9:38 F - C.S.T

For those of you who’ve never been in war, suffered from gastroenteritis, been trapped in an old phone booth with four others and for some godforsaken reason decide you want to know what it feels like, get into the Women’s Compartment of a Mumbai local. Feeling reckless? I’d recommend a Fast to CST.

I don’t know about you, but before I venture into unchartered masochistic-candy store territories, I like to go on the net and look for advice. Like say, if I were holidaying in Kabul. Or Rawalpindi. Or just visiting parents. There’s tons of stuff you’ll find on the kinds of people you’ll meet, the experiences you can expect on great travel sites, but there’s nothing there for someone experimenting with getting into a Mumbai Local.

Just for you, in the name of humanity, science and adventure tourism, here’s a comprehensive list of what and who you’ll find in a Fast local to CST. Provided you manage to get in.

THE WHAT-YOU’LL FINDS:

1) The Train:
See the monstrous trail of red and white steel approaching your platform nonchalantly? That’s your train. Hopefully you’re standing at the right spot and you’ll catch the right compartment. If you’re a man, you can’t get into the women’s. If you’re poor, you can’t get into the rich’s. If you’re a woman and you’re rich, you can get in anywhere. But you won’t like it.

2) The Compartment:
Your typical compartment will be green in colour. Lime, enamel painted with and divided into two parts. The first part is for unfortunate commuters who couldn’t grab a seat and have to stand through the journey, and the other, the part with the seats.

This first part is designed to house an average of fifty healthy women standing shoulder to shoulder like a marching army. But that’s under standard test conditions. On an everyday basis, it houses about 125 women standing together, shoulder to armpit, nose to cleavage, eye to hair like the army broke into war. There’s seating for an average of 14 women, but don’t be fooled. At least 20 will squeeze in together and will occasionally butt jiggle to generate more space.

3) The Luxuries:
Four fans. Three won’t work. One will be redundant because you’ll have hot air blowing at your face from the doors.
Light sockets. The lights have been stolen.
A bag rack. Redundant again, because unless they’re carrying an inconveniently heavy bag, the women won’t want to part with them.

NOTE: Sometimes, the space the bag occupies can accommodate another person altogether. But don’t try explaining that to her unless you’ve taken your tetanus shot.

THE WHO-YOU’LL FINDS:

1) The Wannabe Pole Dancer (A.K.A Chhat pe Baal Sukhhane Waali):
This kind of commuter stands by the door of the train, holding onto the supporting rod in the middle of the doorway. The WPD will hold onto the rod for dear life, for two reasons. Either she is sticking her head out to catch fresh air as the train zooms past stations or she’s drying her hair. The WPD is ferociously aggressive about her position in the train and if you take her place when she moves aside to let someone alight or board (which she rarely does), she just might topple you down. DANGER *****

NOTE: If your platform’s crowded and you see a WPD at the door as your train approaches, you will not be able to get in unless you find a way to squirm in through her blocking the doorway, or blindly push and climb in yourself. WPDs don’t like large women and won’t fight back if you growl and yell back when they turn to abuse you.

2) The Gibraltars / Water Buffaloes in a Sari:
Of all the commuters on a Fast Local, the Gibraltars are pretty safe. These are women who will get into a train in a burst of energy, and once in, will freeze to the spot. If you’re behind one, and are close to the door, a Gibraltar can be a pain in the backside because you can’t move ahead, nor can you take a step back. But if the Gibraltor is behind you, you’re pretty sorted for the rest of the journey because no one’s going to be able to push and shove at you. Mostly sari clad, early 40s with a minimum of three bags that will inevitably land on your foot. DANGER: *****

3) The Ultrasonic Princess from ‘The Princess and the Pea’:

The UPFPP is the most irritating, yet the safest commuter on board the Fast Train to CST. Just like in the story, she is as delicate and fragile as a quitting smoker’s willpower. Just looking at her can hurt her, making it easy to spot one. But be warned, through all the UPFPP’s weaknesses, she possesses a glass-shattering scream that she is not afraid to use. Trip on her toes? Almost trip on her toes? Think you’d trip on her toes if it weren’t for the sea of people between you? Duck and cover your ears before your brain cells shut shop and call a strike. She going to scream and whine and yell and cry and call an ambulance and keep at it till you desert her line of vision. DANGER: *****

