Sometimes, some songs that you had heard so often before, come back to you - all new! You find new meaning and new melodies in the same old track. And then, times like these stay etched in your mind...forever!

Come back.. once

Last evening, when I went to the terrace of my granparents' house, some sights I had long forgotten, came back to me..

I saw a six-year-old girl who held her grandfather's hand and kept giving a broad smile every now and then..why? That evening, she had lost her first milk tooth to the tooth fairy..She wanted all the older kids who were playing there to ask her about her missing tooth. But of course, they were busy with their games. So she clung to Grandpa..

And then, there was the same little girl, standing on her toes, trying to peep from the terrace into the window to her grandfather's room. She kept staring at the bed in the room because it was empty..Grandpa wasn't resting on it like he always used to. The bed had been lying empty ever since Grandpa left two days back..never to come back again..and she hadn't even been able to meet him before he went away. She hadn't been able to put her head into his lap and hear a cute little bed time story from him.

In fact, it had been ages since Grandpa had told her a story. He was ill, and so ill that sometimes he refused to recognise her and once he even shouted at her. And she had always thought she was his little princess.

And even now as the girl, not little anymore, stared at the empty bed from the terrace, she wished Grandpa would come, just once...

Yesterday once more

"I may come home next week and I hope we all get to meet," I messaged a friend last night. It's been over a week that I am away from home and I miss my pack of mad friends immensely. Beep Beep..My phone..He had replied. "I am going to A'Nagar for an audit. I can make it back only the week after that."
So one member already dropped, and this even before the plan is made, which is just fair because I am planning to go in the middle of the week, a time when all sane people are busy working.

And here I am, suddenly missing all those days (though not for the first time) when life was just about doing nothing. When a bunch of us would just hang out at wierd places, doing nothing, yet doing everything!

I remember those evenings that we spent on the hill..why did we even go there..certainly not for an evening exercise, because we would climb down and promptly grab a bite at the nearby eatery.

I remember the stone quarry, the dried up lake, those overgrown bushes, Amol's aeroplane we all saw at 6.15, his face flushed with child-like excitement, Kartik's silly comments..I remember it all.

That was where I first learnt to ride a bike..and by bike I mean a motorbike, like those heavy ones, Amol's Pulsar, to be more precise..I can imagine what a site I must have looked..my miniscule frame on that humumgous vehicle!

And then we would all gather at someone's place and try to strum a few notes on the guitar or chorus a song together.

And how I could I forget, that solitary tree in my college where we all sat (need I say we bunked lectures to do that).

Where have all those days gone, why did they just fly away..

Death -- a number

“When you read about deaths in my country, they are only figures. For me, they are my friends, uncles, aunts...” I read this somehere recently. It's not new..we have all read it several times when stories of tragedies have been written.
Yet, each time I read this line, it churns my stomach for whatever reason. It just disturbs me somewhere.
Being a journalist, stories of death are not new to me. I was working with The Indian Express in Pune during the 7/11 Mumbai train blasts. Th Express carried a series of articles called '187 Mumbai Life Stories' that narrated the tales of the kin that the victims had left behind. They were tales of horror, grit, gumption, tragedy, tears, determination, hope and every other human emotion one could name.
I did one of the stories in the series -- not something that I would want to cherish for my life. Nonetheless, I had to do it and at the end of the day it was just a story for me.
The young widow whom I met, had lost her whole world. Even as I spoke to her, I felt as if I was rubbing salt on her wounds.
I don't know why I felt like writing about this. As a journalist, I will still have to deal with news copies that speak of deaths in figures. Unfortunately, I won't be able to change that.

The big fat Indian wedding (in a hurry)

Most Indian weddings are more often than not, just a tad short of what one can call opulent. At least hindu weddings are (I can't speak for other religions because I haven't attended any).
I was speaking to an accquaintance whose daughter got married recently. What she told me amused me greatly. She said the marraige happened within seven days of it being fixed. And mind you, it wasn't a registered marraige.
It was an elaborate ceremony complete with an army of guests in tow, varities of food, a reception and the works. Hard to believe, but the arrangements were made in less than a week's time, almost unfathomable considering that veneues for weddings are booked six months in advance (Especially, if they are typical Maharashtrian weddings like the case that I am referreing to was).
It was the poor bride who actually had to do all the running around since there was no manpower available at such a short notice. Apparently, she was the one who booked the hall, selected designs for the invites, decided on the menu et al. That would have been some task for the poor girl. I wonder how she managed to look so fresh in all the pcitures despite so much of hard work!
That reminds me of my own sister's wedding (And no prices for guessing that it was poor moi who had to do all the running around while the demure bride preened and preened). Well hats off to this bride and the wedding too..a classic example of jhat mangani, pat byah!

