An evening's wait

I know not, I don't find out, I can't find out, I won't find out. Not wanting to hope, not looking out, not waiting. I sit, I get up, I stretch, I lie, then sit, then straighten, then lock my arms across my chest.

The powder puffs on my face, the liner outlines my eyes, a lipstick softens my lips and the perfume settles on my skin. A dew of excitement leaves tiny drops of hanging sweat by the temples. I let them be, I let them tease the nerve under the skin there, in preparedness for the drops to fall.

The mole I thought had gone away has returned for a summer visit, almost pushing its way through my skin. It erupts, it stings my skin and then it makes my chin its home.

I welcome it, as I welcome the familiar routine of people not keeping time. As if it were inevitable, as if I almost deserve it.

DON'T WEAR THEM CLOTHES GIRL, YOU'LL HAVE A NIGHT YOU DON'T WANNA REMEMBER

Let’s try to make this simple for those who are provoked to raise an eyebrow and let the tongue out at the slightest hint of a bare leg. Next time we go partying, we’ll wear back breaking Victorian gowns that cover till the ankle and muffle till throat. What we’ll help you do is keep your arms where they belong, below your stinking pits and your tongues inside your filthy mouths.

OK? NO?

You’ll still think we’re out to provoke you? Just because we’re NOT showing, hence, leaving so much to your imagination that you can’t wait to find out?

Then what would you suggest we wear? A robe? a burqa? a bedsheet?...we’ll wear anything if it keeps us from getting molested by 20 of you on the streets..but we don’t think even those would help.

We’re guessing you’ll draw a DUH!!! at that and say,


 “Baby whatever you wear, don’t make the effort, we’ll undress you in a second and think you’re WANTING for us to do whatever we want to do with you, so why waste so much money on skirts, coz the length don’t matter.

Because you’re partying and having a good time, we’ll define how much fun you can have, and even if you don’t want to we don’t care. Coz we’re not taking NO from you! You can drink, you can smoke, you can dance, you can laugh, you can make pouty faces and look into the camera OR you can work till late in the night, have a family to go back to, a simple happiness to live. Doesn’t matter what you do and why you do it, when we’re hungry and we want it, we SHALL NOT DISCRIMINATE.

We are proud citizens of an egalitarian society, doesn’t matter that when we were in school, we used to go quiet when the pledge came to that ‘sister’ thingie, please understand that in our hearts we felt it.  Our morally upright, socially conscious being still feels that you in your skirt have the power to ruin the image of the motherland. When the president can go to work covered from head to toe with only a bespectacled face showing, what gives you the right to bare an arm or leg or two? Doesn’t matter that she’s nearing 90, you should look up to her. Dress like her and maybe we’ll not get provoked. We’re so quick to titillate that your sartorial shortcomings can send us to heaven and back.

When your male friends have a fight at a bar we’ll quickly beat them to death or if they run away with their tails between their legs, we’ll take our anger out on you. You see, we work shitty jobs, get off to women we can never touch, are poorly paid(relative though that is), pretend to provide for a family we don’t care about and basically are just living. So when you come around, in that little skirt of yours, smelling of promise, HOW can we contain the joy of such divine generosity?

 So what we do is, we call some more such frustrated beings and we feast on your juicy self in a collective head rush of hormones, anger, lust and a knowing regret of the mortality of this moment.

And the best thing is, we have videos shot of it, so we can relive the joy over and over again, we have passersby cheering us on silently, we make a grand celebration of it. Watch while we make you a film star! The more you protest, the madder we get, the more your scream, the more we want to hit you, so flail your legs all you want, the production value just gets better.

Our communal desire knows no limits. In lust we believe, in lust we breath, in lust we shall die

We’ll get away with this, yet again, just you watch!”

Yours devouringly,
Amar Jyoti Kalita aka Bond

                                                             Don't I look AWESOME??!!

Being John Galt

Look at 'em, just lookie!!!

