Why I need Vipassana

I get up at 830, get ready in 15 minutes, tuck my shirt in my skirt, slog on the streets and reach office in by 930, annoyed. Everyday.

I thump the water bottle on my desk.

I am irritated. Am always. Don't know why. None has ever asked me. And I never tried to find out the reason. I always thought there was none. So I continue to feel irritated.

I keep sitting at my desk and fix my gaze at desktop watching dollar falling against other currencies, refreshing the computer screen, ignoring my hunger panks poking my belly.  I let them bother me for another hour till my frustration calms down some inches and am able to tolerate the fat South Indian woman sitting across my table munching chips and patting her belly.

After an hour, I snail and pour some milk and water in a bowl of oats and try to gulp down my throat. I pour some sugar into the tasteless paste. I look at my bloated tummy. I keep it aside.

I look out of the window. Foggy clouds hovering over the sky scrapers and lights lit in the late mid morning. I get lost in useless thoughts and half of the day is over.

The next half is spent replying emails agreeing that Boss is Boss and looking at the black fat lady peeling bananas and laughing over crappiest jokes over phone.

It turns dark, I shut down my machine, sway my bag and spend sleepless nights on my shared apartment with a jittery flatmate. And the next morning and night is going to be no different.

Am convinced, I need Vipassana. 

Shade

There is neither imbalance

Nor absence

Of a tear for a smile

On the cheek or in the eyes

For there lie
a hundred reasons to start

and a million to restart

At where you lost all

Or waive all that you got  

For the shade that lies in the uncertain skies

Milestones on the way

The small castles we make

During our stop overs..

While on our way

As a part of our journeys..

Probably

Become our mile stones..

When we look back and gaze at them

Waving at us..

A Ghost

A Ghost is
A derivative
of borrowed apprehensions.

A Ghost is

A senseless pain
of being the painful unknown.


A Ghost is
A powerless power
and the fear from none.

A Ghost is
A still you
in the running and speeding time. 

A Ghost is
An artificial mass
fed on your impotencies.

A Ghost is
A certainty carrying scar
on the doubtful you.

A Ghost is
 A replica
of insecurity, uncertainty and helplessness 

A Ghost is
An outcry
for yearning togetherness

A Ghost is
Cannibalism
of your conscience feeding on your sub conscious.

A Ghost is
An acutely severe phenomenon
Of tearing you from inside, and not letting the wounds heal. 

A Ghost is
An inescapable trail
Of suffering and unheard prayers for death

A to Z of Mumbai

A-     A for Auto. Half of an average Mumbaikar’s life is lived (or wasted) bowing before three persons- His Boss, his maid and the Auto rickshaw driver. Some bosses and maids are considerate, though.

B-      B for BSE and NSE. Every Mumbaikar is a story teller when it comes to how he/she lost or earned exorbitantly  by selling or holding a particular share market stock. 

C-      C for Chhatrapati Shivaji. Every second thing in Mumbai is named after Chhatrapati Shivaji: be it the airport, museum including the biggest ‘sex change’ operation of them all converting Victoria Terminus to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus.

D-     D for Dadar.  Each time you call someone, he/ she is either going to Dadar, or coming back or reaching, or is in train to Dadar, or asks you to meet in Dadar.

E-      E for Ek minute. All works are promised to be done in this one minute- from clicking passport photos to getting bank loan or treating piles or treating virility. Even areas in Mumbai are not measured in kilometers but minutes.

F-      F for Fast Train. You ditch your babes, miss your court hearings, leap interview schedules and jump signals to catch this. 

G-    G for Goa. That’s the planned venue for every rich or not so rich, on the job or jobless  Mumbaikar on any approaching long weekend.

H-    H for Hawaldaar (policeman). He is powerful when is dressed and more powerful when he is not.

I-     I for Idli- dosa. If not at breakfast, Mumbaikar will have it in lunch. If not lunch, then dinner, otherwise, his esophagus will dry out without it. Available at all nukkads and hotels from 4 am to 1 am, though the quantum of bacteria served with it may vary.

J-     J for Jealousy for Delhi walas. This is what you become naturally inflicted with each time you see someone showing off their wealth or bloating jokes on their attitude.

