The Owl by the Window

*Picture Courtesy: Rachit Agarwal

 He sits alone by the window. Rendered spouse-less in a recent accident, he has his own private grief to tackle. His former social club doesn’t interest him anymore, what with its recent spate of over enthusiastic members. They keep telling him to take it easy, the fools. As if life was only an ongoing succession of pointless nights spent hooting your heart away. That is another thing though. He misses hooting out to his wife when she would sit by him in the moonlight.

Inside the window is another world. It leads to what looks like a steel giant but apparently, girls walk up to it with empty water bottles. He can see the corridor lit up well into the night, its eerie glow enough to give him the willies. The girls walk past with notebooks and laptops, bowls with Maggi noodles and eyes full of sleep. She used to say his eyes looked perennially sleepy, his wife did. She was a mischievous one, a trick always up her sleeve. He still remembered the time she had scared the girl in the corner room. “Big eyes of solid gold! An evil written all over!” the young lady announced to everyone who bothered to listen the next morning.

He has no clue why his tribe has acquired the “evil” reputation. Surely there are other nocturnal animals – why, what about the jet black bat that hung upside down from barren trees? He prided himself, at a time, in being the jungle’s advisor in trouble. His big eyes and weighed communication made him very sought out when some animals got into say, territorial trouble. He would nod his big head and say “Now, this is a problem we can solve using human insight.” “What!” the foolish ones would protest. “Those incarnations of the devil who destroy our homes!” “Your excitability will be the death of you.” he would hush them up. “Ever heard of the Land Acquisition Bill?”The audience would look on in awe.

Up here by the window, he can see the morning sun rising. He occasionally misses life in the jungle but then, without his wife, he hasn’t the heart to stay there. The foliage, the wilderness, the dark…they all remind him of how they would stay up all night and wonder about the world. They would go on cross-country trips – he had even brought her to the window he currently sat by. What he sees now isn’t too inspiring. Friends today turn enemies tomorrow, yes the very girls who stop by to say hello at the steel giant of a water cooler. Some of them say nasty things about each other, poking fun at the ones who keep to themselves. He oversees them copy assignments, steal credit, compete for a better paying job at the cost of what their life’s passion is. He ends his day sighing. And thinking about the times he would giggle at the baby rabbits playing around.

One of these days, he will be no more. He will probably droop off the windowsill, down the hills of Pune. Nothing will change in the world he once inhabited. But the kingdom of heaven would look forward to a reunion of love.

Cocooned in Coconut

*First Prize Winning Entry in Parachute and Women’s Web’s “Goodness of Coconut” contest*

Dad would climb coconut trees on summer afternoons. The days of vacation would stretch lazily ahead, the sun a glorious shade of gold. The troupe would smuggle the prized coconuts inside, carefully placed in rucksacks. It is another story that the little smugglers would usually be caught red-handed by my very observant Grandma. After framing a suitable apology for the complaints sure to come in, she would set to work on making coconut barfi. For the entire neighbourhood. Today, when Dad recounts stories of yore, I get a startling realization of how time has flown. From the time Mom used to be my very own skincare specialist, with coconut oil in a plastic bottle, to the dusty, coarse reality of today.

“You aren’t supposed to eat this!” I remember an aunt screaming when she spotted me digging into a coconut-oil bottle with a spoon. I couldn’t be blamed, could I – the coconut looked neat, glossy and immensely tempting. She had proceeded to explain to me the goodness of coconut for fresh, glowing skin and healthy hair. In detail. I complained to Mom later. “Why can’t I eat something that is so healthy?” Though Mom giggled, I am sure those coconut-chocolate companies grabbed major customer insight from me that evening.

Come to think of it, the goodness of coconut is no surprise. Taut brown packaging, damage resistant fibre, placed on a pedestal impossible for the untrained to reach – ah! And then, underneath all the toughness, purity that is hard to match. It is a nut for sceptics no less, the kind that reaffirms faith in the noble creator amidst the clouds. Grandma is still chirpy when she spots coconuts in the kitchen basket. “This one for barfis…” she points out the fluffiest of the lot to me, “…that one for your skin. We will get the dryness to go.” She then spots a lone, rather shrivelled one in the corner. “and that one will do for the dishes!”

