Aboard the Dhauladhar Express

Night time.
No confirmed tickets.
Waiting at Pathankot Station in a swarm of mosquitoes for the Dhauladhar Express.
Things are not looking good.

I wait with the bags, pursing my lips so none of the 1,000 bugs circling my head get to be my dinner, while P goes to check if our tickets have a hope in hell of getting confirmed. Now this is the beauty of travelling with P. She's a star. She works part-time as my rock, my problem-fixer, giver of laughs, source of my powers, all of that. She and SS both. But here's the truly wonderful thing. She can talk her way into almost anything. And you'll believe everything she says.

For one, she talked me into this trip, convinced me that it was a perfectly good idea to take the bus to Mcleod Ganj at night (it turned out to be a death bus driven by a maniac; I'd willed my bookshelf to Aarya) and to travel without confirmed return tickets (she'd told me they were confirmed. They weren't). To be fair, in her head, they were confirmed, she was that confident (it was WL 1 and 2, come on, of course, they'll get confirmed. They didn't). All this, despite knowing her extremely well. But here's the good part. I'm glad she did. I haven't laughed that hard in a while.

I shift into the waiting room, a tiny, bare room with chairs backed up against the walls and one round table, and pretty abysmal unisex bathrooms. But this is better than the bug fest outside. Also, we were two girls at a station where most people are assuming we're foreigners. I think it is my haircut (I have bangs now). So we're getting loads of eyeballs.

When P comes back, I know from her sheepish grin that we're travelling ticketless. "No no, it's confirmed, but..." I wait, grinning. "But only one ticket is confirmed." When I start laughing, she protests, "But Seju, that never happens! They don't confirm just one ticket!" True. We later find out it's a system error.

Anyway, I am not worried. I know P can talk herself through anything. The TC was just going to have his pants charmed off him. We eat dinner at a tiny dhaba, just outside Pathankot Station, waiting for the Dhauladhar Express back to Delhi. It's a weird night. We're wearing travel rags and we're still extremely overdressed for this place. But the food is brilliant. And the service, even more so. Our foreigner tag is sealed by the slight hesitation on my part to fully dive into the food and look around the place in apprehension. It's a proper Punjabi place, complete with that singer Gurdass Mann's photo up on the yellow-painted wall. It's delicious. Not just the food. And yes, this is P's favourite food in the world, dhaba food, not poncy hotel stuff, and she's blissful. Look.

We finally board the train. A couple of seats in this compartment, and the rest are small rooms, those coupes, closed ones, with doors and everything. We sit in our seat, the one on the left of the compartment, two seaters. P goes off in search of the TC after making sure I am seated in our seat. Now there're a couple of goofs in the system and various people are wondering which seats are theirs. This group of men, huddled in the compartment, loudly and firmly attempting to take ownership of SOME seat. We exchange our seat with a gentleman, who sweetly agrees and promptly finds out it's not his seat to give away. There's a fair bit of confusion. P dives right into the animated conversation.

In the middle of this madness, a scrawny boy, around 14, comes running into the compartment. "You're baithe here for 15 mins?" He asks breathlessly.
What? I blink stupidly at him.
"Charge phone, na, pliss?" He thrusts his phone at me.
I continue to look at him not understanding a word.
P comes over when she sees him.
"Kya hua? Kya problem hain?"
"Phone charge karna tha." He gestures to the socket behind me. "Bas 15 minutes".
Ah.
P has no patience for this guy. She herds him off to the centre of the compartment.
"Yaar, tu waha kar le," she says. "Hamare seats ka kuch pata nahi, tera phone kya charge karenge."
He shuffles off.

We're laughing about him when P spies the TC a few seats away.
"So, I am going to tell him you HAVE to reach Mumbai day after and you need to get to the Delhi airport tomorrow. So he won't offload us."
"Does that happen?" I am slightly freaked.
"No no, never," she says confidently, "but you know, just in case. So look tense."
Erm. 

