A love story

They met for the first time on the beach.

They had talked to each other before, spent hours together but it was on that beach, for the first time, that their words intertwined themselves around each other like lovers' arms. It was that night, when they kept coming back to that beach that their eyes met and began a conversation that had never happened before.

Through the sadness that stood caged like a prisoner in their eyes, they smiled and laughed together for the first time.

She was fire, ruffled and impatient. Every bruise she had carefully embroidered on the veil of innocence she wore unknowingly,  the fire consumed her everyday.
She lived in a box and crawled deeper and deeper into its dark womb. The lid seldom opened and when it did, the world outside charmed her until she became tired of her capacity to marvel and retreated into its dark womb further.

He was the silent waters of the river, tat ran so deep, it filled up the abyss, he too didn't know existed within him. He was built by patient sadness, brick by brick until it stood firm like a tower. But when she rested against him the insides of his body took the shape of her small back, which forever etched itself within him.

At times, it troubled him when he tried to sleep at night. The impression of her small back and how his arms instinctively went around, embracing the whole of her, feeling the dull hymn of her hurting heart in the palm of his hands, knowing that from then on they were bound together by that which was common in their waking conscience and living in their sleepless dreams- Sadness.

Regret

Where were you born from?

When and How were you conceived?

That I did not see

untill the moment you bent your beautiful face to kiss me.

I see you sipping coffee at my table.

I see you with your outstretched hand in the rain.

You cup your chin in your hands and watch me sleep

You read to me every night from your book of dreams.

You fold yourself into a yellow flower

and I put you in my hair.

You tiptoe behind me, and take me in your arms.

I turn to scold you, push you away

but you smile at me with two twinkling eyes.

I sigh! as though I am your lover

You smile! as though you are my child.

Green Room

Never green, Green rooms. Wonder why they call it that. For there is nothing green about a room that serves as the passage way between the struggler and the juggler. Messy, dirty; caught in transition. Clothes strewn across it, bags, footwear, plastic, empty bottles and cups, pieces of cotton rubbed over painted faces.

A few huddle together for a drag. Letting out smoke part in blissful relief part in pathetic nervousness. A few sleep, unaware of the glaring light over their heads, lost in a world they continuously try to recreate on stage. A cup of coffee in a lazy hand. A meditative figure in the corner.

At busy times there is a lot that goes on within a matter of seconds. Performers who've stepped down from the stage become people who scream and shout, panic for things they cant find, deadlines they cant meet. Half naked bodies, struggling to wear their garb. Sometimes it takes too long to wear it. Maybe years. Sometimes the struggle wears the garb beyond use.

RAMAYAN

(wrote this a long time back....but....what the heck)

