Home Is Where The Heart Is

There's a house somewhere in Behala that I call home. What's so special about this place, you ask? Have I known its inhabitants for a long time? Do we share some special connection or common interests? Do we speak the same language or share the same childhood memories? The answer to all of those would be a resounding no.

My morning begins with my phone buzzing me awake for my first meeting of the day. I find my spot, silver Mac open, on the orange plastic chair in the kitchen, the only place in the house where I can yell and not risk waking up my house mates. The first person I meet every morning is Smacky. He ambles into the kitchen, in the same clothes he's worn for two days, searching in slow panic for his morning cigarette. Once it's found (holy mother of all that's good and pure), Smacky sits across from me on the floor, offers me a nod and begins his scrolling on the phone. He gives me a smirk - a combination of mockery and admiration - as he watches me clacking away at the keyboard with my eyebrows scrunched up.  Every morning I looked forward to these few minutes of sleep-dewed companionship. Not very many words spoken between us, and yet some soft comfort in occasionally smiling or raising an eyebrow at a friend. Smacky's few minutes with me in the morning, unassuming, unintrusive and comforting, was the first Selfless Act of Kindness I experienced in that house.

Next was Vats. Vats, the giver of great hugs. Vats, the hysterical laugher. Vats, whose friendship was offered to me so unconditionally that it humbled me. And of course, I am not the only receiver of Vats' generosity. However late the night before was, however many khambey we had demolished, Vats' was there at the stove the next day making adrak chai for the entire house, permanent and temporary members alike. And so, as if I was home with my mother, a loving hand would pass me a scorching hot mug of chai to start my day. Selfless Act of Kindness number 2.

As more of my housemates wake up, more sleepy men walk around me, always quiet for the sake of my numerous calls, someone making eggs, someone brushing teeth, someone doing the laundry. The house comes into motion. In the way that house is run, I see no lists. I see no taskmaster. I see no one pointing fingers at anyone else. Someone fixes it, period. Dripping tap. Overflowing garbage bin. Absent maid. Dirty toilets. Sheets that smell like beer. There's a bearded man somewhere in the house who silently volunteers to get it fixed. In my eyes, these were all Selfless Acts of Kindness. Because no one asked them to, and someone else would have done it eventually.

I remembered myself as a housemate. How selfish I was, always counting my chores, always berating the ones who slacked, always keeping it fair. Watching them work, I found myself wanting to be more generous and more giving with even the tiniest things.

As the day sunk into evening, Unnati finally awoke from her slumber. Of course, she was awake for short periods throughout the day. Most often to smoke (and surreptitiously offer me) a citrus cigarette and then subsequently curl herself back into a swathe of blankets. In the evening, as I was winding up my last few calls, Unnattee would arrive into my day, full of energy. It was her infectious spirit that kept me awake despite having sat in a single position staring at a screen for the last 10 hours.  If there is anyone who is benevolent with her Selfless Acts of Love, it's this sprightly young woman of all but 24. Her hands bring to life everything from boring toast to elaborate fish curry and make them crazy delicious. She will cut onions with the bluntest knife I've ever used, prep masala the same way her mother did, bring from the store every ingredient that's needed, stand by the stove sweating for hours and make sure that the rest of her hungry flatmates sleep with an insane meal in their belly.

And while all of this is happening, the buff and ready Rum Boys (Pankaj and Dhankani) would have promptly set out on the bike to begin their night's search for our choice of poisons and multiple varieties of crispies (Uncle Chips carefully rationed).

You'd think that it would get tiring living packed like sardines within the four walls of a two bedroom house. But recreation was aplenty, whether it was  uninhibited dancing to the most ludicrous songs ever made (Tenu Suit Suit Karda and Naja Naja), crooning John Mayer love songs to the strum of the guitar, binge watching standup comedy on Netflix or cooking adventurous recipes off Youtube.

That's the thing about this house in Behala. Everyone in that house does things primarily for the happiness and pleasure of those around them. Where else would you find a full grown man (my own Josh, of course), cuddling Smacky unapologetically with his legs wrapped around him because hey, you guessed it, cuddling feels fucking awesome for everyone. Or the numerous massages offered through the day, as if we were a pack of monkeys just taking turns eliciting oohs and aah's and some rather sexual moans with our skilful fingers.

Every act, it seems, is drawn from an inherent love and brotherhood. What's mine is yours. What makes you happy makes me happy. I will give those you love, the benefit of the doubt always. And fuck what people say, love is what it is and no one gets to tell me how I express mine for you. Hugs are distributed with no scruples, foreheads are caressed with no inhibition and laughter is a free resource that all can partake in.

So there I was, beginning my journey - at first, as stranger, an observer and an admirer of those beautiful friendships and then finally, being drawn gently towards the heart of that warm family.

I learnt that language may be a vessel of communication, but sharing a language isn't necessary for communication. A south Indian walking into a den of north Indians sounds quite like a sheep walking into the slaughterhouse. Little did I know that broken phrases and sign language and hilarious translations can be the planks that build a bridge to the other side. Our childhoods were all so different, as were our adult realities. If you put our parents all in one room, you'd probably come back to a communal riot. And yet, there we were, 7 ridiculously different individuals, listening to each others stories of pain and loss, of love and the lack of it, of happiness and crippling tragedy. There we were, 7 ridiculously different individuals, finding commonness only in our mutual love.

I learnt that selflessness isn't forced, it simply occurs when no boundaries exist between you and I. It sometimes takes years, sometimes days and sometimes minutes to find those people for whom no sea is too rough to brave.

I found a place, somewhere in Behala that I call home. No, it's not its' geographical location or the beauty of its architecture that enamoured me. It was the unconditional love that fell at my feet as I stepped in the door.

For you, my dear friends, I would walk a thousand miles. And crazy, selfish, ambitious queen of the corporate world that I am, you reminded me that there is no greater joy in life than to give oneself to the happiness of another.  However long I spend wearing my many masks, as a resident of this home, I know that I will always have a place where I can give all my love and never fear for it being returned.

