My head hurts...

"I have a math exam today. But nobody seems to care. I stayed up all night trying to cram integral calculus. But still no one seems to care. Mother didn't even bother to get me my cup of morning coffee. She knows how groggy and cranky I am without it. Yes. I can make coffee on my own! Thank you! But still. Where's mother? She's not even kept my uniform on my bed. I love it when she does that. The shirt smells of mild detergent and feels so crisp on my shoulders. And the note she leaves me on top of it saying 'have a good day son!'. I love my mother. She loves me too right?  If she does, why is she sleeping till now?! Mother!!!! I must go and wake her up. Mother!! My voice is sore with all the screaming.. Is she all right? I need to go and check on her now. Right now. My head hurts.. Mother!!!"

"I like to write poems. Did you know that I always topped literature class in school? Ya. I was good. People always told me I'll be a great poet one day. Some even called me "the Modern day Eliot". They ran a huge article in the Daily after reading some of my poems published in the school magazine. The State even gave me a scholarship to go to college and pursue literature. But I don't know why, I didn't like college too much. The kids were mean. They used to call me 'The Thinker' and laugh behind my back. I didn't care for them. I hated Shakespeare and they told me that I'll lose my scholarship and my place in college if I don't get good grades in Elizabethan Literature Appreciation. I didn't like the way they talked to me. I don't like being told what to do. So I dropped out. I can still write wonderful poetry without a college degree. I tried writing one today. Will you hear it? It's about the rain. Its called "Splash". Its wonderful. I just have to run down the corridor and get my fat notebook of poems. It'll just take a minute. Can I go? Please.. Please!! My head's hurting again...Why don't you let me go?!!

"I feel like a queen today. I spent a long time braiding my hair in the morning. The Prince is coming to see me! I have a strange feeling of uneasiness at the bottom of my stomach. This is what they mean by 'butterflies' I guess. The slightest mention of anything is making me blush. Roses, squirrels, the banquet in the evening. I'm being so silly. Almost like a school girl. But I've never been in love before. Its such a wonderful feeling. When I was strolling in the garden with my girls last evening, I couldn't stop humming. The world looked so much prettier all of a sudden. The trees in the garden , with their age old gnarled branches, the squirrels playing hide and seek, the canaries chirping animatedly to each other. Everything felt perfect. Mother never allows me to wear make up. So I secretly went to her room last night and stole some of her scarlet lip colour when she was sleeping. Shhh.. Don't tell anyone! But you know, some strange men came into my room today, wearing white. They took away all my hidden makeup. They said I look like a 'queen' wearing them. No. The ugly sort. The male sort. I cried. I screamed. I threw a fit. But no one listened to me. They locked me in the room and didn't let me out. I have to go meet my Prince. Please! I want to see my Prince! Now! My head hurts..."

"I don't like the look of that guy across the table. I think he doesn't like me too much. He keeps following me everywhere I go. He always has that sick smile on his face when he looks at me. I'm scared. I think he wants to kill me. I can't sleep at night anymore. I tried to tell a few about him, but they just laughed. They think I'm crazy. But I know I'm not. He wants to kill me. Sometimes I have this urge to grab that kitchen knife and bludgeon him till he can't look at me and smile that sick smile of his no more. I even tried that once you know. But then they put me in this jacket and tied my hands to the back like I was some animal. I fought. I screamed for help. But no one paid any attention. They didn't give me food for two days till I stopped screaming. I want to run away from this place. I want to go back to Mother. They say she's become a star. I stare at the sky for hours trying to find out which one of those million twinkling lights is my mother. Whenever I'm in my room I keep praying. Jesus will protect me won't he? I managed to steal a fork from the table the other day. I keep it under my pillow before I go to sleep each night. What if that man comes and tries to smother me in my sleep?!! Ughh.. My head hurts.."

A tale of two cities..

"A relatively large and permanent settlement" is how Wikipedia chooses to define a city. And a definition couldn't have been more incomplete. The rational mind will of course take offense to a statement like that. "Are you nuts? How else would one possibly define a city?" Well I don't know. But it's surely a lot more than a well organized cluster of high-rises and criss-crossing flyovers. It shapes the person you are and you hardly ever realize it.