4) The Seat Scavenger:
Ever seen a hungry cougar chasing a leg of lamb in its own thought bubble? Neither have I. I have seen the Seat Scavenger though, and that’s about all I can take. She’ll enter the train in a hurry and before she can stop walking, piling on, pushing and shoving her way in, she’ll point at random seated people and demand to know where they’re getting off. Assuming they’re getting off not a while from now, she’ll ‘book’ the seat. But she won’t stop there. She’ll book at least 5 other seats and finally catch one. When she’s finally got a seat, she call on other seated people and ask where they’re getting off. She’ll keep jumping, like Mario in the game, till she eventually gets off. Occasionally, you could confuse her for being a Gibraltar because she’ll refuse to move from in front of her reserved seats, restricting movement for the others. Owing to this trait, she can sometimes be solely responsible for your not being able to get off. DANGER: *****

5) The Premature Line-Uppers: (A.K.A Station Autophobics)

Say you get into the train at Point A and your destination is Point Z (which isn’t an exaggeration). I would get up, or start moving towards the door after Station Y passed me, so I’d be at the door when Z came. But that’s just me. I’ve seen some people stand at the door before Point Y, some when Point X brushed past us. That’s not the case with the premature Line-Uppers. They crowd the doorway by Station K. Like crowd it up so whoever is getting off at K is forced to climb atop them and get off with a ripped blouse. I call it paranoia. They call it being in time.

NOTE: Never call a PLU home for dinner. They’ll probably land up by breakfast and watch you eat in preparation for the evening. DANGER: *****

Then there are the non-dangerous types like the Sleepy Droolers , the Possessive Handle Holders, the Over Shoulder Readers – all self explanatory. There are also the iPod and Phone Radio variety besides the Open Mouth-Stare into Space commuters.

There’s my list for now. Now that you’re all equipped with information, hop on. If you find yourself with symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, give me a buzz and I’ll drop you a couple of numbers.

NOTE: Stay away from the Moody Xena Elbow Puncher. And don’t call me Aunty.

Chronicle of the Mysterious Son's Mother's Death

Yes, I have been reading Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes lately. No, I haven’t yet bought a pipe.

I always have something to say after I’m back from visiting home. No different this time. If my parents realized how eventful their lives were compared to mine, they’d probably call me ten times lesser than they normally do – in a day, that is. Which would still make it 90 calls, but I’d be grateful.

That Saturday morning, the phone woke us up at about 6:30 a.m. For some reason that makes sense on Mars, my mother won’t let me close my bedroom door at night. So when that irritatingly long, shrill ring began outside in the hall, I had no option but wake up.

My mother walked into my room looking like a million dollars, sleepwalking, fumbling steps, hair in her mouth. She lay down beside me grumbling to herself. From the familiarly long and loud “Hellooooooooooooooo?’ outside, I figured my father had received the phone.

“Salaaaaam Alaikoooooom!”

My mother sighed. I pulled a pillow over my head. But nothing could drown my dad’s excited voice.
When he goes “Salaam Alaikum”, we know there’s a louder, longer, high-pitched conversation following.

“I’ll bet you someone’s dead.” My mom muttered.

“What?”

“Someone’s dead. Probably conked off last night in his sleep.” She explained.

“Eeks! Really?!”

“Why else would anyone call this early?” she reasoned.


We both went quiet, trying to make sense of the conversation outside. Not that it took much effort, considering my father was by now unconsciously challenging Pavarotti for a duel.


“Ho? Ho? Phir? Haan…

haan… haan….

Hmm…. Hmm…

haan..

ho..

ho…

ALLALLAH!!!!!”

My mom turned around and pulled her pillow over head too.

“Told you.” She said.

