Bailamos?

I suddenly find Bailamos neatly stacked away in an ancient playlist, and I play the song, and the moment I do so I go trippin’ back to my pathetic and absolutely lousy adolescent years. Days when I was so smitten by a very sweaty mole on face hot and an absolute bomb(shell) they named Enrique Iglesias. My oh my, I remember I had wet dreams about him (ooh la la). Come on, like you were a saint.

I forgot what it felt like. To have a crush on a (sexy-hot-pants-wearing-loverboy-looking) latino pop singer. His voice gasping in orgasmic short breaths… and him always chasing after these equally hot (if not hotter) and sweaty latino women. The dash of guitar chords at the start of the song. The bittersweet scent of the song. And Enrique Iglesias – so near (stereo tape, not yet mp3-ised) yet so out of reach.

I remember going to Music World (or was it Planet M? fuck it who cares) to search for the tape at Park Street because Bonanza, my friendly neighbourhood music store had run out of stock(!).

Stuff of dreams.

Those were my simple days.

Sigh.

Decision.

I was making up my mind. I was making up my mind between Hallo! and Cosmo, at the traffic signal, when a five year old urchin held up the options before me. I was torn between buying it, and wondering about its total unnecessariness , and paying the kid just like that. 

I, of course, did none. 

The signal turned green, and the autorick driver shooed him away. But of course that's just an excuse.

Amar bangla prem.

A day like these. A thousand births and a death. A million dreams, washed in a breath. You and I, stale, on a paper cup.
You and I, ar amar Bangla prem.
I was late by an hour and a half. His hands were warm, impatient. His eyes wary, accusing. A warm December sun in Kolkata, felt like gold dust on my skin.
Where to now? I ask.
Hold on, hold on – he smiles. He has already forgiven me.

A day like this. A figment lost in a crowd. Someone knew of the end that stopped time, love and began all heartache.

We walked through the city. Both having been born in this city and for having loved it, it was like looking at a thing that holds a part of me and a part of him. What is this thing I speak of, I don’t know.

Paces through the city. He is rich. Or so he tells me. He pays for the taxi. We enter a music store. And we both go mad, of course.
But then I get impatient. We have just this day, and no more – I tell him. He pleads with his eyes - Not that I’ve splurged before. Why’s that, I ask. I wasn’t rich, he smiles.

We don’t have time. I leave in 4 days. He leaves a week after that. I travel through cities, on my sabbatical. He leaves for the land of the rising sun.
Paces, just paces through the city. A song is sung in the air – a whole ballad of chaos. Tell a child and he would know, he would care.

Through narrow gullies of Elgin, the Momo Plaza was still crowded at the late hours of noon. So as we sat and chatted at the backyard where the manager asked us to wait and eat if we wanted to – we didn’t – I don’t know why, but I rememeber that whole conversation like you remember a new face from the bus stand, or a smile of a stranger…
Like his father, too, did photography, how he preserved lenses, how the very broken down thatched roofed house of a poor family right behind us was a great frame to photograph, by itself, how was my research going, that we would of course eat inside and not here, how this place was a visit from his past, and eerie, and I remember as the cooking took place beside us, by men who knew their art, I had kept on wondering about the very place, that late afternoon hours and our sitting right there right then, was so clear in my head that it was like seeing myself from outside - oh there she is, with him, oh look at her, at the poor lovesick fool.
A day like that. There were faces on the road I remember, that had looked into mine, and looked away. I remember them because in that moment was measured a story.
When we had again taken a taxi, where now, I asked. He held me in a gentle embrace, not answering at first, his hands gently touching my earlobes. The jerk of the taxi makes his hands fall on my breasts. He does not move it. I do.
He says, I’d take you away.
Really. - and I look away
Really. - he turns my face back towards him.
So, do. - I look into his eyes this time, daring him to look away.