I was born in Calcutta ( yes it hadn't been renamed then ) and for a significant amount of time the city meant  nothing more to me than my house, my school and a bunch of other addresses which came in handy during letter-writing assignments. A typical day started at six in the morning and somehow making it to the bus stop by six twenty, with granny limping behind me with the lunch box, shoelaces running haywire, socks in hand and bag open with text books spilling out. Once in the bus, no time was spent before we grouped ourselves for a relentless, ruthless game of 'Stone, Paper, Scissors'. Heated discussions on who was in form, and who emerged as the undisputed champion for the third day in a row, went on well past the morning assembly. The rest of the day was majorly drowned in sleep. Be it History or Physics, I failed to notice any difference in the basic treatment of both the subjects and often wondered why our teachers were not professional lullaby singers and were languishing in some private school, frustrated and underpaid. Lunch breaks were more of a relief though and all that sleep surprisingly made one hungry. Before I barely managed to open my lunch box, the food just seemed to disappear amidst a flurry of foreign hands, making it almost impossible to answer Granny back home, whether the curry had less salt or not. School was mostly followed by a string of more soporific tuition classes, the ones I seemed to detest going to initially. I loved to sleep in the afternoon you see. But things changed once I started going to them on my own.When I was fifteen, Ma thought I had grown up enough to not get lost in the city, be able to read bus numbers correctly, and not pay the conductor extra before getting off. That's when I first got to explore the city and discovered how beautiful Calcutta really is. Tuitions ceased to be centres of study and ended up being non-virtual versions of present day social networking sites. Classes were always followed by an hour of random strolling on the streets, couples making excuses and leaving, eating croissants and pastries at Flurys', digging into chicken tikka rolls at Badshah and catching that random evening show at Priya. It was a carefree life I led back then, where all I had to worry about was to get back home in time so that Dad will spare me a volley of inconvenient questions and I could make it to the bus stop at six the next morning. The most stressful times were during term tests. They seemed to be life changing then and I always managed to be under-prepared for every exam no matter how much effort I put in before. To see your own brother emerging from the next room at dinner with not even the faintest sign of worry, exuding confidence about next day's paper, didn't exactly help. Ma was mostly baffled by the difference in our levels of preparation and resulting confidence. She kept telling me, "Can't you learn anything from your brother?" To be honest I really tried. But he seemed to be born with that Midas touch. He was good at whatever he tried his hands at. He aced exams, topped classes, sang well, played the guitar, won essay and table tennis competitions with equal ease. You try living upto that man! I did my bits in school too, but they always paled in comparison, and being taught by the same teachers and judged by the same set of parents and relatives wasn't particularly easy. So to say that my self-confidence was on the loftier side would be wrong. I had days of unmitigated self-doubt, when I couldn't see myself going anywhere and dreaded the prospect of my remaining the underachiever in the family. All I did at times like these, was to open the window and feel the soft spatter of rain on my face. It made me forget everything. The houses in the distance were just a haze. The air was filled with the muffled din of rain lashing against the asphalt. It lulled me to sleep.

I was happy.

Things changed when I moved to Delhi for college. Stephen's gave me a sense of pride and all that apprehension that once clouded my mind day and night seemed like a distant memory. I turned a new leaf. I distinctly remember the first day I spent in Residence. Ma had left for home a couple of hours before and I suddenly realized that I wouldn't see her for at least three months. My first time staying away from home and for so long. All on my own. No one knew me and I knew no one. I bolted myself in my room and tears rolled down my cheeks. I had never felt so abandoned and lonely in my life. I wanted to be left alone then. Just then there was a knock. I opened the door to an unfamilar face, six-foot tall and a booming voice. He asked me for my 'Intro' and then pointed to a pile of tin trunks, a mattress, pillows and a couple of huge bags which could hold nothing but stones, I thought. I was expected to carry his luggage to his room. A first year's initiation into the fold. I wiped my face and walked out. Walked out into the world and never looked back.

The next six years went by in a blur. All those countless hours I spent at Barista, ordering a single Cappuccino to escape ragging, tiptoeing back into my room after dinner, only to switch off the light and sit on my bed in the darkness silently, to give wandering seniors in the corridor the impression that I was asleep and not available for 'entertainment'; all those walks around the Vice Chancellor's lawns animatedly discussing a Scorsese movie; all those trips to Kamla Nagar to hog on momos, skipping inedible Saturday dinners in the mess; conversations with all those special people over 'Maggi' and a cup of 'badi chai' in the cafeteria; all those impossible Rahman songs we tried and messed up royally on stage; all those victories; all those heartbreaks; all those choices; all those surprises and all those unexpected disappointments. They all seem like a mashed up, hazy continuum to me now. But I was settled.

