Life's escapades..

I am infamous among my close-knit circle of friends for running away from my troubles, which invariably causes lot of pain (ouch! both mental, psychological and at times heartbreak). I hate discussing issues at hand. I feel after seeing and experiencing series of never ending troubles, that time “would surely deal with it.”

But, my buddies feel that there is nothing called “time healing” therapy. It’s us and only “us”, who need to deal with the “situation”, before the situation turns out of control, kinda ugly.

And I, as always, “ulta dimaagwala” (as my friends call me mad), calmly look at them and say in a prophetic manner, “shouting and screaming would do no good”.

“Already the harm has been inflicted, the bruises are open, what use it would be.”

They’re, after all my friends, stubborn like me, won’t budge an inch from their stand.

After “fireworks” of arguments would end, I would head away to an unknown destination, most often on a bus. I have no privilege of learning the skill of cycling or riding a two-wheeler.

So, I am always at the mercy of public buses, which are always overcrowded, and always with little space for my huge self, takes me every time, where I never thought journey is destined to be.

This time, quite recently, I went to Bangalore’s Hebbal flyover, took a bus from Marathahalli and zoomed past the Outer Ring road.

"Ticket," asks the ticket-collector.

"Where is the bus going?," I ask.

Surprised at my declaration, the ticket collector in his broken hindi says, "Aap ko pata nahi to bus me kyon charte ho? (If you don't know your destination, why did you board the bus)"

To stop further embarrassment of stares and glances from co-passengers, I immediately ask the fare for the last destination of the bus.

"Hebbal, Rs 35," says the ticket collector.

The concrete facade, the struggling greenery and few dying lakes, make quite a view. I was lost in my thought, my own self, and tried to find answers to the troubles of life.

I am of course, no lord Buddha, having the guts to leave home and family in search for answers of “life”. I just make mini-escapades, I am a coward, as my friends say and I too agree silently.

In my escapades, I try to see the life outside the confines of my “secure space”. Life on roads has always intrigued me. I always want to enter the shanties, just protected by sheets of plastics, half naked children running around and mothers washing their woes and utensils over a bucket of water. In those times, I call myself, “luckiest child of god”.

Moreover, I find myself “lucky”, when I meet people like the “brave lady” at Hebbal. Such chance encounters, re-confirms that life is to live, not to run away from it.

“You are lucky to be educated and confident,” says the woman, whom I met near Hebbal flyover, five minutes after disembarking from the bus. She is any other ordinary woman, she is poor, never in newspapers, but I salute her from my heart for being brave, for being a winner in life.

A woman, who was thrown out of her home by her husband, after inflicting unimaginable violence, a woman who with cut marks and bruises on her face (courtesy her husband), decided to live her life.

“I wanted to live. After all, I have no right to kill myself. Only god can do that. So, to survive, I turned into sex work. I am a sex worker, don’t call me prostitute. Sex work too is a profession, like any other. I am no thug or thief,” she smiles, as I look directly into her eyes, trying to conceal my shock on her confident declaration.

“I am a street sex worker. This is my regular place, where I wait for my clients. A client is on his way. He’ll soon be here. What are you doing here? The evening has already descended,” she queries.

I wanted to tell her, I was trying to run away from life's trials and tribulations, but here I meet people, who have defeated all odds. One of them is you.

Instead, I smiled back and ran after the bus going back to Marathahalli, where I stay.

Rain of memories

When it rains, it surely evokes unexplainable emotions. Perhaps that is where the beauty of rain lies. I guess I realized it pretty early in life, as a five-year-old, while growing up in Arunachal Pradesh.

There when it pours, which often is the case, it pours really hard.

Last evening when it rained in Bangalore, accompanied by strong gusts of wind, after a hot sultry day, I could not stop myself. I quickly opened the door to my balcony and got soaked to the bone.

I felt a sense of relief. It was nothing short of divine empowerment. Again, hard to explain how those big droplets washed away days of weariness.

I didn’t dance like the neighbourhood kid, but quietly felt blessed, silently thanked the “unknown” forces. For, it rained when it mattered most.

But contrary to this sudden gush of emotion, there were times when I used to curse the rain, especially because of the cities where I stayed – all vulnerable to artificial flooding even after a few hours of mild downpour. That is when a curse would just slip out of my mouth.

