Me Speaks!

While the bus takes its own course, I let my thoughts take their own. Sometimes all you need is a bus full of strangers, a mind full of questions and a wallet devoid of money for your heart to do the talking!

Survival story

                 

I never understood what Karina Kapoor meant when she said: “When you were leaving me, I felt as if I was missing a train” to Shahid Kapoor in their reel love story ‘Jab we met’. Though I take pride in calling myself a romantic ,I could never see the point in comparing your love with a train!! Little did I know that my wish would be granted so soon! It was the fateful morning of Friday the Eighteenth 2010.Oh! The thought of going home after so many days was painting so many sanguine pictures in my mind. Dreaming a thousand beautiful dreams I slept a sound sleep the previous night. The idea that something can go terribly wrong never once crossed my mind.

I woke up to a frantic call by my mom the following morning .After which I realized that it was 5:15 in the morning, and that I was left with just 15 minutes to get ready for the journey. And I also realized that the alarms set by me were not at all responsible for the misfortune that prevailed, but it was my right hand that had pushed my phone to the depths of darkness and that too literally. Oh yes,I haven’t told you I happen to have two phones one that does not have a charger and another whose  speaker isn’t working.

I quickly counted the minutes I could afford to spend in getting ready. So, ablutions were sacrificed as I dashed towards my neatly arranged clothes that had impatiently waited on me till now. They bore a vengeful look while I mercilessly tossed them in my wheeler.

Okay, so I was already sensing all the wrong signals that dear god was sending me as warnings about the bigger catastrophe that was about to happen. It was 5:30 and I had still not gotten any taxi. My dear roommate (who was dragged out of her comfy bed the moment I realized I couldn't pull it off on my own) and I were running in all directions to get hold of a taxi.

The dogs of my street who were in general a peaceful lot but that day even they were swearing at me through their barks.

Finally at around 5:40 a giant looking taxi Walla agreed to take me to the station. I was very pleased with his stature and kept telling myself that his height is directly proportional to his speed.

He took exactly 10 minutes on that rain-kissed road. He grinned at me and wished me a happy journey

Now the only remaining task was to find the platform where the Shatabdi Express stood.

The red walls of the station welcomed me with its usual discrepancies.

I pushed my wheeler like a winning trophy and looked at the

My train was on platform 22 while I was standing on Platform no. 1.Platform no. 22 was at the newer railway station while I was standing at the Old railway Station. Hopefully both the stations were joined by a footbridge. I had exactly ten minutes to board the train. I climbed the stairs with full vengeance and some of the choicest curses that I directed at the taxi Walla who had proclaimed Shatabdi express departs from the Old railway station.

I also promised myself to travel light from the next time. By the time I reached platform number 20 I was panting and was covered in sweat.”7 minutes to go! ” my wheeler pleaded. It hardly had a chance to strut its four wheels of late.

Platform no. 22 was like any other platform in India. Platforms are the only places that do true justice to India’s fertility. Where people seemed to be emerging from everywhere pushing shoving and swearing their way through. There it was standing like a .The train that would carry me home. 

Only thing was that I was not aware of the fact that Shatabdi standing before me had an addition to its name .The train that stood before me had Jan Shatabdi written on it in bold.

A closer look told me this train was going to Patna. That is when it hit me ; while looking at the list I had somehow missed the “Jan” part and no the hottie I was staring had no role to play in it.

I risked standing there with a blank expression for a few seconds after which I was reminded of the conversation with my parents that was to follow.

That was reason enough for me to become the combined selves of a few bollywood heroes.

Five minutes to six and it felt like a lifetime.

Right below the footbridge was a passage way that connected the old and the new stations but it was only used for the movement of freight.

Hopefully the passage way was open and looked deserted. I leaped at it.

My heart was racing faster than my legs. Someone shouted at me to stop. I did not listen. He proved to be faster than me. He was running alongside me now. He was a guard. He tried to scold me for what looked like a trespassing I pleaded with him in half-finished sentences.

India might be a patriarchal state but the patriarchy goes kaboom at the first sight of a woman’s tears.

