A secret letter from the madwoman

Elsewhere:

This is where I want to be.

Nowhere,

Is the place where there are no traces of you.

The History Museum

Isn’t that where you’re supposed to live.?

Abu Parvat-

Does that still seem ‘romantic’ to you.?

Under the flyover!

Quite a fancy choice, I say.

German classes & unpaid bus rides

Paper planes and Chloroform scented hair(s)

Unsaid hellos and overused goodbyes

Are we cast in a black & white movie.?

Ghost!

Prolly that’s what you are.

Ghost of Doubt.?

No, you are real-er than reality sometimes.

Chocolates or letters.?

Go figure!

Elsewhere:

This is where I am.

Image courtesy: Makeupandbeautyhome.com

That resignation letter: The how/why/why not of quitting your job

“So how exactly is Hoegarden different from Edinger?”

“Would you like to taste it first before you place your order?”

“Oh, that would be just perfect! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Actually, yes. Please tell me, what color do you think is this pyjama..err..These pants I’m wearing? Crème, right?”

“Urmm.. the pyjama is white. Ma’am.”

Sarcastic I-told-you-so laughter in the background.

“Oh damn it! I bought this pyjama and I know it’s crème, not white. Also, it’s not a pyjama but a classic, comfy pair of pants that happen to be a little…well, comfortable.”

I recently found myself having this wonderful conversation with my dear friend Dory Fish and a waiter at The Beer Café. On a Monday. On a lovely, rather balmy 12 o’ clock Monday afternoon. But wait, there is something off with this storyline….where are your Monday blues? And where is your patience-trying manager asking you to (re)submit that report you finished on Friday and most importantly, why is your new diet chart/to-do list/no online-shopping sticker not staring at you from your desk board anymore?

Life is simpler happier since Little Wench decided to stop putting herself through a rather monotonous 10-6 routine doing things she wished were done smarter and wondering why punching some colleagues in office for being so stupid was not a legit thing. In short, I put my papers at work almost two months back.

Quitting your job. Easier said than done. Quitting your job. Coming around to acting upon your gut and throwing away your security, staple social circle and approaching fat bonus. Quitting your job. Not so much a pretty thing once the honeymoon phase wears off.

This boy wanted to be Vegeta (Dragon Ball Z), Boxer, Jet fighter pilot and an actor among countless other things as a kid! 

At some point, we all (yes, I am talking about us twenty-somethings) think/dream/talk about quitting our mundane job to go for that dream job/dream vacation or that much-planned entrepreneurship we have always talked so passionately about. But how many of us actually go for it? And why, despite how ‘cool’ our job profile is, we’re not happy with what our ‘job’ is.?

When I decided to put my papers, it was no Eureka moment for me. It was a moment of release. My office took two days to respond, two weeks to agree and a rather awkward speech from me at the farewell pizza party before giving me my last day at office. But then, break-ups are always awkward, aren’t they?

You tell repeat it to yourself how things are in control and this is just an amicable, professional decision, but eventually, it boils down to the same feeling like saying, “Hey, you know what, I tried. But this, whatever this is between us, is not working out somehow!”

The conversations hands down remain one of the most amusing parts of taking a break (apart from the initial sleep-eat-sleep routine, of course). For a good part, most of my conversations with friends had bits and pieces like this-

“Hey!”

“Oh, so you quit!”

“Congratulations!”

“Oh, so you did not switch. You quit!”

“But WHY?!!”

“What? Because it sucked?” “Okay.”

Since childhood, we study, prepare, compete with an urgency to grow up- to be what we would really want to be, that one thing that really pushes the button for you. And then, somewhere in the middle of it, we find ourselves wondering while nodding at another conference room meeting how smoothly that ambition reduced into a means of paying (lot of) bills.

But who is to blame! After all, who wants to ‘appear’ clueless to his already working friend circle? Who wants to think twice before buying that third round of beer every weekend? Who wants to think every morning afresh on the things to be done? And God forbid, who wants to answer the questions parents come up with, those that add the much needed pickle to your unemployed life.

This friend wanted to be a 'Soldier'. I love soldiers.

Situation 1:

Parent 1: So, what are your plans now?

Situation 2:

Parent 2: When are you going to get serious about your career after all?

