Change is good!

Friends, family and strangers...

Like all wonderful things have a new beginning, so has mine. Have officially moved to wordpress. If you are really bored someday, and care to strain your eyes with some reading, you can find me on https://janeborgesblog.wordpress.com/

Adios

See you, in my new virtual space

What's it like to live with Jake?

Nearly nine months ago on January 13, I brought my first car. A second-hand one. The compact silver sedan managed to win my attention on the very word go. Now, I was told a thing or two about second-hand cars, and how a new driver on Oman's roads should always be wary of buying one, but I honestly, was very confident about hitting it off with Jake. Oh, I forgot to mention, that's what I christened my car. 

Jake sounded very much like me: 

Short (Am not that short, but still). 

Sweet (I have at least one friend who will vouch for this. That's a good enough number)

Simple (Please tell me you've heard of Plain Jane)  

And a Steal (This is when one should use the hashtag #justsaying! *smirks*).

Now what I didn't realise is that Jake was not going to be as uncomplicated (as me) or like his name suggested. On the technical front, he came with a lot of glitches. Humanising this little silver thing, however, seemed to help the "mechanically-unsound-me" come to terms with his problems. I now began associating Jake with the failings of our kind. And trust me, I found him leaving behind too many clues. Jake's tantrums are not unfounded; the machine is as much a man, as I am a woman. Here's why:

Jake PMS'

Okay. He's a man. So what? In the beginning, I wondered if I should have named Jake, Jacky. It would have justified the monthly roll. But wait, I know men cannot be absolved of strange behaviour, and worse, they don't need a week of the month to spell out what it means to be irrational or illogical.

But am not lying. Every damn month, strategically somewhere in the first or last week, Jake suddenly turns grumpy, moody and goes all out of balance. Sometimes, he overheats, on other days, his battery runs out. Often, out of the blue, his gear gets so stubborn, it just won't budge. Also more than often, his coolant takes a leak. Now, all these events were carefully timed over the last nine months, enough to send me into a tizzy. I fixed him each time, hoping he'd come out all renewed and rejuvenated, and as good as brand new. But no, if his parts won't give in, he attracts opposite cars to pick up a fight with him. Once, an SUV caught him off-guard, hitting him from the rear. I could hear Jake silently say, "Thank you very much Mr SUV. Just when I was wondering, what more I had to offer to Jane, you came riding along from behind. And woah, you did a great job at breaking that headlight of mine. It was anyway too flashy for my exterior."

Jake is possessive

Ah! Just like I would want my man to be. However, there's just one small issue here. When Jake becomes possessive, he simply stops working. Initially, I thought I was imagining all of this. Then the repeated cycle, helped me put two and two together. What I learnt is that each time he sees me with red lipstick on, and my hair left all loose, all his mechanical functions take a beating. It's like he's telling me, "If you get out into the world like this, I just won't let you go. You will stay right here with me and I don't care whose loss it is."

Meanwhile, I fiddle with my car keys, rev up my engine, then turn it off and repeat the process again and again, - all in the crazy sultanate heat. That's when I start sweating profusely. My lipstick melts, my sunscreen spreads out, my eye-liner smudges, my hair gets all damp. I tie my hair in a hurried bun and wipe out all that melting make-up with a tissue, and say a small prayer, before I try to turn on the engine one last time. And what do you expect: Jake suddenly works like a dream. "Yay!" I tell myself. "Sexy, only for me," Jake mutters.     

Jake is principled

I need to give Jake some credit here. Despite all his heroics and tantrums, he still never gives up on me. The two times he developed serious issues, for whatever reasons - PMS or unwarranted possessiveness, I forewarned him that he could just not give away on the 15km-long journey to work. And he surprisingly, didn't. Despite my mechanics confessing that he would not outlive his prime, he stayed steadfast and dropped me safely to my place of commute. My legs shook nervously through it all, but when I made it in one piece, I had to give this man a pat on his shoulder and a peck on his cheek. That's a nice quality to have. At least when you consider him yours. 

Having said that, I doubt we will be together too long. But his relentless histrionics added the much-needed drama in my life. He keeps me on my toes, but always has his eyes on the road. And then, he loves to push me to the hilt, making me tougher and bolder albeit without make-up. He has also taught me a thing or two about life, and how just having a man to yourself, is not the end of the road. It's a long journey out there! Jake and Jane have seen and done it all.

When two little puppies taught me something about love…

For the last two months, every day I returned from work in the evening, two lovely wadi dogs (puppies) that my brother had rescued from the street, would be waiting with anticipation for me near the doorstep of our humble cabin home.

Rocky and Rachel (behind)