When my dad dropped the phone, it was close to 7 a.m. Mom got down to making us breakfast and I sat reading the paper in the kitchen.

Outside, we could hear my dad’s fast approaching footsteps. I pulled my paper closer trying hard to look like nothing was important to me right now than the state of affairs in Waziristan.

“Rae! Come on! Come on! Get ready!” he yelled.


“Where to?” my mother volunteered.

“Qasi’s mother died!”

“Who?” she asked again.


“Qasi’s mother!!!!!!!!!”


Some quiet followed as everyone paused to contemplate the situation.


“But who is Qasi?”


My dad shifted balance, patted his own head for a moment and squinted like he normally does in deep thought. I looked over the edge of my paper to see what was happening. My mother was looking at him confusedly, my father, just looking confused.


“You don’t know him.” He said, after some deliberation.

Needless to say, I was dragged into the affair of the mysterious man’s mother’s funeral.

Once there, we ran into a bunch of relatives hovering around the place making small talk. My father’s younger brother was running around with a tray of refreshments for the guests/attendees/audience. On the ride to the venue, I was told that he was the one who had called my dad in the morning. And everyone else who landed up there. Seemed like something he enjoyed doing. The Official Announcer of Funerals.

“Chacha, who is Qasi?”, I gingerly asked, picking a paper cup from his tray.

He looked around like he was about to cross a road. Then, he gestured in the direction of an old gentleman sitting at the head of the large dining table, surrounded by friends and family.

“Him.”

“No, no… I mean.. how are we related to him?”

“How means what?”

That’s one question that doesn’t make sense, forget having an answer to it.

I wandered back to my father. He was talking to another random person I couldn’t recognize. They were discussing the deceased woman’s painful life, her young days and how she loved Qasi a lot. Someone suggested Qasi didn’t do much for her aging mother and hence she died of grief and ill health. Of course, her being ninety three years of age had nothing to do with it.

“Dad!”

“Yes?”

"Is she your aunt?”

“Who?”

“The woman who… expired.”

“Oh.. Qasi’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“No..”

“So we’re not related to them?”

“No, no, we are.. they stay here.. I used to stay there… 5 minutes away.”

“So you were neighbours?”

“No, no, more than neighbours.”

“Friends?”

“No re! Relatives!”

“How?!”

“Arrey! How means what?”

If I ever find myself making the same statement, I’m going to sue my genes.

The funeral ended, but I wasn’t allowed to see Qasi’s mother and Qasi was too busy for me to go upto him and give him my condolences. So I gave them to his wife instead who took them with a quizzical smile which told me she was wondering who the hell I was.

Event done, tired mother, bewildered me and excited father drove back home. As we got home, I asked my dad a question I could rid myself off.

“Dad? What was Qasi’s mother’s name?”

“Ameena.”

“That’s his wife’s name.”


“Oh.” He said, and embarrassed, whipped out his phone.

“SALAAAAAAM ALAIKUUUUM!!!!!!”

RIP, Qasi’s mother.

I have no clue who you are, but God keep your soul well.

I’m sure she’s up there going, “Thanks. But who the hell are you?”

Friday Night

Outside my window, it is a Friday night. It’s a deep blue night, with little lit squares in the skyline. From up here, the road is an electric snake, a carnival of cars moving along the stretch in unison. I can see little people walking on the pavement, some hand in hand, some distanced, some in a great rush to get somewhere. It is a Friday night, and Friday nights are never dull.

For the strangest of reasons, I find myself suddenly feeling very small. Not just in person, but in dimensions of space as well. Kind of like I’m collapsing into myself. The familiar feeling of nonsensical sadness sweeps over me and I walk over to the balcony aimlessly. I know I’m searching for something, but I can’t tell what it is. I take a deep breath, take the city into my lungs. It smells of exhaust fumes and fine cement, dust and fatigue.


Two years ago, this is how I built my familiarity with Mumbai. In her smell. She smells like a fake bride, I remember thinking, though I still don’t know what that really means. I got off the plane, collected my baggage and walked out into the city, excited, nervous, upset.