I was happy.

And just when I thought I could live like this for the rest of my life, snuggled up in my comfort zone, it was time for me to move again. And this time away from everything I ever knew. Amidst a myriad of freckled faces I'll keep looking for the ones I knew and grew to love, the words that kept me sane, the laughter that reassured me and made me feel lucky. I would have to get accustomed to sorting my problems out on my own. People might not have the time and patience to hear me complain, a lot of which I had almost taken for granted till now. A part of me says life is unfair. The other reminds me that it was a choice I made. I was born in Calcutta. I was reborn in Delhi. And what Seattle will be like, only time will tell. But I hope to finally grow up there.

Just Another Someone..

It's strange how you always realize how much you love someone, only when they're not there anymore. It's not just strange. It's unfair. You always feel that you could have made so many more memories with them, spent every minute of your waking hours with them. But it's almost always too late, and that nagging feeling keeps nibbling your inside.

I lost my Granny last week. I knew I loved her, but I wasn't sure how much until last week. She was ninety five. And she was technically not even my own grandmother. Everyone would say, "Well, it's good she didn't have to suffer any longer." Those would have been my words of comfort for someone I didn't know. But when it's someone you do, it's a whole lot different. Your brain switches off and all you feel is your bleeding  heart.

When my aunt sent me a text telling me about her deteriorating conditions, I was strong. I knew I had to be strong for my cousin. She passed away next morning. I called my cousin. I could only hear broken words on the other side of the line. I told her to be strong and that I'd be there for her through it all. I paid them a visit next morning. I was rehearsing my lines in my head. What could I possibly say to her in times like this? I decided on some words that seemed pretty reassuring then. But when I met her, it all got muddled. She was smiling and joking like nothing happened. She offered me tea. And suddenly I felt weak. All that strength had just slipped through a treacherous pore inside. I went to Granny's room. The sheets were unruffled. It was like she had gone on vacation. Her crutch was lying untouched in the corner, the one that resembled a Queen's sceptre, I had jokingly told her once. Her favourite pink striped night dress was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Everything in the room looked exactly the same except for that empty void on the side of the bed, where she used to sit amidst a mound of disarrayed blankets, her bent broken back propped up by pillows, and arms outstretched waiting to feel my hand, her blind eye twinkling. Her withered palm felt like wrinkled parchment, so delicate that it might crumble to dust at the slightest touch. I could not enter her room. I stood at the door for a while, probably waiting to catch that familiar dragging sound of her flip-flops from the balcony. But there was nothing.

This was how empty I felt only a week back. I thought life would come to a stand still after this. But I was wrong. The daily monotone of life sucked me in even before I could resist. And before long I found myself laughing at the same jokes, stressing over late night labwork and making plans with friends over the weekends like nothing happened. Which makes me wonder. Do I not miss her? Has her throbbing void been filled already? In seven days? I think not. Maybe Life just walked ahead carrying me with Him, leaving that lonely  void behind. He has no time to wait. She was MY granny. I knew her. I loved her. But for Him, she was just another someone...

No wait.. I'm the judge!

"You know that guy we met the other day. God! He's so full of himself! All he ever talks about is Shakespeare! Imagine! And it does not stop there. He manages to traverse the entire breadth of English literature from early eighteenth century to contemporary works of fiction all in a matter of minutes! It's such a pain talking to him. He makes you feel like literature is the only thing in this world worth investing in. Apparently he also knows Russian and French! How pseudo!"

"Did you see the girl who came to the party last night wearing that canary yellow salwar suit? Man!! I almost died laughing! and did you notice the sandals she was wearing? Yuck! Must be off one of those road side haunts in Janpath. Ugly flat footed yellow sequined sandals! Who on earth would buy that? She would! It seemed like Madame sunflower had walked in to illuminate our dreary, dark lives! And all that flab hanging around the waist in tyres?! I know. Someone should introduce her to the concept of a gym or at least a diet! God knows who even invited her to a high end party like that! I would rather be dead, than be seen with her! What a Behenji!"

