Thank you for being Happy

When you step out of K.K. Manzil at #3333, Anegundi Road, Mysore, the road stretches from the seemingly quiet Eidgah area to your left into the bustling old city market area joining Sayyaji Rao Road, right into the middle of a speeding life where standing still is punishable by death. And this transitory road passes right by my doorstep. Facing me on the threshold of my home is another house which is almost half the age of my century old manor, and is known through the ages by a catchy name. Sher Ka Bungla (The Lion’s Bungalow).The reason for this name is the relaxing lions built on the corners of all the bungalow’s roof.

Towards the left of the Lion’s bungalow, one can always find a few rickshaws waiting.

How many times I have travelled to school or college using these rickshaws, I couldn’t count. There were 3 auto drivers I remember specifically. An elderly man named Sardar Bhai, who drove an old front engine spluttering vehicle. Maula Bhai, who was a maverick among the drivers, and the third one whose name I never asked, but he always smiles when he sees us, so we’ll call him Hasmukh Bhai (spare the eggs).

This time when I went, his smile was as prominent as ever. He had been sitting in the nearby tea shop, talking to the passers by and the tea shack frequenters. He saw me and walked with a quick step to his vehicle. Greetings were exchanged and he asked me how I was, where I was coming from, and where I was going to. He made a passing comment how I didn’t see him the last time I passed by from that place.

I asked him how he was doing. As we ask almost everyone. He replied with a reply he probably gave everyone, but the tone was as though it really mattered to him that I asked.

He asked me about my life in Dubai, and my job. And that is where I started feeling queasy. I tried changing the topic from MY life to the happenings around my old area. I asked him how was Sardar Bhai. I could sense his smile go quiet, he turned around with a grave look and whispered that Sardar bhai had passed away almost a year ago. Then he turned back around to keep his eyes on the road. And he proceeded to tell me that from all the people I knew, He was the only one still about. I didn’t dare to ask him what he exactly meant. He figured my queasiness and changed the topic, He told me about how people who used to give them new clothes (read used clothes) during festival time, forgot him and his friend this time around. This was followed by small talk. But my brain was already in hyperspace. Far far away from the snaky ride up the DhobiGhat area, my mind was free running through the past.

These men, seemingly unimportant as they may seem, at one point of time, played a very important role in my life. They were, metaphorically speaking, the men who gave me piggy back rides in their rickshaws to and fro the places I had to go. Agreed that they charged me, but what separates this relationship from a pure business transaction, is that even today, after almost 6 years, they still care to ask me where I am, and smile when they know that I have progressed from a uniform clad school boy to a decently dressed young man. In that smile, they give you the warm feeling that even though life for them is at its saturation point, that they have done all they could and this is a last plateau of their career graph, they still are very happy to see that your graph is snaking upwards.

My own uncles probably wouldn’t grin as much as Hasmukh Bhai did.

Needless to say, guilt hit me like a bolt out of the blue. I felt guilty at how I had used them. They had given me a step up, and not only had I taken their hands, I’d taken a step on their shoulder, paid them for it, and moved on. And never as much as thanked them.

That’s right, it all comes down to a little feeling of gratitude I never had for them, or showed them, which made me feel like a miserable pathetic materialistic human that I am.

How much would a rickshaw driver earn?? How much property would he leave for his children? You can answer that question as well as anyone. We stand on the threshold with potentially the whole world before us, our entire lives waiting to be “cashed” in. And these men are at the end of that road, without having made any contribution to their lives.

Yet, they made a contribution to my life. And the best part, they never rubbed it in, or felt jealous that I had moved on, while they remained pinned to their fate in time.
This made them much better human beings. Humanity is derived from being human. And if smiling at other people’s fortunes isn’t humanity, I don’t know what is.

I said a silent prayer for Sardar Bhai’s soul. And an apology, that I never really thanked him for being happy for me. How he passed away, how many people attended his funeral, what his family went through, I may never know. What I will know is this, that he left a mark on my heart. And I know that I am not the only one.

When someone wins a major award, they stand up and thank the Almighty, their parents, their friends and family members, their pets and lovers (I’m making no connection trust me).
But if we all looked into our lives, we all have a Sardar Bhai and a Hasmukh Bhai who’ve made maybe a miniscule, but a pivotal contribution to our lives.

