Today

"Monsters are real. And ghosts are real too.
They live inside us, and sometimes, they win"
Stephen King.

I hope God will forgive my weakness today.
I hope God will respect how brave I was today.

I'd like to think this morning, when I woke up, He must have cringed a little at what was to come,
I'd like to think there's an extra star in the sky tonight, one He lit just for me.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

You would have been 67 today.

What would we have done, I wonder?
We'd have said, let's go out and eat!
Or  let's go out of town.
Let's do something, I'd have begged.

But I know how we'd have celebrated your birthday.

It would have happened in the way you loved most. With your family. Your brothers. And a visit to the temple. That is, if we weren't travelling to where Bapa was.

We'd have started the day by going to Dadar, early morning temple visit. And you'd have gone to work after that. No celebrations. The brothers might drop by. No biggie, you'd have said. We'd have protested the boring 60s and gone on to work.

You'd have returned at 6pm, rung the bell, one hand on the grill, with fingers wrapped around the metal bars as I'd open the door. As always.

I'd have helped carry your bag inside, wishing you again, grinning from ear to ear and wait patiently outside as you'd wash up, change immediately into "home clothes" a habit you've passed on to me, and then we'd sit for the one thing we both cannot do without. Evening chai.

We'd sit at the dining table, look down our noses, our similar, straight noses at mum's coffee, smile the same smile as we tease her about it. You'd ask about our day, and raise your eyebrows at my stories, wrinkling that lovely regal forehead. I love mine, because it's like yours. Your hair, a lovely mop that never did properly get to go a complete grey, would be neat, not out of place, like mine. No, I dodged your neatness and attention-to-detail gene. You should have tried harder. :)

We'd talk, as I loved to with you, I wouldn't probably be in the mess I am in now, because you wouldn't have let all those things that happened ever happen to me had you lived. So, we'd be discussing all sorts of wonderful things. We'd talk about my writing. You went before my first byline appeared in the paper. The Free Press Journal. I remember looking at my name in black and white and feeling that ache, and knowing that day, that nothing would make me whole again. I shouldn't have waited for a byline. I should have tried to make you proud of me every day. 

I'd have wished you probably a 100 times by now. And you'd have laughed, gosh that delightful laugh. And graced me with that smile, that smile that lit up the room. At least for me. No matter how dark that room was. Any room. Anywhere. Do you know that that's the first thing people remember about you now when they talk to me about you? How your smile made them feel that everything would be okay. No matter what they were facing. That when you sat and talked to them, they believed. In everything that you stood for. And why wouldn't they? You stood for God so much. And He lived in you, towards the end. I felt it. So everyone else must have.

By dinner time, the brothers and your sister would have started arriving. The "No biggie" would have turned into a massive gathering of 7 families, children included, and then some. There would have been around 40 people cramped into our house, and the cacophony that would usually annoy neighbours would have been met with indulgent knowing grins instead. The Mehtas have assembled they'd have said.

I'd have gone to mum in the kitchen, what about food, what will we do? But Mum would have known better. Of course, she would have. Make enough for 50 people, my mum would have had said to the cook that morning. She knew.

The house would have been full of laughter, and crying (some kid's going to fall on his head, of course) and so much food (it IS a Gujarati household). By 11pm, the stories would have begun, the legends of the brothers, the house they grew up in, the stories of Ganpati Visarjan when 5 engineers sat and designed Ganpati sets to rival professional art directors, complete with pulley systems for tiny toy wells. The stories of their legendary absent-mindedness, my father would win centre-stage here. Stories of him leaving without his shoes, of promising to pick people up, forgetting all about it the next minute and actually driving PAST them and WAVING at the hapless victim, of him forgetting to put the role in the camera on an epic family holiday. Stories of the deepest bond that they shared, never needing friends because they had each other.

I'd look over at you. Your face would have been alive with joy, with happiness, with the comfort of family. The sort of celebration you'd have loved the most.

