Train of thought

I think the lulling motion of a train helps your thoughts to wander. Then you reach your destination and immerse yourself in life. But those thoughts stay on the train, imperceptibly taking up a corner of your mind, forming little trains of their own that take you places when you let your guard down.

Taking the train to work everyday has been such a revelation. Not only do I get to hear different accents fight it out over who has a larger behind and is taking up a disproportionate amount of space, I also get to window shop as trinkets, cosmetics, magazines, snacks and clothes are peddled to women who would otherwise never, on a weekday, have time to stop and stare, let alone buy. And I get to people-watch. Which is incredible entertainment for the (amazingly low) price of a train ticket.

Witnessed this morning was an animated conversation between school boys. They rushed onto my coach, four teenagers, and sprawled on the seats in the largely empty coach. I had no idea what they were saying, but they laughed a lot. Their language was unknown to me. All I could do was smile to myself and make wild guesses about what they were discussing (girls? teachers? cricket?). They spoke with their hands, and I realised I had, in my hurry, boarded the coach for the "handicapped and cancer patients". That explained the empty coach.

Their silence was loud, adding weight to their presence, meaning to every gesture, a word in every shake of the head and a joke in every raising of eyebrows. We travelled along in companionable silence, in worlds of our own, briefly overlapping when they surged past me, boisterous young boys, eager to get off the train before it came to a complete halt.

The opposite of silence is found in the other coaches, where the cacophony of "why you pushing, men" and "oof" and "ouch" and "arre jaldi utro na" usually drowns out the gentler side of most of my co-passengers. I watched in surprise as an entire crowded morning local once allowed a raggedy woman to remain asleep, stretched out on a three-person seat, cozy under a too-small, torn sheet, all the way till Churchgate. Perhaps they saw her exhaustion and homelessness etched on the blackened soles of her feet and in the three worn plastic bags that held her belongings.

Or perhaps it was the simplest way to give a little to a fellow being who would be forgotten as soon as everyone rushed off the train to rejoin their worlds.

Except that the little gesture, which meant so much in a crowded train where there's little room to stretch, will stay in our minds, making a home, snoozing under a torn sheet as we live our wakeful lives.

The March of Time

1993. 2004. 2007. 2011.

Leaving home this morning to return to Mumbai, I went through the usual ritual of touching feet, hugging, and bowing before photos of the dead.

And it struck me, that what began in 1993 as the lightning-quick, unexpected loss of a grandparent, ended last Sunday, with the gradual decline and demise of my grandmother. Fewer feet to touch, more prayers to send into the unknown. One by one, all four of my grandparents have moved to make their homes in photographs. Ever-smiling, healthy and eternal.

I can make my peace with that.

Lasting Impression

In today's crowded local train on my way home during rush hour I saw a sight that will endure. Somewhere along the way, a girl got on with her mother and little brother. She must have been 7 or 8. The brother, 3. She'd been dressed up nicely, in an altered salwar kameez and a slip of a purple, matching dupatta which she adjusted occasionally. Her nose had been pierced awkwardly, and the grey wire was knotted in an ugly fashion. Her hair was short and held back by an unpretty hairband.

No room to sit. The mother remained standing in the aisle while the girl herded the little boy between two facing rows of seats and took up position near the window, right in front of me.

Heavily barred, it was safe for the little boy. Still, she told him sternly to keep his hands on the sill. He complied. She stood behind him, protective, alert, skinny arms holding on to the window bars on either side of her charge. I smiled to see this elder sister attitude, something that comes easy to me, or did, when my brother wasn't a 6-foot tall adult. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, saw my smile, and shuffled closer to her brother.

He mumbled something to her. She called out to her mother, was handed the water bottle, and opened it carefully, the fat cap unwieldy in her small, bony hands. She helped him drink, tilting his head back enough so he wouldn't spill it on himself. Done, the bottle was passed back to the mother.

