Age Rage

If there's one thing that has triggered the mass fuck-up of the human race, it has to be the day when one klutz woke up on a Tuesday morning and decided to bracket people by the number of candles on their birthday cake.

Can someone please explain what would caution for age-appropriateness in behaviour?

So let's get this straight. You plonked out of your mother's womb - You did what you had to (or just slept for the most part) - 364 days rolled over, and then wham, everyone and their uncle stared at you like they were waiting for you to deliver on a magic trick. Well if it was one trick and they'd get over it, I'd even bother trying to ace it. But year after year, the expectations just get crazier!

This is where I realized that attempting to grow an extra organ might seem to be a lot more easy, but matching up to age-appropriate expectations is a whole other ordeal.

"Oh he's one already, and he isn't walking just yet!"
Why bother? Even if he prepares in record time, he won't be able to run the marathon next year.
Seriously, STOP obsessing over youtube videos of one-year-olds who can bob their head, waist and leg to Shakira. They're NOT normal.

"She's thirteen and we're praying that she gets her first 'period' in time."
In time? For what?
Be sure what you pray for. If she's ready to get her period, it's her body's way of also telling you that she's ready to have sex. This one can potentially fast forward you to grandparenthood, if you will.

"I can't wait to turn 18!"
Aah... cause NOW you're an adult. You can drive without your fake licence. You can also vote, elope and get married. Be careful on the outlaw side of things though. No more juvenile courts to save your sorry ass!

"21, woohoo!"
Clearly, you've just developed the skills to handle and hold your alcohol overnight. Now if you could cooperate a little, I'm trying to get you to vomit outside the car.

"Sullen times, babe! It's the 25th. Quarter-life-crisis just decided to bite me on the bum!"
True, presuming you're going to live to be a 100-year-old hag. If you're not meant to live a day over 60, then you're just 5 short of reaching your mid-life. Need more vodka?

"Three-Oh! You'll need Jeetendra's tabs to keep you going through the day!"
Jeetendra's been 30 for the past 30 years. It just dawned on me that they were trying to target my dad and grand-dad with the same pill!

Oh and then we have the un-missable (if that's even a word) classics that everyone's subjected to in one way, shape or form.

"You've reached marriageable age..."
"At your age, you should be changing diapers, not jobs!"

Really? So hang on a second there.

How come we never hear:
"You've reached the age of wanting to kill all your children?"
"It's okay, you're in the age of falling out of love."
"You'll be a nymphomaniac between 33 and 35. It's the age, they say."

See, if everyone could just accept that some of these anomalies are age-appropriate too, we'd stop freaking ourselves out so often!

But as people get older they like to skip over some of these specifics...

So that you can tie the knot, share a bed and bank balance with someone (how can you be so selfish and have the whole bed to yourself?!?!), become fat and have babies, just so that they can come back to you and ask,

"Oh, she's turned one!?! Has she started walking just yet?"

Sadists!

A little dash of Amreeka

You know what it feels like to give that usual smile to your paani-puri waala down the road, right!? Of course you do! Didn't we like totally like accommodate like this-is-what-the-next-gen-should-know kinda jazz from Family Guy and South Park? Aren't we in the world of Simi selecting and simpering over pubescent celebrity men in true cougar town shows? Haven't we often felt like Central Park was just a couple blocks down our street?
So then you know what I'm talk about, right? NO?!?

See, I thought we were doing everything the American way - where it's perfectly normal for a bus driver to greet you with a chirpy 'good morning', and for you to wave back without ever stopping to wonder if he's going to hijack the bus to molest-station.

"That happened in the late nineties, early two thousands...!!" I tchah-tchah'ed to myself all along the way. India's changed a lot since. What with FB, Twitter and the whole gamut of worldwide people on the computer screen, we sure have adapted well now, haven't we?

And so I went to the same old paani-puri waala who I'd visit regularly on my yearly sojourns to Mumbai.

With a mouthful of spicy gol guppas, an almost runny nose, and a sentence punctuated with appropriately slurp-ish sounds, he seemed pleased to have found my appreciation for his culinary skills.

"Hellooo Maydumji. Kaise ho aap? Aajkal aap dikhte hi nahi ho" he managed to mutter through his permanent smile in one uninterrupted breath.

I exchanged the usual pleasantries and made small talk, until I touched upon a seemingly personal question.
"Waise, aapka naam kya hai?" I asked, wondering if his name would reveal a little about his roots.

The habitual smile dimmed behind his glorious moustache. He focused on cracking the epicenter of the next puri with absolute concentration, and coyly revealed "Prem." 