As the train starts to move, we sit in the one seat we have, thinking worst case scenario, we'll go to sleep sitting up. We laugh as we hear the men arguing and looking at our cramped seat. We laugh about the hapless boy who valiantly gave up his seat and the found it's not his at all. And the memory of the manic bus driver to Mcleod Ganj, and we're soon in hysterics, the kind that come with every remembered joke after a really fun trip.

The TC is now walking towards us.
P turns to me urgently and hisses, "He's here. Look EMOTIONALLY DISTRAUGHT!"
Emotionally distraught? I start to giggle.
He's at our seat now, and at P's meaningful glance, I attempt to visibly deflate and stare listlessly at the floor.

I need not have bothered. Then something happens that completely distracts the TC. The boy who'd left his phone to charge comes careening into the compartment, almost ramming into the TC.
"Mera phone!!" He cries into the man's face. "Mera phone kaha hain?"
The bewildered TC just stares at him. I suspect this is the effect this boy has on most people. 
P points it out at the socket next to the window.
He heaves a massive sigh of relief, staggers to his phone, unplugs it and sits down on the seat, breathing heavily. 
The TC, now galvanised into action, asks him where he's travelling to.
"Mein toh mata ke darshan ke liye jaa raha tha, Vaishnav Devi ko."
We take a minute for this to sink in. That is in the exact opposite direction to where we're headed.
"Toh tu yahaan kya kar raha hain?"
"Mein toh sirf apna phone charge karne train mein aaya tha. Mein station pe friends ke saath khana kha raha tha, socha charge kar du!"
Oh dear lord. He'd got on just to charge his phone. He didn't want to take this train. He jumped in when he discovered the train was pulling out of the station. With his phone.
We're all staring at him when his phone rings. It's his buddy from the station.
"Haan, mein train mein chad gaya hoon," he says nonchalantly into the phone, "Agle station pe utar ke wapas aa jaoonga. Bas 2 minute mein pahucha."
He was telling his friends he'll be back in two minutes? This boy has no idea what he's got himself into.
The rest of us are now starting to laugh. The TC too.
"Beta, tu phone charge karne chada, aur ab tujhe lagta hain tu do minute mein wapas jaayega?"
He looks very embarrassed but he's still not really got it.
"Mujhe laga yeh train subah niklegi," he says. We're all incredulous. P laughs, "Toh tumhe laga hum sab yaha subah ki train ke liye abhi se chade?" We're laughing now.
He's really flustered now and blurts out, "Arre mein toh Punjabi hoon, mujhe yeh sab kya pata?"
This is almost too much for all of us. We're all doubled over by now.
"Agle station pe utar jaaonga," he says weakly over the din.
The TC looks at him in between guffaws. The thing is, you couldn't get angry with this guy, it wasn't that he was trying to pull a fast one on anyone, or being cocky. He is just really really dumb. And that's hardly his fault.
"Tu ab Mata se prarthana kar ki train Delhi se pehle kahin ruk jaaye, varna tu chal raha hain Delhi tak." He shook his head at the restless boy. "Jaa, general mein jaa ke baith jaa."
The boy gets up and grinning, trots off towards the general compartment. We're all still reeling from this when the TC starts checking tickets again.
Except that now he's in such a good mood from all the laughing, P didn't have to try too hard. He immediately allots us another seat, clears the confusion of the remaining tickets, and leaves.

I drift off, grateful for this journey. Regular air travel had taken me away from this, the adventure of the absolute unknown, the possibilities of lunacy while travelling. This is the most fun I've had in commute for a while.


After that, we sleep like babies. After all, we both get one whole berth each to sleep in.
Ah, luxury.

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.

Time Travel

If you could go back in time, would you change things? You would, of course you would. If you look at your life and think, wow, I wouldn't change a thing, not even the one teeny tiny bit of rearranging, I'd like to come shake your hand. And then slap you a little bit, just you know, so you'd have something different to say the next time.

What do you reckon you'd change, really? To find that one moment that set the ball rolling for the way a life shapes up. Kind of a challenge. I think I'd go through several attempts, seeing the sometimes misplaced sense of priorities I seem to persistently exhibit. Like in some movies, where the protagonist goes through a day again and again to get it exactly right, and in the end, someone dies anyway, because the moron was fixing the wrong moment.

