Facebook and a memory

Memory is a strange thing...

"Years later, I found a request from a school friend on Facebook. Well, I can't really say friend because our conversation throughout the 12 years (assuming he too was in school right from J. Kg) was zilch. I knew him as one of the hundreds of other guys in school and that's about it. He hadn't changed much in all those years, just become taller, a plague all the boys of my school seemed to have been afflicted with as soon as they passed grade 10th. And like all Facebook friendship requests from "he was in my school/college but I don't remember him" go, I accepted it. But I as hovered there, over the 'add friend' button, it was just one memory that seemed to play in my head in loop. 4th grade. He would sit ahead of me and once, while the teacher was dictating something, I caught a glimpse of his handwriting. I don't know why but I kept staring. Maybe because he was left handed and I had been constantly told how "bad" being left handed was. I would often write with both hands as a kid and - this is perhaps the only thing I regret in life - I was forced to stick to writing with only my right hand as using the left was bad. But, I digress. I sat there, teacher's voice forgotten, staring at that loopy text. Blue gel ink on white paper. In my mind hours passed but it was merely seconds as I got back to my notes; the handwriting, the paper and the blue ink forgotten.

And yet, as I stared at that 'add friend' button, it was just the loopy handwriting I could see. Not the words but that moment. It played in my mind like someone had turned the rewind button of an old cassette player on and forgotten all about it. My first voyeuristic experience that seemed to me somehow wrong, innocent as it was. 16 years. 16 years and all the name conjured up was a memory of a left handed boy with a loopy handwriting."

Yes, memory is a strange thing.

Mumbai! Really?

No, it is not about Mumbai or Delhi or New York or Paris. It is not about 6 PM, 8 PM, 10 PM or midnight. Nor is it about a skirt, jeans, salwar or burkha. It is not about the age, the companion, the mode of transport or the work profile. It is about freedom. About being able to live freely. About mere existence.

An existence which has been denied. Not just in this "modern" era but right since civilisation came into existence. It is not about the country that reveres a woman as a Goddess and then defiles her in the worst possible way. Americans and Europeans have Mother Mary. The rapes there are no less.

Why the shock over Mumbai? As a Mumbai girl, haven't you ever looked over your shoulder while walking?! Haven't you ever felt the fear? Haven't you read about crimes in the city? Why is it easy to point fingers but when the crime, which always existed back home is exposed, why the sudden outcry and rage?

It isn't anything new. It never was. Does it mean you are safe no more? No it doesn't. You were never safe. And never will be. Irrespective of the city, dress, time, hour. All you hopefully are is aware. And cautious. And prepared.

Yes, it pains me to use a word like prepared here but there is no running away from it. You can hope all you want. Travel late all your life and never once face a man passing a lewd comment. But perhaps your 10-year old daughter is already battling those ugly stares. Face the reality.

You live through it everyday. Live through the fear. Live through the relief. Then why the sudden sorrow when the fear manifests itself? It is the city that never sleeps. Why did you then think the darkness would?

It is not a new crime. It has existed since times immemorial. You can fight against it. Rally against it. Blame the opposite species. But that will not change facts. It is not an epidemic which you can halt with a vaccine. Nor is it a disease you can seek help for. It is a crime. A live, in the flesh crime which always existed and continues to exist and will continue.

It won't matter if you move out and go abroad. You can run all you want. You cannot brush it away. All you can do is be strong while inside you're quivering with fear. Learn a few loud screams. Learn to keep pepper spray handy. Learn self-defense. Learn. And hope you never have to put your knowledge to use.

Stop blaming the place. Stop acting shocked over a crime in the capital of the Indian underworld. Stop feeling the false sense of security. Open your eyes. And wake up. Please.

Being a Writer…

Friday, 31st May, 2013. 8:55 PM.
It's 8.15 PM on a Friday. The office is almost empty except for a few workaholics straying around. The pantry is shut. Cleaners are around brandishing their vacuums in full swing. The overhead lights are dimmed except for a few.

I finish the last dregs of my green tea wondering how do I wash my now dirty cup. But that is the least of my worries as I stare at the screen, lining up one story after the next for the weekend. There’s a few lines of my favourite music sifting through my consciousness. Workaholics in an aisle somewhere are playing music to stay awake I guess. The volume is soothing and as they’re co-incidentally playing my favourite songs, I decide to let it pass. Focus on the screen, eyes drawn together, biting my lip I’m trying my best to finish the list and leave. That is when it happens. Suddenly I see it..

