saying is...

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.

You Are NOT Random!

That spark in your eye that charms them all. That natural laugh, however imperfect it may be. That genuine grin, infectious regardless of whether or not your face stretches like Jim Carey’s and whether or not you have funny teeth or even no teeth at all. That knack of saying something mildly offensive but getting away with it either because the irony of it all floored even the target or because people just didn’t get what you said. That wild impulse to do something forbidden or unusual, to go out there and shock your audience. 

You have all these things and more, but describe yourself as “random” and you instantly become less interesting to me than the toothpick stuck between your teeth. No, I do not have a thing for toothpicks or for teeth.

Wisdom.

 Am I just trying to revive English as I love it? Am I a wicked witch for going all Victorian and Book Antiqua on unsuspecting minds? Or, disturbing as it is, am I randomly ranting about things that bother me?

17.9

This is the most I’ve ever shared of myself on a public forum. I’m putting it up after considerable internal debate. I wrote this when caught between what I have lost and what I don’t want. I don’t know how many who know me will be able to relate it to me but that doesn’t matter. There’s a lot more to it all but I choose to keep it off this space.

17.9

You enter my room

Woeful and lost

To say you’ll be back

In an hour,

But the look on your face

Says clearly to me

That you intend to remain

For more.

You begin to talk

Of nominees and banks

I know you’ve been harassed

By his calls;

You make small talk

About colleagues long gone

And your medicines

And errands of yore.

You tell me it’s hard

With no one for help

You tell me it’s tough

To cope,

To manage alone

To not rely

For in this new place

Ground and comfort lay afar.

I see the silent plea

In your rheumy eyes

I see you beg me

To get involved,

To hold you

As I would hold him

To care for, to love

To respect and to adore.

But don’t you see

I can’t do it

Not for you,

I can’t;

Despite knowing

How you need me

And how much it takes

To ask.

It’s too soon for me

The loss is still fresh

It hurts

And that never must show;

But why don’t you realize

Though I would never say it

His place

Will never be yours.

I’m struggling to cope

Though I hide it well

I’m trying so hard

To stay strong,

But every time I enter

His empty room

Or see his silly netbook

The tears still fall.

My Mother Is On Facebook

Silence. The deafening variety.

She's on Facebook, she's on my list of friends, she's everywhere!

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my mother to bits and would live my life for her. I have this theory that living your life for someone/something must be infinitely tougher than giving it up for that particular whoever/whatever, but that's for another time, another post.

She didn't track me down, sneak up on me, put on a "yo, imma hot dude, add me yu sexii chica!" disguise (that would never –won’t ever- work, don't get funny ideas anyone...) and then do an India TV "parda faash!" gig at dinner one night. Au contraire, I'm the one who got her off VSNL and introduced her to Gmail and Facebook and my humble blog - I'm your modern-day saintly proponent of clicks and codes, yessir.

I'm glad she's open minded and eager to learn the ropes on her and that it’s giving her a chance to reconnect with people from years past. I'm proud of her, I truly am. I think she's way cool.

But picture this – (Fictional situations all so rest easy, Ma; nevertheless, CPR on hold guys!) – only for the sake of point making, ye get? So, for whatever imbecilic and influenced reason, you upload on Facebook some snaps of you and a bunch of friends downing criss-cross drinks or trying out some random grassy thing or in general playing the stupid/dangerous/perverted fool. Surprise surprise, your mom gains access to them! Oh and in case it hasn't crossed your mind yet, you're underage. HOW WILL YOU FEEL? I dunno know how you'll feel but boss, those pics will self destruct. Poof! And if that doesn't happen in time, haha, someone's gonna get hurt real bad tonight...

Milder version of the same - you're flirting with whoever (again on a public forum, because you’re an imbecile or influenced, remember?) and I'm talking serious flirting. The responses make you happy in the heart and mushy in the mind. And out of nowhere, Momma dear puts in an appearance. Potential poof situation. Not ideal, see? That's what I'm getting at. Virtual privacy ka popat.

She drops in on conversations I have with friends and tells us to mind our four letter words. She comments on pictures I'm tagged in and cans my friends when she likes. I definitely think I'm part of why she's still on Facebook. 

Psst.. she's definitely better than this -

Then again, this works both ways. Anytime she decides to crib about me, bitch or rant, I get those flashy red notifications. She decides to blog-rant, I can read. Random conversations with friends, I get updates, the inside scoop. 

We could go in for a cordial understanding that the other's profile is not to be looked at, updates to be ignored, but who am I kidding? And it'd get too boring, too soon. Guess we'll let things remain.

