‘This number has been on my phone for a while now, but who’s this?’
I knew it was a girl, I knew her name, what she did and where she was, but I sent her this message like a dumb flirt.
She messaged me back; I almost had a black eye. I forgot about it for a while before calling her again. I must have spoken to at least three or four voices, all of them blasting me like there was no mercy in this world.
Two days later I had a call; one of those four voices spoke to me. She told me her name was Anamika, which I knew was a lie and I told her my name was Kumar which she probably thought was my full name. She was sorry for me, sorry because her friends were rude to me and she did not mean a thing. Protective friends I thought before we spoke for quite a while that day, when we hung up I knew both of us were smiling.
I called her back a day after, this time she wasn't alone, I was hearing her friends talk about ‘these bad boys’ and there was guilt for a few days. I didn't call her and neither did I answer her calls, though there weren't too many of them.
I answered her call that night, more because I was drunk. I told her my name she didn't like it, she told me hers and I confessed I was only a flirt trying to find a friend when I called her. She was angry and was terribly upset, she did not believe people called up strangers to make friends; she hung up, so much for my being truthful.
We did not speak for a week before she called me up.
She had some exam the next day and she just said “wake me up after an hour, okay mister” and hung up. I had a book 'Acts of faith' by Erich Segal in my hands. The next morning when I went to bed, I had finished the book, woken her up six times through the night and it was 6.00 am. She called me in the evening and said "you are a good guy" but added after a pause "sometimes"; I think I loved the book.
The following week, I had a terrible ulcer and I was almost crying in pain when she called me. To this day she doesn't know why she cried that day over the phone. Our calls were more frequent in the days that followed and I bore the brunt because she was still at college and I was working, when I did not call her for a few days, she would call me up only to tell me what a 'miser I was'.
Our birthdays fall a day apart, that year I sent her a box of chocolates and had my drunken friends sing her a happy birthday over the phone and she cried, again but not before she said “thank you beggar”.
I met her two months later at an old fort near her college a place near my home town, wearing a black Tee, she loved black. She was huge, she was not pretty at first sight, she loved chocolates and more importantly she had two of her beautiful protective friends with her. She didn’t like me either I guess, because she said “who do you think you are, the angry young man? Stop frowning at me and.. and drooling at them“.
I took her to my house the next month; in retrospect a bad decision because she loved my parents more than me. She called my father by an actor's name, my father laughs at it to this day; he doesn't laugh much. I noticed she was pretty when she laughed. She frequented my house until she had to leave college.
She went to work a few months later at a hospital in a neighboring state; our calls became less frequent, though we spoke at least once a week. A train I once traveled was passing through her place and she was at the station in the middle of the night smiling; standing besides a frowning, shivering-out-of-cold friend.
Railway stations have since become our only rendezvous, I only saw her every time she left home or when she was at her college to get her papers. She soon left to her home town to live with her parents and work from there, a city in a far northern state.
She still calls me up, when she is angry, when she is scared, when her brother is back from the gulf, when her back hurts, when she wants to cry, when she wants to laugh, when she has seen someone look like 'the stingy beggar' or simply because she thought she should disturb Mr. KUMMAARRR.
It’s too bad she always laughs at my proposals and worse because I do too...
Showing posts with label around me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label around me. Show all posts
I love you Dad
The first day I saw him he was in his starched white clothes, very odd for that dingy, cramped place. He kept looking at me anxiously while I drank at the local wine shop, I thought he was one of those drunkards who have a few rupees less for their second drink. When I was just about leaving, I gave him a few coins. He asked me what I wanted and I blinked. It was actually the first day at work for him.
I sat down and I suggested him change to some less clean clothes. He came back after a few minutes, in a black but clean shirt and soon found people seeking him. His job is to clean the ever-dirty tables, collect the empty bottles and of course wait on drunken people for a tip. That day I had very little money left in my pocket; I emptied it and walked back home.
The shop is on the way to my house and I saw him often. For some one who once owned a grocery shop in Tuticorin, he shows no signs of discomfort working there although I had seen him wiping his eyes sometimes. Every time I see his eyes wet, he pretends and with a beautiful smile.
He is 52 yrs old, married and has a son and a daughter, both at college. I am not sure if his family knows about his whereabouts or the nature of his job but by the first week of every month he sends them all the money he had carefully saved the previous month.
When I first saw him, it had been almost five months since he had come to Chennai. A new super market in the same street as his shop had put him out of business and soon in a pool of debts. When the moneylenders had started to frequent his house, his son and daughter had gone against him, blaming him for everything and one night he finds himself a seat inside a train to Chennai.
Nothing seems to have changed for him though; his beautiful daughter (I forgot her name), his ever-angry son Muthu, his faithful wife Aandaal, the house that he once owned, the shop he dreams of running again someday, everything is on his head and all the time. He even carries around a photograph of the four of them together at Ooty, in good times.
I still go to the wine shop, albeit rarely and sometimes just to see him. I see Arogiyaraj running around with bottles, helping people and cleaning the tables. He is thinking of a day job now and is already working as a security (part time) in one of those big apartments in Thiruvanmiyur. He makes sure I am being taken care, even when he is not available, but for some reason doesn’t accept my tip these days.
I don’t know why, but everytime I leave the shop after seeing him, I find myself saying, “I love you dad”.
I sat down and I suggested him change to some less clean clothes. He came back after a few minutes, in a black but clean shirt and soon found people seeking him. His job is to clean the ever-dirty tables, collect the empty bottles and of course wait on drunken people for a tip. That day I had very little money left in my pocket; I emptied it and walked back home.