“Oh! Don’t you realize the drains are clogged by poly bags strewn all over? Please rains, come some other time. Or else the water, few metres away from the verandah of my house will enter the sitting room,” I would cry, looking heavenwards.

Sometimes, rain (god) has been kind, but most often not, making our tough city life even tougher.

Notwithstanding the ugliness left behind, I also remember once I shrieked a curse to the sky for days of relentless rain in Arunachal Pradesh. However, flooding wasn’t my cause of worry since no rains can inundate the hills. It was the despondency that would descend upon every soul as the wet clothes refuse to dry in the unending companionship of rainfall. And most importantly mother wouldn’t let us go out to play.

After an incessant monologue of rain when the sun would peep from behind the hills illuminating the early morning sky, children used to be the happiest lot.

It’s true rain evokes several emotions, from innocent smiles to raising a disgusted eyebrow. Human emotions have many shades just like the colours of a rainbow left behind by a downpour.

Today, I am again looking upwards, not to shriek a curse to the sky but to search for traces of rain on the floating clouds of an early evening.

Now,Sania-Shoaib “Suhag Raat” coverage by media?

Forgive me, if I am trying to intrude into the bedroom of newly-wed Indian tennis star Sania Mirza and former Pakistani cricket captain Shoaib Malik, by using the “S” word. I have no such intentions.

But, trust me, Indian media would find it hard to resist the temptation.

Perhaps the so called “sabse tej” television channels have already started making preparations, by installing close circuit cameras into the prospective rooms, which are likely to bring the “love birds” closer.

You never know, for that exclusive footage to be screamed on your television sets, Indian media can cross any line of control (LOC). For, media there exists no LOC, neither any sort of self-censorship.

The Indian media has been “honestly” and super closely monitoring the so called cross-border love story, since the day Mirzas of Hyderabad made a public announcement of their daughter’s wedding to the cricketer.

Media first celebrated Sania-Shoaib alliance as a step forward to bring much needed peace between war-mongering nations, almost on the verge of a nuclear catastrophe.

As, if the wedlock is going to give birth to the baby called “Aman Ki Aasha”. Sorry, here there is no intention of pun on a huge media campaign started by two powerful media houses of India and neighbouring country Pakistan.

Anyway, after “Aman” it was the turn of Ayesha, the bomb from the closet of Shoaib, another Hyderabadi girl who claimed to have married the cricket star earlier.

But, the cricket star calls his ex-wife Apa (elder sister), for she is fat and ugly and have no oomph factor like Sania.

But, as the matter took several twists and turns, again here media played a keen role by acting as "messenger" between Ayesha’s family Siddiquis and Sania-Shoaib.

First the media takes the interview of Sania-Shoaib, then media goes to Siddiquis, the merry-go-round continues and so are the allegations and counter allegations, for almost a week.

Finally, some sort of sanity settled on Shoaib, he gave divorce to his “Apa” and, married Sania, within hours of his divorce to make her his second wife.

The media made a bee-line at Sania’s house in Jubilee Hills to cover the wedding day. Reported extensively on the red sari Sania wore on her d-day. So, are the diamonds and rubies bedecking Sania hogged the limelight.

The mouth-watering Hyderabadi fare enjoyed by 100 –odd guests at Taj Krishan, also made for hour-long episodes for TV channels. While giving minute details on the wedding, news anchor of a reputed English TV channel excused herself, by saying that there is no harm in following Sania and Shoaib closely, as by now the sports stars are accustomed to the intrusion of media in their personal lives.

Yes, very true, Madam Anchor!

Now, TV reporters are sweating themselves out under the 45 degree Celsius mercurial fire of sun in Hyderabad to cover the mehendi ceremony and reception party of Sania-Shoaib.

All the best reporters! Hope you survive the ordeal and hope the audience also survive the same old stale story.

To air views, or not to...the dilemma continues...

Of late, Pammy, my dear friend has been maintaining an uncanny silence. This is something unusual on her part. So, it’s kinda giving me headache of sort. For a person, who would not take seconds to verbally thrash governments, literally to the ground, for their infamous mis-governance, sports stars failing to bring laurels at international podiums, Bollywood relying on clichéd and hackyened ideas to churn out love stories after love stories, or for that matter, her boss’s “perversion” of digging his nose vigorously while giving a contemplating look in daily early hours office meetings.

