Moon And Romance

Yesterday at 3:50 a.m. my phone rang. It is not unusual as I work with electrical utility and some consumers who have my number call me, not always at ungodly hours, but quite often. The said number disconnected the call before I could pick up. I did not dial back.

Outside my bedroom balcony, it was dark, and I was half awake when I saw a small blurry arc of the moon trying to make a mark on the sky above the Yeeor hills. Though the full moon is a common sight from my balcony, I have never seen a new moon or a waning moon from this balcony. It could be because I have never been awake or half sleepy at that hour in the day. Anyway, my eyes were droopy, so I tried to get back to sleep, and I did, but I was awake again in few minutes, and my eyes drifted to the moon, and instead of setting behind the hills it had risen in the sky, slightly bigger but the arc was still the same, and it shone brighter.

Without the stars and clouds, the moon still looked romantic, calling upon the lovers of the earth and other realms to share their secret.

As a child, I found the moon fascinating I used to look for shapes in it. I wanted to build a ladder to the moon. Maybe build a house there. Maybe find my favourite crate there.

And then I spotted much talked about rabbit shape on the moon. And I could never unsee it. And I have tried.

I drifted to sleep hoping some romantic was enjoying the beauty of this waning moon, bathing in its bright and cool light on a warm summer morning and sharing a smile with their lover.

A picture they say speaks more than thousand words. Yesterday, I was at Chowpatty with my nephew, son, mom (not in frame), and sister who shot us in this frame.

Why doe this picture standout? May be because wave is just about to ebb, or maybe it's the sun casting its fading rays before setting in the west or is it the kids willing to match their steps with me. Willing to go with me on an adventure. 

But no I am not on any adventure, all I have is a regular life and that is why they also say Pictures lie.

It's just an extraordinaire click by Darshana Bodke

Carthick's Unfairy Tales

Disclaimer: In another world that was without social media, the chances of knowing Karthik would be minuscule. But the bane that social media is which deprives us of our productivity, it has also been the boon that connects us to the people who share our interests.

Incidentally, Karthik and I share similar interests in writing and reading, and hence, I state explicitly: I know Karthik Laxminarayanan, Author of the Carthick's Unfairy Tale.
The review that follows, to the best of my knowledge is without bias.

I close the Kindle app after reading one of the stories, 'The Frog who would be the King' and look out of the window of the taxi and wonder if this should be my favourite story. I am afraid the story had a populist view as if to conform to the guidelines of feminism. Its another bane of social media, you don't know who is not pretending.

At this thought, I decided to come to this book later and move on to The Palace of the Illusions. A retelling of Mahabharata from the Draupadi's POV who I feel is the eternal conflict that women represent and which opposite gender claims to have not fully understood.

Feminism, I realise is a topic worthy of a full blog post. I will write about it, someday.

Before closing the app, I read the title of next story, 'No Country For Wild Beast' and I wondered if it is a retelling of 'Beauty and the Beast', considered as an unfeminist fairy tale of our time. Last year, I read two versions of this fairy tale, one by Grimm, and other by Madame de Villeneuve, translated from French by Rachel Louise Lawrence. Both stories have changed my perspectives about this and many other fairy tales I have watched and read, since.

No Country For Beast is not a Beauty and the Beast story, but another fairy tale, Goldilocks and the three bears. In this story, author amuses about the ways of human beings through a little bear's POV.


Retelling is a tricky business.  Once, Suresh C. who's working on a retelling of Greek myth said, even Neil Gaiman's retelling doesn't sell. And I don't doubt it. If I have read about the blue glass slipper of Cinderella or a mischievious Goldilocks, why should I read Karthik's version?

There are many reasons. The first and foremost is the cover.  It is a well-done cover. The cover depicts elements each of the seven stories in the book. A blue glass slipper, a horseman, a bear, a couple of rats, a hobgoblin, a castle in the background, and a full moon night. The overall purple colour like an adhesive holds the elements together. Not even for a moment, the cover seems crowded. It has a great recall value.

But when you open the book, the titles are - Of Mice and Horses, The Frog who would be the King, No Country for Beasts etc.