I almost choked on the gol guppa in my mouth, and the spicy paani felt like a shot of wasabi streaming down those nostrils.
"Prem Dayal" "Prem Dayal Shukla," was repeated in quick succession which, if said with a little more panache, would've passed off as a good local impersonation of the classic 007.

Beaming ear-to-ear his annoyingly white, symmetrically toothed smile had returned to his oily face. Putting two extra puris on my plate, he casually asked me the same question.

Oops! Spurted it out in a matter-of-fact manner. How often does one go to their favourite street chaat corner with an alias identity in mind? Okay, I said it! The local paani-puri waala knows my name.

So what? It's not like he can do much with it. It is the American way. It's cool to know people on a first name basis.

So what if I now have a creepy looking picture of a 'Shukla' requesting to befriend me on Facebook!

Teenage Woes

I really don't know what happened.
Munching on new foliage of mulberry,
I fell asleep on the tattoo artist's chair.
And awakened to a rude change.
I've lost those curves and all my pretty feet.
My appetite's not the same.
I can't stand to chat with those sissy coloured flowers,
With so many annoying boys flitting around.
They say I've transformed into art on wings,
But I just want to go back to my cocoon.
Metamorphosis, my ass! It's the tattoo guy's fault.
I'm pretty sure I didn't ask for a blue Jesus on my lower back.

Ready for the Kiln

Your fingers.
Those long artistic feminine reins
With flesh, bone and supple skin
Met mine
Manly, unpretentious and calloused.

Your little palms
Were lost in mine
Finding comfort in the gaps.

Emotions cemented skin on skin
Contours and crevices well-fused.
We held our fate lines
In one firm squeeze
With the head and heart in place.

Giddied by your touch
My thick stubby hands
Transformed
Into dancing dervishes
That whirled and swooned,
Pivoting slowly
Around the wheel
Of your assertive palms.

Those small stern hands
Were indeed your own.
But in yours alone
Mine were clay.

Mrs. Black

"That's Mrs. Black," he cupped his mouth and hissed into Niki's ear as they saw her silhouette disappear into that narrow corridor on the 4th floor.

Now, now, that is far from making a racist comment. Apart from the fact that she had ballooning eye bags, an adolescent boy's upper-lip, and numerous spots (without the slightest hint of being indicators of beauty) all over her face; there was perfectly nothing wrong with the shade of her skin.

With overalls and underpants and layers in between, she was always bundled up in fabrics of the same hue. Velvet. Sequinned. Fur. Silk. Lace. Black. Invariably dressed like the moonless night. She lived alone, kept to herself, and always took the stairs without so much as exchanging two words with anyone on her way.

What did she do and where did she go? No one seemed to have a clue. Heads turned, actions paused and words halted mid-sentence every time she shadowed in and out of view. Neighbours would huddle from different floors and hang out in the lobby - spending hours on end conjuring stories on Mrs. Darth Vader from Room #402.

"An undertaker's widow"

"A professional mourner"
"Sinister's vampire sister"
"Voodoo witch woman" 

"The Devil's goth minion"
"A Cat living her 9th life" 

When in fact, she was - A perfectly normal woman, with a perfectly normal name.
She was just waiting to lose the last 10 lbs., to speak with confidence again.

A Bagful of Reminiscence

The brown satchel sat there, snugly tucked between her winter clothes and overcoats. She'd rummaged through this section of her wardrobe hoping to find something casual to sling along her left shoulder. 

The tan leather looked raisin-creased in an unaired closet with faded impressions from over use. She loosened the contents hastily, with the glee of a child waiting to discover the trinkets in his mum's forbidden drawer. 

Dried flowers. Lost perfume. Expired paracetamol tabs. 

Gooey chocolate. Gandhian coins. Sticky change in between. 

Deformed granola bars. Parched wet-wipes. Gunk.

Chipped sea shells. Two movie tickets. Cufflinks.

Duplicate keys. Pantyhose. An invitation card. Rust.

Sandy grime of time on things.

On photographs and filigree alike. 

She recklessly overturned the forgotten fragments on the cold floor. And then swept the remains into a biodegradable bin.

Realizing, that every once in a while even old memories can do with some recycling.

Waterworks!

The black sun grew bigger in that red almond sky.
With a parallel universe right across the nose bridge.

The horizon had welled up.
The ocean was overflowing.
The world couldn't hold it all together.

Waves collected over those mascara-free shafts.
Squirting outside the basin line.

Salt-water Waterfall.

It's Customary

They winced once, just before snipping a bunch of locks right above Leela's shoulder. Thick silky black strands clumped together in a loosened plait as they lay there, defenseless, on the floor.

