November 07, 2010
Serendipity...
Years later when Abha, her daughter asked her about her "younger" days, Sanjana told her about the one man she had truly loved.
Sanjana had recently returned to India after completing her post-graduation from a French University. She was now working for a multi-national luxury brand in their marketing department. She needed to make new friends in this city. Mumbai, city of dreams, she felt she was in the right place and at the right time. Mumbai was not her hometown but she was quickly falling in love with the city. She came from a small village of Hosur on the Karnataka-Tamil Nadu border. From a very young age, Sanjana had big dreams, dreams she knew would come true one day. She was proud of where she was in life and that confidence radiated in everything she did. Meenkashi, her childhood friend, someone she had kept in touch with despite the distance was throwing a party to celebrate her second marriage anniversary. Meenakashi and Sunil had met through relatives at a cousin's wedding. Sunil's parents had liked Meenakshi's quiet demeanour, impeccable manners and homely looks. "Good-breeding", her parents had told Sunil, "You don't find such good girls these days. Today's girls smoke and drink and have many boyfriends. But not Meenakshi. Akka told us she never had a boyfriend and her father is a doctor in the government hospital. She'll make you a good wife Sunil".
Sunil remembered seeing Meenakshi at his cousin Siddarth's wedding-good skin, long hair, docile looks and a good figure. Sunil had agreed. Meenakshi never said anything when her parents told her about Sunil. She had never loved any man in her entire life. She would not even recognise love if he came and introduced himself. She never dreamt like Sanjana. Meenakshi was a practical girl. All she wanted was a quiet family life. And she had left it to her parents to find her a sensible man to marry and they had liked Sunil. When Sanjana had expressed her shock at the fact that Sunil would be away for all 6 months every year sailing, how could you bear she had asked, Meenakshi had just smiled. Solitude, she said she could bear cheerfully. All she wanted was a comfortable home and a vegetable garden in the backyard where she could grow tomatoes to make yummy rassams. She would soon have many kids and their upbringing would keep her occupied she had explained. She was quite happy about her forthcoming nuptials.
Sanjana had soon left for France after Meenakshi's wedding. France, land of romance and poetry in her mind. At university, Sanjana had met a French guy who loved poetry and wine and sex. They dated for two years and on the day of their graduation she left him a note saying that she was leaving for India and that she was happy they had met during her stay in Lille but he should never contact her again. Sanjana never understood her decision. But she never bothered with understanding it either. She left it at that. And him in the past.
And now she was back in her country and found herself surrounded by strangers in Meenakshi tastefully decorated, and by Mumbai standards, spacious living room. Sunil's mini-bar was well-stocked with alcohol from every part of the world. The party was in full-swing. Anything but a quiet comfortable life she thought to herself while taking a sip of cognac. Sanjana scanned the whole living room- quite a few good looking men she thought. Ofcourse most of them were Sunil's friends from the Navy. A few from Meenakshi's literary circle. She smiled thinking how you could always tell the artists from the sailors. But there was one she couldn't place in any box. Dressed in black slacks and a cobalt blue silk shirt, although quite dapper, he looked, oddly, out of place. She imagined he was an i-banker or a model maybe. But before she could muse anymore, she was pulled by Meenakshi to the centre of the room. She found herself face to face with the guy in the blue shirt she was checking out a few moments ago. Almost guilty, she blushed and looked at Meenaskhi questioningly.
"Well, everyone here thinks two people who use the same word in one evening are probably destined to meet. Sanjana, meet Rajiv. Rajiv, my dear friend Sanjana." Sanjana remembered her conversation sometime back where she told Sunil and his naval friends how the word Serendipity, coined by Horace Walpole, came from the old name for Sri Lanka. Rajiv had shook hands with her and offered to get her a refill noticing her almost empty snifter. Unexpected yes, but was this going to be a fortunate meeting? Sanjana remembered wondering that while Rajiv had gone to get her a refill.
