When you come back home after a week long holiday, all you want is your own little pillow, a good book, a cup of chai in your hands and some blissful sleep. But the skies in Bangalore are determined to keep me awake all night long. The skies open up, there is thunder everywhere, flashes of lightning and the rains tumble down, their decibel levels shutting out all other sounds for the night.
I lie in bed listening to the rain, a constant companion in the dark, drumming its way on the balcony, shaking the plants out of their reverie . In the morning when I wake up, the sky is still wrapped in the shades of night. The downpour is a drizzle, but the clouds look smug as if they are hiding in their layers, an entire thunderstorm, which they will let loose when it pleases them. The bamboo plants are all dancing, showing off their new coat of green. The
asian koel has not stopped calling . And even the usual morose rock
pigeons are showing some signs of emotions. I hear a medley of various sounds, all from the comfort of my bed.
A new month, a new season begins. Growing up in Madras, monsoons to me have always been cyclonic in nature. The trees dance to the cosmic drama and the rains rip through the city, leaving their mark everywhere. The seas snarl, the clouds threaten the earth - nature seems to be fighting its own private battle.
But to me, as a child, cyclones were all about rain holidays. As soon as the water flooded the roads, I used to look eagerly from my window and see if a board announcing a holiday was put up outside my school located next door. It was only during the monsoons that I felt important . The phone calls would never end . Everybody called me to ask if it was a holiday and I used to feel smug, even proud that I had a wee bit of information that no one else in my class had and I was the first to pass them around. Cyclones were also about endless power cuts, water flooding inside the house, colds and coughs, but then to us kids, it was about watching a paper boat float or get crushed by the coconut tree drowned in a puddle of water.
I went to Mumbai to study and monsoons took a whole new meaning. The drive from Marine Drive to Worli Sea Face to Bandra in the night, just to see the sea getting wild, throwing its waves up on the rocks, spraying us with its white foam on the first day of the rains is a memory that I hold close to me. The rest of the memories are all about offices and roads getting flooded in the monsoons as we hurry home and watch the fury from the windows.
In Bangalore, however the rains are more romantic. The drama starts sometimes in my own room . Its mid afternoon and the walls suddenly darken. The light fades away and shadows of the plants dancing to the tune of the winds indicates a change in the mood of nature. The balconies and the windows open up and the premonsoon jugalbandi between the winds, the clouds, the rains begin. Thunder and lightning joins in , raising the tempo as hails take over sometimes from the rains. It's a theatrical performance, a musical that steals your blues away and a dance that keeps you on your toes.
I love the pre-monsoons to the monsoons. Its unpredictable, uncontrollable and the energy rubs on to you. Sometimes there is no foreplay. The frenzied passion from the skies just flows and it just bursts out on to the earth. It ends as abruptly as it begins, but it leaves you with a sense of anticipation . The monsoons on the other hand are more staid, predictable and constant and lacks the drama of the premonsoon and hence, I just wait for it to finish its routine and leave.
Rains in the plains, cities, seas, forests and hills are all different experiences. A month ago, I was in kashmir, taking in the onslaught of the rains as they drenched me even as the gentle snow fell into my hands at Gulmarg. Sitting on a pony and climbing a slushy alpine forest in Yousmarg, the rains were far more gentle here as my pony stopped by at a little stream to quench its thirst, even as it nodded in approval to the drizzle. Soaking in the moment, my mind wandered to various destinations where rains have brought in various connotations to emotions - from love to anger.
The breeze visits me as I finish writing this. The birds and the squirrels are all enjoying this morning after. A light drizzle still continues. The traffic on the road steadily increases. I need another cup of tea now. The pre monsoons will soon give away to the monsoons and the drama will end.
Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Bombay ki Hawa 6
I remember the first time I experienced a sense of high. It was on my 22nd birthday and I had just had my first drink .And my companions were two new found friends I had met in a flight three months ago.
I remember that evening so well. I left hostel around 5 pm , walked up to Mahalakshmi temple and watched the waves for a long time. Long after the Aarti was over, I let the wave of loneliness overpower me. I wanted to spend some moments with people I could call friends.
I had been in Bombay for over 6 months and yet in that large metropolis barring a few classmates, I had no close friends. The only ones I could relate to were two men I had met a couple of months ago.
I had met A&S on the flight from Madras, hitched a ride with them and then lost touch with them . But a month later, the blackboard near the hostel phone announced that I had missed a call from A . I was excited and irritated - I hadnt taken his number and he has called back after a month and not left a number either. But common sense told me that if he had called once, he will call again. So I waited and the call came.
We three became good friends later on - well, if friendship meant enjoying each other's company, having a comfort factor, cracking up a bit here and there and not getting into personal lives ,then we were all friends then . And so, on my 22nd birthday, I reached out to the pay phone and asked my only friends to come over for a coffee to Marine Drive.
It didnt take them long to figure out and we realized that we were all January born and were Capricornians, except for A who was a cusp. And it was his brilliant idea that we celebrate and lo we were in Marine Drive having a beer each. The conversations poured in and so did the beer. I started protesting but A& S would have none of it. The Cindrella hour for the hostel was getting closer, and A poured more beer into my mug. Soon the tensions eased as I let my loneliness be lost amidst the laughter.