K-      K for Kuch bhi.  This is the limit for taking someones’ bull sh!t. Can’t digest a fact or find it beyond exaggeration limits, you express your concern!

L-      L for Lalbaug. There is no red garden but this area comes to lime light during Ganpati festival season when the queues go endless and you stand day and night to get the glimpse of the Elephant God- Lalbaug cha Raja.

M-    M for Marathi. This is like Cantonese in Hong Kong and Japanese in Tokyo. You will find helpful Government dept staff, can jump long queues in  if you have this magic wand in your tongue.

N-      N for Navi Mumbai. Any part of Mumbai where you have never been or have never heard of, is (also) referred to as Vashi.

O-      O for O’ paanwale bhaiyya. There is one favorite for almost everyone. Paanwalas’ secondary business is selling paan, while their primary social responsibility remains guiding the lost passersby.   

P-       P for Patil. Every second man you are surrounded by in train, office, college, Mantralaya is a Patil, or married to one or stays with one.

Q-      Q for Queue. Queue for taxi, toilet, shops, graveyards.  Jumping any queue is the heinous crime that you can commit and this is the only thing that can make the silent Mumbaikar lose his patience.

R-       R for re. A word that you can suffix after every word, to get mixed with the crowd-Haan re, Nahi re, Jaa na re. This will give you a local dialect.

S-      S for Striyan saathi (i.e. reserved for women) You dare sit on the priority Striyansaathi seat in bus or platform and face the music of the kaashta clad maausi while the rest of the passengers will join her to teach you all manners you couldn’t learn since childhood. S also refers to Shiv Sena, which needs no explanation. 

T-     T  for Train. Where an average Mumbaikar spends half of his life. This is like your surname. You may dislike, hate to use it or even call it names, but Mumbai  has no existence without it.

U-    Ulhasnagar.  The USA (Ulhasnagar Sindhi Asso) of Mumbai. The Shenzhen of China. From free lessons of doing business to fake bags and furniture, you get all on demand.

V-      V for Vada Pao. National food of Mumbai. Boon to human kind, available in all prices and all qualities and situations and roadsides and five starred hotels.   

W-    W for weight. A problem that Mumbaikars suffers from. A weight gain attracts laughter whereas a weight loss is envied. 

X-       X for X-Confused-Chromosome i.e. Eunuchs. You find them at every traffic signals, or poking the couple doing coochie-coo. They dress in hottest ways, with Scandinavian hair styles and accept anything between 5-10 bucks and bless you depending upon who you are with.

Y-      Y for yeda ban ke peda khana. You see loathes of help, free advice and tips coming your way if you try to show that you are new to Mumbai.

Z-      Z for Zhunka bhakar Kendra. These are small fixed food stalls founded by the Government at every street of the busy areas in Mumbai selling quick sandwiches and bhel-poori. Interestingly, you get everything there except zhunka bhakar.     

An Unusual Morning

Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.  ~Elizabeth Stone.

An early morning call from the family, knowing that in India, it would be wee hours is frightening.

“Hello” said I in scariest voice.
“It is me, Dear” Mom opens up in her just-got-up voice, only to make my heart beat faster.

She esquires if I am fine. My quivering heart cant bear the useless sugar coated words.
“Come to the point, Mom, without creating any preamble please”, I shouted in my dominating first child of the family voice. Realizing she can’t beat around the bush with me, so she cuts the conversation short.
“I dreamt that I was sleeping and your brother wakes me up to tell that you consumed poison and dying”, she explains with a heavy throat, controlling her moisture filled voice on the phone.

I had to laugh so as to pacify her. I did. She felt relieved.
I could feel how a worried mother would feel leaving her insane girl 4000 km away from her.
I knew she'd would ask me to come back home, and she knew I wont.
In India, children are gifted with obeying parents. 

There are two lasting bequests we can give our children.  One is roots.  The other is wings.  ~Hodding Carter, Jr. 

From God, with Love

When your prayer is answered much before you could  imagine to pray....

I loved watching Liam Neeson's movie "The Grey" (and like typical Indian, I have the habit of giving the credit to the Actor, not to the Director). I learnt two things- first, you must fight. Second, the love of your life comes before your eyes in your last moments.