As soon as they’d see me approach from a distance, they’d run towards me and lie flat on my feet, restraining me from walking any further. I’d rub their bellies and they’d run around me, before following me to my home, seemingly happy and excited that I had arrived. 
For some reason, I had started looking forward to coming home everyday. 
This routine of having two excited dogs wait longingly for me, made me feel really good about myself. 
I felt loved, and unlike how we sometimes patiently and endlessly wait for our fellow human beings to reciprocate to our feelings, this was so effortless and true to the nature of love, that it seemed just right. Try loving a human being, and expecting the same zealousness. After a point, we human beings get so tired of loving and being loved, that before you know it all wanes. We don’t like monotony. But dogs work magic within this monotonous cycle of loving the people they come to recognise as their own.     
I didn’t know animals could have that effect on you. In fact, until 12 weeks ago, I was nothing close to a dog lover. I liked them from a distance because as much as I would not admit it, they scared me. It’s natural to be wary of something that doesn’t think, talk and behave like you. But how all my stupid notions fell apart in a matter of weeks, is a mystery.
I had started bathing them, holding them, feeding them and most importantly loving them. When on June 15, my neighbours heartlessly dumped the two-month-olds in a garbage bin - while dad and I were at work - my heart sank for the first time. This was worse than heartbreak. This was worse than rejection. This was worse than a lot of things that could happen to me in this lifetime. And because I cried so much that day, I could actually tell the difference.
Fortunately, we found them in the evening. But finding a foster home had become priority. For reasons too many, I couldn’t keep them here with me. It would have been unfair to them. We, however, christened them Rachel and Rocky. And wow, they loved their names. You could call them from any corner of my compound, and they’d be there at the drop of a hat.
Just that this morning, they refused to come out when I called out to them. I don’t know how they had figured out that we were giving them away. But they did. We were sending them to a farm house – the owners, our family friends, had agreed to keep them there. I think it to be a better place to the one I have here. Every now and then, our neighbours find new ways to get rid of the dogs and we really fear for them.
They whimpered as dad and I got hold of them and placed them in the pick-up. It all happened so suddenly that we did not even get a chance to say proper goodbyes.
But honestly, right now at this moment, four hours after they have gone, I feel terrible. It’s like I cut-short this beautiful spell, just like we humans tend to do. We are so fearful of getting attached that we tend to snap off if it doesn’t appear feasible.
From tomorrow onward, I won’t have those beautiful puppies run down to me, when I come home from work. I have lost so much. But they will continue to love, relentlessly and faithfully.

An open letter to my mother (and so many like her)

Dear than dearest Ma,

My friends think I am slowly turning out to be like you. I don't know what makes them say that because in many more ways than one, we are a whole lot different.

You, for once, ask too many questions and dole out uncalled for advice. I still don't know how and where to exercise such authority without appearing bossy or seeming meddlesome. You also have a great threshold for life's knee-jerking surprises - little wonder you don't grumble or whine - while I make a relentless effort to show my disdain for everything that doesn't make me happy. It's also amazing how you get us to act without having to scream your lungs out. I, on the other hand, take from dad and assume that raising my decibel levels can sort half of the world's problems, including my own. Then there is the surplus amount of sugar you fuel into your tea, when my coffee is generally bitter and I know how much you detest that. 
Obviously, our differences are not as distinct as pepper and salt; yet, when they surface now and then, we cannot ignore the friction it causes.  

But the other day, I made chicken curry for dinner and your son (and my brother) said my food reminded him of mummy. I was pleased, just like I was when my friends told me that they thought I was becoming you. It honestly, felt like a job well-done.

Come to think of it, it's actually very strange because I have been quite vociferous about hating the things that don't appeal to you - like hanging out until late into the night; going for overnight picnics/treks or not staying at home enough. 
If my friends asked me why I couldn't join them, I would not mince words when blaming “my strict mother” for it. I even tried lying to you once, and it made me feel guilty for the rest of the year, so I quit that option.

Then there were the millions of questions you asked me about the things I did or the friends I hung out with, and your blunt opinions about some of them. 

Of course, you keeping such a tight leash on my life, made me angry.

What I forgot, however, was to be grateful. Grateful to see your face when I woke up each morning or grateful when you made me my coffee, just how I liked it. 
When the people who I most sincerely trusted hurt me, you became my sounding board. You listened to me patiently, saying nothing more than what I needed to hear. It's uncanny how you know my secrets, without me ever having to share them with you; it's also strange how you can sense am low by just listening to my voice or seeing my face. Again, I had forgotten, how to be grateful. Because, even if I was, I never told you how fortunate I was to have you in my life or did not once remind myself that this is the mother I would like to be someday.

Surprisingly enough, you've never expected gratitude. You keep indulging me, even when you know that I forget to thank you for your goodness. You also reprimand me when needed, though it never goes down well with me. You take the brickbats in your stride, and you continue, just like a mother would – just like only you could.

The good thing is that living away from you for the last year and more, has only made me see my life with the clarity that you expected me to have - all along. Now, though am beyond your scrutiny, my every move continues to be guided by you in absurd ways. When I cook something nice, I hopelessly wonder what you would have to say about it. If am out too late, I keep looking at my watch, worrying whether you would have appreciated it. If I buy something too expensive, I try to figure out ways to let you know that I have over-spent. It's stupid, because these are things where I enjoy little interference. But am always searching for your approval, even if I don't tell you so.

Your morals and values have filtered down and found a narrow and winding path into my life. Your views, sometimes judgmental but mostly honest, have also begun to rhyme with mine.

I think sometimes about how my life would have been, hadn't you helped me shape it. You convinced this reluctant girl to take up music and learn to play the keyboards, when she had zero talent for it. You motivated her to pursue a career in journalism, when she wasn't quite sure about it herself. You encouraged her to be stubborn and multi-task to accomplish the million-odd dreams she had lined up for herself. You did not stop her, when she decided to leave home for a while, even though it made you sick to the pit. You allowed her to be her own person and taught her to be you. 

When I see myself now, I cannot ignore the faint reflection I see of you in there. I have become you as much as I never thought I would. And we don't need mirrors to prove that.   

Yes, I do have failings. I am lazy, self-deprecating and downright cynical; but all these failings are my own, which you have unfalteringly tried to repair. But take comfort. If we have to go with what my friends and family claim, you are succeeding, slowly and steadily - molding one of your own, in your likeness.