It was a new high. My first drink and I was out in a new city celebrating my birthday being treated by two men who were virtually strangers .The taste of beer mingled with the new found freedom, as I was enjoying the company of two people who until a couple of months ago I had not even met. And yet, in that strange bond that we were building without our own knowledge, a 22 year old was born . I felt light, my head began to swim and the reflexes relaxed. It was probably amidst all the dizzying effect of the spirit, I experienced a momentary moment of loneliness being quelled by unknown love and yet , at that moment all that I was probably thinking of was Sister Rosa and the witching hour.
A's wicked grin at seeing me high and talking gibberish still remains with me as I write this piece today. They told me later they were amused at my panic for I was apparently very high . A kept recounting later that I tripped, but I dont believe him. S was always the nice guy . He kept reassuring me as he flagged a cab and helped me into it. A deliberately took his time, munching the sandwiches, enjoying the last sip while I was half mad at him, almost in the midst of throwing the cutlery at him .I felt giddy as the cab left and drifted off to sleep for some brief moments while cursing them for getting me high . But somewhere in that sleep, I found a sense of what one would describe as happiness.
I did return late to the hostel all flushed and high as the taxi raced from marine drive to breach candy . My friends later say that when sister Rosa opened the door, I looked at her and said "The bus crashed." A cake was cut later at midnight , but all I remembered were the cheers from the evening !
Many birthdays have come and gone and I have been high on life as always, but A & S - I wonder where they are ! Well, I did manage to trace S, but A ...
I remember that evening so well. I left hostel around 5 pm , walked up to Mahalakshmi temple and watched the waves for a long time. Long after the Aarti was over, I let the wave of loneliness overpower me. I wanted to spend some moments with people I could call friends.
I had been in Bombay for over 6 months and yet in that large metropolis barring a few classmates, I had no close friends. The only ones I could relate to were two men I had met a couple of months ago.
I had met A&S on the flight from Madras, hitched a ride with them and then lost touch with them . But a month later, the blackboard near the hostel phone announced that I had missed a call from A . I was excited and irritated - I hadnt taken his number and he has called back after a month and not left a number either. But common sense told me that if he had called once, he will call again. So I waited and the call came.
We three became good friends later on - well, if friendship meant enjoying each other's company, having a comfort factor, cracking up a bit here and there and not getting into personal lives ,then we were all friends then . And so, on my 22nd birthday, I reached out to the pay phone and asked my only friends to come over for a coffee to Marine Drive.
It didnt take them long to figure out and we realized that we were all January born and were Capricornians, except for A who was a cusp. And it was his brilliant idea that we celebrate and lo we were in Marine Drive having a beer each. The conversations poured in and so did the beer. I started protesting but A& S would have none of it. The Cindrella hour for the hostel was getting closer, and A poured more beer into my mug. Soon the tensions eased as I let my loneliness be lost amidst the laughter.
It was a new high. My first drink and I was out in a new city celebrating my birthday being treated by two men who were virtually strangers .The taste of beer mingled with the new found freedom, as I was enjoying the company of two people who until a couple of months ago I had not even met. And yet, in that strange bond that we were building without our own knowledge, a 22 year old was born . I felt light, my head began to swim and the reflexes relaxed. It was probably amidst all the dizzying effect of the spirit, I experienced a momentary moment of loneliness being quelled by unknown love and yet , at that moment all that I was probably thinking of was Sister Rosa and the witching hour.
A's wicked grin at seeing me high and talking gibberish still remains with me as I write this piece today. They told me later they were amused at my panic for I was apparently very high . A kept recounting later that I tripped, but I dont believe him. S was always the nice guy . He kept reassuring me as he flagged a cab and helped me into it. A deliberately took his time, munching the sandwiches, enjoying the last sip while I was half mad at him, almost in the midst of throwing the cutlery at him .I felt giddy as the cab left and drifted off to sleep for some brief moments while cursing them for getting me high . But somewhere in that sleep, I found a sense of what one would describe as happiness.
I did return late to the hostel all flushed and high as the taxi raced from marine drive to breach candy . My friends later say that when sister Rosa opened the door, I looked at her and said "The bus crashed." A cake was cut later at midnight , but all I remembered were the cheers from the evening !
Many birthdays have come and gone and I have been high on life as always, but A & S - I wonder where they are ! Well, I did manage to trace S, but A ...
Monday, February 1, 2010
Bombay ki hawa..5
Recently in a conversation with a friend on people, I found myself saying the following without comprehending the full meaning of it. I said there were two kinds of people in the world - those who are with you and those who are not. My friend didnt react and I found myself brooding over it for a while.
Very often we meet people at different points of our life . They don several roles like classmates,friends, lovers, mentors, colleagues, bosses,partners, acquaintances, neighbours..While some choose to stay with us, some drift away into the oblivion. I am not referring to the broken relationships or the failed marriages here . Im talking about those people who have held our hands and lifted our hearts , laughed and cried with us and yet,they become faceless memories and the emotions that we shared at one time become fossils nestled in our hearts .
