Healthy Wealthy & Prosperous Deepawali

I can’t describe the exact feeling and perfect is just too frivolous a word. But it’s like if I died this minute, this second, I wouldn’t feel bad at all, no grudges, no regrets, no unfulfilled wishes and definitely no coming back as a ghost to haunt this world. I curl up more and feel the soft upholstery of the chesterfield chair & an even softer woolen shawl against my leg. I don’t want to get up-ever. I am in an invaluable painting, and have been painted in a spot and a color that makes the painting a masterpiece. Moving even an eyelid would render it a fake. Thankfully I don’t have to get-up just yet. There is nothing for me to do this lovely-ideal-idle-bright-sunny-yellow-after morning of Diwali. The cleaning of the house was already done, the 15 earthen lamps bought last week were washed, dried and placed, like me in perfect locations around the house, the rangoli I had made yesterday was still intact and the festive festoon already tied on the front door.  

From the other end of the room I hear my father saying that I will disappear into the chair if I don’t get up. I know what he means… I am snuggled up on this perfect chair in our dining room, having just finished my third stuffed paratha, with the soiled plate still on my lap. Sitting is a figurative term, because literally I am curled like a ball and it’s hard for anyone to tell where the chair ends and the human begins.

Oh what a lovely feeling! I tilt my head a little bit to see my dad reading newspaper. I squint my eyes, trying to see the headlines of the newspaper. “SC rules for an Environment Safe Diwali” it screams 

and jolts me ....I feel a purplish scratch in my yellow … and a sinking cold feeling develops in my stomach. I know this familiar journey-of-thoughts very well now; I know how it starts and I am old enough now to know that fighting the flashback is not the way to kill it, rather that the only way to survive it is to let it wash over, to re-live it and cure myself of them till the next time they are triggered.

My earliest memory of any festival is that of the festival of lights- Diwali. Except for me, it was always the festival of light and sound - mainly from sparkles and green bombs, packed neatly in small cardboard boxes with colorful and dubious branding such as murga-chaap , bandar-chaap...

In those days, the newspapers would contain more ads than news. My elder sister would be pestering my mother to buy her a new dress or a new accessory, my mom would want to buy a new home appliance, my dad would be busy planning our winter holiday visits to family right after Diwali. But not me. I would only be thinking of which crackers I would burst, in which order and quantity and days and time…I would keep a lookout in the supplement newspapers about any new cracker introduced in the market and insist my father buy it for me.

Within a week of Diwali, I would start seeing the temporary tents that cropped up on my school bus route and feel that tinge of excitement in my stomach and clench my fists in nervous anticipation. When the doorbell would ring I would rush to open it thinking that maybe papa had gotten crackers in wholesale from those tents and would not be able to hide my disappointment if that was not the case. Papa also would enjoy this routine… he would pretend that there is nothing and just as I would go back to my room he would say “ Arrey…I think I forgot something in the car..” We –and mostly I - would squeal like pigs and then the whole family would go down to get the bags. Yes- always bags. Full of sparkles, fountains, Spinners, Hunter, Pencil, Rockets, packet of small bombs and the prized green colored “Atomic Bomb”.

From that day onwards I would mentally track the crackers keenly keep a watch on the number of them mom gave it away to any street kids or what my sister burst. I would patiently cut the paper of bombs to make a fuse, collect bottles for rockets, get a big thali for spinner and would feel so cheated if any of them didn’t burst properly or didn’t match the light and sound I had imagined in my head.