Vats, Unnattee, Smacky, Pankaj, Dhankani - I love you so much that my heart will burst. Thank you, for showing me the true meaning of brotherhood. 

On Happiness

Happiness. Ha-ppi-ness. Lightness in the "ha", a sprightly spring in the "ppi" and a serene ending with the "ness".  The sounds themselves embody the elusiveness of this feeling; the word almost an onomatope.

We often glorify this, the pursuit of happiness. We search and search and search through our days to find some pinnacle upon which we can stand, plant a flag and say at last to the world and to the limitless skies, "I am happy!" We swipe through photographs, picture perfect in their quality and composition and imagine our friends and enemies and think to ourselves, "I bet they're happy." We watch videos and TED Talks about ultra-successful people who followed their dreams and did what they loved and now are bathing in some glorious beam of success and admiration. And on those days when in the pursuit of happiness, we find ourselves entirely defeated, we wonder, "is any of this even worth it if I'm not happy?"

I catch myself often dreaming of a different life. Where my life revolves around my writing. Where I write pages and pages of language, read by hundreds of thousands of people and I receive a pay check for doing the thing I love most. I see myself traveling to mysterious places, sitting shoulder to shoulder next to hunting tribesmen and misunderstood artists and child prodigies, listening in awe to their histories and crafting them into compelling stories. In this life I see myself as happy, never wanting more or less than what I have.

I am frequently wallowing in a pit of discontentment. I wonder if I should be spending my life working 18 hours a day instead of teaching English on a beach somewhere and sipping coconut water out the shell.

I feel like we all do this. We imagine some greener pasture, some warmer embrace than we already have. But the truth is, we imagine this at every point, irrespective of where we are - and that is what makes humans move forward everyday. We are not really in pursuit of happiness, are we? We are in the pursuit of bettering ourselves and so we put ourselves in these "would be" situations that eventually motivate us to take that next step or that big leap.

Happiness. Ha-ppi-ness. I don't have to think twice before I swipe my credit card (lightness), I get to share drinks and meals with my family every few months (sprightly spring) and I fell in love with a man who is as good as gold and as warm as a fall fireplace (serenity).

It's not a mountain you climb or some light at the end of a dreary tunnel. It doesn't come by default if you choose a profession you love, it doesn't arrive if you don't make the effort every day to invite it. It's a conscious decision, a high-investment activity that you must willingly undertake. As anyone with some wisdom would have told us, happiness is the sum of minuscule parts, a piecemeal collection of smooth pebbles in a satin pouch.

It is the song you hum in the shower at the end of your day or the chance you give yourself to read a beautiful book. It's the chill of ocean foam on a hot winter afternoon on the beach. It's the tired voice of your loved ones at the end of the day soothing you like a gentle massage. It's the laughter of your brother when you crack a terrible joke or the victory you feel when you outshine yourself at work. It's your friend's glee when they receive one of your postcards.

I choose now to revel in these little joys. They make my shoulders stronger to hold up the unavoidable drudgeries, the high-pressure decisions, the fears of failure that I face every single day. You may say I'm a fool, but I think I'm quite enjoying being a glass half full kind of girl. :)

The Strangers of Siem Reap

I stepped into Siem Reap airport, after a cramped Air Asia flight, and felt lost. It was the first time I had entered a country alone. I'd read a lot before this trip though, what to expect, what to be wary of, etc. I walked over to the phone counter to buy a sim card (knew what to buy, which company, what plan and all that) and two smiling faces quickly got my phone all set up with a "welcome to Siem Reap, have a wonderful stay!" I'm taken aback by the fluent English, especially in contrast to the broken English which I hear and converse in every day in Bangkok.

With 3g equipped smartphone, I quickly open Google Maps. Then I notice there are no cabs anywhere. The foreigners take tuk tuks out of the airport and I'm thinking, "pssh, tourists and their obsession with tuk tuks". As I wander around the airport parking lot, Friendly Stranger Number 3 walks up to me. He has an airport staff badge on and asks if I need any help. Again in fluent English. All I can manage to say is "how can I get out of this airport?". He replies that I can take an "airport tuk tuk or airport bike" to get out for 2 dollars.

And so there I was, behind the bike driver on a beat up Suzuki one speed bike and the driver asking me if I want him to take me to Angkor Wat the next day. I reply with, "where did you learn English" to which he says, "school". I suddenly became one of those bright white smile, red lipstick English girls at bars that have asked me the same thing and I've given the same answer. I'd felt insulted when they asked me; why was it so surprising I spoke English? And here I was, berating someone else in the same way. Riding on those roads that were more dust than tar, I felt the relative nature of privilege. He left me at the hotel with a bittersweet smile.




Every Cambodian I met in Siem Reap had something in common : kindness drew out from their soul and shone in their eyes and smiles. Despite the immense poverty they suffered, every single one offered a warmth that one rarely gets from friends, let alone total strangers. You notice it all the more when you're alone; I was so much more sensitive to my surroundings. And so, stranger 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 gave way to so many amazing strangers over the next two days, that I I've entirely lost count. But I wanted to tell you my favourites.





Three of the hotel's staff - who offered me a cold towel, a drink and a room upgrade. Then, without invitation, took me through a map of the city, offered me free rides to and from the hotel whenever I wanted, arranged my trip to Angkor Wat, arranged a ride to the airport, recommended places to eat, tidied up a creaky old cycle so I could explore the town on my own and lent me 50 cents when I ran out of change. All services deployed with bows and smiles.







Two tuk tuk drivers - who carried me out the city on their makeshift contraptions so that I could experience the magic of the sun rising and setting in two different corners of the city. Who rode quietly with dust in their eyes and sweat on their palms but still turned back with a smile when I was stepping off or welcomed me with a wave when I returned. Never expecting a tip, but beaming when I forcefully pressed a dollar into their hands.





