The Friend

"Arre yaar, we are good friends"....

It was the moment I spoke these words aloud, I realised how redundant they were. Because after all, what did I mean by a "good" friend? Is there any such thing as bad friendship?

But these are weird times. busy times. fast times. a very very selfish time. today the word friend can mean anyone, from the bartender you see every saturday night, your boss's niece who you danced with, the girl who shares your lab,to the guy next door with a very cute dog...the list is endless. In an inflation infested, expensive world, friends seem to come very cheap. In fact there is a fixed protocol these days. Have a light, seemingly interesting conversation, realise to your joy that you have a few random things in common, promise to meet again, and promptly add them in facebook. or orkut. or twitter. "You have 1 new friend request". A great feeling ain't it?

Very soon, these friends end up being just a dot. Available, or Busy, but mostly Away. and it does'nt really take very long to get to that. The silliest miscommunication, an unfulfilled expectation, a few missed calls...its simple actually. And strangely, it doesnt hurt much either. The bond that broke, was never that strong in the first place.

The world my dears, have turned into stage of scripted relationships.

The Bond. Probably the only one that can be called a relationship without needing a validation ceremony. And precisely why, we never give it the deserved justice. A friend can be taken lightly, he can be tossed around, given second priority to, poked fun at, ditched at the last minute, bitterly fought with. Not because he is unimportant, but because you have enough faith to do so. It is the bestest of friends with whom you have the worst of fights. Uninhibitedly. Because it is only with them that you are free. Yourself. And proudly so....

In the midst of such drama, you find hands that still hold strong, ignoring the doldrums, minds that unfold the harshest of truths, yet caressing your heart with it. And you finally lean back, without the fear of the fall.

Here's to my friends. Because you let me be. Because with you, I can see the unstated affection, the unclaimed trust, the unsolicitated love.

Because you finally free friendship of all adjectives.

Bombay...Meri Jaan !!!

How many movies and how many books have tried how many times to capture the essence of this city? The soul with which it thumps days in and nights out? The glory of just being...just being Bombay. Amidst the overwhelming spread of documentation, it seems all you need is a search engine to satisfy your urge to know the city. But is it enough? Is anything enough?

It has been more than a decade since I moved reluctantly to Bombay. Being uprooted from the city of my birth, I was determined to dislike it. But as is the way with my life..I always end up doing that which I decide against. As I fell out of childhood and into the mess of adolscence, I fell for the charms of the city. Unknown to me, like an eternal enchantress, Bombay had held me in her memerising grip, and I had finally, ceased to resist.

But you see, being in love with Bombay is something that comes naturally to visitors. Those that stay, and those that move away. The sensuality is such, it is impossible to see, and not want to see some more. From the beaches bathed in the first light, the sharp smell of fresh fish at Sassoon Dock, the haunting smell of mogra in the well oiled hair of the koli women, the tangy taste of vada pav that evoked hunger at odd hours, the continuous attempt to hang from the doors of local trains, avoiding the perspiring crowd, the crows that flew so low they almost touched your head, the stolen glances of love at Bandra Fort, the gleam of the corporate and the buzz of page 3, lights that twinkled brighter than stars at Marine Drive at the onset of dusk, which set a gloomy shadow in the caves of Kanheri, probing the beauties of Kamathipura to lay out their jewels, a celebration of life palpitates as the night wears on, only to be better prepared for the trials of the next sunrise.

Bombay however, holds more. It is one thing to love her from afar, to admire her beauty, to hold her in pictures...but it is not easy to remain bonded to her for long. One day, the potholes, the attacks, the sqwabbles in the trains, the irritating wait on the roads, the crow shit on your car, the increasing price of the cold cutting chai, the incompetence of all those who are responsible for the above are going to get to you. And then you might leave Bombay, for say Amsterdam, or New York, or Athens.

Bombay ka kuch nahi ho sakta yaar. Bloody corruption ne dho daala hai country ko...