Instead, today we go about our day. No special food in the kitchen. Maan wished me in the morning :) and I ache that Maan and Aarya never met you. You would have loved Maan. Did you know Vaibhav brought her to meet you the day before you left for Lonavala? And you weren't home. They thought of waiting. But then, as we all think, so so stupidly, there's always tomorrow. Little did they know.
You'd have been so proud of Aarya. She asks about you many times, about Dada. She cried once too, and said she's missing you. I suspect she saw her father missing you. He doesn't talk about you to me. Ever. I suspect he cannot. I miss you with everything I have, and yet, I suspect sometimes, that he misses you even more than that.

I dream about you often. But you are still as vivid in my dreams as you were when you left. I am not sure if I am happy or alarmed by that.

Dates are cruel things. They fuel memories and make them stronger. You can combat a memory on a normal day. But attach it to an important date, and there's no stopping it.

I concede. :) I miss you. Every day.

So yes. It would have been a lovely day. Because of nothing else but that you'd have still been here. With me.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Exposed

If you want to know someone, ask them to write something for you.

Over the last few years, I've discovered that writing exposes you in a way very few things can.

By that logic, yes, of course, all art does. Like painting. What you draw, how you draw, the colours you use, they're all give-aways. Movies, dance, even how you cook, all of that.

Yes, but I still feel writing (and this may be because I am a writer) can strip you naked in front of people. In front of people who don't know you at all.

I've been accused of judging people based on how they write. Guilty. But it's so much more than playing Grammar Police. Of course, if you send me a text message saying "Hi, I dont think that will happen," and then follow it immediately with one that says, "*don't", you've won my heart forever. And just so you know, I've registered the comma after the 'Hi' and the capital use of H too.

Of course, all these are turn-ons, but that's just one level. I am looking for who you are. 

You write to me in a message:
I went to a family function this evening. Everyone was there, it was so much fun. We laughed and ate so much food! (I can tell you've had a great time at your family function)

Or you write this:
My cousin got married today. The Guzzus were out in strength today, and we sat around and did what my family does best: laugh and eat. It was more fun than I've had in a while.
(I can tell you have a married cousin you like, I can tell you're aware of what your community is like and is ribbed for, you love it and that you're capable of making jokes about it. I can also tell you love spending time with this particular part of your family)

See what I mean? This is not about how you SHOULD write. No, I am merely saying these are two very different people.

The way you write tells me not just what you're thinking, or your opinion on something, but it tells me, in black and white, what you feel.

Let me explain.

In the last two years, people who've read me forever started to notice something different about the way I wrote. There was a piece that was well-written, it was perfectly adequate for the purpose it was supposed to serve. You couldn't fault it. But it wasn't always me. They said, at some point, there's a sense of a wall we can't cross.

Some said they felt cheated. They sensed a wonderful madness in the writer, a free spirit, and a potential of it coming through in the writing, but I refused it. The tip of an iceberg. Apparently, I no longer allowed them in. That I remained, in the story, tantalisingly, just out of reach.

It was not conscious. I did not know when it happened. But here's the incredible thing: I was going through a terribly painful time in my life. And I did not allow myself to show it. Betrayal, hurt, all of it. I hid it from everyone, what had happened to me, the injustice of what had happened, I hid it all. Even from the people I saw everyday. It became a way of life. To lie about it. To hide. To constantly worry about 'appearing' okay. To laugh when I wanted to cry. To smile when I wanted to yell. To purse my lips when I wanted to slap. Everyday. For more than a year. I withdrew inward. I took shelter inside, deep inside, where no one could see me.

Costly decision. Because my writing followed me. It became everything I was feeling. Withdrawn, walled in, sometimes full of fake abandon, and the most important thing: it was without me. I was lost.