                                                          

Call it star craze or comfortably settling into a state of perpetual one sided love;  the incident of myself being a John Galt to two men that will never be mine, leaves a sense of a certain hopelessness that I’ve come to make peace with. It is perhaps the custom of this unrequited appeal to make me understand that it’s the idea of those men and not themselves that breaks my force of habit and keeps me mooning over them. And if that be the case, it answers the eternal question of what is more attractive- the man himself or what you think he is? And honestly, that’s an answer I’d like to push to the deepest corners of my head and forget it exists.

What the two men share besides their first name, occupation and state of single hood is a sensibility that may not be uncommon but is certainly a rare find in their profession. They are called the thinking woman’s actor, implying that what they do and how they do it appeals to a certain class of women who cannot leave their brains at home when watching a movie. But it’s not so complicated after all, you don’t think when you are too busy catching every well pronounced word that falls out of their mouth, you are certainly not thinking when they flash a smile, or their neat hands nestle their face in a particularly brooding moment. Besides the head rush you experience, you almost walk into the scene as it were and imagine you were there for him to look at and talk to. 

The travesty of them having a name that is most overused in the Hindi film industry takes a leap when the on screen namesakes, buffoon their way through basketball hoops and wet saris to deliver a super-hit film. At those times, I wish they had a different name, because these namesakes and their ‘acts’ add a certain degree of modesty that shakes the pedestal and makes them more real; and I don’t think I’m comfortable with that. You see, I’ve come to love that state of being a ‘nobody’ to them, I absolutely gloat in the headiness of being Mr Galt. 

I rewind and replay thousands of times a particular moment in their films, I stalk their blogs/profiles/handles/interviews like the creepiest person you know, I swallow without pause a hand gesture or a casual guffaw and mostly, I make family of the hundreds out there who share my state of being.

I behave like the hopeless lover who’s too timid to establish a real contact, knowing that if it were to happen he’ll come up too short. So let them be the demigods that they are; naturally articulate, well groomed, well read, spontaneous, witty, humorous and say things like ‘misplaced intention’ or some such as often as we say ‘shit’- I can live a lifetime of looking like the backside of a pan and not care!

They can continue to grace the covers of fashion magazines, support charities, run marathons or just feed their ‘extremely- fortunate- cause- they- get- to- lie- in- the- bed- with- them’ pets  or sleep with their mouths open. They are the only two whose wet towels I’ll pick up when they forget it on the bed, the only two whose feet I’ll sit at and watch them talk, and the only two I’ll grovel for whenever, wherever.

 I’m putty, I’m John Galt, and I like being that way.

                                                  

The Caterwauling Platypus comes to town

The dichotomy of a clobbered maw making a full mouthed wail for rescue is not dead on this city’s dwellers. We shall talk about the frequent joys, unabated spirit and random freetitudes of the ‘mouth’ that opens to voice us even in desperate times when it resembles a platypus’ beak.

The wordy flatulence of my city is a nurturer’s dream- rounded up through generations of volitional myth making and gossip tendering. A word coming from a mouth travels through others on a Marco Poloesque sojourn for the spices of lost islands. For a city that is afflicted by a premonition of cultural doom from frequent PDA, the eroticism of rumour exchange is a blatant moral bender that my city shall kindly overlook.

An innocuous drop in the car becomes a whirlwind romance before the two involved even realize, when undercover script agents finish with lunch and practice their brilliant skills to postpone the damages of afternoon siesta on their love handles.

This then stretches onto late afternoons, when the ‘back from work-hence more successful-hence have sharper skills’ batch joins in. Postures are assumed on all and sundry means of parking posterior devices, the comfort of which makes for better concentration and the slimiest of inputs. An unspoken law prevents two platypuses from expounding at the same time, one speaks, while the next in line quickly thinks of an additional piece of interesting bite(frequently made up)to add when its turn comes.

As the session progresses, while others rapidly start making up for the lost siesta hours of weight watching by swallowing every edible item on the table, the ones whose turn is yet to come, sit anxiously rummaging their mind for juicier contributions and secretly wishing that the climax scene is theirs to script.