Or maybe it's destiny and no matter how many times you adjust things, you're going to land up exactly where you were supposed to.

There's a film that sort of is about this and then some. Have you watched Sliding Doors? The movie starts with Gwyneth Paltrow having lost her job at a PR firm. She has a few drinks with her friends, goes home to a boyfriend who you realise is a bit of an ass right away. The next morning, she's running to make it in time for the train, and this is the moment the film splits into two. Two parallel tracks: one in which she makes it in time, chats with this lovely man, comes back home in time to find her boyfriend cheating on her, moves out, etc. And the other track, where she misses the train, the doors slide shut, and on her way back home, she gets mugged, goes to the hospital, remains oblivious to her cheating boyfriend for a large chunk of the movie, etc etc.

Now here's the thing. In both sequences, she ends up meeting the same people in different ways. And in one scenario, she dies in the end. And in the other one, she ends up talking to lovely man from the train much later, in the end. In an elevator.

It all depended on whether on not she caught the train in time. Scary stuff.

I watched three things about this in quick consequence, hence all this thought.

A rerun of an episode in F.R.I.E.N.D.S. where they all asked what if? What if Phoebe were a corporate lawyer, what if Monica was still fat, what if Chandler quit and became a cartoonist, etc.
The thing is, at the end of the show, they all were exactly where they would have otherwise been.

Last night, I watched an episode of Supernatural (who else wants to have Dean's babies? :)) which finally showed a scenario that the boys continue to ask in each episode. What if we'd never been ghost hunters, demon killers, vampire stakes, etc etc. They show Dean in a cool corporate job, madly rich and successful and Sam, tech support in the same company. And of course, they end up seeing a ghost and fight it, and maybe 5 years later than otherwise, they joined hands and became... well hunters. Hot hunters. Fully awesome, demon-killing, good looking, funny... okay. Back to the point.

I am a deeply impulsive being, which means I go through most things in life with the attitude of an elephant crashing through a jungle, not really thinking about how what I do or don't is shaping tomorrow. It's much later, when I reflect, I can see what I probably should have done differently. But then, what I didn't do differently also made me what I am today, yes? And if I do like that bit, then the rest becomes pointless.We're possibly meant to be just this. What we are today. Maybe when my father died, a part of me became so strong that it can take on the world. Maybe, the graveyard of my dead relationships made me so focused towards work that I soared professionally. Maybe, the hurt and the pain that every disappointment brought gave me newer stories to write. Without those, who would I have been today? Someone better? Happier? Maybe. With better stories? Unlikely, but who's to say?

What then, do I go back to change?

So, maybe some battle scars are there for a reason. Even if the reason is just to make you feel like a giant dufus.

I am like this, but then, I am also like that

(I'd written a slightly different version of this on FB. The last one, though, is from Grey's Anatomy).


I am highly prone to brief and intense addictions. It could be a TV show, a person, a song...

I love football. I used to play with the boys till I developed body parts that were no longer conducive.

For all my cautious talk, my life shows a persistent recklessness. I am alarmingly contradictory. I want, at all times, completely incompatible things.

I love sinking my teeth into a story. To turn it around, to tinker with the start, to pull things out and fit them somewhere else, and make it as beautiful as it was meant to be. I am a print editor, through and through.

I love video games, especially ones like Doom, where you’re handed a gun and an arsenal, and gross demons and soldiers ambush you from everywhere and you shoot everything in sight and all the blood splatters the walls and… what? Why’re you looking at me like that?

I am a sucker for happy endings. I get massively upset when fiction ends badly. Hello, if I want reality I have my life, no?

I don’t like all babies. Only cute ones. I live in fear that my own baby won’t be and then I won’t like my own child.

I am madly passionate about wildlife, the outdoors, and everything nature-related. I live in the (slightly deluded) belief that it feels the same way about me.

I cannot fathom how in the blistering barnacles have we reached a point where cockroaches (*shudder) are featuring in entertainment films. I could not enjoy Wal E as much as I could have (*gags). And Monster vs Aliens. The doctor's a roach?? What in the whole wide world is that about? Since when are these cute? This has to stop. Now. Yes, I am phobic. And if you're at all sympathetic to their cause, go read the Roach post in this blog. Bullies.