Our train passed another train. She pointed it out to him and they started counting carriages. When he raised his hand to point and count, she firmly pushed his hand back down and brought her elbows closer to his shoulders, just in case he tried again.

He was content, counting carriages, watching the tracks from below his long eyelashes as he stood between his Didi's knees, shielded by her thin body.

When I got up to leave, she gently nudged him to the seat, and rushed to take up position so he could sit on her meagre lap.

On a day when people make huge, expensive gestures of love, this struck me as a wordless love, taken for granted by both parties - a little indestructible world oblivious to the world-weary crowd around it.

Smileys

I've always loved them - people who've known me since college remember the bright yellow Smiley keychain on my bag. A friend bought me a coffee mug from Canada with a smiley face on it. Another bought me a comb with smileys running along the edge. As the Internet caught on and emoticons ruled the day, the smiley was my friend - an easy way to say hello and to express joy or laughter. A bright yellow smiley makes my day. For the past 14 years, I have drunk my morning Bournvita and my weekend coffee out of that mug, taking it with me as moved countries and homes.

Yesterday, I walked into a new office on my first day. After 16 months of freelancing, I walked in, past colleagues- and friends-to-be, full of expectation, excitement and anticipation. Shown to my room, I was greeted with an absolutely bare office, and a man cleaning out the drawers before I took my seat. Empty tag boards with the unused pins clustered in a corner met my eye. And then, a flash of yellow - a smiley rubber ball at the corner of my desk.

I see it as an omen :)

कुछ हिस्से हैं मेरे जो अब भी दिल्ली में रहते हैं। दुल्हन बन जब मैंने दिल्ली छोड़ा तो कोशिश यही थी की किताबों और कपड़ों के साथ साथ अपने आप को भी डब्बे में बंद कर बम्बई में नई तरह बसा दूं। और सोचा की इसमें मैं सफल भी हुई। पर आज भी मुझे दिल्ली में मैं दिख जाती हूँ।
आसमान से विमान जब उतरने को हो तो जे.एन.यू की हरियाली में छुपी होती हूँ मैं। इंडिया गेट के आइस-क्रीम के ठेलों की तरफ ताकती लालची आँखें मेरी हैं। और चिल्ड्रेन्स पार्क के झूमते झूलों में मेरी भी उड़ान है। हौज़ खास की गलियों में धूल के किनारे मेरे पैरों के निशान हैं। एक स्कूल है, जिसके कमरों में मेरा बचपना कैद भी है, सुरक्षित भी। एक कॉलेज है जिसके बगीचों में मेरे घर से आई पूरियों कि खुशबू है। सर्दी कि सुबहों में मुंह से निकलते धुंध में मेरी नींद अलसा रही है। और गर्मी के दिनों में कूलर के शोर में मेरे कई लम्बे दोपहर झक मार रहे हैं।
सड़कों पे रेंगती हुई मैं चल रही हूँ, और सारे रास्ते मेरे ही तो घर को जाते हैं। जहाँ पहुँच कर मुझे यही लगता है कि इस रिश्ते में दूरी असंभव है।
और अब दूर से दिल्ली को चाहने में अलग मज़ा है। तस्वीर कि तरह दिल्ली मेरी आँखों में आराम से रहतो है। उसे जगा कर कभी कभी मैं मुस्कुरा लेती हूँ।

The Next Table

She watched him from the shadow in which she was seated. Sitting at the next table, his laugh had caused her to jerk her head up from her menu. Still the dangerously handsome man who had broken her heart and trust when he was still but a boy, and she a young girl. Across from him, his pretty bride smiled and listened attentively, coyly feeding him forkfuls of chowmein, oblivious as the girl from his past looked on.

Today, successful (and single), she had moved on. But why was it pins still pierced her when she remembered watching his retreating back through her tears?

She paid for her uneaten meal and left on her high heels. Walking a little straighter than usual. Leaving her past behind. And the man, who had been unable to meet her gaze, exhaled imperceptibly and smiled a little wider, opening his mouth for another taste of chicken.

