Blast-ed Budday

One month and no post—chee chee chee. And I call myself a blogger. But then again, my life has been excessively dramatic lately. In fact I’m thinking of chucking the book I’m contemplating thinking about working on (yes that’s how much I’ve been procrastinating on it) and write a book on my dramatic life. There will be only one book published and I’ll be the only reader, but still.

Anyhoo, the birthday just went by. And my, whatte budday it was. Since I’m ignoring the fact that I’m getting older, and am nowhere near what I imagined what my fabulous life would be like, I decided to party my *bums* off this year. Last year was an utterly crappy birthday, so I more than made up for it this year.

Although I’m currently observing (I actually changed that from doing to observing) Lent—yes, that means no alcohol for almost 50 days; no, I’m not Catlick but I’m doing it out of love and support, sigh—it was decided earlier that I get to take a break from the abstinence on my budday eve and on my budday, of course. (Only much later did it occur to marad that I had managed two days out of this *hyuk hyuk*).

So there we were, a whole bunch of my friends and I, at one of our favourite bars, drinking, singing, dancing and generally making merry. I cut a cake at 12 (I still adore this ritual), got calls from friends and family, and generally was very *happy*. Now obviously, since almost everyone was as *happy* as I was, no one wanted the party to end, even though it was a weekday.

So we headed to a friend’s place, all the girls piling into the car, while the boys chivalrously took autos. On the way, two my *happy* friends wanted balloons, so we stopped and bought a bunch of colourful balloons. We reached said friend’s building and continued taking photographs (of course, over 200 from the night) in the compound.

Suddenly, somehow, no one is quite sure how—a number of unverified reports—a lighter found its way under the balloons and all the balloons exploded simultaneously. Onto three of my girls’ faces and one boy’s arm. Whaa?

Apparently, these were not regular balloons. These weren’t even helium balloons because those don’t explode (some fancy scientific explanation). These balloons were filled with some form of flammable gas, which burnt like a bitch. We rushed the victims to the hospital at 2am and many tears, some ointment and a questionable night doctor later, we wrapped up the night around 4am. “Blast-ed birthday” indeed!

There was little respite afterward because we had to wake up in two hours and go sort out some new house thingy at the ungodly hour of 7am. Made it to work on time, worked all day, got said new home cleaned and then went out again to make more merriment.

Needless to say, it was an eventful and exhausting birthday. Can you blame me for not blogging? Oh and btw, I just turned 21. Okthanksbye.

Fidelity a scarce commodity?

When I was a little girl, I had a recurring daydream. I’d meet my soulmate when I turn 16. He becomes my best friend, we go to the same college together, move to the same city, fall in love and get married, have kids and live happily ever after. There was no space for dating other guys, having my heart broken or breaking other hearts, people hitting on me only for a particular reason—none of that. It was the perfect love story; one that couldn’t be made into a movie since there were no twists or turns.

I grew up and expectedly, my daydream was shattered into a millions shards. Many came and went; I broke some hearts and my heart was broken a few times. But nonetheless, I still believe in love, commitment, marriage, fidelity and the likes. Which is odd, because the concept of marriage scared the bejesus out of me for the longest time—not because I wanted to sound cool and say that I don’t want to be tied down or whatever excuse people use, but because my first-hand experience of marriage in my formative years was less than perfect.

Today I see fidelity has become a scarce commodity, a point of discussion with people actually debating whether or not it is possible. People I know fall in love, spend heaps of time together, fight, share, laugh, and then get married. I’m presuming that when they are getting married it’s not just for the party (as fun as that idea may be). You are taking a vow to love, cherish and respect each other, no matter what. Yes, there will be ups and downs, sometimes the road will look barren for long periods of time, sometimes you will want to either kill yourself or your spouse, or both. But in the end, you promise at that altar, in front of a fire or a cross or a courthouse, that you will stick it out. So why the question of whether or not fidelity is possible? Isn’t that the premise of most relationships, especially that of marriage?

When people tell me they think fidelity is overrated and not a practical expectation, I look at it this way—I love my mom. Now if I meet my friend’s mom who may be prettier, or more fun, or just cooks better, does that mean I...switch or move on to the other mother? Not really.