Situation 3:

Has to be mom: Oh, there is this really nice guy XYZ aunty knows about.

*All above can be asked at any time from having breakfast to watching a movie to a response for “Good Morning!”

Was a bully. Wanted to be teacher, actress, gypsy and waitress.

We all need a sense of belonging. And more than anything, we need our jobs for giving us that. Sometimes, I get fidgety on a weekday morning knowing I have nowhere to get late for. Sometimes, a project I take up doesn’t pay me anything compared to my otherwise salary. Sometimes, I feel guilty for putting my family in a spot with my decisions. Sometimes, I get a little uncomfortable during a conversation when my friends go on and on about how their office lives or the crazy lunch breaks. Sometimes, I can’t tell if I am a good writer and don’t believe just as much in my ‘quitting everything and doing your thing’ plan.

But then, I realise that I get to pick my work and my days to work too. I realise I am free of the routine I so abhorred once. I realise that even if I earn lesser now, the expenses are far lesser. Heck, I realise I don’t have to wait for the weekend to find time to bake a cake. I realise that I can nonchalantly make travel plans and even fulfill my fantasy of ‘be all at once’ to an extent. And most of all, I realise that I’ve never been as conscious of doing (Or not doing) anything before.

Most interesting: This sweet junior wanted to be Sachin Tendulkar. And Shahrukh Khan.

And as I raise the toast of this sweet, peach-pepper flavoured wine, I am not shaming those who follow a routine or are successfully celebrating third anniversary at their workplace; neither am I promoting getting reckless and sitting at home. I am here raising a toast to doing knowing what the heart wants, and then doing it too.

I dream of being in weird places left by my group/train/fellow backpackers. I dream travelling to these exotic places where I have a meet up fixed with the Crazy Eyed Turtle and I can’t find him. I dream of running errands at a job where the office is set up on a vast sea shore.

Practical.? No. Self-pleasing.? Yes. Call me crazy, but do you ever stop loving ice cream even when you know every scoop is going to only add on to your waist?

You got it? Good? Good.

This one, Ah, obviously, Superman!

Why you NO hangout with me in Hauz Khas.?

I

It is the place where things in contradiction come together to have a fleeting love affair. It is easily the most posh 'village' you could ever find. People smoke. People smoke up. People cuddle. People chat up. People jog on the beaten tracks, trying to beat their last record. People saunter holding hands pushing every second to its maximum duration.

II

Hauz Khas Fort: It is the unofficial hub of numerous band practices and countless love stories every few steps. Quietly embracing Sufi, Rock or even Indie-pop together; the old, humble Hauz Khas Fort practically lives as many dreams as each of the members in those bands, all of those couples.

Trying to find the right note with them. Trying to have their love, their music etched onto the partly ruined walls here.

A cat just has nine lives to live.

III

“But why do I always have to go along with someone or to meet someone? What’s wrong with wanting to go hangout by yourself?” complained Little Wench.

“Why do you always have to ask questions that have no answers?” fretted her mother.

As she passes the barricade, an impish grin fights its way to her lips as Little Wench tries rather hard to suppress it. This is not the first time she’s coming here, after all. She’s been here on a date. She’s covered an interview here.  She’s bunked office to just be here. She’s worked here. Heck, she’s even had a life-is-finished day here. So today, deciding to spend some time with Hauz Khas, herself and a rustic copy of The Journals of Sylvia Plath on a last minute whim doesn’t sound fancy at all. And yet, she’s excited.

“Walking is too much madam. You so thin! Give me only Rs. 40 and I will take you to Hauz Khas village in a jiffy.”

IV

I see this dog having claimed what’s possibly the best spot in the entire fort/lake area. It’s a beautiful pedestal just beyond the iron-rod boundary set for ‘common’ people. It’s an olive-sized spot facing the warm sunshine, balmy lake and a sharp edge on a substantial height.

And the dog is there. His indifference is appealing to the point of becoming a masochist. Just for that instant when you gaze at him, waiting to be ignored. People amusingly walk past him; photographers try to find their ‘the shot’ in him. And he overlooks them all. Like a dude!

V

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“What is best to visit/do in hauz khas?” *pause* “I am a tourist, you see.”

“Ermm. You really wanna know?”

“Yeah, of course!”