A look at these titles and we realise the author borrowed them from famous books.  Of Mice and Horses is inspired by Of mice and men by John Steinback, No Country for Wild Beasts is in inspired from Cormac McCarthy No Country For Old Men and so on.

So, from cover, you know the story, but from the title, you can only make a wild guess about the story.

And the author doesn't stop here. To further engage his audience the author in these stories adopts the narrators who are not 'heroes'.

For example, in 'Beans of Avarice' which is a retelling of (as you may have guessed) 'Jack and the Beanstalk,' the narrator is the vile magician.

It starts with, 'I needed a boy. A proper simpleton at that. I didn't want too smart a boy who would turn on me. Like the one Mustafa found.'

For many fairy tales, it is not easy to spot who is the narrator from the first line. It solely depends on readers knowledge or author's discretion to tell which tale gets a makeover.

This change in narrators gave scope to the author to talk about underlying philosophies.

For example, in A Tale of One City, the city of Hamelin narrates the famous/infamous tale of Pied-Piper. In this story, author repetitively asserts the consequences of famous corporate jargon 'Quick fixes'.  This story is the lesson why we must think holistically before taking each step. The finale of the story defines who we are as readers.

This story I believe achieves the purpose of writing. At a time, when we are not coming out in large numbers, and only a few are telling the stories that matter, or the stories that will shape our future, Karthik braves it with this one and it's smart. The jugheads are going to have a tough time cracking this one.

My favourite is the last story of the book, The Hunger Diaries. This story is the retelling of Hansel and Gretel, the one that has been told and retold several times over centuries. The original story doesn't change, but there are versions, and one of the versions is written by Neil Gaiman.

This story is an important part of the European history, the continent was hit by great famine, and there were instances of cannibalism and abandonment of the children.

I told Karthik, Neil Gaiman would be proud of him if he ever read this story. I say so, after having read the brilliant The Graveyard Book, and Hansel and Gretel and other short stories by the maestro. Both Mr Gaiman and Karthik not only strive to tell a story but also try to give a message through the stories.

Karthik in his book has a message for everyone, women, men, introverts, and the coveted middle management.

The only complaint, Karthik does not deliver punches at the end of the most stories, and I am a huge fan of punchlines. An end that leave jaw dropped.  It's a personal choice.

The book does leave you wanting for more.

You can buy the book here.

Where is your home?

Every time, when someone I know, moves to Canada or Australia, I evaluate if I could live here anymore.If I have the strength to breath stench-ridden air here. Or if I can still travel in overpopulated trains and not worry about being looted or molested.

It's a difficult decision.

In 2011, My sister invited me to visit her in  Dubai. A fine place. Shopping Paradise. Abundantly comfortable lifestyle. I enjoyed my stay there, but one day, my sister asked me a pertinent question, when I grow old, where would I want to spend my life! She answered her own question, probably somewhere with peace and tranquillity, closer to mother nature.

In the backdrop, is Dubai Marina, a palatial skyline.

After a week, when I returned, I had a hearty fight with a taxi driver and it was May, Mumbai was high on humidity, and the drizzling sweat that poured all over my body soothed me to a great extent. I can't tell you how better it felt to be back in my own city.

*

Last week we were at Mahur, a known shakti-peeth, it was an annual visit. We made small donations to the temple. The typist who prepared the receipt asked my husband - Gaav? Now, the translation of Gaav is a village, a place where you stay or a place which is your native, or a place you identify with.

The idyllic city of Mahur

This typist isn't going to verify what we say, we even had the option to say 'Timbuktu' and he would probably raise an eyebrow, ask how it is spelled, and move on.

On the other hand, my husband fumbled a bit, before saying Mumbai. I pointed out to him, technically Aurangabad where his father was born. He replied, "What difference does it make? We are Nomads!"

Nomad. Nomadic Tribe. The caste we belong to. If you ask me, I know nothing about our history. We have been farming for more than a hundred years. The evidence of it is a stone statue, on which our ancestors were carved and placed in our farms. Last April, we resurrected the shrine.

The Shrine, A hundred-year-old village house, and the kitchen in it.