Three years is a long time and these last three year have taught me to laugh at and even cherish something I considered a very embarrassing moment in my life. Before I begin, let me tell you that I am no great shakes at acting. Infact, acting in front of an audience (large or small) makes me so conscious of myself that I don’t need to touch myself to feel my heartbeat. My heartbeat seems to be the only sound in the universe so much so that I wonder as to how I managed to miss it earlier.
For this simple reason I have always been content with the role of the narrator in a play and the only time I did a cameo on school stage (being almost pushed into it by the piercing looks and cutting words of a teacher) was too much a chaos of heartbeats and nervousness to be told.
Coming back to this particular incident it happened somewhere in May 2001, when Madhu Sundaram (the professed Madhu Bhaiya of the colony) along with his compatriots Manav Sharma (Manu Bhaiya) and Ashutosh Pandey (the all so famous Ajay) keeping up with the tradition, organized the “ANNUAL SUMMER GAMES”. It was a two day carnival of indoor and outdoor games which earned each time points and at the end of two days the points were added up and the winning team was declared.
That year the total number of participants were divided into three different teams as against the usual two.I don’t remember exactly who all were a part of the other two teams but never even in a hundred years can I forget the composition of mine. We were five in all- Ashok, Navya, Rajat, Tushita and last but in no way the least, I (having been declared the head of my team). Our team was doing decently well and we also had the maximum points though the other two were very close behind.
It must have been seven or so in the evening and I was in high spirits as I climbed down the stairs from my house after wiping myself dry. We had just been awarded points for breaking a pot hung high from a rope amidst splashes of buckets full of water from all sides. As I reached the club and took my place with my team members, I was updated to the current scenario. I had just missed the bun-eating race and heard emphatic descriptions of how Tushita had to struggle to finish half a bun (the other half went down Rajat’s esophagus) even as Bittu, standing in front of her on a chair pretended he would throw up any minute and kept jumping down, holding his throat and producing all sorts of puky sounds.
As we all settled down, we were told that next in queue was a short play competition. Each team had to put up an act for five to ten minutes. The choice of the theme etcetra was left entirely to us.
My worst fears were coming true... BUT!!! Wait a minute! I was to be the narrator, of course!!
Soon, everybody got engrossed in the preparation of the play. In my own team, Rajat and Ashok seemed to be scripting some suspense thriller with their heads bent together and their voices no louder than a cautious whisper. I was urging Navya to suggest an appropriate conclusion to a spoof at ‘Romeo and Juliet’ while he gave me a ‘ HOW-DO-I-LAND-UP-NEXT-TO-SUCH-WEIRDOS’ look. Tushita, having found nothing better to do was staring at infinity with all the elegance of the Princess of Wales. Nobody could figure out what we were to do and watching the other two teams deep in discussion just added to our helplessness. Perhaps the helplessness was too evident, for not after long did we see Ajay ‘gliding’ towards us with his hands in his pockets and ‘I AM A COOL DUDE’ almost written all over his face. I say ‘gliding’ because the distance between his legs and his face is so great that if u are looking at his face and are stunned by the expression on it, you can easily overlook the fact that he is walking and thus he appears to be merely gliding.
Anyway, it was only many months later that I could forgive him for having then come to us with his brilliant suggestion; for it did sound very innovative to our ears at that time and its brilliancy was heightened by the fact that we were in dire need of a script. He suggested a spoof at Ramayan and went on to explain in detail how we could enact certain scenes with a few Bollywood numbers pitched in here and there. When he ‘glided’ back after having thus kicked our imaginations, we were all geared up for (as I was to realize later) the INEVITABLE.
Our judges of course, were the three amiable ‘organizers’ who soon called for a member from each team to decide the order in which the teams would perform. As Rajat went ahead somebody from the team shouted after him, “JEET KE AANA.” Either it was Rajat’s determination to win which was supernaturally strong or it was lady luck –dead against us, we were soon told that we were to perform first. The jaws of each one of us were suspended in mid air WE WERE JUST NOT PREPARED! Ashok looked as if he were about to demand an explanation for the gross disobedience on the part of Rajat who reasoned “WHAT! JEET KE HI TO AAYA HOON.WE ARE FIRST.”
Our magnanimous judges gave us five extra minutes to prepare. Time was short and we could only chalk out an oral script. Each person’s roles and dialogues were discussed but rehearsing was right out of question. I too had a small part to play but surprisingly, I did not feel all that miserable probably owing to the paucity of actors or the fact that I felt I could pull it off in an ‘on the spot’ or merely the realization that there had to be a first time.
However, when I looked at the other end of the club (for we were huddled near the kitchen) my confidence gave way. I saw the three of them sitting on the sofa facing us, with both the teams making themselves comfortable on either side, clearly waiting for us. It gave me the jitters to see them all waiting like that. The realization that I was to act in front of so many pairs of eyes made my heart expand in desperation. But I quickly pushed the thought away and breathing deeply went ahead with the futile discussion.
Finally, we were called to start and since they did not entertain any more excuses we were compelled to move to the middle of the club. We stood there for a few seconds rather awkwardly before I, feeling the need for an introduction marched on to the carpeted area (which was to be our so called stage) and in a voice surprisingly high- pitched informed them what our play was about.