All through these years of growing up, I was probably idolising you without even realising, and was secretly hoping that someone would spell this out for me, without me having to do so. Thank God for the people who keep reminding me that I haven't strayed, and that I am still the daughter, you wanted me to be.  

Happy Mother's Day Ma! Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers who sail through the rough seas and yet manage to brave it to the shore, just to protect, love and guide us.

When Harry Met Sally Through Her Mommy!

I was once on a matrimonial site. Yes. Not a big deal, I know. But just for a month, "I accidentally found myself on a matrimonial site."

This happened at a time when the world - my mother and friends Inc. (in particular) - was busy trying to get me married. Obviously, my mother did not know how to begin, since repeatedly letting people know that her daughter was "grown up enough" seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. "We need to start somewhere," is what my friend - who became mom's spokesperson during these trying times - said, to convince me. I reluctantly agreed, lest I sounded stubborn and non-cooperative, which I usually am. 

"But no name, no encouraging details or photos," I forewarned the crowd of anxious folks. I only agreed to fill in obnoxious compulsory boxes of information, which the matrimonial site asked for. 

In the end, my profile looked something like this: 26/Female/Catholic/Dark/Heavy. 

No one seemed convinced. How on earth would I land a suitable boy for myself with such incredible honesty. Nobody dared to mention it. Mom, who had married her childhood sweetheart and didn't know how the mechanics of matrimonial ads worked, felt the strains of having her daughter objectified within such ludicrous categories. "You are beyond all this," she sighed.    

There was some prodding though - to probably fill in more personal information, "I write," or "I loved books," and that I had a "Masters qualification". At least then, some like-minded boy would approve, was the hope!  In the end, she had her way and partial truth was made accessible to the world, on the other side. But a month later, mom quietly gave up. The men were probably not to her liking. And so, as per a mutually-agreed upon deal, the account was deactivated with full family approval. She has finally come to terms with the situation. Doesn't mean that she hasn't stopped trying, praying or what-not! It suits her, and many mothers too. They are meant to worry. We are meant to be the cause of this worry. The equation of cause and effect doesn't work any better. 

But I write this not because I have an issue with arranged marriages. I don't even want to raise a stink about how we women and men (as well) are objectified in these ads - hasn't enough been said about it already. I am just amused by how it all pans out. And how blind dates set up by parents or family, seem like an almost honest attempt at a union of two individuals.  

A chunk of young Indians of marriageable age are on matrimonial sites. A major chunk of these are too embarrassed to admit it, while an even bigger chunk has quietly handed over the baton of finding prospective better halves, to their parents. Another sizable chunk has already been successfully married in such orderly fashion. While another good chunk is still on the waiting list. Just for the record, am talking "chunks" because I have no data or stats to prove my point. I don't think such fluff of a blog post, deserves this anyway. The real problem is not the number of times, I repeated the word "chunk," but those who are forced to be part of this chunk.   

A friend of mine has been making three hour-long train journeys to her parents home every weekend, to "meet boys". And during the few minutes that she sits with these grown up boys, trying to exchange a healthy conversation, she keeps looking for some spark, connection, etc, etc.
"How am I supposed to know?" she asks. "After all, I am to spend the rest of myself with him." 

I don't know either. Though somehow she is confident that she will be married soon. Such is the way of the world. We don't find a groom, but we know we will be married. That's eventuality. And such eventuality scares me. When life becomes so predictable that you know the end result without knowing who will help you achieve it. When honestly, I would rather have it the other way.    

Another friend has kept a count. 27 men, she last told me. That's the number of wasted dates. Mind you, that number also reflects her capacity for patience and nonsense. Most importantly, how does one expect her to make a sound choice after being thrown with so many options. We joke sometimes - she and I - as to how she could pull a Katherine Heigl a la in the film 27 Dresses, and invite all the men she has seen, to her wedding as a token of appreciation for leading her to the "man of her dreams". 

Speaking about the man of our dreams, this new driver that I am, was trying to get out of a crammed parking alley. A cute chap saw me struggle and tried to guide me from outside with hand gestures. When I finally managed to get my car out, he knocked on my window, I rolled it down and he broke into small talk, ending it with how, he hoped to accidentally bump into me at a coffee shop the next time, and not a parking lot. He dropped a hint or two, so that I could share my number. As a response to his kind offer, I came up with a very filmy retort: "Of course, we shall meet again. This world is too small..." 
I drove away, soon after. We parted on a good note. We exchanged smiles, and the regular, "will see you around town soon". But it didn't hurt twice that I had pulled a fast one on a nice looking man.  

It feels good to have this choice sometimes...the choice to choose which stranger you want to have your coffee with, which stranger you would like to have a conversation with or who could be allowed to help you at a parking lot.

Meanwhile, parents everywhere are praying. But, we shouldn't care. As long as we have this CHOICE, nothing else matters.  

P.S. Am not anti-arranged marriages...just saying! For all you know I could land up in one. 

A miracle in 2014

Within the bunch of the many wrong things that happen to us, are the right ones. And within the many right ones are the small little miracles, which are only revealed when we allow them to happen to us. 

I am a believer. A believer of miracles, fate, twisted tales, destiny and serendipities. And because I see it happen so often in the lives of the people that surround me, including mine, I don't take these miracles for granted. 

Every time I chance on something that seems remotely close to a happy coincidence, I make a mental note. This story is one such note that I would rather write about than leave embedded in my fleshy memory.  