I remember my classmate in my nursery who told me not to cry as she felt like crying. I dont know where she is now. In my 8th std, I befriended a srilankan tamil and we used to spend hours chatting. I have no clue if she is in india or in srilanka.
But this post however is dedicated to those two men who I met in Bombay and are today lost to obscurity . No amount of combing through facebook, orkut, linked in have brought them back to me. I wonder where A & S are .
A&S. I cant help smiling thinking about them. I met them first in a flight from Madras to Bombay in September 1995 when I was returning to college after a brief holiday. I was just 3 months old in Bombay and I was already feeling like a veteran . We made eye contact quite frequently during the flight, but something held us back. I was 21, single and footloose, trying to grapple with my independent spirit and they were probably trying to get over a boring flight . But the body language was unmistakable. We finally spoke and when we did, it was about directions. They had to get to Worli and my destination was Breach Candy and we impulsively decided to share a cab after a five minute conversation.
A, I learnt was from Bangalore. Dressed casually in jeans and T shirt, he seemed to be indifferent to the conversation that S and I were having. When he did speak, he spoke in a quiet tone and always asked pointed questions. A seemed impatient with S who was giving me his entire story. S was a Syrian Christian from Trichur and was very friendly. He rolled his sleeves as he spoke and his wavy hair kept falling on his face. He was slightly darker than A, but his big eyes were warm and his thick mustache stood out in that very soft face . Both of them were IT professionals who had just returned from US and were on their first trip to Bombay. As South Indians in a big cosmopolitan city, we connected instantly in the cab. S had by then told me all about his family in Kerala ,while A kept looking out of the windown.We reached Worli and S said a quick good bye and rushed out while A took his time . He stretched his tall frame and reached out and paid me Rs 500/- It was agreed that we all three shared the money, but A would have none of it. And for the first time, he smiled as I looked up into his eyes and at his weather beaten face. Take care, he smiled again and the cab left . We didnt share numbers .
Very often we meet people at different points of our life . They don several roles like classmates,friends, lovers, mentors, colleagues, bosses,partners, acquaintances, neighbours..While some choose to stay with us, some drift away into the oblivion. I am not referring to the broken relationships or the failed marriages here . Im talking about those people who have held our hands and lifted our hearts , laughed and cried with us and yet,they become faceless memories and the emotions that we shared at one time become fossils nestled in our hearts .
I remember my classmate in my nursery who told me not to cry as she felt like crying. I dont know where she is now. In my 8th std, I befriended a srilankan tamil and we used to spend hours chatting. I have no clue if she is in india or in srilanka.
But this post however is dedicated to those two men who I met in Bombay and are today lost to obscurity . No amount of combing through facebook, orkut, linked in have brought them back to me. I wonder where A & S are .
A&S. I cant help smiling thinking about them. I met them first in a flight from Madras to Bombay in September 1995 when I was returning to college after a brief holiday. I was just 3 months old in Bombay and I was already feeling like a veteran . We made eye contact quite frequently during the flight, but something held us back. I was 21, single and footloose, trying to grapple with my independent spirit and they were probably trying to get over a boring flight . But the body language was unmistakable. We finally spoke and when we did, it was about directions. They had to get to Worli and my destination was Breach Candy and we impulsively decided to share a cab after a five minute conversation.
A, I learnt was from Bangalore. Dressed casually in jeans and T shirt, he seemed to be indifferent to the conversation that S and I were having. When he did speak, he spoke in a quiet tone and always asked pointed questions. A seemed impatient with S who was giving me his entire story. S was a Syrian Christian from Trichur and was very friendly. He rolled his sleeves as he spoke and his wavy hair kept falling on his face. He was slightly darker than A, but his big eyes were warm and his thick mustache stood out in that very soft face . Both of them were IT professionals who had just returned from US and were on their first trip to Bombay. As South Indians in a big cosmopolitan city, we connected instantly in the cab. S had by then told me all about his family in Kerala ,while A kept looking out of the windown.We reached Worli and S said a quick good bye and rushed out while A took his time . He stretched his tall frame and reached out and paid me Rs 500/- It was agreed that we all three shared the money, but A would have none of it. And for the first time, he smiled as I looked up into his eyes and at his weather beaten face. Take care, he smiled again and the cab left . We didnt share numbers .
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Bombay ki hawa..4
Am I really independent ? It is a question that has been in my mind over the last few months. Independence, according to me rests in your own mind and the ability to express your thoughts without a sense of being curtailed or controlled. But independence is also about how one copes in today’s world- at the workplace, with inlaws, among friends , for that matter in any society where control seems to be the buzzword. People like to control you not just by power, but even with emotions. There is always someone telling you how to live , always with well intentions, but they eventually rob you of your will to live life the way you want, to commit mistakes and sometimes make the mistakes again..Independence is also about acceptance – its about accepting the moment and your own state of mind . If you are weak and vulnerable, so be it. If you are consumed with ambition to reach a certain goal, its about being non apologetic about it. Sometimes your mind becomes overbearing or weak and that is when it starts controlling you..is that a sign of being independent too ? And often how independent are we to control destiny ?
