When you write

Whoever said writing is easy, has got the plot all wrong. Writing isn’t easy, not even to those who do it for a living. Writing to be an aspiring writer matches up to if not equals to an amateur wanting to run a marathon. Running, still, is just the legs and the brain. Writing, is the hands, the brain and the heart. Somedays, it flows through you like hot blood, pulsating, eager to be poured out onto a page. Other days, it’s a slow, painful, tearing-pages-into-thousand-pieces kind of painful. On the most difficult days, writing is like a problem child, you have to coax it (with coffee, tea,  alcohol, cigarettes or any other stimulant), plead with your thoughts to crawl out of your head and onto the paper. And on these days the whole process of writing could be like waiting for freshly laid tar to solidify on a particularly hot day, with the sun blazing right overhead.

Wanting to be a writer is telling yourself you’re a liar, a few hundred times every month. The lies varying from, “I will write everyday”, “this is just a block” and of course, “this, in no way will affect what I’m writing.” But above all writing is breathing life, breathing life into words when your hopes have been knocked out of you. Writing is that optimistic belief that a sip of water will keep the vomit down, and the truth is if you believe it enough, it does. Writing is making things up but believing it is true, down to the last cell. Writing is disconnecting from yourself, looking at yourself sitting atop the moon, yet also being one with the paper and letting the words swim in your head and spill on to the paper. Writing is the scratch-scratch of the pen on the paper, it is the tap-tap of the keyboard, the smell of ink, the sound of rustling paper. Writing is the emergence of someone, something you never knew was there all along.

Writing is like being in a sado-masochistic relationship with yourself. You probe wounds even when you know they hurt and scrape them further, giving them a semi-permanent form and structure, letting them leave permanent scars on your being only to realize you’ve begun to heal. You then realize, the heaviness in your head and chest has begun fading. The warmth is returning to your face, you look at words and your lips move, as if reading something, and at that last full-stop or the clever-sounding thing you wrote, you realize there’s art you’ve put out there and that makes you smile. Then you’re ready to conquer the world, only till you have to go through it all over again. But that conquering the world feeling, is the drug that keeps you at it. 

Spending an hour or two with a dirty old man

"This above all; to thine own self be true", the first thing that the dirty old man said to me. This dirty old man lived an unbelievable 99 years before he took away with him his candour which was so often misunderstood as sheer notoriety. We're so caught up in the new that we tend to ignore the old and the wise. The wisdom found its way to me through 'Khushwantnama' - The lessons of my life by Khushwant Singh. Being someone who read him for the first time, I was taken aback by the initial pages where he proclaimed himself, unbashedly, a lecher. 

This here was a man who couldn't keep still who wrote and pondered and read even at the ripe old age of 98! Reading Khushwantnama was like revisiting the afternoons I spent with my Grandfather where he told me stories which taught him lessons and the lessons in turn which taught him how to live. Except the 'Grandfather' here was a wrinkled man now retired to his armchair with some fight still aflame in his eyes and a glass of single malt whiskey in hi hands. I can't help but think whether he'd make a pass at me while sitting and talking to him(hypothetical in all senses, of course)

The book is an easy flowing 2 hour read, throughout the book Khushwant Singh talks about how it was his time to reflect and he does so with unwavering honesty to himself and to the reader. He opens up about matters taboo to most of his contemporaries. He writes of his affairs, his weakness for beautiful women, sex, religion, journalism then and now, Gandhi, Delhi and even the state of the country. However, what struck me most oddly and stuck with me was his fearlessness. He was a 
fearless writer, editor and a stirrer of controversies. He was not only a man of his words he was also a man of passions; Urdu poetry, good food, literature, an avid admirer of nature and all things art. 
He admits to the world and to himself his regret of studying and practising law when he could rather begin writing which he so fervently did after realising where his heart and his pen really lay.

My favourite parts of the book though have to be the little tid-bits of advise in a section called 'Twelve tips to live long and be happy' that not many would actually pay attention to. Exhibit A - "Don't eat much."; exhibit B - "A single peg of malt whiskey is good for your appetite."; Exhibit C - "Do laugh often." The sections on the art and the business of being a writer is a must-read for anyone with the slightest inclination to write or even to create. Surprisingly, none of his advice seemed preachy or had the know-it-all air about them, when things got too heavy to handle he lightened the moment with one of his trademark humourous quips.

