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.

Twenty-three

Annette closed the cabinet door in the bathroom and stared at the reflection in the mirror.”I’m letting you go, here’s your termination letter” Johnathan said that morning. The words hung in the air and it almost made it difficult for her to breathe.”Two” she counted. As Annette made her way to her bed she looked at a picture on her bedside table a charming young man and she ,arm-in-arm looked distinctly happy. Anne wiped off a stray tear, removed the picture and tore it.”Five” she counted. All this anger was making her hungry.”Time for a midnight snack”, she mumbled and she walked over to her fridge. The walls were lined with pictures of her as a kid with hands all messy from hand-painting, grey hands from a trial at pottery, her play-doh kit she received at 8 as a Christmas present. Anne steadied her gaze at the Law degree that hung next to these. Bland, drab words on a piece of yellowed paper. What an antithesis to all that colour she loved as a kid!”Eight” she counted.

           Wasting no time she took the frame containing her degree and smashed it to the floor. The glass broke and it’s shards were all over the floor.”Ten” she counted. She grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter as she took one long sip. The new electric whisk she’d bought sat there on the platform, gathering dust. As instinct took over her, before she could even realize Anne was grabbing flour, eggs, butter and sugar from the cabinets.”Grandma loved chocolate cake” she said as if someone standing next to her was listening. There was no one. She hummed a tune as she was stirring the ingredients in when she realised there wasn’t any cocoa powder at home.She stopped stirring the batter and began walking away from the messy platform.”Twelve” she counted. Anne chugged down her second beer.”Thirteen” she counted. It was close to 3 am and she decided it was about time she went to bed. As she made her way towards her bedroom upstairs “Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one” she counted.

            Annette’s voice almost echoed in her empty apartment or so she felt as her vision began to blur.”It’s working” she said to herself with a smirk.”Twenty-two” she counted. She collapsed onto her bed and a tiny white bottle escaped her grasp. Seven little pills tumbled out of them,she popped one into her mouth her vision still blurry.”Twenty-three” she counted. As the world around her turned a monochromatic shade of grey “Tomorrow is a new day…” she said sounding cold and disinterested. The grey had now turned to black. Once it’s gone black, there’s no coming back.

Fame in Flames

“Fame is not everyone’s cup of tea” said Dr. Cooper to which Anushka replied “Not everyone’s glass of vodka either Doctor” holding back her chuckle as a cigarette was still dangling from her mouth. Three months had passed after this conversation between her and Dr. Cooper which was also the same amount of time she’d been sober. She had many visitors while she was recuperating at the rehabilitation centre but she refused to meet every single one of them.”Let me just write my goddamn music” she would scorn at the attendant and continued to strum away at her guitar. Then came the day she left the world of pale walls, faded curtains, “discussions” with Dr. Cooper and group therapy sessions. Anushka’s friend and manager Raghu stood at the exit of the rehab next to her car. Raghu was happy that Anushka was back but he was happier now that his source of income was back too. As she neared the car both of them hugged and Raghu whispered into her ear “I got you a gig”. Anushka shrugged, got into the car and they sped off.

              The venue of the gig was a club named The Little Door, ”A good place to start afresh” Anushka thought. As the crowd cheered her name, her palms began sweating. She could use a little alcohol to calm her nerves which she usually did, but after three months of sobriety that didn’t seem like a viable option and now a little would not be enough. She clutched Raghu’s arm, he knew what was bothering her, gave her an assuring smile and screamed to overcome the loudness of the crowd “You were and always will be my favourite rockstar!”When she got on stage the bright lights blinded her, she narrowed them to adjust to her brightly lit surrounding. “I hope you lovely people enjoy tonight because it’s the beginning of many more to come”. The crowd cheered louder, she began strumming her guitar and she sang. As words became lyrics and the strumming became a tune, the crowd fell silent. The room was filled with her seductive voice. When this seductress sang of love, people believed in love and when she sang of heart breaks people disbelieved that very belief. She hit all the high notes effortlessly that night, it felt good. ‘I’ll sleep well tonight” she murmured to herself as the crowd demanded an encore. She took a bow and exited through the little blue door.

          That night as she retired to bed she’d done something she hadn’t done in a long time, Anushka dialed her mother’s number. She felt her mouth go dry as the phone rang as she didn’t know what or how much she would explain to her mother. A known, mild voice answered “Hello, beta...” then there were no words spoken only the sounds of soft sobs were heard in the background. Anushka felt warm tears flowing down her cheeks too. “Amma…I had a gig tonight and it went pretty well, Raghu said I’ll pick up all the broken pieces soon. I’ve been sober…for three months’. Silence. She could hear the beep on the other end. There was an assurance in the silence .She’d taken a step towards rebuilding what alcohol had destroyed. “If I think, I won’t drink, If I drink, I won’t think” she repeated this affirmation she’d learnt at a group therapy session. It became more of a chant and she drifted off to sleep. She began tossing and turning and woke up in the middle of the night, her body drenched in sweat. She’d experienced nights like these at the rehab but there always was an attendant around. Here it was her and her mind in which all thoughts began directing to alcohol. She stumbled out of her bed to look for her phone to call Raghu, he’d been fast asleep. “ There must be bottle lying around somewhere” she screamed as she began rummaging through her apartment. She found one hidden away in the corner of a kitchen cabinet.

                 As Anushka sat on the floor and drank that night, her life, the blinding fame flashed past her eyes. About how she’d begun drinking just a little before performances to take the edge off.How she added to the little a little more at the success parties and just a little more at the after parties. And how the little had become a lot and the occasional traversed into almost all the time. She thought of how the music blared and her intoxicated mind and body swayed to the music. The empty bottle now broke her chain of thoughts. “More” she uttered. She called a former acquaintance up with whom she would go out drinking. He was up and around she demanded for alcohol.”But…weren’t you?”he said.”That’s exactly my point, I WAS, not anymore” Anushka grinned as she spoke. A few minutes later the door bell rang, an unsteady man stood at the door with a package, Anushka walked over with a bundle of notes in her hand. Taking the package she said “ Won’t you wait?” the man nodded as if saying no “Well, I’ll keep myself company, your work here is done, get out now” she handed him the bundle of notes and slammed the door shut on his face.

            That morning as Raghu walked into Anushka’s apartment in a hurry he saw bottles strewn all around the floor. But she was nowhere to be found, Raghu’s heart began beating faster with every step he took. He opened the bathroom door only to see Anushka lying on the floor in her own vomit. Raghu panicked and tried getting her up. Then he felt her pulse. None. As he broke down he tried to remove the bottle Anushka was clutching. As it turns out, nobody could.