The shop is on the way to my house and I saw him often. For some one who once owned a grocery shop in Tuticorin, he shows no signs of discomfort working there although I had seen him wiping his eyes sometimes. Every time I see his eyes wet, he pretends and with a beautiful smile.
He is 52 yrs old, married and has a son and a daughter, both at college. I am not sure if his family knows about his whereabouts or the nature of his job but by the first week of every month he sends them all the money he had carefully saved the previous month.
When I first saw him, it had been almost five months since he had come to Chennai. A new super market in the same street as his shop had put him out of business and soon in a pool of debts. When the moneylenders had started to frequent his house, his son and daughter had gone against him, blaming him for everything and one night he finds himself a seat inside a train to Chennai.
Nothing seems to have changed for him though; his beautiful daughter (I forgot her name), his ever-angry son Muthu, his faithful wife Aandaal, the house that he once owned, the shop he dreams of running again someday, everything is on his head and all the time. He even carries around a photograph of the four of them together at Ooty, in good times.
I still go to the wine shop, albeit rarely and sometimes just to see him. I see Arogiyaraj running around with bottles, helping people and cleaning the tables. He is thinking of a day job now and is already working as a security (part time) in one of those big apartments in Thiruvanmiyur. He makes sure I am being taken care, even when he is not available, but for some reason doesn’t accept my tip these days.
I don’t know why, but everytime I leave the shop after seeing him, I find myself saying, “I love you dad”.
Cigarettes
It was around 10.00 pm when we got out of the bar. Alex wanted cigarettes; I waited beside his black Pulsar while he went to fetch some.
At the other side of the road there was this pretty girl in black, with an obvious reaction of waiting for someone.
Triplicane shelters almost half the bachelor population of Chennai, predominantly men. There are lodging houses everywhere cheap, unsafe, unclean, and cramped but people live, well at least.
A young girl in a flowery green dress was walking with two boys, laughing and playing. That thing around her neck told me she was married, too young I thought.
Alex was already puffing up a cigarette.
Professionals, Working men, Tourists, Students, Businessmen, Job seekers, tarts (find the meaning on your dictionary), and the original residents keep the lamps burning until after midnight and get to life before even the sun does. Languages, Ethnicity, origins, profession don't matter, life moves on.
I felt someone hug me from behind; I turned around to see not a man, not a woman, a transsexual (I don't even know if the word is derogatory). She left me, giggled and walked away.
She should have taken only moved a little away when, someone kicked her on her groin and She crouched in pain. I didn't move, I stood there blinking and helpless. Finally I found the courage to go towards her. She got up holding my hands and slapped me on my face. She walked away nursing her groin, it didn't hurt my face.
My friend smiled at me and lit another cigarette.
Just beside the shop there was this unkempt guy in rags eating from beside a litterbin. I saw someone get off his car and give him a fresh packet of food but he continued eating. I went near him; he looked at me, wiped his hands on his already murky clothing and ran away clutching the food packet.
I saw the girl in green slapped by someone. He must be her husband and he must have been drunk, for he was trying to hug her on the road. She was avoiding him and he slapped her once more.
I asked my friend about the girl in black on the other side of the road, she had been there for almost ten minutes now. He told me she was a tart and lit another cigarette.
She was cute damn it, she can't be a tart, I mean, we can't just imagine, she could even be waiting for her friend, thoughts were filling up my head may be because I had never seen one.
This time the guy's hands found her stomach and she screamed in pain, Alex was getting restless. He stubbed his cigarette with his shoes and kick started his auto start Pulsar, I sat behind him. He stopped the bike beside the girl and her husband. The guy backed off a little, when we both got off the vehicle, the guy moved away.
He lit up another cigarette. I borrowed one.
I saw the girl in black talking to an older man, Alex looked at me smiling, I still was not convinced. The guy in rags was crouching beside the litterbin again. We stood there until the cigarettes were over.
We reached his lodging house a little away from where we had stood. I turned around, I was just seeing shadows, but I was sure the girl in flowery green got slapped again.
I lit up the last cigarette.
At the other side of the road there was this pretty girl in black, with an obvious reaction of waiting for someone.
Triplicane shelters almost half the bachelor population of Chennai, predominantly men. There are lodging houses everywhere cheap, unsafe, unclean, and cramped but people live, well at least.
A young girl in a flowery green dress was walking with two boys, laughing and playing. That thing around her neck told me she was married, too young I thought.
Alex was already puffing up a cigarette.
Professionals, Working men, Tourists, Students, Businessmen, Job seekers, tarts (find the meaning on your dictionary), and the original residents keep the lamps burning until after midnight and get to life before even the sun does. Languages, Ethnicity, origins, profession don't matter, life moves on.
I felt someone hug me from behind; I turned around to see not a man, not a woman, a transsexual (I don't even know if the word is derogatory). She left me, giggled and walked away.
She should have taken only moved a little away when, someone kicked her on her groin and She crouched in pain. I didn't move, I stood there blinking and helpless. Finally I found the courage to go towards her. She got up holding my hands and slapped me on my face. She walked away nursing her groin, it didn't hurt my face.
My friend smiled at me and lit another cigarette.
Just beside the shop there was this unkempt guy in rags eating from beside a litterbin. I saw someone get off his car and give him a fresh packet of food but he continued eating. I went near him; he looked at me, wiped his hands on his already murky clothing and ran away clutching the food packet.
I saw the girl in green slapped by someone. He must be her husband and he must have been drunk, for he was trying to hug her on the road. She was avoiding him and he slapped her once more.