My uncle came to the city with his siblings, after he graduated from Nasik. He stayed in Kalyan and moved to Bandra and later to Andheri. He lived in Kalyan until his brothers moved out for jobs and his sisters got married.

My dad worked, lived, and died in Uran. I was born in Uran. I spent twenty-two years in Uran and now, seventeen years in this city, Mumbai, four of which were for education.

After Dad's death, Mom moved to Andheri, and we bought a house there. Now she lives in Chembur, near one of my sister's house.

On my anniversary, which was last month, Mom and I made the trip to the naval dockyard for some work. I travelled via free-way witnessing a burst of under-construction multistoried towers and wondering if I would buy these houses just for the sake of some status and raise a humongous debt.

Presently, I stay at Navi Mumbai, overlooking Yeoor Hills and a public garden. It's a small place, but I feel it's enough.

On the map, if I have to ever pinpoint a place where I belong, I might not be able to say one -Uran, Nasik, Andheri, or Mumbai, but Maharashtra will win hands down.

Probably, that is why I won't move anytime soon.

Where is Your Heart?

Often, I am regarded as a top performing employee by external stakeholders and internal stakeholders in my set up. Although it does not surprise me, it does gives me a sense of fulfilment. The answer to how I achieve it lies in my experience across five organisations. Here's first of my lessons:

In the early part of my career, during a training program, I met Joseph, an old man well past retirement. He was teaching us the importance of making to-do lists, prioritising, and developing personal skills.

He had no presentation with him. For five hours in between tea and lunch breaks, he spoke to twenty-odd people in a well-lit room. 

He would make us clap between the sessions so that we stay awake and listen to his ramble. A technique, I witnessed for the first time but certainly not the last time. Honestly, he did not ramble.He spoke. He spoke with all his heart and we listened with rapt attention.

As the program ended I asked him why isn't he carrying a presentation with him, a norm in those days. Pointing his finger at his heart, he said, "I remember it here. If you put your heart in things you will not only remember but succeed too."

Unfortunately, social media was unheard of in those days. LinkedIn was not even born.I wanted to keep in touch with that old man but I did not muster up the courage ask for his email or phone number. I always thought I will retrieve it from the HR department. But, I didn't. 

However, ever since his lesson has stayed with me. I use it every day. But there is a consequence. When you put your heart into the work in a professional environment, the challenges are many.

When working across diverse functions, it is possible that people are not as motivated as you, and their priorities are different than yours.

It leads to workplace conflicts. It is said, that one must not be aggressive, and keep their cool when dealing with the conflict. But, I have noticed over all these years, talking softly has never worked in my favour. I have had to put my foot down and stand my ground on numerous occasions.

Surprisingly, the same colleagues forget the rift, move on, and above all, respond to the call of duty. 

I am thankful to Joseph for teaching me to put my heart into doing things personally and professionally.I do hope to get in touch someday.

Invisible Boat

Yesterday Mom was discharged from the hospital.

Before Mom was admitted to the hospital, before she knew that she was in for a long haul at the hospital, she spoke about a dream - a dream where dad spoke to Mom and took her to a paradise. The scenery which mom described was beautiful.

Dad has been gone for more than thirteen years. I miss dad and often I have seen him my dreams. I have dreamt that we lead absolutely normal lives as if he was alive. Sometimes I dreamt that he watched over me like a guardian. But we never talked.

I have many cherished memories with him. On the other hand, Mom had both kind of memories with him - bitter and sweet. Maybe, it was the reason they talked to each other.

I could have explained to Mom about the science of dream then, but I didn't. I couldn't break her reverie. She needed it.

After Mom got admitted to the hospital, I had series of dreams which were scary, funny, and weird.

These dreams drained me, worried me, and ironically, one of them had me in splits. I drew the line here and applied science to dreams.

It was the only way to defeat and master my fear.

And then, I’d a dream yesterday night.

I walked with my partner on a marshy land, among the darkness of dead green mangroves and sea plants, we heard the waves beat against the shore, happy and madly in love.

We soon were on the shore of a creek, and it was along this creek we found a boat, a boat in which we could escape to a boundless horizon.

