Running amok

Maya is lying on her back in the assembly-hall of an old school. The floor is cold but she finds comfort in it. It's early morning and the lights are off. Her eyes are shut, and her body is still. But she can feel the faint moisture of the impending rains. She loves monsoons. It symbolizes carefree-ness. She thinks about the fact that she never owned an umbrella. She never even used one. What a waste of a surprise shower of love!

She thought of the school - abuzz with kids running around, their parents animatedly discussing the tuitions and the extra music class for extra-curricular certificates, the rising prices of school uniforms and the teacher who was "soo strict na!".
Somehow she recollected exactly how it felt to run amok - to be chased and chase. To really be fearless about slipping. And the exact moment she actually slipped, got badly bruised and had to be rushed to the hospital for stitches.
Of course, she hadn't understood any of this, then. She was infatuated by the boy who was chasing her, and was kinda glad that he had a role to play in a seemingly major event of her life at that point (praying parents and kins, more blood than she had ever seen, getting consolation from unknown people).

She was lost in thought when suddenly someone nudged her shoulders.
She opened her eyes and tried to get up but couldn't. There was a man staring at her. He was dressed in a dirty off-white overcoat. He looked like a doctor who had long lost the compassion for his patient, or definitely didn't show it. He whispered something in her ear - "You have less than a day. What do you want to do today?"
She panicked. Oh god! What a task - how does one cram "as much life as possible" into one day? She wondered if she would be better off without this information.
But now, what could she summon from her life that represented the best? Should she just get a couple of glasses of Capirinska and feel light-headed, or perhaps up the ante a little bit and float on some clouds?
Or may be deep love and belonging. Yes, that's what counts. At least that's what she had read.

She asked the doctor for family and boyfriend and friends and all the people she could remember. Well, some didn't answer calls from unknown numbers. Some were too far away and had important client calls. A few arrived.
Her boyfriend met her first. He smiled at her and told her that "everything would be okay"... she was reminded of the hallmark get-well-soon cards with pink flowers and deep messages. She then thought of the cards that played a squeeky song when you opened them, and how much she hated them. He suddenly burst into tears. Do money bills soak water? She had never really tried that - but they did seem to get wet in the rains. Should she offer him her wallet to wipe the tears? She didn't have better use of her bills anymore. Such a weird utility for bills that she felt an impulse to write to the RBI.
This wasn't good. This certainly was not something she should do on her last day.

May be go to the gym. Or run. She liked running. And climbing. She loved the adrenalin rush that built up slowly during a run - and how it hit her when she ran beyond the point where she felt she just couldn't run anymore - the feeling of having conquered her physical limits by her mental awareness. That would be nice. Especially in the rains. She saw a storm building up. She asked the doctor for running shoes. There weren't any. He gave her the are-you-kidding-me look. And the hospital didn't seem to need to stock them. She thought of a niche segment for Nike to cater to - "last minute running shoes... for those in their last minutes... guaranteed to last a lifetime".

She felt like a loser. She shut her eyes... and was immediately drawn towards sleeping. She could do that, and if all went well, she could do what she loved the most (duh! why didn't she think of that) - dream!
She was dreaming blissfully when she was woken up again. This time with a sharp kick. She sprang up.

This time there were several men. They weren't particularly muscular like she had imagined the goondas to be. She realized just how bollywood-ized she was. Of course the real-life goondas don't have a scar on their face or bodies that put Salman to shame or a paan-filled mouth speaking a gory-yet-hilarious one-liner.... they are men like those she passes on the street. They glare at her and tell her that they are waiting for "dada" and he should be there in 4 hours.
She can do what she wants until then.

She finds this weird. It's more bollywoodish that she thought. Something's definitely wrong. They were letting her off the hook for some hours?
She brushes aside the meta thoughts and thinks of other adrenalin-pumping things.
She gets a clear "no-brainer" answer. But how could _she_ ask for it? Sure she's read about how it can be awesome, especially with the knowledge that one has such limited time. But her fake sense of 'dignity' and propriety get the better of her.

