Home is each other

"You will NOT tell me what to do. I will do what I want." He was loud and meant every word he said. "So will I." She was still calm and composed,a habit which aggravated him to no end. Then she added, "Except you know we are supposed to stay away from security cameras. You know it." "It is the Basilica,for heaven's sake. A million people go there!" He shouted. "And pick a fight with the personnel?! Do you understand the meaning of having our passports examined again? Will you ever LISTEN to me?" She was outraged-simultaneously wildly afraid and angry. The monster inside him had already awoken,and he thumped towards her and caught hold of both her forearms with one hand and twisted them behind her in a wicked pinch. With the other hand he squeezed her cheeks in a hilarious fish face. For a moment,they stayed in apoplectic equilibrium. She looked at his face,red with fury and breathing hard and hot upon her,and with all the strength she could muster,stomped her right leg on his foot. He lost his grip with a wince,and she used this opportunity to dig her unchristian nails in his flesh,weakening him further. She pushed him back with all her might and in the process let off a feminine version of a grunt.

Unloved,unwanted,unprecious from the beginning-they could only live inside the constraints of a systeme. Instead of granting each other what people in love ordinarily do,they did the opposite. Pushed each other's limits. Set new records. They wanted to know exactly how far they can go and how much does it take. Will you still love me when I do this?

She walked away furiously to the window.

He stared and stared at her back as she stood at the window,glowing with defiance and anger and uncompromise. Suddenly,he walked up to her and held her softly at the waist with both hands,as if on a sudden recall of her fragility. A turquoise bottle of tenderness,uncapped and unused since a long time,overflowed,let free by the upheaval that preceded. Comforted by the familiarity of known terrain,his fingers met just below her navel,as if more concerned with functionality. The tips of her toes,painted scarlet,singlehandedly took charge of his blood circulation.

She turned around urgently and gazed at the puzzle laid upon his face. He looked back in her face. And saw several things. Woman. Lover. Mother. Whore. Goddess. His Life. Doomed to be unconveyed. Through the corner of her eye, she almost came close to this thought and tried exasperatedly to read her worth, her meaning, in his mad,gigantic,magical,ridiculous world. Almost solved the puzzle. Almost.

She gave up and looked down instead,like she always did. That is when she smelt it in the hollow of his throat. Rising above the scent of the sea,the mountains,the road and everything else that he usually smelled of,the unmistakable sharp fragrance of wanderlust. Immediately,she looked up at his face with a surprised smile and anticipatory wide eyes and a certain relief. He smiled back and saw her eyebrows knotted in a question. The familiar,private language of lovers. They talk with smells,grimaces,shrugs and twinkles,as if words are redundant.

"Budapest" He whispered in her ear.

Status-So you Run-'Amazing' by Seal

A woman's life is a function of time

The enemy lies within. Specifically,Premenstrual Syndrome. You are content and almost victorious about the three weeks of rational,lucrative behaviour,and then comes week 4,vociferously demanding an entire chinese all-you-can-eat just so that the world adds up to some kind of meaning. You know exactly where to tell your dietetic holiness to go. You can see,feel,the tips of your toes and everything above it bloat with the kind of fluid that inhabits the stomachs of chicken carcasses,making it impossible to feel like you are movable. It is a fretful time when endocrinology conspires with biology and borrows shamelessly from history-both personal and evolutionary. Sometimes,if you are careful enough,you can almost see the droplets of progesterone clouding your eyesight and general judgement. The only salvation,indeed the goal,appears to be stability,in all probability to keep the chicken fluid from bursting out.

You are certain that all emotions can be suitably expressed with feral noises rather than words. You want to breastfeed a Kwashiorkered child from Tanzania ,then an even more deprived fully grown man from not that far away. You swear off hair removal for the rest of your life based on metaphysical reasonings,and take cathartic pleasure in revenge and organize related monologues. You crave large chunks of any dessert mushed with lemon juice and topped with dead,raw fish,and later fantasize about violent mutilation of several women. When you set out and get up to perform these acts,you burst into tears from the weight of the effort. Small children cower and wobble away stealthily upon your sight. Personal hygiene takes a backseat.