But what was pushing me down the memory hole was a very particular Diwali day not too long ago. As usual the routine of Diwali was followed…the ritualistic cleaning, cooking decorating, praying, dinner and finally finishing all the crackers. I was particularly satisfied with the lot, it lasted a week and an hour and a half that day, my unique musical crackers were a super duper hit and everyone wanted to take one. Papa had gone up early and by the time I finished it was quite late and the crowd was thinning. I don’t quite remember when, but by the time I reached my floor an overwhelming sense of exhaustion filled me and I dragged myself to our apartment and dozed off. The next thing I remember is breathing cold air into my cold nose and a dryness in my eyes. I didn’t immediately open my eyes, rather turned myself towards the bedroom window to feel the sunlight in the particularly cold morning. But I didn’t feel the familiar yellow comfort of sunrays instead I felt a distinctly dark grayish color of phlegm in my throat and a burning red in my eyes. I squinted my eyes open, it was still dark outside. With my eyes still squinted, I tried to make out the time- 11:00 AM…why did it feel like 6? And then I heard my father coughing in his bedroom. I closed my eyes again and laid in the bed for few more minutes, trying to go back to sleep but I couldn’t breathe deeply before coughing. The cold clouds hiding the sun also didn’t help. I reluctantly pushed the quilt aside, got up and walked slowly towards the window. The sight was strange…There were no clouds, it was smog …and I could see it from the 4^th floor of my house. I went into my parent’s bedroom and saw papa sitting up- also trying to go back to sleep in vain and having difficulty breathing. I covered my nose with a shawl and crossed their room and into the balcony to see the park. I expected to see at least some shade of green, but when I looked down I could make out only newspapers… half burnt pieces of newspapers from the crackers, candle stubs, empty match boxes and lot of ash. Just then a strong wind blew and more of the dust went into my face and I could smell the gunpowder even from my covered nose.

I never explicitly made a resolution, at least I don’t remember ever telling myself anything. But that was the last time I ever burst crackers. Soon Diwali became a different kind of festival for me, still my favorite but always for the time spent with family, with God, with giving and receiving, with awesome food and even more awesome friends. It was years later that I realized just how scared I was when I heard that sickly coughing, that I was shocked when I saw smog till 4^th floor, that I went to balcony to see some of greenery to give me hope, that I had internalized the guilt of having contributed to most of the air pollution and to the ash and smoke that blew into my face that day and that there was no way of taking back the ugliness that I had sent into this world.

Back to present, I pull my face away from this thought-whirlpool and look at my dad also very still, reading newspaper and taking deep breaths. I tilt my head the other way now, again adjusting the shawl and feel the buttery yellow sunlight like the butter on my stuffed aloo paratha. I begin to photosynthesize like the plants that cure themselves in the sunlight and again the stuffed-idle-ideal state returns in our house.

All time music 5- STs Never ending playlist

Romedy Now is as frivolous a channel as the name suggests, always screening the same old die hard classic romantic comedy films that make   want to believe in love and happily ever after... you know the kinds like pretty women, pride and prejudice...anything with a happy ending. But i am not ashamed to admit that its one of my favorite channels. and i was flipping through it when i heard in the promo for an average romantic movie "Flipped" a most beautiful song.

I in fact didn't even hear the music... it was just the unbelievably beautiful voice of the singer ...like she is speaking from a dream...

And again i started hunting for this song... it would have been a long and arduous journey (remember my previous post about Buddha bar song?) but thankfully its the age of information and i found the answer on Quora and yahoo both. (By the way why don't people use yahoo anymore?) pointing towards the YouTube page for this song called "How the story ends" by Secret Wonder. ITS SO BEAUTIFUL. needless to say its here to stay in repeat mode.
But what is also interesting is the fact that there are at least a 100 others who like me heard that song on the TV channel and ended up on the YouTube page. Honest to god, its time like this when i start to believe the cliches about music and no boundaries and humans being same.

Here it is...the very international: how the story ends by secret wonder

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=floZzUJTLrg 

Jai Siya Ram!

Circa 1996:

Delhi is the worst place on Earth, i haven't really been anywhere else but I know for sure. Scorching summers seemed too mild a word to describe what was being quoted by the media as the worst summer in ages. But every summer is quoted as the worst summer- climate change. The constant loo combined with hot fumes from traffic felt like flames against my skin- slowly burning it to a dull orange- a la tandoori. I couldn't bring myself to smile at my stupid internal joke. It felt as if  hot waves were magnified by the ugly grey DDA buildings; a concrete mirage forming on the tarred sticky roads. Just why aren't people dying in in this heat? I wondered... once someone died the authorities would close down the schools and I wouldn't have to suffer so much. Harsh, but true. Truth of living and studying in India. Hey Raaam...Why was I born in such a hot country? Why couldn't I be born in the US? I shifted the weight from my school bag and looked ahead to see how much more I have to walk. Almost no one in sight...apart from us poor souls.

