Both Sides Now

I've looked at love from both sides now, from the give and take, but still somehow it's love's illusion i recall. I really don't know love at all.

-Both Sides Now. By Joni Mitchell

Disclaimer: The song has only as much connection with the post as you make. Nevertheless, listen to the song, it's beeyootifool.

The beads of condensed water appeared, grew heavier, and finally rolled down. JD sat and stared, almost absent and content at the same time, at the glass of hazelnut (his favourite) coffee on the table in front of him. Today was a strange day. Nothing in particular happened but on this strange day JD felt strangely happy. It was one of those days when you feel like you could hug everyone you meet, when you pet the stray dog you usually avoid and probably even buy roses at the traffic signal with no recipient in mind.

He even thought that his usually unruly hair looked good today. He turned his head from side to side while looking at his reflection in the glass wall of the cafe he sat in. His gaze then followed the reflection of condensed droplets on the coffee glass. Some movement on the other side of the glass broke his trance. It was a little poor boy peeping into the halogen-lit world inside the expensive cafe. He seemed to be studying JD, for JD looked different from the usual cafe-going bunch. He gave a toothy smile as their eyes met. JD kept looking at him but the boy soon lost interest and turned his attention to the TV perched on the opposite wall. He seemed very excited and happy. His hair was rough and dry, his eyes a pale yellow, his skin leathery and his feet with broken nails stood firm on the pavement that must be hot enough to fry an omelette, observed JD. The world inside was so different. The girls on the opposite table must've spent a bomb on those french manicured nails, the AC kept the place nice and cool even in this hot summer, the TV aired celebrity lives and JD's new shoes boasted of a Michael Jordan sign. The little boy outside looked happy to even get a glimpse of the good life.

Since it was JD's i-am-happy day, he felt a sudden urge to share his happiness with this unfortunate boy. He went outside and offered to take the boy in. The boy's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He had stood here and happily looked inside every day but no one had even spoken to him let alone take him inside. He put his hand into JD's and walked inside, slightly scared and embarrassed but delighted. The AC felt so good and the cushion was so soft! JD ordered sandwiches and ice-cream for him. The boy looked around the cafe as if he had never seen it before and wanted to touch everything; the coffee glass, the table, the cane of the sofa and even the glass wall. He smiled from ear to ear as he lapped up every last crumb of his food.

Half an hour later JD walked home even happier than he was before. He couldn't remember another time when he had made someone so happy. The toothy grin kept flashing in front of his eyes and every time it did so, JD smiled, both inside and outside. He would remember this boy for days.

The boy stood on the hot pavement again, waiting for another JD to take him in. He'd never been so miserable before. The sun hurt his eyes and the pavement his feet. He wished for the feel of the soft cushions. He touched the glass wall, it felt warm and he remembered how cool it had felt from inside. He begged a young girl entering the cafe to take him in and the cafe manager came out and threatened to hit him. He remembered how happy he was this morning and cursed JD for JD had made a beggar of the poor boy.

What if

What if what I call blue is green to thine eyes
And I call your green blue, and so do you
If my sky was the colour of grass to you
And what if this wasn't limited only to hues

If a ripe fruit tasted to you as a sour one to me
But we both called it sweet all the same
What if the mirror showed you what it did to me
And it was 'me' to both. What a weird game!

We'd talk of the same things we loved
The sky at sunset and the lemon tart
The words would be the same as would the names
But what we loved, poles apart

Stars on the Wall

She looked at her walls, let out a sigh
Rectangles of paper, garnished with dust
The blazers from school, kites in the sky
Points for the book she thought, write she must

Scraps of paper, that’s what’s left
Caught and stilled, from yester years
Reminder of what you can’t have any more
Coloured paper and long-dried tears

She stood at her window, t’was a clear night,
Stars emboldened, for the moon was shy
The studded firmament, quite a sight
She smiled and let out another sigh

The twinkling specks had whispered to her
They were flashes from light years away
Caught and stilled a million years ago
And yet, over cheer they held their sway

She wiped the dust off her own stars
Times change, and people depart
There’s no going back to them
But the old pictures warmed her heart

