Back in the game

It's my last week at ET and I haven't felt so guiltily happy in a while. Why? Because I have learnt that I am not cut out for a mundane nine to five - something I knew back in school anyway. It took me a year and a half of mental loitering to arrive back at square one, with no greater capabilities but feeling all bright and sprightly for no clear reason.

I shouldn't be too sardonic here, the past one year was a terrific experience. I think I'm a lot more likeable now, so what if my bank balance hasn't been replenished generously in ages.

It's good to hear the clink of old pieces between my fingers and frown down at the long neglected green chessboard I bought in Sri Lanka and my sister trimmed to the right size with a sharp cutter that I was too clumsy to handle precisely. The white ones are a sickly yellow now and I can't remember what happened to the black king and why only an amputated stub of his crown remains and pokes my thumb.

More than any of that, it's good to feel my mind working. You can actually feel your mind working. If you observe yourself carefully you can feel the exact speed and depth at which you are thinking and calculating and you can narrow your eyes and block out the room and the noise from the hall and feel a heat rising up in your head, and see clearer and more than you could a minute before. Or, if you're in one of those frustratingly indisciplined moods, you can try to squeeze your mind in one direction but it slips out like the mercury I used to try to squeeze in my palm when I was a kid. And then it runs helter skelter or stops deceptively for a second, making you believe that you can now tame it before you realise that you've been dreaming and what is that silly smile on your face?

I love the adrenalin rush as much as I detest the absolutism of that life. I love the fact that I am going to be that girl, that girl who has a vast blank sheet before her but doesn't know what to write or how to walk on it without spoiling it and who is both scorned and envied because I can search for what I want without settling for less for as long as it takes me and certainly longer than you, you conformist.

Loneliness

So yesterday was hopefully my last night working late at the office, although I kinda liked those midnight cab rides through shockingly empty Bombay streets.
There's this one guy who was in my cab every night. He's handicapped, and I've seen him in one of those claustrophobic cubicles. He would be assisted out of of the car by the driver every night, lean heavily on his crutch while trying to keep the door open, turn around and gruffly say good night to the other passengers.
I was watching him yesterday, and suddenly felt sorry for him, sitting alone in his cubicle, hobbling alone down the lane that ends in a row of dilapidated buildings. I wondered if he would be greeted warmly by his children at home, and whether any woman had been attracted enough to him to bear him children.
But who was I to feel pity? A person can be perfectly healthy, have a swankier cubicle and a lot of friends and I'd still be unsure if he'd get a hug at home.
These are lonely lives, and every small display of affection counts!

Mahabalipuram illuminated

It was the goats we saw first. Silent, statuesque, skinny-legged silhouettes on top of a gigantic bas-relief. Who knew that goats sleep standing up.  

I had giggled on the way as the moped whined under our holiday weight. It swung erratically through the street like a sulking pendulum. Head ducking, sarongs blowing, cobblers pounding, beads rattling in my face. It was dusk and the hawkers had turned shrill.

We almost overlooked Arjuna’s Penance. What kind of a UNESCO World Heritage Site stands abandoned at the roadside anyway? He had to show off his new Nikon, so I got off and shuffled about while he struggled for his shot in the dark. And there I had an epiphany.

“Shall we try flashing the headlights on the stone? The elephant carving is worth capturing.” Uh oh. I knew that look he gave me.

I, who had never touched a two wheeler of any sort, found myself accelerating the moped and holding on to keep it from shooting off with me. Click click click. He looked at me and we both laughed gloriously.

It was my idea to rent the silly thing as well.

Manderley

‘’Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’’ This is the opening line of ‘’Rebecca’’ by Daphne du Maurier. One of my favourite books, its text is beautifully, hauntingly sensuous in its description of Manderley, the country mansion where the heroine lives. From the time when I first read it in my early teens, I longed for a home with such mystical magnetism, a home hewn out of wilderness. My desire saw light a few years later when we built a house outside of Pune, on a densely wooded hill. It is called Girivan – the forest on the mountain.

It’s been three years since we moved in, but the anticipation of driving up to the house never grows old. The car snakes up a zigzag road that abandons all pretence of being tarred as we go higher and deeper. Deeper into the tangle of trees and shrubs that can swallow up the road at the slightest negligence by the pruners. And just when you begin to wonder if you’re lost, the yellow house rapidly mushrooms out of the greenery like a large toadstool in a flat clearing, discovered by a child much to his delight. Rising up, yawning wide.