Dad woke up this morning, telling me he had a horrible dream. He was so terrified that he broke out into a cold sweat. 

"What was it?" I asked casually.

"You decided to go back to India."

"Why did that scare you so bad?" I prodded. 

"The house was empty, again. I was alone. Will you leave?" he asked, just to assuage his fears.  

"Of course, not. I won't leave without you." 

He suddenly looked relatively calmer.

What just transpired, took me some 23 years behind. It was 1992. We were in Oman, again. And it was my first day at school. I was inside my classroom. Sitting beside me, was not another student, but dad. My hands refused to let go of his.

"I am scared," I remember telling him, between sobs.

"Why?" If I recall, he was tearing up too. 

"I can't sit alone here. I don't know any of them. Don't go," I cried.

"I am not leaving without you," he promised. 

And just like that, I had stopped crying. He had kept his promise. 

Mom tells me that dad called in sick at work, and stood outside my class the whole day. Thanks to the glass doors of my classroom, he passed by occasionally, without disturbing the teachers, so that I could see him. 

I wouldn't like to draw parallels here. Because that's not why I was reminded of this tale. I think it was more about this beautiful relationship that I shared with dad, which until last year I had been so oblivious to. 

Over the course of 2014, we've shared more than just a roof together. He brings me what I like - chocolates, I bring him what he does - junk food. We spoil each other and also, reprimand the other, after having done so. He tries to make me more like him - asocial, and I try to teach him the perks of being a social fly. We fight, we argue, we cry, we cook, we go for long walks - and all of it together.  

That was my small little miracle last year. The miracle was in knowing how much I loved what I had always loved. The one person - among the many - I had been taking for granted throughout. 

All this while he had kept his promise. I think it's time I kept mine.  

     

The Village

The Tank

Banganga

“…And then I saw you, and my soul whispered, ‘doesn't she look familiar’. I said, ‘she does’, but I couldn't place you from this time or place. So I asked my soul, ‘if it knew since how long back had we known each other’? And it replied, ‘since forever’.”  

“Since forever.”

That’s what he first thought when he saw this woman sitting on the jagged, moss-infested stone steps of the tank.

Her blue cotton skirt was partially inside the green pool of water so he didn't know where her feet ended. He gauged from the length of her back and the broadness of her shoulders that she was tall, probably taller than what was just normal.

The morning sun glistened and shimmered like sparkling stars on water. He saw it, even as he saw her observe it. She was smiling; beaming helplessly. It made her feel happy and he could not tell why.

They were at a considerable distance from each other – he standing and she sitting, both on different angles of the rectangle – enough for her to not notice that he was noticing her.

Rukshad was a photographer, an amateur one. He didn't love Mumbai, as much as his parents did. But today, at the tank, beauty had snatched hate off some of its glory.

Banganga - it was a beautiful place. Here, it seemed like another world from another time had not only been preserved, but had continued seamlessly, undisturbed and unaltered, even as everything changed or manifested into something new. The stoned stairways on all four sides led deep down to a bottomless pit from where a natural spring drowned each step as it rose, disappearing layer by layer. Legend had it that Laxman, the brother of epic hero Lord Ram, had shot an arrow on this earth, eons ago; water sprung soon after to feed the thirsty elder brother. Some claimed that the arrow was shot after Sita – Ram’s wife – had sought pure water for a temple offering.        

Rukshad’s friend had told him of the tank.  

“Very few know about it,” he was told. “Go visit it, you may get some good photographs that could land you that job,” the friend had advised.

He wanted to intern at the photography magazine desperately, so he came here. But now, he was more than just stunned by the magnificence of the place. And then his eyes fell upon her, and he did not know what had left him more spellbound - the tank or the girl sitting by it.

It was strange, this attraction he felt for her. She was ordinary to look at, not somebody anyone would take to on the first glance. Her hair was tied up messily in a hasty bun with strands falling carelessly on her face. There was something about her very presence though, that felt familiar.    

So while he toyed with his SLR, shooting aimlessly, his mind kept travelling back to the woman. But he parried his view the moment he thought she had become aware of his presence. She was still sitting there. And he realised that the water had risen a bit, because her skirt was now hidden knee deep.  

She looked at him, first casting him a nervous stare, but then smiled. It was a very knowing glance. Before he could pull himself together, she was waving at him, asking him to come hither.    

Rukshad didn't have time to think of what was happening, so he quickly walked to the other side, down the slippery steps, carefully towards her.   

“Photographer?” she asked.

He nodded, fumbling with his words, struggling hard to give a reply.

“You want to take my picture?” she asked questioningly.

If that was the excuse he would have to give for those stolen glances, he had no other choice. He sheepishly took the bait. “Yes.”

“Okay…go ahead,” she said, and pushed her hands behind, to hold herself back in a tilt, as if readying for a pose.

After fiddling with his lens, Rukshad took a couple of photographs. She smiled and posed without complaining.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said. “What will you use this for?” she asked.

“Job interview.”

“Oh! I hope you get it then,” she said.

And, as if no conversation had happened between them, she went back to treating her eyes to the green of the waters. Her face looked calm, but lacked the curiosity that he had for her. There wasn't an ounce of emotion, to reveal what was on her mind. She hadn't even bothered asking if there was a way she could get hold of the copy.     

Rukshad moved back quietly, not knowing whether it would be polite to ask her, her name.

He left Banganga soon after, taking the steep stairway that was butted by old homes and temples on either side. It was only when he had climbed up to the exit that he realised he had forgotten his lens at the tank. It was an expensive zoom lens and he remembered asking the young woman to hold it, while he busied taking her pictures.

