#theGirlIn

The Girl In Red Shorts

So, most days, I leave from home at around 645. Some days I am early and some, late. But it is around this time. The idea is that there’s no traffic on the road and I like reaching early and getting a head start. Against who, I am not sure.

Why would I leave home in the first place? Early or late? Cos I cant work at home. If I had my way, I would leave home at 3:45 and reach at 4:15 and get going with things that are supposed to be done. You know, more things get done in the morning. Don’t you?

What is open at that hour? Starbucks close to my place opens at 7 AM. The office is 24 x 7 access, though there’s no AC. Which is ok these days. So, there is someplace to park my ass, get the Internet and get some work done.

Ok, I am digressing.

Coming back. When I leave at around 6:45, I see all these young people trying to get fitter – some are pumping iron, some are doing yoga and a lot of them are running around. I also see older folks that are pretending to work out and whiling away time. You know, in life. And then there are those walkers, employed with the sole purpose of getting the dogs to poop at places where no one can spot em. I also see those scrappy young men cleaning cars. And I see sleepy-eyed guards that often do double shifts. Everyone is part of the scenery.

The only person that catches my eye in all this melee is this girl that is running like her life depends on it.

And no, she’s not the only one running there. People of all ages, shapes, genders, and sizes run. And they run with varying speeds. And with different emotions. Some are calm. Come are huffing and puffing. Some are enthused about the act of running. The scenery I talked about? Each person is part of the scenery. You see them and you ignore them. They are like furniture that you don’t even know you ignored. They are there. To fill the stage for the main hero to come in and perform. Like those filler acts that open for the headliner?

And who is the headliner? The girl I talked about. The girl in Red Shorts. The one that is running like her life depends on it.

For starters, I have this thing for red. The color of C4E. The color of excitement. The color of energy, strength, passion, Coke, blood, danger and lipsticks.

Plus, when she runs, it is a sight to behold. It is an epitome of the beauty of the human body in motion. Don’t confuse her for those fashion models that just look great. This woman is in motion. In action. When she’s running, she’s pushing herself. And her physical limits. It is a spectacle to watch.

Thing is, when she’s running, all you see on her face is this determination for the next stride. You can see that she is trying hard and pushing herself. Unlike a lot of other people that run, she is not smiling. She is not relaxed. She is not taking is easy. She is at it. Hardcore man. You know that this running is taking considerable effort for her. And she is putting in the effort required. Which a lot of people will not. They would give up. Heck, I would give up!

I am of course at a respectful distance and not make her uncomfortable with the staring. But for as long she is in the line of sight, she does not stop running man! I wish I could run like her. I don’t know her name but I do know that theGirlIn Red Shorts is my inspiration. If she can, I can. In fact, if I had the balls to talk to random women, I would walk up to her and ask her to be my trainer.

Irrespective, I need to get back to running (for the umpteenth time). This entire idea of someone running, struggling at it and yet not giving up is an alien concept. I HAVE to be like her. Right now, I get excited about something, I do it for a few days and then I give up. I need to have consistency in what I do. And in when I do and how I do.

Maybe the Girl in Red Shorts is the inspiration?

Regards,
The guy in black short shorts who does not run at all.

Read other #TheGirlIn stories here.

Dear 4E on 6E 462

GARG / SAURABH / MR on 4D

Dear 4E on 6E 462,

First things first, this must be the 234th (or 287th) flight that I have taken in last five or so years. No I am not exaggerating. Neither am I showing off. I am just putting things in perspective.

Second, you may want to classify me as yet another delhiwallah – the concept of which is flawed in the first place itself. But trust me, unlike popular perception, the average ~~Joe~~ Amit walking down the streets in Delhi is not a pervert. He respects women. He knows his boundaries. He knows where to stop. He knows that there is life beyond merely ogling at women. He has dreams. He has aspirations. He has other things on the agenda.

Of course you wouldn’t take my word for this. If you would, why would you be so uncomfortable sitting next to me? I promise I checked for BO and I was not stinking. I even asked an aspiring author who had come to meet at the airport about it. And he seemed nonplussed by my question.

Third, you are gorgeous. You looked great. I am serious. You have to be one of the most good-looking women I’ve ever had the fortune of sitting next to. Not just at 35000 feet but anywhere. Except when I’ve sat next to sgMS. But no so good looking that I forget who I am and make uncalled for advances at you. I know better than that. I do. Trust me on this. If not for your antics, I would’ve never even looked in your direction even once.

So, now with all these things out of the way, dear 4E, pray answer one simple question. The question has given me sleepless night last night and most of the day today. I am confused, I have never seen such a behavior from any other co-passenger in any of the flights that I’ve taken in my life. The question is… Why dear 4E would you contort your face, snort, shiver every two seconds? And then look at me with those accusatory eyes every third second? What did I do?

At first I thought may be 4F was troubling you. But the dude on the other side obviously a first timer and he was busy taking pictures from his window seat. That couldn’t have made you react like that. Or may be it could. You looked like a rich woman and in your world, flying could be a privilege reserved for a select few only. I don’t know. Just speculating you know.

