Sunday, March 11, 2012

High Rises!

Fast forwarding and freezing time, existing and non-existing, approving and disapproving the life around, stand high rises. Watching and looking away when needed, scorning and sighing, sometimes duh-ing, sometimes uh-oh-ing they stand, silent witnesses to strange lives. In the 1Cs, the sort-of-abandoned parents of the guy who recently moved in with his family, try to reason their daughter-in-law’s indifference as ‘mood swings,’ fighting back tears. And in the 2As a clichéd loner-painer pseudo artist, shedding all pretenses, laughs his guts out watching a gross comedy movie. In the 2Ds, a petite girl burns her regret over conveniently forgetting her 85 year old grandpa at native, as she smokes a 74 mm something to 20 mm. Meanwhile in the 3Es an oh-so-sophisticated, tissue silk Kurta - clad beautiful woman in late forties makes a fuss about the scallops of the warm, fluffy dark chocolate cocoa cake being uneven, on her daughter’s birthday. And the frail, shabby looking servant of her, happily counts the possibilities of taking it home for her son who has never seen anything like this before. In the 4Cs a rebel, badass girl hangs around in the living room for another half an hour hoping, maybe, just maybe her father would consider at least talking to her if not cuddling like he does with her sister. At the same time in the 5Bs a nice, hardworking man dreadfully looks at the stacked pile of car, house, education- loan reminders and due bills as his son nags him for a software needed to play FIFA 2011. In the 6Fs an insomniac, trying-too-hard, wannabe copywriter writes this. While in the 7As a happily married chick and another happily married hunk together cheat on their partners for no reason. Perhaps to figure out what’s this so called infidelity? In the 8Bs an MBA guy, after his usual session of weed, listens to ‘lukka chuppi’, all homesick, missing his amma back at home. When in the 8Hs a cute little boy is engrossed in his homework or pretends so, when he overhears the never ending argument of his parents. In the 9Cs a family man feels terrible as he has to take off the next day for a long business trip, leaving his wife and daughter alone and climbs the stairs to terrace to find relief in his daily star gazing. Meantime in the 9Es a couple falling out of love, after trying all things possible from daily visits to beauty salons to incredibly expensive gifts, finally smile at each other. In the 10Ds a middle-aged, childless couple host a Barbie Birthday Party at their place just to watch the innocent buttercups giggling and playing. And in the 11As a divorcee boss opens up to his colleague, ‘I haven’t had sex in a long time. I'm horny!’ while the colleague lets out a carefully-thought out ‘I understand’. In the 11Gs a wife, caught in the negotiables and nonnegotiables of married life thinks why every relationship has to end up in bed. At the same moment in the 12As a married, urbane corporate guy and his 12 years younger colleague sit close half naked, shivering in the cold of the night after exchanging bodily fluids, or to put it nicely, after making love in the balcony, wondering if it was sex or love and look across at the faraway speeding train in a much comfortable silence. Nodding and raising eyebrows at many other zillion lives, sometimes surprised, sometimes taken aback, most of the times numb, never feeling for anything or anyone, as mere spectators to these bizarre lives, stand highrises. Good that they can’t talk!

Friday, March 9, 2012


Having chanced upon that inevitable question, that every morning ‘what do I wear’ crisis, she kept on staring at her wardrobe of a zillion ‘I’ll wear it when I slim down’ dresses. As she was digging for gold in her nose, she came across a white cotton noodle strap dress. The only obstacle that stood between her and that pretty dress was the dense underarms hair she’s been affectionately growing. So she decided against it and settled for her usual checkered shirt and hydrophobic jeans. She’s meeting him today. After almost 4 years. Despite his relentless insistence, she chose a restaurant for their meeting, not his or her apartment. And when it’s a restaurant, a restaurant in Kerala in particular, chances are, a smoochin-woochin session is highly unlikely to trigger. So that’s taken care of. For some reason unknown, she was not feeling up to it. And seeing herself in the mirror, she was certain even he wouldn’t feel like doing it. Her kohl has lost its charm, her boobs started sagging and her curves were getting straightened. She remembered those times when she wished if he had just fondled her hair rather than fiddling with her round, delicate boobs. Not that she never liked the latter. She was under the wrong impression that at 19, she’s too young for it. But she knew if he had to choose between her and her boobs, on any given day he would go for her boobs. What better could she expect from a man 12 years elder? It was either that tiny brown mole on her left boob, just below the armpit or the green veins that were distinctly visible through her wheatish skin, like skeleton fork ferns through water, under the yellowish light in his bedroom, which got him obsessed. She also remembered that moist April night she spent wondering, while traces of him dripping down through her thighs, if the ‘I love you’ he whispered as he entered her for the first and last time was just booze talk or the fact.

