So much longing.

You'd think a love story that began over coffee and crumpled tissue paper would end how most sordid coffee-shop-love-tales end, crumpled, used and forgotten.
you'd think a love story that began over a guitar and the doors would end with a broken, weeping instrument lying lonely in a corner. And not aching to be played.
you'd think over time we'd realize how foolish we have been. That love wouldn't stay, not because the mystery of the connection would no longer stay...but because there would be no connection at all.
you'd think over time we'd tire, dream a little less, want a little less...anger, hate a little more.
you'd think over time this too, would fade away, perhaps gather some dust, spitter-spatter and die out. But No.
you'd think that small happiness wouldn't matter as much...ice-cream,holding hands, looking at each other. Truth is they always do.
you'd think maybe time would heal, time would teach, time would tell. time would tear us apart, and not leave us longing. you'd think that names scrawled on ruled paper would be left with those teenage years, you'd think you'd be able to swallow. And eventually it would die.
Not come back, stronger than before.
you'd think you'd understand what is, and what will never be. Make some peace, find some happiness. You'd think work would heal. And truth is it would. But how much and how long?
You'd think seeing, holding and talking wouldn't be so fucking difficult because life couldn't be just SO cruel. You'd think you wouldn't suffer. You wouldn't care. You wouldn't need. You'd be okay alone.
you'd think that when he comes and tell you all, you'd scutter and run. Not breakdown, and hurt through the night, the next day, and fall more in love.
you'd think over time, time would leave you be and ease the longing.

And you'd think maybe, just maybe...love will find a way

Goodbye.

And this one's for the Western Railways. To to the long, winding brown trains that both fascinate and repel, this one's a happy-sad goodbye. So, here's to the little girls that dance for money, and sometimes even sing. To their mothers who come in to sell the clips and bindis we love to buy. To the man who sells though he has no hands, to the man who moves though he has no feet. To the little child, I will never forget. The one with round, empty eyes, a half-torn t-shirt, and cigarette burn marks on his malnutritioned stomach. Exhibited for money. You still haunt me. To the little girl, who bought chocolates instead of food at the jhunka store I took her to; to the little boy who wanted only Good-day Choconut. To the blood-stained bodies I sometimes see, on a regular ride home. A simple reminder of the finality of life. To the fear-stricken faces at the blasts, to the young woman I took a ride home with. To the cushioned seats I've spent many an hour dreaming, catching up with a book or a friend, to the inside walls of compartments that tell of lowly lust. To the men who wait until the train takes leave when they bid her goodbye, to the banana wafer man, to the magazinewala, the samosa seller, the chikki boy. To the bhel wala on Churcgate Station, platform number 4. To us giggly girls. To the sleep-laden journey, to the slow's, the fast's, the ever-delayed...to the one's that never made it. To alone train rides, to i-pods, to the little boxed compartments that reek of garbage and rats and yesterday's love. And today's sameness. With yesterday, ofcourse. To the ugly dressed, to the banana sandwiches, to the over-sized women. The ones we fought with, the ones we smiled at, the ones we lent a paper to, the one's we glared at. To the squished fourth seat, to the doorways, to the book that fell on the tracks and never came back. To the men who whistle, lech and flash...ah a very 'good' bye. To the mindless conversations, the sometimes loud ones, and sometimes soulful ones. To all the little kids I shared a little of my allowance with. You will be missed. As will your often shiny clothes, and your run-away smiles. To the lonely night trains, the over-crowded early morning trains, to the stairs that led us to the trains. That sometimes never got us on time. To the very painful station-lady voice, to the man who plays the flute. To the blind, to the cold-coffee, to the never-ending ticket queues. To the essay on trains ...my very first assignment with Jai hind. To the things I've lost. But mostly, to the intangibles I got. Goodbye the Western Railways. I hate to say, I think you will be missed. And, I'm pretty damn sure you will be back again.