Now years later when she looks back, she thinks about all the wonderful times they had. The walks on Juhu beach, the 2am rides on the marine road, the January evenings spent cozily on Rajiv's terrace under the inky, the humidity that drove Rajiv irritable and which always led to silly arguments between them, the single red rose he would offer to make up, Wada-pav for breakfast everyday, the hip-hop parties and late night meals, the incessant rains, Gateway of India, their little corner at the Taj where he had whispered those three words, the shopping sprees where Rajiv would turn into an excited happy 3 year old. All wonderful memories. Sanjana realized he was the first man she knew who loved shopping as much as she did. He even loved shopping for vegetables, which she always found absolutely adorable. So while Sanjana cooked on Sundays, Rajiv would take care of grocery shopping. It was a perfect arrangement. He did buy the most fresh vegetables she remembered. The trick, he had once told her, was to check out every stall before buying from any one seller.
Everyone thought they were perfect together. So much so, that they even loved the same things. The smell of Ratrani, Kafka, filter coffee, sea, travel, local trains, white sheets, the colour blue, Rafi and Madhubala, Kanjeevaram sarees and green bangles. And they hated the same things too. The smell of hena, Bollywood, Punjabi accent and Chinese food, the colour maroon, aubergines, cats, Ayn Rand and common names-they had decided they would never name their kids Priyanka or Akash or torturous still, Prem. They had the same dream of going to Kashmir for their honeymoon. They had decided they would buy a land somewhere far away and build a farmhouse and raise their two kids on the farm. Sanjana didn't mind leaving her Chanels and Diors behind for Rajiv. She had started to crave a quiet comfortable family life too. With Rajiv though, she knew quiet it would never be. Life would be oozing out of him. And it was impossible to stay unaffected by his zest for life. Sanjana realised it was this reason why she had so madly loved Rajiv. She had never felt so alive before meeting him. He had made her fall in love with life itself.
But suddenly the sweet nothings had stopped. Endearments had turned into bitter acrimonious insults. I-Love-You's into barbed taunts. They knew each other so well, hurting came easy. He knew exactly what would hurt her. She knew exactly what would drive him crazy. Words were their arsenal. Romantic evenings had turned in slinging matches where words were thrown at each other like mini atom bombs. These might not have killed them, but they did more damage to their hearts than real gunpowder would have. Soon the kisses stopped. The intimate touches. The togetherness vanished. Their lovingly built world fell apart. Their delicate dreams squashed under the heaviness of hurt, of insult. They had run out of their good luck. They knew they could no longer be together when they couldn't even find words to fight with each other. And with the words gone, just like that, the love was soon gone too.
Rajiv's mom had found Rajiv a perfect 10 wife from the US. She was working for a big bank in the US and had a green card. Rajiv got engaged in no time. Sanjana made good use of the mini-bar at Meenakashi's place while Sunil was away on his 6-month trip to Istanbul. It was a December evening when Sanjana, dressed in a kanjeevaram saree, green bangles and gajra, went to Rajiv's wedding. To see him one last time, but returned without meeting him. His bride, she saw from a distance, was dressed in a maroon lengha and her name, she overhead was Priyanka. Sanjana eventually settled down too. She ended up marrying the marketing director of her firm who was a Punjabi. And while she could never love her husband, she did care for him. She had a comfortable family life now, and a vegetable garden where she grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables. No need to buy them from the market. She was quite content with her situation in life, if not happy.
When Abha asked her what had led Rajiv and her apart, Sanjana said it was words. Words, she said, had brought them together and it was words that had driven them apart. Such had been the fate of their silly fairy tale.
Sanjana had recently returned to India after completing her post-graduation from a French University. She was now working for a multi-national luxury brand in their marketing department. She needed to make new friends in this city. Mumbai, city of dreams, she felt she was in the right place and at the right time. Mumbai was not her hometown but she was quickly falling in love with the city. She came from a small village of Hosur on the Karnataka-Tamil Nadu border. From a very young age, Sanjana had big dreams, dreams she knew would come true one day. She was proud of where she was in life and that confidence radiated in everything she did. Meenkashi, her childhood friend, someone she had kept in touch with despite the distance was throwing a party to celebrate her second marriage anniversary. Meenakashi and Sunil had met through relatives at a cousin's wedding. Sunil's parents had liked Meenakshi's quiet demeanour, impeccable manners and homely looks. "Good-breeding", her parents had told Sunil, "You don't find such good girls these days. Today's girls smoke and drink and have many boyfriends. But not Meenakshi. Akka told us she never had a boyfriend and her father is a doctor in the government hospital. She'll make you a good wife Sunil".
