Superficial Talk

The bus came near Belapur. The girl sitting beside me straightened up and asked me to intimate her once we reach Vashi. For the first time in my journey since Pune, I had a full look at her. She was what they call them- a babe. Her skin shone rosy pink and her sleek hair had maroon extensions. She tossed her mane of shiny hair back and I thought I saw a guy sitting on the adjacent seat gawking at her. I fought back a smile. From her black stylish handbag that flaunted ‘baggit’ written on it, she extricated a small black box and opened it carefully. For a wild moment I wondered if it was a watercolour kit, seeing various colours and brushes in it. The next second when she took a small brush in her long slender manicured fingers bearing an intricate nail art and stared in a small mirror attached to the inner side of the lid of the box, I realized it was a make-up box I wanted so much when I was a kid.

Mom never used any make-up nor did she let me use any, not that I was very interested in it. On the rare occasions when I was forced to take part in some dance event at school gathering, I would see the make-up kits all my classmates brought. They would dab make-up on their faces and wow! They would look good with the shiny red lipsticks and stuff. I would then apply some red colour in the kit on my cheekbones and upon realizing I looked horrible, I would wash it off. The colourful make-up box, however never ceased to amaze me. I wanted it just for the sake of having it.

I grew up without using any make-up. Oh yes, I did learn how to apply eye-liner  It was a challenging task; keeping one eye open and apply the liquid liner along the outer eyelid moving the hand carefully. It took me several weeks to get it right. On the college farewell, I realized none of our group members knew how to apply make-up  There was only one who knew it: Simran. Clad in her one piece, she was our make-up artist for that day. She had brought her kit. After eyeing it curiously, we realized we couldn't use it. I gawked at Simran using it like a trained make-up artist. Biting her lip she made a choice of the colour to be applied on the eyes. She took it in a brush and spread it on her eyes, creating darker and lighter shades. She put some Mascara and batted eyelashes at me. Within ten minutes she was ready with all her make-up.

‘All this make-up on eyes! For all we know, we could get emotional at the Farewell and shed a couple of tears!’ I smirked.

‘It is all water-proof.’ She said loftily.

We looked half admiringly, half enviously at her. She pulled me and made me sit in front of her. I warned her not to paint me much. I just let her put some powder on my cheeks. (She would go ‘ewwww’ at this word. It is not ‘POWDER’; it’s called a FOUNDATION.) Oh really I am still not sure if it is really called that.

Gauri jumped and sat enthusiastically, after drawing eye-liner on her eyelids, she moved away to check herself in mirror.

‘Sheesh Simran! This is too thick! I want it perfect like you put it on yourself.’ She said stamping her foot on the floor in quite a childlike way.

Ruta and I giggled at each other.

After ten minutes when Gauri was finally satisfied, having washed off her eye-liner twice, Simran heaved a sigh of relief.

Staying steady even for a minute was tough for Ruta so Simran spared her.

After an hour, fighting with each other to have a look in the mirror, clicking gazillion photos of each other (Gauri being more enthusiastic that she ever had been), we set out.

I really quitted make-up after a tragic incident in my life. This was when Seema and I went out with a group of guy-friends to watch a movie. It was a hot day and we were too early for the movie. Five minutes after sitting at a table at the mall, Seema wanted to check her face (she had to, even though she had been staring at her reflection in every reflective surface we came across.) In the restroom, she took out a small tube of a face-cream.

‘This is SPF-50 cream.’ She said proudly when I looked questioningly at it, ‘And you see the skin really glows after you put this.’

She applied some on her face, and yes indeed! She looked fairer and soft-skinned.

‘Do you want some?’ she asked me.

‘Okay!’ I stared at an oily reflection of mine miserably.

She showed me how I was supposed to spread it in peculiar circular movements.

‘There is something strange.’ I said doubtfully. ‘My skin looks even more oily and that cream is still wet on my face.’

‘Oh don’t worry! It’ll be just fine in a minute, let it set.’ She reassured, now applying something shiny to her lips and pouting at her reflection.

We came back to where everyone was sitting.

I could not understand why everyone was staring at me.

‘What!’ I asked defensively.

No one said anything but continued staring with an amazed look, now at both of us.

‘Did you do something to your faces???’ one of them asked, plucking some courage.

‘Yeah, Seema’s SPF-50 cream!’

Almost everyone sniggered.

‘You look comical! I mean Seema’s face is okay! But you look white just like a ghost.’

I looked at Seema through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.

‘Oh!’ she looked horrified and was trying not to laugh at the same time. ‘Shit!’ she muttered.

The table roared with laughter.

‘Poor Ketaki! Seema, why did you do that to her?!’ A voice disguised in sympathy sounded like it was having a time of its life.

‘Ohh it is not that bad!’ Seema said defensively, ‘I just couldn't figure out it doesn't match her skin tone.’

Sure enough. The restroom was glowing with dim lamps and it was difficult to figure out how I would look outside in bright light.

The fit of laughter stopped when they thought I would soon break into tears.

‘What was the need for all this! Both of you looked a lot better before applying that SPF-50 cream!’ someone said shaking their head in amazement and exasperation and everyone else agreed.

Shooting murderous glances at terrified Seema who accompanied me back to the restroom, I washed my face and swore never to wear make-up in life.

Well once you find someone who loves you even when your skin is all sweaty and oily and hair is a complete mess, following such resolution becomes easy. Maybe it is then when the face glows without make-up.                                                                                                                                   

Moden Pan Vaknar Nahi

Pune is a strange city. Well I don't really know the Pune 'city'. I know some villages in proximity which Puneites would argue- can't be called as belonging to Pune, but it doesn't matter, attitude of the people is the same (and my office located at Hinjewadi has "Pune - 411057" in its address). City is made by its people. Every city has a face. Pune has a face of rude brat in a class. No offense to Puneites.

Well I did say no offense, but by now Puneites reading this would already be fuming and waiting to snap back. They don't like being opposed. If you want to see a real Pune spirit, DRIVE. Drive on the Pune roads.

Puneites assume that traffic rules are just not for them. They hate waiting in the traffic so they get into the wrong lanes; they would bang into your vehicle or make you fall from your bikes and wouldn't even say sorry. You can even see a block at a chowk with a hell lot of vehicles trying to go in the every possible direction and eventually forming a deadlock that just can't be broken.

