in a station of the metro

the apparition of these faces in the crowd;
petals on a wet, black bough.

-- ezra pound (1885-1972)

brave new world

lindsay the rabbit sat up and looked around, ears straight up, eyes wide open, taking in the green haze before him. there was no sound, just the whisper of soft, springy grass sighing softly in the new breeze blowing across the clean, green, world. behind him, the cool blue mountains had begun to raise their heads, rising softly until they nudged the white clouds high above. all around the sea of green was, well, the sea -- a shifting, shimmering mix of blue, cobalt and white.

'where did they all go, mr. sea?' asked lindsay the rabbit.

mr. sea coughed, the white foam tickling his green, barnacled beard. 'swallowed,' he replied, in a voice that gurgled and giggled. 'they annoyed me for centuries, throwing in things, ruining the skies, sweeping in plastic and killing my baby fish. so, i swallowed them, man and woman, buildings and automobiles, the white house and flaming red lamborghinis. and i ground them into fine, grainy silt so the little fish could run their gills through them and laugh, tickled, all in my blue belly.'

'what about me?' asked lindsay the rabbit. 'what do i do?' mr. sea thought for a while, shaking and heaving, pushing his head this way and that, little streams of water pouring out his ears. 'there's a room for you at the foot of the first blue hill,' he said. so, lindsay the rabbit decided to take a look. and there, at the foot of the first blue hill, rose the mound of a burrow. inside, with the cool green grass above him, he found a denon dvd-700 player, a marantz amplifier, and a pair of shiny, black mission speakers. there was also a mini-bar, a long, wooden, polished bookcase chock full of margaret atwood and iris murdoch, and a little window that looked up into the face of the first blue mountain.

and so, all alone, in a green and blue world of silence, lindsay the rabbit sat himself down and poured himself a nice, large shot of vodka. adding a dash of sprite and a wedge of lemon, he hopped across to the bookcase and picked out dylan thomas. lying quietly, serenely, on his cd player, was david bowie's 'space oddity'. switching it on, lindsay the rabbit took a long, cold sip, turned to ‘fern hill’, and began to read…."oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, time held me green and dying, though I sang in my chains like the sea...."

the sun was beginning to set. outside, the first blue mountain was beginning to turn grey. all around him, bowie's voice crooned, softly, eerily, the only human voice in the whole of the washed, spanking, brand new world. "planet earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do..."

lindsay the rabbit smiled to himself, quietly, in a vodka-induced haze. he lit himself a bright, white marlboro, his paws struggling to get a grip. then, eyes closed, smile fading, he thought to himself in the fading light, 'such a beautiful life....'

jasbir, baby pal

he used to have really thin, spindly legs. that's an early memory. that, and a horrid yellow bicycle that none of the guys in school would have been caught dead standing next to. the smile has remained pretty much the same, which, after 16 years, really does define consistency.

'maybe we should ask him to be a part of our group,' my best friend anselm said, one evening, 16 years ago. 'you think we should?' i asked. i was president of the 'group' after all, and so what if anselm and i were the only members? 'yes, we should. he has these cool blue, denim pouches and some keychain-cum-bottle-openers that he’s been giving away free,' said anselm, with business acumen that would evaporate soon after he met his wife-to-be a decade later. 'good reason,' i nodded.

so, we called him, spoke, invited him over to anselm's terrace and ran him through our battery of tests: 'climbing a pole from point A to point B', 'hanging on to said pole for over 2 minutes', 'jumping down from the water tank above on to the terrace floor'. i'm not quite sure he passed. but then, i'm not sure we had either, so we decided to tell him he had passed. he was in.

something must have been right about that morning, at 11 am, something in the sleeping stars, as the three of us looked out across Anselm's terrace, over the buildings in Malad, to the line of blue hills in the distance. we must have smiled at each other, but I don’t remember. What i do remember is a recurring feeling of absolute peace and comfort that i first felt in the presence of those young, slim schoolboys, all those years ago.