Plus, modern planes, especially in India and in coach class are classic example of cramped spaces. You must be used to your large mansions but some amount of discomfort is expected when you fly. No?

Thank God that your discomfort was not evident enough for the air hostesses to take note of. If they noticed, they would’ve reported me for sure. And I, the poor bald old man from Delhi wouldn’t have had anywhere to go. I am scared of heights and my pics being taken and splashed all over the Facebook.

When I realized that my presence was THE thing that was bothering you, I tried faking sleep, I tried to write, I tried to read and I even went to the loo twice, hoping that my absence would give you some sort of peace.

But no; Everytime I came back to 4D, you would shrug and then look at me. You know such things can scar people for life?

Thankfully I was wearing a pair of denims and a nice shirt. If I were in my regular flying attire – shorts and an old tattered tee-shirt – you would’ve definitely asked them to change your seat. Come to think of it, that’s a good idea. I must dress like that when I fly. There’s a higher probability that I’d fly in peace! I’d do it next time on. And when I do that, I hope I don’t meet you again onboard a plane. Actually not just on 6E, not on 9W, not on the ground. Not anywhere else.

I don’t want to meet you ever again. All the best to your beauty and your issues with people like me. To the day I die, I would be bothered about your issues with me. I am willing to tolerate more sleepless nights but I am not willing to meet you again. Ever.

Happy flying.

~~Love~~ Regards,
The bald man on 4D

Note:
This is the first in a series of blogposts that I plan to write every time I take a flight.

Why would I do so? Because I love writing. And I love flying. And I love watching people when they’re flying – for some reason flying brings out the best (or may be worst) in them. And there is something or the other that happens every time I fly. Like one time, I was in this long queue and I had less than 2 minutes left to check-in. Wait… that’s a story for a different time.

The Girl in Yellow Boots

Background. a.k.a. Context.
I was talking to this friend and she told me about her fetish for shoes. She told me about 40 different kinds of shoes that she had. 40. Four zero. For someone like me – I refuse to wear shoes even when I am taking interviews – 40 different types of shoes sounded crazy. And that’s where an idea happened. What if I could write a fictional story, each story inspired by a pair of shoes?

Here is the first.

Timberland Yellow Boots. Via AK.

[Start]
I saw her first at Indigo deli. Indigo is one of those upscale places where a lot of celebrities come together to break bread and sip on wines. Although, out of place, I was there to meet an old acquaintance, hoping to get a lead for a writing job. After all, that’s what I am supposed to do as a struggling writer. Suck up to people, hoping to get work that would allow me to survive in Mumbai for yet another month. I lived like that. Month on month. Hand to mouth. I lived on hope. That some day my words would make some reader cry her heart out and eventually I’d move the entire country. And may be that day, that day I’d make a living from my art. Actual living. Not tiny morsels that aren’t enough to feed that insatiable hunger that’s gnawing me since I decided to take up writing as a career.

Oh, I have drifted. I often do that. When I see words come up, I tend to get lost. I guess it’s one of the curses of being a writer. So, let me come back to her. I saw her first at Indigo. No no. It wasn’t love. I guess it was surprise and amazement. It was intrigue. It was this urge to know more about her. Be friends with her. May be spend the rest of my life with her. That’s it. Not love. Not even lust. But intrigue and a desire to be with her for as long.

She had long curly hair that fell on her face like a veil. She was chewing onto a gum furiously as she scribbled intensely with a pencil. I don’t know what made me look in her direction first. But whatever it was, I turned to her and immediately dismissed her as yet another actress. She looked like one and that anyway was Indigo’s claim to fame. That you could spot celebrities even on the dead days.

Since my long-lost friend, who could get me a job that promised another month in Mumbai, was yet to come, I had nothing to do but watch people. Yet another hobby that I had to develop to help me write better. So, I was looking at everyone that I could see from my vantage point, in the other corner. There was this young couple who were apparently arguing over something. May be they were having a crisis in their relationship. There was this mother-daughter duo engrossed in their food. Another couple – they were relatively older – was together on a table but looked bored of each other’s company. Guess they were married for some time and they had nothing left to talk about. The man was lost in his phone and the woman was leafing through the menu. Damn such relationships where togetherness loses its meaning and people merely go through the motions. Thankfully, on the table next to me was a group of old ladies, none of them less than 60, who apparently were celebrating life like they were sixteen. On another table was this man who sat by himself, engrossed in a book. And then there was me. An out-of-job writer. And of course her.

While I was busy casting all these people in stereotypes, for some reason, my gaze continued to shift back to her. As if I was watching a ping-pong match. I would look at a table, think about the occupants and then go back to her and think about her. Even when I was busy lamenting about the couple that lacked a spark in their lives, somewhere at the back of my head was thinking about her.

I tried hard to avoid her but I could not. She was like this magnetic force that continued to pull me. I don’t know why. May be it was her beautiful hair. May be it was the way she curled her lips while she concentrated on her work. Or was it way she held onto the pencil? I don’t know. I would never know.