Every driver in Pune has an inflexible spine and it is below his dignity to take a step back. That's what you call a Marathi attitude - 'Moden pan vaaknar nahi'.

One of my trainers in IBM narrated an incident. ­­­­­­­Her husband was driving through Pune and when he wanted to turn left he gestured the signal by waving his hand out of the window. A speeding scooty came from behind, pushed his hand, shoved it inside through the window and disappeared. We laughed at the incident till it dawned on us how dangerous it could have been.

Signals?? What are they!? We don't care. Wrong lanes? So what? I want to go ahead!

Typical Pune attitude.

A driver of our company bus is another example. When he drives I sit with bated breath. He doesn't like traffic and he disregards all the speed breakers.

'I JUST DON'T CARE YOU EXIST! SCREW YOU!' I imagine him screaming at the speed breakers. They can’t be a reason to reduce the speed.

Then there are auto drivers. They are typically like auto drivers in Mumbai. Except that they just don't give you the slightest of respect even for money. Once I sat in an auto and saw the meter running at the top speed. I argued with the driver saying his meter was faulty.

He made me get down half way into the road. After I got down I offered the fare till that distance.

'I don't want your money!' he said loftily and sped ahead leaving me gawking.

For a distance of less than one kilometer, they can charge you Rs 100, that is if you are new to Pune. Well if you live in Pune, you’ll never want to use autos. There is no bargain. If you even reduce Rs 10 and ask for Rs 90, they’ll give a jeering smile and spit a stinging 'NO' at you.

Once when I took an auto from Wakad bridge for Phase 2, IBM at the settlement of Rs 120, the auto was stopped just at the end of the bridge. The traffic police asked for the license and the youth that drove my auto looked at him sheepishly. The police screamed insults at him and then turned to me as I was sitting in the auto hands clutching my head, annoyed for being late for the office.
'Where are you going Madam?' he asked me, 'IBM! And he asked for 120!'
He then turned to the driver and muttered threats in Marathi about charging fine to him for charging the commuter Rs 60 extra than the right fare.
'Madam! He should have charged you Rs 60!' expecting me to be surprised.
I wasn't oblivious to that.
'And besides he doesn't even have a license! Shouldn't you ask for a license before you take an auto!' he gave an advice.
Anyway the auto driver was released after some 'Mandavli' and he did take Rs 120 from me after I reached IBM.

If you have a vehicle of your own, you don't have to travel by PMTs where even if the one side of the bus is reserved for the ladies, no man vacates it for standing women. Travelling by PMTs is a nightmare. Women here don't argue like the women in Mumbai. If they do, the dangerous rogue looking person says 'Why do you have to go for the jobs then! You are women, stay home!', conductor stays away saying 'Please solve this among yourselves. Madam, you’ll get down, after that men here would hit me!'

'Reserved for ladies' it would mention in the buses with the Motor Vehicle Act.

Most men would sit as if mocking that board in the bus.

The last option for transport is six-seaters. Calling them six-seaters would be unfair because these vehicles which seem to accommodate six people each can accommodate around fourteen people. The only thing guys might enjoy is that they can get close to a good looking girl only here and even if they give a 'seemingly' unintentional push to her, she would't be able to complain. (Warning: guys shouldn't be too hopeful. Some of my friends did come across a beautiful but nasty tempered girl who snapped at them loudly even when she got a really unintentional push.)

Subjiwalas! That is a different topic. In the villages like Wakad, you would not see good quality vegetables. In better places like Aundh, they would display it beautifully. If you ask price, they'll shove the bags in your hands without you asking for them.

Once I was at a subji shop whose owner was a Maharastrian. He told me Bhindi costed Rs 10 for 250 grams. I started to pick the good pieces of Bhindi leaving the bad ones, he observed for some time and came to me and said, 'Madam if you are picking the subji, we charge Rs 15. If you don't, it is Rs 10'.

I had never heard stuff like that. Being another straight-spined Maharastrian, I got up from there and left. He did not call me back like they do in Mumbai after a customer tries this trick. They just don't care.

Since then I have been getting the vegetables from a vendor who is a so-called 'Bhaiyya'. He seems to have a flexible spine and he even apologizes in a sugar coated words when I complain that the Garlic he sold me the other day was not good, he even replaces it with the good ones.

Pune doesn't care about business. It feels like they don't want to grow their work. They are okay with whatever they are earning. You cannot go to shopping after 8 pm because at the shopping places like Laxmi Road, Tulsibaag, you'll see the shopkeepers and vendors calling it a day at 9 pm. Mumbaikars aren't used to it. Lazy city- it yawns and goes to sleep before midnight and does not wake up unless it is 8 am. It is unlikely to see a tapri opened for breakfast if you look around before 8.

You will surely notice one thing in Pune. Punery Patya, that is boards in Pune. I never really lived in the heart of the city for long, so I havn’t seen much of them. I did see an auto which had a funny message written at the back.

'Please don’t use horn unnecessarily. Loud noise tears your eardrums. And if your eardrums get torn, even the tailors from Singapore cannot mend it!'

I clapped my hand on my forehead.

In Wakad and Hinjewadi, you’ll see posters, hoardings everywhere. Hoardings of the residential apartments being developed are very common in Wakad now. But what can really entertain you is hoarding wishing some political person on their birthdays. They have the big photos of the local politicians and the photos of the people wishing them too. They don't have money to beautify their village but they have a lot of money to display these unnecessary hoardings. Hoardings of birthday of a small boy, of some guy winning a Kusti/ Kabaddi game, of some person’s death. There are 'Sambhaji Group', 'Hanuman group', 'Wakad Boys' and groups with other stylish names that sound cool and stress the fighting spirit of the people in the respective groups.

The houses here would be like some old fashioned bungalows. You might see at a corner outside those houses and expect a cattle shed, but.. Warning: You might faint.
You might just see a BMW or a Jaguar (yes you read it right, a car that costs A CRORE) standing royally like the Airavat at Indra's making you go green with envy.

This city is mad. But it has something lovely about it, which would make you want to settle here. The weather is charming. Life is slow, lazy. People don't give any importance to the bandhs. The waves in the outer world just don't touch Pune. 'Bharat Bandh??? HA!!!!' You'll imagine the Pune people saying, "The traffic would be even worse that day than it normally is!"