I think travel is the closest I've come to feeling at peace. And I think I am really good at it.

I have the gift of impossible relationships. Love is my Waterloo. 

I cannot hold my drink. And I do not sip. I gulp. One drink: (Loudly) talking about how the waaallsh are moovinng, how much I love my frandsh and my mommy, and how the tiger is going f***ing extinct. Second drink, I am horizontal on the floor… thank you ladies and gentlemen, end of day’s play. I quit when people started party conversations with a slightly nervous, ‘So what is Sej drinking?’ or ‘Who is mixing Sej’s drink?’

Dirty bathrooms depress me.

I've discovered that God takes sides. If you've hurt me, if I were you, I'd watch my back. No, no, really. It's scary.

My father’s death has left me a shadow of the person I used to be.

My mum is not as timid as she looks. If there ever was an example of looks being deceptive, my mum could run the campaign. This is me and mum in a fight when I want to do something she doesn't want me to:
Me: *LOUD YELLING
Mum: Silent and appearing docile.
Me: *MORE LOUD YELLING FOR AN HOUR
Mum: "No."
Me: "Okay." 

I get high on live performances… theatre, street plays, stand-up, concerts, anything that exudes live energy.

I think my niece is special. As babies go, she has spoilt me for life.

Contrary to popular belief, I love driving. I used to take long drives, before this city and its roads became what they are today.

Once you’re in my (very short) special people list, you can do no wrong. I mean, you will need to stab me in the back with a pretty sharp knife for me to see you’re a so-and-so. I have a few battle scars to show for this idiocy.

I adore desserts. If they put me in one of those ads where one is supposed to make those orgasmic sounds and ecstatic faces after a bite, I wouldn’t have to act at all.

I laugh at almost everything. I believe what Cyrus Sahukar once said in a Femina interview: Dude, funny is all around you, you just have to see it.

I can be painfully vicious in a fight. But I should care enough to be.

Finally, against all odds, against all logic, I believe…

The Loss of Innocence

I saw my first and only strip show in Bangkok. 
On an office conference. From Femina. All those years ago.

Loss of innocence happened. 

The lanes of Patpong were everything I'd heard they would be. There were endless rows of clubs, with men and women standing outside and enticing passers-by. Shocking passers-by in my case.
Men came up and asked, "Want boy? Very nice," with accompanying hand gestures. As I gawked at them, trying to form a sentence that would appropriately explain that while I was at the most popular sex street in the world, I was not looking for anything, my friend pulled me away with a 'no no, not interested'.

"Why are you having a conversation with them?" G was laughing.

"I was not! I was attempting to decline." I said, completely distracted by everything. There were peddlers selling sex toys and I could hardly believe some of the shapes and sizes of the various things on display. There was music blaring out of every other club and --

"Okay, can everybody else see a naked woman in a glass cage?" I stared as she shimmied up and down the sides and smiled seductively at us. I couldn't help it. I laughed. And it wasn't a flustered 'Oh my, there's a naked woman in a glass cage' laugh. It was a 'Um, lady, knock, knock, you know that we can see you, right?' laugh. It was a 'Sweetie, don't look now, but you're in a glass cage' laugh. She wasn't amused.

We were finally there. The club was named after a woman's body part that had nothing to do with a cute feline animal also of the same name. There were 15 of us, including U, who was heavily pregnant. With twins. The guys haggled with the staff for seating, rates, etc, and we took our seats in front of a poorly-lit square stage. I looked around our little group. Apart from U, who was already looking doubtful about her parenting skills given that her kids could technically say that their mum had taken them to their first strip show, we were a mixed group. There were two three girls who blushed at the mere mention of sex... and all that surrounds it, and in the media, these conversations came up often, so I knew that they indeed blushed often. And then there were others, me included, who had come out of pure curiosity. To see what the fuss was about. I was even interested in a story. Maybe I could talk to a few of these girls... get their story. I said so to P. She rolled her eyes.
"Sej, will you stop thinking about work?! We're on holiday!" she exclaimed.