In the backdrop of a grey sky, quiet sea, and an absent sun was this boat, anchored.

The boat had a wooden outline, when looked upon closely it resembled a broken dried up branch of a tree, which might have washed up on the shore but I could feel the boat, he could too.

But the boat wasn’t there, it was an invisible boat, yet both of us saw the exact same boat.

And then he said, “You know you should write.Finish what you began.”

I smiled.

I woke up.

I could explain the logic and science of this dream and I am sure you could too, but don't break my reverie yet.

Sultana's Dream and Me

Feminism has been made synonymous with the total annihilation of opposite sex, so, I don't wear my feminist badge on my sleeves, publicly.

Also, I don't express my views on anything and everything, that is dished out in the name of feminism these days, in real life or social media.

My feminist thoughts, at the maximum, on the verge of an outrage, are lashed out in a few chat windows, or on my husband, but, never in public.

Begum Rokeya

However, if you Google Sultana's Dream then, everywhere it will show that the story was written by a feminist author Begum Rokeya.

The statement speaks volumes about the author, who also built schools for the education of young girls. She must have been a brave and a fierce lady in a period which was excessively regressive and counterproductive for women.

I was fascinated with  premise of the story, so I dug a bit on the internet, and I found, after reading the manuscript of Sultana's Dream, Begum Rokeya's husband said,

"Terrible revenge."

On Goodreads, not long ago, a reviewer called it, "badass."

Nine out of ten reviewers marvelled at the fact, that, this story was written in 1905, by an Indian Muslim woman, whose first language was Bangla.
 
"1905!  Fascinating," said Gabby, an internet friend whose opinion I have valued ever since I sent her a friend request on facebook.

Sultana's Dream is about a Purdahisin woman Sultana, who travels to Ladyland with another woman whom she mistakes as her friend, Sister Saira.

When she finds out that the woman is not Sister Saira, she is tensed but Sultana is soon comforted by the lady.

In the Ladyland, men are sent in Zenana or Purdah after women of the Land win war against an enemy without any help from men.

In the Ladyland, women are in charge of everything.

Ladyland is full of fearless, confident women and they are everywhere. All the errands are run by a woman.

In fact, these women, call shy Sultana, mannish. Sister Saira tells Sultana,

"They mean you are shy and timid like men."

If you put men or women away in Purdah, then being shy would be natural, irrespective of the gender.

This (Putting Away Men) seems eccentric but Ladyland is prosperous, mud free and science oriented and crimeless.

Sister Saira tells Sultana,

 "But we do not trust our zenana members with embroidery!" she said laughing, "as a man has not patience enough to pass thread through a needlehole even!"

A little further in the story, sister Saira tells Sultana about how men work,

"They dawdle away their time in smoking. Some smoke two or three cheroots during the office time. They talk much about their work, but do little. Suppose one cheroot takes half an hour to burn off, and a man smokes twelve cheroots daily; then you see, he wastes six hours every day in sheer smoking."

Today, we have put men in charge of everything- in education, in the judiciary and in government and I find it's effect in my sister's feedback about the story,

"Here we are in 2017 only, and this text is from 1905, we probably will struggle for hundred or more years."

A dream in 1905 and still a dream in 2017.

The story is whimsical as it is Sultana's dream but, is futuristic.

Begum Rokeya's Ladyland is utopian which emphasises on educating women and use of science such as Solar energy, Rain Water (including storms) harvesting and air-cars. Ladyland has Truth and Love as a religion and is war free.

Putting away men was a trope to tell, women, in fact, are equal or in many cases a better than men.

After reading the story I may have changed the glasses with which I view the world.

A Phenomenon called Percy Wadiwala

I’ve called Percy Wadiwala of The Slacker Tales as the Sachin Tendulkar of our little literary world. So good that the world loves him - even worships him, but that means that he is eternally cursed to perform, as if he is obliged to serve something better every time. I have read Percy’s stories, reviews, and excerpts consistently over a period of time and I can safely say that the God of Cricket will be happy to associate his name with this God King (a title aptly given to him by Aindrila and Pritesh).

