The alarm rings right at 6:30 am. Yes, I admit that I had been ambitious; rather, I am ambitious. I still plan to see early morning some time and probably go for jogging with my iPod on…but right now, I don't have sports shoes (and I want that butt-trimming 4K Reebok ones only…can't deny myself the pleasure of having a nicely-shaped butt!) and my iPod has been hijacked by my brother. So inspite of all the right intention, the alarm rings and is then put to snooze. I snooze too. However, I simply imagine myself taking leeway of the first few minutes of the day; after all, a woman needs her time! The watch is not my friend. It crawls on to show 8:00…a sensation in the spine and all of a sudden, I am all senses. My dedicated bus mate, Maninder, sends a text, "Coming?" I do realize that the text message is not all drowned in care for me missing the bus and wasting another Rs. 70 on some godforsaken auto but in the anticipation of a negative reply that will make the bus take a simpler route and reach office a little ahead of time…I somehow don't understand this obsession while going to office…why would you want to reach early when you know you will still be staying back to finish work? Anyways, Maninder, my friend, doesn't manage to get a negative response. I reply, "Yes." At times, I add a smiley too, as if laughing at the pleasure of forcing a detour.

I rush to brush my teeth and take a quick bath. Drag some clothes out of the closet. Put them on hurriedly. Put on slippers…any pair available (which at times results in a green pair with a blue jeans and a black kurti). Lock the door. Realize that my dear cell phone is still in the room. Open the door. Pick up the phone. Lock the door again. Keep the keys in the bag. Climb stairs down. Rush toward the bus stop…almost there…Oh…there is the bus…Maninder's call…I disconnect (why waste dear friend's call when I am right behind the bus?)…and oh…oh…oh…the bus moves away! I have heard about albino elephants. Legend says they are to be worshipped. Don't know about the sanctity of the claim but I sure know that the ditcher of a bus looks like one big, fat, white elephant slowly moving away, having eaten two-legged ants alive. I sure don't feel like worshipping it.

It takes a few moments for me to realize just what happened. By the time I call up my dear friend Maninder, the bus has become the size of a dehydrated, malnourished elephant. Maninder says, "Oh, well, you didn't pick up my call, so we thought you might have changed your mind about taking the office bus." I mutter under my breath, "Oh, sure as hell I wish I could change my mind!" I show two beautiful, new ten-rupee notes to a young auto driver and he drops me near the elephant, er, bus. Rest of the journey is nondescript. The roads are all packed with cars (and I wonder that by the time I am finally ready with the money to buy a car, there might be just enough space in this city to run a self-driven bicycle! Sigh…sigh…). Like all my bus mates, I too close my eyes and ears and pretend that nothing but my imagination and the FM radio exists in the world, only to find myself faced with the main NIIT gate in a while. Time to roll, I tell myself. (to be continued…)

Life Comes Full Circle

For me, life always comes in full circles. I always find myself back to where I started from. Katwariya Sarai, one-room flat; off to Kishangarh, beautiful two-room apartment, complete privacy, my rooms with windows open; back to Katwariya Sarai, two-room flat, no privacy, double curtains always pulled.

I don’t mean that it’s bad. Well, I guess, bad and good are just your way of thinking, depends on how you want to look at life.

Sure, my washroom door won’t allow a healthy person in, sure my kitchen allows more cockroaches than humans, sure I have to dry my dirty linen in full public gaze. But I also have other things to look up to. For example, I don’t need to worry about haggling with auto drivers to take me to my destination, I don’t have to pay extra money to auto drivers because they wont get other passengers, I don’t need to travel three kilometers to get something I need or buy some mutton, and most importantly, I don’t need to wait for an hour before help arrives when I need!

When I look back at my life, I see a long winding, undulated road. I can’t see the destination but I do see the storms and the sunny days. They are so correct when they say that life is a journey. Sure it is, at least for me.

