( I ) At Dinner Table

"Two and a half lakhs," he said between bytes. "The Napean Sea Road flat was bought for two and a half lakhs in 1975." He stares at his food; he moves the fork along the rim of the plate. It was in November, he recalls. Dipping in red sauce motta kaka forks another strand of pasta. "The Parsis were paranoid," he chuckles; "Emergency was imposed by Indira Gandhi. The parsis couldn't keep the second flat under their name, so they sold it."


He takes some khichdi in a bowl. Pouring some buttermilk he continues, "We were scared. To shift from one place to the other. Vegetables were more cheap at Bhuleshwar. The flat was on the eleventh floor. What if the lift didn't work and we had to climb? There were no neighbours to look after kids. We couln't watch kids play on streets from such hieght. There was no dhudhwala at the end of the lane; there could be guests appearing without phoning. How to make sev dudh without milk? We bought the house for two and a half lakhs..." he ends the converstation abruptly.

It's time

It's time to read some more
and comprehend.

It's time to travel around
and rest.

It's time to stop the race
and step back.

It's time to fathom the life
and the non-living.

It's time to know it's time
and act.

I

I admire the ocean's longitude
I am scared of its depth

I fancy monsoon mornings
But for frightful stormy winds

I abhor littered roads
I ride on dusty lanes

I like the word cliché 
I dislike its overuse

I am an egalitarian
I am allergic to uniformity

I despise policies
I am a conformist

The Sports Day

Chinx sits at the beach of Priya Darshani Park with his friends. Dressed in white shorts and T-shirts of their respective house colours, they stand in a row with stones of different shapes and sizes in their hands. They throw one stone at a time into the sea on a count of three, competing as to whose stone goes farthest. Chinx would particularly look for round stones which would spin in the air cutting longer distance. He would place the stone between his pudgy index finger and the thumb and fling the gravel applying force with his forefinger. They would play several rounds of this match until they are physically tired of standing and throwing the pebbles. Then, they would look for shells. Chinx would generally look for flat shells with glossy surface and sequenced embossed lines, collecting them in his pockets.

A couple of yards behind them hundreds of students along with their parents galore to watch, play, participate, and cheer for their houses. ‘Red house Red house … Red house Red house’, the crowd would bellow in an undecided chorus.

Chinx is viewing this spectacular scene from a distance. Some are gleefully devouring their sandwich ice-creams. Some are throwing their caps in the air. Some are sliding on the sanded slope meant for the students to sit; touching the railing of the ground and quickly returning to be in their place before their friends, and then they would stand-up again, dusting the backs of their half-pants. Some are pasting the numbered stickers on their T-shirts waiting for their turn; while some are intently watching the happenings on the ground.

At three thirty PM, Chinx stands on the allotted track to run his race; his dusty canvas shoes slightly rising and falling in no particular pattern. The end of shoes laces are tucked in the narrow openings at the sides of the shoes. Chinx is ready for his run …

Run till you cross the line... run till the end... even if the winners are timed, do not ever leave a race half way... completing a race is more important than participating in it... I will be proud of you Chinx... remember, your mother will be proud of you.

His mother's words are constantly reverberating in his mind, each word pricking him like a piece of glass. He tries to concentrate on the race. Right now, his mother's words are not important, not at this time, for he is going to win this race. He is no more merely a backdrop runner; he is not jeered at. He is the best runner in his team.

On a mark, get set, go...

His eyes squint, facing the blaring sun. His legs quiver as he tracks the trot of the lead runner of his team. “Come on Paras, run faster,” he mumbles in fear. The distance between Paras and the second runner is noticeable even from a distance. His plump body paces ahead swiftly making its way to the second runner of the team. Now, he can see him standing, gasping for air, bent at a forty-five degree, and his head drooping.

His eyes fix on the third runner. His legs quaver. His heartbeats quicken. He feels the lump in his legs. His hands are sweaty, trembling; as his mother's words grow louder... cross the line, cross that line, your mother will be proud ... the baton is passed form one hand to the other. Held in the right hand firmly, his legs jerk as he lifts them. His steps are short and fast, like a trot. “I can’t let them down. All I have to do is maintain the lead,” the thoughts rumble. He moves as fast as he can, running his best run. The movements of his legs fasten, cutting short distances. The trot is transformed to a canter. He runs the finishing ten meters of the last leg and gives out a loud cry as he crosses the finishing line.

He drops to the floor and then quickly rises again. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, running toward his teammates, randomly jumping on his way; swinging the baton high in the air.

The hot wind is not palpable. The gush of the tide is not heard. They lay on the track, basking under the sun, bewildered. They have made it. This year, they have made it.

As he rests there, beneath the wide spread sky, he thinks of all the times when he had lost. The day when he fell and he quit the race. The day when the crowd was waiting for him to finish the race, so that the next event could start. The day when he sat next to his ayah and cried on her lap, curling him around her.

They were fourteen of them on the ground. Twelve participated and two supervised. One started the race and the other one recorded the finish time. It was one month before the sports day, when they decided to not to take part in it and formed their own team. It was named "The Fat Men's Team”, and only the fat boys were allowed in the team. If any of the boys ever participated and won in any of the final sports day, they weren't allowed to enter the team. They had their own set of rules and regulations. “It’s not fair to race with those chums,” they told to themselves.