Needless to say, our project was doomed. No one could have ended up with weirder ideas than we did. This I was to realize only later. Who could have expected a six feet, sheepish looking Navya as Ram being almost romanced by Ashok in T-shirt and balloon pants playing Sita. The kind of scene that was going on in front of my disbelieving eyes is beyond my creative expression. Navya was dumfounded and literally gaped at Ashok through his glasses and Ashok was fluttering around Navya with out of the world one- liners. One part of the audience were openly laughing at our stupidities while the other half looked solemn, probably considering it below their dignity to be entertained by such gibberish. Somebody was laughing behind me and when I turned to look I found Tushita literally under a table going, jerking violently with eruptions of downright irritating laughter.
Soon Navya broke an imaginary ‘Dhanush’ to obtain the license to marry Ashok. Now came Tushita’s bit. She was playing Raja Dhashrath and was required to bestow her blessings on the newly married couple. For a few second Navya and Ashok looked around not knowing what to do. It took me some time to pull myself out of the bewildered trance I was in and remember which scene was to follow. The moment I recollected, I signaled to Tushita, who looked at me as though I had started speaking Malayalam. I urged her with considerable desperation in a low voice,” TUSHITA!!! GO!” she stood where she was, her face showing absolute surprise. I guess you would understand my loosing the cool for our dear Miss Tushita had not only forgotten her dialogues, she had also very conveniently managed to forget the role she was to play. What ensued was a verbal war between the two of us witnessed by all present there. Both of us were screaming at the top of our lungs. I was calling her a ditcher and she denied that she had ever been told about anything remotely like playing Dhashrat.
The resounding laughter from Madhu Bhaiya’s lips brought me back to earth and I promptly announced ‘BREAK’ while the audience burst into guffaws of laughter. I dragged Tushita towards the kitchen and hurriedly explained her her role again. Not that it made much of a difference. The way she delivered the dialogues made us feel as if she was bored of life and she walked off the moment she had finished speaking.
Now came the docile-looking Rajat who was playing Ravan and he kidnapped Sita (Ashok, who was more than willing to be kidnapped).
For those of you who are still wondering what my part in the play was I will give you a last hint. When I made my entry Ashok was (supposed to be) sobbing in the Ashok Vatika. Got it?
Yes, I was HANUMAN.
The audience could not digest it. I even heard somebody asking me in sheer amusement, “You are Hanuman?” I must have cut a very amusing figure in my T-shirt and Denim shorts with hair all open and half wet. Not to mention I was too thin for Hanuman. This time the heartbeats were not the only sound audible to me. Giggles, suppressed laughter and the booming ones of You-Know-Who were all clearly heard by me. I mumbled something about a ring that Ram had sent to Sita. Ashok was too excited and as a Hindi saying goes SAM DAM DAND BHED nothing could have deterred him that day from uttering all sorts of poetic one-liners.
So our Sita denied having anything to do with the ring Hanuman had got her from Ram and declared that she was much too pleased with the state of affairs in Ashok Vatika. Now, this was not what we had planned. So Hanuman rather confused (and trying to avoid those pairs of eyes) told Sita that Ram missed her. Prompt came the reply that has till date embedded itself in my memory.
“MAGAR IS MISS KO KOI AUR KISS KAR RAHA HAI”.
It seemed as if the ceiling would give way with all the sound that erupted from among the spectators. I snatched a glance at them. Vivek and Alok were too thrilled and found it difficult to keep their seats. Purvi and Surabhi were shaking their shoulders in unison. Girishmant although laughing, wore a ridiculous expression on his face. My confusion at that time was so great that I can hardly put it down in words. I kept staring at Ashok who himself was doubled up with laughter and after sometime I too giggled and walked off the stage.
We were finally at the climax. Ram and Ravan were having some very polite conversation regarding Sita. Suddenly, I remembered that we were to supplement all dialogues with songs. And so I started singing
“HUM BHI HAI JOSH MEIN
BAATEIN KAR HOSH MEIN
YOON NA ANKHEN DIKHA…”
And all the while the both of them kept walking around each other trying to look very macho. A little DISHUM-DISHUM and the play came to an end with the death of Ram. Ravan and Sita lived happily ever after.
There was a stunned silence. Nobody could believe the idiosyncrasy that they had just witnessed. Madhu Bhaiya asked rather skeptically, ”Ravan ne Ram ko maar diya?”My embarrassment knew no bounds. I sat down with my team keeping my eyes to the carpet, not wanting to look at anybody. The other team had got up and started to perform. They so seemed in control of the entire situation. Purvi’s team was even better. Infact, I really liked their spoof at Sholay with very well placed one-liners. I remember one scene where Jeevan (who was Veeru) was atop a table acting like a drunkard asking an over- excited Surabhi (Mausiji) to give her consent to his marriage with Purvi (Basanti) who was pushing Surabhi behind. After Mausiji gave her consent to the marriage she added rather ruefully, “OH NO! VEERU HAAT SE NIKAL GAYA.”
Their good performances increased my embarrassment even further but I consoled myself thinking that acting was never my cup of tea. But the results took me by surprise. If I am not mistaken we were to be marked out of 36. The team, which stood first, scored 36. Purvi’s team, which was second, scored 33 and we scored 30. 30 out of 36!!?? I was even more embarrassed at this but thought it was the work of Ajay who was being partial to his own script.
Well, the summer games come to an end. But even after many months I could not think about it without feeling uneasy. The good thing, however, was that I got over it and laugh heartily at the entire episode whenever I remember it. Believe me I have been giggling ever since I started writing this.
But the sad part was that I did not learn from my mistake and less than a year after this happened, I along with three of my classmates, guided by the sole motive of, if not more at least a participation certificate, went to St. Francis De Sales for an ‘On the spot slogan enacting competition’. Needless to say, we BOMBED it. That day I decided that surds were indeed the most crazy people on the face of this earth for when we finished I saw two surds reeling with silent laughter and clapping their hands together. But this too now adds to all those wonderful memories I associate with my school life.

