A city and a love affair

When I look back I cannot put my finger on the moment when I fell in love with you but I know how it felt. It happened as I was growing up and maturing and becoming aware of my feelings. I would feel a sense of contentment just spending time with you. There were days when I did not do anything in particular and did not want to either. I was happy just walking through the streets, by the sea side - taking in the smell of the sea air and the sunset – knowing that I was with you. Did I ever tell you how beautiful you looked against the backdrop of the setting sun? At the end of a long weary day when amber & saffron hues touched your skin your face would glow up in that radiance…hiding in that light some of those lines which were a reminder of the dark times you had seen. Each unfortunate incident etched upon your tender skin had left an indelible impression – each line had a story to tell. Together they all lent a jaded character to your appearance. But I could see past those lines and see the beauty in you. Always! Even when you looked your worst I found you looking beautiful. I guess that’s what they call being in love. When one is able to look past the shortcomings of another and revel in all that is positive and good about that being.

A few years passed and I moved on in life and to another city. Even with the move, your thoughts did remain somewhere in my consciousness though I did not miss your presence sorely. I was after all captivated by all that was new and exciting. With the passage of time yours thoughts faded like a distant memory…untill someone would mention you in the conversation and then my heart would involuntarily leap out and take me to those days we had spent together. After a few minutes spent reminiscing I would get back to the humdrum of the day. It was only when I caught sight of you that morning in January that I felt an upsurge of all the emotions I had once felt for you. I still remember that morning. I had flown in from Bangalore just the previous night. I woke up early the following day and made my way to an early meeting. It was dark…the sun was not out yet. Then somewhere on my drive from Andheri to Nariman Point I witnessed the break of day and with it caught the most beautiful sight of you I had seen. Your fresh, clean, pure self filled my senses…It reminded me once again how much I had missed being with you. I had a beaming smile across my face that day since I knew I was back with you again. I did not stay with you longer even though I wanted to but that image that I saw of you that morning stayed with me ever since. That day I realized how much I love you. That was also the day I realized that despite all the love that I have for you in my heart I would not have been able to stay there with you. I moved on. As I walked away from you I never looked back…not even once. After that day we came face to face many a time, though you looked and felt different. Also, our exchanges acquired an air of formality. Not that I had stopped caring for you but there were just newer things, people and places that you were surrounded by. You had obviously moved on. I was happy to see that. Though occasionally I would also hear from others about the rough times that you had been through. These experiences that we go through change us as individuals, change the way we react and respond to things. For I remember how much you loved the rain once. Now I sense fear creep up in you as soon as it starts to pour. Staying away comes at a price. I could only sense that fear as an outsider. I could not feel inside me what you would have gone through – last year as the rains lashed out at you in fury.

Once again a couple of days back people have attempted to hurt you, break your spirit. Once again you have had to see trying times. As I looked through pictures of what happened a silent tear ran across from the corner of my eye down my cheek. I know there is not much that I can do sitting here. I also know that when I see you next this incident would have changed you forever. Changed you a bit more and increased the space and the silence between us by a few more inches. This will be one more incident that I would know about, that I would have read about but not been there with you to feel the pain of.

sunset picture courtsey flickr

Mumbai Blasts ,bombay,mumbai,Mumbai Rains,

No place like home

In the last 5 years I have moved in and out of 7 houses,5 cities and 3 countries. No place seems strange and no place seems familiar.

I often ask myself – where is home?

Is home the city I was born in and spent the first 25 years of my life? It has taken only 5 to rob me of my feeling of comfort…my friends, my family. Today I feel like a stranger in my own city. Places & people are – just poor shadows of their former selves.

Could home be the city I spent the last 2 years where I worked and lived, acquired new friends and a place to stay ? Where I plan to live for many years in the future - even though I don't live there right now. I feel tempted to call it home. Then something holds me back. When I walk through the streets I don’t see any memories from my past lurking around its corners. Cutting through the din of the passing traffic I don’t hear the sound of my friends’ cackling, breaking out into a spontaneous joke. My eyes see just buildings - brick and mortar structures. Inside - my heart is silent.

Hey isn’t this the building that once housed Gazebo where we’d come often from college…pooling in our pocket money to buy us a single pizza.

And there – when you go down that road – there is an old cloth market where I remember going with ma as a child. Wading through those gallis and stopping at to refuel at Kamat’s .

No such stories around them come to the fore! How can a place devoid of memories be considered home? Some day – when I collect enough memories around this place – may be I’d call it home – but not just yet.

When I speak about this to friends, I realize I am not the only one who feels this way. For many of us, the one thing in life that is constant is this act of moving from place to place. Unnerving it is for a while but at the end of the day one learns to accept this lifestyle. This new way of living – I guess warrants a new definition of what one would call home. For me ‘A Home’ today has become – (not a place….but) a person I return to!

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October 4, 2006 - Update

1. A couple of more perspectives here and here
2. The count has now increased to - 8 houses, 6 cities and 4 countries....and is likely to change once again next month !

Canvas

When I looked closely
At a large un-spoilt canvas
Colors began to appear…
As moments came alive
Imaginary Lines
That appeared dispersed at first
Converged with the force of sound
Before I could even realize
Emotions had seeped through
The pores of the canvas
And a home had come to life!

Traveling by the big bird and other stories

I cannot put my finger on what it is...but something about being at an international airport makes me nervous. The ones in India...I could walk through them in my sleep and still find myself on the right flight. The sheer magnitude of the place is daunting. There are signposts each step of the way. But we still lose our way! If only we would stop watching the planes - take off and land and follow the directions instead, may be, we would not land up at wrong terminals.