I asked my friend about the girl in black on the other side of the road, she had been there for almost ten minutes now. He told me she was a tart and lit another cigarette.
She was cute damn it, she can't be a tart, I mean, we can't just imagine, she could even be waiting for her friend, thoughts were filling up my head may be because I had never seen one.
This time the guy's hands found her stomach and she screamed in pain, Alex was getting restless. He stubbed his cigarette with his shoes and kick started his auto start Pulsar, I sat behind him. He stopped the bike beside the girl and her husband. The guy backed off a little, when we both got off the vehicle, the guy moved away.
He lit up another cigarette. I borrowed one.
I saw the girl in black talking to an older man, Alex looked at me smiling, I still was not convinced. The guy in rags was crouching beside the litterbin again. We stood there until the cigarettes were over.
We reached his lodging house a little away from where we had stood. I turned around, I was just seeing shadows, but I was sure the girl in flowery green got slapped again.
I lit up the last cigarette.
Another night, another place, another journey
Stranded drunk in a railway station in the middle of the night was not a new thing for me. I tried ‘India today’, Sidney Sheldon, coffee and grapes for company. That night I had neither the choice of trains nor the class I was supposed to travel, all I had was a general ticket to Bangalore in my shirt pocket. The Nizamuddin express that was supposed to come in at 10.30 to the Miraj Junction was, like the ticket vendor said, ‘as usual late by about two hours’.
When the train came in at last one general compartment was looking like a gas chamber of the nazi period, packed to the maximum. People were everywhere, on the benches, on the luggage rails, on the floor and at the door. Another compartment was already latched from inside, knocks and bangs on the door evoked little response from the mostly Muslim, burka clad inmates who went on with their squabble.
The compartment I had to get in had some space for only my legs just beside an old woman who was comfortably lying on the way to the washroom also in a torn old brown burka. I looked in to the compartment to see so many burkas and kufies (white caps) that, for a moment I thought if Muslims were really a minority in India.
I must have stood in the same posture for about an hour until I felt my bag was weighing me down. A thirty looking man, with a black baseball cap, helped me stuff the bag under a bench. By now some boys looking no older than teens and sitting at the door started sharing a pack of tobacco, I wanted to say something, but then I remembered I was drunk. The boys were now speaking in Urdu, and their names said they were all Muslims. I muttered “Muslims”, it must have been loud because the black cap was smiling at me.
The black cap asked me something in Kannada, I replied him back in the broken Kannada I knew. We spoke in Kannada for some time of which the only thing that I understood was I never knew Kannada. The winds were too cold now and the doors had to be bolted and almost the whole compartment was sleeping except the few of us who were standing. My new friend made some place for me so that I could crouch while he stood. I was dead tired and I must have slept for over an hour in that position.
I felt someone waking me up, my friend was sitting on the upper berth (can it be called one??). He was calling me from there, while I was still crouching. We were in some station and more importantly some of the burkas were getting down. I climbed on to the seat and sat down with him. Thirsty I took my half-full water bottle and was looking at it when something on the label stuck me. The label read “Durga – distilled water”- for battery use only”, I felt sick in my stomach.
There was another man sitting to my right holding a small, may be a few months old baby girl. I bent down to look at the girl and his watch, it read 3.00 am. I slept and woke up again to something pulling my hands and I did not sleep again. The baby was almost out of her father’s hands precariously moving and trying to hold on to my fingers. I tried waking him and he was sleeping like he hadn’t slept for years. I picked up the girl and started playing with her. She was beautiful and didn’t mind playing with me, while I lost all my sleep falling in love with her charms.
After about an hour of playing she probably was tired of me and she started wailing waking up everyone except her father. Her mother who too was in a black burka was surprised and quickly apologized before taking my sweet heart away. My friend beside me was also awake and I started complaining about the way the Muslims were, he seemed like he was very intently listening to me but never said anything. Not that I had anything against Muslims, I told him, it was just the day and he was seeing it all. At about 5.20 he silently closed his eyes and I think he prayed while some others in the compartment began their Namaz, facing east.
Nothing eventual happened until the morning when I had to catch another train to Bangalore from Hubli. When the train stopped at Hubli, my friend simply said, “run” and started running with his baggage. I had to find my bag, my sneakers before I could run and when I reached the other train it was already half full. I walked the length of the train and a hand from one of the bogies startled me to a stop, my friend was sitting inside grinning; there was an empty seat for me in front of him.
This train wasn’t as crowded as the first and I could even lie down for a nap. I woke up, brushed and had my breakfast and went to sleep while my friend was sleeping through all these. My friend woke me up with two fresh packets in his hand for breakfast; ashamed to admit I had had breakfast, I had to eat again. I must have looked like I was starving before I met him because through out the journey he fed me with anything palatable. For a moment I even had a fear, if he was tricking me in to something. When the ticket checker came in, I found a Muslim family traveling free because one of the guys was a railway employee. We again had a topic and I did most of the talking while he listened with the same intent.
Before long it was afternoon and we were in Bangalore and had to part ways. Although we had spoken a lot, I knew nothing of him personally except he was from some place called Chinthamani road. I didn’t want another anecdote of mine with a stranger and no name. I asked him his name and he did not reply untill we had reached the entrance of the Bangalore junction.
He smiled, shook my hands and said, “My name is Abdul Razzaq and Jasche, it was nice knowing you”, before joining the crowd and fading away.
For the second time that day, I felt sick in my stomach.