To trust or not to trust (Agony Aunts)

A new life is exciting, surely. A new city, new people, new environment. And with it comes in a whole lot of anxiety and apprehension. Last nite, was the first for me in the city called Mumbai. So it meant that beauty sleep kept evading me till quite late into the night. That is when I decided to tune into the countless FM radio stations (as against a single FM and the good ol' AIR in Pune).
The song on one of the stations soon gave way to a soothing male voice (it was a bit too soothing, almost like the poor guy had been threatened to be sued if he raised his voice even a pitch higher). The RJ who called himself some Love Guru or Love Doctor or some crap like that, was conversing with a caller. The caller was saying how his girlfriend wasn't talking to him for the past three months.
As I heard the conversation, I thought to myself...How could someone actually call up a Radio Jockey to discuss his love life. What is wrong with these people? It's one thing for the RJ to claim he is some Agony Uncle and another for people to actually believe it and seek his advice.
I find it difficult to understand such people who actually call in on these helplines from radio stations or write in to newspapers. It's so simple to understand that they are totally frivolous. I mean how can someone who I have never ever have even seen in my life, counsell me for my predicament.
I had a colleague once who used to run one of these Agony Aunts columns in a leading Mumbai daily. She had mentioned that people even wrote in saying that they are contemplating on committing suicide. It is quite possible that the person might actually just be doing it because he or she is pretty jobless at that point and just wants to have some fun.
But then chances are also that someone is so frustarted that they are actually resorting to such means.
Well...I will never be able to relate to the psyche of such people though I would love to meet some whackos like these.

A new life

Day one of a new life. Well not that bad...And the driving force obviously is the fact that I am going to be on my own in a city that I love so much. Trust me people that gives a kick. And of course, it helps if you are going to be doing some work you love so much. Moreover, what is really exciting is the fact that I am going to spend the next few months in a city I have always wanted to be in.
As of now, life seems to be fun and hopefully it remains the same throughout my stay here.

Coffee in Mussoorie

Last month, I finally took that long overdue break. And what a refreshing experience it was! Today almost fifteen days later when I think about that time what is really vivid in my mind is our stay in Mussoorie. It goes without saying that it’s a beautiful place that boasts of nature’s bounty to the fullest. But that is not what I am going to write about here.
What has stayed with me even after all these days is that evening I spent in our hotel in Mussoorie. Relaxing in a chair in the sit-out, a shawl wrapped around me, a hot cuppa coffee in my hand, listening to Yanni and staring at the beautiful Doon valley before me -- no deadlines, no bosses, no appointments…only an eternal silence encompassing me.
And that evening even the regular Nescafe that the hotel served tasted out of this world. It’s going to be a long time before I get to spend an evening as quite and peaceful as that one again.

To err is human

To err is human. I know a big cliché to start a post with. But that’s the truth of life. Making mistakes is such an inseperable part of life. Reasons could be several, ranging from lack of enough information to lack of enough attention. Besides, there are types of mistakes too. They may be professional, they may be personal.
And the feeling when you discover that you have made a mistake is out of this world. You so want to just go back to that little moment and rectify your error. But sorry boss..that’s not possible!
And then there are ten people telling you, “It’s ok to make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes. In fact that is how you learn,” the minute they discover you have goofed up. And even as they say all that, the only thing on their own minds is “Oh God, I hope I don’t make such a mistake.”
But then come to think of it, making mistakes is not that bad. Mistakes keep you grounded. When you are basking too much in the glory of a past success, they help you keep your feet firmly on the ground. And once you have committed a mistake, within no time you get over the fear. You are not that scared anymore because you have already been there and done that.
And ofcourse, mistakes teach you to be so much more careful and so much more responsible.
I better remember all this the next time I goof up!