A friend had arranged a home for me in Mumbai. I was told it was impossible for a single woman to land a good place, unless it was in one of the flashier suburbs. Nonetheless, he found me a nice place that fit my budget. It overlooked a hill and was in a pleasant neighbourhood. There was an ATM five minutes away, and a share-rickshaw stand just outside the building. You could only share a rickshaw with others if you were riding to the Central Station. It cost only Rs.4 per passenger. That’s a mere Rs.120 a month. From there, I’d take the train to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, an hour away. That would cost Rs.520 a month. So together, that’s Rs.640 to get to office. Plus Rs.900 a month to get back to the station and take the train home.


I have no idea why I’m thinking of this right now.


I look down my balcony again. The vegetable vendor I buy my groceries from is still there, outside the gates. The cigarette guy I frequent is also around, looking down at the street. I wonder if he and I are seeing the same thing. Of course we are, I think. Nothing has changed from the last time I looked around consciously. Cars are still flowing like a lit waterfall down the road, the skyline is still ablaze with yellow white lights. People are still rushing to get someplace in a hurry.

I jump.

Build me a Vlilage and Call me a Geek.

It took me ages to come out with it. I am finally ready to confess.

I am a geek.

But before you judge me, I have to make my stand clear. Out here, in the world of flesh, blood, bank balance, terrace homes and 8’o clock news, I’m an everybody. I’m someone who believed I had an identity owing to my unique DNA and hair do. I have dreams, and I believe I will one day achieve them, and the world will watch as I levitate up the ladder of personal success. Just like every other unique idiot around me.

But in the virtual world, I am secretly a warrior. A brave warrior of three founding villages and an average population of 650 in each settlement. I wisely chose to hone defense over crop/lumber/clay production and then blindly raided and plundered every other villager in sight to feed my army. I am a Hittite. A Genghis Khan of cyber space strategy gaming portals. The Angulimaal of the virtual wars. My name brings shudders to people’s servers and they beg for my non-existent mercy over mails and portal chats.

Warrior Rae.
Founder of the villages Warrior Monks, Saints of Gaiah and Armorica.

Warrior Rae.

“Name yourself!”
“Warrior Rae!”

“Name your Alliance!”
“N16 and the Guardians back Warrior Rae! Withdraw your troops immediately!”

“Submit!”

“Never! The Saints of Gaiah and her 3500 Phalanxes will never submit! Remember, Warrior Monks and Armorica have a large army, too!”

“No, you idiot! The final ad! Submit it!”


*Blink* *Blink*


“Oh. The ad?”

“Yes?”

“Can I send you crop instead?”


I have just deleted my travian.com account. Clicking on ‘delete account’ took me back in time to the time I had to say goodbye to my best friend at the airport thirteen years ago. I knew I would never see her again, but I told myself reality was never as important as hope.

This hurt more.

So I sat down to mail everyone I attacked, traded with and befriended - my fellow warriors, soldiers and generals of multiple villages, like myself. It hurt to say goodbye, but it is the code of a true warrior. It is honourable and courageous to quit when you know you have given the battle all you have, to step down and gracefully exit when your time has finally come to……


“…. In deep gratitude, I remain…?”

My collegue was reading over my shoulder. I grinned before he could call everyone around to check my screen. Yeah. That’s your laugh for the day. Suckers.

“Warrior Rae of Saints of Gaiah…?”

He looked me in the eye, like he found this scarier than funny.

“Are you serious? Like Gaiah.. the Earth….? Like in God of War II? The Titan God chick who helps Kratos get back at Zeus?”

I smiled. What a geek.

Things I Don't Get - II

So I still don’t get too many things. A friend under the influence of much too much cheap wine and The Simpsons’ reruns once told me, “You can either be happy or you can be intelligent.” Apparently, I’m happier now. Either that, or I’m sleepwalking my way to work everyday.

This city isn’t making any sense to me. Not the culture, not the intolerance, not the fact that everyone knows the directions to everywhere. And worse still, some more things I don’t get.

