Escape

There was a steady hum in his head. Garbled thoughts and jumbled words jostled for space; slowly but steadily straining against his skull. Pushing, thrusting and heaving until the dull throbbing ache intensified and threatened to make his head explode. His brain fought back valiantly, trying to bring order to chaos; trying to weave the thoughts and the words together in various logical permutations and combinations. But the only form they coerced into was that of blind panic.

He felt the need to escape from it all, to run away. The clanging in his head seemed to be reaching a crescendo. There was a sense of urgency. So he did the only thing he knew - He ran. Away. His feet hit the gravel and he felt the reassuring crunch. As if on cue, his body surged forward cutting through the wind, slicing through the pain. He felt the salty sea breeze lick his face and let the sound of the ocean wash over his ears. The clamour in his head seemed to momentarily pause, unsure as to how to respond to the distraction.

Enthused, he picked up pace and ran frenetically. His limbs strained against the gravel track, his breath came in gasps and his heart pounded in his chest. As the pounding grew louder, the uproar in his head was steadily drowned out. His skin burned under the surface and the salty sea breeze stung his eyes but he didn't stop running. He couldn't stop. Every cell in his limbs hurt; slowly but steadily straining against his skin. Pushing, thrusting and heaving until the sharp stinging pain intensified and threatened to bring him to his knees. But this pain, he could deal with. He welcomed it. For when his body became taut, his mind would become numb. Until then, he had to keep running. Away.

A Lady’s Account of a Gentleman’s Game

My formal initiation into the world of cricket was during the 1996 World Cup. Well, that is if you don’t consider ‘book cricket’ and the one-off summer afternoons of galli cricket where I was grudgingly included in the neighbourhood game and cautiously stationed where there was a one in a hundred chance of the ball passing by. While I did fairly alright in the book cricket version, the kids in my colony didn’t take very kindly to me scrambling for cover behind a bush when a stray ball actually beat the one in hundred odds and came hurtling towards me. That was when I opted for an early retirement from the game of cricket (much to their relief). And then, 1996 happened.

I was in the 8^th grade and had become a die-hard cricket fan overnight. I watched every match in the series. I scoured through the sports section of the Deccan Herald as religiously as my textbooks and devoured every bit of information on the teams and the players. I even made a scrap book to follow the tides of the World Cup. It had newspaper clippings, the World Cup Schedule, players’ pictures, trivia, statistics et al. I rooted for Sri Lanka in the finals because they were the underdogs and I had found Dilhara Fernando rather cute. But I also remember switching loyalties to Australia after the match because I felt sorry for them and their woebegone expressions; besides I had begun to find Adam Gilchrist cute as well!

Sadly, post the 1996 World Cup, the die-hard cricket fan in me eventually died and all that remained of the flash-in-the-pan obsession was a dusty scrapbook and a pack of well-worn Cricket Trump Cards. But in January 2008, my friend Simi and I sat at Worli Sea Face after watching the movie ‘Bucket List’ and drew up a wish list of our own. Sixth on that list was a re-manifestation of my flash-in-the-pan fondness for cricket under the note, “Watch a cricket match live at a stadium.” Well, it did take me a good 5 years to get down to it but I shall have you know that yours truly has put a big, fat tick mark against item #6 on the agenda. Here’s proof for the non- believers :-)

 

Well, this was from the India vs. England T20 match on 22^nd Dec 2012. Boy! Was I glad that the world hadn’t ended the previous day!  The evening started off on a bit of a back foot (though in Cricket, I am told that phrase is not cause for concern). My friend Krishna and I thought for some reason that the match was scheduled to start at 8 pm and not 7 pm. Even though we managed to reach the stadium by 6:50 pm we weren’t prepared for the serpentine line of fans outside. It meandered past the lane alongside the gate and continued until the end of the road and even snuck up the over-bridge and ended at the Marine Lines station a good 1.5 km away!

An excruciating half hour and 7 overs later when we managed to find our way into the stands, I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. I walked into a whole different world - a green island bathed by a thousand splendid suns and surrounded by a euphoric sea of blue that ebbed and flowed and rippled in synchrony.  I was literally a drop in the ocean. I elbowed my way through the sea of blue and realized much to my delight that we actually had ring side seats to the game.  My delight was sadly short-lived. The moment I sat down, I found that my entire view of the game was blocked by a not-so-thin cameraman who single handedly eclipsed the entire pitch like a one rupee coin eclipsing the sun! 

