Saat bata Battees, Daryaganj

The train chugged off tearing me away from my family, conspiring to take me away from home. I could sense that the distance between me, inside the train and my ammai, on the platform was increasing, but the tears welling inside my eyes blurred my vision. I was heading towards Dilli, to try and learn how to become a journalist.

Delhi welcomed us with with a warm (read: extremely hot) embrace; we felt like sticky roshogullas. With the quest of finding me a ‘home’, appa and I headed towards Daryaganj, where my college - The Times School of Journalism was nestled.

Saat bata Battess (7/32), Daryaganj was ‘home’. Sneha and Tista, my two new room-mates were ‘family’. And Saat bata Battees witnessed fun, madness, tears, hunger, fights, arguments and never-ending concern. My first taste of freedom couldn’t have been better without you, girls - Tista and Sneha. Thanks for making my stay at the haunted house bearable, fun and memorable.

From accomplishing Mission Impossible - waking up Miss-Hap Tista - everyday, to wrapping up a hard day’s work with late night chats accompanied by piping hot ‘wee hours’ tea, creepy discussions and gossip sessions, there wasn’t a day (or night) at saat batta battees that would be boring.

Saat bata battees, owned by Ashok Jain , whose number on our phones was saved under names like ‘khadoos’, ‘khoosat’, ‘tharki’, did eventually become ‘home’ where we lived, laughed and cried; where we shared an experience of a lifetime; where we did learn how to become journalists.

If life at saat bata battees was fun-filled, it was also full of hospital visits, thanks to miss-Hap, Tista. Ligament tears, severe tonsils, fever, some of this and a lot of that had become regular, petty affairs for us. The aap ke zamaane mein baap ke zamane ka ‘cooler’, that promptly converted itself to a heater in summers and cooler in winters, was a convenient way of keeping thieves at bay - the noise it produced use to keep buzzing in my ears even during classes.

And talking of classes, at TSJ, the power-point presentations, meant ‘nap time’. I would snooze off to glory, in the dark room, to compensate the sleep lost to squeeze in time for our ‘chat sessions’. And then the soups, maggies and Kishan Bhaiyya’s special ‘bade cup ki coffees’ and jeera rice we relished at the canteen wouldn’t have been half as delicious without the company of Sandeep, Aaheli, Dipika, Shweta and Kumari. Thanks a bunch people for making breakfast, lunch and tea-time the most-looked forward to time of our days.

Dilli darshans with Aaheli and Sandeep, chat fights with Karthik licking our fingers and closing our eyes and going ‘ummmmm’, relishing street food near Golcha, watching movies, converting reporting assignments into fun-trips, photo sessions, beating the deadlines, surviving hunger and so much more - memories of Saat bata Battees will always remain ones that would make me break into warm smile...

Misty (Tista), Chena (Sneha), Bunny (Shweta), Jhumi (Aaheli), Sandy (Sandeep), Toothpick (Dipika), Kumari (Priyanka) and Karthik...thanks for the memories!!

PS: There’s so much about Saat bata Batees I’d like to share. here are a few more you’d maybe like to read :)

Thank God, I was wise enough ;)

They say we can’t choose our family, but we can choose our friends. Thank God I was wise enough!! ;)

***Gimme oil inmylam, gimme burniburniburni,
gimme burni till the late of late***

Neatly formed lines of kids trying to sing “Give me oil in my lamp, keep it burning, burning, burning....” swallowing half of the words and mumbling the rest incorrectly. Dressed in crisp white shirts and peacock blue pinnofers, all that mattered was to retain the shine on the shiny, black, spotless shoe till the end of day, enjoy the tiny morsels that friends ‘shared’ from their lunch boxes, and getting to sit near your best friend.

I was no different. Hair braided into two plaits, blue ribbons neatly bowed, bundling the plaits together, I would hop into school, praying the teacher doesn’t change my seat. As soon as I would walk into the classroom, my button-like eyes would search for them - my girls, my persons. As soon as one of them walked in, I would wave, and shift my bum slightly, to indicate with a wide grin that I’ve reserved a seat for her. I would be worried if they didn’t turn up before the assembly bell rang. ----- Thank you Anki and Bana, for sitting next to me, for sharing your dabbas, and for being there.

Classes meant communication through chits. One-liners and little messages that used to get circulated all around, a slight nod of the head indicating the message has been received. ‘The stand up on the bench’, ‘catch your ears’, ‘get out of the classroom’ were the times I enjoyed myself the most. --- Girls, you made the classes bearable, laughable, and the punishments enjoyable. Without you, the ‘catch your ears’ moments would have been embarrassing beyond words.