Many years ago, when I was a naïve 21 year old, I recollect asking myself the same question . Sitting on the last step of the Mount Mary’s church and looking out into the sea, I often thought over the meaning of independence. Did it fit the life of someone who was staying alone for the first time with no one to keep tabs and live your life without anyone out there to control you ? I could come home or whatever I called home whenever I wanted, go wherever my mind wishes, probably try alcohol or attempt grass or even find boyfriend(S) according to my wishes. And yet, I had no such desire then .Smoking and drugs has always been a no no to me, non veg is against my principles and boyfriends..well, where were the men ? (That’s probably a subject for a different post) .
I did wander aimlessly through the roads of Bombay, getting in and out of local trains and learning a lesson or two about friendships and relationships and enjoying many a beer by Carter road with new found colleagues and classmates – but that I realized was not the real essence of independence. The paradox of independence is that it is often coupled with the word responsibility, and it is when you are alone, you learn to be responsible and not necessarily independent. You are not just responsible for your physical being, but you also learn to be responsible for your decisions and your thoughts and actions and the way you portray yourself to others. Why am I rambling along these clichés ? Let me tell you the story of K ..
I finished my course in March 1996 and my internship in TV 18 started in April. At the end of the month, I walked into my boss’ cabin and asked her if I could get a job there. I was startled by my own boldness and later by my naïve nature when she did say yes and I took her word for it without a letter. I went home to Madras and told my parents that I am not coming back as I had a job and I would need to find a place immediately after my exams. My parents weren’t too happy but they let me be and I returned to Bombay in June for my exams. The hostel was very clear. I had to vacate on the 16th day, the day after my exams and instead of studying, I went looking for a roof over my head. I called up friends, read local tabloids and even asked my canteen guy, but finally I got hold of a broker in Bandra. I told her I had 3 days to vacate and I needed a PG. I also told her I had just 5000/- with me and I could afford her brokerage, deposit and the rent with that amount . She found a shabby pad for me near Bandra reclamation where two Goan sisters lived in a 2 BHK , a common toilet and bathroom and the entire flat was not more than 500 sq feet. I had to share my room with another girl while the other bigger room was shared by K with the two older women. My terms was simple. I paid Rs 1500/- a month for a bed and half a table, 2 shelves in a wardrobe . I could buy milk and keep food in the fridge and cook , but need to pay extra for gas and for telephone and I need to inform them if I was not coming back in the night. The room was very tiny, being in the ground floor and the kitchen was extremely dirty with fish and bones lying all over the table. Being a vegetarian, I had no problem with friends eating non veg or even storing meat in fridge, but I cannot take the smell of fish, especially when it is being fried. Nor can I take the sight of meat and bones lying all over the kitchen table after being cooked. Nevertheless I agreed, telling myself I will be out by 7 am and return only at late nights and all I need was a bed to crash.
I remember then setting eyes on one of the most scary looking men Ive ever seen . I was shocked . He was huge, massive like a giant from a fairy tale. His face was dark with large haggard looking eyes and his hair and unshaven beard almost merged into one. He looked a bully and spoke like one. I was silent for a moment as he enquired for K and left a message for her with the landlady . I was told he was P, K’s friend and he did odd jobs for the Goan sisters.
That is when they told me about K. My landlady almost considered her as a daughter and told me to look at her as a rolemodel. She was successful, beautiful, intelligent, articulate, confident and street smart according to the two women. And they were in awe of her. I was warned about her likes and dislikes and was told not to cross her path. She also got priority over kitchen, TV, bathroom etc..I finally did meet K after 3 days of moving in.
She was a petite girl, who looked street smart dressed in tight blue jeans and a tighter pink jersey sweater. She seemed like a no nonsense person who looked me over for a few minutes and then moved on to go to the church. Later on, I used to meet K once or twice in a week. She was silent, stuck to her work and often had the last word in arguments with the landlady. I never met her friend P for an entire month.Finally, K decided to be friendly. She started by once in a while announcing that she has cooked aallu paratha or bhajji for me and has kept in the fridge..sometimes she used to throw a couple of expensive perfumes or bawdy earrings at me and say keep it, keep it..she often came to my room to put on her make up and asked my opinion on how she looked everytime she tried a tiny weeny skirt or a tube top. She was always proud of her skin and complexion and said people called her a dusky beauty.I smiled indulgently hoping I will get free dinner and then K started telling me her story.
She said she was a third daughter of a rich man in Rajasthan who had plotted to marry her off to an older man for money. K had a knack for story telling and for drawing emotions. Occassionally the Goan women used to come and listen to every word she said. She spoke about her sister in Bangalore and a brother in Rajasthan. She also said how she had always wanted to be a model and that is why she ran away to Bombay without telling her parents.” Do you remember the Frooti ad – I was supposed to be the model, but the photographer asked me to sleep with him and I refused !” she said. K said she changed her name and became a Christian and now does some modeling whenever she has the time , but works as a secretary . She wouldn’t say where. She cried talking about her parents and about how P helped her in Bombay and that is why she still is friendly with him..” Did he scare you ?” she asked and laughed..Later when K went to sleep, my landlady took me outside and said, “ Don’t believe her, she just tells stories..she told me that P is her brother in law, who was once married to her sister, but is in love with her..and you, stay away from P and all her chelas....you understand ..”
