I love stories. I love listening to tales of ruin, and tales of conquer. Taking in tales of hate, tales of love and tales of life. I think stories make life worth living. And, I hear many stories, when I am in a cattle-cab to Saket. The dilapidated white van is brimming with passengers, including Commando: Tall, burly, flowery-shirted Commando from Beneras in the Uttar Pradesh. He speaks a fluent Hindi and slips into occasional English.
He tells me of a funny accident he had a little after the NH8. He was cruising on his motorbike at a speed of 45km/hr and taking a quick call on his cell phone. Out of nowhere, he spots a white Maruti 800 right in front of him. The headlights weren’t turned on. For most, it would have been too late. But, not for Commando! He cleverly jumped off his bike and landed on the roof-top of the white Maruti 800. His bike fell to the wayside. The frightened driver didn't know what had happened, and couldn't find Commando. He feared the worst. Until, he saw a grinning Commando sitting atop his car. That's Commando for you. Narrating tales of murder, shootings and family banter with an easygoing smile.
He talks of a male friend who picked up a blue washing machine and an even blue-er refrigerator on a whim. Imagine the wife's dismay when they returned home. A ghastly, overbearing blue greeted her in two. Commando tells us the fight went on for hours. The woman raved and ranted; the husband maintained a silence. Only to eventually say: "All these years, you've showed off your purchases from in varied colours and patterns. I've never said a word; even shared a smile. The first time I bought something I liked, this is how you react." The wife immediately smiled. A lesson for all us women, I think.
Do you know, Commando tells me, on this highway over 50 employees were killed in private cabs last year? I am unnerved. And, I am also curious: Why does everyone call Commando, Commando? So I learn his magnificent story. Commando, a National athlete, who joined the Paramilitary force and then an Advertising agency. After a six-month training program, Commando joined the National Security Guards force operating in Naxal-populated and other areas fighting terrorists.
Once, he narrates, they spent a night fighting infiltrators in Nagaland. In the morning they learned, they had lost 8 of their men. The reason: the clever infiltrators had disguised themselves in the same uniform as the Commandos. They set their radio frequency to the same frequency and listened into conversation, passwords, etc. Imagine waking up to know you have killed your own men over such a blunder. Commando too has killed many men. And, then found his way out of the army, hoping to find a job as a sports coach. He landed up in an Animation-cum-Computer institute, and spent hours mastering the mouse, the keyboard and then on design software. Friends of friends were kind enough to land him a break in the advertising circuit. This was several years ago.
And, Commando was kind enough to share his stories. Time and time again. For life is as much about sharing your stories as it is about discovering them. As I sip black ginger, black tea a little later, I murmur a Thank-you to Commando. A Thank-you to the storytellers of the world.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
30X30: Yellow
Diaries
Coldplay
The colour of your deathly eyes
The sound of thought transforming to words
The light of God speak
The light at the end of the tunnel
The swirl in Mango Ice cream
The colour of the summer sun
The smell of flowers in bloom
Butterflies flitting in happiness
Sickness
The feeling of mellow
The feeling of letting go
The feeling of it being snatched away
The sound of child-like joy
The death of an angel
The lace of oil in Indian dal
The colour of her shirt, when you looked at her
The light in her hair
The promise of a morning
The stillness at the end of a yellow day.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Coldplay
The colour of your deathly eyes
The sound of thought transforming to words
The light of God speak
The light at the end of the tunnel
The swirl in Mango Ice cream
The colour of the summer sun
The smell of flowers in bloom
Butterflies flitting in happiness
Sickness
The feeling of mellow
The feeling of letting go
The feeling of it being snatched away
The sound of child-like joy
The death of an angel
The lace of oil in Indian dal
The colour of her shirt, when you looked at her
The light in her hair
The promise of a morning
The stillness at the end of a yellow day.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
30X30: Band on the Run
I can almost feel the song as it ebbs and flows, collapses and gathers pace - Paul Mc Cartney and the Wings' 'Band on the Run.' I can remember it playing and looping off a silver compact disc, handed down from a friend to dad to me. I can remember it break many silences. And, I can remember it as I am seated at the Chatrapati Shivaji Domestic Airport, Mumbai. It's 5'o clock in the morning, and three white-skinned men have taken to their guitars. I do not know who they are. I do not ask where they are from. Sometimes when there is music, you need nothing else. Just the sound of their Spanish tango that fills the air. Just the image of their gleeful smiles, delirious with music. And, just the simplicity of two local Indians, in high-waist pants...father and son, watching them on.