16 years is a long time to spend with anyone. i know few couples that manage it, and i suppose they still have access to sex as a resort when lines of communication turn weak. jas and i don't sleep together, although a number of people have wondered, over the years, whether we have. well, we haven't. he has always been too obsessed with women, and even though i haven't shared the same interest with such avidity, i find images of naked men revolting enough to know that i'm straight.

we're radically different, jas and i. he likes his music to play softly, liltingly, even if the singer is singing about getting a hernia. i like my music to grab me by the heart and shake it till i pant a little. his idea of reading is browsing through the classifieds for information on unmarried women who may be interested. my idea of reading is locking myself in, quitting my job and doing nothing else but study literature for a couple of years.

then again, we are pretty much alike, jas and i. he knows what i'm going to say before is say it. i know when he's saying something funny without actually putting it in words. so, like an elderly couple, we dawdle through pubs and restaurants, movies and picnics. i meet his new girlfriends, while he suffers through my many comments on life and language, but we manage to cling to each other like a couple in love. his girlfriends usually are, at some point, jealous of me. or scared. or pissed off about my mere existence. he pacifies them, waves goodbye and promptly calls me for a quick drink. i, on the other hand, stare out windows, meet all kinds of people, and always manage to feel empty if i haven't seen him for a couple of days.

so much has changed. and yet, so little. there have been other friends, and anselm now has a 6-month old son now. it's difficult to juxtapose those two images -- one, of him in his blue shorts messy hair and big glasses at 11 am. And two, of him standing quietly, confidently, right next to me, a day older than i am and yet someone who had managed to create life. i remember jas and I that morning, it could have been 11 am again, standing on either side of him, looking at him hold his son, and looking at his son look up at him with baby eyes. so much has changed. and yet, so very little.

tori speak

one: rape
“i was kidnapped and sexually violated. you feel like your boundaries have been crossed to such an extent that there is no law anymore, that there is no god. you feel like the mother in you will do anything to protect the child in you from being shredded before your eyes. you're thinking 'i gotta get out alive, i gotta get out alive.' with ‘me and a gun’, i hope that attackers as well as victims are listening. as well as judges, as well as lawyers. i want you to taste in the back of your mouth what it was like to be in the car with that pervert."

two: religion
"god is a misogynist. when you really spend time and look at things god said, if you have a brain on you, you've got to raise an eyebrow and say this god is a macho pig. i mean, if sylvester stallone said this stuff we'd be giving him a very hard time and he has said some of this stuff and we have given him a hard time -- he deserved it. but the point is the christian god hasn't honoured women. sorry, the cat's out of the bag and it's just not cool, so it's something we have to address..."

three: a female god
"that's why i sing ‘god, sometimes you just don't come through/ you need a woman to look after you.’ the god-force must be feminised, perceived more as a god-goddess. jesus, his mother, 'his church' all must be redefined. especially a figure like mary magdalene, who i and so many christian women were taught to despise, because she was a prostitute. because of that we had great problems coming to terms with the prostitute in ourselves, which again, is something the church teaches us to deny, and something my song, 'the wrong band' is about when i sing: 'ginger is always sincere/but not to one man.'”

four: britney spears
"right. then no man wants to fuck her anymore and also the urge of women to be just like her will dry up. then britney won't be of any use anymore, because she can't sing and she doesn't have anything to say either. and that's sad. mainly for her, though, because it must be frickin' scary to be so dependent on your looks. i sincerely hope in music a new generation of women will stand up that have something to say. it's about time."

five: for me
"i think you have to know who you are, get to know the monster that lives in your soul, dive deep into your soul and explore it. i don't want to renounce my dark side. the truth has always held an enormous interest for me. everything is therapeutic, no matter what you do."

what i did this saturday

went furniture shopping with mother. a thankless task. we looked at tables, and chairs, and little cosy sofas, and small, funky purple chairs guaranteed to make any home look like a pub, and huge, sprawling beds that could fit seven guys like me. she liked the big sprawling beds, for some strange reason. “it's a house we have ma, not a palace,” i told her. she ignored me and spoke to the sales guy anyway. “rs 2,00,000 madam,” he told her, smiling politely. “what?” she asked. “for the bed or the whole damn shop?”