"Er, P, we're here on an office conference." I grinned. 

"Oh, yeah," she laughed sheepishly. "Forgot."

So okay, drinks served, seats adjusted, breathing exercises done (by U), and they were ready for us. I didn't know if we were ready for them, though.

Ten minutes later, I was shell shocked. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. Now, don't misunderstand me. I am not a prude, though I do think women having to take off their clothes and get jeered at for a living is appalling, but that is just one of the reasons I hated it. This was a horrible, horrible show. It was not erotic, it was not tasteful. If anything at all, it was downright sad.

A couple of women shuffled on to the stage, wearing a bit of this and a bit of that. They moved listlessly to the music. They looked bored out their brains. A couple of women at the back of the stage were actually talking. they were in the middle of a conversation. 'Hey what's up, nothing much, I saw a movie, went shopping... hey can you get my bra strap open... Ya, so shopped and then... wait let me just wave this in the air... ya so then we just hung out.' Like that. Most of them were old, and, forgive me for saying this, but it was a strip show... fat. Really. 

But the worst was yet to come.

One of the women finally broke the hideous vacant moving-on-the-spot routine and came up to the front of the stage. She was wearing nothing at all. She sat down on her knees and proceeded to remove colourful strings of paper. From inside her. I recoiled in my seat. That was the mildest scene that night. The women proceeded to do acts (with the body part that the club was named after) that until now, I had thought physically and humanly impossible. Acts that involved pens, paper, writing, and (shudder) cola bottles. Our numbers dropped rapidly. P was the first casualty. I don't think she had ever seen a porn film in her life and here... She left almost immediately. U braved it for some time, her face alternating between disbelief and disgust. My threshold came after the cola bottle. When she brought the bottle close to herself for the first time, I shrank back in my seat with a 'Oh god, oh god, what is she going to do now?' Unfortunately, I found out immediately. That did it. Want to go," I whispered to V. "Want to go now."

A loud, opinionated discussion followed that night.

"Men like this?" I asked. I was over the shock of it now, and the dynamics were interesting. 
P, next to me, shuddered. "Men are sick!" She looked accusingly at G and D and said again, "SICK!"
"Men don't like that!' said D, slightly frightened. "That was a really bad show! There are better ones. More sensual than sick." He looked around the group of disgusted women. "Really! I promise!"

That must be true. This show was more of a circus act than fodder for erotica. It was a freak show. But there were men in that audience who were enjoying it. I saw them. They were there. Perverts for whom even this portrayal of bored, disinterested, freak act was pleasurable. They look pretty normal... business suits, well-bred. They didn't look twisted in the least. 

And that scared the hell out of me.

(First posted in itsastartwhat.blogspot.com in 2007 :))

My ear vs the Roach

A travel plan is an oxymoron.
No travel, no matter how well you plan it, is going to go completely according to plan.
Flights will be cancelled, trains will be delayed, restaurants will close by the time you reach, car tires will go bust, a stomach flu may find you, or a cockroach could climb into your ear.

Yes, true story. It happens. It did happen. To me. Very far away from home. Or a hospital. Or my mummy.

I was in the middle of a travel assignment in Meghalaya. We'd reached Cherrapunjee late evening, and the hotel was on a beautiful hill, in the middle of... nowhere. Ironic how that particular bit had appealed to me immensely before a cockroach mistook my ear for its home.

We were visiting in the middle of summer but Cherra (as it is fondly called), was showing off. No longer the wettest place on Earth? I'll show them. That sort of thing. It had been an exhausting day, with a full trek in the rain and some hail thrown in for good measure. I couldn't wait to sleep, so I asked for dinner to be sent to the room. After a few bites, I left the rest on the table. A BIG mistake. I was after all, in the wilderness, and should have been slightly more mindful of bugs, but I went off to sleep under a bundle of mattresses almost immediately after.

