Freaky fashion

Today I decided to take up a subject that has eluded me ever since I became aware of its existence and the importance appended to it —fashion. Fashion and I share a mutual awe, the kind that you develop for something remote and incognisable. I have always given fashion a wide berth because of my abysmal depth of ignorance on the subject.  Whenever I try to summon my patience and focus my mind on exploring its marvels, fashion leaves me stumped.

A case in point —  the low -waist jeans. They should come with a statutory warning simply because there is no limit to how low it can get. A rage with the fashionistas, they barely manage to reach your waist. And if you decide to give the belt a miss, then you need divine intervention to keep it from sliding down further. I'm sure even those walking with a new-found swagger after donning that perfect and priceless pair, wait with bated breath for the terrible to happen. I bet they have that fear lurking somewhere behind that oh-so-cool demeanour.

Torn clothes once used to mean you are too hard up for cash to buy a new one. But now they are a statement. The distressed look doesn't reflect your state of being, but is carefully cultivated to notch up a few extra points as a natty dresser. So if your mother makes a dash for her sewing machine to mend your ragged jeans, please show some consideration. She just doesn't get the point, much like me.

A neat no-nonsense hair cut with a side parting and a perfect bhodrolok get-up. Is that your idea of a smart looker? Come, join the club, because like me you are also likely to be written off as too old-fashioned and out of sync with time. Haven't you heard of spikes and hair gels? I have always wondered how hair sticking out of your head exactly enhance your beauty quotient. To me, it looks more like a porcupine on the run. But what do I know of fashion?

That day, I met a friend after eons. As we got talking I couldn't help but get distracted by the little thingy under her lower lip. When I couldn't hold in my curiosity any longer, I told her there was something on her chin. I was almost going to wipe it off myself when she enlightened me on the object. That was a piercing and I was an official ignoramus. I won't blame her if she refuses to acknowledge my presence the next time we meet.

Since that meeting I have become acquainted with other types of body art, too...tattoos to be more precise. They find pride of place almost anywhere on the body. Permanent, temporary and semi-permanent, meaning they can be reworked as and when needed, tattoos are the "in" thing. So what if it peeks out from uncomfortable places? You can't stare at them without running the risk of being branded a pervert. Who will buy your excuse that you were merely trying to admire the art... or whatever little you can see of it?

So basically, I have given up on myself. I have resigned to the fact that I will continue to gape and gasp at these funky expressions of creativity without a clue as to what it is all about.

Road racers!

I have always tried to maintain a spotless record in terms of punctuality, and in the absence of very few personal achievements worth bragging about, I have assigned this small accomplishment a very special place in my heart. So I have decided to dedicate this post to one of the most ingenious contraptions that play a crucial role in helping me maintain the sanctity of my record — the autorickshaw.

Personally, I feel it has not got its due compared with other modes of transport. I admit that it flouts norms and takes on board more passengers than it can accommodate, but can you deny its indispensability? A traffic snarl that holds you to ransom, a series of vehicles refusing to budge and the ticking watch on your wrist that threatens to mar your speckless record for life, what option do you have other than hopping on to the first auto you can lay your eyes on? When you have appointments to keep and deadlines to meet, the auto driver is your knight in shining armour. And he knows this as well.

He can ram his way into the most inaccessible places and negotiate hurdles like a small gap between two buses that will compel even a bicycle rider to think twice before making his way through it. You may dismiss these as sheer disrespect for traffic laws, but I can't help but appreciate the talent.

So what if you have to make do with the cramped space at the back seat and almost no space in the front? That can't take away from the service they render in distress situations. If you want to save yourself the trouble of partially hanging out from the auto with your hands clutching on to the iron road as your only safety belt, you are stamped too snobbish for a ride. But I am even prepared to shrug off this supercilious treatment as a one-off case. Beggars can't be choosers.

