Another Christmasy feeling...

Some 14 kilometres from Kerala's Kochi International airport and around an hour's drive from the backwaters of Alleppey nestles a small town called Kalamassery, layered with the requisites of modern living, yet rooted in cultural antiquity. To its south is the small residential colony of Changampuzha Nagar, clustered in contradiction, with both alluring as well as lurid row houses. 


I was here on Christmas Eve, away from home for the first time, trying best to overcome the blues that come along with the absence of family on the most awaited festival of the year. But my best friend's brother was to be married in a day and I knew that it meant so much more to be by her side to share and revel in the same happiness as she did. So there I was at the Kappalumackal Home with one of the most adorable families I have ever seen or known. 


But right now, I am speaking of Christmas and in Kerala, I was told that it is of a different kind. 
Coming from a family, which celebrates the richness of Karwaris, the tradition of Mangaloreans and the merriment of Goans, I was not half as surprised when I witnessed the subdued Christmas celebrations of Kerala, especially the midnight service. 
For me, thanks to the churches of Mumbai and Muscat, midnight mass has been all about dressing in flashy clothes (never mind showing off a little bit of skin here and there), enjoying the rapturous carols of the choir or may be pinning your hopes on a good sermon by the priest, so that you are still wide awake for the after party at home after mass. Let's not forget the coffee and cakes. 
But while all this may sound weird to a few, this is the only thing that I may have come to love about Christmas, often leaving me with no scope to appreciate a celebration of another kind. So much so that when I first entered the church in Kalamassery, I was appalled by the simplicity of the congregation. For starters, if you are the kind of person who buys a Rs 1,000-pair of shoes or heels just for Christmas, it is better to leave them behind. In Kerala, a Rs 20 chappal will do, cause you leave them at the doorstep of the church before entering for mass. This piece of advise remains, unless you want your shoes flicked by a robber, who could open a shoe shop, if there were bigger fools like you at mass.  
Also, no one is festively dressed. Men prefer plain shirts and pants/ mundus, while women prefer simple saris and salwar kameezes. Another obligation for all women is to cover their heads with a dupatta. I found this one quite worth the mention as it reflects highly on the culture. It is something that was once traditionally followed by all Catholics, but seems to have lost its value with time and tide.
The mass was in Malayalam. So honestly, every word hit my right ear and smoothly travelled out of the left, leaving no scope for further interpretation. The music was classical, and because it was my first time, I probably could not appreciate it either. 
As minutes drew by, I realised that I had been sitting through the longest mass (over two hours) ever, without understanding a word. I was terribly bored. While walking out of the church I also grumbled to my best friend for bringing me here because this was not "my-kind-of-Christmas."
Little did I realise that this was but, just another Christmasy feeling...
   

Needled up

I entered his room,

almost certainly foreboding doom,

For the last time I was here,

I felt like the recipient of someone else's ire,

drugged first with coloured perplexities,

only to be injected with liquefied oddities

He now smiles wily,  

As I sit on the other end foolishly,

Trying best to describe my pain,

While he nods in an observation so vain,

He, I know will pill me to death,

Or either pin me, in an attempt to put me to rest.

And now that he has heard me out,

He stands and stares with a weird pout,

You don't mind the syringe, do you?

He says, without bothering to explain this flu,

I sit unamused by his offer,

This was but coming, and there is but no stopper.   

The thought shudders and numbs my sense,

that a needle may any moment pierce my fleshy fence,

It will hurt and make me quail,

I might also become psychologically frail.

While still uncertain about this dreadful remedy,

I agree and sulk melancholy. 

The nurse is here, the needle soon  in,

Afraid, I begin hurtling abuses deep within,

I hum, I pray as it all begins to pass,
Until the syringe is just an empty mass, 
And the doctor, he smiles, another tally he lines,
With me, this is his month's needle nine.  

If Facebook was not www.facebook.com... it would have been?

1) makefriendship.com 
Though I really don't understand how one "makes" friendship
2) voyeursapetite.com 
Trust me, my FB home page can be far more interesting than the morning newspaper. (Obits included)
3) keeptrackonmyex.com 
This is when FB gives the FBI a run for its money
4) ventmyfrustration.com 
Agitated, humiliated, angry, frustrated and want to spew venom, Welcome to Facebook. (Best part about such statuses... you really don't know whether to like them)  
5) strikeaconvo.in 
For all the conversations you couldn't strike with him/her because you got tongue tied 
6) letsbefarmers.com 
Caught in the wrong job, join Farmville, become a farmer; exchange goats, cows, trees, cheese and milk 
7) statusquo.com
Found someone interesting and want to know your reach-o-meter... Facebook is here
8) clicked4fbonly.com
When was the last time you clicked pictures without the intention of publishing it on Facebook
9) recommendations.com
Whether its a youtube video, an interesting article, a ranting blog, an interesting picture or a "you-know-what-i-did status" message ... just tag with @Name of the person and recommend. (Do you know of the number of friends on your list who sulk when they are not tagged in such stupid recommends or status messages?) 
10) itsasmallworld_afterall.com
Naah... Facebook is better!!!