See how pretty. Not that I got to enjoy any of it

It happened at around 5:30 in the morning. In hindsight, I can see it as a scene in a movie. The small roach making its way over the mattress. Approaching the ear. Audiences gasping, covering their eyes, cringing, hopelessly telling the sleeping form on the screen to wake up, as it pauses over the opening of the ear...

I felt this horrible muffled scratching, scraping in my left ear, and I jerked up in bed, bewildered, still not fully awake, with an extremely strange sensation in the left side of my face. The room seemed to sway for a second as I shook my head. And then a feeling of horror as I instinctively knew what had happened. Oh god, oh god, there's a bug in my ear, I thought, as the scuffling continued. I was hoping, so so so hoping it was just the altitude and wax, but when I moved to get up, the scuffling increased, and I let out a whimper. Jeez, what was it? I tried tapping on the right ear, so if it was on the brink, it could fall out, but that sort of frightened it, and it started to flap around. I yelped in pain and fright. The pain, combined with the flapping sound in my ear! YUCKS!

I sat, slowly, with as little movement as possible and called L, the photographer in the next room. I took deep breaths, and said, feigning calm, "L, can you come out, please? I think there's a bug in my ear." Slight pause. Understandable. "Inside your ear???" Another pause. I waited, shockingly patient. "Coming," he said. I got up, again, very slowly, and as if in slow motion, switched on the torch, and swept the light across the room. I knew, I don't know how, exactly what it was, but I wanted to be sure. And there, sure enough, in the corner of the room, near the food, was a tiny group of small roaches. Not the massive ones, the small, long, gross ones. It was a horrible moment, for anyone, but let me take a second to tell you why it was more so for me.

I hate roaches. No no, it's not the girlie I-am-so-afraid-of-roaches fear. It's a deep phobic fear. I am mortally frightened of them. It is a paralysing fear. One that I am battling with continually. I have abandoned trains, buses, cars (one I was driving, yes) because of these darned creatures. They seem to smell my fear and single me out to torment. Always. So. Back to the story. 

I met L at the door, who was still groggy with sleep, "What happened?" "There's a bug in my ear," I said. I think he expected hysterics, so did I, so this matter-of-factness gave him hope. "Let me see," he said. Gratefully, I let him peer into my ear, turning my head this way and that. "I can't see anything. Maybe it's gone?" he asked. "No, unfortunately, I can feel it," I said. We stood there, in our nightclothes, in the cold and I could tell he didn't think it was a bug. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew in our direction and the insect flapped helplessly, making me double over in pain, with a "Oh God, what the EFF!" This alarmed L considerably, bug or no bug, and he ushered me hastily back into the room and closed the door.

I slow-motioned to the bed, the wretched creature calmed down and the pain paused. God, this was the grossest thing ever to have happened, I thought. "I'll call AL," L said. "He'll know what to do." AL was our guide for the trip. Yes, I thought. AL would come through. An extremely jolly sort of fellow with a great love for drink, a good time and all things Khasi, AL was madly well-connected. Too much so... by evening all of Shillong knew my encounter with the roach (no exaggeration). While he dialled, I called Mansi, my brother's wife. "Maan, there's a cockroach in my ear, Maan," I said pitifully, relieved that I was finally telling someone who would understand the enormity of a roach bullying me. Mansi is a fire-fighter. A cool head, but for a few minutes, there was full blown panic. How did it happen? A ROACH??? REALLY? AAAAHHHH! That sort of thing. "I am calling the doctor, you hang in there, I am on it," she hung up. She called back with notes immediately: find a hospital. In the absence of that, pour hot mustard oil in your ear. It will die and float out." Hmm, I thought, hospital. Definitely hospital. She hung up with a pep talk, and told me to continue to be calm. I doubt I was calm. I think I was in denial. Jeez, YUCKS!

L handed the phone to me. "AL," he said. I took the phone, cringing at the slight movement in my ear, and talked to an extremely sleepy and hungover AL. "AL, I have a bug in my ear. Where can we find a doctor?" AL waited for this information to seep through the layers of alcohol-induced sleep. I think the only word he actually grasped was doctor. "We can go to the market at 9 and check with the local guy if he can help us. Would you like some tea?" he asked cheerfully. Tea? IF he can help? I think in my bid to appear calm, I was ending up doing too good a job. I took a deep breath. "AL, I have an insect, probably a roach, lodged inside my ear. I cannot wait for three hours to visit a local quack and for him to pour oil in my ear. I need a clinic, or a hospital. Now." This seemed to rouse everyone into motion. AL said, "I'll check and call you."