That one unobtrusive headline among the multiple tabs open on my screen. Tab one reads Google (only the Go visible thanks to multiple, overlapping tabs). The tab right next to it reads Ph. Doesn't take a genius to figure the words out. Google and Phone. Logical conclusion as I write for the Tech section and I’ve thought of nothing else pretty much all day.

All it takes is a fraction of a second and instantly a brand new headline pops into my head. Google to Launch Multiple Phones This Year? And the damage is done. The itch is generated. I have to do this. I have to write this article.

Research begins once again with me rushing through a couple of articles on the topic. Working for the print media is very different from working for the online media. There’s no editor. There’s no hierarchy. You do your own research. Write your own articles. Edit your work. Upload it. Make it LIVE. The work, is in true sense, yours. Your own.

I begin writing not realizing how and when time flies by. 20 minutes. 20 minutes is all it takes and the article is done. Approximately 550 words and my article is complete peppered with facts, rumours, specifications and my opinion. It’s a sigh of relief with which I hunt for images to accompany the article, quickly upload, hit the publish button and lean back into my chair. And then it happens again. I see another news and it’s a brand new itch…

Fortunately or unfortunately, my phone rings and it’s my mom asking me where the hell am I and by when will I be returning. It’s 8.45 by then. Bag packed, PC shut, Green Tea mug washed, head-phones in my ears, iPod on; I finally am ready to leave. I see the security guard cast me a look as I punch my card. 8.47 PM reads the time on the swipe machine.

Friday, 31st May 2013. 9:10 PM
The train is relatively empty. I manage to snag the precious window seat and I sit with my head leaning against the window sill, eyes closed when the day rushes through my mind. My phone pings and as I begin chatting to a friend, I know I have to write. Again. Something. Anything. It is this urge I have. I’m addicted to it. It feels like I am an addict. Writing is my very own, personal brand of heroin.

I’m not the owner of award winning, best-sellers. Nor am I an avid blogger. My articles have not won me laurels. At times, people don’t even understand my writing! But I’m a writer. Did I always know I would be one? No. I never in my wildest dreams thought of being a writer. I wanted to be loads of things. A teacher, an astronaut, a dance choreographer, a psychiatrist, a house-wife (yes, seriously!), and so forth. Writing was not by chance but it was not a planned career.

I always knew it was easier to write. Things could be expressed so beautifully. Books have been my constant companion since I was a 9-month old bratty baby (ABCD books and picture comics) and they opened a new world to me. It was easier to imagine the pictures books painted than to listen to someone or watch it in real on TV. Words had a kind of magic in them. They were so versatile. They evoked memories, joys, tears. Just one sentence, one word could take you from smile to tears. There’s nothing more beautiful than words.

It was in college that the seeds of me being a writer were sown. And then, there was no looking back. I had found my passion and I knew what my career would be then. A writer.

I’ve heard many things about writers. They’re eccentric. Moody. Stupid. Selfish. Egoistic. Slightly off. Cracked. Mysterious. Etc, etc, etc. Are we all of this? I don’t know. Perhaps we are. If the urge to wake up in the middle of the night and work on your latest idea is eccentric, yes, we’re eccentric. If swaying to and fro in a crowded train, trying to finish that one article which is stuck in your mind is stupid, yes we’re stupid. If feeling irrational anger towards that editor who butchered your piece is egoistical, yes, we’re egoistical.
Writers don’t have a time. Yes, we have 9 to 5 jobs but hardly ever is any work done in those hours.

Inspiration come” is definitely not the mantra we chant. Inspiration comes when it has to. Be it midnight, a funeral, when your boss is screwing your case, in the loo, on a summer evening, anywhere. Anytime. It comes and equally quickly, it slips away…

Sunday, 2nd June 2013. 7.30 PM
2 days have passed. And am still writing. This is exactly what it means to be a writer. Yes, it is true that once writers begin to write, there’s no sense of time. It was on Friday, 31st May 2013 that I began writing this piece. It was in a local train. And today is Sunday, June 2nd. I have played with a precocious baby, slept a day away, caught a movie, cooked dinner, chatted with friends, planned a trip, etc, etc in these two days. But the article was with me. It was present at the back of my mind. It did not desert me. It stayed. And thus, despite a 48 hour break, I did not desert it.