To make matters worse, I think I was the only one who was interested in her. No one else gave her a second look. And all this was new to me. I have always been unfazed by the presence of even the most intimidating women. And here was this woman who captivated my attention like no other. She, on the other hand, in all probability, was oblivious to my presence and was ignorant of the effect that she had on me.

I knew I had to talk to her. Somehow. I had to come up with a reason, a pretext. I had to find one. I had to speak to her. May be she was a writer as well. How else do you explain a girl, a pencil and a cafe in one sentence. Suddenly, as if on the cue, she dropped it.

I traced the pencil as it fell on the wooden flooring that lined the restaurant’s floor. For a fall from a three-feet or so high table, it took forever for the pencil to hit the floor. May be it was one of those incidents where time slows down and things get etched in your memory forever.

The pencil landed near her feet and that’s when I noticed her mustard-sauce colored yellow boots first. I had her in my field of vision for this long and I never noticed the shoes that she was wearing. I was stumped yet again. I just couldn’t comprehend that a strikingly good looking girl, dressed impeccably in a red dress could wear such ugly yellow boots. To me, a girl wearing yellow boots means a tough woman, who is headstrong, bold, prefers outdoor, loves to travel and is more alpha that the alphaest of men.

I know that I couldn’t paint a more cliched picture of a girl in yellow boots. And yet, she, the girl in yellow boots and a red dress, looked like a polar opposite. She was this a fragile little thing that for sure would shatter into million tiny pieces if I even touched her. Her countenance and her boots, together, were like this study in contrasts. I had all the more reason to find a pretext to talk to her. She was away from me, or I could have helped her pick that pencil off the floor. I could have sent a note or something with the waiter but that’s probably the oldest way to get rejected the fastest. I could walk up to her and ask for her permission to join her but I did not have the balls. There had to be a way. Do I drop a dish or something and create a ruckus to catch her attention? But what woman wants to talk to a sloppy man?

It took me forever to come up with an elaborate plot to get her attention and go talk to her. In my head, I repeated my opening lines that I’d use to talk to her. I perfected my approach and fixed my hair. I pumped myself with fake confidence and I was finally ready to go talk to her and ask her about her boots. That was going to be my opening line after all.

With an elaborate gesture and a swoosh, I got up from my place and let my gaze travel over other patrons – the man lost in his novel, the old ladies making merry, the boring couple munching onto their salads in uncomfortable silence – to the corner where she was seated. To my shock, it was empty. She was gone. I checked again, I checked all the corners and all the tables. She was gone. I did a desperate dance in the deli but she was gone. I rushed out but she was no where to be seen. I asked the doorman about her and he merely shrugged at my enthusiasm about a nameless patron. I spoke to the parked taxis and rickshaws but she was gone. She was gone.

Before it could sink in that she was gone, my friend walked in. While he briefed me on the job, my gaze continued to go back to that corner that she was sitting at. The corner now housed a group of chatty young women, all of them pretty and interesting. But the one I wanted, the one in yellow boots, the study in contrasts, was gone.

***

It’s been three year now. I haven’t bumped into her again. Even if I have, I wouldn’t have noticed because, to be honest, I don’t remember how she looked like. I just miss that red dress and those yellow boots.

I do visit Indigo deli more often than I ought to, hoping to spot those yellow boots, hoping to find out more about her. Over the years, in these three years, I have perfected my approach, my opening lines. I know what to ask her and what to talk to her about. I just need one more encounter with her. Damn I deserve that one more encounter. One more chance. And I will not be slow this time about.

Even though three years is a long long time for memories to fade away and people to move on and things to change, I can’t get that evening, those boots out of my head. I remember that tumble and that roll of the pencil as it fell down, as if it had happened yesterday.

Of course, some things did change. That job that I was expecting to get that day, eventually came my way. The thing that I wrote for that job, did make people shed tears and did move the collective conscious of the country. One thing led to another and I have now become what I desired the most. A successful writer. Who makes a real living. Who is vaguely recognizable. Who has a few fans. And I am in a relationship that I dreaded the most. I am with a charming woman and most evening, she and I hardly have anything to talk about. I don’t know who’s fault is it. But I am the man who is perpetually lost in his phone and she is the woman who keeps fiddling with the menu cards when we go out.

Though, the only thing that hasn’t changed is that whenever I am at Indigo, my eyes automatically go over to that corer where I saw her the first time. Hoping to see a flash of pale yellow near the foot of the table. Hoping to find her there. In that red dress, chewing onto a gum furiously, scribbling in her notepad, wearing those ugly yellow boots.

Even today, my woman and I are at Indigo. She was busy talking to someone on her phone and I was pushing my salad around with one hand and twiddling my phone with the other. Suddenly, someone tapped lightly on my shoulder and said, “Excuse me! Aren’t you the same guy who wrote that book about that film actress?”

I looked up to her and nodded absentmindedly. My book about a film actress and a nameless stalker had done wonders. I assumed that she was talking about the same book. Before I could add anything, she pushed a copy of my book and a pencil in my face. She said, “It’s a brilliant book. I loved it! Could I have your autograph please?”

While I did not want to be rude to the woman, I really wanted to be left alone. To drown in my disappointment and sorrow of not seeing the girl in yellow boots at Indigo yet again.