"Well, I suppose I could tell you a couple of things; like how Elma’s Bakery, one of the most popular eateries is to be savoured for its interiors and crockery, not the menu. Or how despite the quality food, the best thing about Naivedyam still remains the free rasam drink ritual as soon as you settle down."

"Or how not many people like to visit/maintain the sanctity of the beautiful-in-ruins Hauz Khas Fort accommodating the entire lake; but are more than willing to pay overpriced rates for usual menu at a restaurant having a section ‘facing the lake’. Or rather, a tiny part of it."

"I could also show you that it’s easy to spot a self-contained, happy junkie and a tight-holding-by-the-waist, happy couple in the same blink of the eye. How the dogs here know more than they show. How food here is some of the most soul-fulfilling activities (yes, it’s more of an activity here). But I would rather tell you to go ahead and find out for yourself."

For one main reason why you keep coming back to Hauz is because it offers a unique piece of its own to you. And to each of its visitors.

A new concept cafe to try while on your way back from Hauz Khas Village!

Their feedback wall! :-)

VI

You wouldn’t even notice that construction worker until you look too closely. A highly ordinary, reedy body rhythming with the circular motion he was making on the wall using his heavily tanned left hand, while balancing on the conspicuously wobbly stool. He’s humming a folk tune as he pastes the freshly prepared pastel coloured cement solution his wife is holding standing next to him.

Adjusting her ghunghat every now and then while holding the stool in between every time it shakes a little. Next to her, stands their child, hardly 3 years of age. Holding her pallu, the kid stands there while watching bunch of kids play in the heap of sand and cement couple of steps away. He has a bandage tied on his forehead, with blood stains on one side.

How did the child get hurt? Is this a frequent occurrence whilst at the site? Do they pay the wife too for spending half her day working with him or is that a complimentary service for the contractor? Does the family live here as well? If they do, is this a safe environment for the child? But then, can they afford to even think about it?

The wall is not even half done as yet.

...And thus said she, "Yada Yada Yada"

Vanilla is a very, very, understated and long ignored flavor.

Blue is an overused colour.

No, not every girl likes pink.

Palaces are overrated. So is being polite, sometimes.  

From what I read, a professional snuggler easily earns up to $60 an hour. Note to self- Must put that as a fall-back career option.

Vikas Khanna is (finally) one Indian chef who should make more and more appearances on TV.

Talking about food, dosa is not dosa. It’s Do (like ‘two’ in Hindi) + sa, apparently.

Hot water bath is pure bliss. And a permanent fix for all things temporary.

The only ‘good’ thing that comes out of extreme anxiety about anything is you chumming sooner than soon. So whatever that is, just don’t sweat over it. (I don’t know what good comes out of this for guys though. But then, I am yet to come across a guy having anxiety attack over things in the first place).

No matter how many times you do it, getting up in the morning remains one of the most difficult things to do.

Virat Kohli looks good. And dashing. But wait, only until he opens his mouth! #TypicalDelhiBuoyMoment

You tend to lose weight instead of piling on when you take a break and stay at home. (Just me.?)

YOLO. Except for, well, us Hindus! (Edit: Apparently, Buddhists too!)

Defenestration is a legit word. And awesome too!

Ellen DeGeneres is one hell of a cool woman. And no, it has nothing to do with her recent show at Oscars.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZisWjdjs-gM- makes life good. Instantly.

p.s: A deroute but another example of how cool she is!

Helping someone in the middle of your busy routine makes you feel accomplished in a strange way at the end of the day.

Putting a poster on your FB wall about how a true love/best boyfriend/perfect relationship should be (or should not be) will NOT get you any of that. Also, putting ‘LOL’ is not going to save your emoticon any laugh lines. So you might as well use that.

Cinnamon can be eaten, hidden in the pockets or applied all over the face for its sheer fragrance. Heavenly! (Again, just me.?)

 Ahista Ahista remains the only movie album composed by Himesh Reshammiya where he deserves every iota of his otherwise acclaim.

For the good of mankind, guys like George Clooney exist. For the hopelessness of (wo)mankind, so does Adam Levine!

Self-talking is the best way to self-preservation.

This is a very sad attempt to do something fun (Read ‘avoid finishing up articles that are to be submitted tomorrow morning’) and finally manage a post here after a lazy, shameful absence of…wait, how long has it been.?