I have a special place in my heart for this city. I hate it sometimes; feel it is no match for my Mumbai. But it is the city that has given me a lot of things, a lot of beautiful moments for which I would be grateful to it for all my life.

A luxury driver

We removed our bags from the auto and gave the auto driver his money. The iron gate creaked and a small lean boy with his face full of excitement ran forward.

‘Ilaas tumhi??’ he welcomed us in Malvani. Mom and dad smiled at him.

I squinted at him trying to rack my brains if we had met before. I saw our neighboring lady hurrying to get our luggage and it dawned on me that he must be her son.

I am not one of the people who get along with the new people easily.

I tried to give a warm smile to the kid, which I later thought must have looked awkward.

‘Valaakhlas naay maaka??’ He asked me if I did not recognize him.

Before I could answer his question, he started talking enthusiastically.

‘I recognized you. You are Ketaki Taai. Shraddha Taai didn’t come?’

I was pleasantly shocked. I hadn’t been at that place for around six years. I had never seen him; well my sister had been there last year. She has a way with people so I thought they might have played together. I wondered how he knew my name and how he recognized me without having seen me before.

I ruffled his hair.

A lot had changed after six years. The Madhumalati tree bearing flowers that filled our yard with maddening fragrance was cut short. My favorite Hibiscus bush was no more. The house looked dusty and derelict. Moss and termites had adorned most of the walls.

Within an hour or two, mom-dad made the house worth sleeping in, with the help of the neighbors. I relaxed on a chair in the front-yard looking around. Smooth sand tickled my feet. He appeared out of nowhere and removed something from his pocket.

‘What is that?’ I asked him with curiosity.

‘I got a Cadbury! See!!’ He showed me.

It had a wrapper that looked similar to that of the Cadbury.

‘You want to taste that?’ before I could say anything, he had already torn the wrapper apart and given a piece to me.

My tongue gone used to the taste of Cadbury hated the taste of that cheaper version of Cadbury.

‘You liked it?’ he asked innocently with the gleam in his eyes. It was too hard to be a killjoy.

‘Umm… yeah! It is good!’ I smiled at him.

‘Oh then I bring some more for you!’

The next second he was running past the coconut tree, past the Madhumalati, beyond the gate, past the small houses with red slanting roofs, into the paddy fields.

‘Heyyyy wait! Where are you getting money from?? Come back!’ I shouted at him.

He had disappeared.

He only came back with the chocolate and sweet tamarind.

‘It costs only a rupee,’ he informed me while eating a piece of chocolate greedily, ‘I sit at the counter of our shop and I keep 10 rs aside.’ He said.

They ran shop of bangles. While his mother returned home to cook, he would sit there for a while and attend the customers.

‘Oh you cheat your mother?’

He bit his tongue and looked a little guilty.

‘My mom knows that!’ he said with a grin.

‘Do you want something else?’ he asked me, ‘Banana? Ravisells bananas beside our shop. He doesn’t even know how sometimes I steal a banana and eat!’ he had a naughty proud grin on his face.

For him, stealing a banana was an achievement. It was fun. He was just too innocent to know that it is a bad thing. The kids in the village are like that. Far from malicious intentions… There is a kind of sweetness in their wrongdoings. Even Ravi would know where his bananas go, I thought. He was just letting the kid have fun and boast about his achievements.

‘…. Or some sweet tamarind??? Or raw mango? Shobha’s mom has kept some to dry in the sun! Or would you like a guava? I can climb the tree in Rawale’s yard and get it!’

All this time he was listing all the items he could bring for me.

‘Do you know English?’ he asked me, looking at a novel in my hand.

‘What is this book about? Would you teach me English?’

He never gave me time to answer.

‘We have English too. I am in fifth standard. I want to learn English and go to Mumbai.’

I laughed. ‘You don’t have to learn English to go to Mumbai!’

‘Really?’ his big eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and happiness, ‘I have never been there. Is it very costly, going there? How much was your ticket?’

I laughed.

That evening he came at my house with his English book in his hand. He sat beside me n kept the opened book in my lap.

‘Teach me!’ he sat with determination.

I read a paragraph for him and explained him the meaning. He looked satisfied.

‘Aaaah I am hungry!’ I told mom.

‘Oh! I can bring you something!’ his eyes had the usual gleam.

Before I could stop him, he was already on the run. Past the coconut tree, past the Madhumalati, beyond the gate, past the small houses with red slanting roofs, into the paddy fields…

He came back with his mom squeezing his ears.

‘Why on earth did u go running there in the dark!!!!’ she screamed.

He stood in a corner fuming at her.

The next day he and another smart girl in the neighborhood accompanied me to a temple at the nearby beach. They were chattering all the time, dancing around me as I walked, taking my hands, he requesting me to come to buy bangles from his shops, asking me stupid questions.

‘Wow a luxury bus!!!’ He stopped suddenly when he saw a luxury bus to Mumbai made a stylish royal entry on the village road.

His eyes became dreamy.

‘Oh this goes to Thane right?’ he asked me. I had not expected him to know this. Looked like he hadn’t just seen, he had observed. He had been observing.

‘You know taai, I want to become an engineer like you!’ the smart girl said, ‘My uncle is one. He is at Mumbai too.’ She said with her nose in the air.

I couldn’t believe she was only seven.

Children in the village act more than their ages.

He was still lost. We were almost home.

‘Heyy! What do you want to become???’ I asked him.

‘A luxury driver!’ he said dreamily.

The girl burst into a cheeky laugh. ‘Hahahaha! You should become an engineer. Or doctor. They earn a lot of money!’ she said folding her arms over her chest, her eyes rolling as if she couldn’t believe anyone could be so unreasonable.

‘No!' He said sternly. 'A luxury driver!' He was totally unperturbed.

‘Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooommmmmmm!’ he acted like a driver and sprinted.

Past the coconut tree, past the Madhumalati, beyond the gate, past the small houses with red slanting roofs, into the paddy fields…

Cromance

‘Oh you don’t understand! See for us, marrying a South Indian guy is more shocking than marrying say, a guy of other caste or even a Gujarati guy!’ I told him in a matter-of-fact manner.

