I’m in shape. ROUND is a shape! (A fat post)

Said the glorious (read Gloria) Queen Latifa in an interview to someone few years ago (I swear I Googled it but couldn’t find it). I don’t quite care for the quote as much as I do about Ms. Latifah or her character Gloria from Madagascar series of movies. Both depicting round, glorious, wholesome girls with a kick ass sense of humor.

All of my friends who are on the curvy side incidentally also carry the better part of the humor bandwagon. Probably cuz the thin 1s have no ‘juice’ left in them (that’s me being mean). I’ve been on both sides of the latitude and longitude of the 1 battle we are constantly fighting since puberty – weight. At least the vast majority of us. There is not 1 person I’ve met who hasn’t made a quip or some sorry excuse about control, diet, workout etc. None of it coming from the will to do so but rather the need for it.

I was a scrawny thin kid. Growing up I gradually become a plumpy gal. 1 push and sure enough I would bruise you. Kids are mean. They are always mean and aren’t equipped to handle sensitivity issues or factors. A random few (if you’re lucky) grace that list. I was the kind and sensitive 1. But I was also the angry 1 if someone so much as teased me or any of my circle of friends. Infant crawling-punching years were spent with rowdy boys in a co-ed. All of us were spoilt lil brats and we knew the language of the fist before we knew the ABCs. Mum dad and the teachers would never whimper in my direction cuz I was the ace student who got ace grades. I was special *blush blush*. What annoyed other kids was that I didn’t study or put in the effort either. It was ‘au naturale’ to me. And after having probably had a muddy tussle with me in the playground graced with a few unsavory exchanges, they were dragged up to my doorstep by their mommies to apologize to me and either borrow my HW or get tutored by me.

Once in boarding school, I continued being the same. Except this time we were all GIRLS. My bonding vs exceptional despise for having gal-pals came from boarding school. Too much budding estrogen under 1 roof is a formula for bloodshed, tears and disaster. It was simply our matron (long past the cramps and pads) and the convent-ish rules that kept us unscathed and alive. There were beauty experiments, weight issues (dear lord to the roof), comments (read taunts), fairness ads bombarding us, magazines of the then waif-thin super models, misconceptions from misguided thoughts plagued by confinement in a fortress-like setup followed by impressionable and excessive bombardment of media and the days of MTV grind and newly launched FTv. It was in those formidable years that I was made aware of my plumpiness. 1 will be surprised how much can happen under a boarding school roof and the people it shapes us to become. I was supremely active (hyper). I played competitive basketball for the team, I swam, I dabbled in hockey and finally even joined karate. I did it all and I could do them back-to-back without burning out. Much of it was genuine interest. A small yet significant portion of it came from the meanness I had to deal with from the very gals I lived with day in and day out.

Restricted diet became secret dieting, which is worse when the prefects and matrons check to see every morsel has been wiped from your plate. Uniform pockets were suddenly impossible to launder due to all food groups being hidden in them and then discarded to the garden dogs. Clothes became tighter cutting blood supply but giving the illusion that they fit vs they actually fitting us. Black was an all season color – the slimming color. Most of us looked goth and lost. We drank ridiculous concoctions and devised our own theories and recipes for eternal beauty – boy were we convinced or what. I recall a time when we had returned from a vacation break and sure enough had new clothes and shoes. We decided to set up our own fashion ramp and ‘model’ them clothes. What started out as a weekend time-killer turned into a massive routine production. We borrowed and got ready and fussed over ourselves and each other. Since makeup was a no-no; we used rough towels to rub our cheeks till they turned rouge pink. The end result was a few of us landed up with abrasion burns, which the matron caught and aptly punished us for. Boy did we have a laugh over it.

In all of this and through college, fat-jokes were a routine with me. I was never fat; just plump. I despised shopping and even worse, being photographed. Hence, I wondered what it must be like for the really obese and fat 1s. I am of the theory that much of it is self-brought on while a few genuine cases are genetic or health related history. Sadly, friends and foes aren’t built to think so. If you had money and/or were popular, you were left unscathed. Else, you had to develop a hyde of good humor and sportiness to succumb to all that was thrown at you. I never flinched except 1ce when a boy made especially mean comments about dating me despite my appearance. I still don’t know why THAT particular comment got me but it did – it didn’t dawn on me that the boy himself wasn’t a vision of fitness. What followed was a very dangerous and obsessive need to lose the pounds. I ignored the fact that even though I did yoga, gym, dance and sports, it was my thyroid that held me back. I was convinced that adding few hours to ALL the activities and really altering my diet was the key. It worked. I dropped a whopping 16+ kilos. The bonus was bad skin for the 1^st time in my life, some serious deficiency issues which I refused to acknowledge and going underweight – which btw I celebrated. I was perennially disturbed if asked to eat something or miss a workout – it was not part of my mental plan. My body and health were taking a beating for a lousy comment that had triggered a spark in my head and, at the time, my heart. 

Now with age and maturity and an art form that celebrates curves, strength, agility and a lot more about just being fit than a prototype image, I find myself so much more comfortable. Of course, the evolution involved behaving like a girl and investing the time and fusses to be like 1 too. This I say thanks to self-confidence and a lil indulgence of praises and flattery. Boys will be boys. But they sure know how to make a woman feel more like so. If I look around I see factory manufactured products. All that is missing is a barcode (which I think tattoos make up for). The boys and girls talk the same, have the same lazy walk, identical looks and have the same IQ. Boys look like Johnny Bravo and clean shaven less than equal to their female counterparts. The girls are essentially toothpicks or some blessed with the antique curves of a lamppost. Same long hair flicked, burned and straightened by salons they shouldn’t be heading to at their age. Pre-pubescent know how to put makeup long before I learned what an eye-liner was. Their exposure and attitude baffles me. I was thrown at a website which offers fat reduction packages to age as young as *drumroll* 12yrs. And more so recently by the ‘kids’ fashion senses at a concert. Sure it was fun and helped Abeer and me kill time, but it left me perplexed that the only way to look good was to have bare minimum covering your body.

I’m glad that at no point I felt the need or insecurity to take extreme (dangerous) measures. There are far too many vulnerable minds and bodies being tortured. I need a healthy point of view rather than a stressed point of view. There is nothing worse than embracing a bag of bones when you need to hold on to someone you love. And yes…. I love love love my food too… There I said it. Hence, round it is for me… *Busy workin it!*

Kapitaan Abduwali Muse...

“Yo Irish!”, perfectly executed dialogue by the very talented Abduwali Muse played by Barkhad Abdi. Barkhad is a Somali-born American national. Ironic, as the movie plays on those lines as well.

It was date night mid-week and a rarity with Abeer in his rare generous mood. I mean the kind that takes me by surprise with thoughtful little gifts and an impromptu dinner to follow. Divided treats where we tried to outdo each other to do something for one another. Off late everything seemed a bit flat with even plans being cancelled last minute. I had internalized the lividness brought on by a recent evening where I looked forward to going south side with him; which was planned and conveniently ditched for a cold beer and prawns to follow. The lividness was considered made-up for (in my mental check book)!

That’s ok. Life’s such anyways. Even a beer and signature Jai-Jawan prawns were a far cry from my days spent staring at a feeble father and catering to his recovery 24x7, always waiting for that lil spark. THIS particular evening goes in my catalogue of memories to save. We indulged. No caviar or champagne. Just a good ol’ movie, flowing food, funny conversations and a bit of naughtiness.

Captain Phillips had been on our agenda. I love Tom Hanks and had unintentionally caught nearly every flick he had worked in. There is a mundane genius to him. I am drawn to people who are walking geniuses in plain clothes and maybe a little gruffness to them. In that rough no-fuss exterior lies a bunch of molecules all similar to mine but aligned in a peculiarly brilliant manner. Nothing flashy about his role or get up and yet I was easily taken in. I guess his real skills poured in at the final minutes of the movie where a shocked and shaken Capt. Phillips is rescued, medically examined and reassured that he was safe. He stammered and struggled to express himself both physically and verbally – much like my daddy in his bedridden ICCU state. The medic comforted and interacted with him – much like the doctors and I did on a daily basis with dad. The likeness hit me hard and I tried not to let the tear glands win.