So, Percy  Wadiwala  shared a short  story, ‘A Reason to Live’  with  Ritesh Kukrety. Ritesh reviewed it.   Imagine, a story which has been read by three to four people including the author gets a review on a blog! No, Ritesh isn’t a serial reviewer nor a serial blogger and knowing Percy, I know he would not have asked for it. The idea that Ritesh  had something  to say  about the story triggered a handful of people into asking Percy for the story, including me. I am late to begin, as well as a slow reader. When I got the story in my hand I knew I was going to take some time to read it. But people, especially on FB have no patience. They reviewed it with praise galore in the comments. The problem with FB is it's an infectious place, people outdo each other to look good or score marks. Yes, I am a skeptical person. There was a minuscule chance that the story would not be all that great.

Also, this was a period when I was fighting my own inner battles. How good am I?Why my stories didn’t make it to any of the contests that ran around including UnBound, a magazine curated by my own group? The debut novel I was working on looked frivolous and a run-of-the-mill kind of story. I was doing what I could. Making character sheets, drawing the infographics, but I moved nowhere. This battle ripped apart my soul as a writer and I’d nearly given up, ready to hang my boots even before the game had begun. Amidst all this,I opened the story received in my mailbox and it was fucking 30 odd pages and I shook my head. I KNEW I won’t make it to the finish line. Like my works, this will remain incomplete.  

But then, I began to read it then I savored it and then  it was over in a day without a hassle. The characters and their conflict were etched in my mind for days to come.

The story triggered a debate in my mind - what  exactly  is good writing  and no, this was not  about  grammar.  For a great  story,  it is given that it is well edited and proofread before  it is  presented to an audience.  What makes a story told  and retold over a period of time better than others? Why must people read my stories?

Then one day someone made a post on the group. It had a 100 or more comments singing the praises of the said flash fiction. Yes, reviews are good and when they are in hundreds the much entire better. It piqued my curiosity. The post was deliberately written for receiving an applause and someone might say there is nothing wrong in receiving the applause, yes they are right. But the OP had done gross injustice to one of the characters which was unacceptable. The OP must have thought the piece would create hope in this unjust and selfish world.The post it riled me to an extent that I was willing to walk up to the OP and tell - Listen, please don’t write. But I didn’t for two reasons - 1)  I feel everyone should write irrespective their talent and 2) I, myself, as a writer was struggling to come out with anything readable. Most writers work hard, they live in recluse and build characters in solitary and this OP was nothing but a blot on such writers.

My own story which I began to write after reading ‘A Reason to Live’, a submission for Juggernaut’s  prompt #FirstLove looked nothing more than a piece of pedestrian writing. It was so bad that I felt I should leave it midway and also I was fast pacing towards a feeling of “never take the quills in your hand”. In recent times, the Internet has been a great support to my writing but at the same time, I could have been mistaken for someone who constantly seeks attention and it’s the last thing I want. Cautiously, I spoke to Ravi Kumar and Percy. Ravi Kumar reminded me that we as writers write for ourselves. Yes, the primary customer is us, always. On the other hand, Percy pointed out that I don’t concentrate on my work which was again true. He gave few more tips which I won’t tell here and I was back with a bang. Once I finished it I sent it to him for editing and he said in his email (I am going to frame these lines) --

“I like the story itself. A good way of telling a story, though ‘First Love’ is not exactly the focus, but as a story on its own it’s a good thing you have there. Wish I had had the idea :)”

I was ready to shout from the rooftop after reading these lines. But then, doubt crept in because Mr. Wadiwala is an awfully nice guy. So, I sent it to Ravi Kumar knowing that it’s not the genre Ravi reads. Frankly, I was not expecting Ravi to read it but Ravi not only read it but also suggested that I should fine tune it which of course even Percy had suggested. This I must tell you is golden moment of my writing career.  This is what I seek as a writer. Appreciation from my peers. I already felt like a winner but then it didn’t end here.

A fellow named Anirban  shared a review of  yet another short story written by Percy. It was titled as - “Alayne’s Smile”. I called for it to read. Another round of praise on FB and once again I read, savored and finished it.