Sometimes, a stray sentence, a stray story even, would suddenly bring me forth. So all was not lost. She was in there somewhere. Just too embarrassed to write what she felt. I tried to put it down, but couldn't. It wouldn't come. I told close friends that it refuses to come and they said, have the courage to write badly. Be brave and let all the rubbish out. You've stashed everything away. Deep inside. But the main thing I was told is this: don't be embarrassed. Let it flow. Don't hide behind words and smart phrases, readers will know. If you're feeling like shit, and writing rubbish, do it. Puke it out. Do anything. But write. write. write. 

They also said, it's like going to a shrink, only free. Writing is therapeutic.

This is me, then. This blog. No lies. No pretence. I'll try and stay as true as I can.

And I am going to make sure it's the most fun anyone's ever had in therapy. :)

Delhi: 2, Me: 1

I have hated Delhi for as long as I can remember.

And it's not because I am from Mumbai. It's not the stupid Mumbai vs Delhi argument. For the record, I do not understand that war. They're two different cities. There's no comparison.

No, this is not that. This is a personal dislike that has taken root since I've been old enough to read newspapers. Rape capital. Unsafe. Crimes towards women. Headlines screaming horrible things happening to women every day. Listening to friends with stories about revolting bus commutes, friends with a fear of crowded spaces with groping hands, rickshaw drivers being next to impossible... etc.

I would think to myself, what a horribly hostile place this seems to be.

As I grew older, Delhi started to reach out and make its presence felt. Close friends moved to Delhi, job opportunities tentatively tapped my shoulder, a lot of fun travel seemed to have its jump-off point in the capital. I kept my visits short. It IS a beautiful, beautiful city. But to visit. To move? Even for the job opportunities, I laughed at the mere thought. Never, I said. Never.

My fear and suspicion was exaggerated, even irrational. I knew that. My friends tried hard to understand it. See, I've travelled the world, stayed alone in forests, hiked alone, got lost in foreign countries, all of it. But ask me to take a rickshaw by myself in Delhi and I'd start to feel anxious. Everywhere else in the world, I'd set about knowing roads, and maps and trails. Here, my mind rejected the names of places I'd been to 50 times. I just didn't want to give it any space in my mind. Yes, that bad. Paranoia.

And to make it worse, just for fun, every time I visited this city, strange and unpleasant things happened. And my friends would look suitably dismayed and say, "This ALMOST NEVER happens. This is SO rare."

And that’s when I realized that the feeling was mutual. The city could smell my fear. She sensed my dislike. And she made sure I didn't feel welcome.

The first time I stayed for a longish period of time, we were targeted by a group of local boys out looking for a good time. It was late, and we'd just finished watching a movie. S and I were walking back home with her cousin, not 10 minutes from the theatre. I was tense about walking, what with all the stories I'd heard. A car filled with testosterone zoomed past with drunk catcalls. I looked very worried. S said, "Don't worry, we're almost home. Nothing's going to happen." A few minutes, I saw the car again, it had taken a U-turn. S's cousin, M, a lanky boy ushered us on. The car slowed as it passed us, and then stopped. I turned to see at least 10 drunk boys jump out the car. S grabbed my hand, "Don't look," she said, "just walk." I heard footsteps actually running behind us on the pavement. I was terrified. One of the boys passed us at a run and stopped in front of us, blocking our way. The group stood behind us. No question really of ignoring them now. He was well dressed, from a "nice home", and drunk out of his wits. He stepped closer to us, stopped a couple of inches from us; he was reeking of alcohol, and plucked a flower from a low branch next to us, came even closer, sniffed the flower ostentatiously, let us be very frightened, and then dropped his hand and strolled back to the car amidst hoots and uproarious laughter. S, M and I, relieved and shaken rushed home. Of course, we laughed about it after but when it happened, we were all sure this was going to get ugly. That was my first night in Delhi with S. She had spent the whole day trying to widen my narrow view of the city, to show me that it was an easy, good place to live. She said she had lived there for years. This had NEVER happened before. Of course not.