Tradition or no tradition, skincare can boast of a mind-space of its own. Even if we are the to-hell-with-niceties kind. Skin problems, even the non-cosmetic ones, are vexing. While we are losing out on personal time by the minute, we are gaining on associated problems – skin that lacks moisture, colour and lustre. Problems that can all be addressed by basic, unadulterated coconut. Considering the huge business that ‘beauty’ now is, there is apparently some magic solution for all problems. Few of these solutions however, are willing to answer what lies on the other side of the moon.

Mom still keeps coconut oil in a plastic bottle. Grandma helps her with safe-keeping coco-milk, especially for yours truly, the princess of the house. When winter mornings dawn sleepy and cold, she heats the bottle for convenience of use. Dad doesn’t climb coconut trees any more. We get our coconuts from the local market – now transformed from the lively bazaar of my childhood into a snooty market-city. While the world continues to change for better or worse, happily, soft and supple skin is still only a few coconuts or a coco-moisturizer away.

*picture from newbeauty.com

When Cycling Gets Dirty

*picture from bangalore.olx.in

Where I live, you can see a lot of cycles. It is a bit of a rocky stretch and not the kind you’d like to spend a sleepy morning trudging over. Cycling comes to the rescue there, considering the cost of India’s favourite cars just went up. I remember falling over a couple of times when Grandpa taught me to ride a bicycle. We would practise on summer mornings when the grass would still be wet with dew and the air pleasantly cool. Considering the associations I have with cycling, thinking dope in the same line jars. And jars badly at that.

Consider the media attention that Lance Armstrong’s “confession” on the Oprah Winfrey show has received. Whopping figures, I can tell you. Apparently, he has confessed to almost everything – from doping to being a bully to winning those seven Tour De France victories bolstered by blood dope. Well, well. This coming from the man whose cancer awareness venture – LiveStrong – gained him many supporters even from the non-sporting fraternity. The man with millions of dollars in sponsorships, millions in fans. When you see someone who had that kind of stature not many years ago and is today dissolved to a shadow of his former self, you feel several emotions. Being disillusioned is one of the dominant ones.

What, I wonder, was behind this sudden decision to come out clean? Will it motivate his former sponsors to renew their ties with the tainted hero – you know, reform sells. Nike, it seems, has even hinted at the same. For the larger mass though, rebuilding the trust that Armstrong has lost and associating him with our favourite brands again seems unlikely. There is no dearth of celebrity endorsers on the arena and while Armstrong was in a different league altogether, why would – given a choice – firms sign up somebody with contestable credibility?

Ah, life used to be simpler. As I walked back to my room this evening, I spotted a lonely cycle at the stand.  The paint was a bit faded, the tyres rather squishy. But as I looked on, the stand transformed into the backyard of my childhood. Two potted plants of dahlia, a badminton set and a milk bowl for the colony’s cat. And Grandfather standing by the door, waiting for me to cycle out to another beautiful day of my summer vacation. 

Packed Weekends in Pune

 

Pune is brimming with activities this January. As I sat and mulled over all that weekends could be used for, I counted a number of very interesting options.

For instance, you could sample some quality cinema at the Pune International Film Festival. It would be a welcome break from the several, not-so-inspiring films up for consumption at the city’s multiplexes. Or, if you are in the mood for diplomacy, you can go check out the Indo-German mela at the Deccan grounds. On till the 20^th of this month, it offers an interesting journey through urbanization over the ages. Note: Gorging on some traditional Indo-German food at the Beergarden is a wonderful way to appreciate the journey! And then, there’s also the Times Pune Festival which is certainly among the biggest in the city, with food, music and theatre rolled into one.

It helps when the first month of the year is all animated and chirpy. This is the time when New Year resolutions are still hale and hearty and the heart is brimming with good intentions for every soul it comes across. The first quarter’s results are still far away and economic indicators are but figures. In such times, appreciation for the fine arts come easier than it does on a cranky mid-year month when festivities are nowhere in sight. Anyhow, hush. It makes no sense to foresee bleak times ahead when Pune is going all out keeping this winter as warm as possible.

Where to, then? Well, after much deliberation and thought, we ended up flying kites at a friend’s place, with those wonderful events postponed to the next weekend. Home-made delicious food, newly-wedded hospitality from the couple and a taste of Pune’s scorching January sunshine. Quite a happy Sankranti, I’d say. 

Goodbye 2012!

It seems just yesterday that we had a conversation with 2011. Twelve months down the line, 2012 is in queue to disappear under velvet covers, never to emerge. Time, much like its mythical reputation, is ready once again to gallop away on its golden carriage. All that we will be left behind with is smoke. And memories.