The tiny white tiles of the terrace shine as we pull up. They trail off into a graceful S-shape along the curved walls of the house. When there is a breeze, you can hear the light sound of the wind-chime. Otherwise a drowsy stillness hangs in the air, heavy with the smell of a million leaves and wildflowers. The dogs bark and howl and generally create a racket before attaching themselves to your heels.

Columns of potted bougainvillea draw you towards the entrance, their white and pink blossoms bending in welcome. A lofty door awaits your knock. There is time enough to trace the grain in the wood while the translucent coloured-glass inlay glows invitingly with the light from within. Somebody is leisurely walking the length of the house towards the door. Watches have no place here.

The door is thrown open to a vast hall, stretching off into a corridor at one end. The high ceiling is intersected by trusses – vestiges of past styles of architecture. Familiar symbols of comfort dot the room. A pale green sofa here, a fading patterned rug there. Tea is served in a friendly-looking mug, always on a coaster.

Evenings warrant a stroll in the sweeping veranda overlooking the valley. The pillars are wrapped in climbers that swing like trapeze artists and perform a wispy shadow-dance on the ruddy terracotta flooring. Some tiles are glazed with unseemly paint – a memorably disastrous experiment.

Your walk leads you onto a square deck jutting out over the garden like a strong jaw. Lingering echoes of countless gatherings, conversations and parties are trapped within its railings. The last light of the sun kisses it softly, leaving it faintly warm as it retreats into the flaming sky in the west. You can fully feel the absence of buildings and smoke when your eyes reflect this uninterrupted melange of hues.

The garden which looks so pretty and cultivated in the day wears an entirely different cloak at dusk. Its grassy undulations swell and dip away suddenly like ocean waves, hiding the creatures of the night from view. A bamboo thicket in the corner sways in the now-strong breeze as its slender leaves flutter like the long, extended fingertips of a wood-nymph. They beckon upwards.

On summer nights, mattresses are laid out on the terrace in a row. The time has come, as Lewis Carroll said, to talk of many things. The wind brings folk music up from the villages in the valley, the hills all around bearing silent witness to the communion. Bit by bit, voices dwindle and you slip into a blissful reverie. Fireflies become stars and stars become watchful. The night gathers you up in its arms, and you float on the wind. This time, there is a definite tinkling of the pipes of the wind-chime, each producing its own sweet distinct note. A palm rests on the smooth tile, and breathing becomes steady.

Morning rushes into your senses with the sharp scent of wet earth being watered by a gushing hose. An orange orb is creeping up the sky from the east. Bathed luxuriously in the diffused glow, you stretch contentedly like a cat. I am at Manderley. 

Summertime Greens

The last time I was a complete imp was at my grandma’s house in Jabalpur. Mummy, as we affectionately called her, had all her grandchildren over during the summer holidays through the 90s. The bungalow was one of those perfect structures that gave us cousins ample spaces to play and hide in. We jumped, ran and swung from the little bridge arching over the rolling garden till it started to groan and bend. At the end of the compound was a rock waterfall, hastily dismantled one summer when a family of cobras emerged out of a crevice. Our hearts broke when we heard that we couldn’t hang out under the cold stream in our underwear anymore.

The indoors held one prime attraction – a magnificent waterbed covered by a soft green velvet spread that defined my childhood. Sunk cosily into a corner, I would drift off into the world of make-believe. Dolls, jigsaw puzzles, my grandfather’s books and a Mario console bordered my consciousness.  

Afternoons were the most magical time, when the dozing adults were safely out of the way. Lights were turned off and the house was ours. Our mouths stuffed with supari stolen from the crystal jar in the hall, we would stretch out on the green mosaic floor under the gentle spray of the humming water cooler. When tea-time approached we were hauled out onto the terrace to peel peas or perform some other mundane task. Looking back, that was fun too.

Mummy died in 2003 and we all grew up as well. The house was renovated, and I think the waterbed began to leak soon after. But I still carry the feel of the velvet and the coolness of the green room in my memory.

Re'porting

When you trudge up to your room at 9pm with sore heels and perspiration sliding down your neck, you know it's been a productive day in Chennai.

Not that I achieved a lot. We had gone up to the port to interview a bunch of guys who run a sport fishing club. Fishing, by the way, is not as simple as it looks. It took the combined effort of 3 of us novices to reel in two Great Trevallys (which we released back into the water before they became fish-not-flapping).