He rushed back to the tank. As he walked down, a slew of thoughts ran through his mind. Rukshad saw it as a sign; a sign that they weren't over as yet. May be, he would gather some courage, and ask for her name or probably, her number. They would meet again, and then...

Were they meant to be?

The last thought struck him when he just reached the tank. He immediately looked in the direction where he saw her last. But there was no one there who resembled her. He glanced around the tank, assuming he probably got the spot wrong. She had just been here five minutes ago.

For a moment he thought that she had followed him to return the lens. But he knew deep down that she never really would. She had appeared to be in a daze, not to be disturbed or stirred. 

From the distance though, he could see something cylindrical, a few steps above where she had been seated. His lens had been waiting there, beside a pair of red sandals. She was nowhere around. He sat there till dusk, hoping she would return to take the shoes that he presumed were hers. She did not.

He got the job the following week. It was her picture that did the trick.

He would remember this woman “since forever.” 

The Bay

Marine Drive 

Her laces were worn out, duller than the pale blue of her shoe. She looked at them in disgusted haste, reminding herself that she needed to save up to buy a fresh pair soon. This time she would opt for a black one, so that she wouldn't have to bother spending on a new one again.

The darkness of the black would hide the harsh wear and tear that her shoes were being put through each day. If life could reveal anything blacker than black, it would have to be hell. And Lekha wasn't going down there yet.

Yes, she was ageing with day, had retired years ago and currently, found it hard to make ends meet; but unlike her friends, who had already suffered a handicap or two, she could still walk. And that’s what she did every morning, sharp at 5.

Lekha would leave home daily, skipping the ginger tea made by their Maharaj (cook). She loved tea, but giving up on what she enjoyed most, seemed like a piecemeal offering to her son, who would time and again remind her that she owed him for the roof above her head.

They were a rich family, but not her. She lost everything when her husband died. Now, it was just the measly pension that kept her going. Lekha never asked her son for money, he never bothered giving. He fed her twice a day, and his job ended there.   

She rushed out, just five minutes before 5. In October, the sun rose a little later than it did in August. It reminded her that winter would be here soon.

A few hurried, rapid steps and she would get there. Their home was just a stone’s throw away from the bay. They couldn’t see it from their window, but its salty breeze found a way inside always, corroding their cast iron shelves. It was a nice home, she thought; it had come down to her husband from his father, and all these years, she had nurtured it well.

It barely took ten minutes to get to the seaside. The flailing waves of the Arabian Sea were welcoming, more welcoming than the home, she had once cared for.

When she reached the asphalt stretch, she persevered, dragging her feet with quickened pace. They would be waiting for her opposite the monstrosity of glass and concrete – the InterContinental, an odd spectacle on the stretch of simple, yet telling buildings from Bombay’s past.

She wasn't late. They were still there when she came. They wouldn't go anywhere for the next one hour. But it always felt good to be on time. One of them - Kerson - was in a wheelchair and his servant brought him here everyday; the others could walk fairly well, though Shradha complained that arthritis was getting the better of her. And Domnic wore knee pads now; every time they asked him why, he would say in his typical Goan English accent, “Looks cool men. Don’t you think?”

When Lekha arrived, the circle was complete. They didn't ask her much and instead joined hands. Shradha, who lead the group, chanted something, and they all bent forward; soon enough they were all howling, laughing heartily.

The passersby looked unperturbed. It was a regular scene, played out at the bay daily: Old people having a merry time.

The constable had picked on them the first time they did it. But Shradha had interrupted, “Laughter yoga…you can’t take us to jail.”   

An hour later, they were done. Some left for home, while a few like Lekha would head down for a walk on the same stretch. She would only go back home at 8, after drinking tea at a stall near their house.   

Today, Kerson stopped her.

“Lekha, can you drop me home. Raju won’t be coming, so I would need help.”

Kerson, a 75 year old Parsee, lived in her neighbourhood. They rarely spoke at the yoga sessions and even otherwise, so Lekha was amused that he asked her for help.  

“Please,” he requested again.

Since they lived in the same compound, it would just seem wrong to say no. So, she agreed. 

The drive by the street was smooth, though she had a feeling that people were throwing them curious glances. Two old couple, one on a wheelchair, the other one happily driving him along. She was probably just conscious, so she ignored them.

“I see you drink chai at the stall daily,” Kerson said, breaking her thoughts.

“Yes, I like the tea there,” she said, sounding more than just curt. 
Kerson realised that he was infringing upon some unspoken territory. They did not speak after that.

When they reached his building, she saw Raju stand outside anxiously.

“Sir I was worried,” he said. Kerson beamed a calm smile.  

Raju politely took over from Lekha, and pushed the chair up the slope that had been specially built for Kerson. Lekha stood there awkwardly, not knowing whether to say bye or just leave.

When Kerson made it to the platform, she silently moved ahead.

Noticing her leave, Kerson called out, “Lekha, wait.”

“Raju’s made piping hot ginger tea…” he cast a knowing look at his servant, and hesitantly added,“…for both of us.”   