There are 100s of errors I make. This very piece might not be perfect. The next line might be riddled with errors. But is the essence lost? No it’s not. I get irked with spelling errors. But if it’s an unedited piece, written at the speed of thought, do I mind errors? No I do not. Does ’misteak’ take away the meaning of the story? It still does not. Let the editing be done by the editors. And let a writer and his freedom be…

It is the first rains of the season. There’s thunder. There’s a light drizzle. I can smell the earth. It is beautiful. All I want to do at this moment is be alone in my cocoon with my words, my pen and my paper. I just want to write. Not on that beautiful orange sunset. Not on the parched call of birds. Not on the tittering leaves or the rushing kids. I just want to penn my thoughts. Just like this article. I want to feel one train of thought. No distractions. No second line of thoughts behind the first. Just pure, unadulterated longing to be with my words and my stories. Is this meditation? Intense concentration? Perhaps it is. Writing is my nirvana.

What does it feel like being a writer? Do we feel proud? Do we feel weird? There are times I come upon an article or a piece written by me long back and I balk. What is this shit?! Did I honestly write this? And then, there are times when going back to an article and reading it, I’m filled with a strange satisfaction. A quite pride that I’m the owner of this brilliant piece. I’m filled with more pride than a mother whose child has won the first prize. My writing is my baby. Created by me, honed by me and it will always be mine.

I recently read an article on FB which a friend shared. It was by some eminent writer (I’m very, very, very bad at names) which said all writers are bad writers. Is that true? No it isn’t. Yes, we are all insecure. Will this story work? Is this idea good? But the success of a story does not determine it’s beauty or it’s value. If you gave birth to an ugly child, do you throw him in the dustbin? No. He’s still yours. You nurture him. Just like that being a writer is a full-time job of being a mother, a wife and a daughter.

Your words are your owners. They have you in their grasp just like disciplinarian parents. Try as you might, you will not get away. You can break your head for hours in hunt of those perfect words but they will not come to you. However, you’re there chatting away to someone, when your mind gets distracted and in a slip the word comes to you.

You’re married to your stories. Like a wife you have care for them, trust the ideas, nurture them, love them. One slip, one tiny chink of doubt and the story crashes. Just like a successful marriage, there’s no room for insecurity in a story. You begin shakily but as it progresses, you get more and more confident. Sometimes mid-way you know it won’t work and you part ways. But it is there with you. Those moments you spent together, are always there.

Writing is a writer’s baby. It is his. The words are his. They are the window to his personal world. There’s nothing that enables you to understand a person as his writing. His words express everything. His mood, his anguish, his joy. The question mark speaks of doubt or worry. Exclamation is shock. Just a simple ‘hi’ has so many undercurrents. A tentative ‘hi…’ or a confident Hi. A moody Hi? or a excited ‘Hi!’. Words are a writer’s baby and there’s nothing more dear to him than his story.

You cannot force yourself to write. Just like you cannot teach some writing. It is in you. Present. You just unleash it and slowly hone it. Following your heart and being true to your thoughts is being a writer…

I don't know any tricks to writing. Nor do I have tips. I know just one thing. Listen to your heart. And follow that urge...

Good Riddance or Fond Farewell?

No, I do not understand politics. For me it is as interesting as an archeological site is to a bungee jumper. Yes, I am one of the youth of the nation who knows nothing about anything and doesn’t much have an opinion on anything either. I am as blonde as can be. For me politics is as complicated as trying to understand Schrödinger’s Cat Theorem is to a layman. I do not read newspapers and can’t remember when I last sat for a GK exam and was able to answer questions. My files are full of certificates from winning different competitions but I can’t recollect if I ever won a quiz.

Oh, I know random bits and pieces. Kalam was once the President of India. And Manmohan Singh, the firangi’s stooge, is Prime Minister. See I know! But I can’t seem to recollect who the current President is. The President never even does anything except attend openings and stuff. So why bother anyways? Appalled? Shocked? How do I get on with life you ask? Isn’t your life mundane? No, it isn’t. My life’s pretty adventurous and thrilling and fun. Yes, I am the selfish, self-obsessed youth of today. I simply don’t care.

So suddenly, when with the passing away of an old man - who I always prayed to and almost relied on to create a ruckus one night before my exams - everything came to standstill, I cursed. Yes, I have been taught cursing only too well. Something goes wrong in life, we curse. Cuss words, swear words, slangs all flow like A. R. Rahman’s rhythms till the issue is forgotten and buried. I cursed that a trip I had been waiting for had to be cancelled at the last minute and I had to trudge back home disappointed. I cursed when I couldn’t find a single auto and had to trek 2 km with a heavy bag. I cursed when on wanting a quick bite, I found all restaurants shut. Oh, of course I completed my duties. As soon as I spotted empty roads and the men in white with tilaks roaming on bikes and in jeeps warning citizens with dire consequences for carrying on their usual business and aiding the economy, I shot them dirty, angry looks. I even went on social networking sites and vented my feelings. I debated with friends over the issue. Do I mourn for his death? Do I not mourn? Was he good? Was he a royal pain?