This is a big thank you from a lousy human, who might never have the ability to undo this aspect of his past, to all the people who made a contribution to me.

This is to all the auto drivers, Sardar bhai, Hasmukh Bhai, Maula Bhai and Saleem bhai (My school automan). To all the baker men who gave fresh hot piping biscuits on cold nights and cold drinks on warm ones. To all the provision stores guys who were a source of love in form of stickers and teasing jokes amongst the boring days. To all the maintenance and non-teaching staff in schools and colleges whose eyes pop wide when they see me so grown up (physically atleast). To Ibrahim bhai at the canteen, with his sons, To Babu bhai at the photocopy & tea shop and Chandru at the STD Booth, to the bus drivers in my old school, and To the didi who cleaned my messy room and helped me tidy up my stuff, I love you all, and sorry I am so late in realization.

Thank you for making me the person I am, and the person I will be.

May Allah reward you for your deeds, forgive your sins, bless you in this life and the next.

Take a Hike !!!!

Each one of us, at some point of time or the other, emulate someone famous.

This is the story of me emulating Robert Freaking Frost (excuse the tone)

I for one do not hate the guy, I mean, he was nice. My legs on the other hand, beg to differ.

Thursday 1st October 2009.

I was to go home from office, and I was stone broke. Stoopid bank didnt want to transfer my money, knowing that I'd be waiting for it. Oh well, shit happens right? So what do I do...easy, I have awesome roommates who are like brothers to me, so I can hail a taxi and allow them to pick up the tab and score brownie points with the guy upstairs.

OR

I could choose a "route less traveled by."

Robbie Frost wouldnt have written that poem if he hadn't taken the Other route. And I wouldnt be writing this if I hadn't either.

I chose the latter too. To Walk ! From work to home, or atleast to a point where I could say to myself WOW !!!

For those who do not know, I work within the trade boundaries of the Sharjah Airport International Freezone. Which is in one corner of this meteorological hell, and I live in Dubai, the other corner. From my office to Dubai border, its a distance of roughly 8-9 kms if I choose the highway, which is frequented by cars whose drivers have to take a leak, ergo rushing at atleast a nominal speed of 120kmph. Or take the route into the city and then onwards to Dubai, slightly longer, but a piece of cake (HA !!) And yet again I choose to be Frosty.

I take off from my office at 5.30 pm. And as soon as I step outside the gates, I realize that i've been pretty much on a liquid diet the whole busy day. Wicked !! Here is what the route looks like when you step outside the freezone authority

That horizon is about 2 kms away. And continues onwards to exit onto the Emirates Highway bridge which will take me straight into Dubai. An "Easy Peasy" Grin crosses my face.. The moment I stepped onto the pavement of this road, I was shaken awake from the grin with a car whooshing by at the speed of a dog from a neutering doctor.

The walk to the Bridge exit took abt 30 mins. Good speed I thought. I stopped on the bridge for a bit of a lookie at the sunset. And that is when it dawned on me, what I was doing was for a reason. A lesson by the Boss upstairs. You see, the week was going pretty rough. And I was in for a rough weekend too. The sunset always fills me with a calm (yeah I know everyone says that) and I looked into the dusk thinking of the simple rule which governed time. Sunrise n Sunset. So it had set, no one in the world could do anything about it. But it will rise again, and yet, no smartass in the world can do anything about it.
In that moment I realized, No one can control my bad time into lasting forever. And no one can prevent the good days from dawning even if he is named George Bumbling Bush. Thats simple philosophy, yet, the effect it fills you with, i.e. a HOPE FILLED SMILE. That is pretty powerful.

I took a prayer break and gulped down liters and liters of cool water from the Mosque taps. A weird thought came to my mind, about the bladder being overloaded. A phonecall from my brother distracted that.

The walk continued, pretty much uneventful until I reached a bridge called National Paints Bridge. I stood there and watched the hundreds of labourers and bachelors milling around the shops. Most just sitting by on the pavement in the humid evening (although it was a cool atmosphere, within the industrial region, humidity is always there) For a moment i was shaken by the living conditions which were so crowded. And I saw them laughing and doing their weekend chores with casual carelessness.

