Of Bean Bags and Boredom !!

I am bored. Therefore I shall scribble.

What’s there to a place? I wonder.
There was Delhi and my life there. It was so perfect? Why was it so perfect?... because I chose it to be perfect in my head. There were days of despair, or illness, of fights and tears. And there were days of friendship, adventure, smiles and laughter. And yet, in its complete self – it was perfect.
I think we choose our perfection. For me Delhi was it. It was the only place I thought happiness would come to me from. But now I realise, happiness doesn’t come to you. You, take your lazy arse, and go to it.
It is what you make of a place that the place makes of you. It is the vibes you give a city that get flung back to you. No? Yes? Something?
Mumbai is okay… I am getting used to the rains, I am okay with the traffic, I like the breezy nights and the lazy weekends. I like myself. And I like the way I can adapt.

I have learnt the following things about Mumbai:

- To get love you have to give some first.
- Rains is a pain in the ass. Grin and bear with it. Power of toleration, I say!
- Taxi and auto wallas are most fun to chat with
- You must know how to jump onto a moving train
- Therobroma is brownie haven.
- Sion and “sheev” are names of the same place – but I still cant figure out why is it spelled so differently in english and hindi!
- Station is a place you should write award winning books at.
- “Kute” means where and not “kutte”
- The auto meters read one rupee more than you must pay them
- Noone gives a rat’s shit as to what you wear – and this I loouwe!

Apart from that, and apart from polishing my social skills, there is a home – there are warm children who love me – and it is such a warmth inducing feeling (oh me and my maternal instincts). There is utter boredom on days and utter business on other days. There is, somehow, never a time when I don’t have people to meet or something to do…like I don’t know…music to listen to, write a mail, read on the train,cook something new, straighten my almirah, stare at the sea etcetera etcetera!

And then there are the really bright moments of the day. For example when an announcement is made that 2 huge beanbags shall be arriving home… one deep red and one black. The thought of the deep red fills me with so much lazy joy! I love beanbags – all kind, all colour… well, there is just one kind actually…but yes, all sizes, all prices, everywhere and anywhere – be it the common room at LSR or my friend’s house, be it at Village Café or the furniture shop around the corner.
The first thing I want to buy when I have my own place is a bean bag. A huge read bean bag. It will be like this big blob of colour adding life to my room and symbolising my love for just being a couch potato and doing nothing. It is comforting just looking at a beanbag. I have always been so much in love with them. So much so that in the computer game, the Sims house party (you know where design your house, your lane, your garden and all your furnishing – oh even your lover, just for the record!), ya so in that game even, I remember having these crazy fluorescent green and blue beanbags all around my virtual house! Beanbags give me such joy. Much as most things these days do. And sometimes when everything is giving me too much joy, I crib just a little bit to feel “normal”!

I’m in office. And as you can gather from my endless ramble, I am bored. Oh so bored. And sitting in anticipation of seeing the beanbags arrive at home. Pix is on her way. We are going shopping. *jumps in the air, clicks her feet, CRASH*
We shall raid the streets of Bandra. We shall share this experience called “Mumbai”. And after the exhilarating fun of it all, we shall crib just a teeny-weeny bit to get our feet back onto the ground.

What’s there to a place? I wonder again. People make places. And right now my people seem to be here. This is my city now. I have partly arrived!

My Station My Space

The simplest of sights arrest me. I am, increasingly, falling in love with the variety of life that the station has to offer – the diversity of people, the multiplicity of human emotions, the colours of the umbrellas, the smell of the vada pavs, the unspoken camaraderie between the women and the verbal solidarity between the men.

There are moments when I am completely taken aback by a beggar woman – who has exactly two saris…yellow and orange – that she wears in turns…and spreads the pallu out to beg. And she has this incredibly saddened expression on her face. I would want to decide whether it is a practiced expression or a genuine one…except I don’t seem to have the heart to do that. I, having decided to harden myself against such moments, still end up taking some coins out… but I decide however, that when I have some extra money, buying a sari for her won’t hurt me.

One day I saw a young boy, just lying…sleeping?... ( I don’t know), in one corner of the ladies compartment – I wanted to reach out and wake him up, ask him what’s wrong, help him if I could…but I didn’t. I don’t even know why. Maybe because at one level, even I have strangled a part of my conscience.