She’s been told that she tastes like revolution, told who, she doesn’t remember. Was it him?

I, the author would like to intervene here. It was him, undoubtedly. She remembers it too. She clearly doesn’t seem like a girl who fools around with various men; I think she’s just trying to be hep. Thanks to the onslaught of Cosmopolitan and MTV, these days, girls think it’s sooow cooohl to make out with random guys and be this loose, I-can-get-whatever-I-want kinda girl. Wish they knew what they’re doing.

And he, he was the guy every mom warned their daughters about while seconds later, they would be seen shamelessly flirting with him. She wanted to know if it was love or sex. She was young and thought it was alcohol, weeds & Enrique Iglesias. Surprisingly it wasn’t any of them. Neither was it the secrecy of their relationship nor the you-and-me-against-the-whole-world feeling. Not even the pleasure of snatching away someone else’s belonging or the pride of winning over a ladies’ man. It was pure, unadulterated love for she loved his wife and kid too and wanted them to have the happily ever after end. Moreover, it was that pic of him on his laptop, anxiously waiting outside Labour Room, being the typical family man, which got her addicted to him. It should’ve been that hazy evening when he stormed out of the conference room after a meeting, only to return 5 seconds later to tell her “I’m flirting with you, if you don’t like it temme, I wouldn’t then” in front of their G.M & every staff present there, leaving her pale and frozen. But strange, it wasn’t. Perhaps,

Perhaps is a word too posh for her, but I’m still using it.

Perhaps, it is just the fact that apart from the men in her family, he is the only man she’s seen without salt-rimmed patches of dried-up perspiration in the underarm regions of his shirts & t-shirts. Perhaps.

Yea, that is it. It can’t be love for all I know. Duh! Pure unadulterated love it seems!

The fact that in 6 months old relationship, they’ve gotten physical only thrice, left her even more confused. They frequented coffee shops, restaurants and pubs but never bed.

And all the 3 times, it was ‘talk more, do less’ making out. He would make her laugh with ‘It’s too hot in here or is it you’ kinda corny pickup lines. They would sit in his balcony, with a pint of vodka, her head leaning softly on his chest, his left arm wrapped close around that 24 inch waist of hers. The second night was spent mostly watching India vs. Australia Cricket Live, sitting on his couch, coochie cooing and canoodling during commercials.

Yep, heard me right. Only during commercials! Talk about well charted out lovemaking.

She vividly remembers the next morning, when he was feeling lazy to wake up and made her curl up with him, pulling her close and tugging her, girly chocolate hand in ruggedly masculine hand. Never had she felt so contented, so happy before as she stroked those short hair strands on his hand, her eyes wide open. His wife and son were away for months and still just 3 nights? Maybe it’s because she wasn’t particularly pretty or hot to turn him on so much. Hadn’t it been for her multi-ethnic looks, she could’ve been easily mistaken for just another face in the crowd, which she isn’t anyway. Heck, she wasn’t even half as beautiful as his wife. And on one occasion, having spotted his wife’s stilettos and expensive lingerie she could tell how pretty she is.

FYI, she has an acquired skill to determine one’s beauty from their intimate belongings.