A line spoken by someone wise came to mind, everyone is fighting their own battles, in their own ways, in their own worlds.Also a line from the Quran which says that No soul is burdened beyond its capacity to bear, yet no one is free from tests and problems to solve.

Shitty human tendency,that we tend to feel better when we hear that we're not the only ones having Gigantic Crap in our lives. Again, another smile, this time, one placing a reassuring arm around my shoulder saying I wasnt alone.

I continued at the same speed for another hour or so, occasionally stopping by under bridges to watch the cars zoom by. I was probably passed by a few thousand cars every hour. Trust me, heavy rush on weekend evenings. A particular car caught my eye, or rather my ear. A Red Toyota Supra with a specially loud silencer (oxymoronic on purpose)

I crossed the Sharjah-Dubai border and I could choose to stop. Yet somehow, as I kept pondering to stop or not, I passed on and on along the Dubai Highway. I dint feel like stopping. The route was getting a bit tougher as I had to walk across the sloping banks of the highway. Yet a voice inside me kept asking a question, How far would my fitness regimen help me walk. And to get that answer I kept walking and walking, leaving exit after exit into the city.Further along the highway I walked. A particular song played on the mp3 player. Reminding me of a special buddy of mine who always has been encouraging me saying that I had more in me than I knew, that I was stronger than I ever realized. A grin widened, the wet Tshirt gave a cool hug and I kept walking.

Came to a point where I saw this particular view. Some worker's expression of love. And the grin turned into a laugh in the middle of the highway. Have a look

In the middle of an unforgiving desert, this sight is awesome to say the least.

My roommates started calling and screaming at me for my stupidity. feeling guilty that they didnt come 2 pick me up. I told them the straight truth, that I did what I did not to prove anything to them. Or make them feel guilty. But to see if I could do it.

5 Hours after the start of the walk (with an hour or 45 mins of break) and 17 Kms of walking, the feel good factor was at its peak. And then I realized I had done it all with a 6-7 kg Backpack on my shoulders. It was like Mr. Hilary stood on everest and Gave a little jump, just to prove that He had been higher than Mount Everest too.

Oh, btw, the 4 hours of walk (give or take a few mins) did teach me a lot of stuff.

1. Begin with the end in mind. (I had the image of a cool shower and angry roomies pictured in the mind, their faces)

2. Sunsets are ALWAYS followed by Sunrises. Hope never gives up on you, choice is yours if You wish to give up on it or not.

3. Everyone has battles. You arent alone in cursing the elements

4. Some battles are tougher than you could dream of.

5. Always take breaks in life, if you wear urself out, you will cover lesser distance in the longer run. Chill out, live longer.

6. Always have friends who will scream and kick you (Yup, my roommates kicked me right after they saw me, AFTER THE 17 KM WALK, THEY KICKED MY &%*$*"("$ LEGS) --- Shows that they care

7. Marathon runners never stop for loo breaks coz they sweat it out.

And the most important lesson

8. Never take such long walks In a Jeans !!!!!!!!

P.s.

This has opened a bit of wisdom in my crazy brain.
Whenever in life you feel there are insurmountable obstacles,here's a simple advice

Take a Walk.

The road never ends ;-)

Welcome To Anarchy !!! RIP Sister Marwa

I am Angry.

Fire and Brimstone to be exact.

Today morning started off with a casual glance at the papers, and the top left headline carried a picture of a lady in a headscarf accompanied by the words, “EUROPE ‘HIDES’ HIJAB MURDER”. Considering the whole controversy surrounding Mr. Sarkozy in the past weeks, this was enough to set my blood plasma at a boiling point.

Firstly, Sarkozy’s remarks towards the Hijab being a “Sign of debasement/cut off from society/a life for women without identity” are open proof of his illiteracy of the term Hijab and the details into WHY Islam asks for it.

To cite a simple and oft cited example, place the Hijab alongside a catholic nun’s habit.

How many Sarkozy’s have gone forward and looked the Pope in the eye and said, “Mr. Pope, your nuns’ dresses are a symbol of denouncement to their gender, they live a life without identity and without social interaction like our “free” women in France.