He rolled his eyes.

‘Oh please! Explain me how! What difference does it make?’ He argued.

We stood on the terrace of a tower outside a restaurant that situated there, just above the Croma showroom. We had just eaten and rest everyone was inside sitting on comfortable sofa. No one came to disturb our solace. He stood very close to me with his big arms around my waist. We were looking into the distant skies. It looked dark blue with the bright stars like spilled glitter. The tall buildings stood silently with several windows throwing light.

‘Look, the South Indian states are kind of detached from the rest of the country. We have known about the other cultures. Though not very closely, but we get a faint idea of their cultures through say, serials, through people living around us. Maybe because you don't mingle much or you like to keep a low-profile. Especially Malayalees. There are people who don’t even know the difference between Malayalam and Tamil. Or Telugu and Kannada!!’

He laughed.

‘Dad still reckons you are a ‘Madrasi’!’ I said trying to control a laugh.

‘After all this time??’ He asked laughing.

‘Yeah. Says he doesn’t understand all that. He is comfortable calling you a Madrasi.’ I rolled my eyes.

‘Anyway don’t you think it would have been so different had you got a Malayalee girlfriend?’ I asked him.

‘How?’ He demanded explanation.

‘See, first of all your parents would have been happy. A daughter-in-law with the same culture knowing your language, food styles, festivals! Perfect, isn’t it?’ I reasoned.

‘Oh please, do you reckon that a Malayalee girl would have known all that?’

‘Of course! Why wouldn’t she? She would have been brought up in your culture, would have seen her mother making Kerala cuisines… Now how would it be when I try to add Kokam in the curry while your mom adds tamarind?’

His laughter stopped my argument. ‘Oh god, I hate Kerala cuisines. I wished I would get a wife who hated the same so that she would never make it at home…’

He reminisced.

‘Mambanzha Pulussery! Sambhar! Avial!’ He made a disgusting face with retching noise.

I made a face at him. ‘Still I want to know how to make it.’

He looked horrified.

‘And talking about festivals,’ I continued, ‘I don’t even know your rituals! How would I learn! Like say, I don’t know how to arrange Vishukanni!’ I asked him worriedly.

‘You will,’ he said with a serene smile touching my cheeks, ‘besides, we have only two festivals. Vishu and Onam. Unlike you people. On these festivals you just have to make those food items and go to temples. Very easy!’ he said assuring me.

I went in the thoughts for a minute.

‘Oh yes, what about your language? It is very difficult. I can’t make a head or tail of it!’ I asked grumpily, ‘What answer do you have for this?’

‘Yeah I agree the language is tough.’

I sighed.

‘See, whenever anyone talks to you in Malayalam, I taught what you should say, didn’t I?’

‘Oh what was that?’ I racked my brain, ‘Ennikku unnum..’ the last word always gave me trouble.

‘Maaa-na-slaa-illa!’ he pronounced slowly for me, ‘Simple! Tell them ”I don’t understand”!’

‘Correct!!!’ he clapped when I managed to say it correctly.

‘Why do you worry so much?’ he asked when I did not laugh.

‘Because you do not understand. Personally for me, these things matter. Our children may never learn speaking Malayalam as their mother doesn't know it. I kinda think of it as 'death of the culture'. I sometimes think whether a Malayalee girl could have been better for you. Knowing your language, food culture, festivals, rituals. I mean - I am not sad, but I am saying this as a matter of fact!’

‘Shut up!’ he said in mock anger, ‘Stop thinking crap! When we have already chosen each other, why think all this? I cannot compromise you for anything else. These differences do not matter to me at all.’

I shrugged. ‘Told you I am just putting forward the facts.’

He looked deep into a thought. His eyes were unfocussed seeing something I couldn’t see.

‘Well I can think of only one difference...’ He said with his eyes still unfocussed.

‘What?’ I was confused.

‘Between you and a could-have-been Malayalee girlfriend or wife..!’ he said grabbing my shoulders impatiently.

‘What is that?’ I asked eagerly.

‘Whenever I would have gone wild with her,’ he said slowly, ‘she would have screamed ‘Ende Amme!’ instead of  ‘Aai g!’’

He was rolling his tongue playfully in his mouth raising an eyebrow, giving me a 'if-you-know-what-I-mean' look.

I stared at him with my lips pursed and clapped my hand over my forehead.

The next second I wrapped my arms around his neck. My lips burnt against his. He tugged at my belt and pulled me tighter against his waist and started kissing like never before, his hands caressing my back, ploughing through my hair... I giggled as his stubble tickled my skin while he kissed my neck.

It was as if the world around us had come to a halt and the usual butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

‘Ende amme!’ I had to whisper as we kept kissing under the inky blue sky.

The Rain I Would Never Forget - 2

I sat at my desk buried into my laptop. There was some problem in my code and I couldn't figure out what.
The train of my thoughts derailed as I heard Priya squeal, 'Oh it's raining so much!!!'

I looked out and it poured so much that the hills beyond were barely visible. I got an eerie feeling in my stomach I always got whenever I saw the rain. I got back to work.

'Let's go downstairs!' Priya said excitedly.

'Naah! I don't want to see. Besides, I have work.' I replied, already looking back in my code.

She muttered something that sounded like 'geek'. I gave her a stare. That was what she called me. The one who associated me with that word was 'he'.
She sniggered and I got up in slow motion, my fingers hovering reluctantly millimeters above the windows and L, my eyes still looking for the bug.
She made an impatient noise and I locked it.

We went downstairs with Deepa who joined us just outside the exit. It was crowded with all the crazy people who loved rain. It was cold. And wet. I hated it.

I never liked rain. Not even when I was a kid. It gave me a creepy feeling. Whenever black clouds gathered in the sky, I'd get an inexplicable feeling of melancholy.

In the crowd our eyes fell upon them. He was there with them, with his face gleaming with the child-like joy and hair disheveled as usual.

'Looks awesome, doesn't' it?' he asked me, winking at Priya.

Hmmm… It was awesome indeed. Everything looked fresh. Everything looked lovely, well everything except the rain, which ironically had been the reason it all looked lovely. I stood as far as possible from the stair where the water poured from above and leaned against a wall.