then, she decided to listen to me instead.

eventually, we decided to call the furniture guys home, tell them what we wanted and ask them for an opinion. in the middle of it all, zaki called. “coming over?” I could have said no, because I was tired and there was a david bowie album (earthling) waiting for me on my cd player. but I said ‘ok’ instead. funny. it was 7 pm already, but I thought, ‘what the heck'. dropped ma home, ran my hands through my fresh-cut hair (short, like a schoolboy's now) and left for mira road. got there just in time to watch zaki and sharmila walk the length of a football field 26 times. so, sat on a bench, watched them walk in slow motion, got eaten alive, slowly, methodically, by approximately 1200 mosquitoes that had no fear of human beings in them.

then, minutes before my body was sucked dry of every ounce of blood, they were done. on the way upstairs, in the lift, sharmila looked at me and said “there's a friend of mine at home, and she thinks your name sounds like chocolate.” i smiled politely, nodding, thinking to myself: ‘chocolate? that's a new one. what is she, some kind of weirdo?'

then, we rang the bell, walked in and, an hour and a half later, i thought, 'god, that is one cute weirdo'.

a very nice weekend :)

for pumpkin

she came quite out of the blue, one night, at a pub. sleeveless striped t-shirt and jeans. big smile, messy hair. 'hi,' i said. me, with my vodka and cigarette. she, with her laugh and her many faces. and we fought and went home smiling like children.

years passed. some times, we'd sit through horrible films that should never have been made (die, harry potter, die); at other times, we would drink beer like it was water, talking about everything and nothing, watching other people drink beer and talk about everything and nothing.

if i were to describe her to someone, suddenly, i would have nothing to say. ‘what’s she like?’ they could ask, suddenly, somewhere. 'she's sweet', is all i would manage. and it wouldn’t be my fault at all. after all, it's difficult to paint a picture of someone so full of life when they stand against millions who appear two-dimensional by comparison. 'she has a laugh that could force a dead man to start giggling', i could add.

but they still wouldn't understand.

the thing is, they don't need to. no one needs to. all that matters is that i do. and she knows i do. i know what she means when she says 'mereko bore ho raha hai' (which, from the point of view of simple semantics, makes absolutely no sense). she knows when i'm enjoying myself and when my fake smile begins to kick in. she knows when i'm trying too hard to look interested in what someone's saying, while wondering about something radically different.

we're pretty much the same, she and i. if she were not to yell at me, or sing ‘little bunny foo foo’ while i was trying hard to edit something terribly important at work, i’d feel as if the day were incomplete. if she were not around to throw my ideas out the window, or cut me down to size every 14 minutes, i’d feel completely alone. what she does, then, come to think of it, is make me feel whole.

we have different paths now, at least on the surface. she with hers all planned out, i consistent in my complete lack of direction. strangely enough, it always feels as if we’re still walking down the same road. she with her life in a suitcase, i with mine. with big green trees and funny monkeys swinging overhead as the rest of the planet rushes about us. and then, every once in a while, we stop to giggle about a joke that makes sense to the two of us alone. the rest of them stand and shake their heads. we ignore them. they know nothing about pumpkin and lindsay anyway.

more free music?

nick: Some of the review copies of "Scarlet's Walk" were shipped inside glued-shut CD players to keep the album from being bootlegged. Why?
amos: Well, the album is out today and it wasn't bootlegged, right?

nick: Why is that a big concern for you? Loss of royalties? Not being able to control the release of the music?
amos: We know people have this consciousness that they think it's OK to take music for free. And I say if you really can't afford it, then you should be able to have it for free. But if all you're doing is taking and taking and not giving anything back, then all you are is a taker. I mean, you're not writing this story for free, are you, Nick?

