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.