"You know Pavan? From class! Guess what happened yesterday. We had planned on going pubbing on saturday night. And guess who joined us there. Mr. Pavan Kumar himself. And you know what? He wouldn't have a drink! How ridiculous! Why did he have to come to a pub if he wouldn't drink? Its so stupid! Was he planning on discussing our physics assignment there? I was disgusted. He kept telling me not to drink cos its bad for health or some shit like that. Like I was missing my dad there! God! Then he started his whole discourse on smoke, and dope and what's right and what's wrong. Who gives him the license to tell me what I can do and what I can't. If he wanted to remain in loser's hell all his life, I don't have to go down with him just cos we were friends right?! I wanna be cool like the rest of them. I don't even know why we're friends in the first place! God! What a sissy!"

"You know Meghna. Yes. The one who thinks she's Miss Universe! Yesterday she was telling me stories about her and her boyfriend. God the things that they have done. I felt like puking. Who does that? and apparently she doesn't even like him that much any more, and has her eye on someone else in class. I bet she'll go sleep with him too soon. Has her parents taught her nothing? God! What a s**t!  And you can't even trust her with anything you know. The moment you go tell her something and tell her to keep it to herself, well that's her signal to go around telling everyone exactly that. Such an incorrigible blabbermouth! I hate her! Oh and by the way, don't tell this to anyone. It's our secret."

"You know Mrs. Khanna from opposite the street? Well don't even get me started on her now. She's so busy obsessing about herself, that she has no clue what her children are upto. Her son comes home late at night, day in and day out. I won't even be surprised if he comes home wasted. Her daughter frequently brings home this strange guy when she's out, probably busy getting a facial done in some fancy parlour. That household seems to have no discipline whatsoever. I tell my children to come back home before sundown. I call them up frequently in a day to know exactly what they're upto, and they never lie you know. Such sweethearts! I mean I gave up my job to raise them. They have seen their mother sacrifice. No wonder they love me and listen to me even now. They are both toppers in school you know! What has Mrs. Khanna ever done for her children? All day long she's busy with god knows what. Kitty parties, pedicures, driving lessons and workouts. That's all. She's so shallow! Such women don't deserve to be mothers I tell you. Exactly. That's the word. Incompetent!"

You know the one sitting in that corner with that plastic smile pasted on his face 24*7? He seems to have no friends whatsoever. Poor guy! Ya. You're right. He's the new judge.

Going 'Bong'kers!!

In Calcutta, I was Bengali. Delhi preferred to call me 'Bong'. Pretty derogatory, I thought at first. The only thing I was reminded of when I heard that term, was that recurrent, resonating sound made by Kung-fu Panda's titanic, wobbling jelly-belly when he took on his adversaries. I hated it. Period. But man is a slave of habit, and before long I found myself mouthing that name with reference to me and my extended brethren with ease. Weird or what?!! It was much later, that I came across 'Bong' as a reference to a fascinating dope set-up, complete with half severed bottles, bubbling water, and lots of mind-boggling physics supporting it. I finally said to myself, 'Ha! It is cool after all!'. There ended my strife with the name. Adjusting with the rest wasn't so simple though.

My first nagging issue was my name. To fully comprehend my predicament, you need to understand the psyche of Bengali mothers in general. They love their sons/daughters to pieces. That's obvious. That often-stifling, all encompassing, singular love first manifests itself at the time of the baby's naming. They know their child is special. They're sure about it. So special that he, at no cost, can share someone else's desecrated name. If they do, it quite understandably, serves as a major source of maternal heartbreak. And boy that's bad! In the search of that elusive rare name for their oh-so-special child, they spend nights going through voluminous, dusty, weathered dictonaries. Weeks of no sleep, no food, and a countless unheard-of words later, they decide on the name. And it more than often turns out to be an archaic, redundant disaster!! not to mention more than half the planet can't ever pronounce it currently. The parents are thrilled by their achievement. They go about announcing the name of their new-born to their neighbours and distant relatives, oblivious to the disdain on their faces. Thus marks the beginning of an endless ordeal for the child. The child, who has to learn to wage war before he managed to master walking. "What's your name boy?"."I'm Oshontushto Gongopadhyay". "Osho what?!@#$". And the embarrassment has just begun.

