Falak

Raghav was very happy today. His wife, Shaina, had gone to visit her parents. He was all by himself tonight. He couldn't contain his excitement. Today when he went home; it would not be Shaina's nagging face that greeted him. Falak would be there for him. Oh, how he had missed Falak, missed those comforting arms around him. But today, he would get a taste of heaven.

Raghav was from a prominent business family of the city. He was the eldest son and was expected to marry into a family that matched his social status. He was supposed to marry a beautiful, rich girl; whether he liked it or not. And being an obedient son, he did so. He married Shaina. She was everything a business man's wife could be. She was smart, she was a great hostess – she was just perfect. But like all socialites; she was the perfect bitch too. Life was hell with her. And what was more; try as hard as he might, he could not bring himself to love her. She wouldn't let him divorce her too; not that he had the courage to file a suit. And so, he did all that was expected of him, playing the perfect provider. The only bright spot in their marriage was their 4 year old daughter, Sara. Luckily, she had taken after him.

He finished his work and rushed back home. Falak was there – just as he had expected. Falak's face lit up on seeing him. Raghav took in the sight in front of him. Neat white T-shirt and a smart pair of shorts. He shuddered with pleasure. Falak smiled sensuously, "Welcome home, darling. Sara's fast asleep. What took you so long?" They hugged each other tight. Raghav felt that this was a true home-coming. How he wished he could be with Falak forever! But, he didn't have the guts. Anger welled up in him – why couldn't he have his share of happiness?

Falak sensed his tension and eased away. He smiled ruefully. "Come sweetheart, I have made some chicken fried rice for you." "I can't wait to have it, Falak." They ate savouring each other's company. God! How badly he wanted the night to last forever. But that was not to be; so they had to live each moment of the night. After dinner, they sat down to watch a rerun of Will and Grace. This was pure bliss – Falak's head nestled against his shoulder. The night was running out. No, he couldn't let it go like that. He hugged Falak closer. Falak looked into his eyes. "I love you, Raghav." Feeling gushed forth as he tightened his grip; almost smothering Falak, "I love you, love you." And they made love – slowly, passionately. Every move unleashed the love that had been suppressed for so long. The inevitability of their separation when Shaina returned, just fuelled the passion.

The next morning; they continued the pretense of a happy home. Raghav lazed on the sofa with the newspaper; while Falak made coffee. They smiled at each other contentedly. Just then Sara walked in with her teddy bear, rubbing her sleepy eyes. As soon as she saw Falak she squealed and ran upto him, "Falak uncle, you lied to me. I slept soon; but the Pumpkin Fairy did not hide any present under my pillow. Now buy me a chocolate." "Ok sweetie, now be a good girl and go brush your teeth," Falak hugged Sara. Raghav watched on wistfully – if only they could be a family!

Being 'Firang' and easy

When the Slumdog debate was at its peak, Tarun Tejpal wrote a scathing piece in Tehelka on the stereotypes associated with Indians. It was a brilliantly written piece like most of Tarun Tejpal’s work and had received a lot of positive comments. But there was one strong voice of dissent. It was a letter by a foreigner, a lady, who questioned the righteous anger of Indians by asking uncomfortable questions about our own portrayal of ‘firangs’ in Bollywood. She wondered if showing all foreign women as only sex symbols and easy wasn’t a stereotype. Foreigners in Hindi movies were addicts, sex-o-maniacs or home-breakers, so wasn’t that unfair to them she asked. I was reminded of this statement when I was covering the gang rape of the American student at TISS. The headlines in the newspapers next day screamed that the boys hadn’t anticipated that she would cry rape. Why? Did the boys think that being American she would just shrug it all off as a time pass orgy? I cant remember the last time I heard someone talk nice things about a ‘firang’ girl. Mostly they are a subject of sexual curiosity and lewd jokes. Her skirts, her white skin, her smile, everything is considered as an ‘invitation’, even if the poor girl is just being herself. Yes, you may say that it is the great cultural difference amongst us, which makes it difficult for the average Indian male to understand that a woman could just be friendly with you, hang around with you, drink with you, without having once thought of ‘seduction’. And that is perhaps the only ‘mistake’ this girl made – that of thinking that these people thought of her as a friend and not as an easy catch. If thought this way, yes, it was all her fault, wasn’t it?