Enter Bhagwaan

It was almost ten 'o clock now. Mummy and Pop (Papa was being called Pop these days) had left for work more than an hour back. The maid had finished her sweeping and cleaning too. Diya lingered over her breakfast today, when on most other days she would gulp it down hurriedly. She sat picking up and nibbling at the remains of the bread in her plate. When even they were over, she resorted to making spirals out of ketchup. Her usual play time was nine thirty but Nani's visit to their house had turned her world slightly topsy turvy. Since morning, which was when Nani arrived, Diya had been finding herself displaced from her usual spots. First Nani had sat on her favourite sofa, then Nani's big brown bag had sat where Diya liked her pretty Barbie kitchen set to be and now Nani had been sitting in the Puja Room for almost an hour.

On another day, by this time Diya would be in the Puja Room with all four of her Barbies. She would've set up the dining table (She dint have a dining table so she used the big book with the red velvet cover that Mummy read to Ramji every morning.) for them and seated them around it. Ramji, from Mummy's Puja also came down to sit and play. Ramji was her favourite doll. Because he had pretty ornaments and also Mummy had often told Diya that Ramji would take care of her. Ramji was her friend and protector while the Barbies were slightly lower in hierarchy in her scheme of things. She herself wanted to join them at the table but she found herself grossly out of proportion with the rest of them so she placed the 'diya' that Mummy lit everyday. Mummy had told her once, 'Beta, your name means this beautiful and sacred little flame that lights up everything around it.' So she used the 'diya' as a placeholder for herself. And then the story took its own different course each day. Sometimes it was a birthday party and sometimes the Barbies fought and Ramji sorted their fights out.

But today Nani was sitting there, taking her own sweet time. Didn't she know that Mummy had already read to Ramji once. She didn't have to do it again. (Anyway's Ramji enjoyed Diya's skits more.) So Diya sat and waited, twiddling her thumbs and planning out the screenplay for today's drama. When Nani was finally done, Diya waited for her to disappear into the bedroom. Then she ran into the Puja Room. She placed the red book on the floor. Today it would be a bed and not a table. She lay Ramji and the Barbies down on it. Then her creativity lost steam. She was trying to weave a tale, debating between a bedtime story competition and a everyone-is-ill story, when suddenly Nani hollered at her from behind. She looked very angry. She held Diya by her ear and made her stand up. Then she placed Ramji back into his usual standing place. Diya had no idea what the problem was. She had played here everyday after Mummy and Pop left. Nani then scolded her saying 'Yeh koi khelne ki jagah nahi hai. Bhagwaan gussa ho jayenge.' Diya tried to mutter something in protest but thought better of it. With tears welling up in her eyes, she collected her Barbies and left. All she remembered was Nani saying 'Bhagwaan gussa ho jayenge', 'Bhagwaan punish karenge'. Nani had pointed at Ramji when she said that but Diya was sure she meant someone else. Ramji only loved and cared for her. He didn't scold or punish her.

At night, after everyone had slept, Diya tiptoed to the Puja Room, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. She quickly picked up Ramji and took him to her room. She placed him next to her on her pillow and covered him with her sheet and said 'I'm sorry Ramji I couldn't rescue you earlier. We will fight whoever this Bhagwaan is and his silly rules. You won't have to stay in the Puja Room anymore if we cant play there. I'll talk to Mummy. I love you and I want you to be near me so that you can love and protect me.' She kissed Ramji's forehead and said goodnight to her favourite doll with shiny ornaments and eyes that never closed.

Feminism? No. Sense? Yes.

