Immanuel

God is with us.

The morning's hustle-bustle comes to an ephemeral halt. The little red window reveals a massive crane toppled sideways onto the road alongside... breaking walls, spewing blood.We chug through the chaos, make our way to the station, somehow. Everybody seems startled.
I run to the first train I see...It's time to rush to work, keeping the delay in mind. The train is relatively empty, I settle into a seat... armed with a newspaper to keep me company. A voice shakes me out of my stupor, a hefty woman tells us we're under high alert, following the Jaipur blasts. She yells out an Emergency number, warns us to keep hawkers and beggars out of the train. Just as she makes her way out, a young magazine seller clambers up the train.
The hefty woman shuffles up to the man, 'traps' him, or so she says. She goes on to humiliate him, call the emergency number and scorn him as he pleads forgiveness. As the train enters the next station, she proceeds to push him off.
I watch, teary-eyed. I wonder how lashing out at the innocent, lashing out at the poor serves any purpose at all. In a few moments, I think, all innocence is lost. There's a lot of unfairness in this world. In those moments, I wonder if there is a God. There ought to be, I think. There ought to be, I think, to set this unfairness right.

A few days later, I see the same magazine seller climb up the train.
Life, life goes on.

Penang's guilt-ridden beaches reek of sewage and saltwater. We add to what took away its old world charm. We parasail, boat ride, jet ski and turn back into the hotel. We walk down it's atypical night market, sift through the bobbing blue-and-white beads, we tuck in stir-fried prawns and nasi tossed with fried-egg, chicken bits and chopped veggies. We also sink in George Town, old Chinese houses, cars that ride into ferries and the sparkling Gurney's Plaza.

Genting's tryst with modernity still retains it's natural charm. The skyway looks over lush greenery, as you walk... you glide through clouds...in the morning, the clouds urge you out of bed. A measly theme park opens into a sparkling mall...a classic holiday hotspot for all things young and restless.

Kuala Lampur takes you into a mixed world of the bold and the conservative.. yellow heels meet night-black head scarves. We shop, swim in the icy cold water, use the efficient mono-rail, stare at the queer people that make up the city...and yearn for home.

And, we return. With many stories, bags of nice-smelling shoes, clothes and the bobbing blue beads.

We are home. Back to the real city, with real people. No matter how you look at it, and what it takes out of you...this is home. And, we're back.
Thank God.

Little and not so little children follow me everywhere I go. They pretend to be grown up, wail, babble, smile, talk, absorb the world, or sit around pucker-faced, quiet. Travelling by bus, train and then a walk down Mahim's slum-cluttered street each morning leaves never a dull moment. Somedays, I see little children engaged in some mindless game or the other. Sitting atop a broken chair with wheels still intact and being dragged across the concrete. The other day, I saw a lost little boy on his first train ride. He watched in quiet fascination. Not a sound. And, then someday I talk or smile at these little children and I love it when they smile back. Like the little boy in the train who urged me to buy a picture book. And, surprised me by reading out in English! Or, perhaps the football playing kids outside my office who tease, wave out and always manage a smile. Somedays, I meet angelic little girls, so elegantly poised, bratty boys who talk big, and some sensible young girls, I'm all in love with. I watch how they move their fingers, do a little dance, move their lips, curl their toes.
Oh yes, I want babies.

Feels..

Like I'm growing up.
But, still so angular.

Deeply Disturbing.

She tugs at your pink-sleeved shirt,
Runs her fingers through your floppy haired chest
She looks at you, into you
Longingly, Intently.

She gives, she gets.
But, oh she gives. She doesn't get.
She shudders, she cries
She hopes, and,
She tugs at your pink-sleeved shirt again.

She talks.
She makes peace.
She waits.
She withers. She wilts.
But, you are not hers. Oh, you are not hers.

And, then she stops
As, if by chance
At a passerby sign
And, she learns:
What is not yours, is not yours.
No matter which way you look at it.

Will you be mine?

In a corner of the office sits the librarian. Not the bespectacled librarian you are accustomed to. He guards his ice-cold library with a 'keep out' sign. Inside lie hundreds and thousands and ten-thousands of dusty, black tapes. He clacks away on his computer, shuffles through the office,plays a song or two off his speakers. Some days he reads. And, some times he hums out a old hindi song or two.

Behind glass walls, sits a frizzy-haired, freckled face young lady. Some days she smiles. And, most times she angrily hurries from one meeting to another. To another. In her cut-away denim jacket, one day. And, a long-snug striped vest the next.

Ephemerally, they come together. 'Chai breaks,' lunch-time, that sort of thing. Their two-worlds caressed. From one day into another, then another. A ring of diamonds soon glistened her hand. He beamed. She beamed. He wept. Profusely.

"Will you be mine?" he asked.
Not a word was said.

Tum chale jaaoge to sochenge
Tum chale jaaoge to sochenge
Humne Kyaa Khoyaa
Humne Kyaa Paayaa