Life as a Dancer

Kaleidoscope

The faces of three six year old girls, triplets by birth- sweet, adorable. A cool room with white floors and nine mirrors. A group of bedazzled lovestruck girls : a Greek god with a pierced eyebrow, water-spiked hair and a pair of two coloured eyes.
A hot afternoon : scorching sun filtering in through the remote corners of the room, a sliding door, an expanse of cemented terrace.
Two round eyes set in a dark handsome face with a horse's jaw. A happy squezze of the two round eyes and a horse's smile. A deep voice chasing excitement.
Long black hair covering a tiny back in a V. A pair of happy sad eyes. A beautiful smile and a living of life with and without its illusions.
A pretty boy face covered in a mess of long hair. Two very mischevious looking but kind eyes. A game od dancing salsa and a confession in a long hug ; continuous jabbering of dreamt dreams.
A six feet something miniature of the face with the horse's jaw. A fall, A smile and a Moment-of -Discovery look.
A vision ; in two Kali-like eyes set in a Kali-like fierce goddess face. A smoldering tongue-lash by one of the warmest hearts ever. The vision described, painted, decorated and celebrated.

(to be conitnued)

Just a place in the sun

"Baby i swear its Deja Vu"

Pirouette step ball pirouette walk walk walk body wave kick down spot

A truckload of dancer's gibberish, only, done with such finnesse that it leaves one breathless and awed, with a weird taste of a dancer's longing that travels from one's eyes into the bellowing thump of the music down to the adrenaline in some 400 odd people merely watching the whole perfomance. There is hooting and clapping and the collective surge of sincere applause, awe and longing all mixed into one.

"Just a place in the sun"

is all each one of us are looking for.

And only a few days after this, fresh from the tiredness of the daunting task of performing and even more so of making everyone perform, there arrives the monsoon. Damp and refreshing, humid and tiring.

A hot monsoon day with a hint of tiny shadows scorches outside those sliding wooden doors. The sun shines across the gray terrace floor, the gray marble and peeps stealthly inside the open sliding doors. The huge room with mirrors on one wall is just as hot as the terrace outside. The collective passions - sweat and toil of some 100 odd dancers breathes heavily in the air of that room. A new group of dancers take their places in front of the mirrors. A new teacher smiles at them and begins to mould and shape them through her voice and their sweat. The music begins and the pandemonium starts. Semi-clad bodies sweating in their half nakedness rise and fall in unison to the rhythm of the music. Despite the extreme physical toil the dancers hoot and clap, for themselves and for each other, and for dance. They like the teacher and what she's teaching them. So when they do do the choreography their love for her and for her art blasts the energy of the space and sends the temprature soaring even higher. 

" Come on everybody what cha here for, Move your body around like a nympho"

The dancers split into two halves and dance in groups. The ones standing on the sides look at the teacher, awe-struck, absorbing in every detail of her body movements.

"You either wana be with me, or be me!"

Everyone is back, back in the dance class, toiling and struggling, falling and rising, floundering and discovering, acheiving and improvising, moving and stagnating, hitting and being hit at, breaking their bodies. Back at being the slave their bodies want them to be. The better the slave the greater the mastery over the art. One kick, one jete, a head islotaion, a look, a turn, a jump, perfecting every nuance....