So easy to leave. Like a broken relationship. A failed marriage. Walk away. Easy.

But you will come back. Because Bombay was never your wife, baby, she was your mistress. The charms may die, the attraction does not. And slowly, you realise there is a soul within the glamour. It is not just the beauty, it is the energy with which it is presented. An intangible qwality you will lurge forward to grip, but always miss. This is the magic. The ploy. That which will always make your heart beat faster when you truly think of her. And make you come back. Now and forever.

No photograph, no memoir, no movie does justice. Bombay is just too big to be captured.

Aamin

Aamin Mondal (as i later knew his name was) : Didi, didi, money money, please, money...

Me : What? money? why?

AM: I kept your shoe safe, see here it is.

Apparently, he had saved me from lurking thieves who would like nothing better than to steal my shoe. For all of you who have seen the pair, it would be a good thing for me to have it stolen so I would finally get a new one. But that was not to be, as Aamin had kept it tucked safely between his legs. His intention however, was far from innocent. He used his cute facednes as a ploy to usurp money from others who visited the temple. I was another such victim.

Months of living in a country where such hardship lathered cuteness is hard to find, have however, taught me to look behind the obvious. I looked at his oversized blue jacket, probably the only one to survive the Kolkata cold, in the pavements below the bridge. Alone. With his group of friends. All now bickering for the ten Rupees note in AM's hands.

Me: Oye, you are all supposed to share this..

AM: ohhh...if you are so concerned, why dont you give me more eh?

Me: yeah right, then tomorrow I will have to ask you for money.

AM: Say what? give me that song thing you have ( referring to the pink mp3 in my hand, so guys like pink...hmmmm)

Me: you wont even know half the songs in here..

AM: O madam, even I know englis.

Me: Acchha?? you go to school?

AM: you dont believe me? come come, ill show my school to you...

Me: all of you go there?

AM's friend (female, very sweet, will grow up to be a killer): arre dont listen to him, he will take your money and eat gutkha...

Me: you dont like gutkha? or do you?

AM's friend : we all love it. even he. (pointing at the smallest kid in the group, who now smiles guiltily)

Me : but thats not good is it?

AM: Didi, nothing in our life is. You just give me another ten bucks and go. Go home.

Me : ........

There are very few instances in life where I dont talk back. There are even fewer people who can render me speechless. For this reason alone, if not for anything else, that I will always remember AM. Probably go back to the temple again, to talk to AM again, to partake in their stained lives, to feel oh i am so cool, i can talk to roadside kids without any hesitation, to feel the small glitch in my heart when the helplessness hits me and I realise how lucky I am to have a home.

As of now, I can do nothing. Except for write a blog.

jet unlagged

so..i reached home last night. i was anxious while in Newark, tensed at the airport, hungry in the flight (food in Continental sucks), awed to see a horizontal rainbow while flying above the clouds, very tired after the landing...

Excited about coming home? no. zero. zilch.

As the 'o my God, i am emotionaly drained' paranoia set in, i seeked alternate explanations for my lack of feeling. maybe its because i practically dont live in the USA, i live in Harrison, which as everyone knows, is a messier, dirtier, more concise version of India itself. Or maybe bcos its not even a year since i left. Or that i had met my parents in summer. Or probably (this is a very long shot), i had just given my Molbio paper, and i was too exhausted for any feeling...

But nothing made sense. As i spotted an older dad and a thinner mom, and after the customary exclamations about my loss in weight ( what lies, my jeans are proof), i practically threw in the luggage and fixed my eyes outside through the window of the car. Maybe, revisiting the places i grew up in would stir my dead emotions. Would you believe it, i even hummed "ye jo des hai mera, swades hai mera" for a minute waiting for the eyes watering, chokiness that should have overpowered me by now. oh come on......