Tomorrow is your interview with IIM Calcutta and you haven't touched the black and white printed god in three days. So you wake up a tiny bit earlier than your usual, cut short your long drawn out lazing-in-bed-hating-the-morning ritual and sit down to read TOI (unluckily that's all that's available). And TOI, as always, doesn't disappoint. Wait a minute, it just beats itself. The whole 15 or 20, or however many pages there are, scream out 'happy women's day'. You (you're a girl.(who'll be a woman soon)) yawn, raise your eyebrows (eyebrows are nicely shaped) and say 'oh yeah? Give me a break'. You read on only to find every next thing more ridiculous than the previous. But you read on anyways. You hate this women's day charade, it irritates you that every tiny article in the paper has a refernece to women's day. Sometimes so far-fetched and out of place is the reference that you wonder if the journos and editors at TOI have had an introduction to words like irrelevant, non-sequitur etc. Ok, sample this. Some XYZ woman was released from prison and there was tiny article about it. And instead of writing why she was released, TOI writes something to the effect: XYZ released on the eve of Women's Day! As if, Women's day was what saved her from the dungeons. And look at this: Kingfisher Airlines to operate an all-women flight to Delhi and Bangalore wherein all cabin crew, pilots and passengers will be women. Goodness gracious me! What in this friggin world are they going to get out of that? If they wanted women to benefit, they could make their tickets cheaper. If they wanted to pamper them, they could let them fly free and if they wanted women to celebrate, throw them a party. An all women's flight for god's sake! Thats just ridiculous. Anyways you brush it aside without giving it much thought as you carelessly fold and throw away the paper. Its the next day. You're ready and in position for your group discussion. And they announce the topic. 'Should there be a men's day?'. And this was exactly what you needed (for being able to analyze and articulate why the newspaper yesterday irritated you and for blogging material too). We'll cut out of this scene now and just have an opinion dump.What is Women's day? A celebration of the emancipation of women/ a celebration of womanhood/ a party for women's rights activists/ heyday for commercial nautankis? Probably in its conception it was an encouragement and a commemoration of liberation of women. The concept came to India pretty late and was popularized by the media. By the media. For the media. Of the media. (can't make sense of 'of the media' but for the sake of the phrase, lets allow that). That's why no acts of any consequence or any meaning happen on this day but women get to travel on a flight full of women. Some organizations try to get close to meaningful and hold talk shows. Sadly, nothing except cliches are spoken at such events. Some try to get even closer. Even if you grant them the kindness of believing in their intentions, you can't agree with their ideas. For ex: Some organizations held a walk-in interview day for women job applicants. Are they trying to say that they will hire more women? Or is it just a gimmick and men apply on another ordinary day and the women get the marvelous opportunity to apply on this glorious day? Next point: It is patronizing behaviour. Instead of bringing in the feeling of equality, it is defeating just that. Should there be a men's day? There isn't any need for a women's day either. But if we do have one, why not a men's day as well? Some said that men have anyways always showed their strength and made women accept their greatness. What they don't understand is that voluntary acknowledgment by women or rather the opportunity to voluntarily acknowledge men gives worth to acknowledgement by women which in turn gives them a more equal status. (If more equal is grammatically or semantically correct). Some may say that you are all uppity about it because you are an urban, confident and independent woman but the rural women aren't refusing patronization because they're still facing a lot of gender discrimination. For them: excuse us urban women our snootiness, but reality check, the gibberish about women's day isn't loud enough to reach these backward rural areas. So women's day ain't helping no ablaa naris. People tell you that you're a self-proclaimed feminist. (whatever..) so you should stop ranting now. Last shout of protest. You love being a woman. AND you like men. You just prefer the label 'the fairer sex' to 'the weaker sex'. You rest your case.

Pot Pouri

It’s a cold December night. Others would argue it’s pleasant but I’d say cold. It’s a little late, most shops have pulled down their shutters. Riding the breeze, piercing the otherwise silent night, most out of place at this late hour is Himmesh Reshamiya, crooning Tera sarafa kaisa hai hum dum . The street ahead is pretty deserted. I can’t see where this music, if you can call it that, comes from. It’s way too loud to be a radio playing somewhere or even to be the music at a bar. There’s probably a party somewhere. But it’s still 3 days to Ring out the old, ring in the new.

I turn a corner and I can see bright lights and a small crowd. But it’s not a party. Goodness gracious me! Blistering barnacles! Heavens above! God’s nightgown! That can’t be true. There is a Santa Claus jiving to Himesh Bhai’s nasal notes!! A shiny banner above screams ‘Merry Christmas’! (And btw it’s almost four days past X’mas) Right above the banner a board proudly announces ‘Radhe sweets’, in Devanagri. Wow! They take secularism, or mixed bag, or khichadi if you may, to another level. A closer look reveals the presence of a perfectly idiotic looking clown on the stage, as well. His face is painted an ugly pale pink with the quintessential red clown’s nose. Some little kids have climbed onto the stage and they are bobbing up and down, without any sense of rhythm or direction whatsoever, while their proud and grinning parents look on and cheer. I don’t know if I’m flabbergasted or amazed or amused or about to crack up.