Coming to Barkhad who played the genius Somali pirate captain. I think this guy is a find. Held his own in a cast of veterans and had tremendous screen presence. He took me back to Nigeria and Benin and the surrounding African past that I had the rich privilege of experiencing and sadly leaving behind. He reminded me of the countless stories and sordid living that the ‘blacks’ were subjected to everywhere. In my explicit opinion, color is the single biggest racial discrimination and struggle that has dogged this earth since early man. And not because I am biased, but from the very beginning my kiddie eyes couldn’t escape how absolutely stunning Africans were. They just are and there is such sheen and glow in black. Which no one really sees.

However, I saw them always in tatters, wild colors, tribal surroundings and garb, destitute most times, a rare escape of laughter and that tubelight like smile – as if they would be killed if they let a grin escape. Their disheveled look never bothered me, pale nails and barely there footwear (mostly never there) also didn’t let me judge them. They were just beautiful people: misused, mistrusted, misjudged and misspoken about. They were exploited and robbed, beaten and trampled upon, screamed at and rarely ever heard. Their version of luxury was to be recognized as an individual and enjoy civil and basic rights. It never happened and most 3^rd world countries will not let that happen.

The movie depiction of a remote fishing village full of fishermen (read pirates for hire) was a near accurate 1 – dry, destitute village mostly filled with men high on amphetamine addictive khat leaves and ready to blaze and gun down anything and anyone. Desperation drives these skeletal mortals to punish, however brutally, whoever irked them at anytime. And this when they lacked clean water and food – worse still the scarcity of khat. This takes me back to Lagos, Nigeria. Sure I didn’t live with pirate-like people but I sure did witness and hear their mistreatment. Another ironically common factor being that all of them screamed, fought and shed blood and flesh (literally) for causes and people which gave them and their families no security or returns in any shape or form. No money, no food, no safety, no respite.

Then what drives them? Anger and an agenda for vengeance running in their blood stream from the moment they touched down on the red African soil? I think that being 1. That beautiful earthy and rich as hell soil and ground. So many treasures. So many pirates. So little hope. I hope I’m wrong.

Eu amo a África!

The (I)ntensely (C)rushing (U)nvironment!

"Aapke saath amboolans ke paise ki baat hui!?!" (Has anyone spoken to you about the ambulance charges?), asked the driver to my hapless mother.

Money – I was stunned. Actually disgusted was more like it. Barely had they strapped in my dad's skeletal frail frame in the bed, key in ignition, pat came the demand for money. I wonder if he would have driven us at all had we (God forbid) fumbled and expressed inability to pay. It was INR 2k to drive my ICCU-ridden father to and fro from a specialized diagnostic for MRI and scans that was 2mins by Mumbai traffic stds. Monetary demands had been the top and most consistent priority in the last few days. True it was the same during my hospitalization but there was better management and 15% good faith. Here, while my father battled to stay alive, his investigation costs came before his prognosis and next vital steps. I felt sorry for the scores who waited, wondering where to produce money from their measly income and no insurance. The hand-to-mouth population. The 90% population. And even though I could produce the money on demand, I felt attacked even slightly blackmailed at the thought of care and basic treatment being pulled if I couldn't produce. Every step spewed money. I think I will be charged even for the air I breathe in the waiting area. Money 1^st; care and vital steps later. Period.

Waiting – Day 5. So far the multitude of docs including passing 2nd opinions couldn't put a finger on it. All I could do was talk, speculate, question, meet dad, comfort him and wait. That wait. The painfully long question-mark accompanied by traffic and yapping people. 6hrs in a row. And the most irritating part was the ladies who attempted to start a conversation with me about my dad's health and then suddenly turning a sharp curve into their family members and details and gross issues. Being nosy and then unloading it on me. I wasn't insensitive. If anything I listened quietly. I was mentally exhausted processing my dad and didn't need to hear everyone's issues. Its exhaustion really that makes us all quiet. My parents were too when I was operated upon. Sitting around or lying around for hours is far more daunting than actual activity. The smell, the cries, the laughter, the running around, the silence. The brain is a powerful ALL-organ. It controls what your body does and reacts to. Keeping it well oiled and running in such situations is a challenge and 1 that teaches us tremendous lessons in courage and patience.

Patience – such an underrated word. I had 3 layers of patience to deal with. Having just completed my stint of hospitalization and an attempt to piece back all elements of normalcy including fitness, I had to pause everything. The 2^nd was dealing with a hysterical and high-octane-tensed and wired mom. The last was the main 1 – dad, his illness, his diagnosis, the reports, the tests and what not. Everything cannot be speeded up just cuz your heart wishes so. Nada. Even if you live in Mumbai. Instead, Indian mentality slows down the most mundane activities or wastes time on stuff that is red-taped high priority. Nurses and on-call doctors would much rather chit chat and complete their packet of noisy wafers than cater to the patient. Any patient. I saw it myself. They get ‘bothered’ if someone were to beckon them once they just sat down for their cuppa chai with a side of toasty gossip. Too bad. Leave the profession if you can’t handle the pressure and the duties it demands. Worse if you don’t have patience with delicate, ailing bodies and minds.

Empathy and Etiquette – or the lack of it. I have been routinely thrown out and ordered into the ICCU for dad over the last 5 days. I have jumped up at prompt and performed like a trained bomb-squad dog. Except, my actions came from the fact that he’s my dad and I will wag a tail if I had 1. I would do that for any member of my family and that includes Abeer and Elsa. But, the officers of the healthcare profession who take the oath upon graduation and get in knowing fully well what the profession demands, shun it. I don’t pass this verdict for all. Actually, the lowest in the hierarchy (the maids and bais) are the most compassionate and kind. Feed them a few Gandhijis and they care for you and your loved ones like you were their progeny. The most distressing part of hospital stay is the bedpan and loo usage. If you are bedridden and have to entirely depend on others for your basic bodily functions, no matter how many times you may have lectured others, you are going to cringe and worry. I did. Twice. But the Tai makes all the difference. The guards ask if you are ok, need some water, comfort, need a fan etc. Nurses are the worst. They carry the expression of corpses; sometimes taking extra effort to hiss at you without actually doing it. The tone, the attitude, the malice is ridiculous. Some don’t make eye contact. Maybe they fear it may humanize them to look at the patient or the relative. I was ‘warned’ not to create trouble the 1^st night I was admitted 2 yrs ago for arthroscopic ACL surgery. Here, after asking me not to disturb dad, I was disturbed by their chit chat and their chiding of a poor lady clearly in end-stage renal failure and another who’s heart had but a few beats left. They fought with colleagues who didn’t turn up for shifts on time etc. All this in few view and audible range of patients and their near burned out families. Empathy is a crucial chapter missing in the fat pages of the medical bible.

In India, the doctor is God and those associated with him in the slightest… his disciples and messengers. Such blindness. Doctors change their tone and language with me when they know they can’t play paddle-ball with a para-medical professional. What about the scores less fortunate (read educated)? Despite dad’s status right now, we are far better treated (by 70% I reckon) than the rest of the populace. They just want someone to talk to. Someone to tell them it will all be alright. Someone to tell them that they figured it out and that its fixable. Things and people break every day. People just want to know “can this be fixed?”. I too am asking the same. I had an unfortunate incident today where an annoyed lady found it too taxing to wait in line for her mother’s MRI cuz my dad’s was taking too long. Rudely (after blasting the diagnostic center receptionist) she asks my doctor in front of me and scores of waiting people, “a thigh MRI is not so important then why is it taking so long?” Before he could answer, I gave a fat piece of my mind. 1 of the rarest times I didn’t care for being judged or considered a noisy nuisance. No one stopped me or dared come my way. Shockingly she turned out to be a doc herself and realized she had cut the wrong wire when she took me on, proceeding to profusely apologize. I would’ve relented except my heavy heart had found the perfect outlet and opportunity to let the screaming banshee out. Then I went back in the dark ambulance and shed whatever tears had surfaced. Wiped ‘em. Even like a fool, used sanitizer on my own hands and walked back in.