As you meet an “often in a hurry” looking Pammy, and before you could manage to greet her, she is on her “marathon” of airing her views.

“Oh! God damn! When would Bangalore roads provide you space to move unhindered? Not in this lifetime. I had a good fight with the traffic constable at M.G. Road, I gave him my piece of mind. He’ll not dare harass anyone from now onwards,” Pammy would be interrupted, as I cleverly offer her a glass of water to bring some kind of semblance to my home, which for the time being has been slightly jolted by Pammy’s entry.

“Thanks dear! You know, I am tired with bull-shit all around us. Hope this ends,” says Pammy, handing back the glass to me.

But, of late, her visits are mostly quiet and she looks grave and sullen, as if under some great “moral” dilemma.

While I fry her favourite onion pakodas, she will watch quietly, smiling and munching one and two in between, and appreciating my culinary skills.

“What’s up? You seem to be upset? Very quiet, not in your chirpy best,” I asked her to know the reason behind almost “sealing” her mouth.

“Why? I am absolutely fine. Okay, you mean my silence? What to say, I am tired, tired of the state of affairs. In a way I am dumbstruck and in a way tired of people, who are always airing views, especially on idiot box. There seems to have come up a new breed of experts, who are ubiquitous on T.V. channels.”


“Let anything happen, be it a natural calamity or crash of the stock market, the expert tribe have expert comments on anything and everything. Every channel will have the same people. If at 9.00 pm news, the X expert is on one channel, he’ll be seen with all smiles at the rival channel’s studio within half an hour later. He’ll talk same, scream same and god knows what not.”

“If some are politicians without any portfolios or former cricketers-turned-commenters with a punjabi twang, others are great Indian journalists and few are page 3 people trying to make sense on why on earth inflation has crossed 17 percent mark in India?”

“I wonder their sense of intelligence and their sense of judgment and judgment of TV channels to bring these experts for every news show? I pity India and their experts. Seeing the state of the experts we could easily make out the state of the nation.”

I got Pammy’s point of view, she does not want to be in the rat race. For Pammy, is a common wo(man), who is rooted to the ground and knows the ground reality pretty well, and well, does not need to beat around the bush.

For a change would TV channels mind inviting commoners like Pammy to their shows.

Actually, her silence is killing me.

A Republican’s riposte

Pammy aka Prema Singh, my best buddy is busy making plans about how to spend her “hard-earned” holiday on Republic Day.

“Holidays come hardly for people working in corporate houses. Republic Day is one such rare occasion. And, I don’t want to miss the manna from heaven,” smiled Pammy while noting down things to be done on the D-day.

I was a bit annoyed with her almost “hysterical” behaviour on the prospect of enjoying a “holiday”. I couldn’t stop myself from asking her if Republic Day means anything more to her than just a holiday?

“You’re right! Republic Day is just another holiday for me. Where is the voice of the public, the aam janata in Indian Republic. Their voices are nothing less than chaos to be silenced by teargas and lathicharge,” said Pammy, unable to control her angry outburst to my question.

“In India, the world Republic has nothing to do with public, the people. In India, public has been obliterated from Republic”

“It’s just a holiday for many of us.”

“You are just another typical corporate executive, enjoying American dollar pie as salary,” I said, making up my mind to enter into a verbal duel before our regular patch up dramas.

“It’s no mean achievement to be a Republic for 60 long years with a democratic government at the helm of affairs. The Constitution of India is the longest and most exhaustive constitution of any Independent nation of the world today. We’re proud owners of words like sovereign, socialist, secular, democratic republic, as enshrined in our Preamble,” I tried to give her some “gyaan” on what does it mean to be a “Republican”.

Pammy laughed and winked.

“Yes, we are just owners of few heavily moralistic words, which have never been implemented.”

“India is corrupt. Here, scores of children die of hunger, families of brides pay dowry to marry off their daughters, artists bribe their way out to win awards at glitzy ceremonies. If this is a Republic, I am sorry to be called a ‘Republican.’”

Today, I too was determined not to be cowed down by Pammy’s usual verbosity, the thought crossed my mind quickly.

“So, why don’t you take up the reins of the country in your own hands and turn it into a heaven.”