The two most resourceful platypuses of the evening is the one that started the caterwaul and the other that shrilled out the highest pitch-that being the climax. Those in between add their notes of wauler frequencies but it is upto these two to make the session better than the food on offering. And that my readers can be a serious challenge! No script agent platypus will miss the food, its taste making having to make up for plot of next session due to thinned attendance of PDA in society park during exam time.

There are no strict eligibility criteria for a greenhorn platypus to join these sessions. The only expected qualifier being a continuous dissatisfaction with platypus life- in sleep, food, sex and other less crucial departments. A 9.9/10 in any of these and you can walk right in and indulge in beak speak.

The ritual caterwauling takes a different colour when “back from work in evening- hence OBVIOUSLY more successful-sharpest tools et al” joins in. These are the ninja caterwaulers because they carry the combined frustrations of work and life. The love-handled caterwaulers suck up to the ninjas in muted tones of wide eyed appreciation, secretly not believing that their society park theme is baby talk in front of corporate domed ladder climbing.

While the caterwaulers mouth myth after myth, soaking in the subdued majesty of glorious ‘god-sip’, the session is shrouded over with the repressed exuberance of mutual lie making. The evening is over, the host bids adieu, one platypus encounters a snogging couple in the elevator.  It waits with bated beak for the next call to caterwaul for the start or the climax.

                                             The platypuses beak into a smile post session

Dilli-Willi’s Kryptonite

In Delhi, everybody is a superhero- if not by the Superman kind of standards; the dilliwala knows how to make his own. The superhero in west Delhi won’t fly in the south-with our without cape- voluntarily and as a matter of pride. This superhero like all other superheroes, nestles a gargantuan sense of honour, self pride, abundant chest radius and purpose (please part with your inane common sense understanding of the last term and many others to follow before you read further!)

Also, this superhero doesn’t have a ‘jaanu’- jaanu makes softies of superhero, she takes the steam out- no pressure, no purpose- See Pic- Superhero looked like that when he had jaanu in his life, hence no jaanu anymore

Do not ever compare the biri-phukoing-rock-bumming-stinking-kurta-garbed Bengali ‘intalectuaal’ with the Dilli superhero. Our superhero need no biri, need no kurta, need no jhola, and definitely need no intellect (only need momma sometimes). What’s brawn and brain for when you have a ‘purpose’ in life?

Purpose 1- That to RIDE the roads, like Leo Mattel made them in concrete after superhero grew out of the plastic versions and

Purpose 2- be ANGRY allllllll the bloody time and make sure to let it out on anything that passes by- bird or man

Both purposes to save my reader’s time, will frequently rise into a shining, beaming, glittering one when the said superhero has company. Our superhero unlike other superheroes doesn’t go jumping buildings, murdering villains ALONE- no siree! He has underlings who parasite on him, usually moneyed boys whose rounded bottoms hide rows of notes. Superhero does not carry money- will hinder flight you see, doesn’t use plastic money- dude you don’t bribe with a card!

Brotip- from one superhero to another- NEVER EVER BE SUPERHERO WITHOUT A WITNESS (preferably witnesses) TO LAP UP YOUR AWESOMENESS! Masks, capes, red underwear, swords, leotards- Dhur! Dhur! This superhero doesn’t need all of that- just give him an audience and a wrong doing (hope you have parted with that common sense by now!)

This superhero can’t see-hear-talk of wrong doing- he is a law unto himself when shit happens and rest assured the shit will be taken care of. Oh sorry, completely escaped the tiny, of course irrelevant, but you know how random I am, detail-the wrong is wrong is WRONG when the wrong is wronged on superhero- not the rest of the world.

Now that that detail is taken care of- let’s proceed to understand the degree, style, nature, intensity of this WRONG. Here is some unpleasant shit superhero has to take care of

Wrong 1

Hero: taking left turn where there is no free left turn

Common man: unsuspecting, hits hero’s car because he was stupid enough to take the correct turn.

Let’s make the scene more awesome- common man is phukphuke driver, not owner of car-hence in deeper shit

Hero WRONGED!!! Gets out, reminds driver of all his female relations in the sweetest tones, sets a permanent tune in his ear that leaves him half deaf for life, replaces jaw setting also takes care of knee sockets and leaves after touching up the criminal car

Wrong 2

Hero: has parasites order and pay for kebab rolls, waits to be served

Common man and friends: just out of office, let’s grab a bite, wait to be served- they order 10 mins before Hero and co.