Shirtless Monk who poured me ice cold water after I'd climbed a kilometre of hill in the midday sun. I'd arrived drenched in sweat and panting breathless at his door. He sat me on his stone bench and told me to enjoy the view, shared his photos of himself in his saffron robes and explained to me in broken English that he'd been living in that dusty, deserted place for 15 years. I touched his feet when he held me by the shoulders, looked into my eyes and wished me a long and happy life always.





Ant loving tour guide - who found me waiting at the top of the hill, just me and my kindle, and started speaking loudly so that I could be part of his tour, eventually getting his Italian clients to smile and welcome me in to listen to his anecdotes. He took a red ant from a tree onto his finger and let it run around all over, showed the ant to tourists and then set the ant back on a leaf saying, "its life is as good as yours or mine" and I cringed, because I'd only 10 minutes ago stomped an ant dead as it scrambled too close to my bag.





Roadside Bartender - who sat with me as I cleaned a White Russian, followed by a Margarita and told me about his day job and best place to find amok. He raved about his cute niece and went on to comment on the similarities between Indians and Cambodians. I don't remember his name. He kept calling himself "Mark" because it's easier to pronounce and he played cheesy Bruno Mars songs and sang along with me like we'd been friends forever.





The last meal I had in Siem Reap was this incredible Lok Lak, a beef and rice concoction that melted in my mouth. They invited me to the kitchen so I could give my regards to "the Chef" and I saw that there was no white hat or sparkling kitchen, but just another guy in a tattered T-shirt and shorts, with that unmistakably warm Cambodian smile. When I told him it was the best goddamn food I'd eaten in Siem Reap, he bowed and his humility brought a lump to my throat.





That same evening, as I rode my last tuk tuk to the airport, I couldn't help but remember all these different people and the tears just came streaming down my face. I didn't know anything about the history or significance of Siem Reap or Cambodia for that matter. I went to 2 temples, because I was too sleepy to do more. I'd just turned up to get my visa renewed. But I left wishing I'd paid more attention, talked to more people, spent more time. What looked like a dusty, crumpled mess of a city, now seemed almost magical in my eyes. I felt this sinking feeling of going back to this awful, money making corporate world. Most of all, I just didn't want to go home, when strangers were so much kinder.

Mamma

Growing up, my mother and I were always at logger heads. I remember repeatedly telling her that I would never grow up to be a mother like her. I remember even more clearly her telling me to wait and watch, because I’m going to turn into her without even knowing it and I’ll thank her for it. 

Here I am. As usual, she was right. She’s generally right about almost everything. She was right about the guy I thought was the love of my life at 16, who left at the drop of hat. She was right about not shaving my legs when I was 14 because I’d grow nasty stubble and ingrown hairs. She was right about friendships and the ones that lasted and the ones that didn’t. Well you get it. The woman is always right. You hate it, but it’s the truth. 

Memories of her, of our relationship, come to me in fragments. I don’t even know how many of them I’ve conjured up and how many are real - they’ve all just moulded into the word, Mamma. I’ve slammed so many doors at her and sobbed through the night over words she said and then turned right back and hurt her even more with my own. As I grew out of those tumultuous teenage years, she became less of a torment and more of a security blanket. I realised then, having left the comforting cocoon of her care, just how protected and nurtured I was. I missed it, I sobbed again, and as always there she was - now on the phone or on Skype - mopping up my tears like I was a child. It’s frustrating to always be the child in front of your mother, no matter how old you are. It’s also relieving to know that at any age, you can always be a child while laying on her lap. 

Some things are quintessential Mamma. Her Kochi accent that I’ve inherited unapologetically. Her long, beautiful fingers that toil - cut and scraped and mauled with all the different things she does with them (washing, cleaning, gardening, scrubbing) and yet look as delicate as they did when she was sixteen. Her shock of curls, unruly and dark yet perfectly framing her still-young face. Those earrings she wears and the combinations of colours in her wardrobe - she’s unconventionally beautiful, especially when she laughs. Her draw full of Homeo medicine for every illness imaginable. Mulberries hand-picked from the garden on a steel plate reserved for me. Her sinful kozhikotta and cloud-soft appams devoured in minutes on Easter mornings. Her flower arrangements - white carnations among cypress leaves, a lone gerebera in a clear vase, orchids all over the backyard wall - she made a fairytale garden that has now become my solace, my sanctuary every time I go home. 

Her kitchen - or any kitchen - will always remind me of her. It’s the largest room in our house and it’s one of the most beautiful kitchens you’ll ever see. Flushed full with big windows and natural light. Pure white curtains and tiny money plants on the sill. An age-old stove that she refuses to throw away. Powders and spices of a million scents and colours lining the walls. Marble floors and granite counters cooling you in the tropical heat. The way she has no measurements or recipes, just a wild sense of what tastes amazing. And always, the smell of something mouth watering being stirred into existence by those magical hands. 

My mother made a choice to be at home and raise my brother and I. We were and still are, the apple of her eye. She was meticulous in the way she raised us. She knew every ache, every smile. She gave up a lot to be this mother. She could have had a career, she could have made more money, she could have had more friends, she could have trave

led. She chose instead to be the nurturer and for a long, long time, we never realised how much of a difference it made. She adapted to her life in ways only the very strong at heart can do. Learnt to swim and drive and speak English, all after she turned 26. She’s taken the worst of what life’s given her and made the best of it. It takes a special kind of resilience and a massive amount of determination to shine as beautifully as she does given all the things she’s been through.

So here I am. More adult than child and still calling my mother for every sadness, for all advice, for every weakness I have. From over-the-phone cooking lessons to career and relationship advice - she’s a woman with many masks. And I feel now, more than ever that I am my mother’s daughter. And it’s funny. Because I grew up so much of her opposite and often feeling like her enemy. Now I’m more like her than either she or I would like to admit. 

I cook like her. I throw things into the pan and make them work. I taste and test and follow intuition. I clean up the counters exactly the way she does. I stretch the sheets over my bed every morning, just like she used to do for me. I wipe the bathroom floor after every bath. I smile at everyone, laugh with everyone. Everything I know about empathy and kindness, I’ve learnt from her. How to see life through someone’s eyes, how to talk to people irrespective of social class or gender or language. I dress like her, earthy colours and silver earrings dangling. I want to be a mother like her - caring, intuitive, unconditionally loving, forgiving and always, always willing to learn and adapt. And I find myself wishing she’d gotten the same opportunities and freedom and affection that she gave me. Maybe then, we’d have been even more alike. 

