... And God said, "Yes."

I always believed that waxing was the worst thing that could happen to a woman. Girl, if you start early (sucks to hormones!). It's messy, HOT (ooh, so hot, in the most unpleasant way imaginable) and painful. I'm never in the best of moods, or the most amicable disposition in such situations. Mostly... I curse my womanhood and wonder why in goddamn hell, did the Soviet spies not torture Bond like this in one of the movies.

My beautician is a 55 year old Maharashtrian lady. Let's call her Chanda. She's a rather chatty species of womankind, always sharing intimate details of her life, it's complexities (mostly tragic) and her daily plans. I suppose it is rude, but I can't contribute much to the conversation beyond an odd monosyllable (if that). Not when my hair follicles are being ripped out of their sockets.

But that in no way inhibited her from making any kind of conversation with a red-faced teeny-dult (teenager and adult, keep up!), who's too busy praying to the heavens for deliverance. When I'm not writhing with agony over my waxed-out, sizzled skin, I am actually listening to her. The little I do get to hear, since our interactions are restricted to her monthly visits.

Chanda is must be one of the most unfortunate women I know. Not exactly an epitome of beauty and good health (her massive dark, stooping frame reminding me of an over-sized bull), she was hurriedly married off to the first man who came her way. He was a philanderer and made her life miserable. And one fine day, died of AIDS ("Because he was shagging a bar girl," she once nonchalantly told mom).

Her greedy sisters descended upon what was left of her ancestral property. There was no retirement written in her destiny. No easy day. She's been working as a door-to-door beautician for more than 30 years now. But life's pressures remain largely unrelenting. She still lives a life of near-penury. Her young son (5th grader at the time of writing this blog post) doesn't study. There is no family, no support system around to call her own. It must be a very lonely existence.

I feel sorry for her. I really do, when I'm not cursing under my breath after my skin reddens. I don't think she feels any kind of self-pity, though. Perhaps she doesn't have the time. She is as generous as she is poor (gullible too, despite the austere, daunting front and appearance). And that is exactly why people take advantage of her.

That is the story of Chanda's life. And how she loses it, piece by piece. Every damn day. She grows sicker, a diabetic with a bad back. Her son lives each day, fearful of the moment when he will lose her forever. And it makes me sad.

People... are born with a destiny. We know about Shakespeare's quote (and it is quoted ever so often) about some people being born for greatness, others achieving it and so on. But what about the ones who don't achieve it? What about the ones who remain backstage? Thankless stage-hands? Whatever becomes of them?

It is very difficult to understand God's business of allocating greatness and fortune to some people. Unlike the government doling out their share of privileges, we can't question God for the same. Or file a law suit against him for giving us a raw deal (though that would be kind of interesting...).

Strange thing about life... it drags on. And it's up to you to make it better. Because God won't. Maybe there isn't one. But I know one thing for sure. That if you turn to God and you ask him, "Lord, can this get any worse?", be assured that he will turn around and say, "Yes."

It is something we can either fear or be grateful for. That it could get worse and it hasn't so far. I learnt this bit from a lady I'd met in London. Her name was Rani. She had been as unfortunate as Chanda when it came to wealth and spouses (in Rani's case, there were two). Add to the mixture domestic violence, and the traumatic loss of her older son. She lives with her younger one in a London suburb somewhere... (she's moved places and we haven't been in touch).

She was a chatterbox too. I could run out of breath in the long walk from her house to my uncle's (whom I was staying with), but she never did. No, Rani could go on and on about her daily schedule and her little observations on the most insignificant things one wouldn't really care about.

I'd met her sometime in 2008, a year after my life had come apart (details are not important) and found her to be a rather inspiring presence (once you got past all that jabbering... oh boy, could she talk!). One day, when I couldn't hold it in anymore, I asked her what kept her so optimistic all the time. 24/7. I mean, really... it seemed so perfect.

I eagerly awaited a brilliant Hollywood-ian response, some epic speech which I would write in my diary (or post on a blog some day). Instead, all I got was - "I think about all the unfortunate women in the third world countries and I realize that I am better off than them. People go through a lot worse."

It felt like such a damp squib. I really did need a pep talk, then. Something to remind me why my life didn't suck at that point in time. Quite sadly, I never got a satisfying enough one. Ever. So when I thought back to what she had said to me that day in the garden (all I remember is the green grass and her giving a generous charity donation to an African-American man in the corner), it seemed a much simpler explanation than anything one could offer.

I realized in that strange moment of epiphany that... you find your own happiness. That there'll always be someone a rung lower than you. And another, higher. Climbing up and down was up to us. It was all about perception. Your reaction to a particular situation.

It was good to have met these ladies. They were both so different in terms of background, community and appearance (Rani was a stunner in her time!). But oddly bound together by... similar circumstance? I choose not to call it misfortune.