 The waiter serves common man and co. first (not surprising according to common sense, but downright travesty of justice for hero)

Hero WRONGED!!! gets into a scuffle with unsuspecting common man and co., no relations involved in this one, only muscle, flesh and blood. Hero takes care of criminals with hockey sticks/iron poles/fists, and has his vengeance. The criminals of course die

Our superhero is very familiar with page 3 of the dailies, in reference or photo. He beams at us, having taken care of the wrongdoings and Delhi goes to sleep knowing even Gabbar downs a truckload in his pants when superhero sneezes.  

I bet superhero farts at night in bed- wrongdoings happen in dreams also you know- how will he take care of that?!

Oye Medamji !!!

Any city with a population of women who frequently travel by public transport or just walk its roads find unique albeit innovative ways of addressing the said population. While the Bengali bhadralok finds ‘maa’ the most common and almost reverential,  a frequent come- on- the- tongue, when talking to an unknown woman half his age, the less educated Bangali gets away with ‘ledij’ much to the amusement of said ‘addressed’.

The reader might blame the author of this blog as having an inadequate knowledge of city parlance, given her limited exposure to two metros till now, a blame the author is much guilty of; but friends and family amply pitch in recounting tales of their well travelled and well lived other city experiences. It is from this overhearing that the author has decided that nothing beats the Dilli man’s abundant talent in the name game.

What’s the first thing that would strike anybody who is being addressed as Medamji? The feeling that you are worthy of the utmost respect, coming from Medam- an abused colonial hangover but much preferred to the Indian ‘behen’ and the suffix ‘ji’- a fond afterthought carefully added to add just that dash of male cockiness which says “baby you don’t want to look at me but hell you CANNOT ignore me!!!”

The baton of ‘Medamji’ is passed on through generations, and young boys itch to start calling any female in the vicinity by the name as soon as they’ve mastered the perfect rhythm of the “ei” after M.

Where the Delhi male exhibits his genius and supreme talent for quick thinking is to fit in the word in sentences that you never thought could carry such worshipful resonance. Herein lies the key to the confused eyebrow raise/irritation/mild annoyance/anger/violent rage/murderous frenzy that the Delhi woman carries in her head every time she has to encounter the male genius-which is every other minute, day in day out.

If Delhi were to have its own Twitter account, the tweets on the exchanges during situational proximity between the said man and said woman could shut down the site temporarily given their frequency of utterance and number of followers. So, while we wait for Dixit Medamji’s approval on that, the author would like to pay homage to one encounter that caused a brief moment of numbness in her otherwise busy brain.

Setting: winter, bus route 764

Characters- Man- shawl wrapped biri flashing conductor

      Woman- naive 18 year old-never-been-in-Delhi-bluelines, god help me reach college quick  

Scene:

Conductor- “Medam kahan jana hai (please take care to hear this in your head in Jaat tone and decibels for added effect, English is a language with limitations sometimes)

Woman- squeaks her destination and knowing the fare passes on a 10-er, hoping the idiot will just pass on the ticket and the encounter will be as brief as this dear god!

Conductor: ok wait, you passed on the money, but I won’t let you get away with such a brief glance at my dude face! “O medam (note, ‘O’ has been suffixed to cajole her into looking at him again) kahan jaana hain?” now he also has her attention and that of his ‘always concerned for the ledij’ male party.