The rain subsided after a while and he suggested we go to tapri. After hesitating a little, I finally agreed.
Maybe the rain knew I hated it and it came back with double energy to tease me like a notorious child. I hated it. I ran for a shelter, Deepa and Priya followed.

The guys stayed in the rain. Almost dancing like kids. Rain certainly reduced age. As well as tensions, I thought. I was looking at him. These days I had seen him in some tension I did not know. I wondered what was ailing him. He would tell me everything. After all we texted each other all the time, even late into the night till one of us went to sleep halfway into typing a reply. We had an unusual comfort level that we did not have with any other person in the world. I was confident he wasn’t hiding anything from me. If he had something to worry about, he would have told, I kept explaining myself. Maybe it was the job, the mundane work, besides he hated coding. It just wasn’t his cup of tea.

Anyway today he seemed happier. That pleased me. He looked like an innocent child full of glee. But I couldn't let him get wet in the rain for long. He had got fever a day before. And he was utterly careless. He still wanted to go into the rain at the breakfast the other day.

'Shut up! Where is your umbrella?' I asked him.

'Umm… I forgot it at my room.' He admitted guiltily.

I wondered whether he had conveniently forgotten it to get an excuse to go in the rain.

'Come on in! You are not getting wet in the rain!' I said.

He made a face but followed meekly. Like he always did.

It had been a while. I stared at him, suggesting 'enough now!' Apparently he got the message and came back.
The other two stayed in the rain dancing. It was really funny. Priya and Deepa laughed hard clutching at their stomachs as they clicked their pictures with the funny poses. I thought he must be upset at me for not letting him enjoy. I looked at him only to find him already looking at me, smiling. I was perplexed. He smiled again shaking his head. Something pleasant tickled inside me; I did not know what. It always tickled whenever he smiled, argued with me logically leaving me flustered with anger, teased me, made me laugh when I would be annoyed after coding.

'Ahem!' The Small Voice Inside My Head started again.
'There you go!' I muttered.
'So much care! What's happening to you?' it asked slyly.

A shiver went down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold breeze that played around. I shuddered.
'Isn't it confusing? All this?' The Small Voice Inside My Head just wouldn't stop.
'No. Not anymore. GO AWAY!' I tried to shoo it away like some irksome fly.
'It is not possible. You know that. Bear it in mind.' it made another nasty comment.
'What are you talking about? What is not possible?' I stuttered.
It had already left as usual on an enigmatic note.

I walked back with all the others with my gaze fixed down on the ground.

My Experiments in Kitchen

Cooking had always been my weak point. I always thought of it as something I'd never learn to do. For one, I did not have any interest and second I was really awful at it. Especially when your younger sister is admired for making tasty food, you never really get a chance to pull her from her throne and rule the kitchen.

Not that I never made an attempt. I really did. I remember once I entered the kitchen with sheer enthusiasm leaving Mom with her hand on her mouth in shock. I ignored several giggles from the very encouraging family of mine.
It was a simple task to make 'Pithla'. Well you have to do the tadkafirst. I folded the sleeves of my dress in style and added cumin seeds and onion in the heated oil. As the onion started turning brown I panicked asking for further instructions. In all the havoc I added grated coconut in the tadka.
'YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO ADD COCONUT IN THE TADKA!!!' I heard Mom screech at the top of her voice. Making a swift Ninja move, she turned the gas off just in time. I was sent out of the kitchen and came out with my eyes on the ground like a defeated warrior.

That could not discourage me. Instead, it made me burn with shame and anger. Soon enough I tried making custard reading a recipe from somewhere. After reading the instructions several times, I started. It said one should stir the milk continuously while adding custard powder or it would form lumps.
I stood in the kitchen in the vindictive pleasure as I took the vessel off the gas seeing no lump had formed. After cooling I kept it in the fridge to set.
I had my fingers crossed when I opened the vessel after sometime. Smooth pink custard, I was already dreaming. All my dreams shattered when I found the lumps had finally formed somehow.
I offered the custard in a bowl garnishing it with dry fruits as if it would make it taste any better. Dad tasted it. I looked at him expectantly. He looked as if he would burst into a laugh. 'Wow nice!' He managed to say. My face fell.
'Oh no! It is really good. Don't bring more though. I have to be careful with sweets.' He stopped me as I tried to serve more.
Well no one was generous enough to taste the custard, let alone finish it off. In fact even I could not finish it. It tasted pathetic. Several days before it all went to dustbin, I had made many unsuccessful attempts to make people taste it. I noticed the guests did not stay for a long time when I offered them that overly thick custard.

Rather than embarrassing myself in front of others, I decided I should try learning cooking secretly. My next experiment was aloo paratha. Somehow I was confident that I could not mess this up. I boiled potatoes when I was home alone. I realized they were undercooked, as I could not mash them good enough to be stuffed in the dough. My super-fast brain suggested crushing it fine using the mixer.

As I opened the mixer, I was shocked to see what was inside. It formed a sticky paste that did not look like mashed potato. It was so mushy that when I tried to remove it from the mixer, it stuck to my hands. It was impossible to stuff it inside the round of dough. Before anyone could notice, I destroyed the evidences.

I bid an adieu to the kitchen. Kitchen is just not for you, I said to myself. No one even suggested me learning cooking because it could have been dangerous for the people around me.

I was the subject of ridicule in the office sometimes when I made egg-bhurjior bhindi.
'What is this thing?' someone would ask me looking at my tiffin, with the others tactlessly trying not to laugh.
'Why do you always cut the stuff so fine? I mean where is the egg in egg-bhurji??' Someone would ask from the other end of the table.
'Oh my! Is it Poha or Upma??' Someone would ask seeing my overly soaked Poha.
'Maybe we should call it 'Poma'!' and the table would roar with laughter.

I would try to laugh along with them and resent about my pathetic cooking.
'One day you would learn you see!' He would assure.

'What do you want on your birthday?' I asked him a week before his birthday.
'I want to taste the food made by you.'
I gaped at him.
'Do you want to end up in a hospital on your birthday?' I asked him.
He laughed.

On the previous day of his birthday, I decided to make paneer mutter. This was like studying for tenth standard when you are in the fifth standard.