By the time we reached the river, it was late evening. The sun was bright orange, about to fall off the edge, as if. Getting down from the taxi, I realised, fuck, I don’t have a camera.
We walked by the edge of the ghat, hand in hand, smoking a joint. He now does not waste time in rolling one when we are together. Takes time. He readies them beforehand, and we only smoke in a place where you wouldn’t be bothered by aantels who know how a burning joint of pot smells like.
A day like this. The empty page was empty no more. The picture in my mind will never die. Look me in the eye, look me in the eye. Do you see the universe of chaos. On a day like this.
I negotiated with a boatman. 250 bucks an hour round the river. Once in it, we settled down, I sat on his lap. He held me sweet and slow, his cologne drifting through the air. We got in. There was a vessel nearby, perhaps containing a wedding party, playing very bad music.
The orange sun was at its beautific best then. No camera. Again, I thought. Its amazing how in the two whole decades of my life I have spent the most important times without the aid of a camera. But like a friend had often said, it’s better that way. The picture that you memorize in your mind stays with you forever etched there.
Where to – asks the boatman.
Where to – he turns to ask me.
Far away, I wave my hand and say.
He holds me and slowly kisses my earlobes. I feel tremendous pleasure. the bad music vessel chars the atmosphere’s sweet innocence. It gets cooler. The sensible boatman says we can use sit inside the smaller roof, which sort of hides the people inside from direct view. Of course he is a smart fellow, and we only smile. He must be used to this kind of thing.
We go inside. I remember the orange of the dying evening spreading through the air almost like a smell. Later on he had told me, that while I was giving him a head, he could see that bright living orange behind my hair, and there was a tangible presence of that orange all around us that he could feel.
Strangest thing is, even though I remember the lovemaking, I don’t feel any of it the way I feel, literally feel everything else.. like the whole day, his touch.. you know, little things. I don’t understand how a perfectly solid act like fucking could escape any sentimental attachment from my side. Maybe, because it wasn’t important.

Later on, when the dark had already set in, we came out, and he just held me in his arms like I was a child, gently stroking my arms. We were sharing a joint, and suddenly the boatman comes from behind us. And he takes out, believe me, the simplest yet the most beautiful thing in the world. A chillam. I had never smoked from a chillam before. The boatman asked him, if there was any weed left that is unused. Of course there was. They make it in front of me, and I watch gleefully like an apprentice watches his teacher create a masterpiece. When it was done, we all shared a smoke. What a beauty. It was an art to smoke up from a chillam, do you know that? The way you hold it, the way you blow, in, and breathe while at it. Where are you from – he asked the boatman.
Here, he says, and points at the water. It was dark already, though there wasn’t any moon.
Where does he get his ganja, we ask him.
Ganja? This is hashish, he replies with nonchalance.
And where do you get it from anyway, he asks him again.
There is this woman, he replies slowly. She comes, about two or three times a year. She is the one who gets the boatman his hash.

Are you in love with her? He asks, smile creeping upon his face.
In reply the boatman just smiles back, and looks away.

And then suddenly the boatman sings. In his rusted voice laden with years of uncare, he sang to us the most beautiful song of the river. We stood and listened, tranced, the slow melody melting against our skins.
The river was getting colder, and the mist was settling in. It was getting late, so the boat was turned around, before long, it came to an end.
It was so calming, the river, and the evening itself with all its wordless gestures and the ganja, and the whole works. Tremendous. I remember feeling so alive. So… loved. Yeah, that’s the word.
He saw me off at the metro station, and arranged to meet the next day. I walked off, and as my train pulled away, I was overcome with a strange blissful fatigue of a day spent well. But I wasn’t tired, so to speak. And as I moved away, I felt the whole day wash against me like a sea of images. Pieces of it.
I broke up with him exactly 3 days later. As I had planned I would. I have only given him hell after that. Bitterness - a calming, cruel neatly thought out bitterness - and nothing else. Why, how, how could I, too late for questions.
And now, of course, you can tell, that he is the only man I had truly loved.
And in that day he had given me a lifetime. A day like that. A dream coiled and suffocated and shoved in a box. If only love had been an empty field, I’d have dared a free run.

Goodbye, Old Man

Old Soumen died 5 days ago.
Old Soumen – hairy, fat, ugly and middle-aged (he was 55) – died, 5 days ago.
Old Soumen died, because he had a BIG HEART. Big heart as in size I'm talkin about –
stuff OBESITY, HIGH BP… are made of.

Fact: Soumen was obese, ya. His entire family – 2 ugly sons and wife Kajol – is obese. They are a buncha fat, overeating maniacs.