It was a brilliant evening to be out at sea, medium breeze and very little light filtering through the heavy clouds. The boat circled a random sunken shipwreck with its mast sticking incongruously out of the waters, schools of mackerel swarming around it. Did you know that little fish sparkle when they jump out into the pale light? It was mesmerising, I wanted to dive overboard and swim with them. 

The spray of our speedboat was fast, cool and never got boring. It cruised past an endless stretch of breakwaters, and turned back when the coastguard's boom resonated through the air. Our hosts instructed us to stow away our equipment when the police boat approached. We needn't have worried, the Indian police is the same everywhere - just trying to show who's boss. 

I longed to go further, break the law, go into the unknown. I tried to imagine Kasab & co. navigating stealthily towards shore. Their intent notwithstanding, the idea of using the ocean that way was thrilling. Even more thrilling was the thought of ancient seafarers just taking the wheel and slicing their destinies through the waters. How were these enormous expanses tamed?

Further towards port, there was a magnificently tall multi-pulley system lifting heavy containers off a large freighter. On the other side was the unmistakable grey hull of an Indian Navy ship. Oil tankers, British vessels, American vessels. The tiny figures on those ships seemed to be from a different plane than the one I live on. And these are not even the greatest vessels in the world. Man-made wonders! There was a tinge of disappointment in realising that I would never be a part of creating any of this.

Being a journalist would be a sorry consolation - atleast I can live such experiences vicariously. I might get a visitor's pass to a gated community.

The shore looked pretty as we approached. The entire skyline was made up of dozens of identical cranes piercing through the sky. They arched over Chennai, saying yeah baby, we're the ones that invisibly make things work for you middle-class joyriders. Metal has never looked that beautiful and strong.

A huddle of fishermen's boats formed the last frame of the pictoric experience as we drew in. The laughing boys called out as they emptied their swollen nets. We waved. They waved. Everybody waved.

We all were feeling mighty pleased with ourselves for some reason, so decided to walk on the Marina instead of hurrying back to edit our recording. 

The Marina beach is filthy. But then again, if I lived in a hut the size of my bed, I might not care where I shit or throw my trash either. 

We walked for an hour or more, sampling the standard beach fare of boiled groundnuts, bhutta and lousy Chennai chaat. Our whistling, wandering sojourn ended at the lighthouse, which is really not as interesting as it sounds. We scurried quickly through the spooky deserted local train station and were soon on our way back to the hostel. Grimy hands clutching handrails, earphones tuned in and eyes staring vacantly through the windows. Our homecoming at the mess lived up to the standards of the day - hot mini uttapams with yummy tangy chutney.

And my bed felt really soft when I sank into it that night.

A Family Girl

Sometimes I really wonder why God is making us act in this colossal circus. Just yesterday I was stretched out on the deck and contemplating the mountains which have begun to seem as though they belong to me, an extension of my home. Now I find myself sitting in strange house next to a perpetually blaring television opposite a well-meaning lady who is surely going to kill me with words over the next 10 days.

It’s the peak of summer and I am wearing a full length nightsuit because the sight of my skin is offensive. I have just returned from a rather stressful and unenjoyable walk in the neighbourhood market where I was subjected to curious stares and ''accidental'' brushes despite the dupatta covering my shoulders and making me sweat like a pig.

I am staying with relatives thanks to the ''hazards'' of Delhi, even though I dislike being surrounded by family, gossip, emotions and social events during tournaments. I have taken a favour, a subtle agent of dependency, and hence I do not have any option but to wear a plastic smile through the monologues on spirituality and culinary skills. In any case I have been given ''good sanskar'' which would not permit me to walk out on a kind, affectionate elder person no matter how tedious their conversation or how strong my desire to ARGH.

How on earth do people get so thick skinned that they continue their drone while you’re clearly busy doing your own work!

I have spent a lot of money on soaring air fares to play this tournament because I have a specific career goal and a deadline for completing it. There are several reasons why I need to complete it – self-esteem, status, obligations to loved ones, and ''practical'' benefits.

I would much rather be learning paragliding at Pavana lake right now, cruising in the free sky where there is no danger of encountering unpleasant people, protective people, ambitious people, practical people, rules, targets or boundaries; but how will that help me in life?  

Am I the only cold, ungrateful wretch who resents these norms or does everybody secretly have bouts of wanting to break free of all commitments?
The lady's husband has just gone out to bring me ice-cream although I did not ask for it. Now I feel ashamed.