-- nick tate interviews tori amos, november 8, 2002, the atlanta journal-constitution.

finally, the rain

and the skies will yawn, opening up, grey and menacing. and they will spill water in sheets, grey sheets, fine droplets falling slowly, smoothly, to meet the heaving, seething seas. and the two will merge, and rise, and breathe as if with life, shaking and laughing and playing little games with waves and white foam. and the grey sea and sheets of water will decide to bathe the world and wipe it clean. and they will both rise, suddenly, without warning, while we sleep and dream of islands in the sea. and mumbai will be swallowed whole, bite by bite, without chewing. and the buildings will crumble like soft biscuits, and we will sink to the bottom of the ocean, our sleep undisturbed, now never to be disturbed. and still the water will rise, and eat up the world, leaving nothing behind and sinking back into itself when all is finished. in its wake, a brand new patch of green, green grass, sparkling under the sun, and a little white rabbit, looking up, stunned, wondering what to do next. and god will call that rabbit, 'lindsay'. the story begins.

horses of the night

"Ah, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damn’d perpetually!

Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair Nature’s eye, rise, rise again and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!

O lente, lente, curite noctis equi.

The stars move still, 2 time runs, the clock will strike,
The Devil will come, and Faustus must be damn’d..."

-- christopher marlowe (1564–1593). doctor faustus. scene xiv.

people I work with: part two

Name of the dude I worked with: Zaki Ansari
Profession: Scientist-In-Waiting, Journalist, Jazz enthusiast, Internet enthusiast, Vodka enthusiast, generally very enthusiastic.
Appearance: Fairly untidy on weekdays. Untidy on weekends.
Identifying features: Faded blue denim jeans, somewhat large stomach, ever-present stubble, loose-fitting checked shirts (possibly to hide aforementioned stomach).
Likes: Ashok Hegde, well-edited copy, Ashok Hegde editing copy.
Most likely to say: “Do you know that every third potato grown in Andhra Pradesh is larger than every second potato grown in Madhya Pradesh?”, “My 1935 white Fiat is the best car ever made”, “Never mind what the IT guys say, let me explain how this algorithm REALLY works.”
Least likely to say: “I’m too tired to talk right now”, “I’m too tired to eat right now”, “I can either eat or talk at the same time”.

Zaki Ansari has a problem. No, I don’t mean the obvious ones -- like his car or laptop-toting habit -- that most people who know him complain about. It’s that problem about information. About how he loves to have so much of it. And how he loves sharing it even more.

It struck me the first time we met. “I’m L.,” I said, as most people do on first meetings. Short, and to the point. “I’m Zaki,” he replied, in what I thought was a short, reciprocal introduction. But he had just paused for breath. “What have you been up to? Are you Internet–savvy? If you’re not, don’t worry; you’ll learn. What sites do you like? Do you have a nose for news? Do you know what the biggest problem faced by the media today is? Have you seen the film, ‘Return of the Jedi’? No, it has nothing to do with the problem faced by the media, but I was curious. Have you?”

That was four years ago. I have yet to recover.

To say that Zaki likes to talk would be a gross understatement. To say he stops talking every once in a while would be an outright lie.

Yes, my account is somewhat exaggerated, but not very highly. When he’s not talking, Zaki does other strange things. Like the time a journalist at his office asked a couple of her friends to drop by. As he happened to be her boss, the friends were duly introduced to Mr Ansari. This is what happened. I quote: “He decided to offer them some sweets. There were three of them, and he had a bag full. So, he spread them out on a table and began dividing them into equal shares. Now, my friends meet me only outside the office.”

See what I mean about other problems?

There’s more. Most people who have worked closely with Zaki will, if they jog their memory a bit, recall the words ‘petri dish’ popping up at some time or another. It may happen while he’s discussing the pros and cons of nanotechnology; or the obvious advantages of human cloning; or similarities between Harry Potter and his creator, J K Rowling. “Just take a Petri dish…” is how these infamous lectures begin. Few have stayed to find out what happens after one takes the dish.

One last mention goes to jazz and jazz musicians. If you want Zaki to like you, my advice is, talk jazz. He will then entice you into long conversations about his favourites, discuss the subtle nuances that differentiate Joe Zawinul’s playing from Wayne Shorter’s on the Weather Report albums, and recount his many mystic experiences with Charles Mingus.