My next existential dilemma . How Bong is really Bong? Am I being overtly Bong or have I fallen below the accepted levels of Bong-ness pre-decided by the self proclaimed torch bearers of my community? One section of my brothers and sisters can't speak any other language properly but Bangla. That's majorly because a large portion of them have studied in schools where the primary medium of instruction was Bengali. In their cases, its understandable, and if I may add, unfortunate. However, if you have had the good fortune of attending an English medium school throughout and still couldn't manage to speak the language properly, without that heavy Bongified accent, then all I have to say is, " Eeiu aar ay Disgress!!" ( which means 'you are a disgrace!!' in normal English ) A lot of you out there might feel that I'm being too hard on them. Yes I am, and I'll tell you why. According to me, English is one of the easiest languages to master, especially if you have attended an English medium school right from kindergarten. And in case you have given French or German a try, you'll know what I'm talking about. The reason why they still fumble and often shamelessly is that, they are primarily lazy and their heads are full of a pseudo superiority complex that Bengali is the best of them all. Bengali is beautiful. I totally agree. But to call it the best is slightly ridiculous. Every language has its own little nuances which make them different, and not better than the other. India alone has over 50 different languages listed in its constitution. So calling one of them 'the best' just displays one's ignorance. What mastering English needs is a little bit of effort, will and respect for the language. But no. They will continue to bask in the glory of the language they were born to speak in. They are happy living in their little Bengali coteries, refusing to learn what the world has to offer, laughing at all the 'Non-Bengalis' at how stupid and useless they are, unaware of the fact that the world mocks them even more for their blatant ignorance. I've seen it, and it saddens me.

"You don't talk like a Bong?!" I get that a lot. So I ask, "How do Bongs speak then? In Martian?" and here's what I get to hear. Bongs are essentially loud, and by loud, I mean it literally. In a hall full of people, if four Bongs get together at one corner, you can hear high-pitched echoing Bengali words float across the hall effortlessly, interspersed by thundering guffaws. Ya I know. You guys are Bong. Great! Thanks for making your presence felt!! If you happen to know them, and want to be involved in their conversation, well, its time for you to stop day dreaming. They are NOT going to switch their medium of conversation to include a lesser mortal like you. Never! Not in this life at least! So much for Bong social courtesies. And in case one of them is slightly more accommodating than the rest, he gets the dirts and is made to feel abnormal! I'll go for abnormal guy any day! Ya, you can sue me now!

This brings us to the second half of the Bengali population. The ultra modern, ubercool, anglicized lot who would prefer the British raj even after 60 odd years since independance . Ya. I'm talking about the kind, who have been born and raised in Calcutta since their diaper days but still can't speak a word of Bangla without that American twang to it. They are proud of not knowing their mother tongue. They are satisfied with reading Tagore translations. They think they were destined to live in America and curse the twist of fate that landed them in Calcutta of all places. They're probably even more American than the Americans themselves! One tight slap! They should be lined up in a row and shot through their screwed up heads! They serve no purpose and they deserve to die! I don't mind bringing Hitler back to life only to get rid of these weeds!

Which brings us to which category I belong to. I like to strike a balance. Lets say I'm the borderline species. And its tough being on the border, trust me. While my loud-mouthed, Bong-lish speaking, 'Bongs are the best' propagating, communist brethren think I'm much too pseudo to be called Bong, the rest accept me and thank their lucky stars cos I'm hardly a typical prototype hailing from the east who treats them like 'Non Bengalis', which apparently, again makes me a Pseudo bong. Well I'll tell you what I am. I'm Bengali and I'm normal. I have read more Bengali literature than a lot of 'true' Bengalis out there. I speak perfect Bangla. I love Rabindrasangeet and hear them more often than songs in other languages. I know the history of my birthplace in more detail than a lot of them who claim to know it better. I'm proud to hail from Bengal. But that is not my sole identity, and I refuse to make it my only one, leave alone wearing it on my sleeve. I'm accommodating, eager to learn and am open to perspectives.

I want to reach out to the world. If that makes me pseudo, then well, I don't really mind. At least that makes me normal. Thank God!

Hand in Glove...

...Should fit perfectly right? But why does that glove have to be someone else's? What if you find that glove ugly? What if it's little finger is too long? Does that mean you don't have the right to have a smaller little finger? Well apparently so. You need to stretch that little finger of yours, strain those joints almost to the point of snapping, till it fits that glove perfectly. Everyone's happy. You think you are too. But you just lost that hand you were born with.


Think about the number of times you made a choice according to what someone else wanted. You were in kindergarten and you made your first best friend. You come back home excitedly, throw your dirty shoes in the corner with laces still tied in a knot, and run to the kitchen in your soiled uniform to tell your mom everything about him. "You know mom. My friend D was standing on top of the jungle jim with hands held up in the air, for a good five minutes. Don't you think that's great? I wish I could be as brave as D". Mom says, "My god! This guy seems to be a daredevil. He's too rash for you. Don't mix with him too much from tomorrow okay? His parents have taught him nothing it seems." One act. A hundred judgements. You stop talking to him from the next day. What if Mom finds out? And anyway mom knows better. He isn't that cool after all. And just like that your tiny little brain invents multiple reasons to not like him, till the point you see no good in him at all. Just like that you forget the time when he gave you his apple when you dropped the lunchbox your mom packed for you, accidentally on the floor. And just like that you killed a part of you who wanted to be friends with a daredevil, and went in search for your mom's best friend.