In Reason to Live, the author writes 20 odd pages before he gives a reason for Daranos Drivas (a character set in the mythical world of Mithos) to live. Drivas is several centuries old, technically immortal, and  is contemplating to sleep permanently (i.e. end his own life).  The 20 odd pages are all about Daranos , his world, his race, his academy, his students, and in the end his life. In these pages, he presents the conflicts between the races inhabiting Mithos, conflicts within Daranos’s mind and then gives him a reason to live.

Alayne’s Smile is a completely different story set in Midgard about a few college friends which is an imaginary town similar to Mumbai. In this story, he sets up conflict on page 2 and not only that, but author hits you with a conflict and how! And I knew from here the story could go anywhere and absolutely anywhere. I liked the way it unfolded, in the end, evoking emotions ranging from momentary euphoria to eternal sadness.

I have read authors who churn out stories in the same fashion in which they have written earlier ones, making them sound mundane. I might be one such author.  Though I do know Percy has written these stories years apart they still can be seen in a comparative sight. Both stories are distinctly different in language -- In former, Percy weaves subplots together in simplest language showing you the Drivas Academy, its legacy and its staff while in the latter he a uses a more complex method of telling the story to keep audience’s attention. I can’t say which one is better but they will remain my favorite, equally until I receive something more from him.

After reading Alayne’s Smile my thought strayed to my own story ‘Fault’ edited by Percy and the good things he said about it (Not available in public domain as it has been submitted for a contest) and other stories, I now want to work a lot harder on these stories. As Pritesh keeps saying --

‘We must match the level at which Percy writes.’

Edit: If you wish to read his works and wondering where to begin here are some links - Wuthering Heights, once again , She was the best of us., Lost Boys of Aiden

Breaking Up with My Mobile

Dear Mobile,

It hurts but I’ve got to say it – Its over! I’ve been dragging this on for some time. But it isn’t working anymore. I’d anticipated that the day would come sooner or later. The first signs were seen when you couldn’t survive a few droplets of rain in last Monsoon but you were special to me. You were different from my previous phones. I could talk to you, literally. You have been my companion in my long strenuous daily travel all these years, so trust me, letting go isn’t easy for me either. Some of my best times were spent with you - playing Candy Crush and surfing Facebook.

My Ex-Mobile

But then, slowly you changed. There were times when I made moves in Candy Crush and you took five whole minutes to complete them, you had moved into the comfort zone after all. You no longer felt you needed to please me. There were times when I came close to clearing a difficult level and you crashed. I’d have to start all over again and I did.  But still, I accepted you as you were becoming. 

You couldn’t handle Whatsapp notification during festivals and other  occasions.  I deleted twitter for your health. Recently I downloaded Instagram, the next coolest app to look cool to pursue my hobby in photography but then you’d long ago ceased to be a camera phone.

We continued so long because you helped me connect with people through calls and FB. But, I have observed for past few days – you just can’t do it anymore. It is painful to see you suffer like this.

Leaving you hurts but it’s in the best interest of both of us. I hope someday you become a component in an iPhone and I too will find someone eventually.

With Love,

Vanita

Do we need more books

"I want to buy more books!" I told Mom while I scanned through my collection of books at her place. She has been insisting me to take these books to my ‘home’. This isn't a small collection of Novels I am talking about. It’s much, enough to tell my mom that it’s a test of our relationship. The space these books take up is the space she gives me in her heart. Not that my current home doesn't have space to accommodate them but I need space for more books!!! But this post isn't about books and space they occupy and how Kindle is answer to my problems; it is about what my mom said after that -

"But, now you are writing your own book, why do you need more books?"

 I never told mom that I am writing a novel. My family doesn't even know what book I am writing; neither do my close knit circle of friends - friends who attended my wedding.  We don't hold such discussions. I don't tell them what are my character's dilemma are or what new catastrophe my protagonist is facing. I don’t, I am too shy to hold such discussions.

But one day, out of the blue I will be ready. The cover design will be in place. The draft would be final and edited. That day I will shout at top of my voice, from top of my building terrace - The book is Ready! Please read. That day someone is going to tell me what my mom said -

"Do we need more books?"