A band at the airport. Almost like a band on the run. Shows me why I love Mumbai, and why I love music. "Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun, And the first one said to the second one there I hope you're having fun. "
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
A band at the airport. Almost like a band on the run. Shows me why I love Mumbai, and why I love music. "Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun, And the first one said to the second one there I hope you're having fun. "
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Monday, October 19, 2009
30X30:Stay
A dream is dying in flat number 57B. Wails are breaking out from its walls and seeping into the corridors of wretched, old Shyam Niwas. Nobody runs for help. Hands stir pans, pots slip from nimble fingers and the aroma of a spicy mango curry fills the air. Life goes on, like nothing has happened, and no one can hear. And, little Mahua from flat number 57B continues to break out into painful, agonizing sobs.
Moments earlier, Mahua was found entwined with a pair of skinny legs and chequered shirt – bright, bare and busy. Her angry father pulled her across the mosaic, dragging her into the kitchen of flat number 57B. Her mother followed, only to bang the door shut.
Silly Mahua, they say. Silly, lustful Mahua. Running after a miserly man, of no standing. Dancing about a clerk from Pushpanjali Associates. Holding on to a dream so wretched, her father would rather die. Words seep into one ear, then travel to another, and then another. Hollowing out so quickly, the walls of miserable Shyam Niwas.
I am tempted to remind them of our own standing. We are all born out of middle-class mosaic, bred within banal blue walls and destined to marry ordinary men from ordinary worlds. It is foolish to seek beyond our standing. Why then must Mahua be reduced to Shyam Niwas mockery? Perhaps, it is her tangled flesh, and his youthful cockiness.
They started out with such sweet love. Manav and Mahua. Little teenagers that found each other across swings and around mountains of dried green grass. Young lovers with upturned smiles, and gawky scrawlings in college notebooks. Forever sweethearts, with no fear, and delicate hearts.
Delicate hearts twisted and moulded by the vagaries of time, and lust, and deceit. Into a mass of naked hunger and fearful fervour. Caught unaware, upon the steps of old Shyam Niwas, fifty-three steps from flat number 57B.
Mahua’s sobs echo well past dinner and after-dinner banter. Her cries fill the musty night air. Drowning out the noise of stray dogs, blaring cars, and the squabble in 52C. Her dreariness fills my heart with grief. Reminding me briefly of his lingering touch, his hoarse, divine voice. Lost quickly to time, and other such demons.
As I cradle her sorrow, and allow it to mingle with mine...I think perhaps, it is wise not to let love through the doors of Shyam Niwas. Its old, crumbling walls are built not for love, nor happiness. But harbour only hurt, and hatred. Even as I hear Mahua quieten, even as her father’s voice disappears into the night, I do not break my resolve.
Why make love stay in venomous Shyam Niwas?
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Moments earlier, Mahua was found entwined with a pair of skinny legs and chequered shirt – bright, bare and busy. Her angry father pulled her across the mosaic, dragging her into the kitchen of flat number 57B. Her mother followed, only to bang the door shut.
Silly Mahua, they say. Silly, lustful Mahua. Running after a miserly man, of no standing. Dancing about a clerk from Pushpanjali Associates. Holding on to a dream so wretched, her father would rather die. Words seep into one ear, then travel to another, and then another. Hollowing out so quickly, the walls of miserable Shyam Niwas.