The rest of the three weeks are spent in recuperation and repair,and most of all,dread,because you are aware of the method of its unbureaucratic regularity,and because you cannot run away.

status-dramatic,pessimistic hyperbolic animal.

Guest Appearance

The amputation


This beating heart must go,
This beating heart is my foe,
This beating heart cries,
This beating heart defies.

Your smile,your eyes,your caprice
No longer will I suffer this disease
With my hands I will wrench
Every memory of your stench
I will pluck and snip and tear
Every single thread we share

I'll burn the rest
I'll do my best
To kill this beating heart
This treacherous thing
This changeling
No sooner will we part

This beating heart still sings,
This beating heart still clings,
This beating heart still stings,
This beating heart is jinxed.

No barbs of mockery
Can pierce this insolence
The sheer incredulity
Of this resistance
When every trick has failed and gone
This beating heart keeps beating on

This beating heart has won
and nothing can be done
This beating heart is yours,not mine
Full of love so divine
Yet you looked away
and killed it that very day.


-Anu Desai
friend,telepathic soulmate,only female extern I can stand

Roadies type adventure task

I have been working at a primary health centre in a village called Saphale-about a couple of hours from central Mumbai. Amongst other things, I visit Anganwadis (nurseries) in smaller villages even more faraway from Saphale to examine and treat children. Usually there is a means of transport for the same. So when I was told to go to Vaadiv for an aanganwadi visit,I was sure it would be like any of the other three I had already done. Lets just say this one was slightly different.
I was told by the two healthcare worker that no automobile goes to this place and we will have to take the train to Vaitarna and walk from there. Grudgingly, I obliged and found myself on Vaitarna station.
The walk,it turned out,was no simple one.We were supposed to carry out the journey on the railway tracks,the two of them that were there. I hopped and skipped clumsily on the kilometre long stretch of the rock lined path,looking exasperatedly at my fellow-women as they completed strong,effortless stride after stride. The realization that I was actually walking on railway tracks made me shudder from time to time. Soon enough,I realized that traffic was heavy and that we were supposed to hop from one track to another dodging approaching trains,which we had to look for on both sides by squinting hard in the sun. As someone who is terrified of crossing roads and sometimes even dreads certain staircases (and height and water.....you get the picture),this was a phenomenal leap,sometimes literally.
Little did I know that the real adventure challenge was yet awaiting me. You see,there is a large water body called Vaitarna khadi (bay) over which the tracks run. The space between the two tracks is a huge two metre gap which is ~gasp~ interrupted by a one and a half foot broad and about half a mile long metal plank running parallel to the tracks. The space on either side is sufficient enough for a well built human being to comfortably slip through and fall into the khadi. Yes,you guessed it right,we were supposed to walk over that plank and get to the other side. I offered continuing to walk on the tracks-but soon realized the dangers. If a train approached we would have had to jump over the gap on the plank-more dangerous than walking on the plank itself. To say that I was scared was a gross understatement. Still,I half conceitedly-half dutifully thought of all the children waiting for me to examine them and began.
It was the most dreadful 15 minutes of my life. Things got too literal as I found I was on the edge and took baby steps trying not to look down and failing at it miserably. I could not hold sister's hand because of the narrowness,and all I could listen to was the gushing deep waters below me. The heat,dehydration and fear were working in tandem to make me dizzy and make the path even harder. There were people in front and the back,that was reassuring,but their steps caused the plank-and consequently,me-to vibrate. There were women who carried large,heavy looking bundles on their heads and looked as if it was a walk in the park for them. I started to think about the anthropological undertones of the attitude they have about Life and Death,but the plank and the bay below soon made me less philosophical and more primal. Concentration was key. I kept affirming myself with 'I can do this', 'I can handle anything life puts in front of me','I am a strong,calm,centred person'-a technique I have used throughout internship. An addition was 'If I fall,I will swim'. But I pretty much could no longer ignore 'If I cannot swim,I will die'. After a gruelling 15 minutes,Thank God,I was back on terra firma.
After another half a mile on the tracks again,this time on solid ground,I was at the Anganwadi wiping my brow.
If you thought my struggle was over,you are far from right. I was supposed to make the whole journey all over again to get back to Vaitarna station. This time on the plank,I managed to ask the Anganwadi worker who had so kindly accompanied me, whether it was dangerous to cross the khadi this way. In a trademark charming rural callousness,she answered 'Sometimes people fall. If they fall,they die'. I tried my best not to dwell on that and just keep on going to the rhythmic banter of her regaling me with tales of how her relatives are scared of this 'bridge' too.
Somewhere in the middle,she saw the tracks vibrating and shouted out loud to me 'Madam,memo gaadi aa rahi hai'. We were not on the tracks,so I was confused. I told her so. She said that if a train goes by while you are standing on the plank,you have a really,really,good chance of keeling over and falling! The solution,ladies and gentlemen,was to sit.That's right,she held my hand and we squatted in a taking-a-dump-in-the-woods way over the precariously limited metal strip with our backs towards the train. The worst part was that this forced me to look nowhere but down. So there I was,squatting on the plank,with a fast moving train behind me throwing gushes of wind enough to send me over,looking at what I had been avoiding looking at all this time. I had no clue if I would return.