AL came to the door. I got up in anticipation and regretted in instantly. AL and L looked on in dismay while I bent over with "OW!" as the poor insect fought valiantly to escape. AL, now all business, said, "We can either go to the doctor's house in Cherra or drive to Shillong, 2 hours away." L, a local Shillong boy, spoke Khasi fluently. "Shillong," we both said. No contest. AL called the driver and declining his suggestion of a merry breakfast with an incredulous look, L and I left for Shillong.

In the car, L and I looked at each other. I could tell he wanted to laugh. "Does it still hurt?" he asked instead. I gingerly shook my head. Nothing. I did it again, slightly firmly. Nothing. It had died. Inside my ear. I could feel it still, a weight, now dead, in my ear. I was wrong. This was the grossest thing to have ever happened, I thought gloomily. L kept me distracted all the way to Shillong with stories about Meghalaya, friends I didn't know, cats he'd seen, anything at all. Now that the thing had died, my ear wasn't hurting, I just had to deal with how disgusting this situation was. YUCKS!

We reached Shillong in record time and pulled into Bethany Hosiptal. L spoke to the doctor in Khasi as I stood quietly by. Till now, I had not concentrated on this part at all. In the car, I had gratefully listened to L but now, I would have to face this. Would they pull it out? What if it was too deep? Oh god. And YUCKS! I did not miss the amused look the doctor shot in my direction during the conversation. He took me to the OPD immediately, sat me down and flashed a torch in my ear. Yes, he confirmed. It is a bug. A roach. I didn't realise until then that though I knew it was a roach, a part of me was hoping he'd say, what? NO, it's just wax! Tut tut, silly child. Go home, now.

Damn. This thing had now been inside my ear for 5 hours.

"Please just get it out of me," I said resolutely. "Even if I scream, or cry or hit you, please just ignore me and just get it out." The doctor brought a set of clinical tweezers. Feeling supremely sorry for myself, I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together. I felt the cold metal in my ear and tensed as the doctor reached in and pulled. There were a few seconds of pain after which he pulled away and said, "I can't take this out. It is too deep inside." And then promptly turned away and started to speak to the nurse in Khasi.

"Wait!" I squeaked. "You can't take it out?? So then what??" The doctor held his arms up in a whoa, chill lady manner and said, "I mean, I can't remove it with this. I need larger tweezers." Oh, well, he should finish his sentences, no? How was I supposed to know? I settled back into my seat with as much dignity as I could muster. L was by now quite tickled by this adventure. The tweezers arrived and then the doctor wasted no time. "Brace yourself," he said. Like I had to be told. I don't think I'd relaxed my shoulders or exhaled since 5:30am. He plunged the metal in, I felt a tug, some pain that lasted for a few seconds and with a whoosh, it was out!

I didn't look at it, I didn't want to, but I knew it was big, because when the doctor pulled it out, both L and the nurse collectively said, "Oh, JEE-SUSS!" L said I should keep it as a reminder. I looked at him as if he'd sprouted two heads. Was he mad? I was in no danger of forgetting this. No matter how much I tried. The doctor gave me antibiotics so I would be infection-free and as soon I returned to Mumbai a few days later, I went to an ENT and got everything checked and cleaned.

See the second line. It says, "Insect gone inside ear". Haha.

L and I went to his house from the hospital, where we were both hysterical with laughter about what had happened. Once my friends heard, they were all sorry for me for around two seconds before the roach jokes started. "What if it's laid eggs and you have loads of baby roaches in your ear in a few weeks?" EW. Or "What if its friends come get you?" Or "Arre wah, inke liye toh ab tumhara kaan hi kaafi hain!"

Oh, ha ha, very funny. I hung up on them.

My ear had been through enough for one day.

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. :)