And we moved on

On the night you came to my house, I thought something really bad had happened. My sister opened the door, and told me you were standing outside, crying. 
I rushed to the entrance and when our eyes met, you held my hand and I remember you saying something very silly.
“I got married...,” you said, stammering, “...today”. It sounded silly because I obviously refused to believe that. I was right. You were drunk and so drunk, that you imagined you had attended your own wedding, instead of your friend's. 
We laughed about it the next day. But even as I was pulling your leg about the incident, you interrupted and said something sweet.
“You know why I cried?” you asked.
“No.” I was still laughing.
“I couldn't have imagined marrying anyone, but you.”
That's what you said, or that's what I thought I heard. We were still just friends then, so I couldn't hide how shocked I was. But I ignored you because it just seemed like the right thing to do.


Months later, I remember us sitting at your table, playing a game of scrabble, and you looking perplexed.
I asked what happened, and you said, “I don't have great letters.”
“Yay! I think I have my dibs on a win here,” I said.
You were very engrossed though, either staring at your letters, or at the board, going back and forth, refusing to give up.
Minutes later, you smiled. You threw one glance at me, and then back at the letter board. You added a “Y” above my O, and “U” below my O. My letter was LOVE.
“I still beat you to the score,” I said.
“But I managed to Love You.”
I can't for the life of me remember who won the game, probably that's how lost I was. Never until then, had scrabble blown me away. 


After that game, nothing of real consequence happened. Seasons came and went. Three summers just died, so did the winters, one bitter and many bland. I had forgotten about that incident and even about you. 
You went somewhere, and said you were not hoping to return. I was with somebody else, and he really wanted to marry me. He was probably waiting for me to say “yes”. But, despite all that, we were going fine. 

And then I saw you at the supermarket one day, scanning through pickles, along with a friend. She was petite, but had surprisingly broad shoulders. Your long hands wrapped her arms as she picked up some bottle. Her face was pleasing and beautiful, and she did not look anything like me.
Your presence riled me, and I could not tell why.
I was about to walk away, when you happened to see me from the corner of your eye.
It was stupid to behave like we didn't know each other, so despite feeling awkward, I came towards you.
“Hey…long time,” you said.
I did not think you deserved a Hi, so I instead blurted, “I am getting married.”
I lied. And that was such a shame.
“Oh!,” you muttered.
You reached out for my hand to congratulate me, but as soon as you held it, I realised that you weren't letting go.
“Your palm feels so cold,” you said looking intently into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

I released my fingers from your grip and tightly held on to my dress as if trying to hold on to the lie, wary of being exposed and stripped naked of this farce.

Suddenly, my eyes welled up with tears. I wish I had held myself together because your friend or may be your girlfriend was looking at me. She gave me a reassuring smile, so I did not feel too bad.

I walked out of the store, thinking of what you had once said:
“I couldn't have imagined marrying anyone, but you.”

Arranged affair

Bijith Nair furtively tossed a sugar cube into his insipid tea, and tilted his head towards the right, from where he could get a clear view to the door of his kitchen.

He could see the slouched back of his wife; her round figure taking up every inch of the viewing space that the doorway allowed. The way her arms and elbows moved in measured swings, he predicted she was chopping something.

Noticing she hadn't been keeping an eye on him, he quickly added another white lump to his tea and stirred it delicately, ensuring that the spoon didn't hit the bottom or the circular-frame of his ceramic cup. The clanging would draw her attention.  

Somehow, today, he did not want her to know that he was finding it difficult to resist this sweet temptation that diabetes had long denied. Sugar reminded him of love and may be that’s how he felt now, but she didn't need to know that, not yet. 

He was about to reach for his cup, when she called out to him, “Biju! Should I give you porridge or cornflakes for breakfast?”

“They both sound hmmm…,” Bijith struggled for a word, and after a few seconds of vacuous thinking, came up with “…very delicious! I can’t decide. Why don’t you choose my poison?”

It was meant to be sarcastic, but it almost, came across as complimentary. Why else, would she mutter a polite “Thanks”.

Krishna never got his sarcasm, but even after 42 years of marriage, Bijith hadn’t stopped trying. It made him feel accomplished and more involved in the decision-making at home. If Krishna ruled the house with an iron hand, Bijith liked to believe that he ruled the house with sarcasm, one that was mostly lost to her and his kids’ untrained ears. Nonetheless, he had made his point, and to Bijith that seemed more important. 

Now, sipping into the sweet concoction, he was reminded of the heady days of his youth, when love was not singularly bestowed on any one woman. Though most of them had either ended tragically or comically, except for the arrangement his parents had fixed with Krishna. Their marriage had always seemed like an amicably agreed upon deal. Nothing of real consequence, especially romantic, had ever been exchanged between Krishna and him. Suresh and Shiva happened to them during those rare occasions when they were overcome by passion or call it lust. Love was a word only hanging in the air; it all felt more like comfort. And yet in all these years, she had been the only one who mattered. Though, something always felt amiss. And until yesterday, he had never figured out what.

He smiled and got up from his dining seat, moving towards the large French window, which opened to his balcony.

Bijith never drank his tea at the table; it was always outside from where he could see the compound. And because his building shared space with a school, the ground was always home to children running amok either during PE class or recess.   

“What happened? Why exactly are you smiling to yourself?” Krishna asked, interrupting the string of thoughts running through his head.

“Nothing…just remembered something amusing,” he said, his mind straying again.

“Since yesterday, I have been noticing you…suddenly behaving strange.”

Krishna was sly, he knew. She could read him easily, or probably, he gave out too much. This time around, he had to act with caution or he’d risk letting her know.

“Stop over-thinking,” he said, “Breakfast ready? I need to step out in a while.”