.... for just a place in the sun.

From Two-Wheeler to Three

Am I fascinated by cars?
Well! Peeping from the sides at the complex inter twining of mechanical and electrical gadgets that the open bonnet of my car reveals definitely answers this question in the negative. That is, if fascination with or at least a familiarity with the inside of a car bonnet is a pre-requisite to fascination with the four wheeler.
My car has been standing at a petrol pump for the past hour with another one of its smaller parts broken, which has caused a not-so-small problem. The car I own (or rather my dad owns) is a seemingly uncomplicated Maruti 800. And although everyone in the family drives it regularly, it chooses to screech its choicest of grievances to me and always in the not so early hours of the evening when I am at least a good 20 kms away from home.
So standing at this petrol pump, still in my fitness pants (thankfully, a mechanic to my rescue) and blinking unwittingly at the carburetor (or is it the radiator ... err!!) I wonder how fascinated I am with cars. Which also reminds me, I still havent figured out where my car would support its jack, though am sure it will never trouble me with something as cliche as a flat tyre.
Coming back to my dilemna- I don't exactly love my Maruti 800, but then again I don't hate it either. I like better looking cars but I haven't put every single detail about them to memory. At times I cant put a model to its manufacturer. I dont own scrap books with glossy pictures of motors cut out from newspaper supplements or magazines. The walls of my room are not adorned with posters of the poshest Porsche or the coolest sports cars. If I have to buy a car it would be more a choice of looks than miles per litre. In any case, obsession with cars is categorically a male prerogative. And I do not intend territorial transgression (so much for anti-feminism).