I was already old enough for college, things changed, and I was scared of how my ‘new’ life would be. But as it happened, Charlie’s Angels got together again, and college life was way better than I had ever imagined. Sitting on the last bench, coming up with the most hilarious stuff, laughing, learning, and growing up together, playing pranks, forcing lecturers to say, “Ae you girls, you can’t sit together,” splitting us up into three different corners of the classroom ------ We have shared more than tiffin dabbas, we’ve shared our deepest, darkest secrets.

We’ve shifted bases, headed into different directions, but even today, when we meet, we laugh till we can laugh no more, till our insides start aching, but the giggles, the giggles never die down. Crossing roads like ‘goyas’, window shopping, eating out, bunking classes and making front-door exits, christening people with ‘special’ names -- we’ve done all of this and more ----- Thank you for not growing up, and still remaining the gawky schoolgirls that we were.

And with these school friends, it would be a sin if I don’t mention my other partner-in-crime, Rashmi, who was my first best friend in Guwahati. The dance rehearsals, the ‘Kerala Samajam’ picnics, the weekend get togethers, the bargains with shopkeepers --- Rash, you made them all worth remembering...

They say we can’t choose our family, but we can choose our friends. Thank God I was wise enough!! ;)

Salaam Bombay!!

Bombay, if you were a guy, I would have married you...but since you’re not, I’ll settle with the privilege of having you as my best friend.

I was like a grown up toddler when we first met - unaware of the ways of the world, naive and way too emotional. You gave me stability, strength, confidence and freedom. You were the one who stood by me when the times were rough, you held me when I tripped, you embraced me when I was low, slapped me hard to wake up from my misconceptions.

Standing on the edge of the train, I, for once, stopped worrying about my hair that the beautiful wind was caressing; conversations with fisher women and the office-going junta alike, scripted in beautiful chapters of my memory, forming stories that I’ll probably entertain my grandchildren with.

You sent the breeze at Marine Drive to cheer me up when I was down in the dumps, the early morning shots of tea at Ghatkopar, the lovely people were all there to walk by my side, silently, to make sure I was ok. With spicy munchies and the soothing breeze you gave me, I became oblivious to everything that was hurting me.

You taught me how to be street-smart, how to protect myself, how to live, how to laugh. how to have fun. Despite lost friends, lost wallet, and an unemployed status that would have made some people suicidal, you taught me how to be strong, how to brave the tough tide and sail with it, how to dance in the rain, how to be happy despite the million things that could depress...

You made me the woman I’d always wanted to be, something that I ache to be today...

You were my constant companion, you had me and held me, from the day I met you, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until circumstances did us part....

We might just be physically apart, but you are, and always will be the one who taught me what life is, you will always be my best friend. Hope to meet you soon, magical Mayanagri, till then please remember...

Bombay, if you were a guy, I would have married you...but since you’re not, I’ll settle with the privilege of having you as my best friend.

P.S: This post might seem a bit weird to people, who would probably think, “Doesn’t she have a human friend, why is a city her best friend?” Yes, I do have ‘human’ best friends, but Bombay is special! Salaam Bombay!!

The Goddess of Small Things

It’s not the big things that make me happy. I don’t crave for diamonds or expensive gifts. Little things, tiny gestures - they touch me, make me feel loved. I am the Goddess of Small Things...

I was looking at the mysporepa, sitting proudly inside the glass case, while my husband was paying for the mirchi bajjis we had bought. Its colour, its shape, the texture - oh, everything was inviting me. I was lost in a sweet world, imagining, how it would melt in my mouth, lacing it with a sweetness divine...”Bhaiyaa, yeh sweet zara ek plate mein dena, madam ke liye,” I heard my husband telling the shopkeeper, handing me the one thing I wanted, taking me down beautiful memory lanes.

I vividly remember a little me, dressed in a cotton floral frock, two neat fountain-like pony tails sticking out from my head holding on to my dad’s finger and hopping along with him, trying to match his pace. I remember how I would try to synchronise my footsteps with that of his - right-right, left-left, and raise my head to see if he’d noticed that we were walking in sync. I remember how the bazaar frightened me out of my wits - the scores of people with bundles of plastic bags, the pan-spitting shopkeepers, the bikes splashing jets of slush, the din, the stench of fish...

I remember how my dad used to carry the veggie packets, using one hand to hold them together, the other hand reserved for his darling daughter. I would sense the weight was troubling him, and I would happily shift to the other side, hopping around between mom and dad, holding my dad’s hand on the left, and my mom’s on the right. The fear of big bad bazaar would suddenly disappear...It seemed I had a wall to protect me from the pushing and pulling..