Uniform
I walk to find my way to office everyday through the dusty, uneven roads of Thiruvanmiyur, (Chennai aka Madras) alongside a horde of tag sporting Software Engineers. The walk and the vicinity everyday is almost the same, except when I am late and running. With an almost silent, green stretch and only tall buildings rising up, the walk is serene in the beginning.
Today again in the very next block to mine, the small beautiful boy is waiting for his "billabong high" (a crèche) cab unwilling to let go his mom's hand. Two blocks down I do not miss the pony-tailed girl in her green uniform (alongside a German shepherd) as she passes by me on a chauffer driven Hyundai Sonata.
Two boys playing on some hand held gadget in neatly pressed white shirts and half pants, are waiting for their school bus. A cute girl dressed in green and white clings on to her mom even as she is taken on a Kinetic Honda and a scary ride with her mom's timid driving and an ever-honking horn. A small, dark but cute bespectacled girl waits alone at the last building of the road, frowning impatiently, just as the geography seems to abruptly change.
The buildings are not taller anymore and it isn't silent anymore.
This father as always is in time taking four children (on some days five) and their overweight bags on a bicycle. The man who runs the roadside hotel around the corner is as usual taking at least ten children on his fish cart / tricycle to school. Groups of children in uniform, many of them barefooted, walk happily talking of things ranging from their maths teacher to M S Dhoni. Uniforms don’t look like uniforms on them, as most of them are torn, button less, patched and murky. A large part of this crowd carries UNICEF sponsored bags, dirty and filled with graffiti of their own kind. Some older guys wear better clothes, carry better bags and are on their bicycles, although it is mostly three guys to one bicycle.
Just in front of a big temple some street urchins in soiled clothes are playing cricket with a paper ball and a wooden plank, seemingly worried of their game being disturbed by the passing school children and the audience in me. A school boy coming out of the temple is talking on his black mobile phone even as an old man waits holding his car door open. I walk slowly till I lose sight of the game and the old man stands waiting, holding the door.
I am now at the bus terminus and amongst a different colour. The bus as usual is packed with bags occupying more space that the children. Some bags I think can even pull the children with them, good heavens, I never had to carry books all my life. As the bus spurts to life and drudges labouriously a lot more of the uniforms fly in from nowhere and cling on to the doors and windows like spider men.
On the other side of the road the cab for the 'Clark's school for the deaf' waits for the children. The children inside wear no uniforms, but something else is common - they invariably are smiling, staring at the windows and are wearing their hearing aids.
Just as the bus is moving out of the terminus I see a familiar sight at the cycle shop. The dark schoolgirl is at her father’s (I suppose) shop with her little sister as usual mending to her vehicles tyres. When it is over, the smaller girl gives the vehicle a push with all her might and as it gains momentum, jumps on to her handicapped sister’s tricycle waving wildly at their father.
The bus is now on the road and moving with clowds of smoke gushing out of the old vehicle .
Today again in the very next block to mine, the small beautiful boy is waiting for his "billabong high" (a crèche) cab unwilling to let go his mom's hand. Two blocks down I do not miss the pony-tailed girl in her green uniform (alongside a German shepherd) as she passes by me on a chauffer driven Hyundai Sonata.
Two boys playing on some hand held gadget in neatly pressed white shirts and half pants, are waiting for their school bus. A cute girl dressed in green and white clings on to her mom even as she is taken on a Kinetic Honda and a scary ride with her mom's timid driving and an ever-honking horn. A small, dark but cute bespectacled girl waits alone at the last building of the road, frowning impatiently, just as the geography seems to abruptly change.
The buildings are not taller anymore and it isn't silent anymore.
This father as always is in time taking four children (on some days five) and their overweight bags on a bicycle. The man who runs the roadside hotel around the corner is as usual taking at least ten children on his fish cart / tricycle to school. Groups of children in uniform, many of them barefooted, walk happily talking of things ranging from their maths teacher to M S Dhoni. Uniforms don’t look like uniforms on them, as most of them are torn, button less, patched and murky. A large part of this crowd carries UNICEF sponsored bags, dirty and filled with graffiti of their own kind. Some older guys wear better clothes, carry better bags and are on their bicycles, although it is mostly three guys to one bicycle.
Just in front of a big temple some street urchins in soiled clothes are playing cricket with a paper ball and a wooden plank, seemingly worried of their game being disturbed by the passing school children and the audience in me. A school boy coming out of the temple is talking on his black mobile phone even as an old man waits holding his car door open. I walk slowly till I lose sight of the game and the old man stands waiting, holding the door.
I am now at the bus terminus and amongst a different colour. The bus as usual is packed with bags occupying more space that the children. Some bags I think can even pull the children with them, good heavens, I never had to carry books all my life. As the bus spurts to life and drudges labouriously a lot more of the uniforms fly in from nowhere and cling on to the doors and windows like spider men.
On the other side of the road the cab for the 'Clark's school for the deaf' waits for the children. The children inside wear no uniforms, but something else is common - they invariably are smiling, staring at the windows and are wearing their hearing aids.
Just as the bus is moving out of the terminus I see a familiar sight at the cycle shop. The dark schoolgirl is at her father’s (I suppose) shop with her little sister as usual mending to her vehicles tyres. When it is over, the smaller girl gives the vehicle a push with all her might and as it gains momentum, jumps on to her handicapped sister’s tricycle waving wildly at their father.
The bus is now on the road and moving with clowds of smoke gushing out of the old vehicle .