Then there are other considerations before the driver allows you to take your seat. You have to be thin or of medium weight to sit at the sides. The healthier lot are not granted a seat at the front (good for them) for fear that the teeny-weeny vehicle might topple. Even at the back, they are made to sit in the middle to balance it out. And to top it all, you should consider yourself lucky if you produce a 10 rupee note and the driver doesn't snub you before deducting the fare. Tender the exact amount and spare the gentleman the trouble. It will not be fair on someone who takes all the trouble to help you cut your travel time by half. Come on, you can't reserve the credit due to them. They rule the road!

Out of sync

Psychedelic lights, a throbbing dance floor, a bar overflowing with drinks and a girl almost reduced to tears at one corner of the room.

I won't shame your intelligence by asking you to pick the odd one out. Yes, the girl almost on the verge of a panic attack would be me at my first tryst with my office party.

It was the first time I was seeing so many tipsy people at one place. There are no bounds to what a slight overdose of alcohol can do to people at these parties. The perfectly normal people, whom you meet everyday, take on a new avatar after treating themselves to generous quantities of liquor. Slightly tipsy, overtly tipsy, some trying hard not to be tipsy and some zonked out — there is hardly a type that you will find missing.

And there would be people like me — a perfect study in contrast — feeling like an extra-terrestrial being plunged right in the middle of absolute anarchy. Music at full blast, which sets your heart thumping so hard, you almost wish it would stop, and wild dance moves that could make you run for the sorcerer, these parties have a unique way of making the uninitiated feel like a square peg in a round hole. It's that awkward moment when you realise that what's supposed to be a fun way of winding down, can actually make you break out into a cold sweat.

Half of the evening was spent in playing "catch me if you can" with friends and acquaintances threatening to drag me on to the already crowded dance floor the moment they spotted me in the half-lit room. The latter half was devoted to searching someone equally or more old-fashioned, or if I'm allowed to dilute the sugar content of the expression, someone sticking out like a sore thumb in that ambience, to accompany me back to office.

Thankfully enough, there were some who had their cognitive powers intact to realise that it was getting late. They were not in a position to give attention to details or else they would not have missed the intense expression of gratitude in my eyes.

Past perfect

Childhood memories have a curious way of staying on with you even when you have past your prime. In those days, all you had to do was go to school, come back and devise strategies to bypass maths homework to prolong the time spent with friends playing outside. An unsullied mind, carefree disposition and bucketloads of energy…we didn’t know what wanting for more was like.

I have heard many say that when they were young, they wished they could grow up fast. I, on the contrary, always knew that I would be terribly missing these days. True, I hated maths and wanted to wish it away, but the evenings spent at the playground and the gully cricket tournaments more than compensated for it.

I was the only female member in my all-boys para gang and the only discrimination I faced was in the football field where I was always made the goalkeeper, while the boys dribbled away the ball to glory.  But I more than made up for my lost chance at exhibiting my talent at the cricket matches. With a cricket bat almost my size, I would whack the ball over the terrace wall everytime a full toss was delivered to me. No doubt I was much in demand during team selections.

We would squabble over inanities one day and blissfully forget about it the next; raise a ruckus during quiet afternoons in the pretext of a game and still get away with it.

There was a certain innocence about that gender-neutral friendship, which somehow got lost along the way. Some of my friends drifted apart, some got busy with their lives and some simply grew up too fast.

Today, the rules of the game have undergone a sea change. Kids play football, but at cyber cafes; they flaunt their tricks with the ball and dodge the opponent seated at the computer next to him. They cheer a goal and throw up their hands in despair when the ball misses the net, oblivious of the fact that they are mistaking the virtual reality for the real and losing out on so much more in the process.

Today, childhood, it seems, is in a hurry to graduate to the next level. Playgrounds are a rarity and kids romping around in them even more so. The click of the mouse in the sheltered cocoon more familiar than the dust and grime accompanied by innumerable cuts and bruises.

The oozing blood from my knees, that followed my first cycle ride, and the Dettol-soaked cotton was no doubt painful, but it also taught me that wounds heal over time and pave the way for a more thrilling ride the next time — making both the fall and the rise equally significant and worthwhile.