  That day I will sulk. I will rant about people want my work to be free. At least that day is not today.

B For Beggar

I for one always believed people should earn their money and not beg for it. But, a lot of my friend my friends think otherwise, one of them even said that I never had to sleep empty stomach and hence I do not know what a down trodden person goes through. True, probably.

I’ve been living in this so called city of dreams for a long time now. I know a lot of people throng this city in their hope to survive. People who have been uprooted from villages mostly due to lack of infrastructure or deeply rooted social structure.  I’ve seen them make living under the flyovers and footpath, selling books, toys and often felt helpless for being unable to do anything for their economical elevation. But, I’ve always stood against begging or giving money to children, especially. And then,

I met a transgender woman, who would meet me at Goregaon traffic signal daily and ask for money, every week. This went on for months. She was tall, broad, and dusky in features.  She wasn’t the most stylish or beautiful person in their lot as but she would come, twice a week, ask  in same tone and extend her palm for money. I would say,

‘No,’ in an angry tone or sometimes I might just smile, or be indifferent to her existence. It would be any range of emotions carried from home.

And then one day I was happy, very happy. I can’t recollect why but I was exuding happiness after a long time and it was visible. That day she came again,

‘de’

My hands went in my purse brought out a 10 Rupee note and I handed it over to her. She as usual without showing any emotion moved on to next person.  I felt, I rewarded her efforts of all these months. Frankly, I do not know why I gave her the money that day because next day — I didn’t.

Serendipitous Love - Ep07 (Finale)

Lal had met Krutika and explained her was expected of her. He also said she was in position to refuse and there was no compulsion as such. Lal also said something like Krutika has a bright future in industry. She couldn’t be sure.  Lal was willing to pay her a lakh or so to do the part.  Her friend argued she is taking an easy way out. Krutika knew that the financial condition at her home was no good and this money could be breather for her family. She called up Lal,

“I accept your offer.”

“Great, I will tell you time, date and place of shooting.”

Lal also called up Dhairya Khurana and told him he has found a heroine who would not disappoint him. Lal hoped to get a meaty output from shooting.

The shooting location was one of the shady studios in film city. It was actually not a studio. It was a  stable and it stank.  As per Dhairya’s requirement of anonymity the lights were kept low at the shoot. Krutika was advised to stand at particular place, naked. She had done as they told her. Lal as a habit never watched these shooting so he sat in one of the offices.

Camera rolled, Dhairya was also standing naked in front of Krutika. They were to move closer and then they were to make out on a mattress lay aside.

Dhairya and Krutika walked slowly towards each other. As they walked closer to each other a line of sweat dripped from Krutika’s naval. Dhairya saw the sweat drip. Now, they stood a little lesser than a foot to each other, barely able to make out each other’s face, they could hear each other’s heavy breath. There in that moment they forgot there is a camera watching them.  All they wanted was to feel each other. It was magical.

Dhairya’s hand moved to touch her naval to feel her skin, he moved his finger around it. Krutika’s body responded to the touch as if it played to cadence of music. Her hands had moved to feel the chest. Their rhythm to discover each other was broken by the noise outside the studio. Media had raided the studio. Immediately, Lights were switched on and horror swept Dhiarya’s face. He picked up his clothe and ran covering himself in hooded shirt. Krutika was slower, and the media which arrived there caught her on camera.

Dhairya escaped, Krutika couldn’t. 

Dhairya was brought home by his parent’s in time. As it dawned upon him – he dropped his face in his palm.  Krutika was the woman he had fell in love with and he had left her to be gorged by media. The TV ran stories of her most of which were untrue.  

The day couldn't get any more worse. To fall in love in a moment and to be thrown like a trash can in next. Her friend tried to sympathize with her but she was news on national TV. Back home her family must be suffering shaming from society. At that instant death indeed looked like an option.

But, as fate took another turn, Dhairya arrived at her doorstep that evening and escaped with her. Away from his parents and her society, glamour, and media attention. They ran.

On Marriage

Someone told me to write about Marriage. But, I did more – I told the king of humor C. Suresh to write about being single. One cannot talk about pros and cons of marriage unless they also know pros and cons of a single life. He gave me a sassy post called Singled Out which also received a rather warm response on facebook.     