And the photographs of his wife only stood testimony to this skill. If at all anything turned him on, it was her petite body. On the first two nights, she remembered, he had to go to loo to jack off, since she din’t want to do it and he din’t want to force her. But on the third night, when she decided after a lot of thinking, she’ll do it for they’ve decided it’s their last meeting, nothing could stop him. A lot of things would’ve stopped her, but fortunately or unfortunately she was high from a few pegs of vodka. Her constant gut feeling that he’s just using her for one, thanks to all the assholes from her past who mistreated her. Another was her strong suspicion that he’s dating multiple women. With all those women throwing themselves at him, chances were more and she din’t want to be just one among many. She wanted to be the only one. Well, apart from his wife. And every time she confronted him with her doubts, he laughed it off saying “I can have any girl I want, but you, you are different, I like you a lot” and for some reason she din’t find it satisfactory. She was looking for signs. Signs that are self-explanatory, but never found any. However none of these stopped her. Partly because he she was high, predominantly because she loved him. She thought it would be an extreme loss, if she din’t know him entirely, if they din’t become one entity, at least once.

I think I might throw up. Yuck. She was too Harlequin or Mills & Boons that way. But thankfully, not Yash Raj.

Later that night before hitting bed, they talked a lot. He patted her flat tummy and told her to eat well. At that moment, she hated herself for calling him continuously when he was at the railway station to see off his wife and son, and for making him pick the call and plead “Please, I’m with my wife”. And when he slid off to deep sleep, she had mixed feelings, of happiness, of loss, of things she couldn’t identify. She felt void. Something that was there in her tight grip was slipping away. To an unreachable distance. She wanted to be away from this plastic surface she keeps on scratching without ever finding anything underneath. Her thoughts went 3 hours back. His eyes widened upon seeing her bare, up close, as if he couldn’t believe behind that boyish exterior she was hiding so much, so much of curves and turns and so much of femininity. Oven hot kisses were planted all over her, leaving no inch unkissed. And it was still burning all over. At that instant, she slowly took off his left hand resting on her bare belly. And noticed that a few lucky charms on her copper hip chain were missing, along with the black thread anklet worn on her right leg which has oxidized silver coffee bean shaped beads with tiny multicolored glass beads intertwined. She panicked, what if his wife finds them when she comes back. She wanted to search, but since he’s sleeping, din’t want to turn on the light.

*Yawn yawn* She did find her anklet next morning, but couldn’t find those lucky charms. And his wife never found them. Enough? Now can we get back to the present?

If her smell-sensing abilities served her right, he used to smell of Calvin Klein Escape. He smells different now, a Hugo Boss sorta fragrance. It reminded her that, early in the morning when she took shower with shea butter shower gel and vanilla bathing salt and carefully applied cocoa butter moisturizer allover her body after shower she wanted him to remember her for that smell, forever. Except for the smell, he hasn’t changed one bit in 4 years. His eyes dazzling the shit out of her. Nose up in the air. His moves, oozing confidence, full-on-attitude with a hunky-dory aura, shouting style and hotness written all over him. The right juxtaposition of sophistication and ease. Never at a loss of words, never watching his words. Just that his unmistakable Hindi was making its way into the conversation unconsciously at indefinite intervals. Well dressed to the core, as always. The picture of his wardrobe of tweed jackets, plaid shirts, Jack Spade chinos, textured & striped ties, grey sport coats, GAP t-shirts, silver tie clips, jumpers, suede shoes and designer cufflinks came to her mind. It was his years in different continents and countries that inherited him such a drool-worthy wardrobe. She would’ve stood for at least an hour in awe at the sight of it.

P.S: She is more into stripes and checks than polka dots and florals. As a child, unlike others, the first thing she donned was her dad’s blazer, not her mom’s saree. So you can imagine.