I don’t get the meaning of “Ya?”

So… what part of speech really is this? Who the hell ever thought this was a cool way to figure out if people were really listening?

“So, I was trying to crap, ya?”

Why it this a question? How the fuck do I know?!

I’ve had full blown conversations with this woman who says it like it’s a comma. And a full stop. And a capital. And the three dot thingy, the “…”. Not to forget the long 'yaaaaaaa…' when she’s trying to figure out what to say next. Honest to God, every time she asks/tells/demands a response, I have no clue what to say. So I finally gave in till we sounded like two ducks in a pond you threw popcorn at.

“Dad wasn’t gonna hear me out, ya?”
“Ya.”
“So I told him to just let me live my life, ya?”
“Ya.”
“So.. yaaaaaaaaah!”
“Ya.”
“Ya?”
“Ya.”
“What are you yaaahing about?”
“I dunno, do ya?”
“Yeah.”
"Ya?"

She doesn’t get me either, these days.

I don’t get music in lifts.

Really, I appreciate your concern. But I am NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF OUT OF BOREDOM in those 15 seconds in the lift. What is with that?! And why, WHY Kenny G? Why polyphonic phone ring tones? And why, of all, the tune of BHAJANS????

I can imagine hoteliers supervising their restaurants being designed. They turn to their architects and interior designers and in that one moment of utmost malice and vengeance for all the soon to be broken glasses, the returned too salty-too old-this is not what I ordered dishes, the unflushed floaters on antibacterial crap-pots (another thing I don’t get, but will not bother talking about) smiling villainously and going, “Make the lift out of glass. Thin glass. Make it move sloooooow. And get my Anup Jalota tape from the car.”

Liftmen offsprings will evolve with smaller ear lobes. And have inflexible lips cos they don’t smile anyway.

I don’t get idioms in conversations.

I remember this ad that showed up in Bangalore a couple of years ago. It was like the copywriter found his inspiration in a Preeti Sagar’s Jargon Soup for a Chicken’s Soul.
It went thus.

“Imagine!

The apple of your eye…Your home…. Being eaten like a MOTH.. Called GEYSER!”
No! NEVER!”

And this was an ad for a solar heater. More shocking, this was an AD.

So maybe he didn’t put those idioms to good use. But why do people use idioms to talk to one another? I get it if you’re writing it, that’s a disease I too, have. But why when you’re TALKING??? Language evolved to communicate simple things.
Burp means “Thank you, that was delicious.”
A fart means “I’m comfortable around you.”

Simple sentences are ‘I want.’
I want food.
I want more food.
Gimme pizza.
Fuck off.

See? Simple. I understand these. Then my boss comes around and says this.

“Its like sex on toast, guys! Just do the biggie bag and turn over, ad the chicken’s done. No need to arm wrestle deadlines, just put an enema in the soup and we'll touch base later.”


Whatever, ya?

Things I don't get

I'm in a George Costanza meets Stewie Griffin kind of mood. Not 'meet' per say... more like a tip of the hat as you pass by kind of meet. Or like a half smile like your botox is doing nothing for you as you see each other on the road but don't bother to talk kind of meet.

Yeah.. So you get the idea.

I'm in the mood to rave and rant and complain and crib and roll in the mud and whine, so really, this weekend, let's not meet. I am kind of pissed off/frustrated/ don’t really care but makes for good time pass on the long journey to work on board smelly train/ about some things that I’ve recently begun to pay attention to, and the list is growing as enormously long and intolerable as is this sentence. Just to prove I am not neurotic, (shut up Mother, what do you know) I’ve compiled a brief list of things I don't get. So seriously, for the sake of whatever's left of my sanity, tell me if it’s just me.

I don't get Vodafone Customer Care
So this woman calls me up the other day from Vodafone. Her name is Ujwala. I hope you're reading this, UJWALA.
"Your outgoing has been barred because you've exceeded your credit limit, ma'am." Ujwala says.
"But my bill's due only next week! I've never paid late, why have you barred my calls?" I argue.
"Ma'am, please call customer care and clarify it with them." Ujawala smartly replies.
"Aren't you customer care?"