By 'us' I mean me and her.  Mademoiselle Asiya - walking in front of me-wearing her non-matching black Abaaya in the scorching heat. The poor fool; she has to cover herself in black as if she needed to absorb more heat. I can see her uncomfortably shifting the scrag, scratching her hair...must be the hair-sweat. Where is my sweat? A juice advertisement I had seen came to my mind just then...the one where the Sun sucks the energy of a child using a straw directly attached to his head. There is no moisture left in my body, not even sweat, surely the sun has sucked all the moisture and is now sucking my BLOOD...

Just when I was about to faint, I see mummy in her favorite-cotton-colorful-Punjabi suit; hurrying to catch up to me with a covered glass in one hand and an umbrella in another.... Thank you bhagwanji! As a ritual mom always crossed that road twice- once to left and then again to the right to meet me at that junction.  She followed this strange pattern to avoid the butcher shops & the road side non veg restaurants that displayed the red sticky chicken in seekhs that lined the left side of our road. I waited for her to cross to my side and smiled a thankful smile.  Mom was happy she caught me mid way and gave me the nimboo-pani she had prepared and snatched my heavy bag from me. Thank God for mothers. Really.

She saw Asiya in front and asked me if I am talking to her now. Mumma can't understand this...caste system may have been abolished everywhere in India but in School there is a clear social hierarchy of girls and Asiya was just not top rung material. And I was popular enough to not be targeted but not enough to hang out with lot of her without being tarnished.

It was a common thing for everyone in our building to compare Aisya and me. Not only were we same age we also studied in same school same class and stayed in same building. When we were younger we used to hang out with each other and were inseparable then. "Then". "Now" we were 12 years old and we grew up as different as chalk and cheese. Still, we continued a hello/hi relationship but it seemed to me that something more than her physical appearance had changed with her donning abaaya. I remember initially when she used to purposely leave it in playground and then later go down to fetch it with her brother-Atif bhaiya. The whole situation made me feel very uncomfortable.

Our 2nd floor neighbor Aunty would always comment : "Naam mein sirf ek shabd alag hai lekin waise din aur raat ka fark hai". All would listen patiently and laugh as if they had heard it for the first time.

We reached our building and passed Asiya going inside her house on first floor while we continued to climb stairs up to the second floor. Just when her door was about to shut I got a whiff of the food her mom must have prepared for lunch. I remembered that smell from when we were kids...It was a different kind of smell... very spicy and tasty. I took a good one in and once we reached our floor and out of earshot, asked my mom what her prep must be. My mom's face changed as she told me that its non-veg.


Circa 1999:

"Dictionary kahan hai mummaaaaa" I yelled. I was restless and there were precious few moments left before I had to run for my morning bus. But the news was buzzing and I could see Outlook magazine's cover story "Proxy War". As usual we would be discussing the news in the school bus. I wanted to know the meaning of the word proxy before I used it.

"Jahan aakhir rakhi thi wahin hogi na" comes the zen like reply from the kitchen. Just for that, I spend precious moments to go into the kitchen make a make a face at mumma and then run out of the house. Back in school we are all very excited. I use the word "Proxy" very confidently and everyone pretends to understand it as well and so no one asks me the meaning. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Asiya sitting with her mousy girlfriend not participating in the issue.

"Such traitors these Muslims are.... they never belong to a nation; they think they are above India and Indians" says my best friend. She is the class captain and we both are loud and talkative-one of the reasons why we are never made to sit together. I get that uncomfortable feeling in my heart again; like my heart wants to hide behind another organ...but I ignore it and join with her in laughing shrilly and was a bit relieved when the teacher came in the class and we scurried to get settled in our separate seats. The English teacher knows we are excited about the Kargil war and starts an open discussion on the Kashmir issue. Somewhere it becomes a "fish market" (her favorite words) and the debate takes a turn and we start using the words Pakistanis, terrorists and Muslims interchangeably. My teacher realizes its going out of hands when someone brings up Vande Mataram and Bharat maa. Suddenly, and to the shock of everyone the Mademoiselle-mousy-Asiya raises voice and stands up- " We are Muslims and it's blasphemy for us to utter these words for there is only one true leader and one true God and that is Allah..." The class was finally quiet, the teacher looked suitably scared of the situation and was, for the first time relieved to hear the bell go off. I looked at my best friend from across the room, she was smiling that smug smile and I once again mimicked it.

