SCAR ©

Rigid deformed contoured
What beauty lies beneath?
Highlighted in a way
None can perceive
 
Boasting a tale of its own
It lies frigid and cold
In the sunbeam and curtain
There it is. Lo and behold!!
 
Reminder it is of a million
Memories quarrels beauty and beast
Yet so protected nurtured
Nourished to the least
 
Your wish to be flawless
Is a dream in its own
I wonder
For heaven’s sake... Why condone?
 
Such valor is written all over
Such depth in its every texture
Shape your thoughts as you feel
What God created between his meals!

“One of the great joys in life is having one's hair brushed”

Says Vanessa Redgrave’s character Claire in the movie ‘Letters to Juliet’. The movie is not a blockbuster hit but I needed the romantic Italian fix for the lousy ruthlessly wasted Sunday. I had most certainly lost my love – so I tried, hopelessly, to fix that with some indoors work and the movie which just happened to be playing on Star movies for a romantic sap like me.

This dialogue struck me a lot. I mean come to think of it, our lives are filled with such pampering moments. Especially women – yeah I don’t expect men to have the same serene moment and reminisce about it. Our childhood is filled with mums tugging at our little ponytails and pigtails. Either we screamed, we cried, or we just sat there and annoyed mum or the maid or grandma by being all fidgety and shaky. The conversations we had, the lectures we have heard during those few precious moments. I find it therapeutic and bonding. And I most certainly never forgot how I ruined my perfect ponytails by sticking my finger right in the centre cuz it felt so soft and silky.

I recall mum waking up early if only just to tie my hair. I would not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to touch my hair. I believed it for real that my long lustrous thick mane was so only because my mum’s lucky hands groomed them into place. I felt her love, I felt her pain, her anger, exhaustion or plain bland emotion when she combed my hair. I felt what used to start as anger when she scolded me and then slowly turn into soft caressing of my hair as if to say ‘I love you no matter what’.

Then followed a few years of the boarding school touch. Up till the 6^th grade it was always the Tais who made sure we were all clean, clear and proper, that we washed our hair and oiled it. It did have affection but one that would make me and my fellow boarders value what we left back home. Many of us would take turns to complain. That would be made up by my girl-friends. We would steal time in the night at ‘lights out’ and oil each other’s hair and comb it to perfection. The styles we tried and what not. Whatever it was it helped us console each other when we were homesick, made us feel pretty in the growing years and even dissolves any frights and fights that we had.

Now it’s a luxury for real. I have to literally beg someone at home to give me a head massage so that I can relax and maybe just roll off to sleep after it. I miss it. Every once in a while I make a face (one that of a desperate child) and head to mum and cite a long exhaustive day and she amuses me. It’s perfect just like it always was…

Now I find myself, head leaning like the tower of Pisa, peering at Chris Egan to ‘for-gods-sake’ kiss Amanda Seyfried already… J :*

Deadman's Shrine ®

Zèke watched his father wake up

A staunch man quiet and tough

Through the sheets he saw the drill

As the gallow man prepared to leave

The cold hat shielded a gaunt expression

A dead stare ahead of its time

As he made his way before dawn

To a place he called his daily shrine

The man a murderer awaited his time

5:02am was precisely determined

Our gallow man blatantly moved about

Preparing the moment that felt like drought

The stench of death was his incense

A shrouded head his very deity

Mighty strength was all he offered

To the dark gods he imagined at the alter

The gallow-man’s shrine made him an ego

An expression of end, a power of lost

He had caused end too many times

For death had no longer to become his plight

What he felt when he pulled the lever

Service to society, end of an era!!

Who he ended, what he ended?

1 thing was true, he felt no fear.

She Cried ©

Painfully she wound up in bed

Crisp on her pillow, where she lay.

The light dimmed

Her eyes barely shut

Slowly rolled a drop in her hair.

She cried because the world was unfair

Lies unfurled, irony and despair

Disowned by plight

Nor hers nor mine

Was wishful thinking

Her life was a lie.