But I managed a feeble smile and took the book from her. Just then, she dropped the pencil.

I saw the pencil fall to the wooden floor. The time seemed to slow down. Yet again. After all these years. The pencil rolled and tumbled as it raced to the floor. The slow and agonizing fall eventually came to an end as the pencil came to a rest on the floor next to the mustard-sauce colored yellow boots that she was wearing.
[End]

P.S.: The other pieces of theGirlIn series are here.

P.P.S.: If I sound like the protagonist in the story and I come across as a vain writer please note I am not trying to be one.

The Bus Stop

It was 9 AM when I first noticed her. Though I hadn’t noticed her earlier but I am sure she’s been on the bus stop for more than an hour at least. She couldn’t have been more than 15 or 16. And she was dressed better than most girls that took their buses from this bus stop. She had a small and yet eye catching yellow backpack clasped in her arms. She held it tightly against her chest as if her dear life was caged in it. She was staring intently at something on the other side of the road and was otherwise motionless. If she wasn’t waving her hands to ward off the flies, I would have passed her off as a mannequin that some cloth merchant had left behind.

Surprising bit was that that while she was on the bus stop, some 30 buses would have passed by and she did not take any of those. In fact I realized that she wasn’t even looking at the bus numbers or making any effort to ask the conductor about whatever destination those buses went to.

She definitely did not belong to the scenery. I have been running the tea shop by this bus stop for almost five years now and I know a local when I see them. I thought that she’s from a well to do family and maybe she has had an argument with her parents and is hiding from them or something. The newspaper was full of reports like that. May be her family has put a large award for information on her whereabouts. This is the kind of luck that I desperately need. I have to pay that damn loan back that I took to start this tea shop. A large chunk of that loan was spent on bribing Pandey, the local constable and his bosses.

Just when I was going to speak to her, I was interrupted by Pandey. He never pays for his tea and I don’t like him a bit.

I generally setup my shop by the bus stop by 630 AM. Today was no different. In fact, today I found Shukla Ji waiting for me. He runs the chemist shop in one of the by-lanes and he has been a customer since the first day of my shop. And since then, he has always been my first customer of the day. He says that my tea is like amrrut – the magic potion. He says my tea can infuse life into even a dead man. I think he merely exaggerates. He is a good guy and he keeps recommending me to all his customers and friends. Everything is good about him except his useless conversations. He apparently knows about everything the world has to offer and every day, he chooses a new thing to talk about. Today morning, while he kept me busy with his inane talks about women, their ailments, their whims, I took my time to clean up the place, boil water, brew the tea leaves, pound ginger, cardamom and lemon into a paste and make the first cup. Shukla Ji sipped onto the clay pot with great satisfaction and continued his monologue about women and their shopping habits. At times I have this dying urge of poisoning the tea with a rat-kill and put an end to Shukla Ji’s stupid monologues but I refrain myself because I had to run the tea shop and ShuklaJi meant 7 to 8 cups a day and numerous referrals.

Just like that it was 9, ShuklaJi was long gone and it was time for Mrs. Verma to make her appearance. She is the principal of the government school for girls. Though she lives at a walking distance from the school and my teashop, and she can have her tea at home, she still likes to come over, sit here and indulge in gossip about other regulars. I don’t mind. 3 cups a day. Mrs. Verma was about 45, looked 40 and considered herself 35. And like all women her age, she was particular and liked doing things her way. Like, she carried her tea cup with her every time she came to my shop. It said “World’s Greatest Friend”. The cup was too big to serve tea in and I suspect its was a gift from someone. But I am not sure of the greatest friend bit.

I have told her on numerous occasions earlier that since I sit on a bus stop, a cleaner mug makes no difference to hygiene and danger of diarrhea. Anyways I saw her coming and as she was approaching, my gaze automatically went towards her usual place on the bus stop. And I saw the girl with the yellow backpack again. I had almost forgotten about her. She was sitting on Mrs. Verma’s place. Of course the bus stop is a public installation and no one can claim any personal rights to a specific bench. But once get used to things, we start getting personal with those things. Now look at me for example. Anyone can setup a tea or a cigarette shop here and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I could theoretically talk to Constable Pandey but I know him. He will take sides with anyone who greases his palms.

Before I could think of a list of deadly misfortunes that may befall Pandey for not helping me, Mrs. Verma reached the bus stop with her large bag and her coffee mug and she headed towards her regular seat. Knowing Mrs. Verma, I was expecting fireworks. I had mentally taken a note to help the girl if Mrs. Verma got nasty. It’s a free country after all and anyone can sit anywhere they want to, as long as they are not doing anything illegal. Mrs. Verma can anyway be unnecessarily harsh. And the lonely girl needs a guardian angel before I can inform her parents and claim my reward.