I had never seen a loved 1 with 8 tubes piercing a frail body and another 15 tubes running out of each 1. So many monitors all beeping at once, bandages, raw flesh, blankets, catheters and 2 simultaneous saline drips. I had 1/4^th of these but ACTUALLY seeing it is a whole new life lesson. Watching them go through a non-stop cycle of progress and regress. I learnt about my own patience and my own vulnerability. How much is too much for me? I think I have held on long enough and am gonna hold on more. Even candles give that last lil strong bright flicker before they completely burn out. I’m not ready yet to burn out. Still have to burn my brightest best yet!

The "Must haves"

That’s right. There are something’s in life like a wardrobe must-have or a societal must-do that need to happen to all beings. Without them there is just no appreciation for the rules that are broken and triumphed over and nor is there is any lessons-learnt. Here are a random not-so-preferred few.

• Lose your wallet. Maybe more than once.
• Lose money. It pinches and pains and all those times we stole, begged, borrowed, whined and blackmailed our parents for comes flashing by.
• Have someone lie to u and find out about it.
• Have an ugly confrontation or an uncomfortable conversation.
• Fail to read the rules and regulations or that almost invisible *conditions apply. Get fleeced or stuck cuz of your failure to do so.
• Get caught and have that horrible twisty knot like feeling in your stomach. The 1 that makes you lose appetite, squeezes your heart and basically makes you feel like your life is flashing by.
• Exhale and feel immense relief when that twisty knot is untied (usually by someone’s generosity or kindness). Have new found respect for that person who 90% of the times maybe someone who doted on you in the past.
• Get suspended, punished, black listed. Makes for a great story when you grow up. Especially when you wanna prove what a badass you were amidst the journey of nerd-dom.
• Get drunk and make a fool of yourself. Throw up and just pass out being aware that you are gonna have a lot to explain and face when the hangover wears out
• Sneak in and look sheepish.
• Be consumed by love or hatred. Be consumed by some emotion so much that it eats up all of you and you are momentarily blinded.
• Make bad decision. Despite the told-you-so’s. Remember this is YOUR decision and YOURS alone.
• Put on weight. Be in denial. Then try on an outfit that you were eyeing and can’t fit in. Get a reality check and go into major fitness mode. Wow yourself and people around you. Reward yourself. Think you all that and what not. Put on weight…. Repeat cycle.
• Loose or break your fone. Stay a day or… hell even a week without a new 1. Pretend you are in zen mode without being in eSocial mode. It is quite amazing frankly. Get a new phone and get all stupid and spondilitisii like again.
• Write a blog. Pour your heart out. Wake up the day after and read again and go WTF! The same can apply to an sms, chat message or even a voice message.
• Have a wardrobe malfunction and find ways to tide over it. Have a fashion faux pas or a beauty disaster. Lock yourself in till it’s fixed.
• Loose someone you love. Maybe to someone else you cared about or trusted. Live and function around 1 or both everyday.
• Have an injury or an illness. Changes you sometimes. Drastically.
• Be ignored and forgotten. There is redemption at the end of this tunnel. Everyone needs everyone at sometime. Sure you too will ignore, forget and re-need someone too.
• Have your parents not ‘appreciate or understand’ you. Whine about how they don’t get you. Then triumph over how you overcame that ‘challenge’.
• Buy something super cheap. Showoff. Have it perish/broken in a blink. Sulk.
• Buy something super expensive. Showoff. Have it perish/broken in a blink. Sulk x 3.
• Loose internet connection when you NEED IT MOST.
• Have your phone battery die when you NEED IT MOST.
• Fall asleep. Have a bad stomach. Have a bad day of personal hygiene. Look unkempt. Feel tragic. Have someone really hot* point it out to you. *a potential crush maybe.
• Regret something. Anything. Then go all Miss/Mr. World and say, “I have no regrets. All my experiences made me who I am” *wave* (yawn).
• Own a pet. Go all ooh and aah until their 1^st medical and food bill hits you. Now multiply that by their expected lifetime… Congrats you are a parent now.
• Rave about some movie, place, event, person etc. Then have it fail miserably and you hide face.
• Get stuck somewhere. And remain stuck.
• Lie, cheat on a test, blame someone else. Smoke something funny. Drink something weird. Do it all. Cuz even though you were told not to. You still did. Feel guilty thereafter.
• Have a kid ask you a question you can’t answer. Better yet let them begin the question with ‘Aunty/Uncle’ and come to terms with it.
• Cut yourself. Bleed. Get scratched, scraped, jabbed. Bang a joint or sprain a muscle. Nothing hurts worse and nothing teaches you to repair it better.
• Say the wrong thing at the worst time to the wrong person. Try to take it back. Although…. Never works!
• Ache for something or someone. Drown in it till you learn to swim out of it.
• Starve. Run out of cash. Thirst for something. Be parched. Look around and wonder… what now.
• Indulge in stalking. Online ‘perfectly sane and legal’ predation. What he said. She posted. He updated. She erased. He signed up. She signed out. Pictures. Comments. Accounts. Emails. Messages. Drive yourself deliberately nuts interpreting the psychology behind it all. Worse still… call your friends for coffee and drown them in your pool of self-pity (hate these). Pine and muddle over it. A while later let it tide over. Even better, feel stupid for having to realize you got it ALL WRONG! Pause. Repeat. Rewind. Forward and on….
• Be part of a disaster or its aftermath. Feel like a loser or a schmuck for the times you thought your life was a wreck. Come back renewed. Yap about it. *Blink* turn back into that whiny creation called human AGAIN.  
• Hit rock bottom. Rise up. Dust yourself. Leave a lil dust behind. Have a yahoo moment and rise higher. Then have a reminder of the disaster and fall in the pit again. A lil deeper this time. Be aware of the depth. Decide when you wanna stop falling and get back up at all. Or not.

Then sit and write this blog. Think about why and how and when you decided to write this blog. Post it. Go 'dayumm' cuz you missed a thing or 2 to add your post like it was gonna make a world of difference. Wonder if anyone even bothered reading it till the end. Go ‘whatever’… Move on. 

Retro DateNight

The weekend was just like many in the last 2 months. Dreamy and beautiful. Perfect even sometimes. Not always but sometimes near perfection. This Saturday in particular felt retro to me. Old fashioned. Simple. Simpler. Relaxed and didn’t have many quips from my otherwise quick witted other half.

Spent the day at home trying to avoid getting baked in the October humidity and sweltering heat. A plan to go shopping with a friend went expectedly kaput; I had my contingency ready – I was gonna go by myself. Abeer had drunk himself a bar the night before and getting any response from him was like asking a semi-conscious person their entire biodata. I informed him duly like I always do and set out. I was content but frankly not ideal. You see I get excited about anything that works my senses and that moment I feel like I need to share it with someone. Not just anyone – that someone. And his absence only either overworks my memory or I go into a ‘never mind’ mode.

So I picked him up from his abode and we waded through Navaratri traffic and chaos to the station. Train rides had become our thing – only this day we broke protocol from the usual meeting point (keeping it fresh). A short ride to Khar and we hit my favorite stores there. I shopped 80’s disco clothes (short tank with skull designs to go over black jeggings and a tunic or vest). All I was missing was a dirty blonde crop and some Madonna makeup and headgear. Ballet flats were at home. Abeer had a brief stint of sky blue shorts under Fanta orange t-shirt. We all exclaimed how ‘pretty’ he looked following which he promptly dumped it all and stepped outside the store like the ‘complete man’.

We decided to treat ourselves to some old-fashioned apple pie, some good ‘ol coffee and topped it up with a cab ride to town. That’s right a cab ride for us was a big deal. Abeer is big on saving and economical spending. Me – I’m just officially poor who likes to spoil her boyfriend silly. For us the cab ride was the fancy thing just like our parents thought cabs were a treat. We whizzed through the Bandra-Worli Sealink alongside Mercs, Audis, BMWs and what not. Enter. Finally. Heera Panna shopping arcade. A 1-stop-shop for many things fancy and ‘export-worthy’. The fancier chorr bazaar I call it. 1^st copies of nearly all products to near perfection that you could fool a few untrained naked eyes. I loved walking through the arcade that had me lost so many times in the past. But I gripped on Abeer like I did mom when I was younger. He was my bargaining chip and my ‘NO’ sign when it really was a ‘No’. I needed his fashionista-le-French opinion on my new retro frames and cell phone accessories. We did the rounds and the ho-hums and left.