Train Travel Tales

It isn't normal. The train is 20 minutes late and though the delay doesn't really hurt me much, it is worrisome. On any given weekday, local trains arrive at a rapid and unchanging frequency of four to five minutes on Platform No 1. Since my presence in the office is warranted by 4.30, catching the 4.11 train or anything before that is but imminent. However, today as I said, wasn't a normal day. 

I left home late (was just too engrossed making the "saltiest" chicken curry ever cooked in the kitchen of my house), and didn't show up at the station before 4.25 pm, only to learn that platform 1, which is otherwise barren during early evenings, was teeming with people. The next train as the sign board read was running late by 13 minutes. I walked down the north-end of the platform, seemingly excited at the prospect of reading a gifted novel The Far Pavilions peacefully for at least a good 10 minutes at the station (you can call it scuttling time for a book amidst my 'work, sleep and eat' schedule). 

I stopped at the ladies compartment section of the platform and opened the book, less in anticipation of the train and more in the hurry to read a good number of pages of the book. Like often, I remained unaware to people pushing me because my eyes were too focussed on deciphering lines in the book. I had a read some 10 pages, when the fact of being at the station-waiting for a train-heading for work suddenly dawned upon me. I looked up to find a  large group of women encircling me. It had been 20 minutes, and there was no sign of a train yet. A good four trains could have halted at the platform in the span of 20 minutes, this only meant that the next train would have to accommodate passengers of the four trains, which were seemingly cancelled due to some work on the tracks.  To our relief, we finally saw a train approach the platform. 

People on my end of the platform looked like they were gearing up for a baton relay. One leg forward, hands tightly-gripped, bodies ready to face the daunting pressure of commuter rush that would lunge them forward towards the train gates. At the ladies section, women in sarees almost unconsciously brought their palloos in front and lifted the fall of their sarees, to gallantly stride into the train compartments. I for once sensed the need to close the book and instead take the train, for want of time and to save myself the embarrassment of reaching work after our daily edit meeting. 

But for a brief second, I was reminded of the scene from  Bend it Like Beckham, where Parminder Nagra 'Jess' shudders as she witnesses her team-mates and opponents lined up some distance from the net, pushing each other, moving left then right, in anticipation of the ball, which Nagra would soon kick towards the goal. (The ball being the train and the team being the commuters, there is no Nagra like character right now, unless you mistakingly thought I was referring to myself).  

As the train halted, I noticed it was already packed with commuters from the previous station. I switched my mind for a second or two all set to push myself into the compartment (Oh! I could be Nagra here, like when she shuts her eyes to kick the ball. Finally, I can claim to be a significant character, but we are drifting). 

I don't know how I got in, but I did. And as soon as I entered the compartment, I tethered myself to one end of the door and locked the fingers of my right hand to the handle above my head. The women behind me tried their best to push me hard and prod me to go ahead, but I refused. I remained stiff, and moved my left hand inside to place the 1000-page fat book, which was also struggling for space, behind the curve of my back. The position seemed a comfortable one, but only for 30 seconds. Soon, my hands started aching.  

Women of all ages however continued to flow in with each station. 


The compartment reeked of a concoction of talcum powder, the queasy smell of sweaty underarms, assorted deodorants, food etc. Not to mention the noise pollution. Somewhere in the background I could hear two women fight, one of whom kept repeating the typical Bollywood line the girl uses before a rape scene, chodo mujhe, chodo mujhe  (leave me, leave me). Amused, I turned my head towards the scene of action, to witness the "chodo muje girl" being incessantly thrashed and abused by a frustrated 50-year-old woman. Few others were attempting a rescue, even though they were unable to move their hands, due to the lack of space. 
Apparently, the chodo mujhe girl had stamped the frustrated 50's leg. She not only refused to apologise, but snubbed her instead. Well, the 50-year-old's wrath was only in the offing. 