But What do I like about cars?
Essentially, the wheel, the accelerator, the speedometer and the break.
What I do like about cars...is the mere fact that they facilitate driving.
I dont know when driving got to me but it was in a very early age. I remember the first time I asked my father to teach me how to drive was at the ripe old age of 8. Needless to mention, my legs still dangled from car seats (or every other seats, for that matter). Reaching the break, the clutch or the accelerator was going to take a good many years and lots of Bournvita (my mother assured me). The denial was polite and I in my 8 year old's wisdom saw the reason for what was being denied to me and let it rest.The question, however, was repeated anually, year after year. And every year I was asked to ask the following year.
Finally I was 15. It was decided that the time had come that my sister, almost 18 and therefore legally fit to drive, must start learning how to drive. It was arranged that she get up early every morning to take driving lessons from my dad. When I got to know about this I could not bear to think that I was already 15 and as yet untutored in what I wanted to learn so badly where as the privilidge was extended to my sister who did not even look half as interested, only because she was a few years older to me. I threw a massive teenager tantrum. This time they had no excuse. I was tall enough- taller even than my sister...which meant no more dangling legs, I had already asked some 7 times (on an annual basis) and age- I rubbished that argument with a wave of my hand.
The result of my brattish behaviour was that each morning my dad took my sister in his office car and my mom took me in our maruti to teach us both how to drive. Personally, I was happy that I had got my mother to teach me, considering I even forgot what 2+2 was whenever my dad lost his patience with me while teaching. The only problem however was the new found concept of the clutch.The word wasnt absolute greek to me. I knew it was part of a motor and knew exactly where it was situated but what it did was something I had bever bothered to find out. For me, the break and the accelerator were the only two existing entities, important and necessary to drive a car. I remember as a child, at times when I sat in the front, on the passenger seat of the car I played a game with myself. Looking straight ahead out of the windscreen and gauging my dad's (or whoever was at the wheel) style of driving, I pretended to press my foot on a non-existent break and accelerator according to the motion of the car. So dealing with this trespasser named clutch in my happy world of the break-accelerator duo turned out to be a slight problem. However, I picked up well and ended up feeling flattered when both my parents exchanged notes (read boast) about their respective students at the breakfast table everyday.
My fascination with driving did not stop at just learning. I experimented, Perfected my reverse gear on my own, sometimes, slyly nicked the car keys from the key hanger, slipped down to the parking lot and drove out into the traffic by myself (of course, without a license). I drove faster and faster as I grew more confident with the wheel. The many years I had spent playing my little break-accelerator game in the passenger seats of cars made me realise I had a pretty good idea about the dimensions of my car.
My car too had potential for discovery. For one, I discovered driving a Maruti above 70 is very much like sitting in a plane about to take off. I couldn't fathom how people with black spotless and elegant Honda Citys could drive at 40 and be content. What was even more bewildering was the fact that people with Mercedes and BMWs actually wasted that much money and never drove the cars themselves. Ideas of a skid had enchanted me but I wasn't going to put my Maruti through that much and especially when my dad was short-tempered. I tried all of that at the go-kartings where I banged into tyres and other cars, skidded at my heart's content at the cost of grease stains on my favourite denims.
I realised I loved to drive. In time, it began to work for me as a breather, something that could lift my spirits. It came to such a state that if I did not drive for a week I began feeling incomplete, amiss.
I was branded rash very soon, considering I took on unspoken challanges of a car-race with absolute strangers at the peak hours. My friends knew I loved driving and readily handed me their car keys in order to sit back as I drove. Some of my other friends wanted me to teach them how to drive.As for how many times I collided into stuff- once, that is once in a major way.I was lost in thought when I banged into the tyre of a Fiat. The silver rim above the Fiat's tyre came off. I dared not step down to see the damage to my car. By the time I got home I didn't need to step down. I could see one end of the bumper hanging on its hinges awkwardly, even from where I sat.
Eventually, I got my license. Not that I thought I needed it. I lamented it more because the photograph on the license is the worst I have ever looked in any picture (imagine looking like a cauliflower painted golden).
My parents weren't (or I should say aren't) very happy with the way I drive, although I normally take it easy when I'm not alone. But its understandable, after all they are parents. My mom still claims she is on the verge of a heart attack every time she sits next to me when am driving and I can't bear to sit with my dad because he wouldn't stop shouting instructions at me.
My obsession for driving hasn't ebbed but it has matured- the way love for a spouse you spend lot of years with does.
Now, since I have spent so many years with the four wheeler I feel I'm prepared to graduate to the three.
By three, I mean the planes.
It was one thing yearning to learn how to drive. It was another to feel the rush just by looking or hearing a plane take off or a fighter jet somersault in the sky. I have wanted to fly ever since I have wanted to drive, maybe even before that.
Its funny, that although I want to fly so badly, the number of times I have sat in a plane totals up to a huge 5, the first being on my 14th birthday. But then again, am sure its not the same thing as flying the machine or for that matter even look at it taking off from close proximity.
So,Am I fascinated by planes? The answer is the same.
I wouldn't know one from the other. A certain huge Air Japan passenger plane has imprinted itself in my memory but I don't know which Airbus it was. And however politically incorrect it might be to like a movie like Air Force 1, I couldn't help liking it (there were so many in air combats and of course Harisson Ford).
Watching planes land and take off is something I can do for a whole day The number of bikes and cars standing with flashing parking lights on the sides of the road next to the airport's runway and the number of heads craning out of buses and other moving vehicles tell me its not abnormal to like watching that.
Watching a plane preparing to land, many times I have jammed my foot on the accelerator, so that I could zoom across the length of the underpass and emerge onto the road in time for the plane to pass right over my head. How many times have I slowed down, even stopped my car to sit and watch planes. And now I have started playing the same games sitting in a plane- my hand on the hand rest pretending to pull the lever as the plane tilts at an angle or lifts its nose to the sky. Just watching the third wheel disappear and appear is fascinating enough.
How I want to fly!

The bonnet has finally closed. I have learnt names of more gadgets- timing belt!!! Finally I can go home. The mechanic quotes an exhorbitant amount for his labours. What does he think he has been repairing- a Merc?
He argues- Its night. He was on his way back home and worked only because I am a Ladeez.
Ladeeeeez? How many did he see in me?
Its fruitless to argue. He's adamant and I am cold, eager to get back home.
The roads are relatively less crowded now. I love driving on certain roads at this time. The new Delhi-Gurgaon toll bridge has come up and its cut down the time I take to reach home. I have my first go at it. Its a beautiful fly over sloshed in a million flashes of orange and yellow lights. I turn towards the airport and from the height I see the two rows of bright yellow lights marking the runway. Just as I turn the bend, to make my descend to the road beneath a plane emerges next to me, a little higher, flashing white, yellow and red- gradually descending to the run way marked by two rows of bright yellow lights.