When you entered Eleventh standard, you wanted to take up literature. Your engineer father tells you, " Son, humanities is for the brainless students. You're smart. You did so well in science so far. So why not Science? Then you can become an engineer like me or a doctor like your Grandfather later on. Your life will be smooth sailing after that, trust me. And we'll be so proud of you." You only realize later that there is nothing called 'smooth sailing' after all. And by that time it's too late. Your scientist uncle tells you, "Listen kid. Everyone in your family has done science. It's in your blood. You'll flourish in the field. Then you can become a scientist like me later on. And we'll all be so proud of you." And just like that he characterized your blood for you. It's a scientist's blood. You don't know it, but that uncle you meet once in two years knows for sure. And just like that you scratch out humanities and select science as your major. Just like that you crush your dreams of becoming a best selling author, and don your uncle's smelly lab coat. And just like that you killed a part of you who wanted to live a life of wordplay, and set out mixing pungent chemicals for a living instead.

When you entered college, you met a girl like no one else. She was an English Major. She laughed like she'd never known sadness. She painted with no inhibition. Free, bold confident strokes. She got absorbed in her canvass so much one morning, that in a distracted act of moving a strand of hair from her face, she smeared her forehead in olive green. She didn't even care to look into the mirror before she left her house. It was only when her friends in class pointed out the careless green smudge, did she realize how lost she had been all morning. But she laughed it off like she knew no bother in the world. You loved her. Your best friend told  you, "You love her?!! Have you lost your mind? Do you even know what love is?  And anyway she's far too immature for you. You won't be able to handle her." And just like that you let her go, never to meet her again. Not for once do you pause to think 'what if'. Just like that you killed that hapless child in you who never got to experience love.  And just like that you forget her, to make space for someone in the future, someone who your best friend approved of, only to find that the future had neither your perfect girl nor your 'best' friend.

And these happen to be only a few of your choices, which you thought were yours but in reality were someone else'. Everytime you set out to do something you want, your parents, your distant relatives who last saw you in the crib, your friends who conveniently forget you, your in-laws, your neighbours, your colleagues - all of them come to you and dump their treasured opinions on your head till it throbs and threatens to burst. The lines differentiating your happiness from theirs blur and soon the life you happen to call yours becomes theirs. And with every passing effort you make to please someone else, you kill a part of you until there is no real 'you' left. You die a silent death and someone called 'you' takes his place, and no one even sheds a tear for him. He dies like he never existed. And you still think you're alive? I'm not so sure anymore.

It's bad to be a 'Book'ie

You might say, "Don't we know that already? Thanks for the brand new information smart guy!!" But I'll tell you what's new about that. 'Bookie' is the exciting new word coined for that endangered species of book lovers, and you don't have to be a rocket scientist for guessing the tone right! "Did you say you like books?! Gosh! What a douche!" Yes.. that's your image now. Face it. Gone are the days when book-addicts ruled the world (immediately after the dinosaurs; or so I would like to think). They've fallen headlong from the heady heights of greatness to the abyss of disrepute, all in a span of twenty years! Woho! That was fast! So what can you do about it? Nothing. Just sit on your bed, buried in your books and sulk.

Well not that it came as a complete shock to me. I could see the apathy that people around me have for books, all the time.

X: "What are you getting me for my birthday this time?"
Me: "I was thinking of getting you a book, but I'm confused which one"
X: " Oh! Don't bother! Get me anyone of your favourites! :)"

What X really wanted to say was, " Books! Are you freaking kiddin' me? Who on Earth reads books? and just so you know, I care two hoots for your favourites! Duh!
Oh! and one more question! Why are we friends again?"

All that said behind the garb of that seemingly innocent smiley! Yes X. You think you're smart and an Academy Award winning actor but I just read your mind and Psychics are cool!

But even after facing this time and again, I somehow kept telling myself that people might hate books but they don't hate those who love them. Until this happened.