“So you live in Delhi. How can you feel excited about going back to that fateful land?” But that’s where my home is! The onlookers sigh, even shake their head. All Delhi means to them is the nation’s rape-capital. The land infested with monsters ready to jump at you at every dark corner of the road. It saddens me, the reputation my city of fond remembrances has acquired. As a pigtailed, spectacled girl of seven, I remember collecting bottlebrushes every winter morning. Playing Badminton with Mom every summer evening and then dancing with the sparrows on the terrace. How can the city that has seen me grow up degrade into one that wishes ill onto every other denizen?

I remember how the year had started on a rainy note. Interpreted by many to signify a washing-away of old and debilitating ways of life. 365 days since then and I wonder if we have washed away way more than imagined. Have we not washed away our belief in the basic goodness of mankind? Have we not also washed away sensitivity towards the frail, the deprived or the ones who think differently from us? 2013, though you are still in the dark, all I want from you is sunshine. The kind of warmth that reaches to our hearts, unlike the cosmetic dazzle that laughter now seems to be about.

The year gone by introduced me to several new people – with several new ways of thinking. It took me to a multitude of new places with fantastic sights and sounds worthy of keeping away in cold storage. You know, for that winter when grandma will sit by the fireplace and tell a tale to a host of animated grandchildren. P&P too has had an exciting time, what with the constant travel, new readers and much-appreciated support from the ones who have stuck around since its inception. And then, of course, 2012 also took me back to Pune, back to R. I realized all too quickly that no matter how overcast the sky may be, those people in olden times had got it quite right. Love, in all avatars, indeed conquers all. It brightens up your world like nothing else can.

2013 opens with a challenge. I am sure it has many others to unveil as the months go by. The winds of Pune beckon even as I try my best to lap up as much of the Delhi sunshine as I can. Sometimes, this constant to and fro gets on my nerves – am I a pendulum? The packing, the unpacking, the goodbyes and the hellos – no less! I long to settle down into permanence but then, as R tells me, bliss takes its own sweet time to arrive.

I love how this season brims with expectations, promises and anticipation. Though not many of these materialize into what they promised, isn’t life all about hope, love and delight? As 2012 prepares to slip away from underneath the door, I hope the coming times will bring contentment and peace into the world. The sun is streaming in from the window as I write – in magical little rays. We never know. The good Lord may just wave about his sparkling wand… and all that is crooked in the world will be set straight.

Here’s wishing everyone a splendid New Year 2013!

Luv Shuv and Shave

Our disdain of bodily hair on women starts early in life. The “aunty with the furry arm”, for instance, could never compete with the babe who boasted of perfectly smooth skin. I remember, as a seven-year old, hawing at the lady who had hairy armpits under her off-shoulder blouse. Now, I might ward that off as evidence of what the company of over-mature kids-in-my-high-school could do. But years later, I cannot claim to be the nirvana woman who sees bodily hair as the newest fashion accessory. Even when my man is among the only ones to appreciate as much. My Granddad, with a scrutinizing expression, has only this to say when I return from the parlour – “what exactly did you get done?”

Now when it comes to some men, hair is apparently among the choicest vegetation to furbish. A ponytail for the head, a nice and wavy beard for the face. “It adds character, don’t you think?” chuckles my man, when I quiz him about the connection between artists and facial hair. While a few of these bearded men indeed are good at what they do, several use this character-enhancing device as a cover-up for lazy mornings. Then, the ‘bedraggled look’ suddenly becomes hot and the evening stubble is what goes with every conceivable look/occasion. Sadly, unkempt chins don’t hotness make. All they make for is vegetation you long to mow. Tingling and scratching vegetation at that.

But you see, life can be quite fair at times – possibly to make up for its several questionable decisions. If it is the evening stubble you detest and it is distance from you which he does, bingo! Why, after all, do we invest such time and energy to grooming? It is all very well to talk individuality and advocate dressing up for “my own enlightened self” but the fun part is appreciation. The way someone’s eyes light up when you wear their favourite colour, for instance. Even if the texture reminds you of potatoes you mashed and refrigerated last weekend. Now, while I don’t advise throwing up a tantrum, the stubble does come with many err, functional limitations. It ain’t tidy, for starters. Complaints from a hygiene conscious partner can be well placed here. What about its prickliness? Or the perceptions of laziness that it conjures up? Or even the way it draws away from ease and sophistication? Cooked-up stories about a stubble being kiss-worthy are just that. Stories! When it comes to those special candlelit moments, clean-shaven rules the roost. And it is what, I tell my man, I would ideally roost to.