I have a choice. Should I look at the pits and falls? Or, should I look at the broad, blue sky waiting up ahead the pits and falls?

I have always had people around me—good, bad, and ugly. Did they hurt me or did I allow them to hurt me? I think it was always me who gave the permission to others to hurt me beyond what I could carry. Actually, not. Someone always knew that I can carry loads on my fragile shoulders. I think God must be a project manager. He (or she) knows that I am a reliable resource, give me more than anyone else and I will definitely carry it through. Are you sure God’s last name is not Sinha? I have my doubts though.

Whoever God is, whatever his or her surname is, the fact remains. I am the winner and I will take it all in the end.

Just you wait and watch!

Never did I expect to find someone else in the mirror! It was supposed to be me, with all my dreams, hopes, and vision. The way my muse has taken refuge under the impenetrable blanket of professionalism and "Instructional Designing", the same way my previous self has got lost in the smoke and dust of this city.

I don't remember when was the last time I actually lived my wishes. These days, I simply live, fighting my way through the crowd, through the world, and through life itself.

Crazily though, it seems that Delhi has grown into me, at least to some extent. These days, I buy branded clothes, oh my! I nonchalantly look at children shivering under tattered clothes on the very pavement on which I walk after spending quite an amount of money on a movie and pop corns in a multiplex. I smoke a long, slender, apparently "ultra mild" cigarette. And funnily, when I write these words, I pay more attention to the language and grammar details, instead of the feelings that should have poured in! J

I tell myself, "I too have the right to enjoy life after burning myself at office! What can I alone do about the state of the world? How can I help others? First, I need to help myself." And honestly, I hate it when I say these things to myself.

If you ask me, I am still in love with the person I was. It seems as if it was a different woman. How was she? She was clumsy and unprofessional to the core. She would go out with Kajaal dripping from her eyes, with a loose side bag, lots of books and papers, and a pen. She would dream of changing the world. She would also dream of buying some books and music CDs whose price tags will make her plan for having a well-salaried job.

Someone had once told her, "I want to earn just that much which allows me to buy books and CDs without checking the price tags." It was her wish too.

What she didn't know is that wishes are followed by more wishes, and more so when you start living in a place like Delhi.

Books and CDs, house on rent, computer, fridge, furniture, washing machine, fancy cell phone, branded products, multiplexes, air travel, car…and the list still goes on.

If you search her bag today, you will probably find a purse fatter than before, a pen drive, some cosmetics, an identity card (as if, she didn't have an identity before! By the way, wasn't that anonymity much better than the card that looks more like a canine tag?), and some papers containing official data. Gone are the books and the pen that was her companion and dream.

Three years down in Delhi. I have the money to buy the books I wanted to have. I don't have the time to read them though! I have a balcony where I can sip my morning cup of coffee. I don't have the time to drink coffee in my balcony. I have a room of my own. I hardly spend the night in the room.

Three years in Delhi. I have a room. I just don't have the view anymore.

 

I remember that coffee advertisement. It showed a happy looking woman starting her day, sipping a fuming cup of coffee, looking lazily down from her wide balcony. I wanted to have that cup of coffee—all by myself, free, independent. And now, two years down in Delhi, I am having that cup on a lazy Saturday evening. My balcony doesn’t look half as nice as it does in the ad, given the fact that it’s probably one of the narrowest one in the world, there are pigeon pairs who fight and play and shit around, and of course there are chubby monkey-families who visit the shrubs regularly. Nevertheless, I can still make myself enjoy a cup of coffee looking down at the throng walking the alleys of my dear old Katwariya Sarai.