Didi to the kiddies

Some years ago, I was associated with an NGO called Akanksha that works for children from the slums. I was almost like a teacher to the children there, albeit with a slight difference. My role was primarily that of a patient listener besides other things. “They don’t have anyone at home who can spare a little time for them to listen to the mundane things they want to share,” a collegue at Akanksha had told me. And that is when my association as a ‘Didi’ started with the brats.
Truly enough, I shared a beautiful relationship with each one of them by simply lending a ear. It could be anything they would want to tell me, right from what happened in school that day to the fact that their father was supposed to take them out that evening for a glass of sugarcane juice.
For me, there was no trouble in donning the role of a listener. All I had to do was remember my own school days of how I would love to share what happened in school with my mother and sister.
I was also amazed by how easily the kids took to me so much so that they would squabble with each other over who would hold my hand or who would sit next to me. The attention and the love I got from them is what I would cherish forever.
It was great when these six and seven-year-olds, especially girls would come up to me and say, “Didi, aap mere ghar aao, mai aapke liye chai banaoongi” (Didi, come to my place. I will make tea for you)
It’s been a long time that I left Akanksha. They must have all grown up now. Perhaps some must have been forced to drop out of school. Wherever they are, I wish they are doing something worthwhile with their lives.

Time to think…

Last nite, I was pondering over something to write about. I am a journalist, I shouldn’t face a dearth of ideas, I thought to myself. I could write about the several interesting people I meet in the course of my work or I could write about the funny experinces that I come across at work or….Oh no! What is wrong with me? I just realise that several of my posts have got something or the other to do with my work and that happens to defeat the whole purpose of the blog.
Anyways, now the realisation has dawned upon me. It’s time to think of life beyond work. Not bad afterall! There’s so much more that I wanted to write on, but never did all these days.

Regular updates

It's so easy to become complacent. Mind you, this complacency can creep in anywhere and everywhere. And that also includes updating blogs. Two months of staying away from my blog was not a good feeling. So, I hereby decide to make sure that I update the blog regularly (trying to make it convenient by using the word 'regularly' instead of 'daily'). And as a friend of mine has mentioned in her blog that it doesn't really matter what you pen down (or key in, to be more precise), what is important is that you do it! It's fine even if it is simply putting down the lyrics of a song you love!

Lessons from the liftman

“Third floor,” I told the liftman. I knew I would have loads of things to do the minute I enter office. “And the week’s just begun,” I sighed to myself.
Even as I was engrossed in my own thoughts, my mind wandered to the liftman who sat non-chalantly on a stool next to me. With the maddening heat and a group of seven people all squeezed in around him, the guy nonetheless sat all by himself, totally unperturbed.
How does he manage it boss, I thought to myself? All day long, he sits in that tiny space and hits buttons, occasionally asking people for their destinations. That’s about it. And then what about this feeling of claustrophobia? Doesn’t he ever have to deal with it?
Even as these thoughts crossed my mind, a jerk brought me back. I was on the third floor. As I entered office and sat on my desk, I felt like hugging every bit of work that lay on my table. I am in a profession that allows me to do what I love the most -- write! I am lucky enough to have a hobby turned into a profession. So what if there are times when the pressure is too much and what if there are a dozen deadlines to be met. On most days, I get a creative satisfaction that I would not want to trade with any amount of money. The liftman had just taught me to love my job all the more!

A mint for chocolate

The other day when I accompanied my mother to the departmental store for grocery, I heard a mother reprimand her kids, “You can choose any other chocolate but a Cadbury,” she kept saying.
Soon, the lady thrust a packet of a mint in each of her children’s hand. The little moppets accepted the gift, albeit, a tad sorrowfully.
Naturally! I mean if one is forced to have peppermints when one is longing for chocolates, this could be the only reaction.
It’s been four years since the worms were found in the chocolates but looks like discerning mothers still prefer to exercise that element of caution.

Evdhasa abhal

Some movies just touch a chord somewhere deep within. The Marathi movie Evadhasa Abhal (A small sky) is one of them.
A poignant tale, the movie portrays the trauma of an 11-year-old made to choose between the two people he loves the most in the world. Evdhasa is a beautiful comment on the quandary that the parents’ divorce puts a child into.
A must-watch, I’d say.