I find myself at the check in desk half an hour before it could even open. Yet I'm antsy. I see a man - in his 40's, mostly bald except the few strands of thin hair running from side to side. Beads of sweat magnify his thin tresses. He reaches the counter & finds no one there and panics. He finds out that check in for the flight has shifted to Zone G. He panics more and tells me to recheck. I re-check and turn around to tell him that we need to indeed shift to Zone G but by this time I find him running with his trolley towards zone G. I find myself running behind him. The adult in me chides me for running panic struck when there are 3.5 hours to board. My irrational self pays no heed, craning my neck trying not to lose sight of man running amok with his trolley. Half bald nervous man has suddenly become my official guide.

At the check in counter I feel a sinking feeling. The same that one feels when one is stopped at the railway platform and asked for a ticket which has suddenly decided to disappear in the deepest darkest corner of one's bag. Why people don’t make bags with a small light fitting in them is a different story. I examine my options. Should I go to the firang or settle for the Indian instead. Firangs derive their sense of power from the system - they hold their rules and regulations dear to their heart. Where as an Indian man feels his sense of power at being able to bend the system and its rules beyond recognition If I am excess on my baggage allowance there is a higher possibility that the Indian would bail me out. I try not to look nervous reminding myself that like dogs, even airport officials can smell it on you. It works, I am allowed to pass without paying

Inside the flight no sooner that they have got to their seats, I see people starting the barter for seats. 'If you let me take this one...then you can have the window there at the end where my wife is sitting' Nervous half bald man looks visibly less nervous though still restless to strike a good deal for his choice of seat. The strong blower in the aircraft has sucked away his beads of sweat and the edge of his hair is starting to fan up at the sides.

At 11 p.m. I am woken up by middle aged woman in red saree and asked...would you like to have your khaana beta'...I nod and am served. I like the mummy like hostess rather than a cold white ghost speaking to me with a twang. I have a new found love in my heart for Air India.

Bombay has a shinning new arrival lounge. The marble stair-case that once adorned the entrance with water falling from the top - has disappeared. The smell however is unmissable. Gregory David Robertson has an entire para dedicated to it in his book. Very well described. I am feeling less poetic though. To me it’s just a mix of some strong, cheap phenyl and un-serviced, musty old air conditioners. The cop at the exit gate stops me and utters the word 'pauti' (Marathi for receipt). I hand over my immigration slip and walk out. I know I’m home!

Air Travel,Air India,bombay,mumbai,

Loss - Where small is big

There are some moments in our life that we never forget. Stories recalled long after these incidents happen. These are usually the - first of times…day at school, graduation. But this post is not about such times. There is something else that we remember, recall, narrate and even regret long after it has happened. There are some in my personal memory bank

The time when I was 7 – 8 and we were all going to a movie. At that time there was the excitement about taking munchies to the movie hall from home - which we had excitedly packed in a large white plastic bag. We got into an auto rickshaw…kept the bag behind the seat in the storage area and got out leaving our bag of goodies behind. Needless to say we did not enjoy the movie that day and never leave anything behind the seat in a rickshaw ever since.

Then the other time when we were going for a wedding…all dressed up and on the way to the function someone stole my father’s wallet and we returned home with the memory of the lost wallet that is narrated till today – years after the incident

When we lose things…many a times these are small things…often replaceable …could be a bus pass or a pen…not worth much – it troubles us. We try to trace our route back in the hope of finding what we’ve lost…ask people around if they have seen it…agonize over it for days…sometimes more.

But then …

We lose our best of friends….to silence…friends who part ways without knowing what went wrong

We lose our health…to chips and fries and candy and coke

We lose our time….sometimes sitting in front of the TV…at other times doing things we do not enjoy

We lose love…to a false sense of pride…or pleasure…and we lose chances to tell people who matter, how much we love them.

And do not even realize!

Bombay...meri jaan!

Of bhel puri and juhu chowpaty
To Irani ki chai…bun maska and kheema patty

From Kasa kai bara hai…kai chaal lai?
To Circuit, Maamu and Munna bhai

From the fish fry that hangs upside down at Sion koliwada
To Sri Krishna’s garama garam bata vada

Of Cusrow Baug & Freny Todiwallah
And of food delivery men…the dabbawallas

Of cuffe parade and sassoon docks
To bade miyah ke lazeez kabab

Of lazy afternoons at Leopolds and Mondegar
To firangs on causeway leching…smoking cigar

When Sandra and Robert need to meet chori chori
Would it be at Church pakadi or khotachi wadi?

Traffic signals bypassed…railway tracks we cross
We hang with our lives from the doors of the virar fast

From the pious steps of Mahalaxmi,
To the morning sight of the Haji ali

Bombay or Mumbhai whichever way you see
Thoda spicy…thoda cool…hai yeh city

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There are so many more things quintessentially bombay....feel free to add your verses.

poetry, bombay,mumbai,

Sounds of Silence

A silence screams out
Wrestling with the inner walls
In an attempt to tear those open
An attempt….but in vain

Those walls which look so tender
Trap the sound inside
For those have been sealed by the
Deafening noises from the world outside

They let the sounds from the outside….in
But none can getaway from within

Sounds that have reverberated through the ages
They all lay there buried…confined to those cages
Struggling to find a way…to escape
Perhaps in the soul…they’ll find an aide

poetry, silence,