Sunil remembered seeing Meenakshi at his cousin Siddarth's wedding-good skin, long hair, docile looks and a good figure. Sunil had agreed. Meenakshi never said anything when her parents told her about Sunil. She had never loved any man in her entire life. She would not even recognise love if he came and introduced himself. She never dreamt like Sanjana. Meenakshi was a practical girl. All she wanted was a quiet family life. And she had left it to her parents to find her a sensible man to marry and they had liked Sunil. When Sanjana had expressed her shock at the fact that Sunil would be away for all 6 months every year sailing, how could you bear she had asked, Meenakshi had just smiled. Solitude, she said she could bear cheerfully. All she wanted was a comfortable home and a vegetable garden in the backyard where she could grow tomatoes to make yummy rassams. She would soon have many kids and their upbringing would keep her occupied she had explained. She was quite happy about her forthcoming nuptials.
Sanjana had soon left for France after Meenakshi's wedding. France, land of romance and poetry in her mind. At university, Sanjana had met a French guy who loved poetry and wine and sex. They dated for two years and on the day of their graduation she left him a note saying that she was leaving for India and that she was happy they had met during her stay in Lille but he should never contact her again. Sanjana never understood her decision. But she never bothered with understanding it either. She left it at that. And him in the past.
And now she was back in her country and found herself surrounded by strangers in Meenakshi tastefully decorated, and by Mumbai standards, spacious living room. Sunil's mini-bar was well-stocked with alcohol from every part of the world. The party was in full-swing. Anything but a quiet comfortable life she thought to herself while taking a sip of cognac. Sanjana scanned the whole living room- quite a few good looking men she thought. Ofcourse most of them were Sunil's friends from the Navy. A few from Meenakshi's literary circle. She smiled thinking how you could always tell the artists from the sailors. But there was one she couldn't place in any box. Dressed in black slacks and a cobalt blue silk shirt, although quite dapper, he looked, oddly, out of place. She imagined he was an i-banker or a model maybe. But before she could muse anymore, she was pulled by Meenakshi to the centre of the room. She found herself face to face with the guy in the blue shirt she was checking out a few moments ago. Almost guilty, she blushed and looked at Meenaskhi questioningly.
"Well, everyone here thinks two people who use the same word in one evening are probably destined to meet. Sanjana, meet Rajiv. Rajiv, my dear friend Sanjana." Sanjana remembered her conversation sometime back where she told Sunil and his naval friends how the word Serendipity, coined by Horace Walpole, came from the old name for Sri Lanka. Rajiv had shook hands with her and offered to get her a refill noticing her almost empty snifter. Unexpected yes, but was this going to be a fortunate meeting? Sanjana remembered wondering that while Rajiv had gone to get her a refill.
Now years later when she looks back, she thinks about all the wonderful times they had. The walks on Juhu beach, the 2am rides on the marine road, the January evenings spent cozily on Rajiv's terrace under the inky, the humidity that drove Rajiv irritable and which always led to silly arguments between them, the single red rose he would offer to make up, Wada-pav for breakfast everyday, the hip-hop parties and late night meals, the incessant rains, Gateway of India, their little corner at the Taj where he had whispered those three words, the shopping sprees where Rajiv would turn into an excited happy 3 year old. All wonderful memories. Sanjana realized he was the first man she knew who loved shopping as much as she did. He even loved shopping for vegetables, which she always found absolutely adorable. So while Sanjana cooked on Sundays, Rajiv would take care of grocery shopping. It was a perfect arrangement. He did buy the most fresh vegetables she remembered. The trick, he had once told her, was to check out every stall before buying from any one seller.