I nodded disinterested in K’s life then. It was just a distraction. I was learning to cope with my own emotions and work pressures and K was like a stress buster. She was always cheerful, her entire petite frame used to shake when she laughed and her eyes were full of mischief. On nights when I got home early , she used to drag me to Carter road and buy me dinner and we used to laugh aloud and sing songs together. We went to Mount Marys on Sundays and she used to tell me about the men in her life. Her boss, a married man was in love with her..what should she do ? She says he showers her with expensive perfumes. Another man keeps calling her on the phone..she used to just call him JI and said he lived in Andheri..she seemed to hold him in high regard, but said he is married too..She didn’t want to settle down, but did want to make it big in life. Her confidence, her charm, cheerfulness, her playful nature used to draw me out on days I was bored and lonely.
About four months later, my landlady told me that I had to move out as her daughter was coming home with her second husband in Dubai. I had just 15 days to move out. I asked K and she offered me after much deliberation, her friend JI’s flat in Andheri. But I wasn’t comfortable and I said NO, athough I had initially considered it. I moved on and found aunty’s place in Mahim-Matunga Road (West) and then never saw K or heard from her again until..
On a new year’s eve, I was out with friends in Jogeswari and we had decided to go to Fantasy land before partying at a friend’s place . And there I saw her, in shimmering gold, with loud make up, with gaudy earrings and an older man, not P at her side tightly clasping on her while she stood there, a disinterested arm candy. She looked startled on seeing me and then suddenly turned her face , uncomfortable, not just with me being there, but with probably herself..She suddenly got lost in the crowd and I searched for her in the crowd. I did find her later, but as our eyes locked, I realized this was not the K I knew….her mask had just fallen by the wayside.
Many years ago, when I was a naïve 21 year old, I recollect asking myself the same question . Sitting on the last step of the Mount Mary’s church and looking out into the sea, I often thought over the meaning of independence. Did it fit the life of someone who was staying alone for the first time with no one to keep tabs and live your life without anyone out there to control you ? I could come home or whatever I called home whenever I wanted, go wherever my mind wishes, probably try alcohol or attempt grass or even find boyfriend(S) according to my wishes. And yet, I had no such desire then .Smoking and drugs has always been a no no to me, non veg is against my principles and boyfriends..well, where were the men ? (That’s probably a subject for a different post) .
I did wander aimlessly through the roads of Bombay, getting in and out of local trains and learning a lesson or two about friendships and relationships and enjoying many a beer by Carter road with new found colleagues and classmates – but that I realized was not the real essence of independence. The paradox of independence is that it is often coupled with the word responsibility, and it is when you are alone, you learn to be responsible and not necessarily independent. You are not just responsible for your physical being, but you also learn to be responsible for your decisions and your thoughts and actions and the way you portray yourself to others. Why am I rambling along these clichés ? Let me tell you the story of K ..
I finished my course in March 1996 and my internship in TV 18 started in April. At the end of the month, I walked into my boss’ cabin and asked her if I could get a job there. I was startled by my own boldness and later by my naïve nature when she did say yes and I took her word for it without a letter. I went home to Madras and told my parents that I am not coming back as I had a job and I would need to find a place immediately after my exams. My parents weren’t too happy but they let me be and I returned to Bombay in June for my exams. The hostel was very clear. I had to vacate on the 16th day, the day after my exams and instead of studying, I went looking for a roof over my head. I called up friends, read local tabloids and even asked my canteen guy, but finally I got hold of a broker in Bandra. I told her I had 3 days to vacate and I needed a PG. I also told her I had just 5000/- with me and I could afford her brokerage, deposit and the rent with that amount . She found a shabby pad for me near Bandra reclamation where two Goan sisters lived in a 2 BHK , a common toilet and bathroom and the entire flat was not more than 500 sq feet. I had to share my room with another girl while the other bigger room was shared by K with the two older women. My terms was simple. I paid Rs 1500/- a month for a bed and half a table, 2 shelves in a wardrobe . I could buy milk and keep food in the fridge and cook , but need to pay extra for gas and for telephone and I need to inform them if I was not coming back in the night. The room was very tiny, being in the ground floor and the kitchen was extremely dirty with fish and bones lying all over the table. Being a vegetarian, I had no problem with friends eating non veg or even storing meat in fridge, but I cannot take the smell of fish, especially when it is being fried. Nor can I take the sight of meat and bones lying all over the kitchen table after being cooked. Nevertheless I agreed, telling myself I will be out by 7 am and return only at late nights and all I need was a bed to crash.