Mating

The tomcat sitting on the roof opposite Anjana's window was trying to mate. He was smelling the tabby up though she was resisting and mewling almost violently. But he was stronger. He was trying to overpower her and pull her down. He was clawing wildly. The tabby was not giving in either. She clawed and scratched and both of them were rolling all over the tin roof. The mewling grew louder, almost unbearable. It seemed that the tomcat was winning. He had managed to pin the tabby down, her mewls were becoming soft whimpers. But in a sudden show of strength the tabby clawed at the tomcat's eyes. The tomcat screeched and jerked away. Anjana watched with some satisfaction as the tabby ran away to safety just as her own 'lover', her husband, was finishing slobbering all over her.

Life under the flyover

The bus stop near my office overlooks a parking lot beneath the Big Bazaar flyover in Lower Parel. Every evening as I wait for my regular bus there, I see atleast 2-3 couples camped there. The parking lot is clear of vehicles by this time and is fairly dark. So these couples stand near the pillars, the guys resting against them and the girls gazing up adoringly at them and sometimes doing more. Reminds me of the movie Piya ka ghar. In a city starved of space and privacy, any and every remotely empty space quickly gets occupied.

But privacy starved couples are not the only ones who prefer the somewhat dark and damp surroundings beneath flyovers. A whole world exists beneath Mumbai’s flyovers. The flyover near the Dadar West station for example. Flower vendors, clothes hawkers, cobblers, vegetable vendors – you name it and you can find them there. That flyover is always bustling with activity. There is even a full fledged, fully operational successful restaurant there. Optimum utilisation of space is something that one should learn from Mumbaikars. Of course, this flyover is also congested and the pungent smell of spices makes it almost difficult to walk past it. But the constant activity and hustle and bustle leave you amazed.

Flyovers also solved one of the biggest problems that south Mumbai faces – decent parking space. Parking slot leases earn the flyover managers a tidy sum every month. As you walk past, you see the weary drivers lounging in the expensive gaadis of their bosses who have gone for a meeting or are busy shopping. One door of the car would be open and the driver’s leg would be jutting out of it and Himesh would be playing loudly from the stereo. Or else you would see them chatting up other drivers and maybe playing cards. There is even a second hand vehicle dealership shop under one of the flyovers in Parel.

Then there are the homeless. Families that beg on the signals also live under these flyovers. Their children can be frequently seen running around naked and playing under the flyovers. Even children from chawls use these spaces for their cricket matches on Sundays. With most of the recreational grounds encroached upon by high end clubs or slums in the city, these spaces beneath the flyovers are also alternate recreation grounds. In some places, even slums have come up underneath the flyovers. There have even been drives to evacuate these encroachers, but more often than not, they return in a few days.

At night you find these spaces taking on a different and somewhat dangerous hue. At night, these are gambling dens. Drug dealers wait about and some of the flyover spaces also serve as pick up points. The weary daily wage labourer who doesn’t have a roof over his head also comes here to rest. The chaiwalas who sell chai and bun on a cycle all night can also be found near some of them. But at the crack of dawn again these spaces are bustling with activity and the cycle starts again.

Then there is also the life along the flyover, which I had mentioned in my first post on this blog. The life in the homes whose windows overlook the flyover. Homes that stand naked in front of the traffic buzzing past, a traffic that hardly cares to look into these open windows, so atleast that way, the privacy of these homes is safe. These spaces again are a distinct feature of Mumbai’s somewhat crazy, somewhat distinct lifestyle. All this can happen only in a city like Mumbai :-)

The Parting

They were sitting on a bench at the seaface. The twilight silhouetted their bodies and added to the gloom. She looked up suddenly and said, “Maybe it could have worked. Maybe I should have done it differently.”

“No Seema, some things just aren’t meant to be. It was probably just destiny that brought us to this stage. Nothing you could have done could have prevented this.”

“But why did it have to be like this, Jatin? I did try, trust me I did; though it may seem to you that I didn’t, but I did try. I had never believed I would fail like this.”

“I had never believed I could turn out like this too. Things that were so beautiful, so endearing in the beginning, I never really thought we would drift apart. But sometimes we just have to move on in life. I know both of us tried, but it simply didn’t work out for us.”

“Maybe you are right, its just destiny. We should forget all this and move on. We should start afresh. This day is over, but another would dawn soon.”

“Yes, come on, let me drop you home. By the way, what will you tell them about vanishing to the seaface, so soon after your husband’s tragic death?” He laughed bitterly at his own joke.

She smiled, a smug smile. “Its simple, I had to get away from the memories you see. The memories of seeing him come home wearing a different scent day after day. The memories of his ridicule. It was good that you told me about those guys. A builder being shot is not so uncommon. I am rid of him now and yes it feels good.”

“Was the least I could do for you. Your husband, he was just like Sheeba, both of them just trampled all over us. I didn’t want anyone else to suffer the way I had. So when I arranged for the top class socialite Sheeba to be murdered by a so-called stalker, I thought an underworld man could rid you also of your problems.”