They have a way of reminding you about gratitude. Why getting your spirit crushed isn't the end of the world. Because the bottomline is... spirits don't. Which is why they're indomitable. Which is why they heal. Slowly... somewhere under your skin. If you listen carefully... feel it. Really feel it.

As I realized some time later on, God does say "Yes" when you ask him about the 'worse' aspect of things. Maybe He enjoys it secretly.

Which is why you should ask not for a lighter cross but for a stronger back. Always. And he will say "yes" to that, too. :)

An Angel's Fate

Given below is the sequel to Broken Angel, a poem written by my friend Daniella. Was typed around 5 AM in the morning and I nearly slept on the keyboard after that.  I hope things are making sense.

   She lay battered on the floor. Only emotionally, but it was more unbearable than the physicality of pain. Nothing would make him come back. Him, time, happiness.... perhaps even sanity. They were long gone, cherished moments of something... beautiful... Never to return...

   She had loved him with all her heart. Yearned for him with her entire being. Every fibre of her existence. "You keep me alive," he'd whispered to her during an unforgettable moment of... was it ecstasy? Was that the best way to describe it? The only way? She had been there when he had lain on the floor, broken, just the way she was now. His life had been a burden to him. She had lifted it off his chest. And he grew light... lighter than a feather, than a breeze on a summer day... and then he slipped through her fingers till she grasped nothing but the air.

   He had taken everything she could have given him and walked away. That's it. He had never turned back, never bothered to ask if she was alive... or just struggling to be... He just left.

   She picked herself off the ground and staggered to the mirror. Her kohl-lined eyes were smudged at the corners. She looked a mess. And that's because I consider myself one. Maybe it was best if she... died. There was nothing else to live for. No family, no friends... a job? Well...

   She walked into her bedroom. Their picture was still on the bed. He'd moved out long ago but she never had the heart to give it away. She looked into his eyes, the ones that smiled at her through the frame. It seemed a smug one to her. As if he was jeering at her. Telling her that he could live without her, move on without looking back. The dormant rage inside her chest coiled tightly around her ribs. She clutched at the picture frame tightly.

   How dare he... She threw it hard, as hard as she could throw it, across the room. The frame shattered from the devastating impact, as hard as her heart had been. She stepped on the picture again and again. Then tore it apart. Two halves, then four, then eight...till it couldn't be torn any further.

   "I don't need you!" she hollered at the mutilated remains of a treasured memory. "I was living without you! And I was happy!" She was happy before him. She could be happy afer him. Who was he to determine the way her feelings flowed? Since when had he been given the power? She realized with an optimistic surge of energy that she hated him. She was delighted and began to feed off this stimulus.

   "I hate you...." she hissed at the picture. "I hate you!" She spat at it, and then threw it away. She went back to the bathroom mirror. She dabbed a cotton carefully around her eyes. She applied the kohl again. It looked much better. Her untamed, unruly mass of black curly hair found its way into a prim and proper ponytail. She still looked like she was ready to grab that pathetic bastard by the tie she'd gifted him and hang him with it. Or do worse... there was a lot one could do with little.

   She laughed at the thought. The reflection laughed too. It looked good... it felt amazing. She laughed some more, even though she didn't feel up to it. But then she found it came quite naturally. Fool... she chided herself. Crying over a guy... In her heart of hearts, she was bitter. Wounded and bleeding too. She was so aware of it. The laughter was such a facade... But that did not mean she could not face life... No, she could. Of course, she could! No one could stop her. No. one.

   She slipped out of her faded kurti into another one. It was old too, but in comparatively better condition. She wore a pair of dark jeans instead of her usual chudidaar under it. It looked much better. She would go roam the streets. It was decided. It wasn't particularly late, and the streets were rather safe too. Hell, no! She'd take a bus and get off somewhere. An unknown destination. Explore it like it was her home.

   You're crazy! the voice inside said. Just moments ago, you were... She blanked the thought out. Thinking about it won't help... She looked forward to the ride anyway. She ended up boarding one of those deluxe buses with a television. She felt like a queen.

   The TV showed a scene from the movie, Life in a Metro. Irrfan Khan and Konkana Sen Sharma sat by the sea shore. He was trying to talk some sense into her about letting go. "You know," he told her, "I had a friend who had bought a car recently. But he said he'd take it out for a spin only and only if all the city's street lights were green."

   "That's silly!" Konkana laughed, "you're bound to find a red light some place or the other!" Irrfan had smiled. "That's the exact same thing with life." The girl leaned deeper into her seat. She shared the duo's amusement. There was a great deal of truth in his words. She craned her neck out of the window and saw The Gateway of India in the distance. The bus did not seem to be stopping there. But she would be.