Sincerely 

Little Wench

The Last Gift

And she held her breath as his lips curled into what looked like beginning to an the answer, her answer, an answer she had held on for far too long than she could afford to. 

“Maggie!” came to life as he spoke her name aloud. Every time. All he ever said.

And yet she was finally happy. She had an answer. She leaned forward to have her their last kiss, almost sucking the soul (if he still had one) out of his body. 

With a belief that he could still save both of them…

Verisimilitude (Is that a UFO.?)

Time: Dusk

Venue: Metro station (Take any!)

Participants: Stable Nerd and the Little Wench

Situation: Sitting on the bench small raise next to the railings

Nerd: You know this was the 6^th metro we just missed?

Wench: *without looking* Were you counting.?

Nerd: I don’t know.

5 minutes of silence later...

Nerd: So what have you been doing off late? What’s up?

Wench: *looking at another metro passing by* Don’t you think you’re a little too late to ask me that now.?

Nerd: I don’t know.

7 minutes later…

Wench: *intently looks at him* Nerd, tell me something interesting. Something nice!

Nerd: Urmm..okay. Do you know how touch screen phones work?

Wench: No, tell me.

Nerd: See, so it’s a simple underlying theory. It’s basically…

Wench: When exactly are you going to ask me out.?

Nerd: What?

Wench *smilingly* Do you want me to repeat the question.?

Nerd: No, no. Well, to that, I don’t know.

Wench: Okay.

3 minutes of silence later…

Nerd: Why would you even ask me such a question?

Wench: Well, it looks like it. You have that nervous-inquisitive look on your face when around.

Nerd: So you want me to ask you out?

Wench: Nope.

Nerd: Then why would you ask such a question?

Wench: Oh, I was curious.  

p.s: What is Little Wench's 2nd most favourite thing after hope? Dreams!

The Friend You Took For Granted

“No, I will not go for his dinner invitation. Not even if he puts up my plate the usual way he does”, “How dare he call me now, only three days before to break the news!”, she repeats in her head for one more time as stations pass by her. She’s in the jungle’s fanciest ride till date and yet still ‘trying’ to like it. But the kid in front of her is assuring with his unadulterated grin. Like he also shares the secret. Her secret. Their secret.

She tries to remember what was the moment that turned Little Wench and Old-World Sloth into friends. The common factor was a guy she hated and he loved. Soon, they were neighbours and colleagues who smirked at each other’s romances (or the lack of it) and had dinner together.

There was a new-found delight in taking shots at each other which gave grave concerns a casual air. In the Concrete City, where both of them were outsiders, he was the constant companion she never invited but inevitably celebrated every occasion/attended any party with.

She snarled at how he was a housewife-in-prep and he came to pack her up to his place when her apartment became a boat with a hole. She tricked him into giving occasional foot massages and he stayed up entire night talking to his fiancé when she needed to pull off an all-nighter for that office report. He smelled, loved and smelled her hair often and in return, she called him a creepy guy whenever she could.

His dinner invitation to her included him mixing rice and gravy Andhra style with his hands and making small balls of it, decorated on the outline of the plate. And she ate heartily with a boasting smirk and hidden delight. She, in turn, taught him how to imagine apple juice like it is flavoured wine during crisis and actually get high on it!

But for the love of God, she still can’t remember that moment. What she can remember is that Old-World Sloth is now married and about to become a doting father. The Old-World Sloth hasn’t shared a smoke with her in a long time. And the Old-World Sloth is now leaving the city for good.

When the Wench wakes up next morning, there is this sudden urge bubbling in her. Thanks to the wild gooseberries from Jungle she loves, things hit her late. She frantically searches for her eternally damned phone, calls him, and tells him she’s going to come to the Concrete City to see him. Even if it’s just a 10-minute thing. He leaves tomorrow and has a lot on his hands. But she isn’t listening; but he still invites.

The day is ending very slowly. “What would I say when I see him? What would I do if he panics? What could we eat together?” Fretting, she tells herself to shut up when there’s a call just when she’s about to leave.

Old world: Dude, werrr are you?

Wench: Just about to start.? Why were you not answering my call? I was going to check if chocolate is fine or wine.

