Driftwood

I suddenly, seriously doubt my ability to not create problems. To not jeopardise a relationship, furthering people’s idea of me being *stuck up*. In the past year, a friend who meant a lot to me just drifted away.

I’m not jealous. I’m just sad. We didn’t have any major disagreement and I’d like to believe that we had fun together. It is so weird. Every time I see her now, I think we both feel a misplaced sense of obligation, to be nice, to be social, and to ask about things we no longer care for. And what can you say, when she asks, “How’ve you been?” or “Whatsup?” In those ten minutes that she now has for me, can I tell her how I’ve been sulking? Or all my superficial woes? My joys, my fears, the new clothes I bought and the fight I had with my mother?

I can’t.

So we just paste fake smiles on our faces even though inside I’m hurting and disgusted. Because it’s very easy to blame her for going away to more fulfilling and equal friendships.

When people leave like this, it makes my self esteem plunge a few notches. Obviously, she’s happier now. I try to be happy for her.

I can’t help but wonder, why?

Smoke.Sun.Sweat.

-the price you pay for *yummy* Punjabi food


Bobby da Dhaba, near Gurudwara, Ulsoor.


A little hovel in the ground. Brought back memories of long road trips and aloo parathas. Vaish, Thari and I went to satisfy our Punjabi food craving to this much talked/written about place.
Five-six rickety tables, loose roof tiles, cobwebs, grime and smoke. Not particularly attractive. Uh-uh.

As we waited outside in the sun, vying for a little shade, for a bit of newspaper to fan ourselves, smoke billowed in our faces, thick and grey. Making us tear. Along with it came the smells. *Hamare pet mein choohe sher ban gaye the!*
We could no longer restrain ourselves from cursing the ones already inside, sending them murderous looks in the hope that they would abandon their parathas and flee. It was not to be.

We finally set our eyes on our methi,aloo and pyaaz parathas, shahi paneer, lassi and achaar. Garam garam with a huge dollop of butter =D
Heaven. I’m going back there. Soon.


Bobby and Bobby ki mummy, Shukriya! =D

My little sister and brother

There were times when I fought with everyone. I was angry. I was weepy. I was alone. I was in my tantrum-throwing mood.
It was the best time to clear out my cluttered drawer, crush long forgotten to-do lists, and tear to bits secretly written love letters.

So when my crappy mood simmered down. And I no longer wanted to destroy all in my path, I slammed my door shut making all the windowpanes shake (yeah, so, the crappiness can’t disappear in an instant, right?). The fury giving in to tears. I hug my pillow like my life depends on it, and wish to god, I had little sisters and brothers.

I look at myself in the mirror, little salt rivers down my cheeks. I think. For twenty years, I have been spoilt. I have been loved. But, I believed my friends were my sibling substitutes.
The person in the mirror stared back at me. Tear tracks dried. Skin stretched. Incredulous expression. I did have siblings. Annoying ones too.

A sister and a brother. My amma and appa.

I know I’m a pain in the ass. Sometimes. Always.
Some genes, huh?

I love you :D

An Egg Roll.

It was that time of the year. College fests. Lots of crazy people and yummy food. After witnessing a highly amusing session of “disco-dancers”, Shahid Kapoor and Hrithik Roshan wannabes, I made my way home.

I got into an autorickshaw, plugged in my earphones, put my bag and egg roll parcel on the seat and hoped the traffic would be kind to me. 6.30 pm, on a Friday evening. What was I doing? Hoping for a miracle?

As the tuk-tuk of the rickshaw died down and I could finally hear the music again. I waited for red to turn green.
And then a little hand grabbed my leg, pulled my jeans. I was too much of a coward to remove my earphones. I shook my head and looked straight. She tugged again and gestured toward the egg roll wrapped in foil and tissue. I think over Kelly Clarkson crooning, “I’ll take a risk, take a chance, make a change, and break away” I heard her saying, “Didi, thoda sa de do”. I gave a feeble shake and the auto sprang back to life. The wind was in my face and in my hair. I looked down at the fluttering plastic wrapping. The egg roll.

Later, in the evening as I watched television, I ate the roll. Tried to. The food was tasteless. And when I washed down the last bite with water, it was bitter.

PS: I wish I had acted differently. I hope next time I have enough courage to do what is right. But is it right?
If I had given the egg roll to her, would I have felt better? Am I not encouraging her to continue this lifestyle?
But, all this is irrelevant. She doesn’t have a choice. I wish she had.

The other side of the glass door.

Sunflowers, roses and dahlias. Squirrels scurrying around. The garden looked beautiful. And there was a tall, huge man. Of Rajput or Pathani descent, the doorkeeper. Dressed in the familiar red, blue and gold.

At 3:00 pm on New Year’s Eve we reached our hotel. Hungry and tired. Dumped our bags in the hotel room and sat down to lunch in the dining area of the lobby surrounded by glass doors.

As I started to eat the naan and the paneer butter masala I looked up. I saw the doorkeeper looking in our direction and quickly went back to my food to avoid embarrassing him. When I reached for the achar, the sun did not catch the gold in his uniform and I did not shield my eyes.
I realised he had gone and stood on the other side from we could not see him. My mother remarked about his sensitivity and said, “pavam”.

I wondered how it must feel to stand all day and night; opening and closing the door for hundreds of people who are extremely capable of doing so themselves. That is when my father said, “The darwan takes great pride in what he does. There is no reason we should feel bad for him.”

I remembered the story of Prithviraj and Samyukta.

This gives me hope.

I was standing holding a railing in the bus. Evening. It was crowded. I could smell the old lady's hair oil. ugh. I wrinkled my nose and rummaged in the cavernous depths of my bag to find my wallet and buy a ticket.
Tired and wanting to get home I proceeded to stare out of the window. A few minutes later, someone taps on my shoulder. I turn around to see a man pointing at an empty seat. I nod and sit down. I sit still, bag clutched to my chest. Looking straight ahead.
Why did he do that? *my cynical mind*
Refusing to belive that strangers can be nice too.

I got off at my stop, feeling stupid for not thanking him.

Out the window. And onto someone’s head!

She must’ve been 30. Wearing a shimmery red saree. She sat at the window seat munching peanuts. The un-shelled kind.
I bought my ticket and sat beside her. The munching continued. Even in my sleep deprived state I noticed something I didn’t like. As she proceeded to eat her way through her packet of peanuts, she shelled each one, carefully, meticulously. Then, the shells flew out of the little gap in the window. I was disturbed. I wanted to tell her to stop. But what language would she understand? Will she laugh at me? Shout?

Before I could muster enough courage to tell a stranger to not to litter, she had finished her snack! AND to my utmost horror, she proceeded to throw the packet too. All I did was open and close my mouth like a goldfish…Ugh.

Next time, whether I know Kannada or not, I’ll protest. ‘Cause right now, I don’t like myself much :(