But I’m being mean. There’s a lot more to Zaki than the ability to mouth off a couple of thousand words per minute. Like his consistent generosity. I have yet to see him refuse someone a lift. 6 am, 7 pm, 10 pm, 2 am – anywhere, anytime. Ask Zaki nicely, and he’ll be there. What I also admire him for is the relationship he shares with his wife, Sharmila. They have known each other for 24 years (as the two of them tell me and other friends and relatives often), but still manage to annoy and please each other regularly, like a couple of schoolchildren. If Zaki insists on being petulant, Sharmila introduces a slight edge into her tone. If Sharmila suddenly feels the urge for potato chips, Zaki switches off his laptop (yes, he does switch it off every once in a while, just to surprise the neighbours) and rushes to the kitchen.

The two of them will sit in a room for hours; he discussing the life and times of Charlie Parker; she, telling him to keep quiet while she reads her notes. Then, every once in a while, she will reach out and pat his head, while he tries hard to cover his embarrassment. At times like these, I am compelled to admit there aren’t too many things better than a successful marriage.

Finally, I can say without hesitation that Zaki is among the most patient men I have ever known. I can say this without hesitation because he has yet to lose his temper with me – an incredible achievement, if you ask my mother. I have harassed him online, danced around him offline, sung horrid songs to him over the telephone, shrieked like a banshee while he has been working on something important and, generally, tried my best to be a perfect nuisance. He has responded by inviting me home to dinner, plying me with vodka, and playing me some of his favourite CDs.

There are a lot of people who really like Zaki Ansari a lot. Including me. After all, hey, I’ve got problems too.

i still hate my first girlfriend

why so pale and wan, fond lover?
prithee, why so pale?
will, when looking well can't move her,
looking ill prevail?
prithee, why so pale?

why so dull and mute, young sinner?
prithee, why so mute?
will, when speaking well can't win her,
saying nothing do 't?
prithee, why so mute?

quit, quit for shame! this will not move;
this cannot take her.
if of herself she will not love,
nothing can make her:
the devil take her!

-- sir john suckling (1609–1642)

people i work with: part one

Name of the dude I worked with: Ashok Hegde
Profession: Journalist, Editor, word game-lover, Internet enthusiast, occasional nuisance.
Appearance: Sloppy on birthdays (his own). Shoddy on other days.
Identifying features: Fairly large moustache, uncombed hair, conspicuous Nike shoes bought for a staggering Rs 4,500 (“I had a gift coupon,” he explains).
Likes: Well-edited copy, Ghulam Ali, colleague Zaki Ansari and wife Neema. Possibly in that order.
Most likely to say: “This idea sucks”; “Drop this”; “Amaaaaaaaaaaazingggggg!”; “Chal fut le…”
Least likely to say: “I love your work”; “I think you’re extremely talented”; “Nice tie”; “Got the latest Metallica album?”

It started out innocently enough, with a question. “Can I work with you, Ashok,” I asked. I was 19 and (thanks to a system of education that insists you learn your dates by rote, while forgetting to teach you the difference between right and wrong) very naïve. “Hire me,” I repeated. “You won’t be sorry.”

The job in question was that of a sub-editor, assisting the aforementioned Ashok Hegde at a media firm. “Soon, I’ll be hanging out with the guys at the top,” I told my friends. “Soon, it’s going to be me with India’s biggest politicians, cops, movers and shakers,” I added, for emphasis. “Soon, I’ll know what true journalism is all about.”

Ashok smiled at me and said, “Okay.” And that is how, with my own hands, my fate was sealed.

Cut to scene two, two weeks later. I sat quietly, behind Ashok. He was at my PC, shaking his wrists every now and then, his gold watch glinting in the light, reading some copy I had been editing for over an hour. Two minutes into this exercise, it was all gone. My hard-won-and-much thought-over text was replaced by his version of the truth. “This is how you edit,” he said. “You’ll learn.”

I smiled graciously. “Thank you so much for taking time out to show me,” I told him. “Anytime,” he replied. He wasn’t into sarcasm in a big way.