I am my mother’s daughter. I brim with pride just saying it. 

Finding Home

Dark bar, my bar, familiar.
Drink after drink
Footsie, fingers tangled
Drink after drink


He spoke my language
Of humour and heartbreak
Of resilience and soft corners
Of scraped knees and swimming

Lost in dusty roads

Among ancient barricades

Through bright speeding trains

And dark, twisted alleyways

What lit the night with magic,
Was it him or just the whiskey?
Couldn't wait, couldn't wait
Just kiss me already


Sentences spoken breathless
Catching up on decades missed
Brown eyes of honesty looked
Into me and knew my soul


I played a song upon his chest.
And he played one along my hip.
Their moods and melodies
Moved as if they were the same.


He left in the dark morning
No goodbyes or fanfare
But for the lingering touch
Of my fingers in his hair

"I hope you got home safe", I said
Wondering if he felt it too
"I'll see you again tomorrow," said he,
"I'm coming back home to you"

The Commuter

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after two years in Bangalore, it’s that commuting is a downright pain. Do not consider living more than 5 kilometres from your workplace or you will resent your decision every single day. Let me take you through the various ways in which the average person commutes in the city.

 Trusty Personal Car

This is probably your best option by far. At least to some extent you feel in control of your destiny (read: commute time). Begin with ignition. Next, turn on music/podcast/radio and cover eyes with dark sunglasses. Set a/c to high. This shall be your igloo for anywhere between 20 and 90 minutes. Before you make this your primary mode of transport, please note you must be well-versed in frequently used swear words and threats which you can promptly return to the auto/cab driver that cuts you off at the signal. Speaking of signals, these are the bane of every Bangalorean driver’s existence.  Trying to avoid as many signals as you can, you find yourself in a small, sparsely tarred by-lane that can barely take two scooters going opposite ways, let alone your vehicle and a mini-lorry.  Try not to overreact when the cow in said by-lane decides to plant herself right in front of your bonnet, exposing her aesthetically pleasing rear end. Breathe a sigh of relief when by blind luck you find yourself on a relatively empty road. Know that this will not last beyond a few kilometres and savour the moment. Congratulate yourself if your numerous time saving tactics (turning right from the left-most lane, giving yourself the liberty of taking illegal u-turns, running red lights, giving cows mild bumps to keep them moving and so on) have allowed you to reach office even 0.23 seconds ahead of time. It will help ease the immense stress you’ve put yourself through during the commute

Zippy Two-Wheeler

You can swerve and weave through any traffic jam on your trusty bike. Of course there are the limitations of only two people per vehicle but for those lone wolves, this is the ideal mode of transport. You may spend an unnecessary amount of time picking out the right helmet, not to mention a hideous raincoat that you'll need if you want to brave the rains. Top this will full length gloves to protect your arms from sunburn and a face mask to avoid the fumes exhausting from the water tanker humming next to you at the signal. At the risk of looking like an alien specimen you are now ready to brave the elements as you ride with the wind in your hair and construction dust in your eyes. Within two weeks you will be required to enroll in yoga classes or visit a chiropractor for your constant backache.

Namma Very Own Metro

I’m not sure this counts as a mode of transport considering it only has five operational stations. If you tried hard enough, you could walk the entire length of the metro and still have energy to spare. Owing to this limitation in stations, Namma Metro has assumed that any commuter must certainly know which way is which without the help of signs. After all, you can only either go up or down! The platforms are named 1 and 2. But of course, no one really tells you which one goes up and which one comes down. While you’re figuring out which platform to head to, you hear the metro screech into the station and by the time you run to the platform, the train has taken its leave. Remember what I’d said about being the controller of your own commute time? If you miss the train, please be prepared to wait another ten minutes for the next one. As most metro riders have learnt, no ride can be tolerated without a pair of headphones or a book. You don’t want to be caught staring at anyone and you certainly don’t want to listen to the incessant announcements telling you which stop is next. And by the way, if the lack of signs leads you to take the wrong train, be forewarned that you cannot just get off and switch platforms. You need to check out and check right back in like a monkey and conduct the entire arduous exercise again. But don’t get me wrong, there’s a silver lining. Unlike your trusty personal vehicle, the metro isn’t subject to the vagaries of traffic or weather and you don’t need to haggle with auto-drivers or struggle to find a cab. Just step on and step off.

The great KSRTC

Considering Bangalore is quite the cosmopolitan city, it is beyond me why KSRTC buses still have signage only in Kannada. Oh, there are bus numbers too. More than a hundred, it seems. Do not bother checking on Google Maps for buses nearby. It will give you bus numbers that never turn up at your stop or if they do, probably not at the time it says it should. Your only hope of ever seeing signage in English is on the new Volvo buses, but they come once every half an hour at best. Your best bet is to get on a random bus to Shivaji Nagar (they all eventually end up in Shivaji Nagar) and then swim through a sea of more Kannada signs until you find a conductor to guide you to the right platform. Try to refresh yourself with a contaminated lime soda or stale popcorn while you wait. This is going to be an adventure. After much sweating and mental swearing, you will reach your destination. You can reduce stress if you try not to wonder how exactly you got there. Instead think about the fact that you just travelled 10 km and spent only Rs. 15. Now that’s a bargain!

Bhaiya Auto? (No, this is not an auto. Can’t you see it’s the latest BMW 3 series?)