It was different this time. This time I wasn't cooking to prove myself, this time I was cooking for someone and wished it tasted good. I didn't wish for not ending up as a subject of ridicule, I just wished I wouldn't disppoint him.
After I added all the ingredients and masala as it said in the recipe, I tasted the concoction.
'Is it I who made it?!' I had left myself stand there surprised for some minutes, with the sweet droplets on my forehead and hair gone frizzy with all the heat in the kitchen.

How I made it, I do not know. For all those years I had tried to learn cooking desperately, heard people making fun of me and all of a sudden I had made it perfect.

'Awesome!' He said when he tasted it, 'Told you would learn some day!' he grinned.
   
After that I knew I wouldn't go wrong at cooking. Somehow I was brimmed with a lot of confidence. I tried many recipes.

I realized you cook well when you cook for someone you love.

Now when I make Paneer bhurji, there is an unmistakable snatching of my tiffins.
'Wow! This Daal really looks tasty!' Nilesh says trying to avert his greedy eyes from the Daal on the day of his fast.
'Oh you really have learnt cooking! Why don't you teach these canteen people?' Mahesh says with an apologetic grin when I remind him how much he had teased me in the past.
I stare at Amit when he gulps down spoonfuls of Sevaya Kheer leaving a very little portion for me.
'Give me some more Poha. You make it the best!' Dad says eating greedily.
'Oh teach me how you cooked Simla Mirch in this style!' Mom requests me to teach her.
'You are Daal Tadka specialist. Mom did try making it your way. It never tastes like yours does!' my sister whispers so that Mom doesn't overhear.

I can't help smiling.

- Based on a seemingly far-fetched but true story

Shoebite

She trudged alone along the long road. She was already late. The sun shone mercilessly bright in the sky. The air was hot. There was no humidity in the atmosphere; her skin was burning as if she stood in a furnace. As though this wasn't terrible enough, her new shoes bit her toes.

She lifted each foot with difficulty. The pain was so intense that she could barely walk. For a moment she considered walking barefoot holding the shoes in her hand. However the road under her feet was heated like a hot pan.

She hated her new shoes so much she felt like throwing them away.

She reached her destination finally. She entered in an air-conditioned classroom and settled. She heaved a sigh of relief. The cool air was soothing on her head heated up in the scorching sun outside. She sat on the last bench, lonely as she always had been. Her feet ached a lot. She flinched with the pain as she slowly removed her shoes from her smarting feet.

Her toes were red. The smallest toe had bled. She winced at the plight of her toes.
She sat at the lunch alone and chewed the tasteless rice slowly looking around at the people sitting in a group, chatting and giggling together. It wasn't that she hated people. But she didn't feel like talking to anyone these days. She knew no one could understand her, let alone help. The pain was so much that her eyes welled with tears. No one saw her tears though. Like always.

She walked like a zombie, ignoring the lively conversations going around. She had lost interest in gossip and chatting long back. She felt a strange emptiness inside her.

When the class ended, she tried to wear her shoes. The pain worsened. She tried to ignore it. After a while, she thrust her feet forcefully inside the shoes, totally annoyed due to pain. She didn't look back nor did she wait for anyone. She walked back to her bus-stand alone. As always.

That wasn't really the shoe bite that troubled her. There were so many nights when she lied awake staring at the blades of the fan revolving above. Mostly she sobbed in her pillow, muffling all the noise. She would go to sleep at the wee hours of morning and snap out of her nap at some nightmare. She always woke up with bloodshot and swollen eyes. Fortunately no one noticed, or probably they did but dared not initiate a talk to her. She sat in the corners evading from people, sipped her tea alone looking far away. She was tired, broken. Suddenly her eyes would fill with tears remembering something in the past and she would gulp large amounts of air to calm herself down. A few times when she didn't walk with her gaze fixed on the ground, some people gave her smiles of recognition and she tried to return a smile. Her jaw muscles were so stiff that her face barely split into a smile.

She heard someone giggle. 'Hey! What are thinking? You are standing here like a statue! Aren't you getting late?' her roommate shook her.
She did not know for how long she had been standing there daydreaming.
Two years later, she was standing at her door in a pair of brand new shoes.
Well she had stopped using shoes since they hurt last time. This time she really liked the shoes and couldn't resist buying them. Well he had liked them too.

'Wow! These are awesome! Looking really cute on your feet!' he had smiled at her as she tried them on, pulling her by her waist towards himself.

She approached him in her new shoes the next day. She limped a little. As always her new shoes hurt her toes a lot.
'Oh my God! Why are you limping? Is it hurting a lot?' His eyebrows furrowed with worry.
'Yeah. I always have a terrible shoe bite.'
'Oh sit down here!' He supported her with his arms around her shoulders and made her sit on a seat at the deserted bus-stand.
'Wait!' he held her wrist as she was trying to remove her shoes. He removed her shoes as slowly as he could. He grimaced with pain seeing her wincing. She forgot her pain and giggled.

She stopped giggling when she saw her little toe smeared with blood. He looked shocked.
'Oh your toe has bled so much!' he said grimly.
'Yeah I didn't think it would be so bad!'

He promptly removed his socks and before she could ask what he was doing, he put them in her feet with the utmost care.
'It would hurt less now. I'd get some cotton and then we'll make sure it doesn't hurt anymore.' He planted a swift kiss on her cheeks leaving her cheeks burning hot.

She realized her eyes filled with tears. She kept looking down.
He lifted her chin up and stared into her eyes.
'Does it hurt a lot?' he asked worriedly.
'Nope it doesn't!' she looked into his eyes, a tearful smile spreading on her face like sunshine in a drizzle.
'Then why are you…' the rest of his words trailed off as she suddenly rested her head on his chest.

He ploughed his fingers through her hair and she remembered they were at a bus-stand even though it was deserted.
'I won't let any kind of shoe hurt you from now!' he said smiling at her.

The Owl

"What a pathetic place!" I muttered to myself angrily with my cell moving everywhere frantically in a series of unsuccessful attempts of receiving network.

I had already expected this. There wouldn't be Vodafone network here. I was still looking for a silver lining. It was frustrating. Every now and then his worried and anguished face would come in my mind and I shuddered. I looked around helplessly.