Then i figured. i was not Shah Rukh Khan's heroine. i was not Karan Johar's either. i do not dance around in chiffon sarees when it snows, i do not go jogging in Central Park, i can never manage to not spill coffee while i walk ( i have tried, believe me), i do not have the luxury of crying over a heartbreak on Brooklyn Bridge. i lack a scripted life. i cannot be expected to get straight As, be stick thin, fall in love, and sing for my country at the same time. na na.

So when after a year of surviving on ramen noodles, subway and samosa paav,God bless the cart wallah, i come back to the secure confines of home, all i feel is relief.

That nothing has changed. Bombay is still hot, still pleasant, still trafficky, and although still punctuated by terror alerts, the mornings still sees a crowd of fisher-women with their hair adorned with fresh flowers, the bus driver in a rare mellow mood, the already busy vada pav stalls in Churchgate, joggers smiling their way through excreta of various kinds, a dog scrutinising left overs at Chowpatty, students grumbling over tution classes, wondering if going to Siddhivinayak would yield better grades, the everything market at Colaba, a couple sneaking behind Band stand, the water lapping over Haji Ali, from the sun feebly trying to climb over a heavy spread of fog to the queen's lavish necklace in Marine Drive....I am relieved my home is just as how i had seen it last.

In the midst of the silent humbleness, I miss Harrison. I miss the bridge, with the wind creating ripples in the water, i miss not looking for the stop sign when i cross the roads, i miss the gossip in the campus centre, i miss the mess i have made out of my room, and also the comfort of independence that i have achieved, i miss the cold blast of air that hits my face the moment i step out, i miss the very few friends i have there....

But then i look at the sky, and i see the odd shaped moon, the same one here, the same one there. And finally, i come to believe, wherever i am, i will always be at home.

Songs? Anyone?

A Farewell

when its dark outside and the noise is driving u crazy,
when every breath seems to confirm your final fear;
when at the end of the road, thers no glint of hope,
when every thought is discarded by lifes indecision,

all you need is me,
i know all you need is me..

look back to see my eyes on you,
look back to see the smiles,
think back to feel the touch, the smell,
the love in all its disguise..

you'll know all you need is me,
i hope all you need is me...

when silent stares are all you get,
when the hidden tears remain unseen,
when the confession hurts more than the honest mistake,
when the world's out to prove that you are wrong...

a hand will reach out for you strength,
a heart will still believe in you,
and when you get to see that faith,
without the lurking fear you'll know;

you'll know all you need is me,
y do i feel all you need is me?

you can reach out, and i may not come,
you can search, but i may hide,
in some other world, some other time,
you know im there beside...

but for now, my love, let this be it,
let the mystery be unsolved...
for the sake of the true lies that we lived,
let our stories be untold...

Obhyash

Bagane ekta togor gaach. sheta te shiit, grishwo, borsha, shara bochor chotto chotto shada phool fNote. niyomiito. emon kono din nei, jobe janala diye mukh baRiye ek jhNaak togor phool ke matha dolate dyakha jayeni. kharap o lage na. bhalo o lage na. baganer shobha emon kichu baReo na. sada matha phool, temon gondho o choRaye na. loke dekheo na dyakha kore dey.

Togor gach ta jyano kibhabe bujhte pare, tar kodor khub beshi na. tai she chupti kore janalar neech er chaya ghera jayga ta-e dNariye thake. she maali-r kache ador, jotno, bhalobasha, kichui asha kore na. she jaane, golaap, joba, dahlia, chondromollika der tulonaaye, she onek onek neeche. she tai niye matha ghamaye na. jak ge. baRir bou ti je nityo din pujo-r phool tolar somoy ek gaal heshe tar dikei ashbe, ei kotha mone kore she roj phool fNutiye jaye. ek din o bhool kore na.