Why did it hurt? Such physical pain

Not a scratch no cut

Just deep in her veins

Rush of guilt, she lashed out hard

Oh! Unfair world

Seemed miles apart.

Seeking love in fragile quest

Seemed so peaceful, yet so pale

She cried, not for the mocking souls

She cried because she felt like a fool.

Slipping fast she fell from the edge

No grip in sight, blind by her faith

Blow by blow, to her was void

Like a vortex, she spun out of sight.

It’s a dream, comforted her heart in vain

Her mind battled to thrust its way

Why she cried so hard

No one knew

To her t’was only thing to do.

Feeling betrayed, helpless, lost

Where’s the tear of laughter

She almost forgot

She cried for self, dad and mom

She cried for those who seemed unknown.

She cried to God in hoarse whispers

In truth, the night was bitter and cold

The crumpled sheet returned its warmth

Her fingers stiff from the desperate hold.

Blindness be her friend for now

Black shroud to comfort her soul

She cried in the cold of the night

Cried, for no one sensed her plight.

No shadow lurked, at the door

To better her life, least she hoped

Buried her head deep inside

No breath escaped for that moment of time.

Her soul bare, stripped of love

Suddenly she felt naked undone

All was lost, no single hope

Gushing tears shrouded her door.

She cried till her eyes balled up

Cried till she was red and hot

Consoled herself with no one around

An afterthought would cause a rebound.

Sleep crept in, a friendly stranger

Her dreams flickered, began to waver

She cried for a new tomorrow

Cried so she did it no more.

Oh life! Be merciful to her

One who sheds for anything disturbed

It dawned on her, all seemed so small

A queen in her world, an angel foretold.

Forget yesterday, deal with tomorrow

Today was a flood of sorts

She cried for those who cannot do

Those who can’t love

The way that she could.

Cuppa steam for the fiesty feline

Seething fuming burning rage. That’s the emotion that dictated today morning’s fiasco. Even the 4^th idiot can guess what it was all about – our ‘beloved’ Rickshawalas. An arrogant, self-sustaining bunch who behave like they own the darned city but plead money woes when their meter is down or when they want extra money from you even after having fleeced a million all day.

Don’t get me wrong. I am NOT against rickwalas. Let’s face the fact that they form one of 3 or dare I say 4 lifelines of the city competing directly with BEST, Cabs and Local trains. The formula 1 pretentious b@$/@^d$ who could very well take the lead Bollywood roles today. And when you are done being stomped, pushed and molested in the BEST or the train and are in no mood to experience gross anatomy up-close and personal, there come to the rescue the convenient up-to-your-doorstep rickshaws.

So here goes. I leave home, running (as usual), to catch my office bus. My leg had been giving me trouble since last evening and I tried to ignore it until I saw my bus gently flirting with me on the signal as it took off with me in tow. The previous day’s flash strike had completely slipped my mind as I lazily stuck my hand out to hail a rick. 10 mins turned my patience into impatience combined with the realization of the strike. I wasn’t quite clear about the whole situation as to when exactly the strike had started and how long would it continue. To my relief I saw some ricks coming my way but all packed to the brim and others just swerving as far as possible from ear-shot. They did not want to ply and I respected that. But it wasn’t long before my supposed respect turned into helplessness followed by irritation and then a full blown rage.

As I walked back towards the Chincholi Bundar signal (this is a busy intersection near my house with a 4 cross road with all the main bus stops, corporate vehicle pick up points and bustling eateries); I noticed a bunch of rickshaws coming out of a tiny lane. All of the ricks were filled with at least 4-5 other driver-buddies and the scene was that of a typical Bollywood action sequence where the main goon is followed by his equally distasteful bunch of rowdies (hilarious looking too) with innovative weapons to teach the always lone Hero a lesson. Here they lined up one after the other and looked ready for some sort of movement – one that ruined my morning about 30 seconds later. I decided at first to ignore them and made it a point not to even ask them if they would ply to Powai. But then they began to catch every rickshaw, I and my fellow stranded passengers flagged down, right in the middle of the bustling traffic. It would seem like we had a hand in slowing them down and getting them into trouble but that was not the case. These guys were on a mission to NOT allow the other ricks to operate when they had decided to strike.