Old World: Actually, I got stuck. Something needed to be taken care of. And urmm, I am running terribly behind time right now.

Wench: Oh, you’re really short on time?

Old World: No, actually yes. I would love to meet you but not like this. But anyway, tell me what time do you reach here?

Wench: You know what, let’s drop it. It would only get more hectic for you. And anyway, not like I was dying to see you. I will see you some other time soon.

Old World: You do know there would be no ‘soon’ again?

Wench: Yes. But saying soon sounds better.

Old World: I will call you once I reach my new home.

Wench: Of course. Take care, creepy guy.

As she hurriedly hangs up, she realizes she’s choking with something tangible in her throat. And something warm and gushing in her eyes.

Friends, no matter how predictable, annoying or routine they become; are friends and should be treated as nothing less than that. They may not be the one who hold your hand at the aisle or serve you dinner when you get home tired but they absolutely are a large part of what makes you ‘you’.

With a now-free hour to kill at her disposal, she packs her bag and heads to the popcorn guy.

*Just for this post, Little Wench is not Little Wench but Eva Mendes.

Love song for Taylor Swift

And so she said…

Oh Romeo, take me somewhere we can get stoned

Pizzas for munchies, and if you’d get me some old monk.

We both be made of butter and...dwell into one,

Getting high, some place nice, prolly a little closer to the sun.

I’ll wear a dress…

Made of raindrops and sunshine.

You’ll sing me stories that do not rhyme

Till we together chase the moonlight.

After sunset, you and I look (almost) perfect

For it’s no one who see, who feel, who live but us.

And I wish this warm gushing dizziness stays forever

But for now, let’s just focus on the last pizza slice!

…..Oh Romeo, take me somewhere we can get stoned

Pizzas for munchies, and if you’d get me some old monk.

Just Like her!

A little story to sing- la la la

…And after endless madness, eloping the routine and nuzzling laughter, he finally bid her goodbye. There had to be a sincere maturity about the whole thing; after all this was a story of a 12-year old boy and a 12 ½-year old girl.

What are dreams made of

A handful of contemplation that was initially mere fancy. A bountiful of thoughts that never saw the light of expression. A song that came to your lips as a hum and didn’t budge until you could remember the perfect lyrics. An article/youtube link you came onto that inspired the idealist in you for that iota of a second. That flimsy cone of ice cream with your favourite flavour being sold on your road to office.

That rose you chose, but could never give it to her. That perfect first kiss which happened hundred times over already in your head. The sweet revenge you waited for so long, but couldn’t play because that’s just not who you are. All those times you said ‘no’ to something when you desperately wanted to shout ‘yes’. Every sleepless night spent thinking/wishing/working something that just didn’t let sleep win over. That seemingly ‘dead’ leaf that delicately fell over you while walking just when you were about to give up on signs, giving the belief a new life.

After all, if not for all of this, what would be there left to the dreams to dream for?”

And suddenly the nib of the pen stopped midway after an inning of 10 minutes non-stop. But that’s how the Wench wrote. Impulsive, passionate squirt of emotions, to the point of diverting from the topic sometimes. But then, that’s how your thoughts-pumping mind (or heart?) works. Isn’t it?

Your mind doesn’t put categories (How good lingerie, or any lingerie, should not be spoken about when talking about your favourite instant mood lifters) or the elite ‘writer’ like finesse your piece should have (How I should think about ice creams and popular flavours in the market first before I can write about vanilla sex because that’s how an intro-body-conclusion prototype go).

A Dream Catcher.

Coming back to the topic of dreams, what if someone could be not just a dreamer but a dream catcher as well? Getting curious with it, Wench decided to give it a try too. So she picked up her bag and left for her favourite yet most hated city, the topic for most of her dreams. Favourite because she found her own set of wings there; and hated because at the end of the day, it wasn’t her jungle. 

Throughout the way, the excitement was watchable. She was actually giggling sitting in her auto as the City of Concrete approached.

But after spending half-a-day and continuous efforts, she couldn’t catch any of the dreams she had there. The entrance looked different, they had put bars what used to be her favourite spot, the corner where she buzzed often now felt strange and the people, her favourite people, even though the same, did not feel familiar anymore.

Perhaps dreams are not yours once you’ve dreamt about them. For you bring them into reality as you dream them, making them prone to changes, realization and some more changes.