I questioned myself- what thing, which place, which person or what action will that be that I’d like to do as my final act. I slid the laptop back on the couch and closed my eyes, and instructed my mind to make a wish- what would you want in that last moment that will give you eternal peace. 

And without any second thought, this is what I saw-----

Snow white soft small palms stroking my face, innocent giggling in my ears, a supple smell of the skin and the warmth of love percolating my cheeks. Yes! it was my baby brother- the love of my life, my life actually.

I have never been a mother but am sure that the feeling won't be too different from what I have for him.

I was ten when he was born. I can't forget the day when my Aunt came home in the wee hours at home, and told me, "You have a baby brother". I couldn't imagine how suddenly I could have a brother, and that too when I hadn't ever met him. Grandma told me to distribute sweets in my school. I felt happy when everyone was congratulating me but it was somewhat difficult to be happy about something you knew you have, but you never saw.

The whole day I spent eating leftover sweets in school and waiting to go to hospital to see who he was. I had made plans. I'll share my pavilion bicycle seat with him and will let him ride only if I was sure he'd not let me fall. I'll also share my dolls but only if he promised that he wont lose her shoes (am wondering, was I, a lawyer since birth). And, I'd give him the 4 inch magnet that i found during school recess, as he was my brother.

I wore my new clothes and new shoes even though they were hurting my toes. Like a proud sister to be, I sat on Dad's Alfa scooter. I was holding Dad's hand and we went to maternity ward. Some villagers with shabby clothes were sitting on the floor, stuffing bread in crawling babies' mouths, while some others were running after the nurses in green sarees holding papers, asking details; the sweepers with the wet brooms, questioning and pushing off unwanted people out of the wards.

I peeped in all the wards on my left as we walked. There were inverted bottles with a transparent pipe attached, along almost all beds. Probably that was sugarcane juice, that the patient could have each time he/ she felt thirsty, I thought. We kept walking. I hadn't seen Dad so much happy as he was that day.

 Mom's ward was the last one in the array. As I entered, I saw six beds with six wooden cradles with all fat women on all beds. And, then I saw mom on bed no. 109. I ran towards her to show her my new dress. She smiled at me. I felt happy as she didnt ask me about my Maths homework, that means she was happy too. I looked at the black baby on her right. I couldn't believe- how could any baby be too small.

"Babu, here.  Not that one, this one is ours" called Dad, holding a small bundle of clothes. My jumped on mom's bed and sat there to see the much talked about 'brother' of mine. I couldn't feel anything when I saw his face. His face was too small to be recognised. His eyes were closed. Dad put his palm protecting his eyes from the light of the bulb. I saw tiny eyes without any eye lids opening up very slowly. Yes!! he looked at me with those micro starry twinkles, and I looked at him with a smile, and this was my brother! He was much smaller than I had imagined him to be.

I jumped from the bed out of joy. I offered him 2 sweets that I had saved. Mom laughed and said he only likes milk now. I gulped the sweets.   

I looked at him again. I saw his hands. Extremely tiny fingers and a white batch on his wrist-"Shukla-19 Nov". A similar batch, even mom was wearing.

While I looked back him. I had questions, from where he came and how come so suddenly he showed up. The only thing I knew that all babies come from hospitals.

The sardarni patient aunty next to mom smiled and said "kudi warga hi hai munda" (the boy looks like the daughter). I felt so proud. Like the elder and the responsible one. With his pink petal lips, he smiled at me, and in that moment of pleasure and thankfulness, God descended and said- this is my gift for you, my dear, for life. 

There I was, the motherly over protective sister. I looked at him again. Yes, he was my blood. My surname. My mate. My brother...

That window on 26th Floor

While she thought it could not begin, probably it never could end..

“Leave now. My room is 2602”. She deleted the SMS immediately after reading and looked at Sumit. Sumit was busy winning applause with his fan club at the table, chewing 2 meters pizza and sipping beer on which he had another bet.