Only a minute to go. The guard was now running with my wheeler while I followed him. He shrieked at people to keep them out of the way.

We were one platform away. The train looked like a giant serpent on one of its lazy crawls.

The guard leaped onto the train,helped me jump aboard; a maneuver that would have made me a natural choice for the desi version of Lara Croft.

The guard smiled at me and with one swift move he was gone.
The rest of the journey was spent in trying to play non-existent to the lady sitting next to me who was trying her best to make me fall in love with her son.

Breaking Stereotypes

I was at the National Library, devouring books for lunch, when I saw her. She calmly walked to my table and sat across from me. She was drawing bewildering glances from almost everyone present in the vicinity-not to mention even I was one of them.

And her sheepish demeanor was enough for me to understand that she was quite aware of those gazes. She kept looking at her feet and I kept on looking at her. That is when the girl, who was accompanying her, brought a few books for the lady.

The book list comprised  of a very English literature, world history and all such books that are strictly related to intellectuals-people who are immaculately dressed; people who look well-read and well bred.

Sadly, our lady looked too naïve to be labeled an intellectual. Her sari that was demurely draped around her wasn’t doing much toward helping her making the cut either.

She looked like those women, who are expected to be nothing more than homily goddesses. They are expected to watch mind-numbing soap operas and know nothing of ‘The cultural revolution’, ‘The Great Depression’ or ‘Che Guevara.’

So that day when this plain,drearily dressed woman threatened to uproot all our stereotypes ,I was smiling .Smiling at the thought of this women’s feat. How easily she 

Such harsh and demeaning rendition of a character, isn’t it?

Sadly, this is what we do the second we see someone.

We consciously or subconsciously, make every living entity in sight, fall into stereotypes

So I can be a foodie and still be a martial arts enthusiast, I can be a mediocre singer and still sing out loud. I can be fat and still love to wear whatever I feel looks good on me,I can be a writer and still know a lot about Architecture.I can pronounce a word wrong and can ask

A pause

I sit and think about all that we've had .It all dances in my mind in a flurry of emotions .Sometimes they’re as cold as the cement on a January morning; sometimes they erupt like the brightest red flames.
It’s been hours since I started thinking. Does it make me smile? Does that make you frown, the image of me thinking about you?Is that a question every time I ask you if I love you, or does that make me feel more secured each time I look at your lips quivering to say that precious yes?The questions are many .They come cascading .Do you make me possessive. Do you spoil me crazy with your caring ways? Do I hurt you with my obnoxious ways? Am I pulling too hard at the string that binds us? Does the string still exist   ? Does it hurt your fingers? Do we fight for questions that don’t have answers? Do the answers mean anything to us? Can we see our self-conceited egos laughing at us?Can we look beyond the hurt? Is this the end? Is this all rhetorical? Can we never change?Do the differences that made us now break us?Do you know what I asked? Do I know what you would say?And will that mark the end of a beginning so well?

A loser's plight!

Study table saw what you hadn't read
The dishes sighed for you didn't touch the bread
The closed windows cried as the lone clock chimed
The curtains called you their tears now wiped
Through the  chambers of black and white,
But you looked on ,without a sight!


The dusty keyboard had to wade,
Through the words you had silently said!
Morbid hours that stood in spite,
Of the memories of your respite
"A life so fallen,a life so trite !"
As you looked on,into the night!

Passion was a word which you  said,
Had no meaning in the life you led.
Now when you look back,it stands astride
The dreams you said were not on your side
Is that the reason you look so slight ?
When you step out into the bright !


Life is a journey that can't be led,
By a heartless mind that has no stead!
For summer comes as the spring passes by,

When the air gushes past with a vengeance inside
The angels you blame have no such might
Indispensable lies the loser's plight

This n that

I let my mind ponder
And they said ,
"Oh my! What a blunder !
Do not tread ,a path so dead
For there can never
be peace in thunder."

Still i let my mind wade,raging unafraid
Amidst the bawling plunder
And they yelled ,in their voices so plaid
Banishing me for my sinful wonder