So why is it so difficult for people to stay committed in a marriage and uphold those vows? I’ve heard people say that yes, I’ve cheated, but I love her/him, so I shouldn’t lose her/him. Huh? If you do love the person, how could you allow your body to make love to anyone else? Isn’t it repulsive? I know love and lust are two different things, but isn’t lust a part of love? If you are truly in love with someone, aren’t you also attracted to that person, and hence won’t feel the need to satiate any physical needs elsewhere?

I’ve heard people say, “I love XX, but so-and-so is so cute, I just can’t resist!” I could understand that if you’re in a relationship where you’re not entirely happy or sure about the person. But if you’re married (and I don’t mean those weddings where you are forced down the aisle)... how?

I may sound old-fashioned, close-minded or just plain stupid. But it makes me thinks, in this day and age, when we have so many options for just about everything, from detergent to investment plans and cars, are we also beginning to look at options for our love and commitment? Is it really becoming that difficult in today’s urbanscape to stay loyal to one person, where you can have up to five people at a time?

I try not to judge but sometimes I can’t help it. Forgive the righteousness of this post, it’s not the intention. I’m just old-school. Despite seeing lots of infidelity all my life, I am a complete champion for faithfulness, loyalty, chivalry and old-fashioned, one-person, head-over-heels, going-down-on-one-knee, sweeping-you-off-your-feet kinda love. Is that too much to ask for?

Happy birthday Dadu

One of the earliest memories I have of him is of the night we returned from the US. I remember he bought Thums Up for us and though it was three in the morning, the entire family was chugging the drink on the first floor of the beautiful house he had built years ago.

After this, every memory of my growing years has him in it. He would be the guardian coming for our parent-teacher meetings, sit in the room while my sister and I studied in the porar ghor (which is my room today), often falling asleep and leaving us giggling with his thunderous snores. We’d take the opportunity to then pass chits and snacks to each other, while he slept blissfully on the floor of the room, comfortable in just his lungi and poite.

His would buy us whatever we needed—clothes, books, stationary, even underwear and other womanly items. He would cover our books before every school year started while we held the tape for him. Every other weekend, he and I would sit on the floor of our dining room and segregate all the biscuits he had bought in separate jars and tins. We would then eat those biscuits with tea on the floor of his room or the balcony; I would pour my tea into the saucer just like he would. Yes, we spent many an hour on the floor of our beautiful house.

Lunches at the Calcutta Club were always a grand affair, especially the Christmas lunches. A stop at the bakery before leaving was always a must. The discussion at the lunch table however, always embarrassingly revolved around my bathroom ordeals—so much so that today, I have no qualms in discussing the same with just about anyone.

I remember seeing him cry, for the first time ever, and my heart broke. I literally heard the snap and thinking of the image, I cried for hours afterwards.

He would drop me to the bus stop every single day till I was in my A-Levels and stopped going to school by bus. He would carry my bag, hold my hand and we’d cross the road till I was 16 years old. Once when my bag fell over into the fenced garden against which we’d lean and wait, he tried climbing over the fence to retrieve it—he was around 70 then. When it was time to start using the metro, he went on a few trial runs with me so that I would get the hang of it.

The amount of time I spent on the phone was always a bone of contention between us—why wouldn’t I just use that time studying instead? He often lectured my friends and me—he used to say, I don’t have two granddaughters, I have so many, because my sister’s and my childhood friends, especially my three chuddy buddies, were like his own.

The first time we had to rush him to the hospital, I was scared. I was petrified, but for some reason, I did not fear losing him. That thought had just not occurred to me. I mean, he had, after all, said that he wanted to settle our accounts over all the years with his nath-jamais (grandsons-in-law). So where would he go? He was going to give us away.

My AS Level results came a month before he actually left. I was thrilled and so was he—I got all A’s. He showed me off at his office (yes, the man worked till his last day) and brought home mishti. We then ordered pizza and I remember planting a kiss on the forehead of the man who was responsible for my “flying colours”.

About a month later, I had to fill out some forms and submit them to the British Council for a paper I was giving early, for my A-Levels. I took them on Friday but one signature or some such thing was missing, so the submission was incomplete. The perfectionist OCD kind of person that he was, he wanted at least five different copies of these to be kept with different people at different locations, just in case. I brought back the incomplete forms which he then completed.