You’re waiting at Old Airport Road. Bhaiya, MG Road? He looks at you, completely disinterested. Bhaiya?! ”Nahin Madam” Move to next auto. “100 rupees, Madam” Move to next auto while anger levels gradually increase. You wonder what the magic location is that these auto wallahs want to go. If only you knew, you would change all plans to go there instead.  Finally, after ten minutes of pacing around the auto stand, haggling with numerous uncouth auto fellows and agreeing on an exorbitant 60 rupees to go till Trinity Circle, you take a breath and settle into the auto. Of course, our Bangalore roads are no friends of the three-wheeled contraptions. No wonder these auto guys are always in such a bad mood. They have to rattle and rumble from A to B every single day while avoiding minor potholes and making abrupt swerves to weave through traffic. The cost of your ride is directly proportionate not only to your distance but also to the level of traffic, amount of rain and general mood of the driver. Don’t even dream of telling the auto wallah to take you even an inch away from your initially agreed destination. You will immediately be met with swiftly delivered cursing in Kannada. Any by-lane you enter from the main road will be charged Rs. 20 extra because, “waapas koi nahin milega, Madam”. Auto wallahs are particularly brash to women passengers and if you ever find one who is pleasant and gentlemanly, please pay him 50 Rs. extra to take you to the Ganesha temple and pray for his good health.

 Can somebody call an Uber?

No, that somebody cannot be you because your Paytm wallet is so empty that there’s an animation of buzzing flies every time you open the app. Even if you manage to scrape 200 rupees every day for your daily commute, be warned of the demon that is “Surge Pricing” which is almost always active and invariably doubles (or when it rains, triples) your fare. Ditch Uber and head to Ola? The app has made it a habit to crash every now and then but even if you make it to the booking page, all you will hear are the sound of crickets because lo and behold, “no cabs available”. That being said, Uber drivers are friendly and it’s by far the most convenient way to travel if you have a reasonably high disposable income. Especially on Saturday nights when Auto wallahs take on an extremely pompous air and declare that your trip from Toit to the end of 100 ft. Road will cost you nothing short of Rs. 250.

So what do you do in this situation? It all really depends on what you can tolerate. Meanwhile let’s hope our auto wallahs learn to be nicer, our metro grows a little longer, our Ubers become cheaper and our cars learn to self-drive.

Something Solid

When they first spoke the word "solid"

I am dead sure it was to speak of a man just like you

You are like roots under a tree 

No matter how she sways, 

Or what stirs her fragile branches, 

You hold her to you as your own 

Ever growing, ever changing 

But forever the axis that she revolves upon

When they first rolled the word "solid" in their mouths

They tasted the soul and sinew of a man just like you

Because you are a bed of rock 

Beneath a sea of tumultuous waves 

When the moon tempts the ocean 

And pulls her in to dance, 

She holds on to your firm shoulders 

And anchors herself to you.

When I first used the word "solid" to describe a man, 

It was you that planted the word upon my tongue

Because you are a compass that never fails

A beacon in an inky forest

In these times of fear and trepidation, 

Your firm but gentle heartbeat 

Is the only guide navigating

This wayward wanderer on

Questions Posed in the Dead of Night

How do you dream
So vividly in your sleep
When I confessed to you
Just before you shut your eyes
That I was tossing in bed
Wide eyed and sleepless?

Did it not occur
To sing me a lullaby
Or whisper a sweet word?

Did it not ache
Even a little bit
Did it not itch
Even a little bit
To leave a comforting thought behind
To help me rest?

Was what I said
So cold, so hurtful
That you decided
I would be punished
With red eyed lonliness?

Was what I said
So unforgivable
That I was cursed with the knowledge
That you lay on your pillow
Your lids dewed with sleep
As mine sit open, following
The creaky turn of the fan?

How unkind it seems to me
How cruel.

I feel like a little girl
Robbed of her favourite
Bar of candy.

Comfortable

You are not the fireworks sparkling in the movies
Or the shooting star that I saw at the beach that night
No, you are not the confetti that rained after the concert
Or the rush of a tequila shot with a wedge of lime

You are a slow cooked chicken pie on a rainy day
You are my grey sweatshirt when I am sick
You are soothing orange juice the morning after the party
You are the piano song floating in my bedroom

You are not much for sweeping me off my feet
Or big gestures or fancy declarations of love
Those things are fleeting, my dear
Instead, you are the most comfortable thing I've worn in years

On Kindness

There's this thing about kindness that makes it very difficult. You give some, and it feels quite nice. You give a little more, and invariably some part of you, the part that makes you human, starts looking for some kindness in return. Not always commensurate to how kind you were, but you look for some good to come out of this.

I think that's where we screw up. We give and then we begin to resent when we don't get anything back. Even though we were taught as children that we must give with no expectation of anything in return, as we grow older return on investment is something we always look for. Whether it is financial investment or emotional investment, we want it to be worth it.

What happens when I meet someone who is altogether rude and uncaring? My natural tendency is to return the sentiment. Through actions and words, I would be rude and uncaring right back because, "man, that is what you deserve". So I end up perpetuating animosity, without even a thought, because that's just my default reaction.

What if I were to make a conscious effort and simply, be kind? One of my concerns were, "okay, assume I am kind. Would it even make a difference to anyone? What if my kindness just passed people by?" I've learnt now that this thought was what was holding me back from true kindness. Once I de-prioritized the effect my goodness has on someone else and instead gave more importance to the value my kindness adds to my own life, it wasn't so hard to be a good person anymore. I no longer cared if I was "taken advantage of" because my act of kindness improved my state of mind. It gave me the assurance that if I were never to see that person again, I have left him with as much warmth and goodness as I could offer. There are no regrets.

Why do we not always have conversations with people that are worth being last conversations?

Try this experiment. Try for a week, a month, just being good to other people. I don't mean, start distributing money to people on the street or saving the world. I mean, why don't you make all the time you spend with people 'quality time'.

Why don't you try your best not to resent people that hurt you and instead be good to them, because maybe that's what you (and not they) need to lay your mind to rest. As hard as forgiveness is, removing the weight of your grudges off your shoulders will ease you like a warm balm.

Why not send your best friend a letter, why not give your dad a hug? Why can you not say "I love you" to all the people you do, why not every day? It takes all of two minutes. It will make you feel lighter.