I'll just have to remember to flirt in private…

Us, Them & The Rest

The simple, sadahran group. Everyone's capable of being bitchy, that's only human, so we're not talking dudh ke dhule, no way. Not airheads either. Not even simple when I speak of how they dress. They have their share of fashionistas walking in looking like Africa, Iceland and China on different days of the week. Something I find difficult to relate to, but okay.

And the manifestation of the suburban's definition of "a typical bunch of townies", which again makes things difficult for me to comprehend. They just happen to live elsewhere. Most of them don't even hail from "town"! Someone hoping to get rid of this discussion would probably say they belong to a different "culture". That must be it. I dunno.

-

A class of 60. Rough segregation in the first 3 weeks. Come midterm, most can be found sticking to their "groups" like glue, tailing each other to the canteen, the multiplex and the loo. More about the loo groups in another post :| New entrants trickle in, take the total to 65. The modus operandi remains the same, only smoother and quicker.

So what happens when you are, for all intents and purposes, through with the first semester at a new college? By which time every kid has handed in a multitude of projects, eaten in all the cafes and eateries around, collectively bitched about certain someones. Well, by then, everyone knows exactly who they're gonna sit with, eat with, work with, hang out with, and not to forget, bitch with. Fair enough perhaps, maybe even universal, but it’s something that bothers me.

I'm not a proponent of the we-are-one-class-and-we-move-together philosophy. That's meant for idealists. And loo groups. It's not even like I'm left without people to be with and hence resent the grouping and fragmentation. And yet the differences and curiosity regarding each other fascinate me and the demarcation annoys me. 

It's all the small things. When a birthday is being celebrated, one group goes all out as they party, head down the wine and fine dine route. They're "craaaazy". The other group chooses to keep it simple (there's that word again!) but somehow seem to have just as much fun, if not more. They haunt Chowpatty and its chatais for a good few hours; go ga ga over the 'mini giant wheel' and Columbus' boat; down cheesy pizzas and neon blue butterscotch golas and share bottles of soap bubbles with kids whose first reaction to new faces is to stick out a grubby palm and beg.

I ain't out to judge. Not my place to. I have friends from both “groups” and I like them the way they are. A year into the course, I have fond memories of times with them all, memories of their kind of fun and talk. And even as I lean heavily to one side, I guess I'll continue to watch, find it amusing and document. Works.

Swallow And Sleep

“Abhishek and Aishwarya didn’t get each other just like that... they had to struggle and become famous before they got noticed. Everybody wants to get noticed, no? Change. IMPROVE! That’s how you will find a nice, rich husband.”

And that, dear reader, was my “well-wisher’s friendly advice”. A co-baarati, co-non-dancer, total stranger and, lest I forget, my well-wisher. Sozzled well-wisher, if you ask me but then again, everyone there appeared unsteady and smelt the same to me. No, I wasn’t the one sozzled. Though when at a Punjabi wedding, you can never be too sure of that.

So. I ought to sign up for Bhangra classes. Be enthusiastic about a bit of sporadic wiggle waggle with a bunch of other pretend-revelers. Shriek intermittently since that’s part of the job profile. Set an example, particularly because I have a kid sister to inspire. And “even the slowest gazelle must run faster than the fastest lion”. There. I just condensed 20 minutes of counsel into 5 sentences. Should head to that twitter-tweet place.

For whatever my take is worth, I’ll have the ringside view when it comes to that particular circus any day. Just watching people can be so entertaining. Particularly when they’re weighed down with bling but are obliged to look, feel and sound Punjabi festive. Loud festive. And frankly, some cute guy’s wedding is most definitely no reason to spaz on the street.

It disturbs me that I might actually be related to a man who offers random girls tips on how to grow claws and sink them nice and deep into the next unsuspecting rich brat of a guy until they’ve drawn enough blood to repaint the Red Fort. Anually.

And therefore, to quote a pal, “Swallow and sleep”.

Paper For Seats

WHAAAT is this thing females have about leaving the toilet seat down?

A little tap works wonders, ladies. One word. Gravity. When you lift it up you're fighting gravity. Tap and the thing will whoosh-whack-bump its way down. Order restored. Easy peasy, innit?

I don't know where this is coming from. Perhaps I'm just turning into a reverse feminist. (I’m supposedly unfeminine enough to give friends trouble when they try and picture me as someone’s girlfriend, get that.) But boss, when something bothers you all day long, you bloody well hammer keyboards about it.  Life's a series of buttons being pushed anyway.

And anyway, why does the toilet seat in particular get to decide a guy's standing on Le Scale de Chivalrie? Toilet paper would be a better option, no? Something like this -

Roll and guy not to be seen? Never mind... that's why Femina advises against monogrammed ones anyway. Unless they're designer, dahlings! :|

Roll of toilet paper still to be seen? He isn't a petty thief. Then again, maybe it's just thanks to the CCTV thrill/scare you gave him earlier.