The little girl

I once saw a pair of eyes – listless, faraway eyes that stared into infinity. I had never before seen ones that were so cold. They belonged to a little girl who otherwise looked like any nine-year-old, except that she was not.
I saw her dance and her movements, although a tad awkward, seemed pretty ordinary. And then I tried speaking to her. She did answer me, but only as if she were rattling off a lesson learnt by rote. The stony eyes lit up slightly at the mention of a teacher, apparently a favourite. But then, it was perhaps not as much from love as from habit, which is how most of her acts were.
The teacher said it was almost like the girl sat in a glass room, all by herself. It was her world, where she couldn’t let others in even if she wished to. “This is characteristic of most autistics,” the teacher pointed out.
I asked her to identify colours, she did. I asked her to read, she did that too. But I asked her what colour the tree was, she stared at me blankly. She probably hadn’t ever been taught about it that way. And then she turned away from me and continued with her act of staring into nowhere. I thought I was an intruder into her perfectly guarded world.
I came home that day and tried writing the story. It took me a long time because there was so much that I wanted to say, but did not find the right words. Then in the end, I wrote the story. Not because I wanted the world to know about scores of people like the little girl, but because I wanted myself to count to my blessings.

Here’s the link for the story-
http://cities.expressindia.com/fullstory.php?newsid=221824

Identity crisis

On Wednesday, news came that a certain Monica Bedi, was granted bail from a prison in Hyderabad where she had been kept in connection with a passport forgery case.
Television channels flashed images of the woman visiting her native village in Haryana apparently after a long gap.
And then comes the piece de resistance. The people of the village showered petals on her, the media of course as usual struggled for a ‘share of the pie’ and a triumphant Bedi thanked God saying that her ‘experience’ had made her a strong person.
What was all this? Why was this Monica Bedi beaming so shamelessly and glowing like a demure bride almost as if she was visiting her husband’s home for the first time?
Who is this Monica Bedi? I thought she is the one who was extradited along with gangster Abu Salem in 2005, was his companion and was herself convicted in a fake passport case. I thought she is the one who was earlier declined bail after she told the court that she had lost her passport in Lisbon.
But I guess, I am completely wrong. Because why would someone want to give her a ‘hero's welcome’ if she is the same Monica Bedi. In fact, today a news channel also interviewed her asking her about her aspirations for the future to which she replied that in addition to returning to acting, she also wanted to get married. Truly, she has to be some other Monica Bedi. Otherwise this whole drama lacks explanation. This must be some other Monica Bedi who has nothing to do any of the above-mentioned cases. (Photo courtsey PTI)

Memories of the 'window'

When I was riding to work today, I smelt fresh varnish somewhere. And as scents always have this inexplicable ability to bring back memories, in no time I was filled with nostalgia.
The smell of fresh varnish always takes me back to the days I spent in my grandmother’s house in Mumbai as a child. The house next to the famous Siddhivinayak Mandir, was my favourite destination during school vacations. There was a garage close by and ever since I have always associated the smell of varnish to my countless vacations spent at granny’s place.
Since I had never seen the garage from inside, to me it always looked like a dark, mysterious place from granny’s window. The window also overlooked several other things. Among them was a tiny shanty where a woman called Indira stayed. It would be fun to see the cauldron of activities taking place around the hut with Indira’s family members always busy with some or the other chore.
Then there was a huge palm tree that swayed angrily with the breeze, an enormous open ground that served as a mini stadium and the convent that my mother went to. In fact, one of my favourite activities was to look at the school building trying to imagine my mother as a little schoolgirl, wearing a uniform and hanging around with a group of friends.
Today, neither the house nor the view from the window, are the same. The garage no longer exists. Temple authorities have eaten up most of the area in and around granny’s apartment. Indira’s hut was demolished years ago. The palm tree was probably felled and there is a high-rise building that blocks the view of the convent.
Nonetheless, even today whenever I look out of the window I can see all those sights, for they are so deeply etched in my memory. They can demolish the hut and uproot the tree, but no one can touch my memories.

Rashtrapati Pratibha Patil

It’s decided. Pratibha Patil will be addressed as RASHTRAPATI. Allaying the debate over what a woman president should be addressed as, Patil was on Wednesday addressed as Rashtrapati when she was sworn in. While women activists argued that the term is ‘gender-biased’ and ‘patriarchal’, experts said it is just a nomenclature for a constitutional post and had nothing to do with gender.
So be it. After all, what Patil does in the five years of her tenure hardly has much to do with being Madam President or simply President.