There's something about caring, about putting all these mushy, sappy emotions out on display that people perceive as weakness. This means that people have the power to hurt you, to tear you apart. Yes, I am more vulnerable because that human part of me, the part that so easily becomes selfish and wants kindness in return, does risk getting bruised.

To me, it is worth it. The peace of mind I have because I don't regret my conversations far outweighs my fear of getting hurt. I enjoy my hugs. I like the twinkle in my mother's eyes when I tell her I love her. I am warm inside knowing my best friends know exactly why they are indispensable to me. As long as I don't worry about what I get in return, it will all be okay.

All I am saying is that, why don't you try caring a little more? Why don't you try some goodness for a change? Try a little less hurtfulness, a little more empathy. Because if the sun doesn't rise tomorrow, at least you can be sure that the ones you love knew just how much you loved them.

"If I leave here tomorrow, will you still remember me?"

Yes, I am looking at you through tinted lenses, coloured with emotion and all those bittersweet memories that we have accumulated through the years. I do it without shame or apology. You are so beautiful in this light, with the rain pouring on you and the street lights filtering through the drops.

I remember the first day we met. It was blistering hot and you annoyed me. I despised you from my very core. Your food, the people you entertained and your million shades of hot and cold; it was a potpourri of awful. I wanted you out of my sight. I didn't have a choice though, and I tolerated you. I was stuck. I hated it. Everything around seemed to be coated in a film of dark dust – the beggars moving across traffic signals, the dented BMWs and Marutis, the roadside greenery and most of all, every single person’s mood.

It takes time with you, everyone knows this. Your first impression is your worst and leaves a sour taste in the mouth. But then you do these things, these hard-to-notice things that quietly but surely woo anyone who has gotten to know you. You are drenched wet in history - bricks and pavements that tell stories from centuries ago. Your branches reach out into these grimy skies and at the same time, your roots are planted in an earth that a nation's leaders built cities upon. Your mood swings have become a part of your charm, rather than a point of irritation. You wear your myriad dresses with equal grace, whatever the season. The fiery red of autumn and the white clean of the monsoon look just as stunning on you as the chilled blue of winter or the brilliant gold of summer. It is as if everyone in contact with you changes and moulds to fit the different your different personalities. You are a haughty queen that commands everyone's attention with your bold architecture and sprawling lawns.

No, you will not budge. You will bake us dry in the glare of your sunshine and you will chill us to the bone with a misty breeze. It is up to us whether we want to tolerate it or not, whether it is worth all that trouble just to be around you. Invariably it is, and we stay. You know this better than anyone and you take advantage of it.

Behind that dusty and well-worn veil you hide not only your mystic and conniving smile, but also a pair of dark and vehement eyes; eyes that have seen glory and gore in equal measure. You are as strong as you are stubborn. Your history and the millions of men and women you have been home to gives each person in your arms a certain sense of anonymity. This was my favourite part.

Because you are such a large entity, it is so difficult to know all of you. It reminds me of the story of the three blind men and the elephant. Each one of them felt a different part of the elephant and hence gave a different description of what an elephant is. It's just the same with you. Everyone has a different account about their relationship with you, disjoint and unrelated, making a skewed and distorted image of you as a whole. But each and every one ends up being hopelessly smitten if they stay long enough.

I can't bear to leave you tonight. As you look at me with those hardened eyes, my mind flits back to the lawns and the monuments and all the delicious food. It goes back to the friends I have made, the people I have loved and lost, the pain and the sweat and the shivering. I remember everything and I find it difficult to clear my throat and tell you how very much I will miss you. Because it's cannot be moulded into words, or feelings or tangible things.

Delhi, you have been Home for a long time now. I have cursed you, I have wept heavy tears because of you and I have also lived some of the best years I have ever had, cosy in your arms. You were some ride, and I promise this isn't goodbye. All those lessons you've taught me the hard way I will use. Although I never grew up with you, I still feel like you are now a part of me. You quietly stole a little bit of me to keep for yourself and that empty space left behind inside me you have occupied without invitation. I never knew how you did it, I never will. I try and remember all the reasons I hated you to muster up the courage to walk away from you.

Goodbye, my mistress. It's been a pleasure knowing you. Wait for me. 

With a Sniffle and a Smile

Oh Delhi, how you frustrate me and just as quickly, how you woo me. 

I woke up this morning, a disgruntled employee dreading heading out for work. For Delhi was flooded to the brim and I was getting emails about the Metro not working and the streets being clogged with grimy rainwater. Not to mention the incessant power cuts all through the night. 

Oh yes, and our caretaker Mukesh happens to live beneath my flat and he also happens to have three of the loudest kids in history. The bawling began at about 7 a.m. It did not cease even for a second. Add to that the slaps and shouts of Mukesh and Wife, I am neighbour to quite a noisy bunch. I forgive them. I play awfully loud music myself sometimes. 

Even the tiniest shower has Delhi turned into a disgusting brown mess. So after it rained cats and dogs here last night, it was only natural that skipping across puddles and getting grime splashed at me by passing cars was part and parcel of my commute. And the cows, good god! Even the cows splashed water on me.

In the evening, it was as if Delhi took a bath and got into a brand new outfit. The trees shone bright green and the cars on the street were washed anew. There was a beautiful breeze and the smell of rain wafting along with it. Dinner was steaming and delicious. 

My entire nasal cavity is under siege after the onset of the monsoon, my allergies and sinusitis are on full swing. I headed back to my room to quietly clack at my keyboard when Delhi once again wrapped me up in her blanket for the night. Mukesh had put the kids to bed and from his radio came old Hindi songs, the kind my parents would enjoy. The music now fills my room, punctuated by Mukesh's loud yawns. It is almost perfect for this weather. In between heavy coughs and grabbing yet another leaf of tissue from the box, I find myself smiling contently to myself. 

You have your charm, Delhi. I would have wanted to leave you just an hour ago, and now I feel warm and content in your arms. Here you are serenading me with all these love songs sung in vintage voices and here I am falling for you all over again.