What followed was no longer restricted to the side lanes. They reached out into the fast-moving traffic without a care in the world for the otherwise dangerous buses and caught rick drivers by their collars and ears and made them take a U-turn and stop right there. It was bullying in broad daylight and no one seemed to care. The passengers mostly mothers with school going children looked helpless and a bit frightened. The drivers that stopped and ceased the journey right there were spared and also heartily joined their fellow bullies in arms. Those who resisted or made it clear that the strike was called-off were roughed up and made to stop. Two of the goony looking strikers standing at roughly 5’11” would take a step or two forward to show ‘em who’s boss. This annoyed me and I glared at them. My mercury was rising added to the fact that I had missed my bus. I didn’t flinch and stood frozen right there silently challenging them to what else would they do. Meanwhile I received two calls which I took and later saw that 2 young lads in plain clothes came out of nowhere and strategically took their place on either side of me. One had long wooden planks with nails sticking out of them and the other a black baton-like pipe in his hand. I didn’t think much of it but soon enough all of us pavement dwellers realized this no longer was an easy start to an already disrupted day. The rickshawalas turned violent and aggressive pushing and nudging us all.

I don’t know what the hell was in my tea this morning but I sure as hell wasn’t going to be shaken or intimidated by these ruffians. I had fought for the rickwalas and now I wanted to stand like a tree stump against them. I took pictures of their activities (didn’t know why at the time). Some of them saw me and hovered closer. I didn’t budge. Not yet. Just then 2 cops sped past me on their bikes feigning any knowledge of the situation. That’s when my patience toppled over the edge. The entire chaar rasta was a mess of buses, trucks, pvt vehicles school buses, cabs asking for fixed cost to ply and then these lil’ slimy rioters taking advantage of the situation. People had been reduced to begging and chasing and it wasn’t fair.

I stomped all the way to the nearest police beat chowki – the heat and the sharp pain in my knee hardly made this a decent walking distance. On the way I even called the 100 number (1^st time ever) and a polite female voice entertained my complaint. I say entertained cuz she sounded like she empathized with me but I wasn’t the 1^st one that morning. I didn’t trust anything was going to be done even after that so I carried on to the chowki. As I reached there I first encountered one signature pot-bellied Mumbai cop sitting and chewing what looked like remains of a pan and chatting with a rickshawala. My veins had popped from my head and I presume I looked like Tom (Tom and Jerry) when he has run out of ideas to either torment Jerry or dodge his tormentor. There began my verbal volley of subtle abuses and frustrating vocabulary. I was careful not to go overboard yet put forth how disruptive the situation had gotten by then. When I was met with “Maidum yeh toh Mumbai hai.. Yeh hone hi waala tha. Aap ya hum kya kar sakte hain” I put aside all politeness and risks of probably being thrown in the cell myself. I didn’t realize but I was yelling loud enough for the street to stare at me; telling them that as always they will only wait till some mishap occurs to ‘force’ them from their comfortable squat and take some action. It was not fair to make our lives miserable when their tampered meters got them where they are. The elderly rick fella by now gave me a ‘how dare you’ look which did shake me a bit I admit but I knew I wasn’t wrong. After screaming for another few minutes, cops from inside the beat chowki came out staring me down through their faker than fake aviators and assured me that a dispatch van will now head there.

I was relieved but not quite as I had finally worked up my anger and I had yet not physically assaulted anyone. THAT’s how angry I was. The cops offered to get me a rick and then looked around to see but couldn’t even find one to force me in. The elderly rickwala already there made a sarcastic quip about not ‘loving’ Powai which made me back answer him that I didn’t need his pity to drop me just cuz I couldn’t walk as straight as him. For a moment there I think I was going to cry. But I needed to be the strong angry gal who limped all the way to the chowki like a penguin and yelled at the cops.