   She got off at a traffic signal and walked the rest of the way there. It rained. She did not hide from it. It rained harder. She laughed. She played with the kids who danced in the puddles there. She scored her very first goal in their gully football. She ate road-side junk till she was close to bursting. She walked barefeet in the mud. On the beach. She was doing what she had forgotten to do in a while.... She lived.

   She walked around the majestic monument and leaned against its wall. She looked up at the sky. It was darkish purple. It's rain offering and the wind caressed her like a blessing. Like a sign from above. It was the most beautiful feeling she had ever felt. The most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Above all, it was the most beautiful moment in her life... yet.

Broken Angel

Hi folks. I did not write this poem. It's something my friend Daniella had uploaded on Facebook. It troubled me no end, when I read this around 3 AM, the first day of my vacation. And I just HAD TO write a sequel to this. It shall be uploaded shortly. Until then... please read and comment.


 Crooked and torn it falls upon the ground
A stealy and very unsuspected sound
At first i raised my head to check for strangers there
But silence and loneliness was all that i found.

The four lettered word
A dreaded fortune torn
 i felt it all the time
Could it melt your heart of stone???

The silence around me ...Pierced my silent heart
The creaking bench had moss that showed decay within
How could i loose it? Loose it without bargain
How’d u break the chains.. Who'd let u in??

As leather and thread
Made boots to cover your rugged feet
You held your head high
Must say your now elite
Crushing a soul aint bad
But it aint that good I’d say..
But all id ask u now..
Is why'd  u promise you’d stay??

The tie I’d beg u to wear
Is now your sign of pride
I cry each moment cause that tie
Has now purchased u a bride

Cigarettes and alcohol
An integral part of ur life
Today i regret separating u
I’ve helped her become ur wife

Today alone i sit upon this garden bench
I can’t go on no more
This life is but a wrench

All that’s happened now...
Every little bit of my life
Has made me realise..
Yes I’ve made mistakes
You’ve given me only strife

A tear roles down my cheek..
I feel alone ...fore lone...
Damn it ...uve left me
Totally torn….

Broken thats what i am
A broken angel for u...
Useless and totally ruined..
But this is the truth..

This angel is broken and wounded..
Hurt and nearly dead ...
A broken angel was in love with u.. Would u care to say a goodbye?
Cause she has now reached her death bed...

Clean slate.

   I struggled to update since the very first post. The question was always about what to post, what would NOT bore to anyone who was sweet enough to read my blog. When I did find a topic, it just never came down well on paper... writing my own thoughts suddenly seemed to be the most excruciating exercise. More than exercise itself (an activity I conveniently never find the time to do!)!

   Mrs. Canteenwala helped not just me, but my entire batch in this regard. She's a rather nice looking lady. Presumably mid 60s. Has short curly hair (salt 'n' pepper) and dresses with the subdued class of a South Mumbaikar (always in a sari). The round glasses perched on her nose add so much character to her face. Frankly, I just can't imagine her without them.

    She teaches us Effective Communication Skills (and is an epitome of it herself, if I may say so). 'You are what you eat' is a very oft heard adage. 'You are what you teach'  is something you very rarely come across. And by this I mean a teacher who really knows her subject.

   Fortunately, where I come to learn, everyone knows their job well (it's more than just a job for them). Mrs. Canteenwala is no exception. I remember feeling a sense of embarrassment in the very first Comm Skills class (or maybe even mild humiliation) when she gave us a large word from which we had to derive smaller words. Almost everyone around me had written more than 10 words. I was still doodling on my page, with only 3 or 4 words.

   My heart (among a great many things) seemed to almost leap up my throat when she approached my desk and saw what I had (or had not) written. Back then, I mistook her benevolent smile for pity. Now I know she was just being helpful. I had never done such an exercise before and told her so. Mrs. Canteenwala suggested that I pick an alphabet from the word and quickly scan it to form as many word combinations as I could. It may seem like simple advice but it wasn't something that had occurred to me. Well, it's true. The runaway of my mind occassionally requires two take-offs.

   It was the next exercise which she suggested that appealed to me the most. Ma'am would give us a word, and tell us to write our thoughts about it, or pen down a string of thoughts that were triggered by just one word. In the first class, I remember her giving us a simple word - Wood (in the first class). Most people had written a paragraph on the word. Me? I wrote about it in points (something like Wood - brown, tree, furniture)...  Do I feel stupid thinking about it now? Uh...heh heh...well...a little...

   But it was a practice I began to find most useful. Every class she would walk in, write a word (any random word) on the board and tell us to write something, anything on it while she took the attendance. Although she expected us to write our thoughts on the word, I would launch into narratives. Basically, I'd begin to pen down a story around the word rather than voice my thoughts on it.