I remember how we had gone to a sweet shop to get some paneer - mom, dad and I...I was looking around, bored, when I noticed a tray of neatly stacked sweets, inside the glass case. It was beckoning me to taste it - the rich, mild golden colour, the glaze of the ghee - it pushed me into a trance, where I imagined how it would feel to take a bite, how it would melt inside my mouth, the sweet taste lingering...

“Dada, paneer,” said the shopkeeper to my dad, handing him a packet, waking me up from my reverie...My dad hadn’t taken the packet, he was looking at me. I looked at him, our gazes met, and he looked away, telling the shopkeeper, “Two of this,” pointing to the thing I was looking at with wide eyes. In a minute’s time, I was holding a little paper plate in my hand, the taste in my mouth, way better than the one in the trace...Maybe it wasn’t the sweet...maybe, it was my dad’s love that made it taste even sweeter...The child in me couldn’t stop grinning...

And today, the child in me grinned again...not because of the sweetness of the mysorepa, but because of the sweetness of the gesture and the sweetness of the memories it refreshed...

Yes, it’s not the big things that make me happy. Little things, tiny gestures - they touch me, make me feel loved. I am the Goddess of Small Things...

That moment...

I saw his eyes twinkle. His face brightened up, his lips curved into a warm smile. I noticed something he was trying hard to hide -- a little tear glistening at the corner of his eye. He ruffled my hair, patted my back, as he helped himself to yet another spoonful of the payasam I’d cooked for him, on his birthday...I suppressed the urge in me to stop him from helping himself to yet another spoonful because of his diabetes...the sheer joy on his face prevented me from holding back his hands. He smiled, surprised, struggling to say, “It’s very nice” with a mouthful of the dessert...

As I was busy doing the dishes and tidying up the kitchen, I overheard his conversation with ammai over the phone. “She cooks, oh she cooks! She cooked for me, a full meal! Oh she cooks!!” I couldn’t help but notice the pride in his tone, like I’d done something extraordinary; like I’d won some medal; like I’d become the prime minister of the nation overnight; like I’d won the World Cup for India. I’d done nothing remotely close to any of this. I’d just cooked...a plain, simple meal.

He was beaming, patting my back constantly. His surprise was surprising. I had cooked for him for the first time, and the joy of relishing a plain, simple meal made by his daughter was evident. The full-toothed smile, the satisfied burp, the phone call with ammai and his eyes --- they said what he couldn’t put together in words....

***That moment, when the first shrieks of a baby echo in the corridor of a hospital. That moment when silent prayers are said, when relief floods those waiting outside. That moment when the parents meet their baby for the first time. Their eyes brim with tears of elation, sparkle with pride, their chests swell with unparalleled emotions. Every little movement the tiny one makes, every yawn, every shrill squeak, the tiny fingers and pearly toes, the fist-sized head, the pea-sized hands, the ruby lips, the button-like eyes...everything about the little bundle of joy fascinates the parents...

The first wobbly steps, the toothless smile, the first gurgle, trying a hand at babbling words. First song, first dance, first response to words. We might not remember any of these. Moments our parents treasure. Moments that are frozen in the albums of their happy memories. Moments that’ll never fade away like photographs. Moments that make them smile, beam with pride, elation...Moments, that’ll remain etched on to their minds, for eternity. Sadly, most of us wouldn’t remember any of these...***

I relived one of those moments. My father’s smile when I served him lunch would have been pretty similar to the one when I first sneezed, I first coughed, or first opened my eyes. The innocence and sincerity of the pride, that smile touched me, making me believe that every achievement of ours is theirs, every happiness of ours is the reason behind their smiles and everything we do leaves a little imprint on their hearts...they make us feel gifted, lauding every not-so-unusual thing we do...

That’s love -- unconditional, boundless, pure...

Cutting chai

As I zoom past with my husband on our bike, I notice splendid buildings, standing gracefully tall, showing the majestic setting sun a glimpse of its own beauty. Glass walls shimmering, adorning the horizon with ornamental diamond-like lights.

I wonder, at times, how would it feel to be on the other side, inside the posh glass frames, dining under glittering chandeliers, sipping sparkling water from the finest of crystal glasses and having the most fancy dishes laid out on antique tables. How would it feel to hear the metal fork tink against the expensive plates...How it would feel, attending meetings with the affluent, the well-versed, the well-spoken, the sophisticated. How it would feel carrying the most advanced technology in branded leather purses and handbags. How it would feel to breathe in the scented air of Calvin Klein and the like. How it would feel to step out of cars that make other people’s faces turn green.