Irony: Soumen REALLY DID have a BIG HEART. And here, I'm not talking anatomically.

I remember the first time I saw him was when my dad got tranferred back to Calcutta(so it was called even then). Soumen had helped Baba carry all his stuff back. Baba had asked him not to – Soumen had insisted. That was how he was.
I was what – 7/8 yrs old. I remember him enter our home – instantly out of place for his vast size. Big, hairy, ugly Soumen was a SIGHT. Esp to the puny me. He had scooped me up into his gigantic lap like I was some dollop of ice-cream.

Soumen was the kind of man you meet in long train journeys, and who makes it better. The kind of people who take your address down, promise to write to you and do write to you. If you don’t reply back, he’d come to your city and to your home – hurt, that you did not bother to reply.
His younger son went to my school till class 8.
We never talked.
He was shy.
I was usually apalled by his ugliness.


I didn’t know Soumen well – my parents did. He used to be into sports. Used to be.
“A government employee doesn’t exercise”, he used to say.
Never drank. Never smoked.
Kajol, his wife was the sweetest thing. She cooked well.

Soumen and Kajol’d often wake us up early on Sunday mornings… they’d “morning-walk” all the way from Banguihati to Salt Lake, have breakfast at our place – Soumen’d get jilipi on the way. Oh what lovely Sundays I’ve spent because of you, man. You rocked my Sundays.

Addas with Soumen - uff. There are only a few things that he’d not talk about – exercise, Bharataiya Janata Party, and Patna. Soumen had the capacity to turn a mundane, ordinary, boring evening into a party of sorts. You did not even have to talk. He’d not notice, of course. Old Soumen was a loud man. His voice was like thunder in depressed afternoons. A perfect evening : with tea, beguni, moori and something you can never buy – SPIRIT. The man was work of art.


Avuncular Soumen. Boom-voiced Soumen.
Soumen with a King Sized heart
Oh I think I’ll miss you, man. I saw Baba was quiet all morning today, you know..

Oh you …silly, silly, silly man. Didn’t you know having a BIG HEART is a crime these days. I know you loved the food you had. I know you didn’t care. I know you loved the ghee in your rice. I know you brightened everyone else’s Sundays. I know you awesome talker, you loved your sweets and your Durga Puja.
I know you were diagnosed with a Heart a tad bigger than the rest of us lesser mortals, and I know you said you didn’t care.
I hope they still make men like you. I hope I see you again in some birth if the good karma doesn’t fall in its place, you know. And I hope they have a good cook up there, old man. And I would shed not a tear for you, old man. I know you wouldn’t want me to. I just pray that it was quick for you, that you didn’t have to feel a thing.
You’ll be missed. In more ways than you’d know, by more than you would count, I'm sure.
P.S.: You know I think I'm a snobby bitch? I think I’ll go and talk to your son. If I have the courage to look at him, that is.

First crush.

It was an ordinary Friday evening of an even more ordinary september. It was raining like bitch. My right hand was holding on to this enourmous enclyclopedia from the school library, and the left hand was more like trying to hold on to this fifteen hundred year old black umbrella from flying off than actually keep me dry.
I remember the “mwach mwach” sound my shoes made while I walked because of the water that had got inside. My boring grey-white, mud-stained school uniform clung to me; I could feel every single drop of water, rolling down my back. I was cold, unprotected: from the rain. Miserable, too, and very, very hungry.

And then I saw him. Standing beneath tank no.13 bus stop shade, hands on his waist, frowning at the incredibly blurring rain. He was far taller than I was, dark, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt that read WANT A GOOD RUB? with the picture of an Alladin's lamp below it.

I forgot how I’d made it to the busstop. I forgot how the cold gust of wind had struck me all the way from my school to this busstop. I forgot that I was a mess to look at. I forgot that I was holding a giant encyclopedia, and that my ancient black umbrella was still unshut. I forgot that I was cold, minutes ago, and HUNGRY. I stood there, gapig at him, like I was watching a movie….

Sunday, was.

Sunday used to be free world. The death of homework, milk and rules. The beginning of hope.

Sunday was starting late, lemon tea and Britannia gooday. Sunday was luchi and alurdom and Dulu's jilipi.