As he greeted her with a hug, she din’t experience the much expected chill. No heartbeats marathon either. Neither butterflies in the stomach nor weakness at the knees. She was happy to see that he still ogles women and stops his car every now and then for people waiting to cross the road. When they sat down for lunch he told her she hasn’t changed much. His exact words were “ I was expecting worse. Why can’t you take care of your skin. You are a girl. Girls are supposed to dress up….yada yada…” To which she replied “I’ve put on Kohl” accompanied by a sheepish grin. He had a wide smile and remarked “ You still sound like a little girl”. She likes it when he talks like this. When he sounds concerned and she being his little girl. She even considered the possibility of her dressing down being a deliberate attempt to hear him talking this way. At times, she’s naughty like that. Once, when she was having Cornetto, in her usual self-absorbed, savaged way, eyes closed, chocolate cream smeared around her lips, watching her, he had a hard time

Pardon the pun.

holding himself back from kissing her. Knowing what’s happening to him, she transformed her Cornetto-consuming to an undeniably suggestive art making ‘uuuhmmm’ ‘aaah’ sounds.

Why am I even talking about this???* Shrugging shoulders*

Her biggest fear was seeing the strongest, manliest and coolest of men being vulnerable because she might lose herself to them. Irrecoverably. She’s seen them being vulnerable for cars, bikes, games, gadgets, new books and mostly for love. And this guy, to put it in her way, wasn’t even the ‘V’ of vulnerable. Probably that’s what made her fall for him lickety split.

Don’t mind. I’m just showing off a new word I learnt.

He was talking about his plans to set up a new business and how, despite living under one roof, he and his wife used to act like total strangers and how they’re living in two different cities abroad now to save their marriage. That left her wondering if happy family is the funniest of all paradoxes. He was humming to a Bollywood song the restaurant played, which she can’t recollect now. She has never seen the walls, the décor or the people of the places they’ve hung out. Because love had made her so weak, even to lift her gaze and look beyond him. Her eyes locked with his, her gaze froze on him and her soul lost to him, this is how it was.

Jesus H. Christ. Please pass me the gun. I’d rather shoot myself than putting up with all these mush.

But now, after years she could look through him, look beyond him. She saw the floral wallpaper, the pregnant woman lunching with her in laws sitting behind them, vibrant plastic plates and a Quentin Tarantino movie

Again, showing off my extensive movie knowledge.

being telecasted by HBO on the LED TV in the corner. Before long, he confessed “I like you a lot”. She just looked at him; saddened by the fact that she couldn’t say the same. He insisted “If there’s anything you don’t like about me, tell it frankly”, “Yea, I don’t like you sextalking to me” blurted out she, as if she would’ve choked to death if she hadn’t said that. “There she goes again”, he had his infamous lopsided smile when he said this and added ‘”You can’t stop me from having sexual thoughts about you”.

Actually I added it, not him. Lifted this dialogue from my favourite movie ‘Holy Smoke’. Thought it will suit the character. Let him keep it, the dialogue, ohkhay?

Maybe it was him talking about his divorce plans, about abandoning his wife and 7 year old son. Or in spite of his years in Cochin, asking if there is a Zara Store in Cochin,

Zara Store in Cochin. My ass!

for he wanted to get something like the black Zara shirt he was wearing. Or it can even be his different fragrance. But as she submerged her teeth in the cheddar cheese, engrossed in the taste of the burger, out of hunger or disinterest, while not listening to him, she realized, much to her relief or disappointment, she is yet to figure out which, that she’s gotten over him. That’s when she looked down on every microsecond she battled when he crossed her mind. On every sad, break up song she listened to. On every sip of alcohol she difficultly gulped. On every bite of Lays and every grain of rice she hogged on with zero appetite. On every cigarette she smoked in the hopes of looking like a post modern Pareekutty aka lovelorn Romeo. Unsuccessfully of course. And all other movie clichés she hated but happened to do unwillingly in order to get over him. Who would’ve known it was this easy? That was so fast. Phew!

I repeat. Belch. Phew!