In the middle of it all, his appetite changed from mmmm to “I wanna be light and healthy” and finally resting on the real thing, “I feel like Chinese”. His thought process was like the roulette wheel. It keeps bouncing off ideas until it rests finally on something steady and real. I wait patiently. We went to Kamling Restaurant at Churchgate. Abeer had asked me a few times in the past when we passed it after a meal at some obnoxiously pricey place. As I entered, a strong sterile almost phenyl scent hit us. Ok very very clean. I get it. But what hit harder was the team of really old, cute, ever-smiling, North Eastern staff waiting on us. I felt almost ashamed being waited on by someone so much older than me rather than offering them a seat and a warm broth. I smiled. It felt like home. Then a strong hit of flowery air freshner. Yes… very old school solution to the phenylish scent. We ordered light servings of noodles and a Chinese beef stew. BEST ever. The food was light, fragrant, so very simple and just perfect. It didn’t feel heavy or Indian-Chinese like. The plates had scratches on them and the cutlery was well maintained but well on its way out. This was like the old Chinese restaurants where our parents would take us out for ‘fancy’ dinner nights and birthdays. Nothing was over the top but it still held special place for us. It did for Abeer with old memories that brought him back here. And now me.

We ate quickly and made it to Eros. Abeer’s idea for a faaltu Hindi movie at a single-screen theatre. For both of us it meant a bratty useless evening where we decided at the time to leave our brains behind. It had been years since someone asked me ‘balcony or stall’ and that I had to pay by cash only. Old-school. I chose balcony. We were hustled in to loud, eardrum shattering introductory number accompanied by major pelvic-thrusting visuals from Besharam. Again incidentally the movie took digs at old school romance, dialogues, loud costumes and cheesy lines that had been there done that written all over them. Before interval we both laughed ourselves silly. Only cuz we knew we were there to be stupid with Besharam. But after interval and a sealed tub of pretty decent caramel popcorn, it became unbearable for Abeer to fake-laugh anymore. I didn’t regret leaving 75% into the movie either. For both of us the experience had satiated our need for silliness and now it was time to get back to reality.

Whenever possible through the day we walked. It’s what he and I did best. I always loved to walk. Still do. No matter how tired or in pain I am… I can walk. The motion of walking soothes me. Add to that a partner who does the same – sweet sublime love. We took a late Bhayander train back (the only uncomfortable part of the night for me) and made it in 1 piece to Malad.

Here was the bitter-sweet part of a retro night. Even though I would usually submit to shameless love and passion and probably kiss him anywhere anytime, he was more old-school and preferred a safe peck on the cheek in front of a plethora of rickwalas – 1 who was expected to drop me safely home at 12am. I hated when I had to make do with just that peck and then go home, alone with just a sigh and some smiles to remember the love that seeped through the evening! 

Oii Gata… Belo dia para Capoeira

It’s what I tell myself every day. Capoeira has been my passion since June 2010. Before that, it was a hazy blip of something exotic I wanted to explore under the category of ‘hobby’ that was to go well with my just new life after a messy break-up. Well break-up in tow. A friend was to come along with me to the 1^st demo class but bailed last minute. As much as this sounds mundane, at the time it was HUGE for me to go by myself, enter the class, and watch the demo. “What’s the worst that can happen!?!” is what I convinced myself and meekly crawled into Raheja Classique Clubhouse complex.

The rest is a 3.5yr history. Though not as long as many who have dedicated longer or far more, for me it’s a big deal. I have done the song and dance routine, the whole basketball phase, the acting and prose phase, the stage, the direction, spotlights, narration, story writing. I was a very restless kid with a powerfully imaginative mind that just HAD to be put to use. But nothing gave me back like Capoeira did. Hence the determination and the major milestones that have affected me most with this art form. I was sold from the 1^st class: Baba was this handsome man with a non-Indian descent commanding a god-complex like presence; Macaco at the time was a quiet 1 and I assumed (like many others) that he might be from Brazil, and lastly Dancerinha (Arunima) who was my 1^st and remains my most treasured friend in CDO. I was convinced of the authenticity of the art form and its practitioners. It was important to me that I wasn’t in any wannabe or copy-cat group and this fit was anything but.

I took to Capoeira naturally – actually, my body did thanks to years of sports, yoga and dance. I basked under the attention of being the quiet beginner who picked up well and used it to motivate myself to come back every class and do better. Up till the 1^st 3 months, I was nervous every class I came. I was invariably late, struggling to get out of work early from a job I routinely left at 11pm from the worst possible location – MIDC Andheri E. I felt like I didn’t fit in mostly because of the self + imposed exile of no activities or friends beyond the relationship I was in. But each class I adjusted and found a sense of strength and confidence with the group and the art form. The roda still petrified me at month 4. Anything in a group, in a line, in partner work etc was fine. Roda felt like a spotlight was on me and I had to ‘perform’ to prove a point. Baba’s confidence and friendliness with me made me warm up. I did avoid all social events, parties, house warmings etc just strictly adhering to a class schedule. I look back and wonder now what made me be/do so. Guess I can’t explain what or how I felt way back then.

Batizado 2010 exposed my senses to a whole new world and new possibilities of the just 7 mnth old world I was in. I loved Capoeira and it had become a regular, unmistakable event of my life. It was still NOT my life at this juncture, a significant part though. With each class I learnt its depth and history. Mostly my homework and the rest gathered from class and people and online forums. I found myself relating to the struggles of the slaves. My condition wasn’t as bad as the slaves and the extremity of their ordeal that gave birth to such beautiful expression of pain, subtle rebellion, suppression and all that can be categorized as slavery in its ugliest form. I guess we all are in a race for survival. Each day is. Our ordeals are about work, money, future, trust, friendship, human connections, commitments etc. These things seem to make up the magnitude of our psyche and affect us now more than ever given how ‘beautifully’ we have all evolved. Everyday stresses are turning into killer diseases; hence, they do command some severity in parallel to the African slaves. Every student will tell you 1 thing, “When they enter class and exit post 30mins to an undefined time later, their mind and world seems different.” Me included. I designed myself to always remain busy and physically occupied. Without it I enter a dark place. In doing so I have on occasion burned myself out even if my exhausted body and mind were screaming for a break and I was literally yawning in the midst of an Au (cartwheel).

Today’s class is a much evolved space than the 1 I entered in. There is a beginners, intermediate and advance batch. There are more seniors and many more ‘teachers’ and ‘instructors’. The latter is funny cuz after a week of Capoeira even a beginner begins to see his/her future as a capoeira instructor and starts playing the part ASAP. Before attempting to even complete 500 basic kicks over a chair – a rampant fodder for jokes between the older lot of us. We bask in the stage that we entered this art form, have our own stories and version of stories and games. There is deep history and a lot of dreams and sacrifices that went into building CDO India. Every member forms a pivotal or guest-appearance like role into the building and continuity of the center and the dreams attached to Baba.

My feelings and movement in Capoeira have swayed, waxed and waned over the last »4yrs. There are times when I have a week of complete confidence, where the body and mind have married in perfect harmony and I’ve wowed myself the most (a factor more important to me). There are weeks that seem mundane and regular or at worst – stressed and strained. Workweeks that have mentally drained me to reconsider how the last few hours of the day would I sustain. These are weeks where the body refuses to reconcile with the mind; refuses to consider that there is possibility for a relationship after all. Then there are these surprises where suddenly there is a shutdown often accompanied by an ailment or injury. The mind and body are divorced and refuse to connect even a spark to recreate magic. I guess this is the way to keep the motivation up. There is no one to compete with or prove anything to anyone in Capoeira. Not even yourself. It’s art and expression of the body in its most natural form. The slaves back in the day expressed their culture marinated in a lot of suppressed aggression. They weren’t worried about how their last street roda fared or who did an acrobatic move with more flare and ease than the other. Maybe a little awe and friendly competition but not as under the spotlight as it has come to become now. I guess that’s what our marination is all about – the wow factor.

Salonee (Bombom) and I (Gata) playing chocolate!