The country already grappling with the issue of tiger extinction lost one more tiger yesterday. Although he is supposed to have been lost a couple of days back, we ‘officially’ lost him yesterday. However dumb I might be, I do know of him and the ruckus created by him over the years. He was a great orator. An amazing artist and cartoonist. And an equally awesome racist. Wow! You know quite a bit, you say? Well, you can’t be a Marathi Manoos and not know. You can’t live through broken shop windows, disrupted public transport, sudden Maharashtra bandhs and not know.

I have never attended his speeches. Nor have I bothered to hear them on TV. But I have definitely enjoyed catching snippets of them through the closed doors of my room as my family primly sat before the idiot box, gazing at THE MAN. I do agree with some of his ideas. What he says at times does make sense. I do not know much about how he single handedly became the Father of Mumbai but I do know that Mumbai is most definitely his child.

One of my friends compared him to Hitler. And I respect Hitler. He was a fanatic. He had skewed beliefs. And so did this Saheb. The one thing I definitely know about him and do agree on is his insistence on Marathi. Yes, Bombay is a metropolitan city. And Maharashtra pretty much a mixed state. But so is every state. You have people from everywhere living everywhere. But what has made Bombay different for me is the openness. You can be from anywhere, you will get by here. Any language, any caste, any creed, you will hardly face a problem. But it is not the same everywhere. Spoken from personal experiences, try living in South India purely on Hindi. Or even English. You won’t be able to get by for a day. Go to Gujarat and everywhere you will see business being conducted in Gujarati. Was Saheb wrong in demanding the same for his state? That preference be given to Marathi? Mind you, I’m not talking of the force or the execution here. But I am talking of the idea. Of the wish. I completely agree with it. Yes, we need to have hoardings in Marathi. Have them in English too. But having them in Marathi will not cause you harm. Yes, you need to learn Marathi in schools. When every country forces kids to learn their language and so does every state in India, why not Maharashtra? It is the history, the culture of a place. Preserve it. Or it will soon one day be extinct.

Yes, I am a Maharashtrian. Am I saying this because I’m Marathi? No I’m not. I’m only half-Marathi. And no, I cannot speak Marathi to save my life. I am not proud of it. I wish I had paid more attention in school. I even wish my parents had insisted more on talking in the family language at home than in the generic Hindi and English. I support the cause to keep the state language alive and flourishing.

India is a caste based country. Aren’t we promoting casteism when we force such rules in the state? No we aren’t. Preserving your legacy and respecting others is what must be taught. Yes what happened with the ‘Bhaiyas’ was wrong. What happened with the 'Madus' and 'Southies' was wrong too. They were attacked mercilessly. The idea wasn’t wrong, its execution was. And who can forget the dread lovers feel with the approach of V-Day. A dread created by Sainiks. A soldier protects, but Sainiks have become synonymous with destruction. “I did not ask them to get violent”, he says. It is wrong to break shops. But then, why do we never hear of any Sainik being ostracized from the party for his behaviour? Why is the man who ruled with an iron hand suddenly pussy when it comes to wrongs done by his own protégés?

Who can forget the son? A son whom no one I know respects. A son being forced to live up to his father’s legacy. A son bent by comparision and blind hopes.

After his passing, the city shut. Was it fear? Was it respect? It is an eternal debate. In a city with a population of 1.25 crore, it is said lakhs attended the funeral. An impressive figure. But is it enough to convince me of the respect the man once demanded? And will it assure me of the respect his progeny will continue to demand? No, it doesn’t.

Perhaps it might have. If the respect had not been forced. If the turning was as impressive with shops staying open. With streets not looking like a photograph of the once Bombay, empty. Bereft. With people allowed to laugh. To watch what they want. To live.

Yes he was powerful. Powerful in a city drunk with fear. Powerful in a city of the uncaring. Powerful on the free booze and chicken biryani distributed during elections. Powerful.

And there he lay powerless as the news of his death was shrouded. Powerless as the body rotted. Powerless as the internal politics raged. Powerless as his city was forced to sleep. Powerless he slept. As I continued to pray for an additional day of Bandh. And continued to curse the shutting of restaurants. The city bid the tiger a fond farewell while still waiting to be rid of the nuisance.