Maali ta tar bagaan niye jar por nai gorbito. shara paRaye emon bagan ko khana ache. Babu ke diye boliye boliye shaar aniyeche. Babu muk kore bote, tobe phool dekhe bahoba o dey. ki shobha tar phool er. teen teen ronger golaap, jNui, chNapa, iyya boRo boRo gNyada... ki nei tar bagane. kopal dosh e jedin kono phool i fNote na, togor ta to achei. din din shukiye jachche gaach ta. jak ge jak. togor thaklei ba ki, na thaklei ba ki. byabostha hobe khon...

Bagaan e boshonto ashe. jyano mati te ramdhonu fNuteche. projapoti ta thik korte parche na kon dike jabe. baRi-r boRo chele-r photo tolar shokh. she khotash khotash chobi tulche. tar bon rong pencil tuli niye sondhya obdhi bagane. golaap er shonge rong na melale tar aar cholche na... e hyano byastota Togor gaach daRiye daRiye dyakhe. kichui bole na.

koyek mash jaye. baRite pujo.

phool tulye eshe dyakha jaye, e bochor shiuli ta kom. ja poReche, take diye kichui hobe na. gNyada gaach gulor thik pashe bishal boRo ek bolta-r chaak. golaap gaach e aaj shudui kNata. Joba diye ki aar pujo hoy? Dahlia cheRe kar sadhyo? ei ko mashe baaki phool der joubon shesh. ki kora? Shada phool chai je...

Togor gaach dyakhe, ebaar sobai tar dikei cheye. she kichui bole na. ebaar shudhui opekkha...

Obhyash bhanganor.

khyala

tar chotto chotto hath pa dekhe keu bujhbe na, tar ki oshiim khomota. gol gol chokh gulo takush tukush, edik odik takaye, aar mathaye ohoroho dushtu buddhi ghore. ekbaar jodi kichu korbe bole thik korlo, to byas...aar jaye kothaye? kokhono khilkhil kore heshe uthche, kokhono abar bina karone osrupaat. kichu jiggesh korle, bole o na, shone to na i.

tobu take mathaye kore rakha hoy. she jokhon jeta hukum kore, bina bakkobyay e hajir kora hoy. bujhi ei kore kore i tar ashpordha beRe choleche. aage tobu ektu adhtu chokh raNgale, majhe sajhe duto mishti gaan gaile, tar mon bhijto. ekhon? sref obogga. e hyano opomaan sotteo, baRi shuddho lok tar kothatei othe boshe.

she bhalobashe sudhu khyala korte. shei khyala, jar kono matha nei, mundu nei, naam nei. bibhinno putul, ghor baRi, phol-phool, majhe sajhe jol, kokhono abar poka makoR, ki nei tar dol e? tar khyalar niyom she morji moto bhaNge, morji moto goRe. baki shongi ra maniye ney.

putul gulo r je koshto hoy na ta na. dhoro duto putul er khub bhaab. jei eta tar chokh e poRlo, dilo duto ke alada bakshe bondi kore. tarpor dhoro ekta phool jotno kore tar pasher kuRi ti ke agle rekheche, dilo emon taan, phool- kuRi shob hapish. jol niye khelche, bhalo kotha, nije bhijcho, bhejo, sobbai ke nakani-chobani khaoanor ki dorkar baba? tar por khelna gaRi. uff....gaRi gulo ke ek sathe thik kore chalano jaye, eta jyano she janei na. jotokkhon na duRum daRum kore ektar ekta upor na uthe jaye, she haal chaRe na. setai naki moja !

khelnar dol bohubaar thik koreche, ei obichaar er birodhita na korlei noy. tobu bojhoi to, putul gulo ek kotha bole, to haRi-koRa bNeke boshe. gaaRi-ghoRa bole hyan, to baagan bole na. aar amader babumoshai ke paye ke? er kotha take, tar kotha eke. shob nijeder moddhyey loRe more. byas...aar kono bhoy i nei. :-)

ei kore din jaye. onek din gyache. aro onek din jabe. she khyala thamabe na.

She Bhogoban bole kotha.