Give me a break

Saas Bahu dramas seem to be a passé now. What rules Indian television at the moment is a slew of talent hunt shows – most or in fact all of them based on music. So you have a Sa Re Ga Ma Pa (in Hindi, Marathi and may be all other regional languages too), Indian Idol, Fame Gurukul, Voice of India and so on.
Following the same theme is not new to Indian television. Like when it’s makeovers, they happen in each and every soap opera. When there are generation leaps they again happen in each and every serial. Hardly surprising actually, because most of them are products of the same factory, the one run by the Queen of Soaps, a certain Ms Kapoor.
One lazy Sunday afternoon when I happened to switch on the television (guess I should rephrase it a little, for it was Sunday afternoon alright, but a lazy one, may be not. For a journo, Sunday means work) and there I was, being bombarded with a whole lot of these talent hunt shows, mind you on each channel, one after the other. And the participants all looked the same. The females over made up, wearing garish clothes one would think twice before wearing to a pub, and the men all with hair boasting of shades of brown, burgundy, purple, red, in short anything but black.
And then there was the gang of judges, all going by varied names depending upon the creative or not so creative side of the producers. While some prefered calling them prinicipals, some called them gurus, others termed them mentors. Nonetheless, they were all the same. Arguing, shouting, blaming, and if you think all this for the performance, you are wrong. For they did it to each other.
And then one was left wondering – what are these platforms for – to showcase the talent of singers? If so, why on earth do these guys have to do all this – right from going in for that makeover to crying at the drop of a hat?
One is reminded of some of the old timers, shows that were yet to be given fancy names like reality shows or talent shows, ones that purely showcased talent, minus the looks, the sobs and the money.
Like the old Sa Re Ga Ma, minus the pa, which I have now started believing simply stands for plain pain, which the show is becoming day by day.
The old Sa Re Ga Ma hosted by Sonu Nigam had participants who were performers in their own right. Most were hardworking individuals, with an intense orientation in music, who did not care how their hair looked like as long as the swar was right. Several of them have today made a name for themselves, albeit in their own local circuits – Bela Shende, Hrushikesh Ranade, Prajakta Joshi-Ranade are all names to reckon with in Pune’s music circles. And there might be several like these in other regions too.
The Ranades also made a re-entry in the new Sa Re Ga Ma Pa, as a couple. With the makeover, the two looked funny, almost grotesque and disappeared from the show within a few weeks, without a trace.
Then there was Meri Awaaz Suno, one of the first shows of its kind, on good old DD. The show gave Bollywood, the diva - Sunidhi Chauhan, who won the show as a kid, in a frilly frock.
So here is just a tiny request to all these so-called promoters of talent. Please preserve the sanctity of the art. Stop commercialising itt by trying to turn people into sensations overnight. It is years of dedication, hard work and much more that goes into making stalwarts. You guys are simply belittling their efforts by these shows.

Little somethings

Holed up in a room that reverberates with the sounds of flowing gutters, potholed roads, traffic woes, political gimmicks and squabbles, grouses, malice and much more (like they say whatever is negative forms news), one often longs for a whiff of fresh air.
So on most days I struggle to spend time at the window that overlooks the scenic Sinhagad, quaint old houses and the blood red gulmoher. Standing at the window, my belief that small things in life matter, only so much gets strengthened.

Obsessions

Sometimes it is so important to have obsessions in life. And when I say obsession, mind you I am not referring to those mammoth ones that encompass one’s entire life. I am talking about little obsessions that make life exciting. They could be anything ranging from hunting for a rare song to pining for a day off from work to craving for a pastry. The problem with us is that we get so hooked up running behind the larger obsessions in life that these smaller ones just go unnoticed and largely neglected. While the larger obsessions occupy every second to the extent of making life uncomfortable, the smaller ones provide the oft-needed excitement and will to carry on despite the drudgery of routine.

Here I am :)

Finally, it’s time to say ‘I do’ (want to maintain a blog .. people, please don’t jump to conclusions) Is maintaining a blog the ‘in’ thing? Well, I don’t know. In or no, I think it certainly is the ‘done’ thing. Especially, if one happens to be a person who writes to earn a living. On any given day, all the writing is so purposive, so specific, that it needs to convey something. Then what happens to one’s own ideas – those that want to be free of any bias, any prejudice, any boundaries. They stay shut within, struggling to find a vent.
So here I am, raring to go. Penning down my thoughts on the mundane things in life that mean nothing and yet mean a lot. And for a change, there will be no deadlines, no editors and no purpose. Wish me luck people as I embark on the journey!