The Fall!

I coshed my head against the wall,

And flung my arm at the door.

Then came my great, unceremonious fall,

And my quick descent to the floor.

The cavalry came, just my luck!

Screaming while I looked at her, dazed.

She huffed and puffed and propped me up

I was still blank, seemingly fazed.

The wound was cleaned,

And smartly dressed.

I let out a scream,

When it was pressed!

Then I got up all brave,

And went to class,

Still in an awful daze!

I gave a presentation,

My speech was slurred.

I think I felt some levitation,

I cannot be sure as my vision was blurred!

The day went on and I ignored my eye.

It was Onam, I had a scrumptious feast!

Happy, I forgot about my face which looked like a pie!

I became a purple beast!

Panic panic! Where’s the ice?

I put a whole lot where,

A little would’ve sufficed.

Then came the advice

“Eat properly, have some juice!”

“Okay okay, let’s call it a truce”

I spent the day with a ringing in my ear,

Like a bell,

I woke up the next day, with a great

Story to tell!

My Little Teacher

The drone of the typewriter was like music to my ears. Type type type, it went, swiftly and with seeming accuracy. I sat a silent observer, amazed and always in awe when she typed so confidently. Almost ashamed that I ever felt sorry for her, the little child was a bundle of talent. I peered at the result of the typing, an array of raised dots I couldn’t easily fathom. Her fingers came to a stop; she easily removed the paper and handed it over to me, a shy smile never leaving her childlike countenance. Painstakingly and using a rough reference I crosschecked the answers. All correct, save for a few errors! As I explained to her what was right, she crinkled her brow listening closely, soaking up all I said. When my preachy sermon on nouns came to a close, she recited with ease what she learned dotted with a few blunders, but at the end of which gave a huge satisfied smile.

One cannot help but get disarmed at that charming smile! Her structure defied her age, blessed with youthful looks. She was of a slight frame, short brown hair haphazardly crowned her head, tiny hands danced on the typewriter. The little child was always smiling. When I threw a question at her she couldn’t understand she would crease her eyebrows thoughtfully and finally quizzically, patiently awaiting an elaboration.

Her eagerness to learn was contagious and our sessions would regularly cross the slotted time. She had a million questions and wanted to know everything in a day! Sometimes I would sneak peaks at my watch, but she never asked for the time. On any humorous occasion she would let out peals of laughter and gently reach for my hand, squeezing it lightly to reassure me that I wasn’t the reason behind her mirth.

Sometimes we would divert from English grammar and I would read her stories. She would perk up, sit straight listening with great curiosity. There was a certain look on a face when stories were read out; as though magically the glazed sleepy look during a course on verbs was replaced by an intense, animated stare.

To make our lessons easier and less time consuming, I took it on to myself to learn her language of communication. It took me many hours to learn a few words but I was determined. I had taken down the alphabets on a small piece of paper and went through them whenever I could. Sometimes I would close my eyes and let my hands sense the typewriter, but I could not fathom what I felt. The sharp and blunt edges of the typewriter were foreign to my touch. My fingers were blind and non-receptive to the tool the child had mastered. She would giggle at my clumsy attempt at using her apparatus. Soon, I would sheepishly give up, resigning to my lacklustre gizmos of pen and paper.

One day after a great debate over the phonetic failure of the language and a few laughs, it was time to head home. I usually didn’t leave at the same time as my child prodigy, but the library seemed like a dreary prospect and a vision of an afternoon siesta was dancing before my eyes.

I asked her where she lived. On hearing her say Vikhroli, my jaw dropped. I asked her how she travelled. Her answer was simple and matter of fact. She even let out a derisive laugh at my half-wit question. “How else would a person travel from CST to Vikhroli?” said the sneer. I stared at her with a mixture of new found respect and fear.

“You go all by yourself or does someone come to get you?” was my next fervent question. Another laugh tinkled which confirmed that she commuted alone.

For a few minutes I was in a daze. I stared at her agog fearing for her safety. But evidently, she was unaware of my reservations and steadily walked on towards the exit of our college.
I usually changed two buses to reach home. I could work a little harder, walk a little further and take a direct bus home, but my fear of subways influenced my detour and greater investments in commutation.

As we reached the fork that decided my route, she guided herself toward the subway. I gulped. My equation with subways had always been bad. My breath would immediately cease as soon as I would enter one. My imagination would go on overdrive and I would feel like the hawkers were coming to attack me in slow motion.