But today what I saw will stay suspended in some corner of my mind forever. As I climbed down the stairs of the station, I saw a man who was limping – seemed like a case of polio – and with him, was a small child…say four year old…and he was holding his hand and both of them were slowly coming down the stairs…it was such a strange sight – it was so heart rendering – I kept turning around to look at them – to just know that they have reached the end of the stairs… I don’t know who was helping who down the stairs…who was guiding who… a physically challenged man who could hardly climb down the stairs on his own, or the child who could hardly keep a track of his own tiny feet?… I wanted, at that moment, to capture that sight… I wished, at that point, that my eyes were a camera of sorts… I was visually arrested and emotionally moved… I was, again, one inch closer to loving the absolute beauty in such simple sights. I was again in love with the idea of going to the station tomorrow.

Sip of Heaven

Am I turning into an alcoholic? Hah! Over dramatic self at its best…it is, at most,
a wine-holic. And that is if you include the very delicious Tia Maria, Peach Schnapps and sometimes a can of beer.
It was Rhododendron wine yesterday. It is fine white wine today. 2 bottles of Port wine were guzzled a few days ago. Some black currant vodka was offered last night. Ofcourse I declined. I hate vodka. I would much rather slowly sip and swim in the silken taste of wine.
Once upon a time, I used to think I am allergic to wine. Those were tragic days. And this stemmed from the fact that I am highly allergic to grapes. But come one trip to Goa and with a few anti-allergic tablets in my pocket and a bottle of wine, I finally realised that I am, in fact, not at all allergic to this drink of the demi-gods! And then began my very stable affair with wine – of all types and varieties – white, red, port, apricot, peach, apple, plum and even the above mentioned, rhododendron wine.

Now you see, Simla, my beloved hometown, is a place for wine lovers. Suddenly a burst of wine making has taken over that side of the state like a plague. Everywhere you go – departmental stores, hotels, tourist spots…there are so many wines…I am amazed at the stuff they make wine out of – every time I go there is a new type to taste and to celebrate to…never mind if there is no occasion for it….drinking wine is an occasion by itself if you ask me!

I am sitting at my laptop – sipping at my sparkling glass of wine, scribbling this nonsense, trying to do a shot breakdown for the film I am working on, and teaching my 8 year old cousin for her exam tomorrow – yes, I am the goddess of multitasking, I am super cool! *narcissistic guffaw*
I bought a diary today – handmade paper et al…I love stationary…never regret or feel a twinge at over-spending on it. I think stationary is meant to be splurged upon and to be hoarded. It is just so beautifully useful. I needed a diary. Well, I always need a diary…but to add to my collection. This time however, I needed one to scribble my thoughts in the train – I observe the most interesting people on the train…old women with such comforting faces, strange women who talk to themselves, kind faces, poor faces, happy faces, dissatisfied faces, gorgeous faces, innocent faces, annoying faces – and this makes me think…there are too many people in the world…all of them have a thousand stories to them…there are so many incidents in the world…can anyone write down all of them?...can anyone record each experience…I guess not…I guess it must be really tough being god. I sometimes also wonder…if god has a record of all the people on earth…its like this visual – of god and his helpers – and they are all surrounded by miles and miles of paper (handmade ofcourse!) which has the record of everything that happens on earth…wow…I think I visualise too much…I think I should give my imagination a break. I think I should go and get another glass of wine. Cheers!

Polka Dots

“Someone is a dreadful blotch
While someone is an ordinary spot
But the best of them all
Is the joyous, bouncy polka dot”

Monsoon has attacked this city. Rain rain everywhere, not a drop to escape from! Yesterday, after office, I took my umbrella and braved myself to go back home… it was not raining as it mostly does…the water wasn’t conspiring with the wind and slimily drenching me from all sides, but gently drizzling – almost pleasant…slightly making me smile and forget the fact that I was at office on a Sunday. I let my umbrella blossom with a flourish and then stepped onto the horrid bumpy water filled road… and then I saw dots… the raindrops very designedly fell on the water body making tiny ripples at intervals… it was like a polka dotted puddle… nature’s own pattern!

Now I see dots everywhere. When I go to buy my night pajamas. When I watch the beetle scuttle in the bush at the park. When I sit doodling on blank papers while I am on the phone. When I dab dots of night cream of my face. When I watch one big bubble float in the air during my bath. When I stare at the yolk of my fried egg at breakfast. When I type any word that has an ‘o’ in it. The whole world is suddenly one big polka dot.

There is such harmony in polka dots. It’s like one visual song. And there is a peaceful sense of co-existence in them. And a strange feeling of life and joy. I feel comfortable when I see polka dots. I think it is the smoothness. Or the fact that they all seem, somehow, to be at one level…there is none above or below the other…its so in accord. Unlike lines and sharp patterns, it doesn’t disturb me.

White dots on bright red. Green dots on lemon yellow. Purple dots on hot pink. Ah! Such variety. So many combinative possibilities. So much colour. And so many happy dots. The world is one enormous dot. And I, a speck, just waiting to be a polka dot.