Maybe next time

The sun seemed to flare out, mercilessly roasting anyone in its path. Another tiring day had ended and she walked towards the bus stop stonily. “How does this happen over and over again?” she thought to herself as she made her way to the busy crossroad. Just as she reached the corner, the traffic signal that had been red all along turned green. She groaned in frustration as the cars zipped past, mocking her. The past week had been tiring – no, exhausting and all she wanted was to get back home and crawl under her quilt. Maybe after a cup of cold chocolate milk.

After what seemed to be an age, the light turned and the traffic slowed, reluctantly allowing pedestrians to pass. After maneuvering past a bike who had decided that traffic lights could not dictate his movements, her slow walk to the bus stop resumed once more. A few moments later, she lifted her head and noticed that the traffic had begun flowing again. “Already?” she thought to herself, “I don’t think the transport corporation spares much thought to walkers…” A loud honking startled her and she turned. A look of absolute incredulity passed over her face. Her bus had arrived earlier than usual.

She picked up her pace, knowing that missing this bus would mean waiting for another hour for the next, more crowded one to come along. As the bus slowed, her quick walk turned into a jog and without warning, she found herself sprinting to catch up. The bus seemed to whirr tentatively, as though trying to decide what course of action to take and within seconds, it had started ambling along. She increased her pace, her bag flying after her, jerking on the shoulder strap every few steps.

The bus had picked up speed by the time she reached its door and despite hearing the little voice scream inside her head, she jumped in. Her foot found a firm grip on the bottom step and she was inside the bus, panting. “Wow, that was a stupid thing to do!” the little voice yelled at her, while she gathered herself and started looking for an empty seat, “You could have been killed – or seriously injured! Are you mad?” She brushed it off and muttered, “I’ll be more careful next time…” She froze as the woman sitting in front of her turned around and carefully surveyed her surroundings, after which she turned back to her mobile phone.

She let her straight face slip and shook her head. “I should be more careful next time – I can’t expect this sort of foolhardy luck to hold strong. And you keep hearing these stories about people falling under the wheels and being driven over. It must be a horrible way to die.” The bus creaked in agreement and went rather hastily over a speed breaker. “If only these bus drivers knew how to drive and not take off in such a hurry to stick to their schedule. Ugh – what a messed up place this is!”

She found herself home in an hour and as she walked towards the wooden door, she almost thought that she could hear someone crying inside. A gust of wind pushed the door open and she found her mother sniffling as she ran the dusting cloth over a large picture, a new addition that she was unaware of. “Ma, what on earth is…” Her mother’s hand moved and her eyes fell on her own photograph, blown up and garlanded. She expected her heart to drop but it didn’t – she only felt light-headed. The bus… She had never made it onto the bus that day. That horrible day. She relived the pure terror that took hold of her as the wheel moved closer and within moments, the light around her seemed to disappear. Just as it was doing right now.

It was a hot afternoon and the sun was scalding anyone who happened to be caught out at that time. She dragged herself along, cursing her bad luck. “Maybe next time, I’ll leave earlier,” she thought to herself, “but for now, I’ll just get home, drink some cold chocolate milk and crawl under her quilt.” She continued her walk and let out a frustrated sigh as the signal turned green for the traffic.

We deserve better

 I cannot remember the last time I opened the newspaper and felt this vulnerable. With the passing of the Delhi rape victim and the many more sordid incidents that are exploding in black and white, I find myself feeling unsettled even while I indulge in the most mundane daily activities. As a working girl whose day ends only at 5 p.m., my return home involves an arduous bus journey and a fifteen-minute walk back to my house. I cannot stop reiterating the unfairness of the whole situation - no woman deserves to live in constant fear of what might transpire during these moments. We should not have to wonder whether to carry around a bottle of pepper spray or if a bottle of deodorant will work just as well. 

While I remain relatively well removed from the situation, I cannot imagine what the women of Delhi must be going through at the moment. Every bus ride and every dark street probably stirs up some degree of panic within them. While I could go on about the impudence of men in the country who assume they have the right to take anyone they see or the fact that our police are more worried about protecting politicians rather than the people, I know that I'm only rehashing what has been said over and over again on televisions, radios and in written form all over the country. What I do have to say is this - if anyone else feels stifled or unsafe in the light of everything that seems to be going on around her, you are not alone. You deserve better - a better class of men, a better class of police and politicians and an infinitely better sense of security. And it is about time we got it. 