Thursday, March 8, 2012


She wore her hair different today. Nothing great. She’s let her hair down and tucked two hair strands from each side in the back. Hmm, a little less of a mess! Oh she’s put on flowers too. And that too jasmine! So unlike her. It’s evening and the jasmines are already wilted & gone. But so what, they are still flowers! Her thick silky smoky brown hair makes it look like milk chocolate & vanilla toppings on a hard chocolate cake. Sweat drops emerged from her armpit , started running down her midriff. As her boney, cocoa coloured, lean frame tilted to left when she walked swiftly, a tiny, vibrant, bangle shop in the right corner caught her eye. Her thick lashed, deep set, brown eyes twinkled at the very sight of those kaleidoscopic glass bangles. Not that she loves bangles or anything feminine for that matter. Just that it’s her wedding tomorrow. But don’t ask her anything about the guy. She’s as clueless about him as she’s about the stink coming from her worn-out green bandhani saree. But then from tomorrow on, she might have a room with a door all for herself and this stranger. Even better, she might get to use a loo with a door. A door. ‘Door’ in quotes. Now that’s going to be heaven, being able to do the most private of basic needs without having to look around, without discomfort or fear. Who knows, the guy will be nice to her. Or he’ll be a maachod. Whatever. She’s a hardcore optimistic. A smile took place from the corners of her lips spread to her face. Her eyes twinkled brighter. So did her smile.
The boy in blue shorts held on to the green glass pebbles in his hand. Close. His black Bata shoes snorkeled in the slush pool formed after morning rain. He thought what maa is going to say when she sees his dirty shoes. Oh this day is too good to think of maa and her tantrums. I just want to think about Chuski, he thought. Kala Khatta Chuski! The mere thought of that purplish black syrup on ice slush, with a squeeze of lime and a pinch of masala made him slurrrrrrrrrrrrp. Woooh! Enough to forget Sharmeen maam’s grumpy face, principal’s gyaan and peon’s gaali. But not enough to forget the strawberry scented eraser Debby gave him, the Ben 10 magic pencil Chotu had and the Rugby match his team won today. Lalalala, it’s all lalalala today. Wait, wait. A Chuskiwallah there. His tiny hand went inside his left pocket in search of 5 rupee coins.
The old man strode past the busy market. He’s a capturer. No. He doesn’t capture hearts, nor is he a photographer who captures moments. He captures worries. As if his own worries aren’t enough. He seeks out miseries & woes. Or is it the other way around? They seek him out? Misery man he is, for sure. And whether or not he could keep up with the pace of the city, this city has been his everything. He feels a deep sense of belonging in every nook and cranny of this place as he wanders about. He searched for worried faces all over the market. A lot, today. He scrutinized all of it. His heart ached wanting to own the worries and pain he’s spotted on those faces. The depth and volume of it made him shudder. A sudden surge of joy took form inside him that he almost forgot why did he come to market. He toyed with every possible reason he could find. Got it, he wanted to get something for Khush, his pet mouse, his one and only living companion back home. If only you can call a 29 sq. ft. space with an asbestos sheet roof, Shankar Cements bag and a few wooden pieces put together, a home! But then in a city perpetually crunched for space, 29 sq. ft. is a luxury, isn’t it? Come to think of it, such an irony to call a mouse who lives there Khush! Gets me laughing. Now the question is from where will he get food with no money. He’s got a plan. Go to grocers, hang around till the crowd gets bigger, steal a handful of rice grains from the opened sack outside. That will do, he rushed.
The curly head just stood there. Looks like she’s waiting for someone. Her thick mane of hair adds charm to the beautiful, sharp face. The red ‘bus kya?’ t shirt she got from Attic is still wet. And so is her psychedelic dhoti pants. She rewinded the whole day in her mind. The long walk in the drizzle was the best part of the day. Except for the getting t shirt wet part. Her body bent forward and trembled a little, while her heartbeat almost stopped beating because of the cold. She started getting pins and needles in her feet from standing a long time. “Where the hell is Prateik? What the fuck is he doing? Why can’t that SOB call and inform that he’ll be late” prevailed her mind. Can’t blame her though. She’s been waiting for more than 2 hours. If Prateik shows up now, she’ll beat him so much that he will be better off as chaatwala’s paani.LOL. The thought of Prateik in Paanipuri made her LOL. Offo! All her anger just went down with that LOL! Sad. Forget it. Where’s she gonna take him tonight. Leopold Café, then Firangi Paani. Ekdum jhakaas. She took her BB from her cloth bag. Speed-dialled 2. 1 is her dad’s no., not Prateik’s.
6:55 pm, 13th July 2011.
Opera House neighbourhoods, Mumbai.
Happy or sad, it’s THE END!