Many would say, Hey a Woman who takes a nun’s vows does so of her own free will. Well helloooo, There are a majority of the women out there who don the hijab of their own free will as they know what their religion requires of them.

If you say that NO, the muslim women are FORCED into hijab, well ever considered the fact that maybe, Just maybe even the nuns are forced into a life of celibacy and dedication to the church??

It swings both ways people. There are differences between muslims regarding the importance of covering the face. But 99% of the sunni scholars accept the fact that wearing a headscarf is an uncontested issue. Shias are more strict with regards to hijab.

Anyway, the wearing of the scarf is not the issue here, the issue is Identity. Mr. Sarkozy says that the woman behind the veil lacks identity, FYI Mr. Sarkozy, A woman in hijab is distinctly identifiable as a Muslim lady. So that gives her an identity. She chooses to wear the Hijab as she understands who she is.

And please do not go on about how the civilized world has given the Woman a distinctive position in society.

Islam gave the rights to vote and rights for work and inheritance to women a long time before the western world woke to this. You still contest the rules because you fail to understand the wisdom behind which they are placed.

Come to the freedom of expression bit, so a woman can go dressed as she wills, even next to naked on the ramp walks of Paris, but not in something she chooses in accordance with her religion?? Excuse me for asking, wasn’t your country on the forefront of the cries for Freedom of Expression when the Muslim world was up against the Danish cartoons??

And now this, the murder of Mrs. Marwa Al Sherbani. In the very “Temple” of neo civilized nations which announces their superiority with laws and justice. A man has the time and ability to stab a woman in the court of law more than 18 times and the police shoot the husband who runs to save her. This is your civilization??

Forgive me, but I belong to a nation which is not very advanced in its military and police, But aren’t you Europeans warriors since forever?? How difficult was it for a courtroom full of policemen to identify the man with the knife??

This legal system, which gives you immense pride, crumbled to bits in these few moments of anarchy. And it worsened when the governments chose to remain silent about this failure. I applaud the entire legal system of not only the country in question, but also the whole Democratic European world which has chosen to remain silent on the Broad daylight murder of Sister Marwa, or as she will henceforth be known, the Hijab Martyr.

I will not be surprised if the murderer is let off with a fine of a few thousand euros. I mean, even if he pays this lady’s weight in gold, her 3 year old son Mustafa will live through his life with one of his earliest memories being his mother being stabbed in a courtroom full of civilized people, and collapsing into a faded oblivion.

Rest In Peace Sister Marwa, May Allah bless you with Jannah

An encounter with a Super-Hero(ine)