Cut to 15 mins later I had managed to walk back to the signal and no one in sight. All the ricks had disappeared and the rowdies had feigned shelter in the nearby pan-beedi shops and chai stalls. Yes, they recognized me. Yes, I felt that one would follow me back and break my other leg if nothing else. And No, I didn’t care. This may not have been a grave situation with a direct threat to mine or anyone’s life so to speak but it did deserve a shake down... at least I think so!!

Cuppa Hiatus for the Feline Soul

Well given how much I hoot about Capoeira and it being my life's calling, I just though it’s appropriate my 1^st post should be about... well... CAPOEIRA! But this one is more about the full stop in my Capoeira phase. Mind you it’s just a temporary full-stop.... :)

Right now I am on a hiatus. More like a forced vacation from everything I love and that includes walking normally. I dislike the feeling of being left behind or being scanned from head to toe and reverse like the 'Predator' does with his infrared vision. I am certainly not enjoying the pain, stiffness and discomfort. There is a lot I do not like about my current situation but above all the fact that I have to make peace with it and accept it. I may have sped through life and a lot of its elements but my meager little knee showed me what it really means to slow down and take a break and that by no means was 'it' in a hurry.

I joke and say that this is God's big full stop in a sentence of my life - a long sentence I say. Was it necessary? I think 'Yes'. Let me rewind back to 5 years ago 2006. I had a breakup which did not even deserve an amicable goodbye. I plunged head on into anything and everything that caught my interest without a second thought about the long-term or short term future of it. I enjoyed it. I was active and lazy; I abandoned many of my mini projects and others I struggled through them. But the common factor was I had my fingers in every conceivable cookie jar. I wasn't overwhelmed by the sweetness of all my experiences nor was I put off by my failures. You could say I even gloated on having tried and turned many things. Everyone who knew/knows me is aware of my glass always full with too much. Way too much to handle for one person. I do manage them but not as effectively as it looks in my mind's eye.

Mom always said, 'Slow down beta. What’s the rush? Is it necessary to do this and this and this?” All I knew is if I stopped I would have to face an inevitable n familiar frenemy - my mind and my thoughts. The phrase 'An idle mind is the Devil's workshop' holds true for me to the 'P'. And that's what frightened me when I knew I would have to have surgery and a long hiatus. I pompously imagined getting myself sliced and diced in a few hours, recovered with stitches removed in about a fortnight and back to class thereafter. The surgery, the pain, the tears, the impatience, the month long bed rest, the accompanying hiccups and follies, and the harsh reality that the new graft in my knee would take minimum 6 months to heal - ALL PUT ME IN MY PLACE. I revisit the fact that was the full stop necessary. After all of this I still say 'Yes'. I wasn't running to and from everything and every place (it’s another thing that I CAN'T run) and I was spending extra time everywhere. I was home a lot and that made my dad smile (rolling eyes). I spent more time with music and instruments and got moderately good at it. I wasn't tired right from sunrise to sunset and i reevaluated and rearranged a lot around me.

The best was when people complemented me that I looked well rested and calm and the worst was when they put it oh-so-cutely "You look well-fed" which translates in every language to you are now Oval in shape. That one's manageable if I am determined to be fit. But helplessness accompanies me to my weekend plans - Baiganwadi and Vatsalya where I can't do much physically so to speak. I miss the physical euphoria and exhaustion of running with and after the kids.

All thats about to change soon (hopefully and ME willing). It was a worthwhile break which I wouldn't intend repeating nor wish upon anyone else. Also mentionable here that few people were there always to kick my ass when I needed it most and hold my hand (literally) when I wished for but didn't speak up (tr00t, bagha, sukhwa, boochie, tani, moog, pop, khadusambi, tuborg etc..)

AXÉ TOTAL