However,I did,and was safely back on Vaitarna station,where I had to catch the Ahemdabad passenger to Viraar,and Life,curiously,went on as before.

status-goosebumpy and with really sore quadriceps.

Testing boundaries,

My eyes

travel across

the length

of your body

your face

your eyes.

Then,together,

impolite,

across Mumbai

take flight.

When they return

I come to learn

When I look at me,

my eyes

are no longer

my eyes.

status-Creeped out.I woke up at 3.30am today with a sudden jolt and the memory of a dream with a suggestion of these lines on a page. Except that instead of Mumbai it was Chennai. ???

An extraordinary passage from an even more extraordinary essay

The end of imagination by Arundhati Roy.
When questioned about the only dream worth having.

To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength,never power. Above all,to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never,never,to forget.

............to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you are dead.

Recently I attended a classical/folk music event. Here's how some of the lyrics in the middle of one of the numbers went-

Chhaati se lagake tumko rakh lenge near
ab to aaja dear

Soulful and soothing are not words one would use to describe a bhojpuri song on a usual basis. However, it was a song from an era before bad taste and the film industry happened. What drew my attention most was the lyrics. It started to end with hindi words such as 'peehar' and then came the english ones 'near' and 'dear' for the rhyme. They were perfectly at home.

A fair example of the plasticine nature of language and culture. While human beings grow into more rigid,more stringent,more intolerant avatars,ironically (irony,as you will later see,is a staple), language and culture seem to follow the Darwinian principle of Evolve-or-perish enchantingly,and yet,tenderly.

We trivialize and infantilize both of them beyond belief. Whilst no one can deny the necessity of preserving certain fast disappearing languages and cultures,the basic nature of all of them is subtle,accumulating transition,for what it does mirror is a land,its people and the hands of time. The evolving complex compound does not show properties of any of the original elements yet somehow preserves its grace and history-the all important soul. It is as impossible to dig out the 'unwanted' matter-there aren't any sediments. May be the Dravidians were the first people. May be the Aryans came later. May be the Moguls came,saw,conquered and settled. May be the British colonized this country for more than a 100 years. May be as we speak now we are being covered by an opalescent veil of 'the west'.The truth could be that it does not matter. None is an addition to an already satisfactory mix-rather they're what make the mix and keep on changing and enriching it. Ironic, considering the fact that it is finally 'we' who create language and culture but are somehow slaves to homeostasis in a way they can never be.

It is for this purpose that we come across the numerous succulent ironies which dot our daily lives like capitals on a map. It is in a Ramdev Baba declaring that gays are physically ill in a country where the son who 'took birth' out of the union of Lord Shiva and Lord Vishnu-Lord Ayyappa-has his own temples where hundreds of people flock daily. It is in that Barber bridge in Chennai which was originally named 'Hamilton bridge' by the british,roughened by mundane tamil to 'Ambattan bridge'-ambattan being the tamil word for barber-and in a full circle coming back to barber. It is in all those tourists and Indians who see India symbolically in the Taj Mahal without being aware of the secondary citizenship that most Indian muslims endure. It is in all the Los Angeleses and San franciscos of the world which will not change no matter how America feels about its mexican immigrants.

Status:-Overwhelmed with all the effortless grace of the universe.