Another beautiful day
The recent rains had ravaged Chennai so much that nothing was in place or in time. One of those days my sister was coming back to Chennai from my home on a train and I was inside a bar drinking with my friends. It was almost 9 pm and I, almost drunk when my sister called me up to tell me that the train was 3 hours late and that she needed me to pick her up as it was getting late.
Even as I was thinking of ways to get to the railway station, someone who had drunk a little too much had hit my -a little too much drunk- friend. Before I could make out what had really happened my five friends were fighting out a gang of eight, I for my part ended up with more than a couple of bashes and all the excitement up my head had drained with my sweat but the smell stayed. Only after a patrol vehicle siren was heard the place became calmer. Scared of the sirens and cops, I stayed inside shivering and draining down what ever was left on my now rampaged table. After about an hour and a few anxious moments we left the bar silently in the pelting rain.
One of my generous friends dropped me at about a mile from the station. I had to walk the remaining distance in the rain and with a stupid fear that the brawl at the bar wasn't over yet. I called up one of my friends to keep myself from getting scared. A graveyard and the central jail on the way did not help the cause and I walked like an Olympian. I only breathed when I saw the glaring lights of the Central Railway station, my breath told me I was drunk and the station told me I was meeting my sister.
Waiting in a Station that was already cramped with thousands of people around in a wet pair of dress isn't something that makes you comfortable. Four coffees and a pack of Wrigley’s later I still felt I wasn't ready to meet my sister. With no empty chair in sight I couched in front of Higginbotham’s the book shop, waiting to hear about the train that was already 3 hours late. 'Tap tap' I was woken up by a man in khakis and black shoes asking for my platform tickets, it took sometime for me to realize I was lying on the floor at the central railway station waiting for my sister and the man in front of me was a cop. I did not understand his Hindi and neither did he understand my slurred English. A porter helped me - god knows why - telling the police man that I was his friend.
Three more coffees, a baby, a brawl with some one on whom I had spilt the fourth coffee, a game of cards with the porter and a magazine, managed to keep me awake till the train slowly nudged inside. I caught up with my sister who was tired from a seven hour-long journey that actually takes three hours. I stayed at least a meter away from her for the fear of letting her know that I was drunk. After waiting outside the station for about half an hour we managed to find an auto rickshaw at thrice the actual rate. I spoke very little all through the way, very uncharacteristic of me, she should have thought.
I managed to find my way to my house after dropping my sister at her house only to find knee-deep cold water covering up the whole road to my house. I actually waded to my house puffing up the cigarette I had borrowed from the auto driver and it was 2.00 am the next day when I wearily walked in to my bed happy atleast my sister wouldn't be hurt.
I woke up to my cell phone ringing to find my dear sister on the line. We spoke for sometime about my home, father, my mother and her journey as we had not spoken much the day before . Slowly we ran out of topics and she suddenly asked me if I was drunk the previous day and before I could muster an answer she hung up.
Wide awake and not knowing what to do, I looked at my watch for the start of another day. It was 9.05 am and I remembered lying on my bed that it was monday and I was already late by five minutes for a meeting at my office. and yes another beautiful day had started....
Even as I was thinking of ways to get to the railway station, someone who had drunk a little too much had hit my -a little too much drunk- friend. Before I could make out what had really happened my five friends were fighting out a gang of eight, I for my part ended up with more than a couple of bashes and all the excitement up my head had drained with my sweat but the smell stayed. Only after a patrol vehicle siren was heard the place became calmer. Scared of the sirens and cops, I stayed inside shivering and draining down what ever was left on my now rampaged table. After about an hour and a few anxious moments we left the bar silently in the pelting rain.
One of my generous friends dropped me at about a mile from the station. I had to walk the remaining distance in the rain and with a stupid fear that the brawl at the bar wasn't over yet. I called up one of my friends to keep myself from getting scared. A graveyard and the central jail on the way did not help the cause and I walked like an Olympian. I only breathed when I saw the glaring lights of the Central Railway station, my breath told me I was drunk and the station told me I was meeting my sister.
Waiting in a Station that was already cramped with thousands of people around in a wet pair of dress isn't something that makes you comfortable. Four coffees and a pack of Wrigley’s later I still felt I wasn't ready to meet my sister. With no empty chair in sight I couched in front of Higginbotham’s the book shop, waiting to hear about the train that was already 3 hours late. 'Tap tap' I was woken up by a man in khakis and black shoes asking for my platform tickets, it took sometime for me to realize I was lying on the floor at the central railway station waiting for my sister and the man in front of me was a cop. I did not understand his Hindi and neither did he understand my slurred English. A porter helped me - god knows why - telling the police man that I was his friend.
Three more coffees, a baby, a brawl with some one on whom I had spilt the fourth coffee, a game of cards with the porter and a magazine, managed to keep me awake till the train slowly nudged inside. I caught up with my sister who was tired from a seven hour-long journey that actually takes three hours. I stayed at least a meter away from her for the fear of letting her know that I was drunk. After waiting outside the station for about half an hour we managed to find an auto rickshaw at thrice the actual rate. I spoke very little all through the way, very uncharacteristic of me, she should have thought.
I managed to find my way to my house after dropping my sister at her house only to find knee-deep cold water covering up the whole road to my house. I actually waded to my house puffing up the cigarette I had borrowed from the auto driver and it was 2.00 am the next day when I wearily walked in to my bed happy atleast my sister wouldn't be hurt.
I woke up to my cell phone ringing to find my dear sister on the line. We spoke for sometime about my home, father, my mother and her journey as we had not spoken much the day before . Slowly we ran out of topics and she suddenly asked me if I was drunk the previous day and before I could muster an answer she hung up.