She slid her phone in her bag and looked at the reveling people. Sumit was already half knocked out. In that moment of commotion around, with a simple question of “to leave or not”, her heart was skipping beats. Small droplets of water were developing on her forehead and neck in the ten degrees set room. Her heart was paralyzed with the thought of ‘leaving’.

She tied her hair in her clutch and adjusted her scarf around her neck. Not a single word of what Tarun’s wife was yelling from the other side of the table was entering her mind. “Ketchup, madam” said the small eyed waitress. “What, oh, yes, ammmm thanks” she said. She played with the Lettuce leaves in her plate while her mind was dicing with the only yes and no on all sides. Her breathing was getting heavy. She gulped the whisky down her throat and felt the burning sensation in her oesophagus.

Picking her bag swifty, she tip toed towards her way to the exit door. She looked back. Sumit was sharing his college story of how he had bullied the Principal in the first year.

With every floor that the lift passed, her heart started to beat faster. And the door automatically opened at the 26^th floor. She stood at the door staring trying to ignore the turmoil in her mind, took a pause and then, knocked.

The room was warm. Cream curtains and yellow bulbs lit up around them. Before she could see more, he caught her from the back and kissed her neck. In the fraction of a second, she forgot who she was and where she came from. One look deep into his eyes, and in no time she surrendered and  melted in his arms, in the expressions of amorous dalliance, as if the tiny little branches of the shrubs shed the snow on their face, upon seeing the Sun after a long cold winter. The time lost count. 

She got up with the noise of the wind howling from the open window, and realized that she probably over slept. She thought of Sumit. She got dressed quickly, opened her vanity box to dab some powder over her steamy face and neck, pinched her eyes to smudge the spoilt kohl, wore her coat and left, and while she waited for the lift in the lobby, she knew she had to burn the bridge she just crossed.

She ran back, opened the door and dropping all shackles knit in the forms of various calculations, kissed him once again. Passionately…so passionately as if that was the last kiss of her life and that she could carry the warmth of his presence in her cold arms. She dropped a tear on his bare shoulders. He pressed her back and clasped her tighter in his arms. The moment of silence seemed to last for long. The kiss answered her all questions and freed her from the guilt gripping her soul for years. 

The Cabbie parked at the edge of the entrance. Sumit was leaning over a table, drooling. The Hotel staff assisted her to take him to the cab.

The cab crossed the Western Street, and waited at the signal. She looked back at the building of ‘The Grand Regent’. The window on 26th floor seemed closed.

Butterflies inside

Something certainly is in the cards.

I have been behaving oddly. Like women.

I have been a prudent person since I last know of me (except the times I have been mad or lost or wandering or defeated or too happy). I don’t remember when was the last time I bought weapons of feminine exhibits (essentials, being the exception).- womanish hair assesseries, jasmine perfumes, pink watches, golden boots or even downloaded a romantic movie.

But I am surprising myself these days. Almost every day. Like men :)

I have been buying laced lingerie, rose petal massage oil, satin night gowns and yesterday I changed my body wash too. I had always been buying the antiseptic one for since years, and yesterday in super market, the moment I saw this ‘Enchanting Rose’ perfumed body splash, costing four times the normal and weighing half of it. I questioned myself for this unintelligent act, but couldn’t stop. And, today morning, when it splashed my body, I was really picked up to the heaven. I smelt like a Rose bouquet and the bathroom became a garden. Believe me! 

My body still carries its smell. 

And what happened last evening has surprised me to the maximum level. There is me, waiting for a friend for a coffee, and none guides me towards a high end lingerie shop. There was a sale. Pick any at $200. I mocked at stupid women overspending at something that they couldn't wear and show off at work. 

And there, someone was knocking at my heart. As I followed the signs, I was guided to this merciless navy blue devil adorned with sky colored roses over its edges, with satin finish at its curves. Like a bee, I got attracted to this honey filled lingerie. Ammm.. actually hypnotized. I came out shelling 1000$ on this one. And, I am not neither repenting over it or thinking, I should have spent this on books.

I concluded, we all have the capacity to laugh at our own cracked jokes, tickle ourselves and yes, surprise ourselves too. 

Come on, is the dead woman inside me rising from her grave?