The way the chin feels, at the end of the day, is cosmetic. Much like the earrings I match my clothes to or the kajal I line my eyes with. But, over time, the way we keep ourselves starts defining us. Largely. In that vein, I think it makes perfect sense for a man to invest some time in the way he keeps his facial hair. The call may be his – neat and shaven or unkempt and messy?  But the trigger to the decision comes from other quarters. “Shave or Crave” is quite the mantra. Coupled with how a dose of drama is all very well when the cause is noble.

~

This post is a part of the ‘Shave or Crave’ movement in association with BlogAdda.com

A Talaash gone awry

I came out of Talaash searching for an auto-rickshaw. There were none. Later that night, I hopped onto bed searching for a dream. Coincidentally, there were none there either. Apparently, whodunit tales with a spook amidst the cast do not make for velvety dreams. Day after day of tasks to be finished and survived with people who know it all do. They make for nightmares. Anyway, I digress. We were talking of Talaash.

So, there was a time when I would go to an Aamir Khan movie rubbing my hands in anticipation. The man who can do every role with grace, from the Punjabi advocating Thanda Matlab Coca Cola to the soft and sensitive teacher to a dyslexic child. With the latest onslaught of films like Dhobi Ghat and more recently, Talaash, I wonder if the anticipation will stay in place. Not that Aamir is my point at contention with the movie. Really. He was fine, even excellent I thought, especially in a frame towards the end when he sits by the lake and cries. Very few actors, I think, can cry like that and leave the audience touched.

No, my point at contention instead is a lot of other things. A Kareena hang-up, for instance. Now I don’t know if it is just me but throughout the movie, I failed to associate her with the place brothels are supposed to be like. Oh yes, I gather she was probably an uptown escort but dressing up in revealing clothes and lining her eyes with chock-full of glitter failed to rid her of her innate sophisticated ways. Every time she appeared, I thought of a man somewhere saying “Action” and “Cut”! Quite spoiled it for me.

Let’s talk about the supernatural element. That has been a given with thriller movies that Bollywood dished out in the 70s and 80s. When I listened to Sridhar croon “Muskaanein Jhooti Hai” with the hollow chorus resounding somewhere, I had a fair hunch about the same. Not to mention the mischief marketing that a lot of spoilsports did for the movie – I remember getting three different SMSes announcing the presence of three different ghosts in the cast. Almost a supermarket of spooks, I tell you. But when an apparent red herring in the plot ends up in a climax like this, you feel disappointed. Since this isn’t a spoiler-post I will refrain from elaboration, but you get the gist.

I had walked in hoping to do a soul-search, much like Aamir claimed in the promos. I ended up doing a soul-search, quite literally. Duh.

Birthdays in a Flash

The thinkers often talk about the one moment when life will flash by in front of your eyes. They warn you to live well so you don’t regret the flashback. I have no clue if this is an omen of some sort but I get that flash every once in a while. It usually comes at important junctures and in moments when you need to look calm and composed. In fact, it can sometimes be quite a spoilsport.

At the airport yesterday, I saw a mental audio-visual of my growing up days. And I grew up really fast, or so I hear. Nani tells me I was born with a huge bunch of curly black hair. They had to make trips up and down the staircase when I learnt to hold things. Err, to collect all the stuff that I would drop from the balcony. Does anyone have insight on why children do that? I was very protective about my stuff otherwise and would ensure everything was in place when the other kids – the neighbours’, for instance – left. Mom would help me cut out the lions and elephants I would draw for my school holiday homework. She would sit by patiently as I painted them red and brown and yellow. All of the Delhi summer afternoon, until the evening breeze beckoned us to the balcony. And then, when Papa would arrive, Grandpa would fix all of us a glass of aam panna.

Sometimes, it is so hard to believe you are growing up. Especially when you gorge on the aloo ka parantha and bask in the sun just as you used to when you were small. The sun is warm and serene, the afternoon resplendent with memories. At other times, it is impossible not to acknowledge how time has flown. How tall you have grown, how friends are getting married, how you need to travel back to Pune the next day. At such times, I hold on to Mom in a super-tight hug and tell her how much I love her. I order a plateful of hot pakoras from nani’s kitchen. I sit with nanaji and Papa and talk about how the youngest cat has been learning to climb. Then, I get a semblance of peace. The moon comes out in the night-sky as I stand hand-in-hand with R. I gaze at the twinkling stars and I find the skies of Pune merging with the ones back where the rest of my world is.