I am tempted to remind them of our own standing. We are all born out of middle-class mosaic, bred within banal blue walls and destined to marry ordinary men from ordinary worlds. It is foolish to seek beyond our standing. Why then must Mahua be reduced to Shyam Niwas mockery? Perhaps, it is her tangled flesh, and his youthful cockiness.
They started out with such sweet love. Manav and Mahua. Little teenagers that found each other across swings and around mountains of dried green grass. Young lovers with upturned smiles, and gawky scrawlings in college notebooks. Forever sweethearts, with no fear, and delicate hearts.
Delicate hearts twisted and moulded by the vagaries of time, and lust, and deceit. Into a mass of naked hunger and fearful fervour. Caught unaware, upon the steps of old Shyam Niwas, fifty-three steps from flat number 57B.
Mahua’s sobs echo well past dinner and after-dinner banter. Her cries fill the musty night air. Drowning out the noise of stray dogs, blaring cars, and the squabble in 52C. Her dreariness fills my heart with grief. Reminding me briefly of his lingering touch, his hoarse, divine voice. Lost quickly to time, and other such demons.
As I cradle her sorrow, and allow it to mingle with mine...I think perhaps, it is wise not to let love through the doors of Shyam Niwas. Its old, crumbling walls are built not for love, nor happiness. But harbour only hurt, and hatred. Even as I hear Mahua quieten, even as her father’s voice disappears into the night, I do not break my resolve.
Why make love stay in venomous Shyam Niwas?
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Saturday, October 17, 2009
30X30: Filth
In the corner by the street, garbage reeks. Upon cold, cloudless skies...crackers are flung. On brown, beautiful earth they fall. Grey ash leaves a trail. And, some of us follow it, to meet a cement structure...and then another. Tall, large, looming, obese. Within walls, unhappy families breathe. Breathe air laced with carbon monoxide. Air laced with the smell of left overs from yesterday. Air devoid of the promise of tomorrow. For within walls, broken families live. Their lives entangle, and entwine with other broken lives. A mesh of anger, jealousy, hatred ensues. Within walls secret wrongs are committed, in freedom. Upon windows illicit lovers meet. Against time childhoods are lost. In pursuit, money is gained...and money is lost. In celebration too, all is not well. Minds wail and dirt still lies settled. On a good day, love stops...but for awhile. Filth it seems, prevails.
[I wish we could all pledge to cleanse. 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
[I wish we could all pledge to cleanse. 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Friday, October 16, 2009
30X30: Evening
Like paintings,
lone ships
hang by sunsets.
Women folk
gather their skirts
And, men break into
gossip.
Simmering,
chillies are burned
and in other houses
wine is poured into
glasses. Some
prefer warm milk.
Greased hands
break puris,
blackened feet
kick stones in glee.
The joy of turning
home. Some feet
of course, trudge
along.
In town squares
fights seek
right from wrong.
Some eyes
study school books,
others lust beauties
on streets...some
settle to await the
hope that night brings.
Some fingers find
hands, some point
angrily and others
chop, dance, type.
Noise burns out into
the streets, without
a whistle: vanishes.
Air suddenly turns
still. Hoarse voices
break into a hush.
Without warning,
without signal
and without a chance
Evening is lost.
And, with it...
A day too.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
lone ships
hang by sunsets.
Women folk
gather their skirts
And, men break into
gossip.
Simmering,
chillies are burned
and in other houses
wine is poured into
glasses. Some
prefer warm milk.
Greased hands
break puris,
blackened feet
kick stones in glee.
The joy of turning
home. Some feet
of course, trudge
along.
In town squares
fights seek
right from wrong.
Some eyes
study school books,
others lust beauties
on streets...some
settle to await the
hope that night brings.
Some fingers find
hands, some point
angrily and others
chop, dance, type.
Noise burns out into
the streets, without
a whistle: vanishes.
Air suddenly turns
still. Hoarse voices
break into a hush.
Without warning,
without signal
and without a chance
Evening is lost.
And, with it...
A day too.