For Chinx, he didn't get a medal; neither did he get a certificate. But he did get his name, The Title of ‘The Fastest Fat man.’

After office

A mild smell of paint floats in the newly done house. The marble flooring is smooth, tempting a bare feet walk. A pile of bedding is neatly dumped in a corner. The house gives a welcoming eye, yearning for occupancy.

A cable less television faces the caned couch. A few books, mostly chick lits and a bunch of old Hindi audio CDs lie stacked under the centre table. The routine is punctuated by these necessities, or so it seems.

The hall opens-up to a kitchen and two bed rooms. The bedroom is warm. Curtains of different colours hang from the steel rod fixed to the wall. A single box-bed is placed in the room like a radius of a circle. A postal red sheet is spread on the mattress. A small gas stove makes the kitchen platform look slightly longer. A tub of utensils is conspicuously missing. A plethora of instant cooking items decorate the plastic stands.

We sit in a circle. Yellow light emits from the lamp placed in the centre. Casual conversations. Empty beer bottles. Taboo cards. Scribbled score sheet: nine and eighteen. Garden chips. Potato salad. A tumbler of whiskey. An ashtray housing seven butts. 11:40 PM.

In defiance

Whoever said that the world is a small place has seemingly not been to Andheri.

Getting off the train isn't as much a problem as climbing the steps to the bridge. Competition is clearly not restricted to workplace. The benefit of being in a first class coach, fortunately, does not stop at suffocating amidst the huge mass of sophisticated working processionals, or at the norm of no forth seat. You feel privileged when your compartment halts at the mouth of these steps. I must thank the government for this one more added facet of the first class ticket; and foreseeing the problem of population rise much in advance. Anyway, this benefit gifted to us help me quickly sift through the crowd, letting them know that I fall in the 'me too getting late' category. Adjectives like quick and slow are perceptional, and I use the word quick only at comparison.

There's one thing to keep in mind while you are in this haste: two feet from the left railing of bridge, belong to the ladies. One foot there and you are instantaneously bestowed the title of a bastard. These ladies are not only the possessors of this two feet passage, but are also the first choice of rickshaw man. Tall girls. Fat women. Aunties wearing chudidars. Brown hair. Black eyes. As far as you belong to 'I am a she' class of people, which by the way is more than half, you are in*.

Thanks to the Ambanis and their metro that I found the route to reach my office via Amboli. Gliding through these long narrow lanes connecting each other at random, shaded by trees at one side and a chain of raw houses planted at the other is the most awaited time of the day. And just about when you begin enjoy its pleasant setting in this otherwise noisy suburb, it kisses a goodbye.

Now, your rickshaw is protected from all sides, by trucks, cars, buses, taxis, cycles, and the other rickshaws.

You reach, not caring about the loss of pay.

Yet another day of your god blessed dream job comes to an end. There' no cribbing, no whining, no bickering. Recession has got work in stock, and the sale isn't seasonal.

I long for the afternoon of a summer vacation, when I can set my self in front of the television and incessantly ramble through the channels. I long for that boredom.

* Dear ladies, please reagard this as a passable work of fiction.

A picture speaks a thousand words

Shantanu is looking at her picture. She charms in the life-size frame. The frame is nailed on the entrance wall.

It isn’t a close-up. She is visible entirely. Clad in a red and white garchola, Chitra is seated on an old wooden chair. Her sari is embroidered with golden zari, small white beads are woven finely, adorning the border of the chundari.

A dark red bindi resides on the forehead. Her eyebrows, neither thin nor dense are left untouched, uncared. Not a thread has plucked a single hair. Her long braid rests on her shoulder.

The picture, it speaks of a newly wed. It speaks of the change of house. It speaks of entering a new world. Of adjustments, of comforts, of trust, of relationship bound by the word marriage. It speaks of a new beginning, like a stream of water merging with a river, flowing with full vigor; finally submitting itself to the sea. It talks about blending with a new family. A family of kaka and kakis, of mama and mamis, of masa and masis; the picture, it speaks of the new neighbourhood.

The long braid rests on her shoulder. Her one hand twiddles the chains of fresh moghra pinned to her hair. The other clenches the arm of the chair. The bunch of gold and white bangles filter the view of mehndi crafted on her hands. The elephant, the lotus, the peacock, the flamboyantly lettered initial of her husband dwell on the dorsum of her hand. Her eyes lay low; the thick line of kajal rubbed against the eyelid allows itself to be captured in the painting.

The picture, it speaks about her love towards her husband. It speaks of her house, and the wealth it possesses. It speaks of the abundance of jewelry and clothes – not of dowry or rivaz but of love and relationship.

The picture speaks
A thousand sweet nothings

Her sparkling eyes,
Half seen half not*

Her young skin
Against heavy gold

The mangalsutra
The faded haldi

The mithai plattered
The children gathered

The shannai
The pandit
The Pheras
The bidai

Shantanu beholds her picture. She charms in the life-size frame. The frame is nailed on the entrance wall. Little white lilies put together form a half round.

Of whispering leaves
And the lingering drops

Of hovering flies
And the month old pickle

The open umbrellas
Sheltered pedestrians

The scented wind
O’ Wet Soil

The fresh white flowers,
They speak of the midst monsoon