The adverse effect of subways was not without reason. As I was happily coming home from college with a group of friends, one day, a crazed man insulted me with a an extremely rude racial slur. I stood transfixed while his maniacal eyes, reflecting immense hatred, stared at me with vengeance, driving his point home. My legs decided they wanted to freeze and movement was impossible. I was in the company of some really good friends who angrily showered the adversary with some choice abuses. I was whisked away in a huff. My mind slowly started coming out of the numbness it had felt and soon the tears followed. The fear of subways had since remained.

Until this fateful day, that is.

The fork appeared in front of me and I bid her farewell and sadly turned right. I walked a few steps but the guilt and fear for the young one’s safety made me retrace my steps and go in her direction. I saw her from a slight distance, taking each step slowly, precariously. Her guiding stick tapped rhythmically before she advanced forward. The sea of people made way for her, some loose waves bumped into her. She stumbled slightly, but stood her ground and laboured on.

As I caught up, I grabbed her hand and quickly identified myself lest I get whacked mercilessly by that stick. She smiled in recognition and hand in hand we walked briskly to the subway. She folded her stick away, let her guard down and trusted me to guide her to safety. I took a deep breathe and let my guard down, drowning my fears against a new found determination. As I approached the fearful subway with the brave one, I banished all feelings of cowardice. I looked at the child, looked at her confident stride. She wasn’t unaware of the perils that were before her; she had accepted their existence and faced them head on. She wasn’t a coward like me, running away from a sharp sting of a slur.

We reached the subway and descended its steps. The musty air engulfed us and the hawkers enticed us with their wares. I gulped a million times and prayed fervently to Gods of different ranks and powers. My pace slowed and as paralysis spread through my feet, I felt a gentle tug. Maybe she realized I couldn’t move or maybe she sensed the irrelevant fears, I would never know, but she calmly guided me through the great cave-like path and out of it.

At the exit,I regained my calm and a river of gratitude flowed in her favour. She turned to me before she made for her train. Those sightless, vacant eyes, unsuccessfully searching for me. And then when she heard my voice, a brilliant smile was flashed and soft words of adieu spoken.

I watched her carefully from afar while she entrained to Vikhroli. Kind people on the platform helped her in those rare moments of weakness. She never allowed her handicap to uproot her opportunities. Every time she stumbled, she steadied herself and trudged on.

My little student hardly missed a day at class. Her nature so sweet, so simple. When happy her laughter tinkled with joy. When disappointed her insignificant eyes would be downcast. She was not affected by visual prejudices and the same beatific smile flashed at anyone who would approach her.

I was merely a student who volunteered to help her in English as part of my Social Involvement Program in college. But she was my teacher.

The Circus

Summer months in Delhi are known to be cruel and are a much talked about topic by the residents of the city. People avoid sunny days or even sunny patches like the plague and run helter-skelter to the nearest harbinger of respite, shade.

The summer in Delhi is like a double-edged sword. The heat stifles the inhabitants who dread this time of the year. Not only the locals but their friends and cousins in other cities fear the capital’s climate and usually skirt around the city and go further north to the mountains to attain climatic salvation. The sale of fairness creams reaches an all time high much to the delight of the manufacturers. The creams boast of lightening one’s skin tone by 2 shades in 7 days and protecting one’s vanity from the evils of the sun. Girls must not tan in north India lest that interferes with their husband buying abilities. Their mothers protectively dole out ample amounts of these magic concoctions with other home made remedies to maintain that crazily sought after dewy complexion.

Summer is not all unconstructive and can be used in any situation. An uncomfortable silence can be hastily covered up by thrashing out about how hot it is. Or to avoid a boring party one can simply claim they suffered from a vicious heat stroke.

The fortunate ones keep to their air-conditioned zones; the less fortunate ones use traditional ways of cooling like flooding their home floors with water, whereas the ill-fated ones ignore the heat and allow the sun to encourage the melanin in their skins.

An ill-fated little girl waited patiently at the sidewalk. The signal was green and the fortunate ones were zooming past in their big cars. The sun was beating down on the girl and her friends with fervour. But it didn’t matter to them. The big cars mattered. The people in the big cars mattered.

The signal changed from green to red. In a trice, the assemblage of children jumped up and moved towards the waiting cars. The little girl did neat cartwheels; 2 young boys held up a bamboo stick, support for a balancing act while another child walked confidently on it. The fortunate ones looked at them with a mixture of awe and pity. Poor things, they thought. Dirty, annoying beggar children, thought others. The circus act ended in a few seconds, the children ran towards the cars, their hands outstretched and eyes pleading. But the windows did not come down. They scurried from car to car disregarding the hot tarred road. From car to car till the lights changed and the wait would begin again.