Circa 2006:

I am inside the tiny toilet stall in my office. Checking my phone while sitting on the pot. Its one of the places I come to to escape the bone-chilling-AC-cold that develops post lunch in the office. The exhaust from the bathroom wall pumps in the hot air from outside which I find comforting for a while; because irrespective of N number of calls to the office maintenance team the AC temperature problem is never fixed, and my work station is a perennial igloo.

I hear the door of the washroom open and a girl's voice humming the Bollywood song:
"Mohabbat ki yeh intaha ho gayi,  Ke masti mein tumko hmmmm keh gaya~Zamana yeh insaaf karta raha , Bura keh gaya yah bhala keh gaya" Sitting on the pot I knew it was her even though we hadn't spoken in ages; her family had moved out some 7-8 years ago and I was staying in Gurgaon for work; yet I knew it was her, trying to avoid the lyrics of the song which compared a loved one to "khuda". She kept singing this stanza again and again but always skipping the word Khuda . Only 1 person I know could be so dogmatic- Mademoiselle Asiya. It is incredible I guess; the way we both land up in the same IT office but there is no mutual feeling of nostalgia; its like Asiya and I are from different planets.

I came out of the toilet and there she was - Growing every day a fanatic-fool my former-best-friend thought all Muslims were. I washed my hands near the basins and looked sideways at her reflection in the mirror while she was adjusting her brown pinstripe abaaya, I saw the studded Aldo platform slippers and the bright red nail paint on her toes and what looked like a chudidaar inside that brown chaadar. Thats it..haha....She wears her chaadar and pillow cover to work-  I smiled at my joke and caught my reflection in the mirror and realized it was more of a smirk. So what...she deserves my derogatory looks, I am thankful once again that i was born into a Hindu family and leave the washroom. One thing I knew for sure though... I know now that Asiya would feel naked without all the extra clothes she wraps her head and body with.

Circa 2007 (Age 23)

The office annual party is such a drag. Especially if one doesn't drink. Specially if one is a single-girl who usually has expensive pub drinks with her friends but wouldn't drink the free booze in office party with her IT colleagues for fear of being thought of as "modern". I am sitting next to my friend who isn't a girl and THAT- I decide is the most daring thing that I should do in the party today.

Already the small town type-guys are drunk; the dance moves are becoming like the 90s pelvic thrust songs and we both know the party is breathing its last breath.
At one end is the blaring, tasteless & repetitive Punjabi music next to the uneven makeshift dance floor which at this point has multiple of those small-town guys on left and on right are 6 vernacular-looking girls in a circle doing trademark Gujrati moves. On the other side is the buffet table lined up with the biggies and their trophy wives. And in the middle were the two of us. IT -the great equalizer.

"Looks can be deceptive na.." my friend asked. "Arre! I was thinking the same...do you think they work like we do? But we look like daily laborers and some of them look like former-out-of-work daytime TV actresses who..." I break off when I realize that he isn't talking about the biggies but the recently married - Mademoiselle Asiya dancing on the right side dance floor in the aforementioned circle. Madame Asiya now I guess. "I don't know man...except for the fact that she was working...isn't she the stereotypical Muslim woman? got married last year and now leaving job to start a family.. Why deceptive?" "Why is it stereo-typically Muslim? Didn't your school best friend also get married in final year and settled as a Denver housewife? " "That's different re... That's like her choice... you think this woman had any choice? It's like that elephant syndrome.., they been chained as pups and now as grown ups they are afraid of the scrawny mahouts..." I don't know if I have convinced him.  "Anyhow, why do you say that about looks?"
" Nothing re... I heard her crack a non-veg joke with that group of girls... i mean i thought all that cover-up is supposed to be for modesty? but she talks explicitly about sex so its not about pure thoughts... just not in front of guys...I mean ...I am just thinking aloud"..
"Areee she eats non-veg that's why she talks non-veg..." I laugh at my joke, am a little uncomfortable of him judging a girl just because she cracked "Non-Veg" jokes but I ignore that I give my two cents again "Abhi woh Muslim hai to that is her world...she cant be defined by anything else now-Indian or anything and what she has learnt as a kid has become her only reality.... even if it doesn't make sense..It's like Human nature-- " he cut me short and said-
"Woman...You decide if she is human nature or elephant nature" we look at each other and laugh a mirthful laugh.