Worst was the young 20-something girl on my right. The delicate darling kept making weird noises, which to my ear had some sexual undertones to it. Every time someone unintentionally rubbed against her, due to the jam-packed situation, she gave out a repelling ouch, ufffff, ouch, uhhhhhh, ouch, hmmm, ouch. Fortunately, I managed to drag myself to the edge of the gate.   

Why, why, why on earth did I make that salty chicken curry today? I questioned to myself. 

With each station, the explainable urgency to escape the mayhem and chaotic populous of women increased. Four more stations, four more station.... I pleaded to my mind. (The feeling of being in Nagra's shoes now intensified... just this goal, just this goal... again I was drifting)

Just then, to stop me from drifting, I heard a cellphone ring the never-to-be-forgotten Nokia tune (sounds like tananana tananana tananana na). The tune started filling the air, driving me nuts... almost. But worst was when I felt myself being thrown outside the train. Am I going to die now. I turned to my right to see a woman digging inside her bag. The elbow of her hand was constantly hitting my back, throwing me ahead and almost outside the train. I stared at her, for behaving obnoxiously. She apologised, but claimed to have been looking for her cellphone, that was ringing perpetually. "It is an urgent call," she said.

I showed some false concern, and held my hand hard to the pole of the train, so that I wouldn't fall. One more station, one more... I felt more like Nagra now. The monotonous Nokia tune continued. For some strange reason, the woman could not find her cellphone amidst all the unwanted accessories in her bag. Her elbow kept hitting me, while she continued digging for it. "Can you please stop that phone?" I grumbled, audibly. She ignored my mumbling and went on foraging for her phone; this time, however she was careful about not dashing her elbow against me.

Finally, just seconds before the train halted at my station, the woman managed to find  her phone. She showed it off like she had got hold of a world cup trophy or something. The Nokia tune, however kept buzzing. "My phone is switched off," she said, half-amused. I was extremely annoyed. She had kept me at the edge of life and death for almost half the journey and now she claimed that her cellphone was switched off. (The Nokia tune continued in the backdrop) When the train halted, I got down angrily and glared at her for one last time. She put her head down in embarrassment.  

In no time, the train whizzed pass the station. I scampered up the flight of stairs, towards the taxi stand below the bridge. I was already half-and-hour late to work. In the taxi, I was mulling about how I had come out alive, when I heard the Nokia tune again. This time, it was coming from my bag.  

P.S. My brother had changed the ring tone on my cellphone, to get back at me for force feeding him the salty chicken curry. Like I said, Why, why, why on earth did I make that salty chicken curry today? 

One of them is in love with you

They came in regal horses,

Unchallenged, powerful forces,

One a charmer, the other docile,

The third — a visionary, while another secretly vile,

Yet in all their capacities, they still bowed subserviently,

Hiding their gaze nervously,

When she came all dressed in blue,

Who wouldn’t say that one of them wasn’t in love with you…

Then they got down their horses, anticipating a cue,

Hoping she’d step on their ride without much ado,

But they were four and she just one,

She may have chanced to hurt someone,

Yet she chose him, unaccustomed to the possibility,

Which her friend had once asked about worriedly,

What if you soon knew?

That one of them was in love with you…

In the night they all gallantly rode,

For them she was the only connecting node,

None knew how and what she felt,

Lest they hurt their hearts or melt,

But of them, some couldn’t help throw her a stare,

Their hearts not empty and their minds not bare,

In wishful thinking they parried their view,

But we know that one among them was deeply in love with you…

And all of a sudden it started to heavily rain,

So they turned their horses to the shed in the closest by lane,

Hurriedly she hopped down, all drenched and soaked,

And removed from her face, the dark blue cloak,

Jaws dropped, eyes stunned and hearts thumped,

It felt like an apple in someone’s throat had lumped,

But they feared the risk of letting out their view,

It was but obvious that someone was secretly in love with you...

They sat inside, till the rains had stopped,

Spinning tales inside the shed they had now locked,

The charmer spoke of his gaze for other beauties,

The docile mentioned all his pending duties,

The visionary made known few of his ambitious dreams,

And the vile one, coated his wicked plans with cream,

Yet in all this none had asked if it were true,

Whether you knew that one of them was in love with you…

The air still moist, but the lands now dry,

So they planned to leave before the cock crowed its morning cry,

But outside she walked like an impatient tide,

And also refused a horseback ride,

With teary eyes, she waived byes to her handsome knights,

And hugged them in the morning light,

They stared vacantly as she moseyed alone in the forest hue,

Yes, she had fallen in love with all four of you…


Link to the sequel http://janeborges9.blogspot.in/2012/01/one-of-them-is-in-love-with-you-sequel.html