Monday morning, as I was leaving the house, I looked up to wave him goodbye; he was hanging off the balcony yelling “BC BC!”, reminding me to go to British Council, submit the forms and bring home the photocopies. Anyone hearing this out of context would think he was yelling out a very dirty swear word.

I dutifully did all that I was told and brought the copies for him. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that now I would be able to give my exam.

Later that night, I was studying for an accounts test, my least favourite subject. He knew I preferred to study at night. But this night, for some reason, he called me up to sleep by 11:30pm. I would sleep in his room—him of the floor and me on the bed. He used to say that the AC’s direct vent bothered him, but I suspect that was not true.

Surprisingly, without arguing, I too shut my books and went up. He told me he was feeling well now (he had had a cold and fever the past few days) and that I should sleep since I had to wake up early. That was the last conversation I ever had with him. The next two weeks or so are a blur and yet I remember every single moment of it.

Birthdays have always been a big deal for us—a cake is a must. Today he would have turned 85. How I wish he was here so that I could turn to him for advice, and so that he could meet my special someone (I think he’d like him) and so that he could give me away. I try not to shed tears on his birthday; I definitely eat cake. The tears bit is easier said than done, but the cake is easy peasy.

Happy Birthday Dadu. Everything I am today, is because of you—my perseverance, my tenacity, the strength of my character, my values and ideals—everything. I know you’re still around, looking out for Di and me, proud of what we’ve accomplished today, waiting for it to get even better, because as you would say, “Ashol’er theke shudh beshi.” (The interest is always greater and more important than the principal amount).

Feeling the feeling

It’s just one of those feelings. I don’t know what the feeling is, but it ain’t great. The last few weeks have been hectic, with almost equal parts of the good and the bad; possibly more of the good than the bad, and yet I feel lost in transition.

Firstly let me tell you all about the beautiful wedding I went for back home. Out of my close school gang, the first one went down—pretty big deal. I was given almost a year’s notice so I had to go and hold him steady in case he freaked out. Luckily nothing of the sort happened and in fact, he is deliriously happy and in love. Yes, this is still possible. It was your quintessential arranged-cum-love marriage—a rare phenomenon in the generation before us that is making a quick and solid comeback in ours. It was almost like these two were made for each—they even look perfect together. And of course, the wedding gave me an excuse to go home, laze around, have my mommy feed me, wear saris and jewellery, and just kick back and relax. All purposes served!

Staying true to my new year promise (no, not resolution, just a promise to myself) I made amends in a few relationships, which mean the world to me, and let go (not without trying) of a few others—no hard feelings. I still perhaps have some way to go, but hey, it’s a good start, right? Sometimes you have to realise that as you grow up, you blossom into a person of your own, as do others around you. That just means you have to try harder to maintain certain relationships. I don’t mean that that effort is straining; I just mean that you need to understand one another better so that your different personalities don’t clash or push you apart—cos no matter some, some ties really are for life.

I was back from home in a week, thrown headfirst into a deluge of work and dilemmas about my ‘home’ situation in this city. Sigh. It just never ends, does it? But respite soon came in the form of a beautiful music and wine fest at the Sula Vineyards, Nashik. I went with some people whose company I love (including some whom I love) and under the open skies and with the notes of the music, I soon forgot my real-life problems and let the wine do its work. 

The highlight of Sulafest 2013 was definitely Swarathma’s performance. So much energy and interaction on stage—electric! Though their music is undoubtedly similar to lead singer Vasudev Dixit’s brother’s band, Raghu Dixit’s, the Radhu Dixit Project, there was something about Swarathma’s delivery and stage presence that was unparalled! Besides, the backing vocalist and lead guitarist is a Bong. ;)

And now I’m back, again, feeling the feeling, that I can’t explain; feeling like no one loves me; like I have too many battles to fight, too many obstacles to overcome. Sigh. Can anyone please find me a rock I can hide under and never come out of? I can make it my home, you know? Okthanksbye. 

Tenant? No, you have no rights.

The good feeling about this year is quickly fading. Remember the obstacles I mentioned in my last post? Yes, they are making their presence felt.