It was my beautiful village in the rainy season. Moss covered the stone walls. Grass and wild plants sprouted wherever they found chance. Ground was full of red sticky mud. Water dripped from the mango and coconut trees. Nothing could distract my mind though. I had reached there about seven hours ago and I had not been able to contact him. I had messaged him an hour ago before entering my village and then he was asleep. I knew when he'd wake up he would realize he had slept suddenly while typing a message. I could see him helpless and edgy. I had counted on a chance when mom or dad would want to call home for my younger sister who stayed alone at Mumbai as she had her exams coming and then I could somehow intimate him.

Would I tell her? What would she think? I pondered.

But I realized I didn't care anymore. All I wanted was to tell him I was safe and alright.

I paced up and down in the verandah in the twilight, totally helpless and on the verge of tears.

To my utter relief, dad called me inside and gave me a SIM card of a guy from neighborhood.

I looked at my savior, that SIM card like a man dying with thirst would look at an oasis in the dessert.

'Oh I don't think we'd get network inside house, let me go outside!' I said hurriedly and ran outside nearly bumping into a coconut tree. I knew what to do now.

I dialed his number and the network was so pathetic the phone got disconnected. Within five seconds I got his call. Apparently he was sitting with his cell in his hand all the time waiting for one chance to get my call.

'Hello..' his voice shook. He was overwhelmed.

Hello!' my voice chocked a little as I yearned to see him. I felt so close to him.

'Listen, this is my number. Don't call me here. It is not mine. I just called you to tell you I am fine. Please don't worry.' I said it all in a jiffy.

'Oh sure, I had been waiting!!' he was slightly breathless although he hadn't talked much.

'I love you.' I said in a whisper looking around if anyone was eavesdropping.

'Ohh I love you too!'

And I could imagine his face, his expressions.

The distance of around 400 kilometers felt so cruel.

'Gotta hang up.' I said in a small voice.

'Yeah… Take care.'

'You too…'

After we hung up I realized we had no means of contact now. I did not know when to call him next and how. He was more helpless than I was because he couldn't call on that number.

I called my sister.

'Listen - we reached. See, this is his number,' I gave her his number, 'whenever I'd call you, just make sure you text him and tell him I am doing fine. And yes, keep mum about all this.' I warned at last.

I had expected a lot of questions and confusion. But she was being wise. I knew I was spilling the beans to her but I did not care anymore.

I hung up.

The next morning I got a temporary card from a guy from our village. He hadn't used it for a while and it had no balance. The shop was far away from my place and it poured all the day making it nearly impossible to get out far from the house. Moreover the network was so pathetic that it didn't catch inside the home. It was like you should know you are going to get a call now and stay outside. Again I could not call him.

I asked for a mobile with some balance to call home, again from the neighborhood guy. I didn't want any suspicion; I knew I couldn't get many chances.

I called my sister from that cell. 'You know what to do.' I said and she said 'yes' understandingly.

Not more than one minute after we hung up, he called.

'Oh my God!' I said after I picked up.

'Oh your sister is such an angel! I am giving her a box of her favorite Mars once you come back from there you see!'

'Did she understand what’s cooking??'

'Hahhahaha!' He laughed, 'Obviously!!! You should have seen how I replied when she texted me your number. So many 'thank you's! She isn't that stupid.'

'Hmm… I don't think there is a reason to worry, she won't squeal.'

I felt a rush of gratitude towards her.

From that day, we found a way to talk. I would find a quiet place from where I'd not attract anyone's attention and wait for his call.

Once I stayed out in the morning and I got my sister's call. We talked casually and after we hung up I realized I forgot to tell her to inform him I was outside and within range.

I stood there extremely sad.

The next minute my cell flashed with his number.

'Oh my! You called just in time! What a coincidence!'

He laughed, 'It's not a coincidence darling! Your sister messaged me 'Taai has got range right now. Call her.' I called you right away!'

'Gosh I don't know how to thank her!' I exclaimed. We talked for about an hour until the network vanished again only to take our conversation to an abrupt end.

She called me in the evening.

'You guys have made me your owl!' she said in mock anger.

'What?'

'The owl! As in Harry Potter movies! Messenger!'

'Awww thank you so much, thank you, thank u, thank you so much!' my gratitude was flowing.

'Both of you are crazy. I'd show you his messages. He says thank you so many times I lose all my mobile balance in saying 'welcome' and 'it's ok' to him!'

I giggled.

I returned from there in a few days. I saw her from a distance when she was approaching me to lift my luggage.

She smiled meaningfully. I raised my eyebrows at her and hushed her up.

I smacked her at the back of her head and she hit me back. I hit her again and she whined at mom and dad. We fought a lot. But it was different this time. The incident had brought us together. Now we shared a secret, a bond of love and gratitude.

Well we did shower her with chocolates for the next few weeks.

The Rain I Would Never Forget - 1

Sitting in the cubicle was like disconnecting with the outside world. I did not know what was going on outside. All I could hear was the noise of the keys being struck. My brain was stale with all the boring code I was writing. I stretched in the chair and gave out a big yawn. My chair whirled a little and through the glass windows with the curtains drawn off I saw it was raining and my heart leapt.

I loved rain. Rain here was calmer but whimsical, unlike the rain there... where I belonged. And where she belonged as well. I smiled at her thought.

I locked my laptop and went downstairs. To my surprise, people were already standing at the stairs at the entrance watching the rain and sipping the hot tea and coffee. It was raining cats and dogs. It never seemed to cease. Hills looked hazy through dense rain and air had unmistakably lovely fragrance of wet soil. Neatly trimmed plants looked freshly bathed. Grass a few paces away moved with rain as if it had shivers. Water droplets on beautiful light pink flowers sparkled.

I spotted Bhushan and Nikhil at the other corner and went over to them. There was a totally different mood in office today. Everyone looked cheerful and seemed to have forgotten they had work. ‘Where are they?’ Nikhil asked. I tiptoed and ran my eyes over the crowd. I wished to see her.

And there they came. Priya and Deepa chirping with she on their side. She looked grumpy and made a face as she saw outside. They made a beeline to our side.

‘Looks awesome doesn’t it?’ I asked her and winked at Priya.

I knew she hated rain. She had told me. She said she felt miserable whenever it rained.