Learning on the Job

There's something about a first job that is just petrifying. It's like that swell in your stomach when a premonition comes true and it is awful. I was apprehensive of this job and I still am pretty damn frightened but joining the Sales team at Zomato has been a whirlwind of an experience that's only possible when you work in a start-up.

The people here are passionate. They are working with all their heart but they are simultaneously up for partying with all their might. For many of them, this is their baby. They will defend and protect it with their lives. It makes the work they do for the company glitter pricelessly. They are some of the most intelligent, keen and talented people ever. It isn't about the fanciest resume, the highest marks or the most lauding recommendations. In a start-up, it really comes down to the quality of your work and if you can do it efficiently, intelligently and with dedication then no one will ever come in your way. It cannot afford employees to sit on their asses so every single person working in the company is adding massive value to its growth.

This is a fantastic feeling; to know that your actions are directly capable of substantially affecting the growth of the entire organisation. What's even more alluring (and what had me hooked from the start) was the proximity one has to the decision making process. Fresh out of college, knowing next to nothing about Sales and to be given a chance to feel first hand the changes made by the "guys at the top" and the impact those changes have on the firm was something that had my heart aflutter.

All the Economics I ever learnt has made its way out the window and in the place of the pages and pages of textbook rote learning has come a new phase of learning (and thinking) on my feet. There is a lesson to be learnt in every single conversation. There is food for thought in each activity that I undertake at the office. My learning curve has been so steep that I can honestly say I have never assimilated and retained this much information this fast in my life. This is when I realise that Zomato has got it right when it comes to training new recruits. Reading folders and enduring painful presentations can do only so much. Hopping meetings and talking to more experienced workers offers you those indispensable tips and tricks of the trade that end up being extremely useful. My training so far (it has just been a week) has consisted very little of structured lessons and far more of sharing anecdotes while heading to a meeting and laughing over past mistakes over coffee and cigarettes. Every single person has something that can contribute to your development in some way because each person that has been there even a day more than you have can give you invaluable advice. These little tidbits stick to you harded than that nasty dodge of gum underneath your sink.

Yes, it has only been a week. I am tired, I am sleep deprived, my health has taken a turn for the worse and free time is a thing of the past. So this is what they call being an adult. No, it is not rosy. But with the strong and confident feeling that I am in the right place, surrounded by like minded people (who never fail to make one laugh) and with a job that is perfect for my skill set, I am all fired up to take this on.

Delhi shall be my mistress for another year.

The Island

Without much thought it seemed, I stepped off my little island.
I could say, I even leapt off it.
I could say, it was my impulsiveness; but really, it was my fear.
Fear that its beauty would fade if I stayed any longer;
The magic that tingled through my bones as the earth flowed between my toes would numb down;
The salty chill of the ocean breeze giving its secrets away to me in whispers would lose its allure.

I looked like a little girl hopping on to her next adventure
In many ways I was.
A world beyond my island that I still ached to explore.
Coral reefs my fingers wished to feel
Lagoons that my dark skin was waiting to taste.
Yet, swimming ahead and away: heart-wrenching.

I will preserve everything in the drawers of my memory.
No photographs, no messages in bottles, no souvenirs.
When memory fades, it will be regenerated
Something far more bewitching than it ever was.
The fruit sweeter, the sun warmer, the view more breathtaking.

The most valuable things
The ones with the most glimmer and sparkle
Deserve not to be contaminated by Time.

The Real Write Ups -- Pat

We don't have even one picture. I've done some of the craziest things with you around and we don't have even one photograph to document it. It's better this way. We were too cool for pictures anyway.

That red light and those dirty draws, what a shady, shady room that was. The room where it began, with those mad stories and random things being set on fire. I still remember always having to recharge text balance in first year thanks to you. I still remember calling you Anish. Yeah, I'm not going back to that again.

I don't remember second year that well, you weren't around very much. Then you came back to College and it took us a while to get back on track, but soon enough we were up to our old tricks again. Everything has changed now. How we see people is different, our friends are different, we are more cautious and there seems to be a lot more at stake somehow. But we will be escapists always. We can self-medicate like pros, that's something we've mastered over the years. We will drown our sorrows in a half and then celebrate the insane times with the rest. We will use our sarcasm as often as we can, snubbing the world and each other every chance we get.

We've carried each other at odd times of the night when we were like dead weights, we've walked around a hell lot of places with a bottle of Pepsi that you got free from the Cafe and we have set up headquarters in MyBar. We've fought and created drama and then forgotten it all the next day. We can spend hours laughing at people. Even the senti conversations, man. Sometimes you know exactly what to say. Cocky is your middle name, and you aren't apologetic about it. I'm going to miss our muk east breaks and our resolutions that we always give up on.

Yeah, I don't know what's going to happen once College is over. We're going to get busy and things will change all over again. In different parts of the city and Paharganj will be too damn far. I'm going to bet that we'll stick together though. I'm going to bet that I'll follow you around until you come to my place for "just a beer" and end up having another killer night. Here's betting that College was the beginning.

It's been some ride, Pat. Knowing you has been beyond insane. The fights and the drama and the bad trips were all worth it. After all, there ain't nothing that we can't fix with a, "Bhaiya, barah DSP aur coke".

No, I don't want your coke. 

Stubbornness

I sat on that dust couch sulking
When you came in
Asking what was wrong
I growled stubbornly
And you turned away

In that second
My resolve melted
And the tears stung
Knowing not what error I'd made
Or why you were so cold

Suddenly you burst into the room
Prepared to shout
Or scream, disappointment
Clouding your brows

To find me curled up
In your corner of the universe
Knowing not my wrong
Or why you were so cold

Suddenly you burst into the room
Pick me up, straighten my bends
Shielding me from the very same
Hurt that you initiated

Lecturing and whispering
At the same time
Rebuking and nurturing
At the same time

Our strong hearts giving in
The room was filled
With the jingle of sincere apology
Alternating from our lips

You and I at once vindicated
When stubbornness gave way
To simple communication
How easy it can be

The Real Write Ups -- Raa

As I wrote write-ups for my friends for the College Yearbook, I realised how hollow it is to attempt to compress into three sentences the relationships I have built over three years. Here are the Real Write-Ups.