10 Reasons Why I Want A Boyfriend

So, I was chatting with an acquaintance the other day and she regaled me with tales after tales of what her ‘cupcake’ – yes, she actually calls him that – does for her and how they are so happy together and blah blah… Now, I’m not someone who believes in love but seeing a cute couple together sure makes me smile, and I do enjoy listening to love stories. So sitting there, hearing some of her stories, I too got carried away to my dreamland where me and him would be cosily curled up in front of a bonfire and… Oh well, Earth to me.

Anyways, that did make me wonder as to why I, despite being pretty happy with my life, would want to have a boyfriend. And that made me compile this list:

1. To gift boxers: Now, on a recent trip to Goa and during the sale season my eyes somehow ended up on those super cute and amazing cartoon boxers on display everywhere. There were Johnny Bravos and Spongebobs and Simpsons, one liners and even some Tom & Jerrys! Oh the cuteness! Such ‘aww’ness on display and I could do nothing but look. I couldn’t possibly buy a stock of boxers and hide them in my cupboard waiting for the “right one”, could I? Yes, I wished ardently then I had a boyfriend…

2. To call and yell at: Every girl (and many boys too) has her PMS days and as an FB post rightly said, she can kill you those days for even breathing. But who ‘you’? Who to vent this out on? Normally, my super sweet best friend acts as a kind punch-bag but in recent times he too has gone ahead and gotten a girlfriend. Now, he wouldn’t want two females burdening him with the world’s sorrows, would he? Damn, I need a boyfriend to scream at and still end up getting chocolate ice-cream…

3. To call me nice things: C’mon! Everyone secretly loves having a pet-name their ‘someone special’ gives them. Admit it! So be it muffin or cutie pie or honey or even the less sweet and hardly creative baby/sweetheart, I like hearing it at times. And it does kinda sound weird if your besties and girl gangs keep calling you sugar plum… Where art thou, walnut cake?

4. To buy me useless stuff: Yes, end of the day, and even the beginning of it, I am a girl! I do sometimes like tiny (subjective), waste things. Like a… Like a… Oh well, something. So, yes, when I feel the urge to enter a shop, any shop and just shop it’d be nice to have someone with a tall, nice presence stand behind me and air his opinions which I can happily brush aside and buy exactly what I want. It’ll definitely be sone pe suhaga if he pays for it too…

5. To dream of: How long, whatever her imagination powers be, how long will a girl dream of Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp or the closer to home Abhay Deol? And then she knows the fantasies aren’t coming true… With a boyfriend I can dream of romantic beach walks, dark circle inducing midnight conversations, spin fairy tales, etc, etc. And chances are the dreams will come true. Fun, ain’t it?

6. Cute mid-day romance: Have a bad day? Fear not! Your personal mood swinger is here. Rough day at work? Just unburden it on him! He will listen to you, give solutions and you might even get a little something to perk you up! And I definitely want that little something. And what about cute romantic message sharing or chatting while in respective offices? Or sudden short sweet calls… Hmmm…

7. Bragging: Ever since I’ve hung out with girls, which is practically all my life, I’ve learnt one thing. Girls LOVE to brag about their bitter or better halves. And they can go on for hours. Generally I’m the one going “ooh” and “aaah” and “awesome” but what fun would it be if the tables turned and I could brag too! Yeah. You know what? He can cook too! And he cooked me a three course meal the other day and got me a tub of chocolate ice-cream… He even gifted me a day at the spa…

8.  Get drunk with: Booze is good and the company often makes it better. But drinking with friends always has disadvantages. You have respective homes to get back to and most often than not, you are alone. That not only means rationing your drinking but also means trying to stay sober enough to give the autowalla or cabbie directions to your place. But drinking with a boyfriend? Go all the way. Get sloshed! Talk total crap and he will still find it cute! And of course, the free ride home never hurts… There honey, see the unicorn?

9. To just be loved: Yes your friends love you. So does family. And loads of people. But being loved by that special someone is completely different. It’s a beautiful world where just the two of you exist and there’s no need for anyone else. You can be you and he understands. You need not be you and he still understands. Love, I just felt like talking…

10. T.H.I.S: No, no, not an acronym like Granger’s S.P.E.W. It is just This. This post. What levels of boredom have I reached to start writing such lame posts? And this clearly proves the 500+ contacts on FB and the yet-to-be-counted contacts on my phone are surely of no use in cases of extreme boredomness. No offense to anyone, but I guess I’m just a moody woman hard to please. Hopefully my knight in Armani armour will whisk me away to a boredom-free land…

*To kindly be taken with a pinch of salt, iced tequila and a lemon wedge.