   Mrs. Canteenwala did it to open up our minds, think out of the box and beyond all that we see or are so accustomed to in our daily lives. I remember feeling a little nervous when this exercise was initially introduced. Creative freedom in an academic class was a bit of a novelty for me. It became most liberating once it became a regular feature. It encouraged us to do what we hadn't done....in a long, long time. Think for ourselves. To be a little more original each day. To begin every lecture...with a clean slate. :)

Euphoria

   I don't know how many of you remember or have experienced a particularly defining moment during exam time. I'm not talking about late night cramming from borrowed notes (from an infuriatingly efficient classmate). Or stealing question papers (no, that wasn't me!). Or watching a movie a day before (nope, not me). Or landing up drunk in the hall on D-day (what, are you crazy??).

   No, I'm talking about the moment when you sit in an exam hall and your answer booklet is handed out to you. It comes just after the aforementioned classmate mouths, "I'm so screwed" to you and you resist the urge to abuse him/her in five different languages.

   I'm talking about the moment when the examiner faces the class after prowling around its circumference and booms, "You may begin writing!" It is that moment, I believe, which determines how your paper will go. That is the moment when you collect your thoughts. When your nib stains the paper.

   Write what? is the first panicked question that comes to my mind, never mind how well-prepared I may be. But for most of my papers it was a transient thought which either faded away or was forcibly pushed out due to lack of time.

   Unfortunately, the question made an exception during my mathematics paper in school. It was the 9th grade final semester exam. It lingered around my formulae muddled head with the annoying persistence of a housefly. Finally, it wasn't just my mind but my eyes that wandered...around the hall (not advisable...AT ALL!!). I don't remember what the paper was about or what I wrote, but these are a few of the sights I never really forgot :

• Saw the aforesaid classmate attack the paper like a ravenous animal, absolutely enthusiastic to share his/her knowledge with the unyielding correcter.

   [All the "brainees" of our class, in fact, occupied a row. They seemed to be connected by The Invisible Thread of the Geniuses. Why do I say so? It's because they all moved in enigmatic unison. They all collectively pushed their spectacles up their sweaty noses, scribbled with equally competitive ferocity and paused, seemingly at the same question.]

• The black crow which flapped its wings ominously at lesser mortals like me.
• Horrendous cacophony emanating from the radio of the neighbouring slum.
• A stray dog howling, almost as if on my behalf.

   These sights and sounds sufficiently distracted me, not for a long stretch, but between pockets of time whenever I was too exhausted to solve I did not know for a paper I did not want to submit. I wordlessly handed over my answer sheet, cringing when the teacher grimaced at the untidy cancellations I made on the first page itself.

  Needless to say, I was miserable throughout the vacations. Life never seemed greyer. Never ever. I was almost tempted to beg my subject teacher to show me my marks. Mom and I were at my grandmother's the night before the result. "I don't want to fail," I remember saying to her during bed-time. Also struggled to shed a tear in the dark.

   Because I knew crying would make me feel better. Mom gave my woes a patient hearing. But when it became a little too patient (read : unresponsive), I knew that she had fallen asleep. The tears never came and I did end up feeling worse. (Woot...)   I had cried on ridiculous occasions for ridiculous reasons earlier. But now, at a crucial moment, I felt betrayed by my own emotions.

   Dad called the next morning. My report card was with him. I reluctantly took the phone from Naani after she was done exchanging the usual pleasantries with him. "Yea, dad?" I said, hoping I sounded casual.

   "Your results are with me." *dramatic pause* (yes, dad does that)

   "Did I pass?" (My grip threatened to crush the receiver before I got a reply.)

   "Your marks in most subjects are good...except for maths."

   My heart sank. I had flunked. All the hard work for nothing.

   "How much?" I asked, pretty sure I sounded more like a hostage negotiator than a paranoid kid wanting to die.

   "It's not good," dad sighed. I could hear his tongue click.

   "Tell me..."

   "Disappointing result..."

 

   "Dad, please..."

   "Well..."

   "Come on..."

   "55%!"

   "What!"

   I had passed. It was unbelievable. It was extraordinary. It was a miracle. "You're on to the 10th grade. You've been promoted." I was happy...I was so happy. But the joy did not manifest into a visibly evident jubilation. I had wordlessly handed over the phone to mom. The chromium latch locked in place when I shut myself in the bathroom. I did what I hadn't done the whole vacation.

   I cried. Cried till I sank down on the floor. Till my shoulders sagged. Till my head rested on my knees. Till nothing else in the world mattered. When I lifted my head after the convulsions ended, I saw myself in the mirror. I was a mess. I broke down again, though the sobbing was less intense than the last time.

   But it was laughter now, that erupted from deep within my throat. It was not anguish but euphoria that seized me this time. I would not be laughing this hard again, until after I was done with my 10th boards. But at that moment, I was grateful for having taken a step ahead in life. Even if there was another daunting year of maths to face. Because I felt I had triumphed, even if it was temporary.

   Even though the tears came faster now, I had never felt better.