 

On loosening up

My reading content for the two day journey to Chennai had been well-planned - A Princess Remembers, the collected poems of Sylvia Plath and a collection of letters to the editor by one Thomas Coon. Choosing to read the last one, I found myself confronted by a letter discussing a topic that tends to drive me crazy, for lack of a better word. The author spoke about people's need to loosen up and achieve happy endings. "What's so bad about that?" you may wonder, puzzled. Let me elaborate further: -

Imagine a night at a fancy party. The music's blaring with the bass so loud that your stomach starts training for the Olympics. On extremely rare self-imposed dry days or at equally rare dry parties, I find myself with a non-alcoholic drink in my hand and find that I have to force myself to sway appropriately to the music. In a few moments, I find myself confronted by a well-meaning friend. "Why are you sitting around? Come join us - let's dance!" I smile it off, saying that I don't dance. "Oh but you have to!" she says in astonishment, "Puji, you have to loosen up!" Apply the same scene to weddings and my brief periods of anti-social behavior. 

I find myself adding the term "loosen up" to a list of all my least favourite phrases - which include "when are you getting married?", "why don't you drive?" and "wake up". It seems to be a source of great worry and at moments, disappointment, to a lot of people that I'm not an easy-going loudmouth who never ceases being cheery. Yes, I prefer being on my own a lot more than other people. Yes, I usually stand in a corner and watch the fun. So what? I have been the centre of attention a lot of times but they mostly involved waking up in the morning with a voice in my head screaming at me, "What the hell were you thinking?" 

I can safely say that the worst part is when people decide to take it upon themselves to pull me into all the "fun" that they're having. No matter how many swears and curses you drop and however threatening they may be ("Let me go or I'll rip your arm off and beat you to death with it!"), I invariably find myself frozen in the centre of a group of people who seem to be jiving away with the greatest ease. 

On days like this, I wonder why so many people find it difficult to accept that others may enjoy things that are widely different from what they like. Given a considerable amount of social lubricant, I will gladly put myself in the middle of the dance floor and shake my booty to Sheila Ki Jawani. On other days, I prefer to sit back and watch others do the same. It's not like I walk around distributing copies of my favourite books, insisting that people read only those in coffee shops in lieu of chatting or watching the telly. So be nice to me and return the favour. Don't pull me onto a well-lit dance floor and expect me to dance. After all, if all the wallflowers in the world decided to take the spotlight, who, my cheery friends who can dance at the drop of a hat, will be around to watch you put on some serious moves?

The Giant Who Eats Buildings

Evening approached the city of Blort

And each was a quivering sight.

The Blortians had an odd monster,

To deal with in the night.

A monster who ate their grandparents,

Or a tree-devouring creep,

Would have surely received a warm welcome

And housed on Scruppian street.

Yet sadly no, they had to deal with

This huge abomination.

Nothing had been spared its wrath,

Not even the police station.

And soon the sun was fast asleep,

The moon lit up in its stead.

There rose from the edge of the ocean -

A gigantic human head.

He wore a shiny black bowler hat

And his pants were awkwardly short.

With one gargantuan leap, he was

On the shores of the city Blort.

His eyes gleamed with a hunger

That seemed most peculiar.

For all you faint-hearted souls, I suggest

That you stop reading here.

His pudgy hand wrapped around

A concrete building rather stout,

And without a moment’s hesitation,

He put it in his mouth.

Once he finished with his appetizer,

He looked around for something more filling

And found a skyscraper to his liking

A steel one, dealing with billings.

He finished his feast and let out a burp

That made the trees sway

And took another humongous step

To go consume another place.

The Blortians woke up the next morning

And surveyed the damage done.

“What’s the point of building it again,

When it'll only be eaten?” asked one.

 Yet they still completed the construction

And went on with their work that day.

Knowing that in a few days, the monster will

Make a meal of the building again.

In cold blood

The wind blew harder, a sign of the thunderstorm yet to come. Elena pulled her coat closer and huddled up, trying to keep the warmth of her body from escaping. A few drops of water fell on her forehead and rolled down the side of her nose. In her hurry to reach before the rains drenched her, she brushed past the cornerstone of a building and her purse was bumped from her hand. She turned around to pick it up and froze as she caught a glimpse of a dark figure quickly melting into the shadows of an alley nearby. 