I have driven myself over the edge with Capoeira. Because it has given me so much I expect and leech more from it. I got my social projects here. I got my dance and music and found my voice here. I found love, jealousy, hatred, passion, innocence, insecurity and pride here. But most importantly I found the strength to come back to my corner of class everyday of every week of every year despite everything. I travelled and met people; did silly things and stupid things. Never regretted them. I relaxed A LOT. I let go of my mind and body from an uptight moral-brigade and let my indiscretions be just moments I had to have to develop into the woman I am today. I learnt not to take a kick in the face or take down so personally. Unlike many who wow another game to tackle their opponent, I just refused to replay them. This was the naïve younger Capoeirista in me. Now I take down and be taken down and laugh it off. I learnt that my lessons were someone else’s lessons too. The younger Capoeira students especially girls learn from other girls. We wow at the boys but we learn from the girls. We also laugh and snicker students in our lil groups and moments. Not out of spite. More out of the familiarity we witness from our own experiences before. I too thought nothing of many things. It was always a lot from little somethings. Patience and objectivity were keys to being a good instructor. You can’t grow if you are biased by your feelings towards people. Instructors pass on the knowledge of Capoeira; NOT their feelings to students and human beings. Those come through the rodas and lessons. I have yet to master this in its complete form. Impartial objectivity.

1 of the most important lessons I learnt in Capoeira is balance. Balance of mind, body, heart and soul. Balance of inside the class and outside. Balance of Priyankka vs Gata. We get so possessed that we forget there is or was a world out there that we have clearly separated and disconnected and thrown out. All festivals, family gatherings and even dating was sacrificed for class schedule. I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt; just dedication to do my class and leave satisfied. I didn’t think of the people who wanted my time and attention and who I deprived that chance because I was too blinded by my drive to be the best. I forgot I can be the best without hurting myself or burning myself out 7x365x24 hrs. I think back to the times I could’ve done many things but skipped because Capoeira was too important. Here is another balance: Capoeira vs class. What is it that drives you to class? Is the class or is Capoeira? It has been 1 or the other or both for me at various times. You see some classes I just didn’t wanna lift a hand or a leg; but I wanted to see my teacher and my friends and my alternate family and forget the day or the week below the 4^th floor of SS Sahney Centre for CDO India. Maybe watch and learn and not focus on how high I could fly or how low I could bend and twist and turn. Those days even Baba is surprised at my mischief or lack of focus. Majority days I am there for Capoeira. I can do a whole class without socializing and still leave content. Many days I HAD to do class. It could be any element but it had to be in the presence of Capoeira. I understand now why many who have watched from a distance or have tasted it and left call it a ‘cult’. It is a cult in many ways. I would be offended thinking these people just wanted to label us. But we capoeiristas we breathe together. That makes us a cult a family.

This year love found me. I say this because I refused to acknowledge it or even accept that I was in love. I thought it was a phase I was going through. But when it hits you it leaves a hue, a scent and a feeling you can’t shake off at will. Like Capoeira did to me. I may not be in class right now. But I do think about it every day. Right now from box seats called disdain and insecurity for Round II. Yes, I do feel insecure. About my injury and my mental and physical ability to get back in the game. But this time I will go back with a new relationship and balance. Abeer. He has taken top spot alongside Capoeira for me and, will in the future, occasionally bump Capoeira and take over like an F1 race going neck to neck. I realize 1^st hand the effect of giving enough time and importance to your relationship – not kick it in the face with “accept me as and who I am”. I am guilty of that arrogance. When something or someone loves you back and gives you happiness, you have to balance it with loving the fact that they love you. This time when I go back and resume where I left off, I will put my interests, my time, my body, my health and my love just as high and equal as I did Capoeira. Anything in excess isn’t good. I find that I will excel and move forward when I balance all other elements around me instead of burning and smoking and screeching with Capoeira like an engine with no water in the carburetor.

Mestre Cueca asked the instructors a very important question on our 1^st lesson late at night, “What have YOU given back to Capoeira?” I think a healthier happier me is also a way of giving back because that’s where I will fulfill my duties and dreams as a Capoeirista and as a human being. A girl very much in love with too much. 

Not-so-Stationary celebrations

Onamshamsakal and Happy Ganesh Chaturthi to all my friends. The festive half of the year has begun and brings with it joys, thanksgiving, new beginnings, luck and blessings. I wish this to all my friends and families (everywhere and every kind). 

I was supposed to spend a month bedridden with limited and prescribed movement/s by my orthopedic surgeon. Instead his overall treatment of my injury pre-and post-op was anything but the nightmare I experienced with my right leg. Guess that’s what differentiates old school from new specialization. I was asked repeatedly at all times not to stress the leg, not to let it bear too much weight and not to go too far too long on it. I did the BANG opposite of it all. In truth, my spirit was on a high after the miserable slump it had sunk into and I was not gonna let a few bones and plates held together by bionic and titanium screws ruin lil sparks of hope and smiles I had.

I decided I could sleep, slouch and be as useless as ever or I could do something productive with my mind and time. I did both. You see the sleeping, eating, slouching was as important a part of my mental recovery as it was for my physical rest and repair. I enjoyed the art of sleeping as and when my eyelids drooped to waking up when I wished to and not when I panicked and imagined an alarm go off somewhere or 1 really going off somewhere. Complete sleep – a concept and activity that had become alien to me. I also had to battle post-op stationary depression (special medical term coined for me and by me). Staring at a wall or doing absolutely nothing physical turned my mind into the darkness of hell. The medications added to the cauldron of hormones that was already churning within and I imagined myself breaking bangles in full makeup and garb like some scorned Indian soap star.

But…. here is the beauty of the unexpected. Adventures of the broken leg:

• I got to do Lalbaug darshan dragging my wobbly feet but it was worth it and as luck would have it... no waiting! In the interim I stuffed my face with a crab masala thali at Mast Malwani and some modaks followed.
• Culinary delights graced my recovery period and so did a lot of inner-city travel. New and renewed experiences with promise for more. Beef chilli,  crab, duck, chicken, prawn, fish, eggs all graced my plate. In retrospect, it’s not good for the balance of the food chain that I remain hungry. I ate without care and my waistline remained stoic and disciplined.
• I resumed work on 16 Sep after exactly 1 month of hiatus from the corporate tower and surroundings (feel like a working class mango person again). Can’t complain when the bank intimation flashes what’s left of the salary after the economic meltdown.
• Leetal Besouros (a project at Mahalaxmi) are busy at parkour with our Intl guests with whom I had planned back and forth for a year. Kids are doing great and learning in a single file or whatever formation expected of them from Cordelia and Jake – I only wish that they maintain the same discipline and delight when I return. However my guilt for not being around has been replaced with the victory of giving them the free program of new skills #Hurray
• Our Familia de Ouro girl student had an outdoor shoot experience for Save the Children global campaign (truly proud and happy). An accidental conversation with the school buddy landed this short Ad-film: concept of race for survival against genocide and other issues. A fraction of the campaign involves a well-trained and versatile Sonali (Cabaca) from our project who confidently works the camera in 2.5hrs flat. The fact that a GIRL child was doing this pleased and motivated me no end to push for this. Even if it meant midnight coaxing sessions and all day permission-driven emails and calls to get Sonali to come. In the end it was worth it and we (Tulsi and I) filled in the holes to make her feel like a complete star.
• Accidentally met so many friends old and new (Nostalgia): The rakhi brother who thought it appropriate to ask “So… when are you getting married?” bang outside Dadar stn; the school friend cum producer who gave 1 of my girl students a star moment; Simin who finally made the Mumbai trip albeit not in the setting I would have preferred; Marinha who I haven’t met or conversed since OBR; Adi and family after yet another 1 of his epic moments that involved an ER round; Capoeira pals whom I rarely meet (Bombom, Piolho, Gecko, Nisha, Spanty and more)
• PEApod had a meeting in my house and has found 2 new projects to work on before the year end (watch FB page for more). Something finally grabbed my attention.
• Got to hit Shiro’s dance floor after what seemed like eons. And with ladies who were not afraid to dance and be snazzy, cheeky and what not. A night out in high spirits but responsibly conducted is what I needed…. CRAVED for a long time.Missed the mister though.Also, even though I did attempt dress-ups in this phase, nothing did justice like a good ol’ LBD and black shoes stolen from a friend (donated… I meant donated).
• Elsa my darling furry feline delight has turned my house, room and my life topsy turvy. But everyday I’m glad I got him. <3 He did indeed save me and made me human and compassionate again. The boyfriend upon return thought the world of my new calm demeanor. It had some to do with Elsa’s presence but more to do with personal thoughts and choices.
• Finally attended drum circle as an active but amateur participant. Although at the venue I behaved like a veteran with 30 fingers. The freedom of expression with art is 1 that cannot be described or persuaded. And yet again played alongside an unlikely pal – Vivek Soni (party planner to Abeer & Co.)
• Visited the Jehangir art gallery after what seemed like a jump from childhood to adulthood. Remember I last came with friends nearly 10yrs ago. Had it not been for a friend’s invite for an exhibit to honor her late father’s work, I doubt this would be on the menu.
• My obsession with instagram and other online applications. Admit I may’ve gone a tad bit overboard but who’s monitoring anyways. The boyfriend seems to be the single pass gatekeeper to all comments sarcastic and remotely nice.