Healing over heels

Australian Prime Minister, Julia Gillard falls down heads over heels in public during her visit to India

“The crowd is clapping and hooting. Men are whistling and waving their handkerchiefs. I, dressed black thigh-hugging skirt and off white jacket displaying the red high neck t-shirt worn inside, am happily waving over my fans, walking in my pointed heels over the stage. The President standing with a fixed smile- face with a golden trophy in his hand, waiting for me, while am busy locating my family and close friends in the crowd. My trophy is just a half milli-second away from me and in that split of the second, my stilettos betray me and I fell down, with my face hitting the ground straight, silencing the crowd. The time between the vertical me and horizontal me was unfathomable. I lift up my face questioning what to do now as I see the world mocking…”

This has been my nightmare since the time I started wearing high-heeled shoes. And, I still get such dreams often and I get up panting in my pants.

Indeed, the biggest nightmare a woman can have in her life time is ‘falling down in public”.

I was amused to read about the Australian Prime Minister, Julia Gillard who had a public fall at the Gandhi Memorial. And interestingly, this was not her first, but third fall in the same year. With no offence, she is indeed a “giri hui aurat”. It reminded me of so many events that make me still laugh.

Dont miss the fun: 

http://landing.newsinc.com/shared/video.html?freewheel=90051&sitesection=nydailynews&VID=23850422

One of the latest ones was during my date in Taj Hotel on a rainy evening in Mumbai. While I managed to cross the street in a puddle of water across the Gateway of India, I stumbled in my high heels only to realize that I’ll have to limp for the rest of the evening. Yes, my heel broke. And, before I could fathom what I could do, my beau had arrived with a cheerful smile and handful of roses that deserved no bad-news.

 I did enjoy the dinner with a lame leg and a fake smile, without letting have a clue of my agony filled embarrassment. And, while sending me off, he noticed, “Christ! your one heel is broken?” And, I, without claiming the best actress award, pretending to be unaware of it exclaimed, “Oh, is it?”

Since then, I haven’t been able to heal the scars of my heels.

Another one was when my Aunt was a dressed like a princess on her wedding day wearing a net saree with heavy pearls on its borders, a golden necklace and shoulder touching shiny earrings while her hands were full of red bangles. As she, walked on the stage, with a garland for her groom, and all cameras focused her, while people throwing rose petals on her, suddenly she disappeared from the camera screen. Yes, she fell down, when her heels got struck in the carpet.

 “It is not the pain of falling, but the pain of being seen while falling that hurts”, said she sobbing.

Another scariest moment is women falling asleep in the public transport, drooling and then finally falling. Someone even commented- “I am yet to meet an awake Asian on public transport”.

  

Well, wearing high heels requires more than just balance. Wearing high heels is a contract. You forego your comfort, stability, speed, health and safety to gain height, beauty, elegance, and style. Yes, they make you look good and confident.

Medical Research says that wearing high heels is highly injurious to your knee, hip, feet, and spinal chord. In other words, beauty is pain.

Lady Gaga's massive 10-inch tapered heels were a hit and it did arouse fantasies, but while walking, the ‘ground realities’ are indeed different.

Like luxury cars and solitaire, stilettos are considered "jewelry for the feet".

Imagining men wearing high heels today sounds like a comic scene but peeping the history, we learn that men also wore high heels including cowboy boots and Cuban heels. Egyptian butchers also wore heels, to help them walk above the blood of dead beasts.

In ancient Greece and Rome, platform sandals were popular particularly among actors who would wear shoes of different heights to indicate varying social status or importance of characters. Also, the sex trade was legal, and female prostitutes were readily identified by their high heels.

Much as high heels signal beauty, overuse of it became an insignia of prostitution, yet it remains a symbol of power. Women not being able to manage in high heels suffer from low self-esteem.

Shoe designer Terry DeHavilland says, "People say they're bad for the feet, but they're good for the mind. What's more important?"

What have you done to me..

What have you done to me,

All I see around is thee…

 In the extreme darks at the corners of the Sun,

I see my feminism rising from the veil of Nun…

 In every hour and every minute of the time,

I see your arms around mine…

 In my oblivion, I feel you,

And question myself if that is really true…

 I don’t ask you for me,

But want myself to remain in this dreamer’s sea…

 This intoxication that makes me closer to my own,

For no reason, awaits your arrival as a messenger in my wishing zone..