To grandparents, with love

I have observed that I have a special liking for old people. Thinning grey hair, a disarming toothless grin and a truckload of stories to tell - grannys and grampas have a way of sneaking into a cozy corner of your heart in no time. Each wrinkle on their forehead has a different story to tell. Be it their allusion to the times when 10 paise would fetch them a canful of candies to how the world was much simpler back then.

On a more personal note, my grandparents have a very special place in my heart. For me, they belong to that age that I wish I could be born in. I have vicariously tried to live their lives when they ruminated about the years gone by. They have an adorability quotient, which is comparable to a toddler. Perhaps this explains the special bond my sister and I shared with them in our formative years.

My mother alleges that my Dadu had a huge influence in spoiling my sister beyond rectifiction. Not that she has turned out to be a bratty girl, but the fact is my mom didn't get a free hand in scolding or beating her up as a disciplinary measure. Dadu would invariably intervene and rescue my sis — who would often use her vocal chords to maximum capacity even before my mom had landed a blow on her — from my mother's tyranny.

I have also seen Dadu concocting amusing stories for my sis, who was nothing short of a tyrant in her insistence that she wouldn't hear any stories that had already been told, nothing from the newspapers and nothing that remotely sounded like an excerpt from a real life incident. That would leave the poor man with little option but to stretch his imagination and fabricate stories that sounded hilarious to maturer ears.

One night, he was really exhausted and dozing off to sleep, but my sister, the hard taskmaster that she is, was still not satisfied with my Dadu's ingenuity. Dadu, who had already exhausted his repertoire, came out with a gem. "Once upon a time, there was a king. He married the queen and then... the tiger ate them up."  You can't imagine the punishment meted out to him for this utter disrespect for a plot. Now he had to tell her a story even during the afternoon.

Metro ride

If you thought survival of the fittest was the rule of the jungle and we as human beings have come quite far from there, you should try squeezing yourself into one of the metro coaches at the peak hour. You would consider yourself the luckiest person alive if you are able to come out unscathed.

Trying to commute by the metro during the Puja holidays is by far the most adventurous feat I have achieved. And believe me, that makes me no less an achiever. In the hindsight, I should have taken the winding line in front of the ticket counter as a broad hint of the impending danger, but there are days when the analytical part of your brain just switches itself off. And in any case, I assumed that working during Pujas was the worst curse that could befall anyone. I was obviously wrong.

As the train stopped at the station, my heart skipped a beat and I instantly realised how foolhardy I had been. The coach was full to the brim and if looks could kill, I would have been by then knocking at the Heaven's door going by the way people, who were already jostling for space, looked at me. I was more than thankful to spot a corner where I could fit myself in. The subsequent stations put the flexibility of my body to a tough test. It began with balancing myself on one foot to almost hugging the woman seated in front who was occasionally fulminating strange anathemas at my audacity to pass on almost half of my weight on to her. I have noticed that in a packed train, people who have found themselves a seat and the not-so-lucky get divided into two belligerent camps. At one station, I saw people literally spilling out of the compartment as soon as the gates opened. It still didn't deter some standing outside. They tried to gain an entry almost with a vengeance. The icing on the cake? Armed security men using their rifle butts to push those still hanging out.

Suddenly I realised I needed to shirk off my immobility and approach the gate if I were to get down at the right place even at the cost of displeasing those around me who were beginning to enjoy a new-found comfort in leaning on to others. With little sanction of free will, I stepped on a couple of feet and pulled someone by her hair. However, before I could make my way safely to the door, I got back what I gave. For the first time I cursed my long hair, which I found was holding me back. As I looked back with the most hapless expression, my faith in human kindness was restored. Two women were busy extricating my hair from the evil clutch of the swelling crowd. As the door opened, the train spat me out on the station much to my relief. By then I had sunk into a mental inertia.