Ujwala blinks so hard it causes a hurricane in Australia.
"Ma'am, please call 111."

"I can't. You've barred my outgoing." I say politely.
Ujwala hangs up on me.
Ujwala Ujwala Ujwala Ujwala. Bitch.

I don't get actors crying at the movies.
Even better, actors crying at their own movies. Why, exactly?

I don't get buzzers at the Moment of Truth
This is a game where the toughest answers is a "Yes" or a "No". And there's no 'I dont remember" or "Because she told me to." You say the truth, you sell your privacy, self esteem and life for a million dollars. Sounds like a deal.
"Do you purge to lose weight?"
The audience awwws and gasps and chokes on a pretzel as the competitior looks confused into the camera.
The obviously like duhuhuh! bulimic competitor refuses to answer cos her anorexic sister hits a buzzer yelling, "Don't answer that!"

Now really! Does she? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! I guess we'll never know.

I don't get scam.
It feeds me. But I still don't get it.


More coming right up. Honestly, IU]'m gonna keep ranting cos there's no one more perplexed and irritated like I am, right now. But I gotta go cos I've to get into a meeting that I don't get. But thats for the next post.

The BIg Black Lie

So a neon sign rendition of Priyanka Chopra sauntered around a neon sign rendered city, crooning seductively about her new found beauty. Apparently, she found it in Unilever’s Pandora Box, hiding in a bathing soap called Lux Provocateur.

One boring Sunday noon, intoxicated with very, very flat beer and leftover macaroni from last night, my eyes lit, neon-signly. Whoever thought they’d play a soap ad on Cartoon Network, that too in the middle of ‘Courage, the Cowardly Dog’? I stood no chance against large media agencies.

To be fair to my cause, I wasn’t under the impression that I was made of rice lights, nor that I would magically turn into Priyanka Chopra if I bathed in Lux Provocateur. What fuelled my imagination was that the soap was black in colour.

Kaala Saabun, I thought. That’s dynamite’s nickname. Under the influence of Vijay Mallya’s only contribution to the world and the traumatic standstill of Sunday, my left brain gave way.

As fate had it, by evening, an empty fridge told me that the impending visit to the grocery store was now unprocastinatable, if there’s a word like that. So I went, heading straight for the booze.
POP and retail strategies are crafty, cunning and ruthless. They got me again. For, bang opposite my favorite wine section, stood a new brightly coloured standee.
The Lux Provocateur grinned at my hypnotized being, inviting, scheming. Unwittingly, I picked a dark chocolate coated pack and scanned the gold motifs on it.



Though I didn’t need a bath, I turned on the geezer. Ripped the package open, and the naked bar of black soap lay on my palm.

It didn’t look as exciting as I imagined.

Ssomething inside me began to break. I think it was the rumbling of my logic waking up.
Quickly, I began to look for a defense. What color could the lather be?!


White. Bubbles… small, tiny ones.
Like in detergent soap.
Like in hand wash.
Like in every friggin’ cleaning agent based discovery since soapnuts!

I am distressed, shattered and curse EVERYONE involved in the conception, inception, production marketing and stocking of the black wonderless bar of broken neon-signed dreams, false promises and white bland bubbles and… I HATE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hate you Provocateur, you stupid spelled bar of Indian Ink! And Lux! You too! You betrayed me! You and your.. you.. black, black soaps and your celebrity caricature endorsed stupid… stupid slogans and baslines and.. and… what the hell does, ‘Ab Khoobsurati se darr kaisa?” even mean?!

Fuck you, Unilever! And all you motherfucking Js, Ws, and Ts of the world!!!! FUCK YOU ALL!!!


I’m back, Harmony! Love you dear, dear Harmony. Non-endorsed by deceiving celebrity, dirty font, cheaply designed pack of Harmony. Fruity, normal colored Harmony. And your lather has bigger bubbles too, and they’re a little red and orangey and.. and blue!


Eh… That’s a good thing, right?