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


30, is the beginning,
32, is still in process,
34, is the standard,
36, is a cliché,
38, is a prayer answered,
40, must be silicone.

A, when 16,
A+, a year later.
B, is a low expectation
C, gives a hard time,
D, gets things done
And E, my dears, is a myth.

Rounded for some.
Pointed for some others.
A pair for all.

Firm when young.
Gravity-defying firm for a few.
Saggy for a lot.
Touching-knees-saggy for the most.

Pokies in the chill
Turns everything on,
Whatever the colour,
Eyes gleam in Technicolour.
Or in an unknown vigour?
For it’s never a labour,
But always an honour.
At times a favour,
A favour so major.
Don’t you wanna censor
Based on your flavour?
Or you just wanna savour?
And be a mere spectator?
Wearing Ray-Ban Aviator,
Like a museum curator
Watching out a visitor.

Valleys so close,
Or valleys so apart,
The landscape, it does
Look fantabulous pals.

Ms. Anderson makes
A living out of it.
Ms. Leone wins
Hearts with it.
They say flaunt it,
If you have it.

The big does wonders
Say advertisers,
But can beggars
Ever be choosers?

Shaky on Indian roads.
Bumpy in an Ape.
Jumpy at zero support.
Nevertheless, things are never in place.

Life sure gives some
Lemons and some, melons.
Even oranges, apples, papayas
Grapes, pears and kiwis.
However even the perfect
Will have one defect.
A lot you expect,
But they hardly have any effect.

Owner’s pride, it sure is.
Neighbour’s envy? undoubtedly.
(Quoting that epic baseline)
And every man’s obsession.

* Written strictly from a sexist point of view for the pleasure of the pervert in me. No offense ladies.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012


Just as when she was turning the corner, she heard them teasing her. And the smirk widened. She didn’t see the world through her eyes, but through her smirk. And the world just saw the smirk. Occasionally when a smile appeared on her face too, it seemed like a less defiant variation of the smirk. The smirk conquered unseen provinces she was scared of and owned unknown terrains she was dreaming of. It wanted to cross all the lines and so did she. It encountered obstacles and ran into walls. A
part of her she knew never existed was awakened by the smirk. Besides, it decided everything. Held her head high. In all probability, the smirk chose her more than she chose the smirk. But then she stayed true to herself, choosing who she is. She knows so much more, for the smirk cleared everything that was foggy and overshadowed. She always has a way, a way of her own. Nothing or nobody stood in her way. Perhaps the smirk was blindfolding her. And even on the longest and most intricate night, she never laid awake, the smirk was her sleeping pill. It was obvious that the smirk was watching out her dreams, never letting any nightmare in.

Mellowed, she never was, not even by the raging sun or still night. As much as she loved being alone, the smirk hated stranding her. She made her way through the worst crowd. Men didn’t dare being in close proximity to her, even when required. The smirk kept them at a distance. Their attempts to strike a conversation also went down the drain. The smirk was so disturbing that they left the conversation in the middle, like a receiver hanging loose from the telephone. The smirk silenced every bad mouth, lowered every raised eyebrow and straightened every frowned forehead. They called her mad when she walked through estranged roads at midnight. And through highways where no woman dared set foot. Each footstep faster and more certain than the previous. Isolated or not, it never made any difference to her. The smirk made them insecure. Each time, when she gets on the late night bus crammed with men, they make a conscious yet successful effort not to brush past her, for reasons they haven’t understood yet. And once she grabs a window seat, quietly combing through the local newspaper and, looking out of the window every now and then, almost every man secretly stare at her, wanting and envying her free spirit. Reminding yet another movie cliché, that’s when the breeze falls on her face, gently blowing her hair, and the twinkle in her eyes sparked with a rebellious twinge, makes a sudden visit, making her face radiate with an unusual power. The power of knowing probably.