May be she could read a book. There was an unfinished book lying on her bathroom window. Her potty book. It came highly recommended. It was not her favorite category- self-help books never cut it for her. But she loved herself too much to not try to help herself.
She tried recollecting the "Seven Habits". She realized the last thing she had read was "Live like there's no tomorrow".

She found that strange. A little too strange. A little too surreal.
She looked at the men with the startle of an epiphany in her eyes. They smiled knowingly. What a coincidence!
And then the men blurred... all into one. Their frail bodies merged to form a single body with a dirty, off-white coat. More smiles.

She panicked more. What was she doing? Where was she? Is this the end? Or post-end?

The lights went on. Surprisingly the tube-lights were strong enough to light the room even in the dark of the monsoon morning. There were many people around her, sitting upright in a disciplined fashion.

Prolonged Shavaasan always did this to her. Instead of relaxing her, it would inundate her mind with thoughts at an alarming frequency, so much that she could hardly handle it without engaging her mind with wild imaginative stories.

She got up and chanted Om with the group. She walked out of the hall, to the spot where she was once ran fearlessly, at maniacal speeds with grip-less footwear.

The Past and Furious

Belgium, for all that's said about it, is a colorful and powerful country. But the view of a traveler is so dramatically influenced by personal experiences, that abstracting out from travelogues is a gross approximation.

And that's especially true if you are a solo female traveler who meets an intellectual criminologist - a witty man who speaks English as a second language, using little-too-appropriate words and wren-and-martin grammer.
She had met him earlier, and now she was in his town as if by chance, but actually because she had planned this visit in her itinerary. He came to pick her up at Eindhoven, a small town in Netherland, and they crossed the border to Belgium by car. (crossing national borders so easily just doesn't come so easy to Indians).
Initially it was awkward, but he being him, went on to spout information, crack jokes etc. Even the silence got comfortable. They reached his house and directly headed for the lawn where they sat under the sun, drinking beer. They talked about travel, grass, music, wacky crimes, teaching, ex-girlfriends, cynicism (not connected to ex-girlfriends), poetry and people skills. They yapped till it was late evening. He took her out for a stroll to show her his part-time job - owning & managing a cozy and chilled cafe in his town. They walked along the wharf and watched the waves. After dinner, they went home where he put on world music and poured some wine. They danced - he did some solos and she laughed with tears in her eyes... watching him perfom his moves, in the candle light. It was a magical evening.

She then moved on in her travels, and he, in his life. It was a dream sequence of life that happened while she was transitioning from one state to another - one mindset to another - one roadblock to another.
It made a lasting impact - to have seen something very beautiful is to set a standard - to measure everything that comes consecutive on that yardstick - to see things not as they are, but in comparison to that most beautiful thing.

And then, after a few years, came the day when there was a new development... from old times.
She found herself amidst a newer setting - not the carefree and breezy one as that of a travel-junkie, but the grounded and pragmatic approach of a 'settled' mind. It made sense to play a game that was socially more acceptable and had more guaranteed returns, than the one which was suspended on hopes of reliving the fresh life of travel and love and everything free and liberating. One in hand seemed clearly better than two in the bushes of expectations and dreams.

This newer setting came home :-)
He chanced upon her belongings and picked up a tattered paper from her travel memoirs... it read "Cafe Zuidpool, Belgium".
He looked at her quizically and raised an eyebrow "Ah, that Belgian guy you kinda liked, na?".
It seemed like such a crass sentence. It was like describing Dhobi Ghat as : "A movie where a rat-killer fell in love with a photographer"... a true but painfully incomplete sentence with irrelevant details.

He dropped the paper and the talk. She picked up the paper and the thought.

Sometimes, a chance glance at the clothes while walking past the shop and wondering how they would look on you, is way better than going into the shop to buy them.