Towards the end are mentioned excerpts from his favourite Urdu and English poetry complemented by excerpts from the Guru Granth Sahib and the Holy Bible. Honesty becomes him when he talks without frills of the matter of his imminent death. If there's two words that could sum 
Khushwantnama for me, they would be 'Chardi Kala' - Ever be bouyant in spirits, never say die.' As I put down the book I smile knowing that the charm of the dirty old man worked on me, I'm going to pick up another one of his books sooner than I thought I would.

Of tears and transit

She stood at the door, her left arm linked to the pole, like how most women like to travel in the train when it’s pleasant outside. There was a slight drizzle accompanied by a strong wind, the wind rustling her hair while she was talking in Marathi to someone over the phone; her eyes glistened against the light of the passing scenery, then came the tears and the muffled sounds made by the attempt to hold back soft sobs, simultaneously ending the call abruptly. I stood right behind her, extremely conscious of the woman in front of me who was undoubtedly crying. To console or not to, the debate had already begun with zest in my head. The train halted at the station when a flower vendor got in, bringing along with her the heady fragrance of mogras and champas. The flowers, the rain, the sweat; none of it took my eyes or mind off the woman who was crying in the train. My eyes flitted to another lady leaning against the edge, her eyes told me she saw what I was seeing, in a language unknown to me till then, I understood that she did too.  Spontaneity took over me and I offered the lady at the door some water, when she refused I gave her hand a squeeze as though trying to indicate to her that it was okay. She managed a meek smile before turning away, sobbing a little more and getting off at her stop.

This is just one of those instances where I have seen women breaking down in the train, on the platform seated on benches and even on the bridges near railway platforms. These breakdowns are often accompanied by harrowed sounding conversations over the phone, probably with the boyfriend/husband or with a friend complaining about the woes of daily life. Although, the mother-in-law complaints take the cake on this one. A crumpled handkerchief balled up in the fist, the end of a dupatta or the ‘pallu’ of a saree wipe away these tears. Some damsel s in distress thankfully have a friend along to lend a literal shoulder to cry on. I remember having one such breakdown after having an absolutely horrendous day at work. All eyes on me while I sobbed rather loudly, talking to a friend of mine about my ordeal.  I felt embarrassed and helpless at the same time, aware of all the curiosity around me and careful enough to avoid eye contact with anyone afterward.

Women who travel together frequently develop a fondness towards each other and in some cases a deep rooted companionship. A companionship which may develop on common grounds such as gossip, discussing clothes/jewellery/recipes/latest music and of course mother-in-laws. I was bent over ‘The Book Thief’ by Markus Zusack on one such journey, warm tears flowing down my cheek as Liesel Meminger inched closer towards her ultimate fate. A concerned Aunty asked me if I was alright, I realized she was the same lady with whom I exchanged smiles everyday at Kalyan station (this just affirms the fact that I’m a crier). Then there are those who woes are painful menstrual cramps and unbearable headaches, all they need is a place to sit and some water and the advice of the wise old aunties travelling along.

What is it about trains or platforms that makes one feel free to breakdown? Is it the familiarity due to frequency or the comfort of breaking down in front of complete strangers you may never meet/see again? It could also be uninundated emotions that see neither time nor place; seeking solace in the silence and the sympathetic nods and stares of the people around. Maybe we’re so caught up that we don’t have time to be sad or we push pain away till we deem it appropriate to find an outlet. I still hesitate while offering a handkerchief, tissue or comfort to these anonymous damsels in distress. However, every time I see one a silent prayer goes their way. If I ever happen to see you teary eyed in the train or on a platform, a smile will definitely make its way to you. Plus, I always carry extra tissues, always.