Some more memories but I can't pen them down [privacy clauses ;)] Meanwhile looking forward to some major changes (unemployment), Navratri (1 legged dandiya), Durga puja (pandal hopping), Diwali (to turn firecracker noise pollution contributor) and Dec (aahh Goa, sun, sand, weddings, love and a lil friend).

I imagined greys and tones of black stained with a bit of color to rule my month. What I really got was an entire color pallet and hues I never imagined mixing and marrying ever before… I thank primarily my love Abeer for that. 

Fusing my Religion

That's me in the corner; That's me in the spotlight; Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you; And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no I've said too much; I haven't said enough! By R.E.M.

Monday evening I went for Lalbaugcha Raja’s darshan. Something I had skipped last year. I’m not steadfastly religious, do not believe in object worship, don’t believe in the encyclopedia of names for the ‘Gods’ and I certainly do not appreciate when how, whom and why I should worship or pay homage to, is predefined for me. When I do feel like it (divine calling as many say), I go for it and do it my way. My prayer lasts anywhere between a mere 1min to probably an hour – most of which I spend in a quiet uninterrupted corner just pondering. The setting could be the corner seat of the Mumbai local to the corner pillar of Ram Mandir near my house. I have cried or remained mum. I have sincerely prayed and sometimes just looked for penance for 1 of many wrongs I may have committed but not admitted to.

To many, my practices may seem futile or because I do it ‘for the heck of it’. ‘Ignore’ is my mantra. Something I subject even mum too. From a balanced spiritual lady, somewhere along the years, I lost her to endless pujas, artis, darshans, teerth yartras and some unreasonable, inexplicable practices – a little on the extreme side. Ok a lot extreme if you ask me but what works for her is her choice. Here no one lets you be. What they do and consider the ethical, traditional norm is THE norm for you. I enter a temple and I would get eyes for donning jeans, missing a dupatta, not looking deep in trance enough or a list of do-nots that I may’ve unintentionally adhered to.

Fortunately, mums taken the cue and let me be. Of course, I had to climb the staircase of guilt, jump through a fire hoop of the looks, crawl through a dark tunnel of a long lecture (the worst) and fly across obstacles of ‘corrective actions’. Like a video game. It took many an evening of doubts, discussions of life path (still can’t figure how that’s related), being called an atheist, questions on my beliefs and virtual guilt trips of trying to drag me down. We have reached a mutually accepted truce. She asks. I agree or decline. If I agree, I stay for the last bit where I can have some prasad and leave. I honor her wishes and she mine. My logic, which finally got to her, was I would never do something to disrespect what is important to her – and forcefully going for incessant number of pujas with no intent, counted as disrespect from me to her. Peace!

Prof. Wikipedia defines religion, as “an organized collection of beliefs, cultural systems, and world views that relate humanity to the supernatural, and to spirituality.” I’m fortunate that my family inculcated AND practice secularism. I lay emphasis on the ‘AND’ because we have many who feign belief and do not practice. My family does and I appreciate, love and bask under this fact and freedom. From my grandparents’ era, all married their love and sweethearts. There was never a question or interrogation of the caste, creed, sect or religion. There have been marital discords, disharmony, splits and reconciliations all on human grounds and errors. When mum found out about him, she asked about him and his family, what they did where they came from et al. Honestly, I assumed somewhere she would make a comment or ask me something as a part of all the changes she has gone through… you know religiously. She didn’t. Once even offering to drop me close to station so that I could meet Abeer sooner and not waste time as we were headed to Charni Rd. late evening. I appreciated her attempt to let me have the freedom to love and seek love as I pleased. A luxury in this country.

The 1^st question I always get asked is “Did your parents agree?” followed by “Will you convert?/ Tattoo cannot be accepted so how will you?...” some ridiculous not-so-crucial questions I do not appreciate. I mean where did “what does he do?/ where did you’ll meet?/ How’s it going?... etc” slip down the ladder of queries 1 asks friends about their beau. You don’t meet or go on random dates and ask point blank the person’s religious background and decide if to proceed forward. To me it matters what he likes vs what upsets him. Where do his principles come from? What is he as a person, a human being, a friend, a brother, a son, a worker, a dreamer? I incessantly ask him questions about things I’m ignorant about. He answers them graciously, surprising me with knowledge and details I wouldn’t have expected to my ‘simple’ questions. THAT is what characterizes getting to know someone rather than the societal question bank, which comes with select check boxes. A rigidity I will never adhere to. Both he and I came from mixed, exotic backgrounds and that appealed to me more than anything J #epicwin

Forget love. Basic friendships are subjected to such gruesome menial mentality. Followed by a hypocritical thesis on the most recent communal riots. 1 should not comment unless 1 truly believes that the opposing community is not solely at fault. Crimes, malpractices, unreasonable communal laws, all run across society. Yet the audacity to classify continues. When I visited an agyari (Parsi Fire Temple) I was asked where my sadra-kasti was (custom inner garb post baptism-like ceremony) and then dismissed cuz I was young. When I was taken to a Roman Catholic church by my hostel matron they dismissed me but let me stay on learning of my recovery from a severe bout of the chicken pox. When I went to the dargah I felt like I was ‘blessed’ harder by the priest that anyone else. When I was just outside a mosque I was stared at (that was Nigeria and we were the only Indians). When I stood in front of the wailing wall in Jerusalem I felt like a tourist – I was 1. When I dated my 1^st boyfriend, his mother tried hard to convert me to be a Born-again Christian. But maximum contradictions, questions, doubts, and ridiculousness came from my vast religion that I was born into – Hinduism. I cannot and will not go into the vastness of everything that’s followed and imposed; many times without understanding its purpose and history. Baseless practices like default settings. Robots at best.


I do not consider myself any less for not fitting into the standards. I pride myself in having my own religion – a potpourri if you will of all the good and spiritual I can pick up on. Lessons learnt and verses recited with deep meaning invoking something in me. An exotic relation with the guy upstairs… you know who hears me out when human ears are all too busy or reserved for other earthly purposes. I don’t disturb him much and he has been generally good to me with the occasional flutter. Or SHE has been good to me… We freely adjust you know. Fusing OUR religions J 

A link shared by an Ad-Exec buddy about a social experiment on racism goes well with this post: http://www.upworthy.com/a-boy-makes-anti-muslim-comments-in-front-of-an-american-soldier-the-soldiers-reply-priceless?g=2 

Dad… Oh how I’ve missed you!

A very usual sight of my dad is of him being annoyed with something or me. Now thankfully Elsa steals the focus of of me. Always in faded ol’ pajama clad like a true bong with the occasional matching kurta – reserved for when the doorbell rings and he must appear ‘decent’. And the evening attire where a casual shirt and trouser from his working years replace the home grunge look he goes in for his walk.

I don’t think I can see him in any other form. Like my face which hasn’t changed since its definition at a year old, my dad whom I fondly call papa, hasn’t changed since I 1^st laid eyes on him. His mannerisms, beliefs, attitude, humor, education and most importantly his innocence have remained untouched and unadulterated. That is not to say that he hasn’t been educated through life. He has seen good days, bad days, dark days and some really dark phases where he reached out but couldn’t find a grip or a hand to hold on to. I was merely a kid else I would’ve lent my tiny fingers if nothing else. Through it all my dad has the bragging rights to say that he is indeed a self-made man. The very example of 1.