Everyone thought they were perfect together. So much so, that they even loved the same things. The smell of Ratrani, Kafka, filter coffee, sea, travel, local trains, white sheets, the colour blue, Rafi and Madhubala, Kanjeevaram sarees and green bangles. And they hated the same things too. The smell of hena, Bollywood, Punjabi accent and Chinese food, the colour maroon, aubergines, cats, Ayn Rand and common names-they had decided they would never name their kids Priyanka or Akash or torturous still, Prem. They had the same dream of going to Kashmir for their honeymoon. They had decided they would buy a land somewhere far away and build a farmhouse and raise their two kids on the farm. Sanjana didn't mind leaving her Chanels and Diors behind for Rajiv. She had started to crave a quiet comfortable family life too. With Rajiv though, she knew quiet it would never be. Life would be oozing out of him. And it was impossible to stay unaffected by his zest for life. Sanjana realised it was this reason why she had so madly loved Rajiv. She had never felt so alive before meeting him. He had made her fall in love with life itself.
But suddenly the sweet nothings had stopped. Endearments had turned into bitter acrimonious insults. I-Love-You's into barbed taunts. They knew each other so well, hurting came easy. He knew exactly what would hurt her. She knew exactly what would drive him crazy. Words were their arsenal. Romantic evenings had turned in slinging matches where words were thrown at each other like mini atom bombs. These might not have killed them, but they did more damage to their hearts than real gunpowder would have. Soon the kisses stopped. The intimate touches. The togetherness vanished. Their lovingly built world fell apart. Their delicate dreams squashed under the heaviness of hurt, of insult. They had run out of their good luck. They knew they could no longer be together when they couldn't even find words to fight with each other. And with the words gone, just like that, the love was soon gone too.
Rajiv's mom had found Rajiv a perfect 10 wife from the US. She was working for a big bank in the US and had a green card. Rajiv got engaged in no time. Sanjana made good use of the mini-bar at Meenakashi's place while Sunil was away on his 6-month trip to Istanbul. It was a December evening when Sanjana, dressed in a kanjeevaram saree, green bangles and gajra, went to Rajiv's wedding. To see him one last time, but returned without meeting him. His bride, she saw from a distance, was dressed in a maroon lengha and her name, she overhead was Priyanka. Sanjana eventually settled down too. She ended up marrying the marketing director of her firm who was a Punjabi. And while she could never love her husband, she did care for him. She had a comfortable family life now, and a vegetable garden where she grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables. No need to buy them from the market. She was quite content with her situation in life, if not happy.
When Abha asked her what had led Rajiv and her apart, Sanjana said it was words. Words, she said, had brought them together and it was words that had driven them apart. Such had been the fate of their silly fairy tale.
November 06, 2010
That's Why...
One of those perfect ads. Brings a tear or two.
The little things you do for me
And nobody else make me feel good
The little things you do for me
Making me smile when no one else could
That's why, I like to sit next to you
And hear your mad stories
I know they're not true
And I like that we share a secret or two, together...The little things you do for me.
The little things you do for me
And nobody else make me feel good
The little things you do for me
Making me smile when no one else could
That's why, I like to sit next to you
And hear your mad stories
I know they're not true
And I like that we share a secret or two, together...The little things you do for me.
November 04, 2010
Salt...
Atleast then this much I hope that the tears that roll down my cheeks will sweeten your lips.
November 03, 2010
November 02, 2010
At Delhi Airport #1
Airports are a place for great meditation. Also good for studying human nature. Such wonderful insights.
*****
October is over. You know what that means, don't you?
*****
Kids in our country are treated like little kings and queens. One tantrum here and one whimper there and mummy-papa rush to pacify the kid. The kid ofcourse can have anything. Kids are luckiest people I tell you!
*****
Punjabi people, my god, they love talking. Irritatingly so.
*****
China copied the tubes from London and India(Delhi) from them both. Why am I not surprised? Even Delhi airport eerily reminded me of China airport. Where's the creativity dude? Soon we'll have same looking airports all over the world!
*****
Important advice for females: Always wear flats when travelling. Your feet, babydoll, will thank you.
I have almost completely stopped wearing heels since the accident. Been almost 11 months now. Don't miss them as much as I thought I would. But you know, heels give you a kind of confidence, a certain edge. I mean, if you can manage to walk and look graceful with those pencil heels, you must be awesome, right?