Wide awake and not knowing what to do, I looked at my watch for the start of another day. It was 9.05 am and I remembered lying on my bed that it was monday and I was already late by five minutes for a meeting at my office. and yes another beautiful day had started....
I wish I was..
It was inside one of the numerous hotels around my office that I first saw Loganathan - may be about 20-24 - who looked a little too odd to be a waiter. He had been serving me for a week before we stuck up with a conversation outside the hotel. I would have missed this smartly dressed lad if he hadn't come up to me himself. He was completely different from the uniformed waiter that I was used to, in neatly pressed formals and a shiny black pair of shoes.
The first few meetings were like, I did most of the talking showing off and he used to just listen with a smile. Slowly as we got along, I found out he was a lot better at talking than the trash I was doing and from then on, I started to listen. He speaks with vigour of life, failures, hope, dreams, hard work and success but with a tint of sadness when it comes to his personal life. From then on everytime someone came to me needing hope, I had the real life story of Loganathan to pull them up. Even when my sister failed to clear her first three interviews I told her the same story over lunch.
Working at a Bicycle repair shop simply wasn't exciting enough for him that one day he runs away from his home town in south Tamilnadu with about 500 Rupees in his pockets and some clothing. In his four years at Chennai he says he has spent days together without food, slept on roadsides, jumped jobs, gotten ways lost, learned to read and write, made friends and for now found a decent place and way to live. A part-time waiter he spends most of the time and all of his energy on the new marketing platform MLM (Multi Level Marketing). Being a waiter he said helps him because he had a place to stay, something to fill up his stomach (he never says eat!!) and of course he has the time to be with his business.
He works twenty hours a day taking breaks during the time he has to travel. He always moves around with a file, the first page of which says ' Loganathan - first croun ambasador of India' (actually meant to be Loganathan - First Crown Ambassador of India) in blocks. I vaguely know that the Crown ambassador is someone who is at the top of the Marketing group.
His Immediate aim he says is a six digit Income per month that he believes he would achieve by 2008. He speaks of Bill gates, Vivekananda and Thomas Alva Edison like he knew them all his life. Any good car on the road would make him smile and he would say " One day I would own a Mercedes". Every time I told him my job sucked, he simply would say, "you should either do only what you enjoy or try and enjoy what you do, otherwise you are lost". The first thing he says every time he picks up your call is "pray you get what ever you wish" and for the amount of life and hope he has, you would only wish he becomes the man he wants to be.
Very recently when he had, as usual lost his job with a hotel because he was down with fever, he refused my offer of buying him a meal even after he had spent a day filling himself up with water. Two days later he treated me with a meal as he had found another hotel to help himself out.
For someone who has not even been to middle school and someone who takes more than a minute to write down your mobile number with the worst spelling you can imagine for your name, his thoughts and ways simply baffle me. I tried to fathom, why with some education and a job I feel so insecure and he with literally nothing looks at life so differently, but in vain.
He sometimes tells me when I am frustrated, that the day he makes it big he would offer me a job that suits me and we would laugh aloud, although both of us know he is not joking.
The first few meetings were like, I did most of the talking showing off and he used to just listen with a smile. Slowly as we got along, I found out he was a lot better at talking than the trash I was doing and from then on, I started to listen. He speaks with vigour of life, failures, hope, dreams, hard work and success but with a tint of sadness when it comes to his personal life. From then on everytime someone came to me needing hope, I had the real life story of Loganathan to pull them up. Even when my sister failed to clear her first three interviews I told her the same story over lunch.
Working at a Bicycle repair shop simply wasn't exciting enough for him that one day he runs away from his home town in south Tamilnadu with about 500 Rupees in his pockets and some clothing. In his four years at Chennai he says he has spent days together without food, slept on roadsides, jumped jobs, gotten ways lost, learned to read and write, made friends and for now found a decent place and way to live. A part-time waiter he spends most of the time and all of his energy on the new marketing platform MLM (Multi Level Marketing). Being a waiter he said helps him because he had a place to stay, something to fill up his stomach (he never says eat!!) and of course he has the time to be with his business.
He works twenty hours a day taking breaks during the time he has to travel. He always moves around with a file, the first page of which says ' Loganathan - first croun ambasador of India' (actually meant to be Loganathan - First Crown Ambassador of India) in blocks. I vaguely know that the Crown ambassador is someone who is at the top of the Marketing group.
His Immediate aim he says is a six digit Income per month that he believes he would achieve by 2008. He speaks of Bill gates, Vivekananda and Thomas Alva Edison like he knew them all his life. Any good car on the road would make him smile and he would say " One day I would own a Mercedes". Every time I told him my job sucked, he simply would say, "you should either do only what you enjoy or try and enjoy what you do, otherwise you are lost". The first thing he says every time he picks up your call is "pray you get what ever you wish" and for the amount of life and hope he has, you would only wish he becomes the man he wants to be.
Very recently when he had, as usual lost his job with a hotel because he was down with fever, he refused my offer of buying him a meal even after he had spent a day filling himself up with water. Two days later he treated me with a meal as he had found another hotel to help himself out.
For someone who has not even been to middle school and someone who takes more than a minute to write down your mobile number with the worst spelling you can imagine for your name, his thoughts and ways simply baffle me. I tried to fathom, why with some education and a job I feel so insecure and he with literally nothing looks at life so differently, but in vain.
He sometimes tells me when I am frustrated, that the day he makes it big he would offer me a job that suits me and we would laugh aloud, although both of us know he is not joking.