Born in Dhaka, Bangladesh and raised in post-partition Kolkata, he is the youngest of 9 brothers. That’s right. I would imagine him to be spoilt but he is 1 of the most successful and humble of his siblings. The only 1 who ventured to Nadiad, Gujarat and began his young career in Textile Technology after having not reserved his dream seat in a medical college. He didn’t let that deter him and with the knowledge and endurance of his education and upbringing at the prestigious Ramakrishna Mission Ashrama, Narendrapur, he finally made it to the city of dreams. Here began his bachelorhood, his love affair with mom at Bombay Dyeing Mills, his chance to travel to Lagos, Nigeria, the demise of his marriage, his return to India, the dissolution of textile in the country, his gruelling stints at Nagpur and other Navi Mumbai towns in harsh mill and factory conditions and finally a VRS which he grudgingly but gracefully accepted and settled in.

Through it all he never stopped being my father. He juggled custody of me, made weekend trips to Pune to my boarding school, gave me money, food, clothes and anything I needed or wanted as a growing young lady and still found time to teach me lessons and keep me grounded. My family at some point always had more than sufficient which they used to educate me at prestigious institutes (read also expensive). My father ensured I was never lacking anything, never spoilt for choice and never made a fool of myself by throwing a tantrum to have anything. I was an aggressive young 10yr old; deeply disturbed in a negative manner by her parents divorce. My mother remarried but my father remained single. Theirs was a story only theirs to be told and he always felt like he had failed somewhere. Life in war-torn and conflict-ridden Nigeria has torn many people and relations apart – something I grew to learn off and understand in my late teens. In the meantime, I grew to know him, get attached to him and also as a youngun enjoy the freedom bestowed on me by his helplessness of being a working man.

Today as a grown young lady, I am his window to the world. He isn’t anti-social but he hasn’t made any conscious effort to mingle with the outside world either. Keeping primarily to himself and his business is his way of getting through the day. With ever changing processes and technology, I step in to help-out and get him through these challenges. Having never learnt basic computer or phone, a basic Nokia handset in his shirt pocket, the MTNL landline, pieces of paper, the Indian postal service and all old-school methods are his sure-shot fail-safe channels to finding his way through. High end restaurants i.e. anything above an Udipi really makes him nervous, large crowds at supermarkets, complex questions and his disdain for expensive public transport often have him flustered and left alone.

But through it all he observes which fruit I consume the most and during which part of the year.

Which seafood and what curry I like. New goodnight liquid dispenser for my room to keep them bloodsuckers away. Honey vs sugar. New mugs to waste money on cuz they had cat graphics. Soups when I was ill. Hand towel cuz I lost mine in class. Gluing my broken shoes and chappals with araldite… hell gluing anything in the house with araldite. Stitching up a broken zip on a bag I may have set aside. Fixing my broken 13yr old Sony TV for the gazillionth time. Making my tiffin and lunch box since I could crawl to school. Checking to see if I finished all the food TILL DATE. These are something I probably will never have in another human being or maybe with not the same love and dedication as my papa. I have been an ungrateful, difficult, ignorant, angry, inconsiderate and mean daughter through my years with him. Sometimes all at once and sometimes in parts. I have also grown to let him have the last word and let him believe he was right all along. Cuz these small things don’t matter against the magnitude of love he has showered over me.

My father has been through 3 major surgical procedures on me. Each time he sat through them outside the OT and was available to scare me awake from anaesthesia. Each time he sat silently in a corner lamenting at my pain. We never said ‘I love yous’ but we ALWAYS felt and communicated it. Even though he has vehemently expressed over the years that I have been a failure as his dream daughter with no Indira Nooyi prestige or a Surgeon designation; I know that he has been proud of me for growing up into whatever little I have become. I feel stronger and capable that I could renovate his home, donate lakhs when he needed it and held his hand through difficult times. He never expressed he only needed a son for it despite having my lil brother. There was just 1 time where my heart was broken into unfixable pieces and I cried in his lap and said I loved him more than any boy I would ever love. He just pressed my head and put me to sleep. He still does that when I am sick and I crawl into our tiny sofa and sleep in his lap, effectively messing up his Bengali soap experience. His disdain for men in my life is probably out of the fear that he may lose me to someone better, brighter and more capable. I am in love but not blinded enough to miss my father from my line of sight.

He still surprises me many days with his depthless knowledge, his patience (seriously) and his ability to capture hearts. Recently he bonded well with Abeer and a few friends. I didn’t expect so but he made the effort. Guess even Elsa has some credit for making him a relaxed, amused and funny man. I look fwd to days when I stay alone but I terribly miss him within the hour. No sound, no ridiculous singing, no revival of Tom n Jerry anecdotes (now more so , no food…. No love. Abeer periodically shares his own father’s deep influence on him as a child and young man. Truth be told, that’s where I have taken the “what if” cue and dedicated more time and love to my papa.


I could go on. But all I really wanna say is that I love you dad. I just haven’t said it enough or expressed it enough either <3 

Elsa: Gata's gato

*Nuzzle* *poke poke* *puurrrrrrrrr*

His 1^st night in my house, my arms and in my bed. I was delighted and yet very vary of handling this fragile, precious clump of life purring like a generator machine. Firoza, the foster caregiver, assured me, “Priyankka this means he has taken to you and feels safe and loved.” I smiled.

Elsa is a 2-month old Tabby-Calico kitten. Born from a rescued stray mom, he was the only 1 of his litter who had taken her sea green eyes and stripes and spots. Thus, looking like a cross between a baby leopard with a gorgeous grey mixed coat and a soft love bundle. Nothing however takes away from his gorgeous button like eyes that keep staring at me and my belongings, the room, the furniture and whatever else the world has to offer his barely few weeks old senses. He had been shuttled from foster home to foster home and was last on the list to be set up for adoption ahead of his more troublesome and less likely adoptees. But, after what seemed like weeks of trouble to just get a cat, Elsa was a 5min decision into my life. Best 5mins of my life.

At this point he has been with me barely 3 weeks, yet he has seen it all. The excitement of the 1^st week. Exploring the house, the people, the corners and the possibilities to create trouble. The 2^nd week he was away from me. Well I was away, in the hospital, being operated upon my leg followed by an intensive recovery phase. The 3^rd week I came home to a feeble and quiet Elsa who refused to come to me with the ease with which he snuggled up to me the 1^st night. I accepted. After all dad had done the caring for both cats: Elsa and me. Elsa took time but brief. He soon warmed up to me. The 1^st night back home for me ended with panic and his 1^st emergency vet visit. Not the way I had planned it. But with enough added panic from Firoza and composed advice from Nishadh (who cares for Elsa’s mum), I was able to get through the evening limping and in intense pain. The heart was already wrenched and worn from extensive emotional bruising from the previous 2 weeks and couldn’t hold anymore for the ordeal with Elsa. The tiny tot that he was, jumped, sneezed, scratched and snuggled up all he could. I was glad to have someone love me back, unconditionally, after a long time. I guess I could say; he came to me at a time when I was broken and needed to feel fixed.

I have grown to accept that my cat is occasionally a yogi, a closet jedi and many characters that just keep springing with each passing day. He loves to treat my dad and me as pawns and pit us against each other; always guessing which team he is ‘batting for’. This especially comes handy during feeding time cuz he knows I am the time and scheduled feeder versus my poor father who gets fedup at the 3^rd painfully long soprano meow and ends up feeding him. His sleep patterns… well most interestingly his positions vary from normal cat like to anarkali-like stance with dramatic human poses. He thinks he is super smart but his mommy is smarter. I know them button eyes and each expression; the most common being – “I’m the cutest thing to walk this earth and you can’t deny me fluffy, unconditional love.” His idea of exercise begins sharp at 6am and involves a live stream of NeedForSpeed. Chasing anything that he pretends is a terrorist mouse and that he is under National Security advisement to take down the target. One of those targets he has recently taken to is a beautiful plastic belle with a golden outfit and a purple feather veil. Poor gal. Whatever did she ever do. I tried to save her… but it was too late (FYI she was exposed by a very amused Abeer who thought she made an excellent candidate for target practice).