Take me back to Jalgaon

Take me back to Jalgaon, for this city leaves me so unbearably restless. Take me to the land of supposed water, where I saw no rivers. Where the train rolls in a half hour late to piping hot gingery tea and half a dozen sleepy-eyed Indian men. Where a white van waits, and stays with us through three days, like an easy come, easy go loyal friend. If there ever were such a thing. Person, rather. Take me to Jalgaon, even if make-shift bathrooms threaten to spider you out of existence and beedis taste nothing like you'd hoped. Where guest houses smell fresh and clean and serve poha with mirchi before you set out on a long hard day: trekking in the heat. Take me to Jalgaon, where we were all suspicious of a man called Haider Ali Noorani, because where we come from we are always unsure of people who are truly nice. Take me to the land of 'sev bhaji that reeks of oil', vadapavs fried with the vada and the pav both together and the most divine jeera rice. Where we listened to the people's voices but not their words, looked into their eyes and watched their hands move, for we didn't understand the language they spoke. Where 'witchcraft' prevails, little children hunger, and they rarely laugh. Where piracy still makes its way; or so the local store in the village with hindi phillum cd's and music tells me. Where they also sell adivasi item numbers much to my amusement. Take me to Jalgaon, Dhadgaon and Shahada where we had sliced cucumbers and water straight from the well to quench our thirst, where people looked at us curious-eyed (grammar?) and men thankfully, don't whistle. Take me to Shahada, where listening to the silence was more joyous than listening to the i-pod, where vans with open doors brought much amusement, and sitting on rocks in the middle of nowhere was utterly blissful. Where we were lucky to catch a few minutes on camera with Medha Patkar, where we had our share of daaru, navy cuts, and mumbai madness. Yet, so blissfully far away from it all. For the rain reminded us, where we were. As did the stars, the little galis, the gardens and the animals running wild. Where laughter came so easily. Take me to Jalgaon where sitting atop bags at the staion through the night made for a merry memory, where five people squeeze into a rickshaw, bags included...and giggle through the way.
Take me back to Jalgaon, where for four days, time stood still. And to think, we had so many wondrous experiences.
Oh, just take me back to Jalgaon...for this city leaves me so unbearably restless.

Three things.

First off, angsty teenage posts like the ones below, are hopefully a thing of the past. That said, angsty teenage posts are a tad better than angsty teenage behaviour eh?
Second, from all the phone conversations I've listened in on ( yes! i'm evil, shoot me) I conclude:
Men almost always talk work.
And women almost always, men.
Sigh.
Third, to the newspaper vendor outside Andheri Station today, I asked for a copy of the Brand Reporter. He puts the TOI in front of me. I look confused, ask him again. He looks at the TOI and turns once again to the chaiwala beside him. I talk much louder now, ask him for the Brand Reporter. He points at the TOI again. Then, as an afterthought adds: Oh..woh nahin hain. Jeez! No guesses for whose keeping who happy.

Tell me, tell me when it turned like this?
And why?
And I'll tell you why I'm hurting.
So much.

And, the word for today is:
Crackwhore - a crazy whorish human being.

Why such drama?

Oh, and what a happy day it has been. Suddenly, it feels like everything is numbered...I can barely believe the Jai hind journey is nearing its end. Its bittersweet like most things these days seem to be. A certain amount of change is always good, but with it comes the letting go. So today, it felt good to munch on the good ole college bhel while hurrying between lectures and then take the post six o' clock train home...and make lots of noise and laughter. I guess I'll miss them the most, the train rides with all of us giggly girls. Although not so much girls anymore, eh? Women, I hear. ( I also hear a lot of shaadi talk among em classmates. But lets not get there, thank you very much!)
That said, the year has gotten off to a rather dramatic start. Oh,why such drama? Like a little (not so little, perhaps?) swing of happy and sad, the year is flying...but the good thing is, it allows me the luxury of a break early enough. Ah, Jalgaon beckons. As does a hundred odd assignments. Toodle-doo.