Life has changed for me, or should I say, I have changed for the life I have here? I guess the latter is truer (although it’s not one of those things in which all are true and some are more true!). Five days in a week, I slog like…I don’t know…probably like a dog or something? But dogs slog because they want to; an appropriate simile will rather involve the species called “mules”. Laden with work and bearing the limitless stupidity of another species called ‘supervisors’—I drag myself from Mon to Fri…and then finally comes the holy eve. Thank God it’s Friday!!! The bell chimes and the lights go dim. We put on our holy garb and head straight for the place where it happens all. Well, almost. Our destination is known as RPM…a small place where people pay huge amounts to get a can of beer and see pretty females in negligees. That, in modern parlance, would be “happening it all”, right? At least, the entertainment channels think so.

Freaky Friday night and then a late Saturday morning. And then comes the not-so-happy part of staying alone in an unknown city. The bell chimes again and this time it reminds me of the heaps of dirty clothes seeking my kind attention, the sink full of pots and pans and tumblers, the cockroach infested room with cobwebs and dust, and my own self…with dark kohl marks under my eyes and fat pimple to take care of! All these tragic things of life and only my poor soul and trembling hands! I guess you don’t pay rupees thirty six for a bottle of Nescafe, but you pay all five days of a week and busy weekends to sip that coffee at your balcony. Lesson learnt—never plan to have coffee alone, you might end up cleaning loads of pans all by yourself.

Kolkata Karcha

It’s been a whole year – full 365 days – that I have been living in Delhi. Away from home, far from friends, beyond the confines of my book-stuffed room of childhood memories…

I have always dreamt of leaving Kolkata and traveling far and wide. The bumpy roads, crowded buses, nosey neighbours, wasted talents and frustratingly small ‘situations vacant’ columns in newspapers prompted huge sighs and ardent wishes to leave that ‘blasted’ place. Little did I know then – how deeply I am rooted in Kolkata, my lazy, lovely Kolkata.

The dazzles of Delhi have worn out long back. Not that I don’t like what I have got. Once I wanted a room with a view. Now I have a whole balcony – all to myself! I can even lie down in my thin bed and look at the sparkling stars and the moon outside. For three thousand and two hundred rupees a month, that’s something I get daily. My small white-washed room, grumpy kitchen, oddly placed wash basin and of course – the balcony – they are something that Delhi has given me. And I am happy about it all.

Human desires are elusive, really. Delhi has given me my moon – and yet I look at it and wonder if my friends in Kolkata are looking at it too. I often think about the ‘jheel paar’ – and our ritualistic Addas at that lakeside heaven of Jadavpur University. People might still be spending lazy hours there, blown away in smoke, music and brain storms. The chap outside the gate might still be running in and out with fuming glasses of lemon tea. Gobindo Da – our ever-smiling librarian, tempting books at the Departmental Library, seminar rooms, the Profs we loved, the Profs we gossiped about, and the Profs we adored … they might all be there. Only I can’t be there.

There are times when I wake up in the morning and decide that I would dedicate the day to window shopping at Gariahat, only to realise moments later that those windows are far, far away from my door at Delhi. A walk down Park Street, a movie at Nandan, Bratya Basu at Academy, hard bargain at College Street and burning midnight oil before M.Phil dissertation … today it all seems a dream to die for.

And yet, and yet…

I feel like thanking Delhi for giving me my room, along with a balcony (which, I must say, is a rare privilege for migrant, middle class, career-seekers like me, in Delhi). Thank you Delhi for making me realise how precious my land, my people, my language and my existence is to me.

Thank you for making me feel the love I nurture for that ‘blasted city’ of mine.

I think I am a dreamer … and am I the only one?

The other day we had been to Surajkund Crafts Fair. It was a Sunday and the place – naturally – was horribly crowded. More than the paintings and the garments, what amused me was the live performance of various artists. There were musicians and acrobats… ‘Madaris’, to be precise. Interesting to note was the element of fusion. The tribal musicians were playing a foot stomper from a latest Hindi pick, and the Madaris were all clad in faded jeans! Times are changing my dear- and so are we. Amidst the hullabaloo of inquisitive visitors (and only a handful of collectors, really), there was a hush-campaign … something was going on – someone was there…Oh! Righto! There she was – with her unmistakable red plumes. I have seen her so many times, on packs of moisturisers and shampoos, and then vouching for her fairness cream on television. Shehnaaz Hussain was there. As wives craned to steal a glance, and boyfriends struggled to get their sweethearts’ attention back to their charming eyes – Shahnaaz moved on from one shop to the other, flanked by security guards, gloated by millions. As for the fair - nothing was extra ordinary for me – as I have seen it all back in Kolkata, so many times, so much better.