The little girl didn’t let the scorching sun impede her progress. She knew the reactions by heart. Some would glare at her daring her to touch their car. A few would throw coins at her just so she would leave their line of vision and disallow the swelling guilt in their hearts. Then there were ones who ignored her with ease. Years of being exposed to India’s large size population of beggars has hardened many of us and indifference to people in a state of shambles comes to us like second nature. But was she a beggar? No, she was a performer, a young gymnast. The zebra-crossing was her stage, and the people in their big cars, her audience. Though she lacked a gymnast’s shiny attire and displayed her lithe skills in tatters, she dreamed big dreams like any other child.

A fortunate little girl was sitting in her air-conditioned chauffeur driven car, safe from the sun’s malice. She watched the circus in trepidation. She saw young children like herself braving the heat and doing graceful movements, trying to capture their audience’s attention. It troubled her. She had never witnessed such a show, a morose, pitiable sight. She watched her mother avert her eyes and hand her a toffee. A sense of solace, that her child wasn’t the one under nature’s eye fending for her meals. The child took no notice of the treat handed to her by her mother, her eyes affixed at the tiny, thin figure mastering the art of cartwheels.

The gymnast reached the car with the privileged child in it. She caught her eyes boring into hers, scrutinizing her closely. Instinctively, the gymnast drew herself to her full height of 4 feet. She would not be intimidated by anyone and pride puffed her up and assisted in her stature. They stared at each other for a few seconds which seemed like eternity, sizing each other up. The girl in the car noticed the gymnast’s matted hair and thin hands. She noticed her tattered clothes and sun burned skin. Flies buzzed around her head, eyes screwed up challenging the harsh sun to get any brighter. They seemed like alter-egos from 2 different dimensions. Opposites. Black and white. Yin and yang. The lissom child noticed the toffee and looked at it longingly. It had been a while since she had had her last meal. The child in the car reached for the toffee and gave it to her. The gymnast took it silently and looked at the lucky child with warmth in her eyes that relayed appreciation.

The lights turned green and the car revved forward towards its destination. The providential one finally averted her eyes, humbly hiding her tear streaked face. The gymnast broke out of her reverie with the incessant honking of the vehicles. She ran for the sidewalk to quietly relish her lunch, unable to believe her good fortune. She ate swiftly, because when the lights would change, she would be a gymnast again and return to her stage.

Train Chronicles 2

The train slowed down and the passengers readied themselves to face the crowds. The pushing at the train’s exit had already begun. A cramped space with some serious Amazonian women, ever ready for war, can be a deadly sight. Lethally armed with razor-sharp talons, gigantic hand bags and a string of abuses that need the slightest provocation for release, they are a dangerous species. Those hand bags I particularly fear as they injure anyone who gets too close. I winced as one of the warriors helped herself to my hair to steady her balance. No time to exchange dirty looks as the platform came closer but I was generous with some mental abuses. On the ready now, get set, jump!

A swift landing later, I make a quick mental analysis of damages. Knees, ankles, toe nails; all intact. Now starts the never ending trek to the east side of the station. Ear-phones in place, the music plays, and my game of Dodge-the-People, begins.

The walk is a long one, yet effortless. All one has to do is let the crowds show them the way. I sway to the music; with each beat goes a step. Highly synchronized, a ritual I devised with a few weeks practice. The crowds are massive, but one must ignore them and concentrate on the songs playing. The Doors is a great ‘platform’ selection. The crooning of waking up in the morning and getting me a beer is inspirational. Rolling and thrilling and rolling and thrilling.

The end of platform 6 is reached. Crowds are of stampedic proportions. As I switch to platform 1, I dodge the people, mostly men who don’t like the game of dodging and maybe subscribe to Bump-Into-The-People.

The music doesn’t stop and the people don’t get out of the way. With weeks of practice, my maneuvering gets cleverer. I sing along with Morrison about loving him two times and hum absent mindedly. If the masses give me awkward, loony glances I barely notice as I subconsciously play my air guitar and march forward.

The end of platform 1 is near. Here lives a black and white mongrel. I look forward to receiving a glimpse of the station’s pet every day. The dog is always asleep right in the centre of the platform, almost challenging the throngs of people to step on him. He lazes and scratches himself with canine expertise. The Borivili fast fails to wake him; the Virar makes no difference either. He is the king of platform 1. I account his size and health to the employees of the food stalls and possibly the line of shoe shine boys. I pay homage to the reverential king and move towards the overhead bridge. My day shall go well now as the dog has proved to be lucky for me.