I was waiting in a high end Gurgaon mall the other day for a friend to turn up. She got caught up in traffic and I had a good half an hour to kill. I opened my bag to find 'The life of Pi' sitting there, waiting to fill up those empty waiting minutes. So I sat there on one of those fancy benches amidst lots of bored couples and panting grandmothers, and promptly started reading. A good fifteen minutes later I happened to look up and I let out an audible gasp! Everyone around was staring at me, eyes popping out of their sockets. The look on their faces made me cringe! Hey I wasn't shoplifting was I?! and I'm definitely not dressed in an 18th century ballroom gown! Oh now I get it. I was caught in a mall doing the unthinkable.. Reading! I somehow tried to forget that loathing look and got back to reading as if nothing happened, secretly wanting to make a dash for the door. God! where are you?!!

A couple of minutes later, a lady and her ten year old son happened to come and sit next to me. The lady was obese ( that was me being polite, so you can imagine ), falling in heaps over a rather stifling belt holding her mass together at the waist. Her bowling pin shaped arms had bags with every possible designer label on them. No wonder she needed a seat. Her son was plump, soon to turn into the image of his beloved mother, unless there was divine intervention. I thought about their poor exhausted hearts for a moment and went back to my pages.

Boy ( staring at me ): Mommy! I want a book!
Mommy ( absentmindedly ): Baby! Don't stand on the bench! ( making no further efforts to make him sit )
Boy: But Mommy! I want a book!
Mommy: You want Ice cream?
Boy: yay!! I want a hot chocolate fudge!!

They disappear into the distance; with Mommy trying to explain something to her son, frequently glancing at me. I wondered why the lady didn't once say , " yes baby! I'll buy you an Enid Blyton! How awesome would that be!" That's what my Mom used to say everytime I wanted an ice cream. Well tables have turned. I'm pretty sure the boy was being told not to be like the loser Bhaiya  sitting next to him on the bench and how smart kids don't read books and have ice cream instead. Yes lady, you'll realize what you're doing when your darling son grows up to be a football who would rather roll than walk, who would spell 'Vocabulary' with a 'K' till when he's 30, and who will call Gucci his dad!

I love my books and I'm not in the least apologetic about it. Go excommunicate me if you want, but I would rather be smart than be a mannequin. I'm a 'book'ie and I love it. I love those small print letters on a yellow moth eaten page. I love that occasional whiff of brand new books. I think I should marry Arundhati Roy. There I said it. You hate me now from the core of your heart right? Thanks! You can officially go and drown yourself now. You have my leave..

Living in a 'Metro'polis

Its been almost six years since I first moved to Delhi. At that time, the concept of a Metro was only a burgeoning thought here. Being from Calcutta ( yes, I like this one better than Kolkata. Sue me for it if you want! ) I only smiled when someone excitedly tried to introduce me to it. "You know why Delhi is cooler than the rest of the cities? 'Cos we'll soon have the Metro here!! How awesome is that ha?!" I yawned in response. Such sad, miserable kids.. Metro is so last season! Having travelled in the Calcutta Metro from the time i wore soggy diapers only made me pity the people of this city. But when i saw the first swanky, fully air-conditioned metro coach roll into Vishwavidyalaya station, I swallowed my pride before anyone caught a whiff of it! "How Awesome is that!?" screamed the salivating kid in me. If I had my way, I would have kissed the seats!! Ya, you can judge me now.. go right ahead.

Three years henceforth, Delhi metro was everywhere. Its like the skyline changed overnight. By that I meant, no sky was left to see. People used to look up to view birds, or clouds or empty starry nothingness. Now they look up to worship the Metro God. Well I'm not particularly religious myself, but that God I'm sure existed. Travelling became so much easier. Connaught Place became the new Kamla Nagar. Delhi in all its endless breadth, shrunk to a quarter of its size. So when I moved to Gurgaon, the Metro God heard my prayers and stretched his arms to embrace me in His fold. I said my prayers aloud and performed the jig..  I win! I'm Metro God's favourite child!