That was almost seven years ago. I continued working with Ashok, primarily on account of my penchant for punishment. I did learn a lot though. About what a good feature is; how a story angle makes all the difference; why an interesting headline is important; what re-writing a feature is all about; how a little bit of tact can go a long way; how to be sweet at all hours, even with people you hate; how to stay calm, no matter what. Things like that.

What, then, can I say about Ashok Hegde, after all these years of working in close proximity with him? (I use the word ‘close’ in a very literal sense. Our chairs often lay a mere two feet apart. Believe all they tell you about the space crunch in Mumbai).

For a start, Ashok is passionate about his work. If he’s not, he’s been a bloody good actor. He’s the one who scans the Internet for hours (half of which are spent playing Scrabble with unsuspecting college students from around the world, but that’s another tale), in search of the perfect story. He’s the one who fires off email after email, to one employee after another, keeping them updated on anything and everything related to their areas of interest. Responsible for a Web site’s exhaustive page on America’s war on terror, he’s the one who is sometimes (I suspect) a lot more enthusiastic about happenings in Afghanistan than Osama bin Laden himself.

More gossip. Ashok will do anything – an emphasis on ‘anything’ here -- for a good, well-written story: hound journalists, call them incessantly, cajole them for more quotes, think long and hard about how a bad feature can be re-written and, on some painful occasions, threaten to beat them with his slippers (his idea of comfortable, corporate wear).

I haven’t worked with Ashok for a while now. Which is sad, because I miss his brand of criticism. A no-mincing-words, no-beating-around-the-bush sort of criticism. I miss listening to him laugh at jokes that make sense to him alone. I miss him trying, enthusiastically, and failing miserably, to make me take my life and career more seriously. I miss his ability to never take anything I say at face value. Most importantly, I miss the fact that he has always been more of a friend than a boss. As opposed to more of the bosses than friends I have had to work with since.

coming soon, ‘people i work with: part two’:
The mouth with feet -- Zaki Ansari.

to be had with vodka and lime

"blue, songs are like tattoos
you know i’ve been to sea before
crown and anchor me
or let me sail away
hey blue, here is a song for you
ink on a pin
underneath the skin
an empty space to fill in
well there’re so many sinking now
you’ve got to keep thinking
you can make it thru these waves
acid, booze, and ass
needles, guns, and grass
lots of laughs, lots of laughs
everybody’s saying that hell’s the hippest way to go
well i don’t think so
but i’m gonna take a look around it though
blue, i love you

blue, here is a shell for you
inside you’ll hear a sigh
a foggy lullaby
there is your song from me"

-- joni mitchell, 1971

meeting tori amos

I can picture it, much as I have for a while now. She, calm and collected, smiling a half-smile, safe in the knowledge that this moment belongs to her. Me, shy, palms sweaty, trying hard to smile but settling for a strange sort of creepy grin instead. “Hi Tori,” I’d say, effectively waving goodbye to a novel, surprising approach with which to grab her attention. ‘Hi,” she’d reply. “I’ve never hung around with anyone from India before. Do they really have elephants walking the streets there?”

I’d pause and try hard to collect my thoughts. “No,” I’d stutter. In my head, I’d form a firm, relatively cohesive reply (Something like: ‘No. That’s a stereotypical image that has long been forced upon India and much of the third world, primarily to reinforce the myth of Western superiority over the Orient, thereby granting the former a right to dictate terms by which the latter ought to live.’) What I’d probably end up saying would be, “No elephants. I’ve seen a lot of cows though.”

She’d smile again and offer me a glass of water. I’d accept and stare out the window, wondering if my replies would ever be relatively normal. “Tell me about you,” she’d say. “I’m 27,” I’d reply, smiling that creepy smile again. “And I work as a journalist in Mumbai. I have two brothers and no pets, and listening to music has always been one of my most favourite things in the world for as long as I can remember.” She’d nod and ask, “Is Indian classical music a lot like Western classical?” I’d probably stutter something about not having listened to Indian classical music much. “I love your music though,” I’d stammer, faintly.