“Yes, I wanted to. I wanted to end poverty, provide education to all children, equality to all women, homes to homeless…I wanted all good things in my country, but my countrymen failed me, and now, I am failing my country,” tears of agony burst from a dormant volcano even before Pammy could end her thoughts.

Along with Pammy, I too cried. Agreed that we both failed to make India a true Republic —one obeying too many rules, the other breaking all rules.

The layers within

While peeling off onions to add to my curry preparation for dinner, the imposing façade emerged from the unknown.

“Human beings are no different. They are just like onions,” there goes off my friend Prema Singh as she watches me putting all my efforts into chopping the bulbs into fine pieces.

“What?” I ask, unable to stop giggling at the strange comparison between humans and onions.

“Yes, it’s so hard to define them. Humans, like onions, wear layers of mask on their face. So hard to understand what goes behind a human mind? They are complicated.”

“But don’t you think the comparison is a bit strange and funny,” I interrupt wiping off the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“See! Like your onions, humans too never shy away from making you cry,” she smiles shrugging her shoulders.

She has logic! I couldn’t do much, but smile in agreement.

“Let me tell you something. There was an old man at my previous workplace. He used to act as if he was eccentric, wearing tattered clothes and depicting himself to be a follower of Gandhiji. What do call them… yeah, simple living, high thinking kinda. While talking about work ethics, he would always talk of Manmohan Singh, who never took a single day off from work during his first tenure as the Prime Minister of India, except during his illness.”

Prema goes on… “His talks were almost prophetic. But deep inside, the old, scheming man would leave no stone unturned to mar the image of his juniors in front of the bosses,forcing many a poor souls to leave their jobs. I never understood humans. Nor do I try to, but it’s just that sometimes onions remind me of the ugly and unpredictable side of human beings.”

“That old man was as pungent and rotten as onions. I used to feel like peeling him off completely with a sharp knife,” says Prema unable to control her anger for the man whose malicious acts must have hurt her too.

But, I could not muster the courage to ask what the “old, scheming man” did to Prema.

It has to be something nasty, otherwise Prema is hardly the kind who would display such anger.

Layers after layers, the onions bared themselves naked on the chopping board. The finely chopped bulbs almost looked vulnerable. The pungency caught my nostrils as I slowly dropped them into the hot boiling oil in a pan.

As the content in the oil pan slowly turned into golden brown, I think I understood what Prema was trying to say…

Deep and dark December, I’m not alone…

Welcome to Bangalore — India’s tech hub. Glassy corporate buildings facing five-star hotels with tuxedo-clad waiters, rock bands jamming in front of ecstatic crowds — this is India’s new city of (en)joy.

But, today I want you to visit the other side of the city — laidback and groggy. It happens on weekdays, especially during afternoons. As if after a heavy lunch, unable to carry its paunch further, Bangalore goes off for a siesta. On Brigade Road, I venture out stealthily, looking heavenwards, thanking him for a lazy afternoon with few mortals walking on the pavements.

The romantic sojourn begins with a visit to the Tibetan market for a bite of beef momos and a tumbler of lime squash — the big burp comes naturally. The next stop is at a paan shop for a banarasi and cigarettes.

After some time of meditation, comfortably numb and watching the vehicles zoom past, crossed-legged on the staircase of a mall, I see the world parched on two halves. No, I am not a junkie, but to get the kick, you need the right dose of food in your stomach and best possible ambience. Talking to yourself, the world seems “not that bad afterall”. A couple of Bollywood songs certainly come to your rescue. This December afternoon, I’m singing my heart out for Bangalore. I thank it, for giving me a roof to hide my giant structure and a piece of loaf to fill my stomach and ample time to sing and laze around.

Few minutes of window shopping, admiring everything and rejecting all (here purchasing power rules and I have none), I am again game for loafing and seat myself comfortably at Kohinoor. This place is a cosy corner. The daily routine at Kohinoor includes two-three cups of tea and a plate of chicken fry and some evesdropping — what are they talking about so animatedly. I listen quietly as they talk and at times flash a smile. Oh, it’s beautiful!

Suddenly my "dream" comes to an end on Brigade Road as the crowd swells, breaking the lull. The lazy afternoon of December starts echoing with laughter and roadside bargaining.

As I smell the air, I hear it echoing, run back to the hills. For, peace is elusive.