I remember then setting eyes on one of the most scary looking men Ive ever seen . I was shocked . He was huge, massive like a giant from a fairy tale. His face was dark with large haggard looking eyes and his hair and unshaven beard almost merged into one. He looked a bully and spoke like one. I was silent for a moment as he enquired for K and left a message for her with the landlady . I was told he was P, K’s friend and he did odd jobs for the Goan sisters.
That is when they told me about K. My landlady almost considered her as a daughter and told me to look at her as a rolemodel. She was successful, beautiful, intelligent, articulate, confident and street smart according to the two women. And they were in awe of her. I was warned about her likes and dislikes and was told not to cross her path. She also got priority over kitchen, TV, bathroom etc..I finally did meet K after 3 days of moving in.
She was a petite girl, who looked street smart dressed in tight blue jeans and a tighter pink jersey sweater. She seemed like a no nonsense person who looked me over for a few minutes and then moved on to go to the church. Later on, I used to meet K once or twice in a week. She was silent, stuck to her work and often had the last word in arguments with the landlady. I never met her friend P for an entire month.Finally, K decided to be friendly. She started by once in a while announcing that she has cooked aallu paratha or bhajji for me and has kept in the fridge..sometimes she used to throw a couple of expensive perfumes or bawdy earrings at me and say keep it, keep it..she often came to my room to put on her make up and asked my opinion on how she looked everytime she tried a tiny weeny skirt or a tube top. She was always proud of her skin and complexion and said people called her a dusky beauty.I smiled indulgently hoping I will get free dinner and then K started telling me her story.
She said she was a third daughter of a rich man in Rajasthan who had plotted to marry her off to an older man for money. K had a knack for story telling and for drawing emotions. Occassionally the Goan women used to come and listen to every word she said. She spoke about her sister in Bangalore and a brother in Rajasthan. She also said how she had always wanted to be a model and that is why she ran away to Bombay without telling her parents.” Do you remember the Frooti ad – I was supposed to be the model, but the photographer asked me to sleep with him and I refused !” she said. K said she changed her name and became a Christian and now does some modeling whenever she has the time , but works as a secretary . She wouldn’t say where. She cried talking about her parents and about how P helped her in Bombay and that is why she still is friendly with him..” Did he scare you ?” she asked and laughed..Later when K went to sleep, my landlady took me outside and said, “ Don’t believe her, she just tells stories..she told me that P is her brother in law, who was once married to her sister, but is in love with her..and you, stay away from P and all her chelas....you understand ..”
I nodded disinterested in K’s life then. It was just a distraction. I was learning to cope with my own emotions and work pressures and K was like a stress buster. She was always cheerful, her entire petite frame used to shake when she laughed and her eyes were full of mischief. On nights when I got home early , she used to drag me to Carter road and buy me dinner and we used to laugh aloud and sing songs together. We went to Mount Marys on Sundays and she used to tell me about the men in her life. Her boss, a married man was in love with her..what should she do ? She says he showers her with expensive perfumes. Another man keeps calling her on the phone..she used to just call him JI and said he lived in Andheri..she seemed to hold him in high regard, but said he is married too..She didn’t want to settle down, but did want to make it big in life. Her confidence, her charm, cheerfulness, her playful nature used to draw me out on days I was bored and lonely.
About four months later, my landlady told me that I had to move out as her daughter was coming home with her second husband in Dubai. I had just 15 days to move out. I asked K and she offered me after much deliberation, her friend JI’s flat in Andheri. But I wasn’t comfortable and I said NO, athough I had initially considered it. I moved on and found aunty’s place in Mahim-Matunga Road (West) and then never saw K or heard from her again until..
On a new year’s eve, I was out with friends in Jogeswari and we had decided to go to Fantasy land before partying at a friend’s place . And there I saw her, in shimmering gold, with loud make up, with gaudy earrings and an older man, not P at her side tightly clasping on her while she stood there, a disinterested arm candy. She looked startled on seeing me and then suddenly turned her face , uncomfortable, not just with me being there, but with probably herself..She suddenly got lost in the crowd and I searched for her in the crowd. I did find her later, but as our eyes locked, I realized this was not the K I knew….her mask had just fallen by the wayside.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Bombay ki hawa..3
There is a wanderer inside all of us, searching for that elusive something. We give it names like love, money, fame, lust, dreams, goals..but try as you may, it is difficult to express that one word. Even the most focussed and determined soul will find it difficult to do so. The problem is most of us, including yours truly do not know what we really want and a bulk of our lives go in searching for that elusive Godot. Those who do not participate in this search, content themselves by just existing,but some of us manage to live a bit of our lives this way. Sometimes even before we know it, time whizzes past like water draining through our fingers, leaving us limp and lost.
Many years ago, when I first set foot in Bombay , I thought I got what I wanted. I also presumed that I knew what I wanted. A career in journalism, a sense of independence and an escape from cloistered life is all that I looked for then. Armed with a happy go lucky attitude, an inquisitive mind for a new challenge, a desire to seek a new experience , I landed in Mumbai, nervous and excited at the same time.