When tomorrow dawns, the sun will rise to tell me it has been a year. One whole year since I acknowledged I am getting older. Since P&P refuses to go without the customary celebration, I grant him as much. 

So here goes – it’s a ‘Happy Birthday to Me’ from P&P! 

*picture from fragranceflora.com

Talking of Drivers this Diwali

*picture from jokocar.blogspot.com

On Diwali, we sat discussing drivers. Why? Well, can you ever understand what direction a mithaai-fuelled conversation with colourful lights in the background takes? In my home, no. We move from adulterated sweets to Swiss bank accounts as smoothly as butter does on the aloo paranthas that nani makes on these wintry Delhi mornings. So when the conversation steered towards drivers, I tied my seatbelt.

There was one fellow who believed in efficiency. Only, no one else could believe in his. He sped through corners and glided over speed-breakers. When one fine day the car screeched to a halt at a hair’s length from a full-sized truck, all he said was “did that scare you?” <giggle giggle> Even the giggle sounded neurotic. Then there was another one who would drive around to restaurants for lunch. Dad stepped into the office lift and the car exited from the car park. Afternoons would be about a mission – which is the best eatery around town? “Isn’t the car consuming more petrol than usual?” “I think it’s alright. There’s been much traffic lately.” All was hunky dory until one fine morning when Dad looked out the window and there was the car, gracefully going past the gate. That put an end to the eatery-locating-mission.

We once had a jeeju-saala pair as cleaners. They would shift roles on alternative mornings and were, for the most part, good at their job. The younger one went missing one day – I could never figure out if he was the jeeju or the saala for they looked the same and of similar age. That night, the other guy came knocking at our gate at ten in the night. “I needed payment for cleaning.” <hic hic> “Come tomorrow morning.” nani announced. He gave her a genial smile and walked away. Only to return ten minutes later. “I needed payment for cleaning.” He announced. Dad and I attended to the car the next day, equipped with soap, water and a mop.

I am not much of a car person. I sit nicely in the back seat when Dad drives and switch FM channels with a remote. I watch the trees and buildings slide by when it gets dark, along with the moon. There isn’t privacy when you have a driver. Unless you get on good terms with him but then, Delhi doesn’t present a neat showcase when it comes to driver-car-owner relationships. So my being wary may not be a bad idea.

When the plateful of Diwali goodies ran out, I walked to the kitchen to dump the plate. I also did a mini jig and jog on the way. You see, driver or no driver, I don’t really fancy tyres.

An Ice-Cold Delhi

*picture from breathedreamgo.com

Winter is on its way. Or so it seems. Mornings are now foggier – or smoggier – and it gets dark before Dad gets to come from work. But more than these weather-symptoms, I get vibes of winter from more human sources. Quite interesting, if you know what I mean.

People are vacationing on Diwali. Going out of town to the beach and the hills with their house left behind in the dark. With no lamps or lights or glitter on the walls. Sometimes, with a housemate or so – often elderly-  left behind with the other darkness. And I used to think Diwali is about decorating your house together and gobbling down sweets with silver paper on them.

Televisions, mobile phones and cars are being bought. The newest varieties, the most happening brands. On the sly, houses are also being sold. The ones your parents had put together with a penny collected a day. All for a fancy flat in an uptown area, possibly with no accommodation for the former house owners.

Youngsters hang around in beer bars, discotheques and shopping malls. Lost to the world outside the glass bubble. They return home all “high” and mighty, lighter on all accounts – including the cash. The concerned parties are hushed up and asked to get inside quilts before the cold wave could come in through the window. But it already did.

Whatever happened to “happy family” moments that we grew up relishing? When they are missing, all I see is jazz. And for jazz, I never did acquire an ear. Festivals for me are still about family. Together, we light lamps, set up streamers, make a rangoli. We devour milk cakes and rasmalai, gaze at the firecrackers in the sky and I never gather the courage to light some of my own. We pray to Ganpati Bappa and wish for health, happiness and laughter.

Delhi is getting cold. This Diwali, I hope the lights warm up some of the hearts which have forgotten how special it is to love and be loved by their family.

P&P wishes everyone a very happy and prosperous Diwali!