[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
Thursday, October 15, 2009
30X30: Idiosyncrasies
Little bits of Delhi NCR, since I've been here a month:
1. It's not Maggi, it's Wai Wai: Of Course, you know that.
2. Proof of Punjabi pride: A snippet of conversation, "Person: "Main Dilli ka nahi hoon. Main toh Punjaaabi Aadmi hoon. Bas Punjabi khaana, aur Punjaabi gaana."
3. No Sweat: For geographically challenged me, not sweating in Delhi was quite a discovery.
4. Rickshaws aren't autos: There are auto rickshaws and there are cycle rickshaws. Which means, there are autos and there are rickshaws. In that order.
5. Rent for Real: The concept of expensive rent is bizarre. Person: "Oh Saket. The rent there is very expensive. Like 9000 bucks!" Saket by the way is a relatively posh area.
6. Auto-less NH8: Well, almost. They manage to sneak their way in, until a little exit just before the toll gate.
5. Winter, not Winters: But you know that too!:)
7. Hmm, Bengalis: There's this whole Bengali vibe thing going on here, which I just can't figure:|
8. Momo Love: They're delectable. Inexpensive. Addictive.
9. Multi-cultural Indeed: Koreans, North East Indians, South Indians, English Folk, North Indians...quite an eclectic mix.
10. The Cellphone Nightmare: Airtel sets a Rs. 500/- Credit Limit. Vodafone keeps killing your network. And, often doesn't have a store for miles. Reliance randomly decides you haven't submitted your papers. Sigh.
11. Dang! It's dented: Every other car in Delhi is dented. And, cars are spilling out of houses.
12. Honestly, Dishonest: Rickshaws openly admit to charging you Rs. 20-30/- above the meter fare. They even turn on their meter for proof.
13. Disco Delhi: I was whoopie excited to watch locals doing the disco at a popular pub.
14. Jaat is a Dialect: Or, a tribe. Or, a set of people the average Delhi-ite dislikes. Maybe you could help me here?
15. Delhi has an accent: A nasal twang, that's growing on me:|
[If you add your own, this could be fun:) 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
1. It's not Maggi, it's Wai Wai: Of Course, you know that.
2. Proof of Punjabi pride: A snippet of conversation, "Person: "Main Dilli ka nahi hoon. Main toh Punjaaabi Aadmi hoon. Bas Punjabi khaana, aur Punjaabi gaana."
3. No Sweat: For geographically challenged me, not sweating in Delhi was quite a discovery.
4. Rickshaws aren't autos: There are auto rickshaws and there are cycle rickshaws. Which means, there are autos and there are rickshaws. In that order.
5. Rent for Real: The concept of expensive rent is bizarre. Person: "Oh Saket. The rent there is very expensive. Like 9000 bucks!" Saket by the way is a relatively posh area.
6. Auto-less NH8: Well, almost. They manage to sneak their way in, until a little exit just before the toll gate.
5. Winter, not Winters: But you know that too!:)
7. Hmm, Bengalis: There's this whole Bengali vibe thing going on here, which I just can't figure:|
8. Momo Love: They're delectable. Inexpensive. Addictive.
9. Multi-cultural Indeed: Koreans, North East Indians, South Indians, English Folk, North Indians...quite an eclectic mix.
10. The Cellphone Nightmare: Airtel sets a Rs. 500/- Credit Limit. Vodafone keeps killing your network. And, often doesn't have a store for miles. Reliance randomly decides you haven't submitted your papers. Sigh.
11. Dang! It's dented: Every other car in Delhi is dented. And, cars are spilling out of houses.
12. Honestly, Dishonest: Rickshaws openly admit to charging you Rs. 20-30/- above the meter fare. They even turn on their meter for proof.
13. Disco Delhi: I was whoopie excited to watch locals doing the disco at a popular pub.
14. Jaat is a Dialect: Or, a tribe. Or, a set of people the average Delhi-ite dislikes. Maybe you could help me here?
15. Delhi has an accent: A nasal twang, that's growing on me:|
[If you add your own, this could be fun:) 30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]
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