First Year Dirties

Like a fish to water, I took to you. It was quite effortless. Did you know you were the first person in College to call me "Mari"? I knew right then that you were going to stick around. There's no way I would let some random girl that looked like Ritu to call me Mari, unless I knew she would be amazing. We go back to the beginnings so often that we know it by heart. Small skirts and IDG talks. First year with "Where?" texts and coffee. With all sorts of outrageous outings like shady Metro Station beer. Now when I think about it though, it isn't first year that I hold most close to me. It's what happened after Diya and I invaded B.D. Estate and suddenly, it wasn't  "The PG". Suddenly, it became "Home".

We know dangerously too much about each other, Raa. Somehow it's always been easy to give away my worst secrets to you. From being friends, we became roommates and then everything changed. We were dealing with the dirties now. Fighting about switching lights off, about hair in the drain, about the maid and everything in between; and on those days, when we were at wits end and made each other cry, we also learnt about every little thing that pisses each other off. We learnt about or worst fears, our biggest insecurities, the ones that only show up when it's 12 a.m. and there's an exam the next day.

Spaz is our middle name

We've grown up a hell lot since those first year days (or have we?).You have taken care of me as the perfect mix between a sister and a best friend. The funniest and most memorable things that we've shared are best left unwritten. We don't want our kids (no matter how hard you try, Raashito, your children will know me) to find this post and use it against us.

That room of ours will be the best room. Even with all my creepy paraphernalia. That room of ours, as much as we hated it, has absorbed every ounce of our characters into its walls. All future Mittal PG residents will feel our creepiness resonate from those walls. I feel this is a proud moment for us. We have left our mark.

Our nights on that terrace, too many to count, with the smog of Delhi and one-and-a-half-moons are what I will miss the most. There's a certain sense of loneliness I feel when we are not up there together, because that's just the way it has always been. From watching interesting shadows to playing ridiculous drinking games, that place has done quite an excellent job of being refuge from bad days, bad food, bad landlords and bad anything else.

Take my secrets to your grave, Rashi Rathi. I love you.

P.S. I have too many pictures with you. Kay took almost all of them

The Real Write Ups -- Meg

We just started on the wrong foot. We should never have. There's this picture of us from Blues that I have. Can you believe this was even before I knew you? It's difficult to imagine that we weren't friends before. After the ice broke, it was all so effortless. Like the day walking from the metro, sharing earphones and listening to you explain the lyrics of Hosanna.

Like you said, we are much about the big things. We are bottlers and skeptics. We are move-onners and deciders. We are secret keepers. We are jigsaws that no one has all the pieces to. But the small things are just as important. The nights at the PG with those ridiculous coffee mugs of whiskey sour, with club dancing, star gazing, coin flipping and truth-or-daring, the evenings when we repeatedly got kicked of out that stupid park, the afternoons flopping and "stealing" our internet: these are the little security blankets that I will hold on to when I miss you the most. Will you miss me too?

It's difficult to quantify us. It's difficult to contain us into words and phrases and sentences. When I think of us, there are always these clouds of memory that float around in my head. Blue boxers and long legs. Gold hair clips to contain greasy hair. Picture posing. That crazy laugh of yours. Crying like a loser on your birthday. Fab India. Khan market haircuts. Side Wok. Coffee. Amma and crab at the Grand hotel and Amma's amazing Malayalam. Meggers, you are a goddess in most every way. From the kajal-lined eyes to how you are effortlessly The Smart One in the family.

I hope that our hugs, the best ones ever, will always be around. Not just to comfort (no, we don't need other people to comfort us, do we?) but also just-like-that. And when no one really gets it, when no one says it will be okay, you will walk with me to the park and say, "do what you want to do, MarsBars."

Mari doesn't konjify. But Mari will always konjify her Meg. I love you.

Strawberries and Whipped Cream

My entry for this week's Three Word Wednesday. The words were: Juggle, Fawn and Navigate.

You: juggling two bright scarlet strawberries
Me: aggravating a tall can of whipped cream
Impish sparks in our eyes

Under the filtered sunlight from the window
I attack, covering in gleaming sweet whiteness
Your dark, fawn-coloured skin

I squeal, you quieten me with an assault
Sour fruit juice trickling down my berry lips
Faster than summer sweat

Guiltlessly, like the children we are
Along soiled kitchen counters, sheets, towels

We navigate a path

To some blissful alternate universe
Like explorers with magic maps and grand plans
We escape the realm of time

--For Raa and Di. You know this poem was written for you.

Chicken

I was pecking at a grain

Of golden wheat

You chase behind me

I squawked and leapt but never flew

White streak across the backyard

Too slow my stubby legs

To escape, caught

And dragged into

A darkness

I cannot comprehend

But I see suddenly

And cry
Flapping desperately
Kicking your
Muscled arms
To no avail

Comes impending doom

I sees the swift

And heavy blade

My neck breaks

The sink a red river

Bloody and gushing

There was no pain I recall

As I watch over myself

In your arms, twitching

Bloody and gushing

A hot water tap is opened

The steam engulfs 

The dingy room

The odour almost

Unbearable

The knife was not enough

You drown me now

In the scalding hot water

The ruffle of my mane

Melts away into a puddle

The coarse, white overcoat

Gives way to

Tender pink skin

You fondle it with care

Feeling every bump

There is something

Kinky about the way

You do it

As if you know

I am watching you

You clean me

Preparing me

For my funeral rites

The horror is not over

You close your eyes

Take a deep breath

Bring the heavy knife 

Upon me once more

Crack my bones

Separate my good

And my bad

Categorised by others

Exactly like you

I am now

A meal

Ready-to-cook

Bite-sized

I am now

Unrecognisable

As a life, or a being

I am now

Just a price

Displayed in a supermarket

"Honey!
Chicken pie for dinner?"


--I love Three Word Wednesdays!