But there’s something that makes me smile. It’s not Christmas and it’s not New Years. The music isn’t a Christmas carol. The Santa has a white beard, brown skin and black eyebrows. The clown is dancing with the Santa for no apparent rhyme or reason. And the kids are just happy doing their own Brownian motion. Any dream will do. We just need an excuse to celebrate.

As i walk away I hear a Punjabi song blaring from the speakers. As if the pot pourri wasn’t enough of a patchwork already. Jee karda bhai jee karda tainu kol bithawa jee karda. It won’t be a surprise if India invents a girlfriend for Santa next! (Maybe Karina) And maybe Santa and his girl would do a Raas Leela outside Radhe Sweets then. Gujju Khichadi!

Peepul/People

I reach home after a usual day at school. Even before I step out of the car I can sense something unusual. There is a flurry of activity. There are some men, strong muscular ones , in vests and dirty pants, milling around. Servants from our house (first floor of the big bungalow), Chacha's place (ground floor) and Tauji's place (another building in the same compound) are out too, doing no particular work though. When I demand an explanation, the maid tells me that these men have been hired to cut down the big peepul tree in our compound. Holy crap! It had never occurred to my tiny brain that such a big tree could ever be cut down. When you are four ft. eleven inches a tree that huge seems unconquerable, if thats a word. But the powers that be had decided that and that it would be. But, oh ho, that was my favourite hiding place for hide and seek. The trunk was thick enough to hide me completely. I run to Dad to complain. He lays my anxieties to rest. Says, the trunk wont be cut. Everything else will be. He explains that the tree is very old and is becoming hollow. Its branches arch over our terrace garden and the whole compound. They make break and fall. And that would be very dangerous to the building, which happened to be very old too (almost 90 years old. They say it was built when my great grand dad got married.), and to the people. The branches would have to be cut. Perfect, I thought. My hiding place was secure and as for the rest of the tree, it really hadn't been of any use in my life of 9 years.
I become part of the excitement around the activity. People shouting instructions to each other, Dad telling the men that no branches must fall over the building, the men beginning to axe away. Our terrace garden would be the perfect vantage point to view the operations but Bhaiya, who treats me like a kid just because my age is still a single digit number, doesn't let me go there. Says kids may get hurt. I sit at the window and watch. There are so many windows which i can see it through; the dining room ones, the sitting room ones and the glass door of the terrace garden. I watch all day, marveling at the skill of the men.

I reach home after another usual day at school. The compound is so sunny today. Oh! The tree is gone. Hmph! The compound used to be cool and shaded earlier. Anyways, I'm hungry. I go sit at the dining table. My usual seat is opposite the window. Usually, at least five times a meal I'm scolded for staring out of the window absent-mindedly and forgetting the food on my plate. I can't really help it. I get amused by the tiny pieces of the sky peeping from in between the foliage and making different shapes everyday. But the view outside is so weird today. I can see the sky, which is a dull uninteresting blue, actually closer to 'white with a hint of blue'. And some ugly building across the road. Who paints their building dark pink? I wouldn't even eat ice-cream of that colour. And do i live opposite that building? Gross! There is a dusty little ground where boys are learning karate. Can they see inside my house too? I feel so exposed.
The dining room isn't the only one naked. The sitting room and the terrace garden have been stripped too. There is a sense of the vacant in every room along the length of the house. We've lost the peepul, or people? I'm confused. Every room feels less like a room now and more like a balcony overlooking the street. My home was my home. Now, the pink building, the karate boys and the street below are part of our wallpaper. To move out of a home is disturbing but to stay there and have the home move out requires a word not yet assimilated into my lexicon. Maybe by the time I'm in class five like Bhaiya I will know the word but maybe when I'm older, I, like Bhaiya, won't miss the tree enough to tell you this story.