Mrs. Verma stopped right in front of the girl and stared down hard at her. Mrs. Verma has a huge imposing personality. A little on the heavy side, she always wears faded pastel sarees that are ironed, creased and starched as sharp as knives. To add to the dramatic appearance, she has this huge pair of reading glasses that keeps dangling from her neck. I have never seen her using them. I think they are useless and they are merely in place to add to her strict image. She says that little harshness goes a long way towards fixing attitudes. She always asserts her opinions on things that she has no clue about. I mean who dares calls my cups dirty? The entire world drinks from them and so far nothing has happened to no one.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Verma was still staring down at the girl and she kept the stern gaze for what seemed like the longest minute ever. Anyone else would have seen the signs and would have fled. But not this little one. She kept on staring past Mrs. Verma. I think this was the first time when someone had refused to acknowledge Mrs. Verma’s presence and authority. Mrs. Verma stood there with puzzled expression. She didn’t know how to react. She shuffled on her feet for a few seconds and with uncertain moves and disorderly steps walked towards me. She averted my gaze and she feigned a search for something in her bag. Talking to no one in particular, she said “look at kids these days. They don’t respect their elders at all. Look at the pride on her face. I wonder which school she goes to.” When she looked up after the rant, she caught ShuklaJi staring at her. He had come just a couple of minutes back and hearing the rant, his face developed an expression of a man possessed. ShuklaJi ensures that he is here at 9 everyday without fail. I suspect that ShuklaJi has a soft corner for Mrs. Verma. Rather than talking to Mrs. Verma, I have often found him talking to her bosom, her bag, her saree and even her mug. And I reckon even Mrs. Verma likes the attention. May be this is why despite all the trouble and my dirty mugs, she comes over to my shop for the tea.

“Madam, who said what to you? Just tell me and I shall take care of the bastard”, Pandey spoke as he walked towards the shop. He had apparently heard Mrs. Verma’s anguish and unlike us, could infer what she was saying.

“Nothing Pandey Ji. Just some kid who needs to be disciplined”, replied Mrs. Verma, eying the girl.

Shukla Ji was feeling left out. He looked at me briefly and loped a question in the air. “Arey, wasn’t this girl sitting on the bench when I left after my morning walk?”

I replied, “I think she was but I am not sure. But she has been here for more than an hour for sure and she hasn’t made any effort to stop any bus. I wonder what’s wrong with her.” Though I stated mere facts, I was hoping to add some fuel to fire and get people talking. My experience has taught me more people indulge into conversations, more time they spend at the tea stop and more tea they consume. And nothing like a mystery or a controversy to get their opinions and hunger for tea flowing.

At this, Mrs. Verma who considers herself an authority on young women added “What are you saying? I am sure the girl is a chain snatcher and is waiting for the right target to come along. I know such girls. Like Hawks, they can sit for hours and wait for their prey and when they spot someone, they are as quick as lightening and before you realize they are gone. Look at her long legs. She must be a good runner. And since she is thin, she must be really hard to catch hold of. Pandey Ji, I think you should round her for interrogation. In fact do you remember when I had to call for you when one of my teachers lost her purse in the school? Dint we find it in a girl’s school bag? Didn’t that girl confess about her crime and how she wanted money to buy expensive clothes so that she may please her boyfriend? Boyfriend at the age of 15. When I was growing up, girls were married for two years by the time they were 15. Girls back then were so obedient and they respected their parents and in-laws. Now, we have a totally different generation. Talk harshly to a girl and she would have a meter long tear running down her cheek. I am telling you, we are giving so much freedom to these girls. It will not help our society. Our culture is getting lost. I mean look at me. Despite the fact that I am a teacher and I need to keep my mind open, I still adhere to things that my parents taught me. And those values that I learnt back then are still helping me instill discipline in my students. PandeyJi, you at once should go and check with that girl and search her yellow bag. How dare a criminal like that is roaming free on our streets?”

Mrs. Verma was breathless by this time and had to actually sit down and fan her face with the edge of her saree. Before Pandey made his unlikely move, I had to do something about the situation. Mrs. Verma was just being vicious and I had anyways told myself that I would help the girl. I was beginning to like the girl. And if Pandey identified the missing girl, I would lose the opportunity to claim the missing person’s award. I retorted, “Verma Madam, how can you say something like that? Look at the poor girl. She seems to be from a good family. I think she needs help. Does she look like a chain snatcher to you? Look at her clothes? She is dressed better than most of your girls. She is wearing such nice blue shoes. Look at the watch on her wrist. She can’t possibly be a chain snatcher. The bag would not have anything but her books.” I eyed towards Pandey for support. I knew that he is the laziest policeman ever and even if the girl had crook stamped across her face, Pandey would not bother moving his butt.

Constable Pandey wanted to speak up and before he could do so, ShuklaJi jumped in. “How can you talk like that to Mrs. Verma? She is the most educated person amongst us.” Shukhlaji paused for a second, looked into the eyes of Mrs. Verma and continued talking. “She has a point. If she wasn’t a chain snatcher, why would she be sitting here? If she is lost, can’t she ask people for help? If she was from a respectable family, she would never run away from home and bring disgrace to her family. But what would you know? Only Mrs. Verma can appreciate these things. We should listen to Mrs. Verma. We should check with the girl. If PandeyJi is reluctant to go, I volunteer to go and speak to her.” Dropping his tone a bit, addressing Mrs. Verma’s dangling reading glasses, he said. “I have even heard that there are girls her age into flesh trade. They look for gullible and unsuspecting people and trap them. These girls would come to you, cook a story and tell you that they’ve lost their way and they need help. What can an honest and kind man do in such a situation? And moment you offer help, they cling onto you and dont let go. I have a friend who got trapped like that. I am …”

Pandey cut ShuklaJi short and said, “Your friend? If my memory serves me right, dint you yourself come to the police station a few weeks back and filed a report against a girl who had stolen some money from your shop? And you dint have any witness to support your claim?”