Walking on the jagged pavement of Mumbai’s Fort area, inside the arched stone-walled gateway, Bijith thought of what happened yesterday. He met Sharda right here, while he was out on a stroll, like he was today. Sharda looked just like she had when he last saw her over 40 years ago. They had dated briefly, before she was married to an Army man. Though it had been a long time since, meeting her hadn’t felt strange at all. It all still seemed so familiar and fresh. It was hard not to draw comparisons with Krishna. Especially since the two women had once been close friends in college. Unlike his wife, whose skin fell into lose folds on her face, Sharda’s was still taut. The passing years had barely done her any damage. Only the silver strands that intermittently emerged from the long black of her hair, told the story of her ageing. She had been widowed five years ago, and lived alone in the city after having lost her only son in the battlefield.

They had promised to meet again today. He had been anticipating this moment since last night. She would come. They would smile. Somethings would be exchanged. An untold story would bloom again.

Sharda hadn’t disappointed; in fact, she had come before time.

“Hi,” he said. She could make out that he was nervous; Bijith was toying with his own hands. “I have been thinking about us since yesterday,” she said.

“So have I,” he muttered.

“Strange…we met again.”

“There’s always a reason,” he interjected.

She handed him a small note.

“This really helped me,” she said, “but I don't think, it was meant for me.”
"Thank you Sharda.”
They hugged awkwardly. “Hope to meet you again,” he said, before they parted one last time.

That afternoon, when he got home, he slipped the note into a book that his wife had been reading. She would find it later; he cared little about her reaction. He just wanted her to know something that he himself had forgotten.

It was dated July 19, 1971. It read:

Dear Sharda,

Thank you for the wedding invitation. Am glad you are moving on, and marrying that Army guy. I hope you have forgiven me for breaking your heart. I was so foolishly infatuated with you, that I had forgotten what it was to love. It’s funny how my wedding was eventually fixed with a friend of yours, who I didn’t bother to give a second glance while in college. We have been married for a month now and for once, I think am really in love. 
Am just saying that love happens, and mostly when we least expect. It doesn’t need to happen the way we would have wished it to happen, nor does it have to feel like how we want it to feel. I am so comfortably in love that Krishna doesn’t even know. May be, she might never know, but does it matter. I hope the same for you and your husband.   

Best wishes,

Bijith (and Krishna)

Love magnet!

Sometimes, love outsmarts you. Or rather, the people who love you, outsmart you. Especially, when you feel that there is only this much "love" that you could possibly receive in this lifetime, (may be a little less or more) and then suddenly "Love" comes knocking at your door and won't leave until you realise that love in itself is limitless and that "people who love you" will ensure that you always have an appetite to receive more love, regardless of how much you think you can hold.  

Okay, so much said about love. (Already repeated the word eight times in one paragraph). Sigh! I am so overwhelmed that I think am going loony. 

Cutting my 27th birthday cake with baby Adya. If mom saw
this, she'd have some "wise words" for me.

But sweet things have happened over the last couple of weeks and the ones who have gone out of their way to make me happy (they know who they are...am not dropping names) probably realise why I am writing this particular post. Yes, because they were the source of all this love! And now that I have turned 27 - my number "9" year - it just feels like I owe them so much more than just a "thank you". So, I shall pen down all that is running in my head because this influx is making my brain go numb.  

Well, it all started on July 24, the morning I was to arrive in Mumbai for a week-long break from Muscat. Two of my really close friends and my brother, welcomed me with hand-made garlands that they had meticulously stitched together while waiting for my predictably-delayed Air India flight to reach base. Since that day on, I've had little reason to not smile...thanks to all the wonderful and special people I met in my home city. It all seemed magical till it lasted and I really owe them for that.   

And yesterday, my friends in Muscat sealed this state of mine and gave it a sense of permanence. So, no matter what happens, I will never forget this day. I finally have an amusing "birthday story" to tell my kids, of how an "entire mall" conspired to wish me on the eve of the 27th year of my birth.    

The August 8th - one friend called it Jane Jayanthi and strangely, it turned out that way - surprise began with my close friends cum colleagues, asking me to join them at a mall to shop for an impending baby-shower of another co-worker. So I headed to the retail outlet at the mall with my lovely friend (the lady in red), and we were scanning through baby items while waiting for the rest to join us when a nine-year-old boy approached me from nowhere, asking: "Are you Jane?" 

I nodded, confused. The next second, he popped out a rose and an envelope: "Happy Birthday," he said and sneakily escaped. 

I read the letter tucked inside the envelope. It said: 

"Jane is gonna go crazy...Seek the store where creativity meets cocoa. Linda and Elaine have something for you."

With the surprise party, after the surprise

I looked at my friend; she stared at me blankly, trying so hard to look shocked and feign ignorance (great actor, must say). 
By now, I realised this was no "baby shower shopping". "Well, you are on a trail birthday girl," she warned. 

What followed was me hopping from a chocolate shop to a coffee house, then an Italian-stationery store and cake shop, before finally landing up at the food court, collecting clues, gifts and birthday wishes from store keepers on my way. 
At the end of it, I looked like a walking-talking goodie bag with a "Happy Birthday" balloon in tow, making all the kids at the mall envious of me. (For a change, someone was checking me out, even if it were babies...okay, very cougarish...sorry!)

The icing on the cake quite literally was the Irish coffee cake that was waiting for me, along with the "baby shower shoppers". Apparently, the boy who handed me the rose recorded my entire treasure trail on the Nikon camera. I know now that he'd do a good job, when he has a girl friend. All in all, it was such an incredible day that it needed to be saved for posterity on this blog. 