There is this square. In the middle of the mall I go to. The mall has a Gym wherein i've been a member for a few months now. And its sort of become a ritual for me to finish gym and head for the prayer hall and after the night prayers, spent a while sitting on the benches in that square, listening to Outlandish or Jal or some other soft music. The most soothing part of this is the waterfall created. A semi-concaving stone wall, upon which water decends slowly, as if walking down a staircase. The lights from the little pool below make it all the more enticing to glare at. A perfect soothing place after a nice workout. Yesterday was no different. After a long workout, I finished prayers and walked to the square. It was empty as usual (one of the reasons I like it so much) In a daze i was pulling at the doors, and then the ol' brain (which was resting after the heavy weight sessions) kicked in and said, DUDE...PUSH !!! It worked. I went and slumped on the bench, pulling out my phone to listen to something soothing. The week was going tiring. Physically and Mentally. I had quite a lot on my mind. From financial issues to other people's dirty laundry (metaphorically speaking). I was ready to brood my mind away listening to some sad stuff and gazing at the waterfall. I was tired. Really really tired. Again it was more mental than physical. *SIGH* At that very moment, as I stood on the threshold of Depression Room, the square's door opened. At first I couldnt see who opened it. In the next fraction my eye flicked to a short figure using its entire strength to push the glass door open. I smiled at the sight of the little curly haired blondie who managed to keep the door open so as to stand there right in the middle of the air conditioned lobby and the square. "Excuse me", she said. The smile on my face widened. Its not everyday that pretty young ladies come up and make the first move at me, okay THEY NEVER DO. This time it was different. This 4 year old gorgeous was speaking to me, unless of course there was an imaginary friend she had. "Yes??" I hollered back. "There is a mouse in there...Two of them", she warned I almost let out a laugh at the little one's inconsequential fear. I mean, I had bigger things to worry about right? But then I stopped myself. If there is one thing I know about kids, is that they will take much more interest in speaking to you or paying attention to you if you treat them like grown ups. So laughing was out of the options list. “I don’t think a mouse would come out to me, mice are scared of me” , I offered. “But you cannot kill them !!!” she said with shock on her face. The idea that humans can be more powerful than mice was clearly very new to her 4 year old self. “But I can throw them off the roof” I offered. I mean, come on, I had just done bicep curls with 25 Kg barbells. A 50 gram rodent is probably going to be the least of my lifting problems. I wouldn’t even have to bend my knees. “Did you see the mice here??’’ I asked her “Yes…Yesterday I saw 2 mice here” , she said. “Well then they would have gone to another mall by now right??”, I offered. “Noooo” she said. “The mouse is not by Allah. It is Shaitaan (The chief devil) who put them here. They are not good. Shaitaan is doing it.” I was stumped here. I mean, 9 times out of 10 I have an answer. This 4 year old girl had just scored the 10th time. I had no logical answer to continue my argument with her. After a pause of 3 seconds, (Which in debating and argumentation is eternity), all I could manage was “Where did you hear that??” “I told you, Yesterday I saw three mice here” she explained ((Before I could cut her off about the previous statement under oath wherein she mentioned 2 mice, she cut her self. )) *Holding up 2 fingers* “NO NO, TWO MICE..I saw two mice here yesterday” I couldn’t help but smile at this sharp one. This was one awesome devil’s advocate in the making. “What’s your name li’l one?” I asked. “I don’t know” She said I raised an eyebrow, probably she didn’t hear me. You see there was about 3 meters between her and I. The distance stayed that way for the entire conversation. I repeated the question, “You don’t know your name?” “OH…My name is Alena” she replied as if it didn’t matter. Surely the Mice-warning was more important than her name here right?? At this point I just wanted to pounce on her and cuddle the heck out of her. Oh and her cheeks were the colour of li’l peaches. Which went really well with those yellow hair. She renewed her warning to me. “I am telling you there are mice here” I looked around and said, “I don’t see them, see… they are afraid of me” Her face changed. She had a “HUFF” in her body language which said WHY DOESN’T THIS GROWN UP TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY….WHY DOESN’T HE UNDERSTAND?? She was on the verge of marching up to me and slapping me for my insolence. And I was on the verge of pouncing on her and showering her with kisses. She figured it was a lost cause I guess, and she asked me, “What is your name??” I smiled and said “My names is Faraz” She ran the name through her head. After a few seconds, she looks at me with an impassive face and said “That is a very nice name” Wallahi, the way she said that, was indescribable in words. I was this close to bursting out with laughter. The Kid-Adult rule kept me silent. I don’t remember the last time when a lady looked me in the eye and in an unassuming manner told me that she found my name nice. I smiled at her, and I could swear she smiled too. A moment of friendship was afoot I presumed. I was delighted at the hope that she’d walk up to me and shake my hand. “Listen,” she said. “There are two mice here. THAT’S IT, I cannot understand you” With that she walked off. Or rather, Marched off. The huff was big. Reallll big. I was alone again. And I just couldn’t stop grinning at the little encounter. I ran the entire conversation through my head again. I looked out through the glass walls looking for her. She was walking around, serious and in deep thought of whom to save next. She was like a little superhero. Or Super-heroine if you please. For her, the most important thing was to make people wake up to the danger facing them, and saving them. I was a lost cause to her, but that did NOT deter her from her aim to save the planet from the evil mice. Suddenly, my problems didn’t seem so big. My financial worries were passed off by my mind as “WE’LL CROSS THE BRIDGE WHEN WE GET TO IT” My problems with the close ones in my life was passed off with “WHATEVER” And so on and so forth. I thought of those days when I used to pretend I was a super hero. Come on, we all have. Which of us hasn’t nourished the dream of growing into a caped crusader, to save the planet from eternal doom. For a few moments I went back to my childhood, those days with wooden swords, towels around my neck, big jumps off the sofa sets. How the world didn’t matter then. At that time my opponent was an imaginary villain who threatened my loved ones. I never tired of fighting them. Just like Alena never tired of warning and saving people. Suddenly, 4 minutes with a 4 year old made me realize that through your eyes, your problems are big. We dont tire of fighting them when we're young, Why give up when we grow older?? Moreover one day you will outgrow these eyes, you will see more of the world, then look back and realize, “Damn. I have fought lions in my life, to think that once I was worried about mice??” To elucidate, At that time, my son’s problems will be peanuts for me, but for him, they are real problems. REAL BIG problems. Suddenly….life seems manageable.. To summarize it, I have 4 words “…THIS TOO SHALL PASS !!!” Post Script Alena also happens to be the name of my new born niece. Whom I never dreamt of speaking or beholding, because of the distance separating us. Ironical that the little angel comes to me in a disguise. I pray my niece grows up to be just as fearless, bold and utterly adorable little super-heroine as my last night’s Dame in shining armor…..