After that, it was regularly downhill. We got fleeced almost every time I attempted any transaction. A cab driver turned particularly nasty and potentially dangerous one night as we returned and tried to negotiate rates. I saw him stand downstairs, watch us climb up, see what floor the lights came on at, counted the flats, and leave. I was certain he would later come and do damage. A car had once tailed us after a brief altercation in traffic right to our doorstep. My friend's driver once told my pregnant friend to get out of the car if she didn't like the way he drove. Or threatened to leave the car, there in the middle of the road, with her in it (she didn't know how to drive) and so on...

I kept thinking with each trip, what is this place? I was always so happy to leave. And Delhi, I am sure, was always happy to see me go.

And now... in 2012, I've fled from Mumbai. Running from a toxic space in my head. To seek solace. To make some sense of how to pull this burning skewer out of my heart. And since irony is such a so-and-so, I've arrived, bags in tow, to Delhi, where my closest friends live. I haven't moved here, gosh, no. But I do want to spend more time with them. And in that, I am forced to rethink my battle with Delhi.

It's difficult enough I'd think to orient yourself to a new place and when one has a history that's based on mutual dislike and suspicion, it's hard work. But I am trying. The city is beautiful, and has some great places to walk around in, and the food is really to die for.

In the days I've been here, I've taken the metro (with friends), rickshaws (alone) and am meeting some very interesting people for fun creative work. And recuperating in the amazing love of P and SR, and the occasional hilarious, snarky comment from A. After a long time, my mind is deliciously blank. After a long time, I am at what could be close to peace.

So Delhi, in return, knew I was broken this time I'd come, and the war would have to wait. She was stepping back a bit, and letting me get up and dust myself off.

And in the middle of her blistering summer, she made it rain for me today. With my nth cup of tea, I stood in the balcony, the rain washing away all the burnt and scorched thoughts, the unexpected cool breeze blowing away the negativity that I'd carried along. The smell of wet earth was doubly divine as it wasn't scheduled for another few months.

It's almost like she was saying, the storm's over now, it's a beautiful day.

That's being more decent than I'd ever expected from her.

So tomorrow we'll start our battle again. Except now it's degenerated to a friendly match.

The score so far, Delhi: 2. Me: 1.

The game is a long one though. I will catch up. I am going to look her in the eye.

Let's see who blinks first. :)

Final station

Her happiness is infectious.
She is smiling with her whole body. Her eyes can hardly contain it.
It is beautiful.
She is in love. It's taken its time with her. I've seen the disappointments, the heartbreaks. I've held her hand through hers. She through mine.
Today, she doesn't need any hand holding.
She has found him, she says.
After years of being alone, of being lied to, cheated on, of having chased love that had never wanted to be caught, of so many mistakes... she has found him.
When it's right, she says, smiling, it's easy. It's so easy, she is scared.
I wonder what our decisions, our emotions, our lives do to us. She is scared that there are no problems with this one.
It's too good to be true, she says. She is afraid, what is the catch?
We feel right, she says, then smiles as her phone beeps. I watch her smile widen. It is him.
For the first time, she says, we are on the same page. She is not chasing, doubting. She isn't sitting around wondering where he is, why he hasn't msged, he doesn't make her wait, she says, like she has had to do with all the others. She smiles. He feels the same way for her. She is complete.
I touch wood during the whole conversation.
No chances, I smile.

Here and there

Today, everything has been a little bit better, and a little bit worse.

Today, I have laughed more than I have laughed in a while, and I have been pensive, more than I have had reason to be.

Today, something ran free inside me while another part of me sank further into a dark, safe corner.

Today I was more honest than I have been in a while, while on some level, I lied through my teeth.

Today I felt good about who I was, and at the same time, a sense of self-loathing coursed through me.

Today, I felt beautiful… and at the same time, I felt a thousand years old.

Yeah, today, everything has been a little bit better, and a little bit worse.