To top it all, I received a message from "Notes from The Universe" (Read: www.tut.com) in my inbox last night; it read:  

"See, Jane? 
I told you everything was lining up for you; that the right people were headed your way; that the right things would be said; that you'd become a total love magnet; and that very little of this would be apparent as it was unfolding, yet in hindsight you'd see the stunning perfection. 
It's just that right now, you're mostly in the unfolding part. 
All is according to plan"

P.S. At the back of my head, am thinking, well...I think I am a "love magnet" after all!

Paper Hearts

It's 2'o clock in the morning; too late to hit the bed, and too early to rise. Outside, water from tonight's downpour drums the aluminum awning of my balcony, jarring my weakened ears.
There was a time when I spent the wakeful hours of my night watching the rains from across the balcony; now, I liked staying in bed, even if I was sleepless. Because I feared that if I stood on the rain-wet mosaic tiles, I would probably fall. Old-age had killed small joys.
My neighbour, this ravishing woman, loved the rains more than me. When we were kids, she would knock on our door on rainy evenings and plead and beg mother to allow me to come down with her.
“Aunty, aunty...Michael promised to sail paper boats with me. Please let him come,” she'd say
My mother agreed, though reluctantly. She knew that I would catch a fever soon after, but “if the rains bring you both closer” she'd tell me, “let the fever be the sacrifice.”
“Someday Tracey and you will get married and I will be a happy woman,” she'd joke.
“Lady, stop messing with my son's head,” my father would butt-in, “The D'lima queen wouldn't allow such a union...over her dead body.” My mother always ignored him.
You see, Tracey was “aspirational”. Her father, Dr Ralph D'lima, was a renowned doctor during my parent's time; one of those, just short of having a street named after him. His stories of bravado and kind-heartedness were told to children as bed-time stories. The local hero, he was most remembered for saving scores of dying men during the plague that hit Bombay in 1897.
Mother never spared a day reminding me how Dr D'lima had once made room for plague-ridden patients in his own house – much to the disapproval of his wife Linda – when there was a shortage of beds in the hospital. Mother's brother David was one of those who had found refuge in the D'lima home. He died soon after, nestled in the arms of Dr D'lima – it was a good death, she claimed.
His wife Linda, on the other hand, was the local anti-hero. One belonging to the crème de la crème of the Goan society, and boasting of lineage to a mayor in the city, she kept to herself and never once indulged in empty conversations with her neighbours. 
The only time she spoke to mother was to reprimand her, when she thought I had kissed her six-year-old daughter.
“Keep his filthy lips off my daughter's,” she had warned mother, after she had seen Tracey scribble something in her Math book. “Michael + Tracey = Kiss,” she had written.
“Is this what you teach your son Mrs Coutinho?,” Linda had asked mother.
My mother was unaffected. In fact, she considered it a personal victory and later, gifted me a chocolate bar for hastening her plans of seeing me as a D'lima son-in-law. “But I didn't kiss her,” I clarified.
“Son, let Linda believe that you did,” she said.
Though after that incident, I really saw very little of Tracey. Except during the monsoons, when her devil mother escaped for a break to her hometown in Calangute. That's when her father allowed her to play with me. 
As far as I remember, monsoon is the only memory I have of Tracey. We sailed paper boats, and Tracey almost, always won. My boat would drown somewhere, mid-way, causing her to break into peals of laughter.
“Loser!” she yelled. I wouldn't say anything in retort. All I did was to muster a smile, which I knew, kept her from teasing me further. But she got so nervous that she'd quickly add, “Stop smiling will you...I hate your smile.” That girl couldn't even lie with a straight face.
Post monsoons, Tracey and I would behave like we didn't know each other. When our eyes locked briefly at church during Sunday service, she'd put her head down immediately. Whom were we appeasing? Linda, I presume.
Then, in the summer of 1909, Linda suddenly vanished with 12-year-old Tracey. Nobody knew what happened. A rumour doing the rounds was that Linda had found love again, in a local Goan musician, and the couple had eloped to England fearing wrath from family. Dr D'Lima never denied or confirmed the rumour. “It could be true,” he casually told me once, when I innocently asked him, while trying to fish for information on Tracey's whereabouts.

Nine years later, when Dr D'Lima died of a cardiac arrest, Tracey surprisingly returned home. This time with a young man Luis and an infant. She had been married for two years. I smiled when I saw her. She didn't react. Since then, Tracey has been living next door. We never smiled, we rarely spoke.

My mother, before dying, thanked her stars for not praying too hard for a union between me and “that Linda's girl”. “She turned out to be just like her mom,” my mother said, “She would have left you one day...I swear on Jesus Christ, she would.”
But Tracey wasn't anything like her mother. Why else would she stick around with a drunkard-of-a-husband for 45-long years. Luis died last month. I didn't attend the funeral, so I don't know whether Tracey cried. But word has it that she did. Her daughter, who lives in Australia, hadn't come on the occasion. And poor Tracey grieved alone, I was told.

Why am I telling you all this? No idea.
Because had I known that Tracey would knock on my door a little while later, this would have seemed like a perfect prequel to the end, right?

“Can we sail paper boats?” she asked, when I opened the door of my flat.
“Now! This late in the night?” I was shocked, but could do little to hide the smile.
She looked at me nervously, her hands fiddling with the few lose sheets of paper she had brought along. “I hate that smile of yours.”
“We can go on lying Tracey....we can go on lying.”
“Or,” she interrupted, “...We can sail paper boats.