Elena's heart quickened. As she pushed her purse back into her handbag, her fingers closed around the unused can of pepper spray. She had only brandished it a few times to chase away the occasional stalker. The thought of actually having to use it terrified her. She looked around. It had started to drizzle and the street  suddenly wore an abandoned look. A sudden thud startled her and she spun around, the pepper spray in her hand. A garbage can rolled back and forth, its contents spewed across the pavement. 

Panic began to well up in Elena's heart and she walked faster. Just as the rain started to pour down more heavily, she turned another corner and the familiar gate to her apartment greeted her. She sighed in relief and raced into the building. Walking up the stairs, she laughed nervously at her still fluttering heart. A misplaced step flung her forward on to her hands. Pain radiated through her right ankle - she knew that wearing those high heels to work was a bad idea. Picking up her bag, she turned to face the window on the landing behind her. She stared at the black hooded jacket reflected in the glass for a few seconds, motionless. 

A muffled shriek escaped her lip. Engulfed by the darkness, the only sound she could hear was her heart beating frantically. She didn't hear him approach till she felt the cold blade of the knife rest on her throat.

******

He stood over her lifeless body. He was accustomed to the dark and he could see her contours as though they were bathed in the brightest light. He ran his hand over the bloody blade, watching it slide off. Placing the knife on a nearby table, he began looking around at the currently unoccupied and well-furnished house. A flat-screen TV mounted on the wall caught his attention and after a brief search for the remote, he sat down with his legs up on her designer couch and turned on the football game.

It had stopped raining.

******

Dear Diary...

"Don't keep a diary," said my grandfather, during the course of an otherwise mundane vacation. "Why?" I continued to keep an eye on the television in front of me, "How else would I remember all the good things that happened to me?" He smiled and said, "Because when you look back, all that was once good will weigh you down and make you wonder if you should have made those mistakes in the first place." I had never paid much attention to what my grandparents had told me and this one was no exception. Till today.

At a time when nothing seems to be going your way, you would probably do something that makes you happy like watch a movie or chat with your friends. I write. I opened my diary today and it fell on a page that I was hoping I would never have to read again. It was one of the happiest days of my life - I can't remember being any happier than I was at that point of time and something tells me that there is a chance that I will never feel that way again.

Yet for the first time in my life, I completely understood the meaning of the words that my grandfather had spoken. It is a strange and unnerving feeling to relive a day like that in your mind, only this time, in the context of everything that has been happening for the past few months. The agony is indescribable. It is only when you realize the web of lies that was woven around your eyes was actually delicate enough to be broken by a single thought that you understand the fragility of your life. How every choice you made took you a particular way and how you did not become things that you could have been. How you could  not have seen things that were quite plainly put in front of you and most importantly, why you could not choose what you knew was right.

I do not want to regret any of the choices that I made because they made me what I am today. By hating those decisions, I will hate the person that I have become and to live with that kind of hate is difficult. I close my book and I wonder. Given a choice, would I rewrite my past or would I just relive the moments? And what would become of me after I choose again? Will I remain the same "me" or would I find my purpose altered yet again? For my own sanity, I prefer to leave these questions unanswered.

Reality is a myth

"Feasibility depends on time, cost and effort..." A voice drones on in the background. A noise waiting to be shut out. My mind seems unwilling to pay attention and the chill in the air helps me settle into my personal bubble.  Reality begins to look like a blurred photograph - I feel like I see the world now through the eyes of a cocaine addict yet without the hallucinations and enchanting colours. Yet this is enough for me - I feel the haze settle around me and it makes me comfortable.

The voice continues, a low hum in the distance. Phrases infiltrate my consciousness and I alternate between reality and the dark recesses of my soul. "Come to the dark side, we have cookies..." whispers a familiar voice. I smile and ask whether they are chocolate chip. The boundaries remain blurred as I look through the cabinets in my mind, for a thought tucked away, to be pondered over at a later time. I come up with nothing - so much for systematic filing.

I switch back to reality as someone coughs in the front bench. The sun seems just as reluctant to come out from under its quilt of grey clouds. Today is not a day for dismal note-taking. It is, however, great weather for creative reflection and nonsensical daydreams. All I want to do is dive headfirst into the rabbit hole and marvel at its convoluted twists and turns, not caring about feasibility. A few minutes of soul- searching can give me everything I need and want - sometimes completely altering my reality. The fragility of everything seems unnerving at times, yet it does reassure me because I know that nothing is permanent. Neither the good, nor the bad.