What have you done to me,

All I see around is thee…

Kareena Saif Marriage

Another love-less story- an impatient man and a confused woman struck in Showbiz 

Errrr…..Kareena Kapoor got married to Saif, finally. Read on Facebook and Yahoo news. And much before I could get the news, I got jokes about it.  

 I am neither Kejriwal to comment or Salman Khursheed to defend. Neither I am a Bollywood masala maker nor am I a part of Celebrity’s PR fraternity. But I am the one who, these days misses no chance to condemn Bollywood each time, whenever given any opportunity. Personal lives of Bollywood stars are still, our subject matters of discussions. Isnt it?

 “A 32 year old woman shouldn’t have married a 42 years old guy. This is so bad.” said Sahana, adjusting her dupatta on her shoulders. “Saif’s kids attended the marriage, I read. If your earlier wife is dead, it is okay for your kids to attend your second marriage, but not when your mother is alive and you attending your father’s wedding” commented Mrs. Gupta while playing with her spoon in the biryani. “It should be a simple marriage only, if it is a second marriage” as they went on.

“That was an auspicious day, first Navratri” said I, pretending to be part of the long- tongued- Indian women conversation.  

My un-stoppable lawyer tongue continued, “So Kareena changed her religion. She couldn’t marry Saif directly. The marriage had to be under ‘Special Marriage Act’.”

Well, we have no right to comment, opine or decide about the personal lives of our movie stars. Why should we do so… Do we tolerate when our colleague sneak-peeks our mobile phone. Leave aside our colleague- do we allow our family to interfere in our personal lives? Don’t we regard ‘invasion to my privacy’ as the most heinous crime these days.

However, as Indians, it is our birth right to gossip and discuss characters. So here I go.

Keeping Saif and Kareena as items of study, I found they represent the psychology of young Indian mind today.

Let’s start with Saif.

Yes, in the beginning, what was he. I don’t remember in which movie I noticed him first, but all I can remember of him as a lukkha, twiddling around a extra curly haired, non-whitened Shilpa Shetty wagging his neck in the woods with an ugly handkerchief on the ‘haathon me aa gaya jo kal rumal aapka….’. His stardom came much later. And while he was no star, like other boys of his age, he too got attracted towards the broad shouldered- hot-in the town Amrita Singh, a Sikh Muslim high profile Khandaani girl. The same Indian tongues did discuss a 21 years old curious and impatient guy marrying a 33 years old, mature and recently successful woman.

This is again a theory. Young men getting attracted towards mature women. Haven’t we all experienced our crushes on our good- looking teachers at school? For men, marrying a successful mature woman is a kind of achievement. Lalit Modi (IPL wala) married a much old Divorcee Minal who even had a daughter from her earlier marriage.

And when all the fun is staled out of the marriage, children are born and busy growing up, after a decade, realizing their optimum energy has been under-utilised, and that is where the hunt for the new partner begins- so much for glamour and as much as for ego.

So, the rosy landscapes with beach side house end soon. And he divorces. Only to remarry a much younger woman this time….only to give way to the other landscape of a hillside farm house…Same man with different background and women.

In the misogynic society of India, the story of ‘same woman with different men’ is not widely spread but with women empowerment, MNC culture, women coming to Board rooms it is gaining popularity gradually.  

 Now, Kareena.

Silver spoon fed girl with celebrity parents. Fed only on showbiz. Getting famous too soon and falling in love with a young energetic dashing Punjabi boy. Ishq aur mushq exhibiting everywhere. Kissing in public, and getting shot in restaurants. Then spilling the beans and feeding media with stories of them getting engaged and elders doing the talking..

The puppy love ends owing to shitty reasons of “quit non veg, or I’ll quit you”, or ‘stop smoking’, or ‘how dare you lied about your college crush”. Getting separated and the villain media stirring the cup with red mirchi stories.

As the duo cool down, they realize how struck they are in the cob-web pressure of media tht they knit around themselves. Media creating jealosy inflicting stories of Kareena getting close to Saif, becoming size zero, consequently Shahid  making himself seen with other women..