But this is God we were talking about, and by definition he never picks favourites. So my first ride back from Gurgaon to Akshardham was far from how I'd pictured it to be. At six thirty in the evening, when I was just rolling my sleeves up to do that ' I win' jig again at Iffco Chowk, I suddenly realized that my beloved country is the second most populated one in the world. All i saw was heads around me. Bald, oiled, pony-tailed, streaked, greying, veiled, gelled, spiked Heads. My heart skipped a beat. Not one. But many I'm sure. How the hell did they all know I was travelling in this metro?! Did they hire spies to stalk me? Dude! But I didn't do anything.. I was a regular, innocent, Metro God fearing boy.. Then why me? The train stopped before me. I had to save my drama for later, and make sure I got a seat. Yah! I was still dreaming! I was pushed into the compartment like I was a midget. and before long, the doors closed and I set out on a journey with no end. I had one foot over the other. My bag was squished like it didn't have any business there. I was dangling from one of those rods, with my other hand resting comfortably on someone else's head. That was my posture for the night. God had decided it, and I had no choice but to obey. I was a breathing, living fossil, and it wasn't pretty.

When I finally got thrown out of the compartment at Akshardham, changing metro lines in between ( yes, this happened twice! ), I felt like God had rejected me, and I never felt happier. If paradise was THAT, I would  choose Hell anyday. But something good happened. I realized I lost at least a kilo in an hour! Not because i lost calories trying to balance myself and simultaneously trying not to kill my co-passenger accidentally with an elbow nudge, but because that extra kilo got readjusted, and pressed into a needy pocket in my body structure. The cute little paunch, that my mom so carefully fed and nurtured during my days at home, was gone and I got back my lean and rugged look!! So all you guys trying to lose weight out there, scratch your names out from the Gold Gym rolls, chuck those Slim Sauna Belts in the bin, and hit the Delhi Metro. You'll lose a kilo in an hour! How cool is that!

Understanding the Sarcastic Man

What would I have done if I wasn’t sarcastic! The thought scares me.. 

Ofcourse you must be thinking that someone who can write that, must be the most arrogant, self obsessed man that people should rather die before  than meet. Not that I haven’t got similar vibes before. It’s tough living the life of a sarcastic man. But its tougher living the life of someone who’s not. Imagine having a public verbal duel with someone. The man opposite you is calling you the dirtiest of names, screaming in a fit of rage. All you do in return is maintain your composure and say, “I wish you the best for life, cos someone as decent, well mannered and controlled deserves nothing less”. A reply like that would give you two advantages. You instantly garner the sympathy and attention of the onlookers. So even if it is your fault, you earn a handsome share of brownie points. The second advantage is that your hyperventilating opponent gets even more angry. Why? Cos you don’t even flinch, while all that energy and vocabulary of his were being washed down the drain. Here you need to understand the psyche of people who get into fights. Their primary motivation in doing so is not just to prove themselves right, but to also piss you off, hurt you, and incense you so much that you say/do something that you will regret later. Sarcasm allows you to prevent all of that, not to mention, helps keep your blood pressure in control. Meanwhile your seething, bursting, abuse-hurling rival might just shoot past the tolerable levels of stress, and if you’re lucky, kick the bucket for good. You are hardly exhausted after the exchange, your reputation intact. Magic!!

Not that it does not have its drawbacks. Ask me. The first impression the Sarcastic Man makes on others is not always the best one. He runs the risk of coming across as an arrogant, presumptuous pig. Primarily because  people in general lack sense of humour, and it takes two to make sarcasm work. It pains so much when sarcasm goes unrecognized, which also brings us to a very fundamental characteristic of the quintessential Sarcastic Man. He treats his sarcasm as a venerable art form. And just like any artist is pained when his art isn’t appreciated by people in general, his soul cries out for appreciation and recognition. Then what’s the difference between an attention seeking person and a sarcastic one, you might ask. An attention seeking person is one who wants to be the cynosure of all eyes at any cost. The sarcastic man, on the other hand, is fundamentally intelligent. He wants recognition for only the best of his ‘lines’, and he knows which ones have passed the bar. He’s not an attention seeking person, but one who seeks appreciation. There's a difference. So next time you come across the Sarcastic Man, brush up your rusted sense of humour, and have some fun.

Another thing you need to keep in mind is that the Sarcastic Man is not always sarcastic. He can also be genuine. Sarcasm is just his escape route for avoiding complications. If he’s complimenting you or your work, don’t always doubt him. Try and read the tone right. He can be more than just mean you know. He’s a regular guy like everyone else capable of being nice too. So sometimes, just cut him some slack. But again, don’t take everything on face value. In other words use your head and be on your toes at all times, when you’re with him. He’ll only make you smarter. So all you poor little humour-deprived dimwits out there, don’t you worry. Cos the Sarcastic Man is here!! And in case you’re still scratching your head; Yes! He’ll save the world too!!