Blissful Ignorance

What a silly rat! - little did it know that it's quick scurry across the room would churn the juices of the onlookers' stomach, the wrong way.
It was a strange sight - all of us busy in our worlds . There were two men - a young and a slightly older colleague with strange spectacles - discussing their mundane work and the mundaneness of it.
There was an extended family of 6 crowding on a table meant for 4, ordering meal for more than 8.
On the next table was a solo guy, ostensibly hungry and waiting impatiently for his order to arrive.. checking his cellphone every 5th second.

And the rat made it's move. Somehow, everyone saw it in that split second - that black blob move across the tainted marble, out of the kitchen.
There was a longer second of silence after that subtle verdict on the quality of Mysore Sada Dosa and 'fresh' watermelon juice that most people were consuming.
Finally, the kid in the family of 6 suddenly cried, and broke the discomforting silence. All got back to eating.

Information is not always good. It comes in the way of new decisions, it makes you reconsider older decisions that were made with clarity & certainty... it an annoying piece of data that sits idly in your brain and interferes with everything productive.
The worst part is that it's impossible to erase it, and difficult to ignore it. It peeps out at wrong times and stares you in your face, especially when you wish to overlook it.

It is precisely for this reason that reading books, watching movies, holding serious conversations etc are a double-edged sword. While they may serve as intellectual fodder, it is very difficult to undo them, once done.

Fire vs Water

It is the festival that celibrates the victory of good over evil.

I reach the venue of celebration, to see thousands of kindred souls, enraptured in the music... some trying to match their steps with the groups', others trying to come up with innovative steps... still others with eyes darting and following the moves of co-ordinated choreographies. As they move, there is a cacophony of colors of their attires - vibrant hues of bandhani used in chaniya cholis as well as modern-day adaptations of kurtis, along with the dangling of oxidized jewelry and the what-have-yous of the garba ensemble.

The music is good, the original songs have always been soulful. There is a marked difference in listening to them in the privacy of your room, versus dancing to them openly, boldly in public.

I move in rhythm - swirl, hop, kick, almost pirouette in the tempo for a couple of minutes... until the mix of daze and sweat stop me. Even as I stand and stare, I take vicarious pleasure in the people of other groups.

Some people come to join our dance group. They know someone from the group. I notice that it's a couple and their friend - a strikingly handsome guy.  He was the kinda handsome who, you would wish, would never open his mouth to talk or try to dance or do anything else that is high on your litmus test... you know that it is highly improbable that any of his actions would match up to his handsome-ness. In fact they are more likely to reduce his handsome-ness by reminding you of his fallibility.

Well, he looks around, seemingly unimpressed. He waits and composes himself, drinking water to cool himself, and letting the scene sink in. You can see that he is judging, but not letting the verdict show on his face.

In some time he joins in. He starts dancing. I watch him amidst my swivels, wanting to decide how good a swivel-er he is. But he is moving in his neither-impressive-nor-clumsy unique, confident style. He smiles occasionally.. almost to himself. He doesn't care if he's fitting in... but he knows he is in sync.

The stomach gets butterflies amongst all the blazing music and heat and the growing exhaustion. The basic instincts, of putting forth the best appearance, grip over. There is adjustment of clothes and hair and smiles and steps. The carefree-ness is marred by the unaware intruder. But the excitement is doubled. Along with the growing tempo of the songs, I sense a growing fire in the belly.

And then I see her - an exquisite face with a coquettish charm. She is dressed in bright peacock green, with the right shade of make-up. She is alone.
She is fiddling with her cellphone, and... looking around, unimpressed.

She looks at our group and decides to join. She is a killer dancer... with flawless synch and matching expressions. She is so graceful and riveting that it makes the 'weaker' dancers pause and watch in admiration.
There is an understandable renewed vigor amongst the men. There is greater energy.

The show goes on. The butterflies wax and wane... now there are additional butterflies of (peacock) green wings of envy.
People come and go. I dance and pause and resume and pause.

We are trying to decide on newer steps. I look around. Too much happening - vicarious stuff, colors, synchronizations, butterflies, humidity, and the escalating tempo of the beats. The show is almost coming to an end, as the music suggests.

And then, in a speechless moment, I see them talk. Clearly, they are introductions. Clearly, they are both playing hard-to-get.
Mysteriously, the butterflies escape.