She stood pressed against the wall with her arms folded across her chest. ‘Ewww!!’ she said as she observed. I laughed at her. She made a face. ‘Ughhh I hate it!’ she said.

That was her typical sentence. I loved the way she said it.

Well I loved many more things about her. In fact, everything about her.

‘Tea?’ Bhushan suggested. Rain has subsided a little and it was only a light drizzle now.

‘I hate the tea here. Tapri? What say?’ I asked looking at all of them.

‘Umm…’ she looked apprehensive and looked out.

‘Oh it isn’t raining that much now. Don’t worry you wouldn’t get wet.’ I assured. I wanted her to come.

‘Okay,’ she agreed and we set off.

Half way into it and rain had a whim again. It started dancing like a haughty kid throwing tantrums.

‘Ughhhhh! Knew this would happen! Let’s go back!’ she complained.

‘Oh it’s fun!’

But as we stood there in the rain, all we guys, with our hands spread drinking fresh drops. Like kids. The girls ran away under a shelter.

I glanced at her and she was staring at me with raised eyebrows. Her already big eyes bulged and I knew the reason. She had forbidden me to get wet in the rain.

‘You have to sit in the air-conditioned cubicle afterwards! You are going to catch cold. Well you already have.’ She had sternly said to me a day before at the breakfast when I had said I wanted to get wet in the rain.

‘Shut up!’ she said, opening her umbrella. ‘Where is your umbrella?’ she asked me.

‘Umm... I forgot it at my room.’ I admitted guiltily.

She looked at me suspiciously and heaved a deep sigh. ‘Come on in! You are not getting wet. You said you had fever yesterday.’

I made a face like a child whose ice cream had been snatched. But I liked when she scolded me. I did not know why. Or probably I did. I smiled looking down, when she wasn’t looking at me.

I came out of reverie and went under the shelter where they were standing laughing at us acting like kids and clicking photos. She looked mollified and smug when I came under the shelter. I looked at her closely. She was laughing at Bhushan and Nikhil who were dancing in rain now. Apparently she had no problem if they got wet in the rain.

I could not stop smiling.

I looked at her. She looked at me questioningly. I shook my head, still smiling. She looked at me as though I had gone mad and burst into a smile and then looked away.

I could not take my eyes off her. Her hair was wet and had water drops caught into the strands. Sleeves of her kurta were wet too. She had wrapped her arms as she shivered. Her teeth clattered.

She looked even more beautiful than flowers that sparkled, or trees that looked fresh green, or green hills, or sun who was trying to peep from black clouds by now.

I stared at her madly and wished she were mine. I wished she could see it into my eyes. And the next second I wished she couldn’t. And as we walked back, a water drop felt strangely warm on my cheek...


- Based on a true story :P

Bhel

Mumbai: At 10.30 in the night I got into an Ambernath local from Sion.
Terribly tired due to a long journey from Pune, I found heaven in a corner seat and started to look around. There were several young girls in fashionable dresses chattering continuously, women raising the admonishing finger at their children trying to misbehave by keeping their feet on seats, women that picked methi or peeled mutter probably making use of all the free time available preparing for the next day, women donning dark red lipstick and flashy clothes with a strange air around them which prevented anyone from sitting beside them, beggars who made pitiful faces at the ladies who acted as if they were invisible.

My eyes fell on a woman sitting a little far. She had used dark purple eyeliner on her eyes. Well I wondered if it was done with an eyeliner brush because it looked like she had used a paintbrush. It was a thick strap of blue paint. She looked scary and funny at the same time and totally out of place.

And then I spotted her. And my mind went 2 years back.

Back then we used to rush for the Dadar-Kalyan train for the journey back from college to home. And apart from getting comfortable seats and no rush, the reason had been the bhel.
She used to get into the train at Dadar and in a strange piercing
voice she used to shout 'bhel!!!'. Maybe it was the typical time of the day when everyone felt hungry or maybe she was too good at making it, several women would
rummage for the purses and shouts orders from different corners from the compartments.
And then her hands would start working like machine. In her hand she
carried a big tokri, which had all the ingredients. She would quickly make a paper-cone and throw some kurmura with an air of careless finesse, add some finely cut tomato, onions and raw mango and a bit of a mysterious masala she carried in an old metal container. She would then toss the mixture making some kurmura fly in all the directions.

'Come on!', someone in our group would nudge me, 'Let's get it. Looks yummy!!'
Even after seeing her old torn saree, hands smeared in the chutney and masala and the mysterious metal container I would finally give in once the flavor of the raw mango wafted around me.
'Gila or Sukha?' She would confirm the order. Then move around to
collect the money.
'Give it tomorrow. It is okay girl!' she would say impatiently to a
girl who would rummage for a rupee or two.

Suddenly the memories filled up in my mind like the monsoon clouds covering the sky. Back then there was an elderly woman who used to sell vegetables in train. Well she always grabbed attention because as she sold the vegetables, she would sing a song which described the recipe of curries made from it. And there were women who sold stuff from hairpins to clothes, purses to TV-fridge covers, nail-polishes, lipsticks.
The chics with branded clothes made faces at the cheap makeup items yet several others took the containers from those women and checked the shades on their nails. While the nail-polish container would be with the women in one corner of the compartment, the saleswomen would go to the other corner with the lipstick containers or the hangers with hair-clips. I always wondered how the small girls among them balanced those containers on their head, without any support and get in and out of the trains.

My mind came back as the familiar smell of mango wafted around me. I looked at her hands smeared in masala and chutney and remembered how the people in our office cafe wore head-gears and hand-gloves before serving.

A small smile spread across my face and I shouted my order.
She came back with the paper cone.
'I used to have your bhel when I was in college.' I smiled at her.
'Oh!' her face lit up, the machine-like mask on her face momentarily melted. 'Where do you work now?'
'Pune.' I informed her, 'I return on weekends.' I could feel the curious movement by the people beside me, clearly interested as I conversed with a bhel vendor.

I put some coins in her hand before I realized it has been two years after I bought bhel from her.
It couldn't be 7 rs now. I asked, 'How much?'
'10 rs', she said.
I smiled, 'It used to be 7 rs.'
'Jyada diya hai aapko,' she tried to justify the price with a grin.
I nodded giving her 3 more rupees.