Circa 2008

I woke up with a start. Don't be scared, must have been a dream- I tell myself and that feeling that is creeping over me. My eyes still closed I could sense someone sleeping next to me. I am confused before I realize that I came back at my parent's home yesterday. Again, like a wave drowning me, that same feeling creeps up, this time I cant stop it. The memory comes back and I cant keep my eyes closed anymore and suddenly I feel the weight of bricks in my stomach. It wasn't a dream. The night was real, my roomie's farewell party, the saffron goons inside the pub, the chase and the physical harassment and then the mental harassment with the cops- all were real.

My mom comes in at that moment, sits next to me and starts stroking my hair away from my eyes- "Get up beta....have made hot coffee for you....".  She kisses my forehead. I realize then that my father is next to me. He must have come in at late night from his office trip. "When I told your papa ....we were so scared...we slept with you so that you don't feel alone at night... Beta, what will we do if something happens to you? Don't ever go out so late now..." She stops as her voice starts to quiver.
It was 8 PM mumma!...my brain tried to scream and my eyes started watering as once again I felt the unfairness of the situation. Why do I feel so ashamed? I turned sides and let the tears roll off into the pillow. Papa doesn't say anything. he breathes his usual asthmatic breath from his mouth and just holds my hand. We stay there for some time- all of us so still but our thoughts moving at the speed of fear and hurt and embarrassment. My mom sitting next to me, her hand on my hair, me laying still but tears still rolling off my cheeks, papa holding my hand and my room clock ticking,

A week later, in the shower I can see their hate filled triumphant faces again. I shut my eyes to shut out those faces. I can hear them shouting "Jai Siya Ram!!!" so I let out a short shout and will myself to think ahead. It used to be such a matter of pride for me- that Siya comes before Ram and Radha comes before Krishna. And now I get scared every time I even hear those words. I can taste the salty tears and water mixed. I cant cry! I cant let anyone in the office see my red puffy eyes! I will not be the victim! ITS NOT MY FAULT! Wake up, Dress up, Show up. Wake up, Dress up, Show up. Wake up, Dress up, Show up....

I drive to office and park my car in the Tech Park basement, before getting out I check the elevator distance and see if anyone else is out there. That's Delhi for you; I thought. No one will come to help if I shout here in this garage... But all those goons will come shouting "Ram Rajya" if I am sitting in a pub drinking with my friends. I am still sitting when I see that the car in front of me has a sticker that reads "Oh Yadav ke chore". No Actually, I thought That's Delhi. I try to smile but I can't. I wonder if I will ever smile after that harrowing experience?
I finally step outside my car and walk towards the elevator. Its an arid mid-day, but the hot wind hitting my face once again calms me, I realize my fingers are chilled as well. I shake off the cold tingles in my body and at the edge of my skin, rub my palms together to get some strength and step into the lift. It stops at my office floor and I take a long breath in to ready myself to walk into the office again and to ignore any comments or looks. But all plans are ruined when the door opens and I gasp, shocked to see Asiya with a baby stroller in front of me.

I see her directly for a few seconds, and she is also staring directly back. Its so superbly strange that despite knowing her for almost all my life I can't ever remember actually looking at her face and features. I took in everything, her cheeks still chubby with pregnancy fat, porcelain-spotless skin that showed no sign of sun exposure, her kohl outlined brown eyes, her average-sized- pierced nose, her thin lips painted with a bright-wet shade of maroon and the pointed chin that completed the overall-round structure of her face.