And around me was a collage of several minds all looking towards a new unchartered destiny. But one thing that separated me from my classmates was that I didnt share their fierce competitiveness . Their cut throatness shook me, their overpowering confidence unnerved me as I waited for my chance for a group discussion. I was confident in my own way and unlike my aggressive classmates, I let my assertiveness speak for myself. I wasnt the dark horse, but many told me later that I was like a chameleon, which could change colours..may be that instinct stood by me in later years.
Today I shut my eyes and the group discussion in the wide classroom came to my mind. We were a medley of girls from different states and were as parochial as we could get. The Bengalis stood their ground together, dominating the conversation at one end, the Punjabis at the other end. There were a few Tamilians, Malayalis with the Marathis and almost every single state was represented in the aspiration list. Yet no one could fit into the description called demure. The group discussion was the second round after the examinations and one needed to pass this before graduating to the personal interview session.
We could hear them though the door was shut.There was no room for articulation, only voices trying to shout over the other to put the other down. The judges smiled whenever someone raised their voice to form an opinion. It was important that we all spoke, it was even more important that we spoke our minds ..I got through that day despite the fact that I articulated my thoughts without necessarily interrupting someone..the topic by itself was not so important, it was your communication and your attitude that was given due importance..you either had it or you didnt.
It was also the first time that a naive madrasi learnt and experience a new word in the English language - a word that most of today's 21 year olds wear on their sleeve, a word that I grasped while standing in the verandah of my yet to be classroom , a word that I will hear again and again throughout my career and a word that changed connotations many times - ATTITUDE. If Madras shaped it vaguely , Bombay fine tuned it for me .And in my quest , this attitude gave me company, letting me live my life, while changing gears, while taking major decisions, while hitting my lowest lows, while being dumped, while dumping people..This has been one constant companion, no matter which shore Ive landed in . But today in Bangalore, I seem to have left it somewhere by the wayside and my quest has now multiplied two fold..oh ! how I miss that Bombay ki hawa..
Many years ago, when I first set foot in Bombay , I thought I got what I wanted. I also presumed that I knew what I wanted. A career in journalism, a sense of independence and an escape from cloistered life is all that I looked for then. Armed with a happy go lucky attitude, an inquisitive mind for a new challenge, a desire to seek a new experience , I landed in Mumbai, nervous and excited at the same time.
And around me was a collage of several minds all looking towards a new unchartered destiny. But one thing that separated me from my classmates was that I didnt share their fierce competitiveness . Their cut throatness shook me, their overpowering confidence unnerved me as I waited for my chance for a group discussion. I was confident in my own way and unlike my aggressive classmates, I let my assertiveness speak for myself. I wasnt the dark horse, but many told me later that I was like a chameleon, which could change colours..may be that instinct stood by me in later years.
Today I shut my eyes and the group discussion in the wide classroom came to my mind. We were a medley of girls from different states and were as parochial as we could get. The Bengalis stood their ground together, dominating the conversation at one end, the Punjabis at the other end. There were a few Tamilians, Malayalis with the Marathis and almost every single state was represented in the aspiration list. Yet no one could fit into the description called demure. The group discussion was the second round after the examinations and one needed to pass this before graduating to the personal interview session.
We could hear them though the door was shut.There was no room for articulation, only voices trying to shout over the other to put the other down. The judges smiled whenever someone raised their voice to form an opinion. It was important that we all spoke, it was even more important that we spoke our minds ..I got through that day despite the fact that I articulated my thoughts without necessarily interrupting someone..the topic by itself was not so important, it was your communication and your attitude that was given due importance..you either had it or you didnt.
It was also the first time that a naive madrasi learnt and experience a new word in the English language - a word that most of today's 21 year olds wear on their sleeve, a word that I grasped while standing in the verandah of my yet to be classroom , a word that I will hear again and again throughout my career and a word that changed connotations many times - ATTITUDE. If Madras shaped it vaguely , Bombay fine tuned it for me .And in my quest , this attitude gave me company, letting me live my life, while changing gears, while taking major decisions, while hitting my lowest lows, while being dumped, while dumping people..This has been one constant companion, no matter which shore Ive landed in . But today in Bangalore, I seem to have left it somewhere by the wayside and my quest has now multiplied two fold..oh ! how I miss that Bombay ki hawa..
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Bombay ki hawa..2
Standing at the edge of the shore at Nariman Point and looking straight into the Arabian Sea , I was trying to juggle the multiple emotions that raced through my mind. Insecurity jostled for space inside an independent mind. A nervous energy shook me , probably it was a combination of both fear and excitement. It had hardly been a month since I landed in Bombay from Madras and the Arabian Sea was slowly taking over from the Marina Beach.
My life until then could be described by 3 Cs - comfortable, conservative and cloistered. I fought to break the shackles of that world and landed in Bombay as a 21 year old eager like everyone else to charter my own destiny. Bombay may have become Mumbai, but the city then and now remains the city of dreams, where an invisible energy seizes you and you dance along with the frenzied spirit of the city
However the Bombay where I landed was the Bombay of Mani Ratnam. The movie had released a while ago and although tensions abated after the 93-94 bomb blasts, a sense of distrust remained and violence was waiting to happen. I had just sensed it in my own hostel , when R , a soft spoken girl from Pune screamed at her Hindu roomate for dating a Muslim boy. "Do not go to Scandal Point alone with him..you know what happenned last month na.." The film screening in the class yesterday had been Anand Patwardhan's Father,Son and Holy War.