Why will Kareena take 5 years to decide that she wanted to marry the same man, showing the confused state of mind of the woman, waiting(/missing) her Ex, and later bowing down to the calculations of ‘what is best for my future’ and compromising and taking over the last option available- getting married.

The story ends here. You think so?

That girl in Stilettos

A Mid-Autumn Morning after a dark night 

The alarm rang. “I have a flight to catch. You go now” said he, adjusting the pillow, turning his back and taking the blanket over his face.

Like an expressionless effigy, she got up, picked her bra from the floor and her dress from the tilted chair. It was still dark in the room but the sunlight was falling from the fringes of the curtains in the hotel room. She bent towards the mirror and scanned her face. Her eye makeup was spoilt. There were love bites around her neck line and a little thread was pulled up over her sleeves. She picked up her bag and without turning back, left the room.

While waiting for the lift, the house-keeping staff in the lobby smilingly wished ‘good morning, Madam’, rolling the broom in the floor, while she was trying to tie her shoe buckles, shrugging her frizzy hair falling on her face. Rubbing her eyes, and pulling her dress over her arse, she smiled back and entered the lift, puzzled with 50 buttons.

It was 6 in the morning. The mid-Autumn morning sent a little chill down her spine and she clasped her shoulders while she looked at the rising Sun peeping through the skyscrapers.  The fresh morning air flowed through her hair and her cloak mixing the ladies perfume on her dress and men’s perfume on her body. 

People in sports shoes, holding chained dogs running across the streets for morning walk stared at her stilettos, while the bread vendor on his bicycle whistled at her from behind to stay away from his way.

In the bus, the old woman with her school going girl sat next to her. She glanced at her face trying to fathom ‘her profession’, held her baby tightly in her lap, avoiding to get touched.

The bus stopped with a jerk. She stood up. The toothless Thai man sitting in front looked at her bare legs and rolled his tongue.

She stepped down from the bus and moved forward. The bus driver kept staring at her mushy arse till she got lost in the noise and din of the fish market. 

Ten days with family

Today I got up before my alarm. And I didn’t get up from my sleep, but the shock. As the smell of desi ghee parathas that Mom was cooking for me invigorated me, I realized this gala time of extreme pampering and protection is going to be over soon.

I’ll be calling the Dabba wala from Friday onwards for lunch (without asking for the menu), and opening the lunch will remind me how much difference it makes- a dabba packed for business and a dabba packed out of love and care.

Once again, I'll unlock the doors, and not knock when I come back home from work. The stained coffee mug that I left on the bed in the morning will be lying there- dry and untouched. I'll not get food before I cook. All the talking will be via phone, skype and google hangout. No utensils will make noise or windows opened in the morning. And, my weekends will be ruined by sitting and downloading movies and documentaries. No hurrying up to leave work at Six and none waiting for the door bell to ring. 

Well, on a positive side, these ten days have changed my outlook. Each time I’ll see an elderly woman stumbling in the moving bus, I’ll see her as ‘somebody’s mother’ and offer her my seats no matter how heavy my shoulder bag is....Each time I’ll see a confused man trying to figure out what the Cantonese speaking vendor is saying in the wet market, probably I’ll offer a helping hand to that ‘somebody’s father’ with my recently invented sign language......Each time I’ll see a young guy lost in the streets, locating directions, I won’t take a minute to realize that he is 'somebody’s loving brother'.

He proposed me!

And, he proposed me. 

Like a hard boned blow, it hit me on my head. As if someone asked for my permission this time to take away from myself, the salvaged me. 

Like a poor baby who had just a mutilated baby doll left in her arms after the killing floods that made her an orphan, i clasped my soul in my cracked palms. 

I had bargained to choose myself, over my happiness. The decision was never questioned. It was just a commitment originated out of the duty.

I had promises to keep. The promises that kept me loyal to myself for the rest of my life, and to never barter, no matter how lucrative the deal sounded.

But all I know is that my commitment towards myself is supreme. At no cost I can afford to give away myself to someone. 

Don't know if it is worth it to lose self to get someone who claims to love you.