The smirk was intimidating, for men in particular. Because that smirk came from knowing. Knowing men too well. She knew every curve of her body well and exactly which make them go haywire. She knew all the imaginables and unimaginables they would do. She knew all the permutations and combinations they would try. Moreover she knew the beast in them and even better, when the beast got the better of them. They thought they were unleashing the animal in them and she knew they were leashed inside this animality. They thought they were being strong, manly & brave and she knew they were being weak, kittens & chicken shits. The only feeling she could recognize she has towards them is pity. The pity that came from knowing. And knowledge indeed is power. She knows that too well now.

3 weeks ago

No longer does she know fear. They thought they took a lot from her. But the truth was they couldn’t take anything and only she knew it. The wounds were too fresh, the pain too strong. Still nothing could change her and she never lost herself. She was supposed to feel grey or blue but all she could feel was sunshine yellow and kelly green. The smirk wouldn’t let her break down. Nor it would let peace and hope slip away. She didn’t even have to start over because nothing had ended for her in the first place. At that point, she turned it around and grew, reaching another, higher level. As she was lying motionless on the river bank, she thought of what happened a few hours ago.

It seemed as if she stepped out of her body and was watching what was happening, not able to do anything about it. All she was thinking was that they could take her body, but she would not let them take her soul! She did not feel a thing. When one of them first started penetrating her she could feel him, but the more and longer he was inside of her the less she felt him. She just shut down. It felt like an outer body experience. As the four of them took turns doing everything possible, just before she collapsed, her pleas gave way to something else, as if she had a sudden moment of enlightenment. That’s when the smirk was born on her virgin lips.

Meet her.

Monday, February 27, 2012


Suppression and I were rivals
Or so I thought;
Since that summer which felt
More like spring
While striving to
Suppress a laugh that
Escaped my mouth,
The hem of my t-shirt
Stuffed into my mouth,
Amidst an otherwise serious
Family prayer; as the laugh
Inconsiderately spread to
My 6 brothers & sisters
Like a nuclear chain reaction
And burst into a bellylaugh.
But years later,
On those seldom visits to
My grandpa and his
Then-companion Mr. Parkinson
Tears rushing to
Roll down my cheeks,
Breaking the queue
And Code of Conduct;
I feared if suppression
Was getting the better of me.
And upon hearing the
News of his death
Unknowingly checking on my
Phone for Facebook updates
With trembling hands
Instead of calling my sister
I was almost sure that
I was losing out to suppression.
But as I kiss my grandpa’s
Cold, dead forehead
Chewing away the pain;
With an Orbit White,
The pain; of loss and a million
Indistinct things, coupled
With a sinking, heavy heart
Maintaining a behaviour
Appropriate for a funeral
And a chilled out exterior
Gazing at the white Carnations,
Chrysanthemums, Gerberas
Gypsophilas & Asters in his coffin
It looks like we’ve come to terms
Suppression and I.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