Pappu Paas Ho Gaya

(I'm sorry this is a long post but I've waited 12 years for this moment so you have to give me 10 minutes of your time!)

Once upon a time, long long ago, in a land far-ish away, I turned 18. I was living away from my parents for college and didn't have access to a car, so the buses remained my lifelines. But eventually it dawned on the family that I needed to learn to drive. I was almost 20. And the driving lessons began. At Nanda Motor Training College, Hauz Khas, New Delhi.

I learnt so much more than just the gears and steering control. I learnt that civilians call cops "mamaji". I learnt that honking was as essential as your clutch/accelerator coordination, that aggression was the name of the game. In all this, somewhere, I didn't quite get a grip on the driving part of it. Oh, I got a license of course. That was easy. I was so excited that I'd be getting one that I went and got a brand new photograph clicked. Where I beamed a little too much. But I thought I looked great, and all grown up. And couldn't wait to hand it to the license people to stick it on my brand new license.

We reached the license office at Sheikh Sarai. It was a hot June day and we hung around waiting for our tests, growing tanned and sweaty. Eventually they called me in and made me sit on a stool and I thought it was a break so I collapsed onto it only to realise that the computer facing me had a built-in camera and it took the worst photo of me. Ever. The license was valid till 2018. And I buried it in my wallet, hoping I'd never have to show it to anyone.

Soon my parents moved back to India, there was a car in the family, and I tried my hand at driving it. Oh, it was ugly. Especially when I tried reverse gear. I would screw up my face, and think, do I turn the wheel this way or that if I want to go that way? Should I scrape closer to that two-wheeler or to the big car? Should I run over the lady on my left or the man on my right? Once, as I was looking in the rearview mirror, pondering these mysteries of life, I spotted my mother cowering in the backseat, flinching at each jerk, gritting her teeth for certain death.

Then there was the famous time she and I argued over my bad driving and she got off the car and stomped off. My father and brother smirked and told me to keep trying. (We're a very supportive family.) I'd have chased her, but the engine stalled. A cacophony of horns erupted behind me and I turned the red of the L that should have been on my rear screen.

So, I learnt to be content to be driven. The years rolled by. Friends who drove were my best friends and escorts back from late evening events. I evolved a finely nuanced strategy of dealing with Delhi auto drivers, alternating between aggression and more aggression. Bus drivers and conductors on regular routes were my friends and blocked seats for me.

I had a dream. I would own an auto. I would paint it pink. Autos don't have reverse gear. You just pull it physically. I would drive it to work and back. And if money was tight, I'd charge people to drop them wherever they were going. (This never happened. None of this. It remained a dream.)

Then, I moved to Mumbai. Where the public transport is simpler than your own car. And my inability to drive got covered up by "it's so much easier to take an auto or the train". But my first monsoon in Mumbai, I was home alone with a delirious husband, no ice in the freezer, no doctor within reach and knee deep water outside. I watched as our car parked in the lane sank to the tyres. And ran down, looking frantically for a driver who would shift it. I found one and he moved the car for me.

But I couldn't believe myself. I was dependent on others for something that belonged to us. I have to learn to drive, I decided. But it wasn't so easy. Still, I kept it up. The two years in Dubai didn't help because I just didn't get around to taking driving lessons for a UAE license (which is notoriously hard to get at the first go).

But then we moved back and I signed up for driving lessons again. The SX4 is a wide car and roads here are narrow. Anando thoughtfully suggested getting me a smaller car but I stubbornly decided I would drive what he drove. And I've kept at it. First, little zips to the nearby restaurant for late dinners. Then early morning drives to the gym and back. But I knew I had to do the most important thing. Drive alone.