Future Focus

Of late, I am having a feeling that we tend to attach too much importance to our future...even if it translates into sacrificing  our present at its alter. I feel the past and the present are more palpable and far less threatening than the future. We know what we have been through and what we are experiencing at the moment, but it's the inscrutable and uncertain quality of the future that is intimidating. We should make good of what we have, not what can be. Worrying about the future takes out chunks of happiness from our present. Looking forward for a better tomorrow is one thing, putting your present on hold is another. In any case, that one gentleman up above has His plans etched out for us. All we can do is work on now, this instant, to serve as a strong edifice for tomorrow; hope for the best and accept with grace if it turns out otherwise.

Kid at the crossroad

The car screeched to a halt at the traffic signal. It was a sultry day and looking at the snaking traffic in front of us, we braced ourselves for another 10-15 minutes of suffocation inside the heated tin box. Moments later, a boy, not more than five years approached the car window saying something faintly audible but with a curious droning quality to it. I was seated by the window listening to my i-pod and was jolted out of my trance by this sudden intervention. The boy stretched out his palm for money. My aunt next to me was ready with her set piece of advice that she invariably mouths when she chances upon a child begging for money. "why don't you go to school? Why are you wasting your time begging on streets? Don't you wish to learn to read and write?"  All this while, I was thinking that the matter would have been wrapped up by parting with a 10 rupee note. My past experiences, and there have been quite a few, have made me realise that words like these possibly feel like hot molten metal on ears when hunger rages like fire in the stomach. But my aunt was in no mood to throw in the towel before she had made the kid see the utter futility of his daily exercise and realise the greater good for him and his people. By this time, the traffic signal had turned green. The kid, who had already had enough of the aunt's generous dose of advice, had moved on to the next car to try his luck after a poor showing. Just when our car was about to turn right from the crossroad, I caught a glimpse of that boy. He was pointing at our car and laughing. That laughter has a queer quality to it. It was a cross between a smirk and a sneer with a tinge of mockery. Was he mocking us, our empathy which was not worth a dime for him? Or was he taunting his fate, the hopelessness of his situation, where each of his hopes and dreams were being dashed by the reality every day? Where the basics that we take for granted seem like luxury to him, and aspiring for them a sacrilege.

Expectations

Expectations can ruin your peace of mind. Being normal people going about their normal lives, it's hard for us to actually comprehend this fact, but truth be told...nothing is more true than this. When you expect to be the best and end up being just good enough, it gives rise to a considerable amount of self doubt, which is hard to shake off. You tend to get fixated on it and it does no good to your subsequent assignments as well. This can be demoralising. Knowing your true worth and then setting a reasonable target for yourself seems like a workable solution. You don't need to be the best always. Rather you should work at bettering yourself; not to outdo others, but to outshine your previous performance and set a new benchmark for yourself.
Expectation can also mould your relationship with others in curious ways. When we do something good for someone, we start expecting a similar favour in return. Trouble begins when the concerned person fails to live up to our expectations. It somehow changes our equation with that person. There is no one-size-fits-all solution to this tricky poser. One way is to disabuse your mind of any expectations. However, to train your mind to think in this way is easy to preach but pretty difficult to put into practice. It takes loads of patience.

Thoughts galore

This blog could have come into being much earlier had I been able to summon up the humungous effort of organising the innumerable thoughts that crowd my mind. A linear thought process is so much simpler. A world divided into hermetically sealed compartments of right and wrong or black and white would have made so much more sense. Even as I write this post, I continue to put up a brave fight against digressive thoughts that cloud my clarity of mind. So here's my point: whom do you trust to avoid an error of judgement  — your heart or mind? Can you ever be sure of how it functions? Or more importantly, can they ever function in an independent way, without being coloured by our prejudices, inhibitions, dogmas and self-interests? 

Initiation

I have always been intrigued by the power of words... Its ability to
give a shape to your thoughts and help you communicate. Sometimes it
flows smooth and easy, while at others it plays hard-to-get leaving you
groping for the right expression. Words used with the right intent can
ameliorate pain and offer the much-needed comfort. On the other hand,
they can cut you to the quick and scar your soul for life when they
take on an acerbic flavour. It's this inherent strength of words that
has always awed me and it's with the incredibly implausible mission of
exploring this mysterious aspect of words that I begin this blog.