“Uh … yes yes it was me but how are these things related? It was a case of shoplifting and this is a prostitute we are talking about here”. ShuklaJi tried to dodge the volley.

“Prostitute?” I asked with disbelief. “ShuklaJi! Sir, if we can’t help the poor girl, let’s not throw baseless allegations at her.”, I said.

“I think in your report you said that this girl asked you for help and you gave her some money and when you refused to give her more, she snatched money from you and ran away”, continued Pandey.

“Arey nahi nahi sir. That was something else. Anyways I took my report back after I spoke to the Station In-charge. Didn’t I? And we have a bigger trouble here. We need to know who is this girl and where is she from. We need to know if she can cause any harm to Mrs. Verma and her girls.” ShuklaJi tried making peace with Pandey.

It was now Constable Pandey’s turn to put forth his opinion. He said, “We are just making a mole of a mountain. I am saying its nothing. This is just a case of the girl bunking her college. She does not where to go and hence she is just whiling away time at the bus stop. It’s so cold outside. Who would not like to soak up some sun? I think we should leave her alone. Why waste our time and effort on talking to these girls? Anyways once they are old enough to get married, they would be sent to their in-laws house and all they would do the entire day is cook and clean.”

I was aghast. I was amidst a bunch of people who were supposedly educated and yet they spoke of women as if they were mere objects. Especially in the age when women were launching rockets in space and running big businesses. I did not know how to react to these comments by Pandey, Shukla and Madam. I sincerely wish I could do something for the little girl and help her. I could think of only one way. I handed a cup of tea to Pandey and told him, “PandeyJi, I know it’s inconvenient to you but could you please check with her? This is the least we can do for her and if she is lost, we can help her find her way to home”.

Pandey looked at me with irritation and said, “Ok ok, I will do it.”

And moment he turned towards the girl, he stopped in his tracks. So did we.

There was no one on the bus stop. Not even her yellow backpack.

Winds were her best friends

The other day, ~~someone~~ Dee gave me these words and asked if I could write something. Here is what I came up with. Inspired by Murakami’s 1Q84. If you want to help me get over my writer’s block and give me something to write about, do lemme know.

Funny thing about this working women’s hostel is that no one knows how you get a place for yourself if you aren’t staying here already. Most of the occupants have been here since they can remember and no one seemed inclined to leave. Called The Windchimes, the building was an old, yet solid structure that at one point in time was a hotel for state guests of the British Empire. And as a result, all rooms were large by Mumbai standards and were very comfortable. Each room had almost the same set of furnishing. A double sized bed flush to the wall, a closet to the left of the bed, a writing table and a chair between the bed and the closet. Ofcourse each occupant had given their respective personalities to their temporary abodes, by adding knick-knacks and furnishings. So each room looked familiar and yet aloof. Apart from this, the rooms and the hostel were pretty boring, except the rooms had attached bathrooms, no windows but came with individual balconies.

These balconies, alcoves couldn’t be larger than 3 feet in width and yet they were considered luxury at a place like Mumbai where every inch of space is reclaimed and becomes fodder for life. But then, these balconies, these expensive alcoves were mostly wasted at Windchimes. Most of these were used to merely dry clothes and condiments. Except the corner one on the 4th floor, facing the intersection. The one with white chiffon curtains, slightly larger than required, that fluttered with the winds as if a large bird was trapped in the room and is trying to fly away with the entire house. This was ofcourse Dee’s room. She was a writer of some sort and had been here since last three years. And if word on the street is to be believed, she would have spent most part of those three years sitting on the balcony amidst those flowing curtains and staring at the distant sea. She was like a permanent fixture on the balcony, always hunched on a chair, eyes fixed at some remote point on the horizon.

Dee’s room, her balcony, looked down on the intersection of Henry Road and Boman Behram Marg. Though this was stone’s throw away from the Gateway of India and the famous Taj Mahal hotel, this was not a very busy intersection. Most of the traffic consisted of two wheelers and pedestrians. Diagonally across Dee’s room, there was my kiosk, a hole in the wall actually, that sold tea in the morning to health conscious people going for their morning walks, snacks in the afternoon to children when they left from the Holy Name High School next to Windchimes and cigarettes in the evening to young men who would gather outside Windchimes, hoping to catch sight of their favorite one staying at Windchimes. Of course most women did not use the balconies and hence the “sightings” were pretty rare. Except for my be Dee. She was on her gallery all the time and yet nobody looked in her direction. Not that she was not attractive, in fact she presented a very imposing sight with the long chiffon curtains behind her and stark contrast of her long black shiny hair all over her face but guess she was too easily available and hence most men were probably not interested in the game!