The bridge is conquered and I now climb down. My destination, the auto stand, looms closer. I still have to dodge populous and walk another few minutes. The sights are identical every day with little or no change. Never has a day gone by where I have witnessed Andheri station deserted. The lines of ticket buyers persist. The corner of the ticket counter houses a few men adroitly chopping vegetables. A hairy dog pants by them; his territory well marked, I have never seen him elsewhere. The morning shops slowly open and the hawkers do everything in their power to block the exit, causing discomfort to the passersby.

I walk on, identifying with Muse and their undisclosed desires. The protection of the station lost, the sun’s true magnificence is exemplified. My hike ends as I reach the auto-stand. I prepare myself for this task as it is a massive challenge in itself. A deep breath and Lil’ Wayne later, I embark on my search for a miraculous auto that will transport me wherever I want to go.

Train Chronicles 1

The announcer’s voice crackles through the PA system and my train roars into the station. Women gear up for the war, tie their dupatta’s tightly around their waists and position themselves in attack mode. It doesn’t matter if the train is empty; their stance is always the same. Pounce or die. It is survival of the fittest, meanest and one who can throw the ugliest diatribe at anyone who dares invade her personal ‘space’. This is no place for the faint hearted and definitely not the time for a novice to ‘experience’ a misled leisurely local train ride.

Rush hour.

My turn to ‘gear up’. I’m no novice, having stayed in Maximum City long enough to get accustomed to its nuances. I don’t let my heart rate topple the dangerous limit. I just wait until all the wild one’s have ripped and torn off the clothing of the women alighting and jump in. Being a pro at entering packed trains has still not prepared me for the acrid blow of stench that is synonymous with locals. I gag as someone’s jasmine oil lathed; unwashed, almost fermented hair is dangerously close to my nose. My breathing gets laboured as I try my best to dodge the specimen. But avoid one and be faced by another headful of smelly hair. Must-maneuver-my-way-to-sa

fety.

Once in, my mission is to acquire a seat. Half a look at the crowd suggests most of journey will be afoot. Drat! I struggle to get deeper into the compartment, backpack secured and those ‘expensive and definitely not meant for a vicious journey’; sunglasses perched precariously on my head. It’s normal to attract scowls and stares, so that doesn’t unnerve me.

Tap tap, wake up, women. ‘Aapko kaha jaane ka hai?’ ‘Wadala? Fabulous! Kisine bola? Nahi? Okay, aapke baad main.’ I have found myself a seat halfway through my quest. Not bad. Now I must find ways to kill time and distract myself from the rabid crowds and the slow numbness crawling up my already tired legs. Unconsciously, as though on auto-mode, I promise myself a workout that never sees the light of day.

I love to read on the train. It doesn’t matter if I stand or have the luxury of a seat; books are the best way to drain out the noise, the noxious odours and the crowds. The Blind Watchmaker helps me out today. A book on evolution. Non-fiction, scientific. Perfect. Such books need concentration; hence, drowning of surroundings is easier. Definitely helps that the book has minuscule print. I gulp. Small print, non-fiction? Oh boy.

The book is an interesting one. The author talks about bats and sonar in the first few pages. I struggle to stay connected as a large derriere is angled towards my head. Not good, not good. Should I whack it with my book as indication of my private ‘space’ being encroached upon? Or should I feel sorry for its dimensions and allow it to stare at my head? An epic battle wages in my head and before I aim to whack it, it moves. Thank heavens. I never liked quarrels anyway.

The journey continues, women enter and exit the compartment. The song and dance of ‘pounce, attack, acquire and quarrel’ continues. I’m still seated as my destination is the last one. Hawkers enter with their stash. Hair accessories followed closely by fake gold jewelry that will give the originals a run for their money. For a day, maybe. Women are highly interested. They entertain the hawkers by peering closely at the stash, sifting through the goods, a gleam in their eyes. It is vital to pick out the most garish jewelry out of them all. They pick and pick, sift and sift. I stare with wonder at their taste. But it doesn’t bother me much as the hawkers earn a living out of them. So maybe we will allow people with tragic taste to walk the earth.

It has been an hour already and my back is sore from the joke of a seat. It may be small but is indignantly uncomfortable. I have almost reached. Phew! An end to another day’s journey.
I prepare myself to leave. I don’t let my heart rate topple the dangerous limit. I just wait until all the wild one’s have ripped and torn off the clothing of the women getting in and jump out.