We moved out. With a fresh breath of air came a dream. His green eyes were chasing stars, and he was trying to sell a balloon to the visitors. How old was he? Seven? Eight? Ten? I don’t know. What I do know is that his eyes had a million dreams and his balloon had not a single customer. Honestly – Even I did not buy them. How could I? I mean – he was pursuing visitors, holding a balloon – a colourful dream in his mud stained hands. His dry, pale hairs were afloat. His patched shirt could hardly hide his bones. How could I put a price on his invaluable dreams? His smile, his eyes, his unscathed innocence had left me thinking. I am a dreamer. I dream of kites and stars. But am I the only one?

Millions of dreams astray
Millions of battles lost
One small desire achieved
One small world is what I Got………..

I was watching ‘Hazaron Khowashien Aisi’. It’s a film by Sudhir Mishra that depicts those turbulent seventies. I had heard a lot about this film back in Kolkata. They said it’s good. Delhites I met actually trashed it. They said it’s unwise to spend money on taxing their already fatigued brains. David Dhawan was their choice really. But honestly – I am somewhat midway between the two worlds. I absolutely adore the movie and at the same time feel exhausted after watching it. Not a perfect Saturday night treat, eh?

Memories and desires keep coming back entwined with each other. The film actually took me back to the days I spent in Birbhum, West Bengal. Standing under a star studded sky amidst the autumn grass, we had talked about changing the world. We had regular meetings in shivering candle light. Tribal people from in and around the village came to hear us town folks speak their language. Kunal would start the singing, with the village folks eventually joining in. Habilda would give his toothy smile before starting on his patent notes. Accompanied by Madol and dhol – we would, town and tribals together, beat the rhythms with steps wavering under the influence of native liquor called Mahua. I learnt so many things, heard so many stories, enriched myself in so many ways … and in the end … felt disillusioned. Why did we just talk? Ok, ok – I know all the stuff about discourse and power, but nothing really was happening. The schools were running, but did the children learn? The kitchen gardening was on, but were they in fruition? We had our meetings, but did the people get the message? Yes – we had stopped illegal stone quarries in our region, but did the practice stop altogether? There were a million questions unanswered.

I remember Pablo. I had also asked myself the same questions and come to Vikram’s conclusion. Rich kids can strut around on Castro and Che Guevara, but I can’t. I have to earn my own living before thinking of livelihood issues, and I preferred not to make money out of the NGO mill. Oh no – that was not my cup of tea.

I have been to the fringes of the NGO world and could smell the stink of rotten inside. Adultery, corruption, incest, alcohol and intoxicating smoke rattled my brain. Not to deny – I had also tasted that forbidden fruit. “Make contacts and climb upwards” … I was told. I could not contact and took the road out.

But I still think there are people, unlike me, who really have their beliefs in place. They do not primarily want to mill money out of the desires and dreams of a changed world. Precisely – they are no dream merchants. They simply work and work very hard. To them is this page, and I guess the movie too, are dedicated.

I am miles away from all those days and dreams. I sit with my PC and write blogs these days. Do I dream? I really don’t know as I doze off the moment my tired bones get close to the bed. But those who still dream – may their worlds be won. May their desires fulfilled.

One small desire … can I have a small glass of Mahua made available in Delhi?

My satanic wishes should rather go astray.

May I just win my world, my room – with a small view from where I will be able to see those starry nights and hear the tribal drum beats once more?