Woman : Shit. I have to answer him, because he won’t pass the goddamned ticket ( the irritation reaches excruciating limits when you’ve given him a 20 and need the change back, he never has it, though there are 100 people stuffed in a 50 seater bus and everybody is buying tickets) “South Extension”

Conductor: “Sothth Aex! (sorry South extension is better known as South Ex which the idiot girl learnt courtesy ^) bahut duur hain! Aap Idhar ao...(gesticulates with flailing arm through enormous shawl)

Woman: why the hell won’t he leave me alone and give me the ticket, looks at him questioningly- he gestures at the space between his seat and the one before him, where if the woman stands she will have any appropriate part of her anatomy facing his dude face depending on her height. Woman is Bengali, practiced in the rigours of eating Hilsa with cunning bones, militant trained in an all girl’s school, knows what the ****face is wanting. “Nahin theek hai, abhi seat milegi, ticket de do”

Conductor- gets an elbow from buddy, man up dude!conductor momentarily derailed sits up, and shoots “Medamji (ammo fired) aaj seat na milegi, aap idhar baith jao Medamji” gets his ass up from the seat hoping woman will sit there so now his anatomy is in her face

Woman- you ***face can’t you just give me the ****face ticket, and keep your ****face on your head and look out the window? Said Jaat has obviously not encountered the cunning of the bangali bomb previously, she retorts “Bhaiyaji (women can be respectful too) inhe bitha do” concernedly pushes on a hair-not-so- white- but- plenty- silver to qualify for seat, god sent Medamji who beams at both. (the travails of getting seat in blueline will take up another blog)

Deflated conductor: medam, ticket le lo, (‘ji’ drops promptly, other unmentionable things drop too, flailing hand goes under the shawl) and ****face looks out the window for another Medamji to board the bus.

 Conductor almost wanted to do this (see pic) to the woman after encounter 

Jouissance of the religiously minded

Religion and an immediate sexual reference to it do not make for great blog starters, but when Sunday mornings bring uninvited reminders of how religious (read of the bhajan singing kinds) you are not, the vessels of my mind overflow with the need for a rant. Here goes:

Any West Delhi survivor worth his salt and a common history of abused Sunday peace will agree that expressions of religious faith are of a passionate fervour that the most celebrated coital moments of your life can’t hold a candle to. Starting with the setting of the stage, to the choice of deity of the day, to the careful selection of the most ‘impactful’ voices  who will set the mood, the kirtan is one of those daily but often missed phenomena that we miss in the list of Delhi’s cultural ‘delights’

This Sunday’s bhajan in keeping with the Eurocrisis (yes kirtanis - singers of kirtans are extremely well read, well informed in matters of global economic crises) is calling out incessantly to an indifferent- to- Euro god to ‘jholi bharo’- filling exchequers in translation. The common understanding is that other more often called upon gods being overwhelmed and preoccupied with matters of national crises like the latest entrant in Tihar from the telecom scam, Sachin not making the 100^th yet and the delivery and poop and piss updates of Beti Bachchan, this particular deity who sounds like ‘Sai’ from afar will have nothing better to do than pour in lards of carefully ‘acquired’ money.

Jholi bharo in Hindi is also a call to get the newly-married-how-dare-you-not-get-pregnant-ASAP woman to   start the much prepared for dutiful breeding cycle of her life, but hearing the male voices reach shrill decibels this morning, the understanding is that money is more dear to man than the pleasures of baby squeals.

The most interesting and why the reference to jouissance- is the quality of musical adaptations, that can have Bappi Lahiri sell his many golds and start a new life as a not-musician somewhere else. Bollywood music has the natural tendency to start setting in our veins as a ready to go reference for musical inspiration, but what set these kirtans apart are the brilliant lyrics of religious smacking that fill into the tunes beautifully. As Sai head bangs his way into ‘Main Jat Yamla Pagla Deewana’ inspired Sai tumhare kitne naam, I wonder what these imagined gods make out of this impromptu yet well intentioned devotions.

The voices- oh you can dedicate many blogs to their tone, texture, impact, tenors and variety but what you can’t beat is the way the many voices reach a tacit, slowly but tenaciously built, commonly enjoyed ‘small death’ on the word Sai mid bhajan. You can have your personal laugh every time this happens, and it happens way too often- so you can rest assured that we are still the land of the genius who scripted the Kamasutra. Replete with drums, chorus, jazzy scarves and religiously intentioned hip shakes we Indians are of a spirited kind. Strange how you take the devotion out of these voices and the cries almost shame down to frowns on couples embracing openly.