Would I stare at the waiter struggling with his tray, juggling between expensive utensils, yet taking the risk to receive a phone call from a close one, reminding me, that I haven’t called up home in a while now. Will I notice a group of 20-somethings breaking into peals of uncontrollable giggles, wiping tears of bliss from the corners of their eyes and miss my time with friends? Will I sit in meetings, unable to concentrate, reeling under the guilt of screwing up yet another movie plan with friends? Would I struggle having formal conversations, missing the bindass ‘tu, tera, tereko’ that I am so used to? Will handshakes be alien to me, for whom high-fives and hugs work? Would I stand near the glass frame, looking at carefree couples zooming past me on their bikes, staring at the glass frame with awestruck eyes? Would I want to break free?

Yes, I would. I don’t want to be on the other side, inside the glass frames, dining under chandeliers. I’m more than happy going to a roadside dhaba and licking off bits of gravy sticking to the serving dish, wiping my runny nose with a tissue paper and making an ‘O’ bringing my index finger and thumb together to indicate the yummi-ness quotient. I’m happier watching flops with my friends than attending premiers, sitting with big guns and exhibiting plastic on my face. I would be happy to get back home to my parents every few months and feel the excitement than having flight tickets got done whenever I want - it kills the anticipation. I want to be free to talk to ammai-appa, after every meal I have, after every little significant thing I do. I want to giggle, live, unrestrained. Living inside glass frames isn’t my cup of tea...my cup of tea is the one that brews on the streets, in my house..

I need no posh car, protecting me from the dust and heat...all I want is a bike ride with my husband, when the skies go crimson, and like birds returning home as soon as dusk sets in, I want to return to my nest too...

And the tables turned...

***It’s a nice artistically-lit restaurant, with groovy music, lip-smacking starters and an ambience that will make you fall in love with it. Great company too, if I may add. Yet, happiness seems to be something that I have been chasing for a while...a wild goose chase, I call it. I’m in the best of places, with the most amazing people, but I feel lonely, hollow. From the corner of my eye, I notice two of my best friends cozying up, lost in each other’s eyes, cooing sweet nothings into each other’s ears...A voice inside my head goes, “Awww, adorable!”, while I feel a pang of something entirely different within...a stab of jealousy, a pinch of disappointment and oodles of sadness. Tears brim in my eyes, and I bow my head and wipe them off...***

This was how my life was a couple of years back. I was this lonely, brash, mechanical woman, whose life revolved around deciphering bus numbers in Marathi and running behind them. Phone calls were limited to calling ammai-appa’s numbers and receiving their calls. I was single, like I’d been all my life...”Why don’t I have that someone special,” I wondered at times, attributing my relationship status to the not-so-nice reflection that I saw glaring back at me from the mirror. I am not ‘hot’, I’m not the seductress that every man would want to have, heck, I’m not even the regular girl next door, whose smile would make a few hearts flutter. “Maybe this is how I’m supposed to be forever,” I thought, silently recalling the couple of times I had to face the horror of having to ‘meet’ guys, meetings arranged by family.

I used to shudder at the thought of these ‘prospective grooms’ rejecting me because of the way I look -impish and small, like someone close to me chose to put it. I’d mentally prepared myself to get married to some random guy; a guy my parents would choose for me. I was also terrified of letting my parents down by getting married to some ‘non-tambrahm guy’, but I knew it’s possibility was minimal, considering the reflection, yeah the same one that stares at me from the mirror everyday.

But then, the tables turned. One fine day, my man arrived, sans all the violins and drumbeats that Yash Raj films have made oh-so-routine. With a tiny red number whispering into my ears that ‘he wants to do fraaaanship with me’, my choti si love story got conceived. With Zuckerberg as our witness, we embarked on a beautiful journey of that saw us transform from buddies, to besties, to sweethearts to a married couple.

And through this journey, I discovered shades of my personality (fifty shades grey and otherwise!), and honestly, I’ve surprised myself. From being indifferent towards mush to having become a hopeless romantic, belting out cheesy lines and blushing (yes, BLUSHING!), I have come a long, long way...

The bright blue and yellow flame, the fragrant smoke arising from the neatly bundled incense sticks, the sacred yellow thread, the maamis in bright sarees, the mamas in crisp white dhotis, the bling, the colours, the peals of laughter, the air of festivity, the vows - all of these stand as a testimony to our relationship - the one that facebook gave birth to..

Today, as we complete two years since that magical day, I am a wife, your wife, a happy, proud one, and the reflection, well, she looks at me with kind, loving eyes now...The tables have turned indeed!