The Professor
I have seen few smarter men at his age, seventy isn't an age when soiled shoes would seriously worry you, but for this man it did. The first time I saw him, I was honestly impressed with his clean-shaven face, neatly pressed dress and shining black shoes. I was killing time at my friend Ismail's shop when he came up to me and said "Hello, I am Srinivasan, retired Professor Presidency College" before he firmly shook hands with me. Believe me with an impeccable accent that would put any 'call center' guy to shame. I thought he was there to may be pick something up from the shop but was taken aback when he asked me for a five Rupee coin for a cup of tea. Even as I was wondering about what I was supposed to do, I couldn't help but notice Ismail's disapproval of the conversation. He was already giving me hints like the old man was not in a good state of mind, simply put 'nuts'.
When I refused him the money and asked him leave the shop, he simply turned red. In a moment the old man emptied his pocket, which not only included a rich collection of coins but some heavier bills and on one of them I even thought I saw an old President of the United states.
He burst out with a string of words, (which after some home work I concluded, could be almost the filthiest you can come up with an unabridged Oxford English dictionary) but soon ended up in tears, words hardly coming out of his mouth. He proudly said his only son was in the US working for a multinational (whose name when spelt made my tongue twist to obtuse angles)and he needed no one else. He was now throwing the coins at me, yelling at me to take what ever I wanted. It took my storekeeper friend, two men from the next shop and a piece of chocolate to stop the old man. It wasn't the pain caused by the coins that hurt me (although it did that night) I somehow thought I had hurt the man. The old man left but only with a few more chocolates.
I was curious as hell about the professor and wanted to know something about him. I spent sometime with Ismail, who acknowledged the facts about the professor's son in the US. The son is married and supposedly has children but the last time he came around was almost five to six years ago although he still keeps in touch with his father through 'Western Union'(if you dont know what it is .. It is for money transfers). Ismail was largely indifferent even when he was telling me that the Professor had suffered enough anguish to get some quality education for his only son at some prestigious university in the US. Symptoms of his present condition has first appeared when the son married some one in the US and decided to settle down with Uncle Sam.
I went the next day to the professor’s house just out of curiosity, in the pretext of carrying water from Ismail’s shop. I thought his wife was too old to take care of herself, even as she busily went around with the chores. I picked up a conversation with her God knows how, and she couldn't but stop talking about her man in his prime. I left after sometime happy not just because I had a good cup of coffee but also because I thought at least there was this faithful Indian wife to stand by this man.
I almost left the house when I remembered the black cap that my girl friend had given me was inside the house. When I went back I saw her pulling the Physics Professor in a wet pair of pants to the washroom. She saw me but I pretended I hadn't seen her tears now almost on her wrinkled chin and cheerfully bid her a bye forgetting I had come to pick up my black cap.
A Dark Positive
For me this incident will always remain etched in my heart not just because it had a female playing the lead role as always.It happened when My Mom was admitted for a stroke last december at chennai.
This fine day there was very little to talk to my mother and then I had nothing to do, but roll my eyes around the ward. As my eyes went around, the third bed (My mom was on the first) I thought was unusually neat as the occupant sat on one corner looking at me and my Mom.I had seen the girl , young, in her teens, unusually thin, the bones very pronouncing and with a face that I was sure had been beautiful once. I hadn't bothered to ask my Mom about her since it isn't very strange for someone to be like her in a hospital.
Today I was curious and I asked my mom why she was in the Hospital. My Mom very casually said she had been tested positive for HIV. I thought something struck me hard on my chest. I felt a shiver run down even as I remembered that was the first time I had seen someone with HIV.I was scared to see her anymore and I sat with my back towards her.
She must have been smiling at my Mom because I saw my Mom smile towards her. Still Panic-stricken I somehow managed to look back only to see one of the most beautiful smiles I had ever seen.She stood up and walked up to my Moma's bed but stopped a little away. My Mother asked me to give her some biscuits, My face must have shown her I was scared, for she called the girl to the bed and gave her some biscuits herself. She almost grabbed the biscuits even as my Mom was telling her who I was, she only smiled at me. Mom said it was the last stages and she didn't have many days left. I too tried to smile but somehow I knew I was putting up a wretched face for I was trying to imagine how it is like to know, you only have a few days left on earth.
I lost my sleep that night but the next day I managed to give her something myself and I was almost lost when she smiled back. I also saw her father the same day who looked almost like her but for his unkempt hair and face.The next four days were the same for me in the hospital, I give her something, she flashes a smile, my mom talks with her something and she keeps smiling all through it. My Mom told me she never slept in the nights, she would simply lie down and look at the ceiling all through the night even as tears ran down her cheeks. How I wished I was capable of giving her more than just biscuits.
Next day I really was waiting for the evening to come and I even got her a small teddy. I was surprised when I saw the neatly laid but empty bed. I looked around too see if she was somewhere but only in vain. I felt my Mother's eyes were wet when she said the girl was discharged as the doctors had lost all hope and medicine was useless anymore. She would at the most see the next fortnite.
It started to choke as I felt a familiar shudder rock my body. It was sometime before I was very sure where I kept my leg. I was confused and I did not know what I was supposed to be doing. I walked awkwardly towards the bed, sat there for sometime even as my mother was looking at me surprised. I left the packed teddy on the bed and moved towards my mother. Tears filled up my eyes even as I remembered I had not spoken a word to her and neither had she.... I did not even know her name..
and to this day I am still wondering why a very weak word like 'hope' is used so synonymously with life.