I then see her lips extend to the left side of her face, highlighting the laugh lines next to it and her eyes narrow. I look at her- her whole face now and realize its not an expression of smile. Its a smirk. Why has she come back to the office? Does she still have friends in the  office? Why is she smirking? Does she know? But I know that she knows and that everyone knows by now. She has judged me and is now passing out her sentence of superiority. I am too shocked to be at the receiving end of that all-too-familiar-haughty-feeling.
She steps inside with the stroller and I shrink to the side; I feel vulnerable again, as if the goons have come in with her in the elevator shouting my name again. Yes, my name which isn't all that different from hers - Siya and Asiya -different as chalk and cheese; as my 2nd floor aunty used to say. From different planets as even I used to think. I was blessed wasn't I ? and she cursed with religion and still I ended up being molested by set of men who even though were not of her religion but were as extremist as her.

You think you are better off dont you Asiya? You think that abaaya and the niquaab and the burqua will protect you? NO. My mind was shouting, I wanted to shout and shake the judgement off of her and tell her that she could very well be on this side of the elevator- Hell! that in my mind she was at this side not too long ago.

But instead I just held back my tears and keep a straight face and walk out. No point in yelling or talking to her, she won't realize it today; unfortunately neither did I till it happened to me. Whenever there is fundamentalism, irrespective of the religion, the women are the first target. If the first casualty of war is truth then the first casualty of fundamentalism -be it any religion is WOMEN. Whether they wear jeans or burqa, whether they are Hindu or Muslims. I know this now.

I hardened my face and my resolve. No more of this judgement. Its my choice and its hers. She is not less than me and I am not less than her. She too will understand one day as have I. 

All time Music-4: St's never ending playlist

Many songs in Hindi movies help move the story forward, or add on to the feeling of the moment when simple dialogues are not enough and require a larger than life depiction...my favorite example is the song "Main Kya Hoon"  in Love Aaj Kal, it shows Saif Ali Khan's excitement at first and then over time his frustration, in doing the exact same things. It beautifully conveys how when the excitement of a new city wears off we start to feel lonely in the big city.

However more often than not these songs are included just like a doormat ...or an item song...., änd so even if a Hindi film is bad, most of us can sit through it if the music is good... a fact misused by the Dabang et al film directors.
 And so it was in my experience as well that if an English/foreign language film is boring/bad...its a pain that can not be endured...simply because there is no song and dance to move it forward. However, when music is used to its true potential in films irrespective of the language it adds on to the substance and nostalgia of the film..and so I present the OST-special-post for song of the never playlist....

1. The OST that I am currently listening to is from the TV series "Wuthering Heights"... considered a romantic classic by everyone, I read it when i was barely 14 and though I couldn't stop thinking about the hateful characters ( i hated Catherine more than anyone) it was never my favorite...

 And then i discovered the BBC TV Series of 2009; and it was so perfect..after ages i saw something that is not just romantic but haunting and pulls strings of my heart! haha! how dramatic...but it does!
Here goes ..the sinister and beautiful OST :
 Youtube Link


2.Is it all love stories? I hope not...but I loved the trailer of Twilight and the sexy , beautiful , haunting songs that were played...It was perfect...before it became overloaded with all the imprinting and volturi and werewolves and what not...
Twilight Trailer

When i saw the movie there is a particular piece called Bella's Song which kept playing in my mind and in my playlist. Its the music i listen to when i want some work get done or when i want to feel creative :) here it is:


3. God knows that Jane Austen has had an indelible impact on me... and of course the first love story I ever read was Pride and Prejudice. Now this novel has been subjected to maximum adaptations more than any other Jane Austen novel.. and this one i saw was most recent in a movie starring Kiera Knightley. The opening sequence and the music that plays when early in the morning she goes for a walk and just lets the sun shine on her face...clearing her thoughts and clearing her thinking... needless to say... i love it!

Youtube Link//