It was 6 am and Anando was out of town. I decided to drive alone to the gym. The building guards are used to seeing us leave with him at the wheel. I thought they looked at me suspiciously when I drove out on my own. 50 metres out and it began to pour. Oh no. I'd never driven in rain. Turn back, I told myself. But then the guards will laugh at me, I thought. So I drove on, deciding that I'd circle the neighborhood lanes for a respectable amount of time and then go home so they'd think I actually went to the gym. But then I hit the road, I worked the wipers, "gal mitthi mitthi bol" came on the radio, and I decided to go for it.

There's been no looking back. I've begun driving short distances alone, and in traffic. And today, oh, today was my Everest. I drove alone all the way to Town and drove all the way back. That's 42 kilometres in weekday traffic. When I got off the car and "beeped" it to lock, I almost wanted to take a bow. But it was 3 pm in my building complex and my audience was a bored guard listening to a cracked rendition of "pee loon" on his cellphone radio. So I came home and wrote this post instead.

And oh, in case you don't get the title of this post, watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T85trgeuq-M.

A Bad Example

She's my age. A distant cousin I met just once. Known to be a pretty and smart girl.

When I was in college, worrying over tutorials and classes, entirely focused on studies like the 'good girl' I was, we heard news that she'd run away from home with a boy. The horror of it all. My parents spoke of it disapprovingly, worrying for her parents. Apparently she got married, and then came home to ask for her parents' blessings. We just heard about it in whispers, because she was A Bad Example. To me it seemed she'd done something unthinkable - defied her parents.

I often wondered about her. How their life was. If she ever regretted her actions. If his family accepted her. If they were happy.

She seemed to be. I occasionally saw chirpy messages from her on a cousin's Facebook wall. I heard that her parents eventually came around to the marriage. Especially after she'd had a son.

Her son is 12 now. And this morning I heard she lost her husband to cerebral malaria.

I don't know how her life played out. Or what her future holds. Neither did they. But sitting so far away, I'm glad she went for what she loved. Made a life happen with a man she loved. I hope that she has no regrets.

Agenda for the Day

Just two and a half centimetres of paper, gripped between my thumb and forefinger.

It's day 292 of 2010, and the bunched pages of my agenda book tell of scrawled to-dos, deadlines met, missed or extended, people I met, people I called, places I went, meetings I attended, invoices I sent, cheques I received, drycleaning dropped off, laundry delivered, tickets booked, plays attended, movies watched. They record birthdays and anniversaries, phone numbers taken down while talking, and feature the inevitable doodles - smileys, signatures, faces, flowers, patterns. I can tell what pen I was using, when the ink ran out, when I refilled. I see entries and remember entering a doctor's appointment with dread, scratching out a completed task with pleasure.

The blank pages tell of days when I was away from my desk, having fun. Thankfully, there are several of those as well. Occasional entries already made for the days to come hint at what is yet to be. Of things I am looking forward to and commitments I must keep.

It is most of 2010. It is a chronicle of my life this year. In point format, though, it leaves out many details, friends and foes, tears and triumphs. But I can fill in those blanks.

19th October 2010. My pen hovers, then writes firmly on Today, waiting to fill up this page before I start on tomorrow.

Incensed mornings

Spirals waft in my wake, weakening into wisps as I turn away or walk very fast.

The fragrance remains, locked in spaces I choose to enclose. But soon, it escapes into ether, becoming nothing but a faint recollection of a fragrance that once was, clinging only to the folds of clothes unused for long, papers untouched, books unread.

Strong, the smell-strands of lemon grass tickle my nostrils, refreshing the stale air in a room locked for the night. Lavender speaks of flowers from far, reduced to a few moments of magic, meant to soothe and calm, Sandalwood is a prayer, even in the hands of an atheist.

The scented air of freshly-bathed mornings, a scramble to get to work, the last moments of peace before the emails begin.

The stick burns down. It's soul of smoke spins up and away. And the remains of the morning lie on the floor, a pattern of ashes to be swept away.

Till tomorrow.