Not just men but Dee somehow dint really have any great friends at Windchimes. She generally kept to herself and most of her interactions with other occupants were on a strict need basis. The house had a common mess and that fixed time at which they served meals. This made it necessary for every occupant to come down, have their meals together and engage in idle banter. Even on these occasions Dee kept to herself and barely spoke. When she did, it wasn’t really a social comment or a dope of gossip but a functional comment, like, “could you please pass on ketchup” or something to that effect. She was not unfriendly and in fact was a very pleasant company. When you spoke to her, she heard it all with rapt attention and made you feel like the most important person in the world. She would nod at the right places, laugh at every point where you expected laughter and removed all traces of happiness from her face when you expected someone to be sympathetic to what you were saying. She was great like that. Just that she was incapable of making any small talk.

She, unlike other people, did not have the innate need to make friends. It’s as if winds were her best friends. She could sit for hours on her balcony and revel in the company of cool winds that came from the ocean. For her it was like a process of purification where apparently the winds carried love letters from her lover who’s gone to the sea and she’s longing for him to come back. Just like Mercedes, the beloved of Edmond (Dantes). If not for the long lost lover then maybe all she wanted from life was to grow wings somehow and then fly away. Fly to that unknown Promised Land that every one of us keeps chasing throughout our lives. And since she trusted the wind as if it was an extension of her body that she could control, she could very well go on that voyage that only a few lucky ones of us get to even think about. All it would take for her is a leap out of her window, along with those oversized curtains, her long hair, and her best friends, the wind!

And this is exactly why I think I am extremely lucky to have ended up with her. She had always mesmerized me. The sight of her on her balcony was like a fairy perched up high on the roof, waiting to come down and take me her arms and make me forget all the hardships I have endured over the years. Ofcourse, there was no way for me to break ice with her. She rarely gave any attention to men and I could count on my fingers, all the times she stepped out. But since I had the advantage of owning the store bang opposite her balcony, I had a rings side view of her life. And all the men gathered at my shop anyways dint show any interest in her, may be that helped because God knows there are far more eligible men for someone like her. So every time she stepped out, I secretly hoped that she would come to me and order some tea or something. Tea, for us Indians has always been a social engagement and an ice breaker. The first we did speak, she was being dragged, I could see against her wishes, by some other girl from the hostel because the other girl had to meet a guy!

Of course, now, it all looks like a dream. Call it luck, call it fate, call it destiny, somehow we have ended up together and I couldn’t have been happier. Dee is every bit of fairy that I had imagined her to be. Probably better. As I write these lines, Dee is still hunched onto a barstool on a make shift restaurant at this otherwise secluded beach, her elbows resting on the table, one hand cupping her face, other holding onto mine with a fierce grip. At times I wonder how her frail and tiny body could have such a firm grip, like she’d not get me go, ever. Like that line from that famous John Denver song where they are talking about holding each other and never let go. I look at her hands and her serene face that is betraying her by showing off just a hint of a smile. I know she is happy. I know I am happy. I know we are happy together. We have come a long way from that intersection of Henry Road and Boman Behram Marg.

And the best part, she is doing what she loves doing the most – staring at the ocean, letting the winds play with her hair that have grown even longer since she moved out of Windchimes. Just that, this time, her secret is shared by two people. I, and the winds, that were her best friends. Indeed.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Ofcourse you wouldve read/heard about Lisbeth. The “original” girl with the dragon tattoo.

If you havent, you ought to buy Stieg‘s masterpiece and read it.

Anyways, so, today something crazy happened. I was on my way back from some place when I saw this girl passing by. She was in a dark grey business suit (unlikely for women to be dressed in business suits in India) and like everyone she seemed to be in a hurry to reach somewhere. Very petite and long flowing hair, falling till the small of her back. Someone you cant ignore while she’s in front of you. Even though she was part of a sea of people rushing to catch a train from probably the busiest train station in Mumbai, my gaze somehow landed on her. Before anything else, I realized that she was clearly a misfit in the seemingly coherent scenery. And yet, some part of me told me that she fit in there as smugly as if all the maddening crowd of people around her was strategically put in place by some old and cunning warlord. And not to flank her with all those objects, but to accentuate her presence.

Very small compared to men and women of all sizes rushing through the station, impeccably dressed in a sharp suit compared to the crumpled and unkempt attires around her, very calm and serene compared to all the madness around her. It was as if she was from a different time and place and she had been teleported just an instant ago. She was so comfortable as if she was in a board room or on a film set. I have this suspicion that if she was put in the outer space, she would be as comfortable. She walked with such ease, such control and so much self-assurance as if she owned the entire place.

Not that I ogle at women on stations but she was hard to miss. She wasn’t good looking by any metric, she wasnt even the rustic kinds that I think makes Indian women so desirable. But she couldn’t be ignored. She was like this electro-charged magnetic orb that was pulling all the attention to her. For the time while she was in front of me, I could not see anything else. It was blinding and illuminating at the same time. It was something that, at that instant, I wished that would not end.