This fine day there was very little to talk to my mother and then I had nothing to do, but roll my eyes around the ward. As my eyes went around, the third bed (My mom was on the first) I thought was unusually neat as the occupant sat on one corner looking at me and my Mom.I had seen the girl , young, in her teens, unusually thin, the bones very pronouncing and with a face that I was sure had been beautiful once. I hadn't bothered to ask my Mom about her since it isn't very strange for someone to be like her in a hospital.
Today I was curious and I asked my mom why she was in the Hospital. My Mom very casually said she had been tested positive for HIV. I thought something struck me hard on my chest. I felt a shiver run down even as I remembered that was the first time I had seen someone with HIV.I was scared to see her anymore and I sat with my back towards her.
She must have been smiling at my Mom because I saw my Mom smile towards her. Still Panic-stricken I somehow managed to look back only to see one of the most beautiful smiles I had ever seen.She stood up and walked up to my Moma's bed but stopped a little away. My Mother asked me to give her some biscuits, My face must have shown her I was scared, for she called the girl to the bed and gave her some biscuits herself. She almost grabbed the biscuits even as my Mom was telling her who I was, she only smiled at me. Mom said it was the last stages and she didn't have many days left. I too tried to smile but somehow I knew I was putting up a wretched face for I was trying to imagine how it is like to know, you only have a few days left on earth.
I lost my sleep that night but the next day I managed to give her something myself and I was almost lost when she smiled back. I also saw her father the same day who looked almost like her but for his unkempt hair and face.The next four days were the same for me in the hospital, I give her something, she flashes a smile, my mom talks with her something and she keeps smiling all through it. My Mom told me she never slept in the nights, she would simply lie down and look at the ceiling all through the night even as tears ran down her cheeks. How I wished I was capable of giving her more than just biscuits.
Next day I really was waiting for the evening to come and I even got her a small teddy. I was surprised when I saw the neatly laid but empty bed. I looked around too see if she was somewhere but only in vain. I felt my Mother's eyes were wet when she said the girl was discharged as the doctors had lost all hope and medicine was useless anymore. She would at the most see the next fortnite.
It started to choke as I felt a familiar shudder rock my body. It was sometime before I was very sure where I kept my leg. I was confused and I did not know what I was supposed to be doing. I walked awkwardly towards the bed, sat there for sometime even as my mother was looking at me surprised. I left the packed teddy on the bed and moved towards my mother. Tears filled up my eyes even as I remembered I had not spoken a word to her and neither had she.... I did not even know her name..
and to this day I am still wondering why a very weak word like 'hope' is used so synonymously with life.
11g, west mambalam
To travel in a Bus in chennai is in itself an experience.. and if you are caught in the peak hours, man!! you are really in for something. Many a times you pay the ticket for just one leg and one hand of yours travelling inside the bus. One good thing about the Busses in chennai is that the last row is exclusively for women, and for those who travel on the footboard you can simply drool through your journey.
That thursday morning I had my colleague's 'Pulp fiction' Cd(a 1994 blockbuster movie) to carry back to office. As usual I found a place for my left leg inside the bus and my 'Pulp Fiction' found its place on this girls's lap who was at the window as I couldn't hold it with me hanging. Two stops away the girl got down giving me my CD and a smile, that I thought I had seen somewhere.
The next day again, I had Tom hank's 'Philedelphia' (a wonderfully made movie.. take my word its sensitive and beautiful) with me and found just enough place for my left shoe on God knows who's right shoe and a place for my Cd at the window seat. Two stops down, the Bus is a little less crampier and then I get the CD from a familiar hand. Wait!! hadn't I seen this bracelet somewhere? that familiar smile confirmed it. And guess what? she even bid me a 'Bye'.
After long I thought I had seen a face that stuck to my head, she looked - may be 'Pretty'? just out of teens, not very fair, a little short, not a face that grabs your attention, but a face that lingers on..and it did with me through the day.
On Saturday morning I had Marlon Brando's 'God father' in my hands and this time I didn't forget to look at the now familiar window seat. She was there smiling as usual even as she took the CD from me. I understood I must have stamped someone more than once looking at the last row when I heard him howl at me. I thought damn! and went on as she kept giving me the smile at definite intervals. Two stops down, she squeezes out of the bus, hands over the Cd and says "Excuse me!! why dont you ever travel inside a bus? why dont you be a little more careful about yourself? " with a mock anger on her face. I was like Bah!! Nothing came out my mouth except what I thought was a stupid grin. And then she sports her trademark smile, bids me a bye, walks away..Believe me if only I wasn't late for my work i swear I would have walked her way.
Monday came and this time I took my planner (which had my visiting card on it!!) with 'Godfather III', spent more time on my dress and my hair than usual, went to the bus stop earlier than usual and waited for my (her)bus. The first bus I thought was too early for her timing. She wasn't there on the second one, the third either, and the fourth one had everyone staring at me as I went one end to the other searching for that lost smile.
It was 10.30 when I reached my office an hour late than usual tired and draining . The day was busy but still the smile managed to find gaps and barge my head. The whole week had my colleagues asking me If something was wrong and why I was late. I had no answer, except what I thought was stupid grin. Its been a fortnite since but I still miss a bus or two with that stupid hope of seeing that smile again for God knows why.
"unnai adigam ninaipathillai, anal moochu vidum tharunam mattum eno ninaivukku vanthuvidugirai" ethuvum kadan vangina kavithai than.. enge padichennu nyabagam valrale... rendu naal parthathukku enthe effectannu kekatheenge.. chumma oru kodu podamnule athukkuthan..
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