But woman, do not slouch, please? That's sacrilege! Heels are supposed to make you look confident and hot and statuesque and graceful and all those wonderful things. Slouchy? Not! If you are going to drag your half-dead body around like that, just throw away those bloody heels already!
*****
This is what I love about travel. It gives you a chance to meet new different people. People from all walks of life. Lovely.
*****
Delhi women, they are hot. Not all ofcourse. But most women are hot. But the hot ones are hot only till they open their mouth and then damn! All hotness goes *poof*
*****
If I was a guy I wouldn't marry a Delhi girl. I'd like to marry a Bangalore girl however. Or even a Mumbai girl.
Yes, I sometimes think about marrying women.
*****
Delhi men, as expected, pointy shoes and gelled, almost ridiculously spiked hair. Meh. No like.
*****
And will someone just slap these Delhi guys? They stare at you like their daddy dearest bought you from Razori garden solely for their viewing pleasure!
Someone needs to teach Delhi men, nay, all Indian men how to stare. We like you checking us out, but can't you be a bit classy about it? Huh?
*****
Punjabi women I have realised are very hot when young. Beautiful flawless complexions, nice features and well-endowed bosoms. But good lord, they age so bad!
All those creamy lassis and butter naans and aloo kulchas seem to take toll post-marriage. Not hot.
*****
Delhi at this time of the year made me feel like its national pastime is marriage and weddings. Everyone talks about weddings and jewellery and this and that. I agree, it's totally unfair of me to comment when I haven't even seen 1% of Delhi.
But when did I let that stop me from making biased uninformed ignorant remarks? Delhi is flashy and full of wannabe brides. There!
*****
October is over. You know what that means, don't you?
*****
Kids in our country are treated like little kings and queens. One tantrum here and one whimper there and mummy-papa rush to pacify the kid. The kid ofcourse can have anything. Kids are luckiest people I tell you!
*****
Punjabi people, my god, they love talking. Irritatingly so.
*****
China copied the tubes from London and India(Delhi) from them both. Why am I not surprised? Even Delhi airport eerily reminded me of China airport. Where's the creativity dude? Soon we'll have same looking airports all over the world!
*****
Important advice for females: Always wear flats when travelling. Your feet, babydoll, will thank you.
I have almost completely stopped wearing heels since the accident. Been almost 11 months now. Don't miss them as much as I thought I would. But you know, heels give you a kind of confidence, a certain edge. I mean, if you can manage to walk and look graceful with those pencil heels, you must be awesome, right?
But woman, do not slouch, please? That's sacrilege! Heels are supposed to make you look confident and hot and statuesque and graceful and all those wonderful things. Slouchy? Not! If you are going to drag your half-dead body around like that, just throw away those bloody heels already!
*****
This is what I love about travel. It gives you a chance to meet new different people. People from all walks of life. Lovely.
*****
Delhi women, they are hot. Not all ofcourse. But most women are hot. But the hot ones are hot only till they open their mouth and then damn! All hotness goes *poof*
*****
If I was a guy I wouldn't marry a Delhi girl. I'd like to marry a Bangalore girl however. Or even a Mumbai girl.
Yes, I sometimes think about marrying women.
*****
Delhi men, as expected, pointy shoes and gelled, almost ridiculously spiked hair. Meh. No like.
*****
And will someone just slap these Delhi guys? They stare at you like their daddy dearest bought you from Razori garden solely for their viewing pleasure!
Someone needs to teach Delhi men, nay, all Indian men how to stare. We like you checking us out, but can't you be a bit classy about it? Huh?
*****
Punjabi women I have realised are very hot when young. Beautiful flawless complexions, nice features and well-endowed bosoms. But good lord, they age so bad!
All those creamy lassis and butter naans and aloo kulchas seem to take toll post-marriage. Not hot.
*****
Delhi at this time of the year made me feel like its national pastime is marriage and weddings. Everyone talks about weddings and jewellery and this and that. I agree, it's totally unfair of me to comment when I haven't even seen 1% of Delhi.
But when did I let that stop me from making biased uninformed ignorant remarks? Delhi is flashy and full of wannabe brides. There!
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