I turn around to my boyfriend. He smiles and asks if I want water. I nod.
Comfortable love.

The Importance of Being Cool

You buy tees from Pantaloons and dresses from Ritu Kumars,
You read the paper every morning to not miss out on the lunch hour discussions
You listen to HipHop so that you can mouth the songs while grooving in the club
You don't answer personal calls at work coz you pretend to be busy at work
You wear halter bras to show a little bit
You put up pretty pics on FB and untag yourself from the unprettier ones
You want a knowledge-filled and social boyfriend
You use a Mac
You have your eyebrows in shape and ensure that no underarm curls sprout out
You talk about evolution with the authority of Darwin's first cousin
You talk about Futures and Options without knowing the underlying
You put up psychedelic posters on the walls of your room
You follow FIFA and the stock market and entrepreneurship blog with undetectable fake passion

You tread the path of coolness... you try to ooze as much of it as you can imagine

Can you afford to be uncool, is the question?
More like, do you have the courage to be uncool?

Squeezy

Read the paper during breakfast,
Check the stock prices while going to work,
Listen to music while working,
Browse the net while talking on the phone,

Dream while sleeping,
Calculate calories while working out,
Think of other conversations while conversing,
Rush around fervidly in this beautiful weather... all one has to do is pause, and stop the f*@#ing multitasking

Love's in the air

Falling in love has it's advantages, and catches.
However, re-falling in love has a different set of upsides and downsides.
And re-falling after several re-falls is a totally different ball-game. It is certainly not meant for the faint hearted.

For starters, even if the initial gush of love is strong, stronger is the caution that grips you from the fear of falling off the love-fence.  Romancing the idea of a long-lasting, 'happily ever after' liaison is given up, and its place is taken by pragmatic thoughts of potential issues that could crop up eventually. At odd times, when one is immersed in throes of passion, skepticism peeks out its annoying face to disrupt the bliss. And one of the biggest and unforeseen challenge is to not let the new participant's actions trigger those of the past ones. A joke, a song, the word selected... hell, even a sneeze can transport one to those 'good-old days' with good-ol participants of love. The more 'colorful' a past one has, the more compounded this problem gets.
Then there is the perennial thought-race of who is 'better'. An impossible answer to come up with. And just as impossible to get rid of these comparisons. I guess it's inherent. Humans compare people. That's not the problem. The problem is that this is socially considered to be insensitive. And so along with a seemingly-genuine confusion of 'whos better', there is an added baggage of guilt associated with asking such unkind questions.

So, what's the key to cracking the puzzle? Is it a wiser strategy to give up on love? How much can a human heart endure? What is the healthy option - to risk another damage, or to go ahead in hope?
A good friend had once given an interesting theory - every time one falls in love, one gives a piece of one's heart to the person. And when there is a break-up, the piece is lost. After several such endeavors, one has lost several pieces (big and small) and the size of the heart has considerably shrunk. Eventually not much of the heart is left to give, and since love primarily involves in giving a piece of heart to someone, one cannot fall in love after some critical number of attempts.
Although hilarious, this theory seems to make sense at different levels of abstraction, and is gradually rising the ranks to becoming my personal favorite.

There are other statistical theories that claim that you should just discard the first 30% of people you date, find the next best and stick on. But statistics get my mind muddled up, given their tricky nature...so, that theory is discarded.

All said and 'done', there is some truth to the adage- "the heart is forever inexperienced"
The butterflies in the stomach during the initial dates, the long dates that get over too quickly, the "good-night" calls stretching to a 3-hour late-night mushy talks, the storing of every sms on the cell only to re-read and re-live the moment... it feels good to be in this state.

Also, the re-falls have helped in aligning priorities, and discovering the must-haves in potential partners. Love is respected. It is taken seriously, it is given time and resources. It is not a 'by-the-way' activity, it is THE activity. There is an increased awareness of the emotional investment made.

More than anything else, one feels free and on top-of-the-world... fearless, flawless and filmy :-)