Sunday was Mahabharat (and subsequently Mowgli) at 10a.m. The end of morning too soon.

Sunday was the chicken curry, hot and ready with rice.

Sunday were the way Ma smelt, toil and sweat all mingling to concoct a smile. Sunday was garlic from kitchen, the constant sound of running water in the sink – all reaching here in my empty room, as a pledge for more hopeful things to come.

Sunday was Baba buried in newspapers, Baba never at home, Baba with the carwash or Baba in the living room adda.

Sunday was Bamonmashi sprawled on the mattress tapping dreamily to Pet Sounds, burping out the chicken shit, and refusing to let go of the 60’s.

Sunday was Denna out with her boyfriend in the evening, the 6 foot reticent cad that she has been married to for 7 years now.

Sunday was Monday blues, the panic of another new week.

Sunday, for me, was waiting the whole week for it.

And now, that Sunday has died, I feel lost.

The 19th of feb, 2008

During my first days in Delhi, when I was looking for a place to stay, before I’d got the hostel, I remember I'd lived those days with great intensity. Arno's words, to be strong to be straight up at the face of difficulties, I'd remembered them, what he had said, what he did when he'd faced the prospect of living alone, I’d remembered those. I remember them, and I remember living every moment intensely, insanely so. New city, new place, new people.

Hell.

I'd found a temporary arrangement, this place in Juleina, near college, which smelt like rotten rice all thorough, there was water leaking from the roof down the 3rd floor staircase (I lived in the 2nd floor, but the food was served on the terrace, so had to go past the leak), rooms were huge and dirty, as in it was a mess, if you know what I mean. It was aweful and I distinctly remember the smell of rotting rice, hell, I feel as though I can still smell it. The smell has become one of those things that will forever remain on my mind like slow drawn graphitti.

And I remember one sunday afternoon, no, it was evening, I went to this cyber cafe close by. I remember it was the the 5th of august, and in that Sunday evening, some 4pm-ish, I opened my e-mail account, found almost 50 mails, from friends mostly.

As I checked my mail, I remember a slow hysteria coming over me. I was replying to Arno, and mailing Am, Ank, Ahi, Sag, and others and it was a goddamned hysteria I was overcome with, and I thought, I got no decent place to stay, I probably wasnt getting the hostel anytime soon (I did get it, of course, some 2 months later, it went according to the merit list. No, I wasn’t the last one in the list), I'd had a shitty lunch in someone else's plate, and I was hysteric. Was I weak? No. Instead I was trying to be extra strong I think, to match up to what Arno had pictured for me, as he had probably pictured for himself and had lived it too.

Today I found a receipt of my first advance to the landlord and the first thing that I remembered was that Mrs. Pathak, wife to the landlord had jumped off the terrace and had killed herself. This happened after I had left the place, of course. I don’t remember the exact date but T., a roomate there who is also my classmate at MCRC and like me hadnt got the hostel, yet, had said it happened one afternoon. T., a reticent female eternally clad in a salwar kameez, said she was quite upset by all of this. Apparantly there was also a police investigation she and others living there had to face.

Thing is, I was surprised - no, let me correct myself, I was shocked - that Mrs. Pathak killed herself at all. You hear these things happen to other people, you read them in the newspapers, and don’t remember them. I remember her like you remember faces you see everyday, skirting through life without much knowing them and their conditions. I didn’t care before, of course, not cruelly but generally disinterested. But there she was perhaps head smashed body against some stone on the pavement, now perhaps only framed in a picture. I can tell she wasnt insane, at least she was sane enough to keep the fruits of all those girls who's ask her to keep them in her refrigerator. Impersonal, distant, but well, professional I guess. I try to imagine Mr. Pathak's face when he saw his dead wife.

Later on I heard that he had a drinking problem, which I didnt know of earlier, when I was living there (lived there for exactly four days. Couldn’t stand the stink). And I heard that probably Mrs. P wasnt exactly enthusiastic about it. That’s interesting, because the bugger said he taught yoga in his free time. Poor children of hers. They too, perhaps, skirt through life without much knowing or reconciling to the things they have lost. Oh demons.

In this one year, I havent ever seen Mr. Pathak or his kids. T, my classmate, had left the place long back.

The Begining

...

- And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin.. -