Dear Rebecca Black,

When I was in third grade, Shalini Menon sat to my right. A sweet midget for a girl with buck teeth, she would walk into class every day with her hair doused in enough oil to tempt Iran into digging a pipeline through her head. To my left sat Tarannum Jalil. I don’t remember much about her, except thinking that if I smelled like that, my mother would put me in the pile that ‘does not go in the machine’.

We were healthy children, the three of us, which made our seat the sturdiest, non-wobbliest bench in all of III C. Which made things harder for me.

You see, I sat in the middle.

Fiercely pungent jasmine hanging onto bobbypins greased with enough coconut oil to make Kerala proud, alongside the visual treat of it all slurp and drip down onto Shalini’s ear, to my right.

To my left, decomposing humus dripping out of sweat glands as large as holes in a Chetan Bhagat plot, aiming at my general direction. That and a perpetual dry cough after which I’d see Jalil wiping her hands on her skirt from the corner of my eye.

Whom do I sit closer to?
On what side do I keep my bag?

Then, Black, I had to make a decision.
And decision making, I did.
I decided. I became a decider.
I had to make a choice. And I made a choice.
I chose… to make a decision.

(Gimme a hand here, Rebecca - you’re the one good at repetition.)


Thing is, Rebecca, I was once a kid, too. And kids let parents take whimsical decisions for them. Mine put me in a school where hygiene standards were excused every third bench or so. Yours paid a dumbfuck with a broadband connection and a YouTube account $2000 to make you whine about eating your cereal and bunking school so you could sit in a parked car in front of a green screen.

It’s not your fault. My mom told me that I looked beautiful in a tulip costume for a fancy dress parade. Your mom told you that you could sing. Moms. Liars. Sadistic pre-menopausal dingbats with too much time and TiVo. Though its ages since, I’m still called Worm in a Tomato in some circles. Take my word for it, they’ll be calling you a talentless hack for years to come.


So now you know. Don’t trust your parents. If they knew better, they’d ground you for driving around with other licence-less juvenile delinquents looking to score on a school day. Or for being 13 and capable of only listing the days of the week in the right order.

Heard of algebra? What’s (a + b)²?

No, Black. The answer’s not Pomegranate.


Take my advice. Don’t leave it to your parents this time with all the thinking you’re doing about your next number. Take a decision and don’t do that second song. I mean, you spent, what 5 minutes figuring if you should take the front or the back seat, right? Take some time to think about this, too. Take a break. Take away. Take 500 ml oestrogen. You’re making us all seem like the pathetic race we are, hating a 13 year old.

Bad decisions can fuck you up. I still have the acne scars on my right cheek to prove it.

Waiting till you're 18 so I can abuse the fucking crap out of you,

Rae.

(I haven't put in the link to Rebecca Black's 'Friday' because this is a letter to her, and I presume she's already seen it. Look for it on YouTube. But because I love you, here's a video of a monkey screwing a goat and its pretty much the same thing.)

They're Back!

Just what i needed to get back to writing. A visit from Mom and Dad.

DAY 1:

“Rae, why is there an armchair in the balcony?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Ya.

But why is there an armchair in the balcony?”

“Because I like to sit there.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because means?”

Yeah.

It took about fifteen minutes to explain that I didn’t like to explain. Ten minutes later I succumbed. I told him that when I found the time, I sat down in my balcony in the evenings with my coffee, surrounded by my little pots of jasmine, tulsi, germanium and mint, staring into September rains, thinking thoughts I shouldn’t, dreaming smaller than I should, romanticising the mundane that my life has decayed into. Quite pleasurable.

He listened to me, an imagination of sorts growing in the space between him and me. Then he frowned, winced and continued.

“But WHYIYEE?”

DAY 2:

“I made dosa!”

These were the first words I heard on Sunday. My only weekend off after 3 months of gruelling deadlines, meetings, bad campaigns, dying ideas and senseless headlines on baseless ads, I intended to live my weekend to the fullest – in my sleep. But she made dosa. At 7 a.m.

“Awesome! I’ll wake up and eat, Amma.” I manage.

“IT WILL BECOME COLD!!!!!! EAT AND SLEEP!!!!”

I didn’t fight it. I knew she was only going to get shriller. Plus, she was on holiday, technically. (Yes, vichchoobhai, I’ve gotten more patient with age.)

So I kicked off my sheets and sleepily dragged a foot off the bed. Halfway vertical, my dad walks in.

“AGAIN SLEEPING?? WHY YOU ARE GOING TO BED?????”

Grrrrr.

DAY 3:

“I repaired the fan in our room!”

“There was nothing wrong with it, Dad.”

“No. I changed the capacitor! Now it goes faster!”

Sigh.

“Ok, Daddy. Thanks.”

*move to my room*

*lie down*

*notice my fan*

*it doesn’t work*

“Dad, what’s wrong with my fan?”

*blink*blink*

“It doesn’t have capacitor.”

DAY 4:

Dad loves my cooking, he says. Which the sweetest thing he’s said in 26 years and 4 days.

So I decide to cook him something.

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.

“Burger!” he chirps.

So I get down to making a list of things I need for our sophisticated family dinner. My mother accompanies me to a supermarket nearby, while I leave my dad, quite hesitantly, at home. I’m sure he was hiding a screwdriver behind his back when he waved us goodbye.

“Do we need this?” she asks, pointing at frozen burger patties.

“No, we don’t, Amma. I’m making them myself”, I proudly reply.

“Chicken?”

“Yes, chicken.”

“When you’ll get married?”

“In.. huh???”

The next hour around the aisles is a bit hazy. Between ‘Detergent’ and ‘Dairy Products’, I remember a rhetoric discussion about my darkening lips and unkempt hair which were doing absolutely nothing for my 26 years of age. I was going to end up unmarried and unhappy – an old woman with 17 cats and arthritis and a monthly subscription to Fine Garden and Kids These Days.

But the burgers came out nice.

They’re here another two days. I’m at work and will be, till at least 3 a.m., hoping against hope that she hasn’t rearranged my cupboard, he hasn’t rearranged my furniture, fixed my laptop or attempting to fix my life.

Another two days.

Gonna miss them.

The Indian Octopus

It is true. It exists. And likes samosas. And fries. And frankies.
Except on Thursdays.

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.