Heading Home -2

I land in Bangalore after a butt-aching 4 and a half hours of flying.
The MP3 Player is playing some sweet homecoming stuff which is kinda
emotional, I think its from Westlife (WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF UR FACE!!! I
DONT LIKE EM, but the song has a nice lyrics about going home to the place you love.)

So the song plays in my ears as I walk towards the aircraft exit. My eyes fall on the business class airhostess, and she looks like she’s younger than the rest (probably 45 years old I guess)
The pilot walks out and I can almost imagine him re-fixing his dentures (okay so I am making a mountain out of a molehill. But it’s the oldest crew and plane I’ve EVER been in a long time. The plane didn’t even have an inflight entertainment facility. NO TV !!!!)

The ol’ pilot parked the plane in some in-accessible corner of the airport, so we had to get a bus to the airport from the plane. I stepped out of the plane to a familiar smell of the Bangalore night… Ahhh, Home Sweet Home!! Its indescribable really, but even if you had blindfolded me, and put me on the runway at night, I’d have no trouble differentiating the greenery induced fragrance of Bangalore to the dusky sandy fragrance of Doha. I got into the transport bus, and unlike other airports, this bus driver waited until the bus was filled with enough people so that each one’s arm was jammed under another’s armpit… Ahhh, Home Sweet Home!!
Immigration check and collection of baggage was too slow, funny how Einstein’s relativity works isn’t it? And then I literally ran out of the airport and saw the taxi rental stand. Since no soul in India except a certain fruiter was aware of my arrival, I had to take the taxi. I smiled at the suited-up man in the booth and told him “R.T. Nagar Please !!”
And he goes, “Certainly sir.” And picks up a laminated sheet of paper to look up the rates. “That would cost you 800 Rupees Sir”, he says with a smile. And I feel a punch land in my stomach, (just so you know, a taxi from the old airport to my home costed 400 Rupees, and this one was supposed to be CLOSER !!!) Clearly, this guy was ripping me off with his BRANDED SERVICE. At 11:45 in the night, it didn’t look as if I had much choice, I reached for my wallet, Ahhh, Home Sweeeeet Home!!

This was my first landing at the new Bangalore airport. Not bad, the old fogies had managed to make a decent place. I walked towards the taxi stand and was welcomed by a dog snoozing on the road.. Ahh..Now I am TRULY HOME !!! The red eyed taxi driver started up and drove me home, along the way, there was this HUGE grin plastered over my face. The White street lights like 2 strings of pearls lined the road, I passed by signboards showing familiar Indian Celebs selling everything from a toothpaste to a Blue Whale, I passed by a road lined with red mud which smells all to familiar to me, instantly bringing a host of memories, the cool wind through the open windows beat every Air conditioning system I’ve ever enjoyed, how it caressed my hair like a loving mother, and how it threw a hundred kisses all over my face. And then, I passed by a small bridge, over an open sewer, for some strange reason, the smell of it, just made my smile a little more wider….I was Home….

Heading Home - 1

I guess there are few feelings in the world which are more emotionally
spellbinding than that of going home. And that is directly proportional
to the time you?ve been out of home.If you are the sort who doesnt
understand proportion, think of it as the months long hungry shark from
JAWS going all guns blazing at the nearest bunch of surfers.