The more rarer antics involve getting locked into drawers and cupboards, finally scaling the kitchen counter only to find that the water filter leaked on him, scurrying through garbage and answering my phone. But at the end of the day or at midday when I see that look on his face, that extended paw and a slower than usual gait I know what he wants. To sleep. On my lap or my tummy or my chest. At 1^st with his face near mine – like a James Dean movie being romantic and securing his spot thus making me immobile for the next 3hrs minimum. Once comfortable beyond royal treatment with a cat-spa like experience, he does not hesitate to kick me in the arm or face or extend out his paw and grab my hand to place on his belly. Thereafter, his idea of returning that love is to treat me like his eternal scratch post. I would like to say we have clear communication but clearly our dialects are different.

I can’t complain as I have been touted as lucky for landing 1 of the best pets ever. Not just as a cat but Elsa. He is truly a personality and has amazed even a seasoned vet with his docile behaviour and his trust in me. For a 1^st time pet owner/adopter I feel compelled to be right and to do things right. Moments where you feel that vulnerable life and his full trust in your hands or crawling all over you, a wave of selflessness washes over. I had my maternal hormones kick in in my early 20s. I guess they are indeed on overdrive now. I think of him when I step out and when I see something that invokes a warm affectionate feeling towards my baby Elsa. He is not a pet but a part of my family. Fortunately (as I hoped and wished), he has taken very well to Abeer. Thus, completing the extension to my immediate family as well.


Now dear Elsa, I was named Gata but I am not nocturnal… at least not the way you are you crazy lil button. Good night! (soft kisses and paw).

For more pictures of Elsa visit Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.582486828453094&type=1&l=2488c98578 and Instagram: GataCDO7

The Dark Nights

“Elsa has a fever and needs me” I muttered under a controlled but angry breath to my impatient father.

Dad had not had a good day. I didn’t understand why. He had slept all evening and all night. Selfishly, I was the 1 who needed the respite. A foolish question earlier in the day was how come I didn’t enjoy my hospital visit. Who would imagine that 5 days in the hospital, post-surgery, lying in a 1-dimensional position, staring at 4 very close walls (2 being curtains) and yo-yoing between earth shattering silence and absolute mayhem was “pleasant”. I let it go. Just like I was letting go of a deep breath, which had borne too much in the last 2 weeks. Dad had completely lost it in the lobby of the hospital, thus leaving the cash and insurance counters begging me to control him and hearing them out. I was wheelchair bound, drained and expected to solve everyone’s problems. Problems of people who had gotten my bill wrong the 4^th time and had tested the last ounce of my old dad’s patience. I did the needful. Quietly. Sorted the mess and left.

I was an emotional and psychological wreck. Actually, I controlled myself and made it somehow so ‘wreck’ doesn’t count. I did manage some composure with the help of very vocal and strong friends who didn’t give up. And even though I had the parents (all 3) it seemed like a burden to them or a liability. I was polite to the point of asking them to leave me some nights alone. Nurses would wonder why I didn’t have a relative when others had overbearing 1s around them. My parents weren’t bad. They just didn’t cope well with my injury and silence. I thrived in the chaos of the present.

Yes, I had injured myself. This wasn’t deliberate. Or like Abeer had threatened to leave if I limped. Today anything is possible so I will just keep his words at bay. I was angry with him as well. I injured myself doing something I loved. In pleasing the system and the people in my life, I had what the docs described as – burned myself out. I had it all. Capoeira. The boyfriend. The friend. The freedom blah blah. But sometimes to those who have it all, it’s a burnout to manage it all. With the job and classes and keeping pace with Abeer, I had forgotten that my supposedly tiny frame couldn’t support all the madness. I waited for the break from work to lower my pressures so I can give quality time to few things and people that mattered. Before that transition – along came the big full-stop.

At 1^st I felt comforted and sorted, thinking I have the handholding I need. I have the right people and the right support to get me through smiling like nothing really happened. It wasn’t long before the hand had left mine and I crashed into a wall. After the crash it was the “you can do it” – an effective way to say “clean up the mess you thought wasn’t coming your way.” I didn’t want to do it alone. That wasn’t my plan and not even my contingency. A fight with the boyfriend started the mayhem rollercoaster through hell. Unresolved. Unspoken. Unheard. Unsupported. The office added to my woes as if I didn’t have enough – you see as per ‘tradition’ they punish and effectively nightmarize those who resign. “Terminate her and let the insurance go to hell”. Thanks but what now…

The comfort of picking up the phone and dialling a number seemed like a tedious task with a question mark. Am I calling the love or a former some1? Is the mother gonna descend on me or comfort me? Will the father give answers or let me know for the 10000^th time how I disappointed him? In that state (now in retrospect) even I couldn’t believe how beaten I felt. Tears came naturally while a morsel of food lodged itself in the mouth and refused to go down. With this in tow n refusing to stop, I got admitted, surgery-ed and in what was supposedly recovery. The doc lived up to his promise. Pain management was a breeze what with 2 beeping machine pumps attached to me. It was the mental status that didn’t cooperate with the meds. Terminally ill patients with a plethora of diseases and mentally affected relatives thronged me. I wanted desperately to heal and get out – but their sounds and stories and anguish didn’t let me be. Needed Abeer desperately here. As inappropriate as it was, he balanced me when it came to finding humor in the madness.

But he was far. Disconnected. By choice. His instagram kept me posted of the colors that adorned him but evaded me. I wished to be there with him rather than have him here. It didn’t help soothe my anger. I had nearly given up. Until I got a Are-U-Dead-Or-Alive like message. Like a lost friend who occasionally connects with u. I didn’t know what to make of it. I needed more solutions – not more questions, doubts and fears that I had not tackled before. It had been 3yrs since my last relationship. This was different and I was glad. But not in times like these. Every bone in my body said ask him to come back and be there cuz u want him. Not need him. But want him. I managed to evade that as well. Y ask when u know it aint gonna happen.

In the interim my grief was interrupted by a fedup parent, few well-meaning friends, doctor visits, constantly interrupting aunties and nurses abruptly waking or shaking u up for meds, IV, sponge etc. I kept everything at bay by depending on my dear phone – ONLY window to the outside world. Waiting for a beep, vibrate or a flash. The food I just had to send back untouched unless the parent did the courtesy of finishing it for me. I thought lying quietly and surviving on tea for 4 days will get me through. But the resultant punishment was an extra day+night due to my vitals dipping – stupid girl. I managed to bring them up with liquid diet and begged to be discharged. The excruciating pain whilst taking my 1^st steps and doing all the exercises will be an ever-reminder of how I managed to let them know I can do this effortlessly so let me go. And go they did. The panel was young and understood my plight as well.

I packed up and washed my face and brushed – 1^st time in 4 days. The headless horseman from SleepyHollow wore a far more charming look than me. 2 wks had robbed me of any charm, glow or life. Changing into MY clothes felt a bit weird. The nurses who refused to let me go thought otherwise. They made me smile and the whole staff came up and asked a whole bunch of questions. Thought I was pretty but v quiet. Marriage, boyfriend, work, martial arts, age, etc. A pic of Abeer brought about a gang of giggles. Hugs and funny requests followed my wheelchair ride down to sunlight.

The whole ride home was a quite 1. I felt like I had lost a decade in coma. I waited to see Elsa. He saw me. Ran away and then stuck to dad. It was natural. His nurturer demanded his full attn. But then he came around and snuck up to me. Purred like there was nothing wrong. Until he sneezed and felt warm. Thereafter what I assumed would be a restful welcome home, turned into a calling frenzy, ambulance chasing and vet visiting evening. I had forgotten my pain meds and the leg reminded me of that well. I just wanted Elsa to be ok. Dad went berserk again – why the cat and my leg. Just why? I had brought the cat. I loved him. He was my responsibility. When you love someone you don’t just hold a few select fingers – you hold their hand and never let go. So leg, injury, surgery or whatever the hell… Elsa needed me. I couldn’t ignore that. It cost me deep pockets but I was ready to move anything including forgetting my crutches to have him ok. The vet saw him and gave the meds. I was relieved. I had made it through another slap from Karma. Broken leg in tow.



Now I NEEDED the healing and some love. I needed the care and holding. Right now he purrs in my lap. Occasionally suckling on my fingers and also sneezing on my napkin. Scratches and holds on to me. His way of showing me love I guess. Big eyes and an occasionally paw to me. I accept. Now I just wait with bated breath for the 1 I love and wish to show love in my way. In that corner in his shoulders where I found love 1^st.