Maasi began sharpening the razor blade against the waterstone, looking in Leela's direction for a hint of pain. But she sat there stoically, staring at the chipped wall in front of the verandah. 

One of them came to her side, while the other parted her scalp. The vermilion in the center was still fresh.
"It'll be over before you know it," they assured her as she sat there, without blinking.
Maasi came ahead with beads in one hand and a sharpened blade in the other, like a devi in her avatar. She smeared some ash on Leela's forehead and continued to dust her scalp with more granules of burnt wood and sand. With a few crisp wrist movements in the opposite direction, the curtain of hair dropped to the floor. Maasi splattered a cup of sandalwood paste to soothe the bruises and puffy hair follicles on that unprotected skull.

The noise had tuned out. The women were retreating.

They would never have to focus on her again.

It took a while to get accustomed to her new demeanor. The sharp jawline suddenly opened into a wide barren forehead, like a delta melting into the expansive ocean. Her tired eyes had lost its soul.
All that was left of the hexagonal diamond pin was a little perforation on her nose. 

"It's for your good," Maasi whispered. 

"With so many men in the house, you're better off this way. At least you won't ask for 'it'."

"If that is the case, how does this change?" Leela questioned with no change in intonation.

She continued staring at the chipped wall. The eyes were still dry.

Her voice trailed out, hardly leaving her trembling lips. 

"They did what they had to, despite him being around. Even though I hadn't asked for 'it'." 

Plane Differences

She was your typical window-seat person.

Walk in first and move out last.

Stuck in that little corner, she loved to stare

At the street lights from up above,

And their reflections in the sky.

She’d break her head over a cryptic crossword,

Or dig her face into a thousand-leaf book,

It didn’t matter if she shivered from the air conditioning

“Who complained about such a ridiculous thing?”

She’d wait patiently for her neighbour, to call
The flight attendant for an extra bag of pretzels

And request for a blanket to avoid turning blue.

10-hour flights were a piece of cake,

For she had mastered the art of manipulating her bladder.

While the kidneys worked hard on accumulating every drop

She’d wait till she was exactly five dribbles short.

Those moments of explosive discomfort

Would nudge her to poke the walrus next to her seat.

He was your regular aisle kind-of-guy.

With his right leg dangling freely outside, he’d make

Small talk with random people in the next row.

He'd keep pressing the light above his head

So he could get another glimpse of that P.Y.T.’s rack.

When the flight purser dished out safety instructions,

Our man in shorts would take a cat nap.

He would complain about the food

The service. And the booze.

Asking if it was free for the 14^th time.

Then rise from his seat and take a little stroll,

Counting the number of vacant seats to do a little math.

He’d snort, choke and giggle on a 3:00am flight

Because Chandler Bing said a funny little thing.

But when the wheels hit the ground, he’d be the first

To unfasten his seat belt and make a dash for the door.

They obviously didn’t meet

And nothing really happened.
Cause while he was out there in ‘Baggage Claim’
She was still stuck between the Window and the Aisle.

REM Adventure

He was still in the restroom, rinsing the remains of his last meal with a minty mouthwash routine. With one last impatient gargle, he ran his tongue over the ridges of his teeth to see if he had missed a spot. Satisfied he stepped out, into the darkness of an undisturbed room.

She lay there on her left side, in the foetal position, with her toes pointing to the wrong side of the bed. Wrapping her arms around her knees she slipped into the second stage of deep sleep.

He stared at her lovingly, while her feet twitched at 30 second intervals. Her shiny black curls spread across the paisley-printed bedspread like the tangled branches of a weeping willow on a summery afternoon. Her crinkled nose and knitted eyebrows told him that she was contemplating something.

He kept his backpack at arm’s length and continued to look at her. With a quick glance over the items on his checklist, he noticed that the flashlight wasn't there. He walked towards the store-room and found an electric rechargeable torch and a can of bug spray on the table. Putting the new items into his haversack, he headed back to the bedroom, and saw her in the same crouched position.

He looked confident and was better prepared this time around.

The frequency of her twitches had increased. She jerked and winced from time to time, moving anti-clockwise again. The feet took charge while her other limbs moved slowly in perfect synchrony. She turned a whole 180 degrees around till the neck found its spot on the accustomed mound of her slightly firm pillow.

She was in the Rapid Eye Movement phase, and he knew he had to be quick. He slipped in right next to her on the mattress and clasped her hand. Effortlessly, he placed the tips of his fingers on her fluttering eyelids and lifted them with ease. 

Astral travel is not for the weak-hearted. Holding hands they were suspended in mid air with no control over their being. He was tumbling across time and space, with his backpack flying freely behind him.

They'd committed to sharing a dream together.
The movie had just begun.