After 14 months, I was spellbound alright. The final week leading to my
April 10th Departure from Dubai was probably the longest week I?ve had
in a long time (and no the recession did not give me as many sleepless
nights) nor have I been looking forward
To anything, so expectantly for a long time.

I entered the Dubai airport with a lot of apprehension, as I was
carrying more than 35 kgs of weight (And NO I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT MY
BELLY)
The suitcase was pretttty heavy. Nevertheless, I cleared all the
formalities of the travel, thank god. And climbed aboard the Air India
flight which was on time (which means it was 45 minutes late IST, or the
other way round lol)
And to my ?ABSOLUTE UNFATHOMABLE DELIGHT?, all the airhostess were older
than the Stonehenge. Which meant that if I wanted an airhostess to
attend to me, I?d have to ring the bell last week. Which is all very
well, coz I was busy with Nick Hornby?s High Fidelity. AND I had an
overtly enthusiastic goan couple sitting next to me. True, as the plane
was going to Goa and onwards to Bangalore. **SIGH**
In a nutshell, the couple next to me were the contemporary Goan couple.
HE was bald and had a look like a goan rockstar who played in fenny bars
and punched dead pigs for exercise. And SHE was a fire hydrant. As in,
she kept drinking water and my life was hell (as I had scored the aisle
street) Every few minutes, the couple would LOOK at me. Without a word.
And well,
When you?re in a small plane, when someone looks at you, your brain
feels the strain of the stare. I?d turn towards them and they?d give you
that smile, Which is supposed ?HEY I GOTTA GO WEE WEE.? And I?m like,
that?s the 15th time in the last 10 minutes. Okay I?m exaggerating, but
it was pretttty frustrating. Problem is, I cant really say?NO, M NOT
MOVING..She?d only make it worse for me by ruining the seats. And she?d
get down at goa and I?d be left with the stinking seat all the way onto
Bangalore. Not my idea of a joyous home-coming.

Nevertheless, the thought of seeing my family keeps me from throwing
those two off the plane. The air hostess on Indian Airlines are directly
recruited from the Old Age homes i guess. For service is slow, and the
food is all the healthy stuff which tastes like grass (Not that i have
actually ever tasted grass).

SOUL OF MUMBAI

 

 

The calm water swallowed quietly

The 26^th sun of a cool November

As every soul went on its way,

Some to work, some to slumber.

 

A shattering sound startled a city,

Whose worst nightmare was from ninety three

An attack of proportions massive at hand

And an infamous history begins in me.

 

I am the soul of the broken glass

Which spills its heart on Leopold’s door

I once housed the simmering evenings warm

Till I got bathed in a bloody downpour

 

I am the glitter of the chandelier’s smile

Which once hung proud in the Oberoi

Till I was reduced to a silent audience

To a massacre meted out by but a young boy

 

I am the soft drape of the Trident’s walls

Which drowned the sound of innocent screams

I watched the red spill, on me and around

My lifelong memories will be bloody dreams

 

I am the broken wall of the Nariman house

Who housed a crowd of unarmed rabbis

What cowards called an act of bravado

I heard it in little Mosche’s cries

 

I am the soul of a grand old crown

Whose name was apt as the Majestic Taj

I have seen the worst and best of history’s games

From the riots to times of the British Raj

 

In my womb are hidden, an evil lot

Whose soul is be-devilled and minds benumb

I stand through fire, and smoke and shakes

And listen to screams fade into a dying hum

 

I am the heartbeat, of a soldier’s breath

Which screamed in fear amidst concrete courage

I screamed to run at every bullet’s burst

Yet I fought, fuelled by an innocent rage

The murders are fuelled by an insane wrath

And the leaders watch, from a cowardly shell

Hundreds die and as many more fight to live

In this place called home, within a living hell.

 

Yet my hope rises, as the sunrise comes

And brings new dawn to an angry nation

People unite, one voice cries loud

Enough is Enough, I want salvation

 

Forever have I been tormented thus,

Raped and left, yet refusing to die

I am the screaming anger of 60 hours

I am the surviving soul of Mumbai