This would go on, for approximately 29 minutes. She’d ask me interesting questions; I’d dawdle and spit out futile replies. With five minutes to go, I’d begin to ramble about how much I’ve always admired her music. I’d then ask her to autograph just about everything in sight, before begging her to let me get a couple of photographs. She’d agree graciously. I’d stumble on my way out.

That’s one possibility.

Then again, I could do this the right way. I could walk into Tori’s dressing room bearing a huge armful of African daisies and a bottle of Pinot Noir. “Hi,” I could say, “I’ve never bought anyone flowers before, because I’ve never had reason enough.” She’d laugh and accept. “Have you ever met anyone from India, Tori?” I’d ask. “Only Indians living in America,” she’d probably reply. “Tell me about yourself.”

I’d smile, offer her the bottle of wine and ask her if she’d come back to India with me. “It’s a colourful country,” I’d say. “A place where the spiritual is part of life. There are no elephants on the streets. We have pepperoni pizzas and McDonalds, cell-phone toting executives and air-conditioned cabs with DVD players. You could step out of a mall, turn a corner, and find an old man in orange robes reading the palm of a teenager dressed in Levi’s and a GAP t-shirt.”

She’d pause, taking it all in. “No elephants? Do western artists perform there, then?” “Yes,” I’d smile. “The Stones were here, and Sting, Roger Waters, Bryan Adams and Michael Jackson. We have some of the best musicians in the world too, so you could come and jam with a sitar player or pick a few tips from the maestros who played with George Harrison.” The conversation would then turn to Indian women, femininity, and the female consciousness. “Indian feminism is different from what it is in the West,” I’d say. “Why?” Tori would ask, surprised, sipping her wine. “Because Western feminism begins at a point where egalitarianism is taken for granted; a concept Indian women have never really been given access to.”

Tori would smile at me, then, and tell me she’s had a wonderful time. I’d smile back and tell her I wished I could stay longer so she could tell me about her song writing and how she picks the themes on which a majority of her more powerful tracks are based. I’d kiss her on the cheek, take her by the hand, and ask her if she’d dance with me so I could grow old with that memory.

She’d give me a grin and nod. There wouldn’t be music, but we’d glide across the room. Then, nearing the exit, I’d look into her eyes, kiss her on the forehead, and thank her for the music.

i will...

"i will
lay me down
in a bunker
underground
i won’t let this happen to my children
meet the real world coming out of your shell
with white elephants
sitting ducks
i will
rise up
little babies' eyes eyes eyes eyes
little babies' eyes eyes eyes eyes
little babies' eyes eyes eyes eyes
little babies' eyes eyes eyes"

-- radiohead, 2003.

train ride

The thing about travelling by train in Mumbai is, well, it can be a nightmare, something straight out of a comedy, your ticket to the ride of your life, or simply the most unexpected thing ever. I would know. I've been doing it for years. You meet all kinds of people, for one, if you're lucky enough to be inside the compartment. I've rarely been that lucky.

Getting into a train at Malad (which is where I live) at rush hour, for instance, is something that would leave most out-of-towners open-mouthed. You wait for a train. It arrives, chock full of humanity, with men hanging out the doors, straddling the windows, balancing on their toes in nooks and crannies, holding the shirts and trousers of other men. You swallow, and decide to take the next one. This happens eleven times.

Then, when you know you're so late that any further delay could jeopardise your job, you take the plunge. Literally. You clutch your bag tightly -- if you're stupid enough to be carrying a bag to begin with (I'm consistently stupid) -- and jump into the seething mass at the nearest door. The sign above it reads 'First Class', which is a bit of a private joke between the guys who run the railways and the guys who travel by it.