Roll in place? He cares.

Ripped but diagonally? Oh just them big, clumsy fingers...

Razor sharp, horizontal line? Keeper!

Unused? Get the noose ready, he's putting your needs before everything else! Alternately, he could be a complete sloth and slid clean off the list, clearing the bottom margin some. The trick is to decide on either funda and stick with it.

See, that's all there is to it.

All said and done though, this still makes me laugh -

Oh and that line about life being a series of buttons being pushed was profound. And original. You just don't know it yet.

Writer's Block Already!

7 minutes since the first 'Draft autosaved' notification showed up. The Internet's way of hurrying me up. Clones all! It would be flattering if Blogger was actually auto-saving a brilliant post that’s going to revolutionize (or ruin) your mindset. But when someone thinks they're doing you a favour by saving spreads of spotless white, let’s just say it’s more of a dampener than not.
 

Ever had conversations with your Mum where she goes "What's that thing anyway?" Yeah. Well, in this household, when the mother goes "What's this?" it’s usually something gadget related. And usually something so elementary, that even I can answer it. I always knew there was a reason I have a dabba-illiterate mother. To make me feel like a citizen of the New World and shit. I love her! Gotta drop the "and shit".

Coming back to the point - We had a "What's a blog?" conversation when I first started blogging. I felt the need to play my part, come up with "Oh just this place online where you go write". Blank look. Reply deemed unsatisfactory. I then outlined food blogs (first thing that came to mind, to be honest), tech blogs (last thing I'd want to be doing - honest!), those delightful all inclusive, nothing-better-to-do blogs. Also let in that I'd probably land up doing something along the lines of the last bit, which I did. Twice. Polite interest. Earnt myself a "You should blog". Smiley all. End topic.

The pointier point being - When you're reading someone else’s blog, NBTD posts are often fun. Kinda like leafing through a Mills & Boons publication. Had you hooked? Lucky you, you found the needle in the haystack! If not – koi gal nahi, it barely took you any time anyway. But when it’s your own blog… ah. You know you can come up with better gibberish, but see, writers' block. Convenient thing, that. Ditto hormones.

I’m not always sure I want to go over what I’ve written. It could be babble. It could be worse. Perhaps even a drug to induce permanent writer's block. I don’t know. It may or may not appeal to you but really, I read someplace that such stuff is delightful.

A Couple Of Hours, At Most

You wonder why. You wonder why not. You wonder why they did. You wonder why they didn’t. You may find the answers. Then again, you may not. Stories come your way all the same.

One orthopedic surgeon, a professor in Miraj, is operated on by another for a minor ligament tear. An arthroscopic surgery, for those interested. A cardiologist withholds the green flag citing possibility of cardiac trouble, proposes postponement of the procedure. The doctor in charge of the anesthesia has been a close friend of the patient-to-be for a while now. 

The team discovers that a well known orthopedic surgeon will be coming down to Belgaum for a visit soon. They fix a date for an OT meet up there in an unfamiliar, hut of a hospital as opposed to in Mumbai, as per prior plans. The patient goes under the knife. 

His brother, a gynecologist in the above mentioned metropolitan, stands guard outside the OT. He voices his doubts about the nursing home chosen. Urges them to reconsider, to pick Mumbai in light of the cardiologist’s warning. Shush, they say. Everything’s at hand. It’s expected to be a smooth show, Sir; a couple of hours at most. 

The warning flag has been disregarded; the whistle blown.

In hindsight, perhaps the cardiologist wasn’t really talking through his hat. Midway, they run into complications. Consulting or informing the sole relative present is ruled out, the procedure carries on. A cardiac arrest ensues. Call it intuition, call it rebellion, call it primitive familial concern - within minutes the uninformed doc from the doorway rushes in.

All that can be done gets done. That the nursing home is as poorly equipped as they come doesn’t help matters. Breach of trust at its worst. The patient is ‘in no condition to be shifted’. If the nursing home provides better facilities than a regular ambulance is up for debate. 

They try. Cardiac massages, CPR, all revival techniques possible put in an appearance. Jolts of electricity shoot through the man. To no avail. The patient loses his life. 

He was unmarried. He left behind grieving parents, and a brother who is now being accused for another’s lack of caution.

The next day, a missing car is traced. 

The anesthetist is found dead in the driver’s seat. He leaves behind old parents, a wife, and a child few months old. 

The post mortem reveals Scoline in his bloodstream. Scoline – a drug that paralyses all muscles until oxygen is artificially provided and that within 4 minutes. Beyond that? Brain death. Police evidence comprises a car locked from the inside, a motionless body and a syringe partnering an empty vial labeled ‘Lethal’. 

Suicide, they label it. For those hailing from a different school of thought, it’s about who murdered who.

Smooth show indeed.