It’s been a while that Wench doesn’t get her trademark nightmares anymore.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKfDwChOoHI

“So how was your trip to kasol-Malana, eh?”

*Due to constant insistence by the nervous-excited geek, the 'geek' has been changed to 'nerd' now! 

The last stop to come. Up and down, down and up. 14 hours in the bus and still counting. The stop-down serving unappetizing food and overpriced coke. The last smoke sitting on the highway. Feeling thirsty. Feeling not-so-thirsty once you find the water bottle. Re-tasting the anticipatory thrill of trek. Excitement about the inner-peace to follow. Realizing that you need to pee at the worst hour and waking up the entire Volvo to go out pee, sing, fall, break your knee and sing some more in the wilderness at 3 a.m.

Checking on the rest of the group. The idea of putting nomads together who hardly knew each other (or hated each other, when last checked!). A mindless Casanova, a sugar-high photographer kid, a nervous-excited geek nerd who gets high on sugarfree sweeteners, a planning freak and the Wench herself! Pretending to get high on coke cans and catching giggling, budding love in new couples (The ride finished at the one of the cheekiest honeymoon destinations, Kullu).

That deep breath! That deep breath that comprised the cold from the adjacent jungle, flavours from the bakery at the street and mist from the nearby waterfall! Food. What good food! Eating that fresh trout fish grilled with amazing butter and garlic and stuff. That rare smile of warmth from strangers fellow people you don’t know with such ease here. 

 

With the rainbows~!

Cool dude, I say!

The café that has its décor after a ‘stoned’ version of The Garden of Eden. The footloose singer from Israel who performs there every night in exchange for his dinner and make some new friends. Daily! People not giving a shit about what they wear. I, not caring a thing about what I wear (or not wear). Patting a dog almost the size of a wolf and feeding him off your share. Starting a conversation with anybody just about anything.

The nomad singer!

Dedicating the night to a bottle of wine and a river in its full force giving you company bashing its way inches away from you. Looking at the river from a distance and dealing with the impulse of crossing it; dipping your hands and feet in the ice-cold water and realize it’s better to rather admire it while sitting on its bank with scattered sand and broken bottles. Passing out comfortably in the cozy arms of your friends.

Malana. The village of taboos. That original trek with creaky wooden bridge, steep and undefined route, and a naughty bunch of plants that stung every time you touched them (Actually, they found ways to touch you. But of course, they made it look the other way!). The trek. The marijuana leaves everywhere. In abundance.

That impulsive detour to the waterfall. Giving way to another impulsive jump in the water. Giving your head into the fall at the highest pressure spot. Get out. Breathe. Give in your head again. Let it hit you. Let it wash away everything that’s been there. Let it make you feel clean, hopeful and humble.

Getting lost, twice. Not finding a soul around. Despair catching up. Arguing with each other. Losing things on the way. The shaking up of beliefs with the new, the unknown. The curiousity of what lies ahead. The fatigue that comes from tireless guessing, doubting and of course, walking.

Noticing the first building, telling us we’re done. The skeptical locals, distancing themselves from us at the mere sight, sort of living up to their image. Excited children waving at us from the open school, half-filled with the skepticism inherited from their ‘adult’ surroundings.

Instant feeling of being an outsider.  Finding a group of people who back in town, work half a mile away from where we do and instantly feeling familiar. Getting high. On pure food, thanks to the sheer fatigue. That moment where a bunch of local women happily have a conversation with you in a different language. We spoke ours, they spoke theirs. Still a happy conversation!

Sitting on another river bank with a friend. And a lovely mountain dog who competes with your friend for your attention. Enjoying the view. Understanding that where you were sitting was a dam-enclosed area where water in full-force is released at random hours when two old men shout at you and get you out of there. Realising you could have been washed away like tiny leaves had the timing been wrong (or just right!) Two happy leaves washed away in cold, humbling water.

Metro announcement telling you you’re 20 minutes away from home. Blinking your eyes, you feel like it was just a long dream you had. But your sore legs, dirty socks and the body aching for pure sunshine and natural flowing water tells you another story. It takes time after all adjusting to the normal routine once the hills have owned your body!

She is a staple feature in our Jungle stories (in left)

Pictures credit: Prerna Nainwal