You fail to find a toehold, so you jump again. And again. And, dear sweet Lord, again. Just when the train threatens to leave, you look around desperately. The windows are taken, so you head for the space between compartments. Yes, in between. There's a slim ladder attached, which you think ought to do. So, you reach out for it, step into space, and hang on for dear life. Only to realise, then, that seven other men have had the same idea. They climb above you, their feet probing the rungs above your arms. Some of them reach the roof of the train and promptly lie back to stare at the sky between the electrified cables. The train moves. As it picks up speed, the compartment in front goes up. Your hands move up. The compartment against your back goes down. For onlookers, it looks as if you're riding a horse. For you, God is suddenly an entity you need to invoke repeatedly.

Newspaper clippings come to mind. Of men who have reached out to steady themselves -- while the train moves at 130 miles per hour – only to find the cables and electrocute themselves, turning black in 29 seconds and causing the train to be 35 minutes late. Other clippings, of people slipping, banging into poles alongside the tracks, or letting go and flying by in a whirl of blue or orange clothing to land in a spurt of blood red on the tracks. You decide this really isn’t the time for newspaper clippings.

The train moves faster, and faster. You hang on for dear life, hoping the ladder can sustain the weight of seven full-grown men. The six guys don't seem to care. When their station arrives, they step off, nonchalantly, their feet over your head, jumping over space onto the platform to your right. 45 minutes later, as Dadar station approaches, you decide it may be safe to try and get to the platform now, as the inside of the train ought to be a little emptier. Looking around for a cop who may decide to fine you – “saala, apne aap ko Govinda samajtha hai kya?" (“you're supposed to travel inside the train, idiot”) -- you step off, rush for nearest door, manage to get four toes of either feet inside, and start shivering.

Four toes. Halleluiah. You discover muscles you didn't know existed, as each of them begins to scream in alphabetical order -- biceps, pectorals, triceps. Then, Churchgate. 55 minutes after you first hung on for dear life. You can barely stand. But at least you have arrived. And in once piece too. All around you, in front and behind, people disembark. Hundreds of people. All pouring out like water from a broken cup.

A man steps out the door you have just exited from. He looks at you, reaches out his hand and says, "You are the bravest man I have ever seen." You smile at him, shaking his hand half-heartedly, thinking all the while, "Couldn't you offer me a seat, you son of a bitch?"

rest

"O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies..."

- christina georgina rossetti (1830-1894)

So, who am I? Not a rhetorical question, this. Male, 27, Mumbai-based. On the verge of turning 28. Prone to sudden panic attacks at night when I wake up wondering about things like the future of mankind, the lack of womankind in my life, and the inability of most people to accept the fact that Tori Amos is pure genius.

The route to this alarming juncture has been long and fairly strange. I have run the gauntlet of everything from six years of professional dancing (late nights with fire-eaters and Govinda impersonators), through seven ears of athletics (no medals, thank you very much), to nine years of elocution (more success on that front, thank god for impatient judging and inept competitors), debating, theatre, hiking (in no particular order and done at random on the basis of my many mood-swings), one year of playing the guitar (I was 6, so, no, I can't really play the damn thing anymore), eight years of journalism (if you can call it that…my former editors all beg to disagree) and ten years of studying literature (and who among the well-read can blame me for that?)

This explains why my friends stopped wondering -- years ago, actually – why I do the things I do. Why, for instance, I took to wearing a black cap and blue shirt at all parties between my fifteenth and seventeenth birthdays; Why I decided I never would date a woman ever, promptly forgetting the rule at 22 and then making up for lost time by plunging from one wild relationship to another; Why I took up smoking menthol cigarettes for two years while in my teens, in the hope that impotence would make it easier for me to give up the idea of marriage; Why I sincerely promise to turn up at a hundred places on a Saturday night, and then stay home for 98 of them; Why I turn up at a pub smiling like a lunatic, then leave in a hurry when something ruins my mood for no apparent reason.

All said and done, however, they love me. They really, really do. And the feeling has never been anything but completely mutual.

come, they said. join us. stop hoarding those pieces of often useless information you keep so close to your heart and reveal at pubs around the city when the rest of us are too drunk to care. start spewing them at regular, well-spaced intervals. show us your soul, or what passes for one these days.

and i, poor spineless lunatic that i am, agreed. all said and done, i quite like the URL though.