I’ve said this before and I can’t say it enough—being a single, professional girl living in Mumbai is anything but fun and easy. I’m not discounting the fun bit, but it is hard. For some reason, because you come from outside the city and you’re not married, people judge you. People who you think are probably not so judgemental, judge you and how. Of course, I am also blindly following stereotypes by believing that certain communities are not judgemental, but now I know better.

If you are a single person from outside Bombay, living on rent, beware—you must not have friends or a social life. You must also have a job wherein you can be back home by 6pm (which means please get out of office by 5-5:30pm, given the duration of travel in this city), and once home, please stay put and do not exit the building. God forbid you have friends over for dinner, it will be instantly assumed that you are drinking, taking drugs, having loud, wild, trippy rave-like parties, even though, miraculously, you cannot be heard. But considering that your neighbours have their ears peeled to your wall, you are in trouble.

It doesn’t matter if you come from good, decent, well-to-do, cultured families in a different part of the country. Once you come to Bombay as a single person, you become a whore, someone brought up in a jhopar-patti, someone with no values, and someone who leads a life of no purpose or direction. You are a tenant and an outsider, so you are a nobody with no rights. Make no mistake that just because you are paying rent and a deposit, and not living in a hostel or paying guest accommodation, that you have the same rights as your neighbours, who ‘own’ their apartments, and hence the building, society and all moral judgment. You are not like any other citizen in this democratic (this word is as always, used fast and loose)—you have no rights. I have been told this point blank – no joke.

People sometimes amaze me. I am blessed with a family who has always *always* been supportive of all my decisions and actions. As a result of which, I have *never* had to lie to my folks. When I started dating, I would bring the boyfriends home; when I started smoking, I would smoke in my own house and though it wasn’t discussed openly till recently, I never had to lie. When I turned 18, my dad took me for a drink; any other *personal* situations could always be discussed with my mom (and I mean, anything). My sister of course, has always been and continues to be my best friend, my rock-solid pillar of support and the one who will fight the world to protect me. My family always told me, tell us the truth rather than lie and do things behind our backs. And I did, to the point where today, I am the worst liar on the surface of this planet.

So understandably, if I am not lying to my own family, I find it wrong and painful to have to lie to other people’s families, to landlords and to neighbours. I’m not a drunk, I’m not a slut and I’m not a bum. I’m an independent adult, earning my own living, leading my own life. The values in me have been inculcated by my grandfather, so I know I cannot be wrong on that front.

So how then, do people, on the pretence of society, values and ethics, become better than me by poking their noses into other people’s business; by making the lives of others hell; by bitching to some people about certain others, etc.? How is it that just because they have monthly EMIs on their heads, rather than a monthly rent, like me, they become more cultured, valued and powerful? I have my own house in my home city too; that doesn’t mean that I’m better than my neighbours who are tenants.

It is because of people like this that rapes are condoned in this country. If a girl has boys over at her place, she becomes a whore and then if she is raped, even if it’s outside her home, she was asking for it. I won’t be unfair; it’s not like all the landlords I’ve dealt with in my last eight years in this city has been so—but you’d be surprised at what people can be like. At least I am.

The only good thing is that because I’m a tenant, I’m not rooted to one place. I don’t have to deal with troublesome, small-minded neighbours, and spineless, stereotypical landlords—I can walk away as I please. So, I guess it’s time to walk. 

I met a man...

I met a man a few months ago. He saw me and immediately knew what was wrong. I cried before him and was not embarrassed. He suggested I wear a ring—a yellow sapphire. It’s pretty, though not as pretty as I’d like, and my friends don’t think it’s pretty at all. But I don’t mind it. He told me I am a creative person and I’ve made the right decision. He told me to write my book and that someday he would read it. He told me my heart was broken and would be so, but then he saw my tears, and knew they were true, so told me not to give up hope. He told me that I would face many obstacles in life; that my path was not easy—but that I had to fight it out. He told me to take a leaf out of his book. He hasn’t walked in years, in decades. He told me that if he could overcome the obstacles, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to. I promised that I’d try.