Later in the evening, munching moongfili and looking at the sun setting over the Arabian sea, I wondered if this is the city romanticised by the films . I had met S, the boy R was referring to. We had all gone for movies together. We had even been for dinner and had gone over to meet his friends. He had even confided in me that he had just broken up with his girlfriend. " You South Indians have no clue what happenned and you have been here just a month and you are already trusting strangers..are you mad ?" R had yelled as I tried to support her roommate.
True, I thought today as I pen this memoir. We had no clue of violence and hatred. There were no TV screens with 100 channels breaking the same news nor was there internet and facebook or twitter throwing opinions and photographs at us. The newspapers and magazines were our only source of information and sensationalism was then a bad word . Ironically it was in this world of no mobiles , I landed wanting to become a journalism and study media. Little did I realize that Bombay the city itself was to become my school, where I learnt more than just media studies.
My life until then could be described by 3 Cs - comfortable, conservative and cloistered. I fought to break the shackles of that world and landed in Bombay as a 21 year old eager like everyone else to charter my own destiny. Bombay may have become Mumbai, but the city then and now remains the city of dreams, where an invisible energy seizes you and you dance along with the frenzied spirit of the city
However the Bombay where I landed was the Bombay of Mani Ratnam. The movie had released a while ago and although tensions abated after the 93-94 bomb blasts, a sense of distrust remained and violence was waiting to happen. I had just sensed it in my own hostel , when R , a soft spoken girl from Pune screamed at her Hindu roomate for dating a Muslim boy. "Do not go to Scandal Point alone with him..you know what happenned last month na.." The film screening in the class yesterday had been Anand Patwardhan's Father,Son and Holy War.
Later in the evening, munching moongfili and looking at the sun setting over the Arabian sea, I wondered if this is the city romanticised by the films . I had met S, the boy R was referring to. We had all gone for movies together. We had even been for dinner and had gone over to meet his friends. He had even confided in me that he had just broken up with his girlfriend. " You South Indians have no clue what happenned and you have been here just a month and you are already trusting strangers..are you mad ?" R had yelled as I tried to support her roommate.
True, I thought today as I pen this memoir. We had no clue of violence and hatred. There were no TV screens with 100 channels breaking the same news nor was there internet and facebook or twitter throwing opinions and photographs at us. The newspapers and magazines were our only source of information and sensationalism was then a bad word . Ironically it was in this world of no mobiles , I landed wanting to become a journalism and study media. Little did I realize that Bombay the city itself was to become my school, where I learnt more than just media studies.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Bombay ki hawa..1
I have always believed that nostalgia is a world that can be real and yet so illusionary. The laughter, the tears, the voices and the moments from the past are so much a part of you and yet they are so distant . You replay those scenes in your mind, the faces become a collage in the album of memories - they seem so tangible that they can be touched and felt and yet, as they come closer, they vanish into thin air..Nostalgia , according to me is then a contradiction of sorts .
On another note, Bombay is a city of paradoxes. The emotions the city arouse in me are like the currents of an ocean whose depth cannot be fathomed. And yet, I plan to go on a nostalgic trip inside a city like Bombay.When journo, blogger and writer, BG asked me about my Bombay days..all I could do was to sigh initially, waiting for the dormant volcano inside me to become active.
So what do I write about my Bombay days ? Do I talk about my loneliness, my insecurities, my dreams, my coming of age or do I describe the energy and my new found spirit of independence ? The masks worn by the people I met as their ambitions keep pace with the fast life and their companions change by the moment ?
Although I have let the city get under my skin, I wonder if it is a stereotype or a city where you keep peeling one layer after another and see something new every time ? Is it the city of dreams or a city where life passes you by like the fast trains of Virar ? Is it a city whose heart lies in Cuffe Parade or in Meera Road? Is it a city where chalta hai and aage bado rub shoulders with each other?
There is so much to think, feel, say and remember..
On another note, Bombay is a city of paradoxes. The emotions the city arouse in me are like the currents of an ocean whose depth cannot be fathomed. And yet, I plan to go on a nostalgic trip inside a city like Bombay.When journo, blogger and writer, BG asked me about my Bombay days..all I could do was to sigh initially, waiting for the dormant volcano inside me to become active.
So what do I write about my Bombay days ? Do I talk about my loneliness, my insecurities, my dreams, my coming of age or do I describe the energy and my new found spirit of independence ? The masks worn by the people I met as their ambitions keep pace with the fast life and their companions change by the moment ?
Although I have let the city get under my skin, I wonder if it is a stereotype or a city where you keep peeling one layer after another and see something new every time ? Is it the city of dreams or a city where life passes you by like the fast trains of Virar ? Is it a city whose heart lies in Cuffe Parade or in Meera Road? Is it a city where chalta hai and aage bado rub shoulders with each other?
There is so much to think, feel, say and remember..
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