Love in the times of transit

   A sea of people, bobbing heads appear and disappear; tall ones shadow the short ones, footsteps like clockwork and train timetables mechanically make their way to a place called home. Rush hour at any railway platform in Bombay feels the same. What happens after these people leave? Like little rocks that are exposed after a wave recedes, you’ll see people in pairs on lesser crowded corners or spaces of bridges, foot over bridges and platforms. These pairs are often seen engaged in intimate conversations, holding hands, embracing and sometimes even planting a little peck; obviously avoiding the authorities’ watchful eyes. Bombay is a city of endless possibilities, take about a million people chasing their endless possibilities, seizing the day whilst travelling to and fro by local trains. What time does it leave for one to write a sonnet to your beloved? What it does leave time for is the time spent waiting for a train, between catching connecting trains or probably taking the train home together. Code names for spots are made up,  ‘bridge ke neeche’, ‘first dabba’, ‘sky-walk wale seedhi ke neeche’ each of these and their  likes easily crawl their way into the daily language of the couples in-transit. This is the story of those few thousand couples in Bombay.

    On my way back from work I often spot couples and smile inwardly while aunties shoot looks ranging from surprise to rage and even disgust at these love-birds accompanied by concerned sounding clicking of their tongues and head shakes. But the lovers, nonchalant to these reactions, find comfort in the touch and sight of their beloved. The noise, the smells and the hurry in the background find no signs of ceasing to exist. The comfort that they find in their significant other (temporarily or otherwise) after a long tiring day is all that they seek. For that instant they forget how their boss yelled at them or the dishes they have to do once they get home.

    While most of these interactions are often all-smiles, there are a few that are laced with arguments and breakdowns. Do not be alarmed if you find a girl sobbing or slyly wiping away an unsteady flow of tears with her rolled up handkerchief, the boy is often a helpless bystander who offers her comfort through his handkerchief or a squeeze to her shoulder.  Then comes the part where one is seeing the other off, a quick hug, a smile, enthusiastic waving good-bye and the hope of seeing each other the next day.

    For couples who travel together, the story is a little different. The journey is complimented by sharing a pair of earphones and listening to music or catching up on sleep with a short nap resting their head on the other’s shoulder. ‘Accidental’ touching is a given. The rest of the journey is full of story-telling or a constant silence interrupted by pieces of conversation between the couple. This little rendezvous blossoms under watchful eyes of the Uncles, Aunties and families traveling in the same compartment. Four years ago I gasped when I had spotted a lesbian couple on a train conspicuously in love, holding hands. Today, I think back to that time and smile. Local trains and their paraphernalia let you love without prejudices, atleast the graffiti inside some trains says so.  I’m no creepy stalker, just in-transit a lot.  Maybe, I’ll meet you someday, on platform number one, first class- middle compartment.

Aai Says

Dear God,

Aai says its good to pray but when I asked her how to, she said in Marathi “Only you can decide how to.” So I’ll write letters to you. Please make my teeth come back faster, Rohan calls me ‘tunnel’ everyday and I don’t like it. While playing basketball in school today my glasses fell and broke. I’ve hidden them under my bed please don’t let mummy come to know. Mummy and Daddy scream at each other a lot nowadays. Aai says it’s because they forgot that they love each other. Please make them remember soon. They should eat badaam. Aai gives me four badaams everyday. Last night mummy came and slept next to me. When I asked her why, she said, “The bed is getting smaller for me and Daddy.” I know it isn’t, because even after all my toys are on their bed, there’s space still left. Maybe Daddy puts too many files on the bed. Daddy never lets anyone touch his colourful files. He says “My Principal in office will scold me if anything goes missing.” Today my purple crayon got lost in class. I had to colour a brinjal black because of that. In the evening a liar uncle came home. He had files in his hand but not colouful files like daddy’s. Mummy read from the files and became very sad. Daddy and mummy were very quiet at the dinner table. Mummy even scolded me for making too much noise while eating. After dinner I saw Mummy packing her suitcase. I think we’re going to Goa or to Nana’s place. Daddy isn’t packing his suitcase. He’s still got files all over the bed. Liar uncle says I can see Daddy only sometimes. But I want to see Aai everyday, even in Goa. Mummy said we’re not taking Aai with us. Please please make Aai come with us too. Aai says I’m going to be a smart and beautiful woman someday but for that I had to stop crying and start smiling more. I stopped crying and Aai hugged me. Aai says to keep praying to you. So I will. Please send me an address I can send this letter to. So I can pray everyday. Love you Bappa.

Anushka.