The Return

Juggling with the libidos of a few men, her hipbones just did what any pair of hipbones would do. It continued its existence, an existence less threatening and more meaningful than of a cleavage. On long, salty, sweaty afternoons, while making uncomplicated love coupled with practiced responses to her boyfriends, who would come without delay and leave in less than a week’s time, much like her menstrual cycle, she would look in the mirror, all the while. She was adamant about looking in the mirror to see her lovely pair of hipbones and how it gleamed with each golden ray of sun that filtered through white supernet curtains with velvet self printed polka dots. But then this habit only led to more troubles as her boyfriends were too inexperienced to find a position in which they can enter her and she can look at the mirror reflection of her hipbones, both simultaneously. So she stayed a virgin. Technically. They called her a narcissist. She din’t even bother to look it up at She would just lie in bed, in her vibrant Lovable bras and printed PJs, face tilted to the right, chin up, eyes closed, her arms thrown backwards, her long torso stretched even longer, her midriff forming the perfect curve and her hips moving to left and right in a slow rhythm, resonating to the song of the breeze. Whoever had managed to get a glimpse of this sight was never heard to have recovered. Their lips and their breath alike longed for the feel of her hipbones. But she just wouldn’t let them. In the early hours of the night, she would make tender rather passionate love to her hipbones under soft cotton Portico bed sheets. On coffee scented, noisy evenings, while pretending to have clever conversations about obscure things over decaffeinated espressos with unsuitable men, her hands would go down under the restaurant table, in search of her hipbones. For her, nothing was as self assuring as touching her hipbones. Those days, she survived only on decaffeinated espressos. An espresso in the morning, another at noon along with a hot dog or burger and two or three in the evening. This routine made her grow thinner and so her hipbones more prominent. Little did she know that the more prominent her hipbones became, the stronger her rebelliousness grew. They were intertwined, the hipbones & her rebelliousness, like fingers of young lovers and inseparable like two peas in a pod. Back then, the only thing she was at peace with, was her body, or to be exact, her hipbones. The hipbones defined her. She got so obsessed with it that she spent all her money on buying funky hipchains and oxidized silver waist bands. Those were the only accessories she used to wear. Whenever she got time, she made hipchains with black thread, beads, coins and other trinkets. Also, she made it a point that she wore only string thongs in order to save her hipbones from the mediocrity of oversized, ugly undies. It turned out that it wasn’t just men but a couple of women, nuns who ran the college she joined to be precise, were also affected by her hipbones. In the 2nd year of graduation, when those holy penguins came up with a rule that every student must cover her behind, she would daringly walk around in collar neck t shirts shorter than a cheer girl’s skirt and faded, torn jeans. Since low rise jeans wasn’t popular and so unavailable in those parts of the country, she would wear size 30 jeans when her actual size was 26 and she would wear it so low that it wouldn’t leave anything much to the curiosity of onlookers. Apart from their prayers, a white cotton Levis belt was the only thing that kept her jeans from falling off. Hair up in a ponytail, with a skin tone so much of an aquaphobic, she, sporting a cross pendant and a blackish gray Diesel sling bag hung over her left shoulder and across her body with badges that say ‘Heartbreaker’, ‘Boys R Toys’ pinned on them, would walk around in front of those holy penguins, unnecessarily lifting arms every now and then, pretending to catch dragonflies that never existed, revealing a smokin’ pair of hipbones. Nothing in this universe would come close to the charm of the naughty smile and the can’t-get-past-my attitude twinkle in her eyes then, upon seeing the angry, crimson faces of those nuns. They hated her hipbones more than her guts. It made guest appearances in their nightmares and sometimes even played the lead role. The hipbones made babies with their conventionalities & prejudices. Even long after they kicked her out of the hostel, under various charges including ‘provocative dressing’, her hipbones continued to appear in their nightmares. Less frequently, of course. But while she was busy making lemonades with all the lemons life gave, she forgot all about rebelliousness & decaffeinated espressos and eventually about her hipbones too. Years later on a bleary-eyed, yawny morning when she woke up at her workplace, after proof checking print ads for the new account pitch till 3 am, looking herself in the mirror, out of the blue, she remembered all about her hipbones. And as she ran her fingers down, to feel the hipbones, for self assurance as usual, she realized those were lost in life’s rat race, leaving no traces. Daily battles, ego, indolence and responsibilities among many other things formed thick layers over her hipbones. She couldn’t feel them anymore. That’s when she decided to live life, not letting life live her. She got back to decaffeinated espressos and everything else. Now her hipbones are making a return. But looks like not her rebelliousness.