“Good riddance then. When is your train?” She asked as she was about to enter her house.

“I am leaving tomorrow. Its goodbye to this town and to that horrid past and yes to you too. Do take care of yourselves and I hope you find someone better.” He smiled and then they went their own ways.

Rasam

She watched as the reddish brown liquid slowly trickled down the drain. Her tomato rasam had gone wrong even this time. It never tasted like she wanted it to be. Never like her mother’s. No matter what she did. She knew she couldn’t ever manage to make it like that, but she had to try, if only to face the failure again and again.

She remembered the countless days, as a child when she rushed back from school because she knew her mother had made rasam. She used to have it with rice and then drink up a bowl full like it was some therapeutic soup. She absolutely loved it. Everyone in her family knew her love for rasam. Aunties and grannies at times tried to entice her with promises of rasam at their homes. But no one made it like her mom and so she never had rasam at their places.

Then she had to leave for higher studies. Every time she returned for holidays, her mom greeted her with rasam. Then she got a job and the prospect of returning to her hometown and to her mom’s rasam dimmed by the day. So she got the recipe from her mom and started making it on her own. Her rasam was a hit among friends. At every house party, she was the official cook and she would call up her mom and thank her for teaching her such a beautiful thing. Her new friends had become her new life. And one day Abhishek walked into this life. Abhishek with his shy demeanour and soothing voice. It started with cute smses. The smses became long phone calls and the phone calls translated to long walks by the beach and soon they were in love. Abhishek told her later that she entered his heart via a bowl of rasam. Nothing could have been more beautiful.

She couldn’t imagine life without him. But her parents wouldn’t hear of it. She tried convincing them. Abhishek tried to pacify them. But they wouldn’t budge. Her mother who had never raised her voice at her, had raised a hand. Still she thought that maybe they would agree after a time. She married Abhishek.

It had been ten years and every week she tried to cook rasam. Abhishek had always liked it, but it never felt right to her. So after a year she had stopped serving it to him. But she still made it, hoping to get it right. If only the masala was right, if only she had waited some more for it to boil, if only the colour was a bit darker, if only the tomatoes were juicer. If only, her mother took her calls. The rasam drained away…

Closure

It just hits you from nowhere. This feeling of closure. One day you are sitting and wallowing that there doesn’t seem to be any goodness left in the world, and then suddenly someone manages to show you the light and you are left counting your blessings. That was how she felt now.

For a year now, she had been living like a zombie. The end of her relationship had made her suspect she would never feel again. There had been the usual damp pillow stage, then the determined, put it aside stage and finally the getting on with whatever is left stage. For quite sometime now, she had just been getting along. She had stopped doing a lot of things. Not that any of them reminded her of him. Just that so many things had stopped making sense to her now practical mind. And it helped that the we-are-so-grown-up world around her, wanted her to kill her exuberance and appear as practical and professional as they were. So she played the part well now. No one she met knew that she had any kind of life other than her job. No one knew the dreamer that once lived in her and those who could sense it, despised that quality in her, because it didn’t fit with her practical surroundings.

Life was a home to office routine and it didn’t help that she had always been a loner. So much so that she no longer knew how to interact with people and as she had no desire to make a fool of herself, she just kept away. Aloof in her own world, battling her own demons, trying to make loved ones understand her innermost thoughts and failing each time. She had forgotten that she was young; that she could breathe. Everything was on autopilot. She shuddered at the thought of having someone else share a day with her. She was afraid that if she had fun today, she may have to pay for it later. So she modeled her life after everyone’s expectations. How ironic then, that these burdensome expectations would be the catalyst for her.

She was expected to attend that function. Not because of her own love for music, but because it was a social call and no one else in her family could make it that day. It was there that she got her closure. As the band belted out song after song, all old numbers, it was as if all the years of her life were being played out in the screen of her mind. There was the song that was the first ever song that she sang, the one that reminded her of that one evening at the amusement park, the one about the time of her first serious crush, the one when she had started taking lyrics seriously, the one that had fired her ambition, the one that accompanied her on lonely nights. The songs kept coming one after another, just like the tears that were flowing from her eyes. She once again felt her eyes fill with dreams. Dreams that those songs promised, dreams that were hers in the past, dreams that she had deliberately buried under the tears. Today they were all flowing out. It was like she had just been cured of her amnesia. She could remember who she was now. The zombie born of others’ expectations had died. With her vision cleared, she could see her own expectations now and she knew she had to live for them now. Even if it was a gamble, it was worth taking and she was ready to play now.