Today, my tears have dried and my heart has mended. I’m still wearing the ring, I’m still writing my book and I’m still in love. But he is no longer here. The man I met a few months ago, who inspired me more than anyone has in a while, is gone for good. Much before his time. He was a special man, he should have stayed.

I feel strange. I met this man only once. A man who deeply cares about me took me to this man, to help me find direction. And when I met this man, I wanted to believe everything he told me, even though I normally don’t—believe or wear rings. But I believed and accepted the hope he gave me. And yet, now he’s gone.

I’m telling my friends that this man is gone, and they ask me, were you close? No, we weren’t. Did you spend a lot of time with him? No, I didn’t. So why are you so upset? What are your tears for? I don’t know. I feel sad; I feel a void I didn’t think I could.

Do you have to know a person for decades to feel his/her loss? Do you have to spend a lot of time with him to miss his presence in this world? I don’t know. Perhaps. Then why do I feel so? Why do I feel uncomfortable in my gut? Why do I feel the bile of fear rising in my throat? Why am I scared that what he said may come true, and my heart will break again? That I’ll be unable to overcome the obstacles? Why can I not speak my heart openly to the one person I can otherwise tell everything? Why do I suddenly feel like I’m fighting a losing battle?

I met this man a few months ago, and today the man is gone for good. I didn’t know him too well and yet I mourn. Why do I feel so? I feel... I feel like running back home. 

It's gonna be a good good year!

Ten days into the New Year and no blog post?! Chee chee. Well that’s what happens when you have a job and all. Sigh.

But I gotta good good feeling about this year. Once I get used to writing 2013, all will be well. Maybe because unlike others, 13 has always been lucky for me. Or perhaps because 2013 adds up to 6, an even number. Either way, win-win!

The New Year started with a bang, with me hosting one of the most fun parties in a while. I was surrounded with the people I love, the people they love and the people those people love too. In short, I knew very few of the guests before that night and yet had a complete blast! And this was after I spent a wonderful Christmas with my bestie and her family in Goa, with her mom feeding us silly, and me picking up a few Goan recipes (perhaps to impress a certain other mother *wink wink*).

This blast-ful New Year’s Eve was followed up by a loud and crazy visit from my ACJ friends. Ten girls in one apartment—need I say more? But in short, they all loved Bombay, something that us Bombay folk, felt strangely proud of. Yes, I am now of the Bombay folk. I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or bad.

And soon, once I can swim out of the sea of work I’m drowning in long enough to escape, I go home! Yes, mere yaar ki shaadi is almost here! Super excited about seeing my fams, eating home food, and doing lots of work at this wedding (yes, I am the Best Woman, as it were, and I have been warned that I may lose a few kilos during those days). The first one of my school gang is going down and this is big! The best part—he’s so happy and so in love that it almost restores my faith in humanity, soulmates, the universe etc. More on this special union (yes, I’m cheesy) once I’m back.

I have decided that this year is going to be the year of reckoning for me. I like the way that sounds so it may or may not be true.  But I have decided, or rather redecided, since I’ve decided this again, that this year I’m going to make things happen. I’m going try and fix things that are not right in my life, including friendships, relationships, my finances, my goals, etc. And, in case I see that anything is beyond repair, I will let that go with grace (that is, as much grace I can muster). I know how hard that is for me to do, but I’m going to do it. Since I’m usually an emo mess, the friendship/relationship bit may be the focal point. If it’s a long-standing friendship, I will fight tooth and nail to save it. If the person truly doesn’t want me in his/her life anymore, I will let him/her go—no hard feelings. If I’m meant to be with certain someone, I will make it work. If not, then maybe it is truly time to let go and move on. But I will be positive, and I will try and make those things that I want, happen. SPARTA.

Choices or destiny—it’s a little bit of both. My destiny depends on the choices I make, and the choices I make depend on the direction destiny has taken me. But I refuse to blame this year for anything. I can feel it in my bones that it’s gonna be a good one. And I’m also trying to convince people around me of the same—I’ve become quite the champion for this year!

I truly hope and wish this year is better for everyone, whether I know you or not, because God knows we need one. But work a little harder, love a little more, smile a little wider and hug a little tighter—just try it and see. It might not work, but then again, it just might and you might just end up having the best year of your life.