When people matter

Five years ago, I sat crouched at my table, braiding 'friendship bands' out of colourful yarn. I had my calculations all clear in my head, yarn bands for my best friends and strips of ribbon for the others. It'd worked out perfectly well the next day as I exchanged bands at school. I'd counted the amount of bands I had on my wrists and prided in the fact that so many people thought of me as a friend. Cut to present-cynicism and the search for meaning and significance made these bands insignificant. The next 4 years after school, friendship day remained just another Sunday in August until a friend revived the tradition with gifts instead of bands.
 It was then that realization showered upon me, like the sudden showers of Bombay (yes, I'd still prefer Bombay over Mumbai); it's not the bands but the people whose friendship stays with you like the stubborn knot in every band. A yarn band, a ribbon or a thoughtful gesture would serve just as well.

When people matter, you hunt for a new copy of book of theirs that you misplaced or accidentally ruined. Then you personalize with a hand-written note and hand-deliver it to them at 8:30 am. You share embarrassing secrets over a massive lunch and glorious amounts of 'beverages'. A lunch that makes you not want to leave the comfort of the warmth in your chair that your butt has created. When you thank the heavens to have blessed you with that one friend; one who knows you like the palms of her hand because she's smacked you for each stupid thing you've done.You take all the possible detours to spend as much time with them as you can, talking, losing your way and finding it all over again. You run back home to meet the precious idiots you grew up with. hug each one of them and wish them a 'Happy Friendship Day.' You're glad you grew up with them because they can hear the rumble in your stomach before you can even say it out loud that you need food. When people matter, a humble plate of bhurji-paav at 10 in the night, seasoned with the weather's choicest drizzles feels no less than a feast. A stomach and a heart warmed by food and warmed by love.

P.S: Once in a while I tend to order extra cheese on my pizza and my feelings.

The Murakami Syndrome

    Two years ago I picked up 'Sputnik Sweetheart' from a street vendor at Fort. Curiosity struck me as I saw the minimal bright red book cover illustrated with a moon that looked as if it was shooting into the sky. Five books and counting, I realized I was bit by the 'Murakami bug'. He had me entranced. A Murakami novel successfully teleports you to Japan. To see, hear,laugh, weep, run, hide, live and breathe alongwith the Kafka Tamuras, Toru Watanabes and the Takahashi Tetsyas of Murakami's works. Stories that question every feeling or emotion which haunt us as we try to keep dancing. The feelings of loneliness or alienation that feature ever so vividly in his works oddly enough give you a sense of belonging. The indigenous similes, analogies and the metaphors leave you wondering if there could ever be a better way in which you understood what someone's trying to convey. Ambiguous emotions, not so run-of-the-mill characters, tasteful descriptions of love-making; the kinks and quirks of the characters only make you realize the far side of the personality spectrum that you are on. The message that screams off the pages is that it is okay to be in a mess( fucked up is what I would say in the crudest yet clearest way possible) and it's okay if you don't fit the society's definition of 'normal'. His characters(and so could we) create a definition of it along the way. The works of Haruki Murakami could exactly be equated with Richard Gere's description of Opera in 'Pretty Woman'.

     "People's reactions to opera the first time they see it is very dramatic; they either love it or they hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don't, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul."

 I feel not an ounce of shame when I declare to my family and friends of being in love with a 65 year-old Japanese man. The kind of love that leaves you weak in the knees as soon as you get your hands on the copy of one of his works. The man who narrates stories that remain etched in my mind; the man who gives me occasional lessons in Classical music, Rock and Roll, Jazz and Blues. The man who went from running a Jazz bar to running over 20 marathons till date. The man who told me to keep memories closer to me than people. The one who told me that pain was inevitable but suffering was optional. The one who made me take up Japanese with much more furor than what I intended to. The man I turned to when I looked for a way to mourn my dead puppy. My copy of 'Sputnik Sweetheart' has 'Read at your own risk' in black ink, diagonally scribbled across the first page. I now wonder whether the risk I was taking was of falling hopelessly in love. 

     A recent revelation in Bhutan led me to creating an analogy that Buddha and Murakami both set out to attain enlightenment at the age of 29; Buddha through his meditation and Murakami through his writing. Murakami is not a man of his words, he's a man of the magic his words create. For those who are fed up of my incessant chatter about Haruki Murakami, get yourself a book and you'll know what I am talking about.