And while I finally walked past her (it wouldn’t have taken not more than three seconds since I first spotted, her to the time I crossed her) I could see peeking from under her shirt, wrapped around her neck, the unmistakable dragon tattoo. The kinds that you can’t forget easily.

You have to see it to believe it. The tattoo. And the girl with the dragon tattoo.

Dear lady in the white car

Dear lady in the white Wagon R behind my car on the Gurgoan Toll plaza,

First of all thank you! Today you made the otherwise boring and monotonous trip to office fun. You had been trailing my car, knowingly, since the Radisson flyover. Every time I went fast, you would speed up, every time I would slow down, you’d slow down as well, every time I cut a lane, you were prompt to follow. And yet at no point you looked threatening. In fact the sly smile on your face, when I looked back from the rear view mirror, was charming to say the least. If you weren’t wearing shades, nice ones by the way, I would have tried to read the intent in your eyes. But anyways, thank you.

Second, I was wondering if you do this to every random guy? Because from what I know, I have nothing remarkable about me. Not even my car. It’s a plain Jane Santro with a stupid “True Earth” color (somewhere between a brown and a dirty white). I am bald, dark and everything that a woman’s nightmare is made out of. And yet you chose to follow me. I cant for my life think of a reason why you’d do that. May be you shower such excitement on the least harmful guy every morning? But what ever the reason, you did it and I enjoyed it. At least I just cribbed once about the toll plaza today.

Third, you drive well. Really well. I consider myself a good driver, a lot of friends would vouch for this and its not easy to keep up with me. Not that I am fast or anything but I have this knack with driving. I know when the driver ahead of me would break, when that opening becomes available from where I could zip my car through, when to hit the break, when to slow and so on and so forth. Doing this when you are alone, is really easy. But tailing someone like a shadow, the way you tailed me for good 4 kilometers, is no easy task. You did it to perfection. So much so that, you may remember, that I was looking at you from the rear view mirror and I nodded in appreciation. You seemed to nod as well but then I don’t really remember as I was busy cutting a lane that time.

Fourth, next time you do this, don’t leave your car windows open. Nothing wrong with it. Even I enjoy the wind in my hair and all that but you know you have long hair. Ofcourse when they cover your face and that sly smile, you look all the more gorgeous but then I think in the long run, all the dust and sun could be bad for your hair. No? I mean you are a woman and you must know about this more than me for sure, who’s got like 20 hair strands left on his head. But anyways, it’s a matter of personal choice. I liked the whole effect of hair falling on your face, head, shoulders etc. Just that, i believe that the ones who are blessed with nice hair, must take care of em. Ask the ones like me!

And lastly and most importantly, same place, same time tomorrow?

Sincerely,
The guy in the Santro

Dear Girl in Blue Dress

Dear Girl in Blue Dress,

I am so sorry. I was in the same coupe as you were in. I was there when those men intruded on your personal space and dared to touched you. I saw your Dupatta being pulled away. I saw you crying. I saw that despair in your eyes. Your eyes were searching for help in that crowded metro coupe and they infact had briefly met mine. I looked into them, gave them my sympathies and then diverted my attention on my ipod, pretending to search for the next song that I wanted to hear. Ofcourse I was pretending and I was still aware of what was happening to you. I told myself, what every other man would have told himself, that I dont know you and hence what was happening to you, was not my problem.

I know that I am proud to be a male. I am chivalrous when with womenkind. I am courteous when I am with elders. I am loud when I am with girlfriend. I am protective when I am with my sis. And yet, I am indifferent, with every other women. I dont even consider that more than all these superficial relationships defined by us, you and I share, a stronger and bigger relationship. HumanKind.

I know we are the men of Anna. We have taken loud pledges against corruption on public forums, and in person we dont mind paying that ten rupee note to get things done faster. We pledged with Anna and we joined him for his fast, and post that we went to fancy restaurants to party and debate on things happening around us We went to India Gate with a candle in our hand, and post that raced our bikes around that very India Gate, a little high, on alcohol and pride. Rather that all these fancy things, a mere act of helping you would have elevated me higher than any other deed.

I am sorry. For not having the balls to act and stop those men. I can ofcourse give a lame reason that there was just too much crowd to do anything. I can even say that since I did not know you, why should I get into trouble. But end of the day, my inaction cant be justified. And of all those men who were meek spectators. What troubles me the most is that some were secretly enjoying the act as well. I wish I could slap some sense into them. And you know, I dont think I even I have the right to comment on them.

I just want to tell you that Delhi is not what you think we are. We are not rapists and we know our limits. There are some people who need a life and I am extremely sorry for letting things happen to you.

And I hereby promise that next time I see something like that happening, even if I dont know the woman, even if I am outnumbered, even if I am handicapped, I would do my bit to help you. I promise.

And once again, I am really sorry. I am sincerely ashamed.

Apologies,
An Ashamed Delhite.

Inspired by an incident that a friend had to go through while traveling by Delhi Metro. And this is from and for all those men who just stood like meek spectators. Would I have done anything about the incident? May be not. But I shall, next time it happens in front of me.