Then, I embarked upon writing introspective post on marriage. To be honest it was difficult because being a professional you tend to look at tangible and intangible benefits of this alliance and  the first question that arose in my mind was,

What did I get after being cajoled into getting married?  Mind you it was my mom who said – “He is a decent lad.”

“That ‘is’ the problem,” I’d responded in a casual tone then.  One ought to know themselves before looking out for partner and those who know me know me and decency live far apart.

What is the issue if he is a decent guy, you ask. Then my dear friend you ought to learn a few more things in life before you seriously consider getting hitched and if there anything that you shouldn’t worry about then it is – getting married.

 The family system in India ensures that you will get married at an “appropriate” time.  The family finds you a match equivalent to your social, financial, and educational status.  There are many uncles and aunts who will also help your parents to find one.  The technology is also not behind, these days they offer community based matrimonial services.   Did I forget to mention horoscope – If at all your family believes in it be ready to wear rings of different stones, fasts on particular days etc. But in the end you should not worry. You will be married before you blink an eyelid.  If you fall in love, well, that is another matter entirely. It also demands an altogether separate post.

 So, I considered my options before saying, 'Yes' to the decent lad whom I’d technically dated for six months or so.  But Mom made it easier, she said –

“You get married to this decent fellow or I will kick you out,” the threat did the trick. Also staying alone – monetarily didn’t seem feasible. You see, if I can stay with someone who can pay rent or even share it is better, plus I prefer to live in people’s company.

Yes, I could have found bachelors to stay with and move out of my safety net. The idea never enticed me. Considering the kind of person I am – I would have always wanted to get married.

After my consent, it didn’t take long for my home to become a set, straight out of a Suraj Barjatya movie.  Lunch and dinner invites to and by various relatives.  Shopping, shopping and more shopping.  I am rather surprised that I didn't choke  to death with all the food that was stuffed in my mouth  or that I didn’t get heart attack after seeing the credit card bill.

I still have that facebook status in ‘memories’ which says – Credit card bill arrived in mail and I didn’t die.

Alas! My mom got rid of me successfully. Otherwise I could never explain her resolve to get me married and specifically to this guy. From the day I got married this decent guy my life has gone for a toss. He would say-

“Let’s go east.”

I would reply,

“I like west.”

By the time we are done arguing about east and west and I finally give in to go east he would have  already tread down South.

We never had any consensus on even matters as remote to our marriage as who should be the Prime Minister of India or whether Dhoni should resign from captaincy. So just imagine the amount of disagreement upon which house to buy or which car model to buy. It was outrageous for someone like me who lived life at my own terms before marriage.

If there is anything we like to do together then it is to stay at home on a holiday. Again while he has a to-do list with him, I might just watch TV or sleep through the day.

In past four years I have not been able to track test matches, new movie releases or travel for leisure. Life is constantly about bills, EMI, social engagements and changing priorities.  

Talk about getting married to a ‘decent’ guy.

But, it has its moments. Like, when on a busy day a fruit magically comes out of the bag and I recall that I didn't even have the time to pack it.  He always calls up to check if I reached office, regardless of the numerous arguments we had in the morning.  Doesn’t blink an eye when I say I am meeting an old friend who is a guy. If you want to say this isn’t anything great then my friend I reiterate you ought to learn more about life and ways of world.

Yes, with marriage life does become limited.  I can’t just get up and go off on a wild safari and sometimes I have a difficult time accepting that kind of a limitation. But these are trade offs I’ve made to be with someone who accepts that I will seldom put up a Bindi or wear a Bangle. Or that I don’t  believe in Idol worship. Or that to some extent I am still a tomboy.  Above all it’s nice to wait for him to have dinner together even if he is a vegetarian and I might like to have chicken or fish every alternate day.

At the end of the day the alliance doesn’t work single handedly.  Swords are drawn at minor topics like if our country is losing is its secular fabric but only after calling truce can one find peace and resolve to tackle such topics.

Marriage is a gamble – play at your own risk.