I missed the next couple of overs trying to get his attention to convince him to lie down on the grass and shoot the game from a more unique angle. I’ve seen wild life photographers on National Geographic shoot game (albeit a different kind) from that angle. But his head phones effectively rendered all my attempts useless! What’s more, his strategic distance from the ring fence effectively prevented me from poking him in the ribs to draw his attention. With only 7 overs to go for the first half, I resigned myself to watching the game at a 45 degrees angle.  Of course, I missed 3 of them trying to catch the roving camera that would relay the audience’s faces on national television for I had asked half the world to watch out for me on TV.

The second half saw me missing the first 5 overs again – 4 of them in the quest for a cheese grilled sandwich and 1, trying to find my way back to my seat. Ironically, the not-so-thin cameraman served as a landmark, thereby saving me from missing another over (at a 45 degrees angle of course).  But suddenly, with a fielding change, my luck changed as well. The next 5 overs saw me gushing like a 16 year old; thanks to the little blue blob to my left (refer the proof-photo shared earlier), otherwise known as Virat Kohli. Well, the man is a crowd pleaser and he did seem to enjoy his share of the limelight, throwing smouldering ‘how-you-doing?’ looks to acknowledge the “Viraaaat, we love you!!!” screams from the ladies in the stands.  The last 10 overs went by in a flurry of Raina, Gambhir, empty space, Sir Ravindra Jadeja carrying a water bottle, empty space, Kohli, Sourav Ganguly with his fresh crop of hair and Siddhu with a yellow turban passing through and stealing Kohli’s thunder by waving to the crowd, empty space and a tottering Ravi Shastri headed towards the presentation arena. 

We lost the match that day, but I went home happy in the thought that:- the world had not ended, item # 6 had a big fat tick against it and Kohli threw 2 smouldering ‘how-you-doing?’ looks in my general direction (give or take a couple of feet) :-P

Slumber Trooper

Well, for the last couple of days now I've been having a wee bit of trouble dragging myself out of bed in the mornings. What I had initially speculated to be a 'Monday Morning' syndrome turned out to be more of a, errm... 'Monday-to-Friday Morning' syndrome. For some reason, my body seems to show immense love and commitment to my mattress and utter disregard for my phone's alarm.

It was on one such (not so) early morning when I was rushing to work, simultaneously trying to appease the Traffic Gods and chalking out a back-up plan for the to-do list at work, that my devious, un-repentant sub-concious self came up with the following:

I woke up late
From a slumber deep.
I can fight a mean battle
But I can't fight sleep!

My head was groggy
And my eyes were red.
My soul was willing
But my bum was stuck to the bed.

Eventually, I rose.
Mind triumphed over matter.
I dunked my face into
A bowl of icy cold water.

I reached out, and glugged down
A jar of coffee so strong
That it'd wake up a dead man
And send him skipping along.

And that's how I ended up
On the battlefield,
With my crossbow poised
And unwilling to yield.

I sought out the General
To explain why I was late,
And to make good the lost time
By sealing the enemy's fate.

I proposed I'd do that
By shooting them, two at a time
Thus bringing victory to our side
With the war still in it's prime.

The General stifled a yawn
Paused to adjust his star
And nonchalantly told me
That I'd slept through the war.

Shopoholics Anonymous

Violins played soulfully in the background. The air was sweet with the gentle fragrance of roses infused with bergamots. My eyes glazed over as I walked down the aisle with a smile towards that wonderful man who had everything I had been looking for. I could feel the envious glances from a bunch of women across the room and hastened to reach him, lest he be distracted by their presence.

If I had thought that this was one of those picture perfect moments of my life, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The violins were rudely interrupted by an in-store announcement. The perfume sales-person went away on a break, taking with her the last whiff of the Nina Ricci EDT that she had so generously been spraying at random shoppers. The sales guy at the Benetton aisle was attacked from the flank by a woman with a fake Louis Vuitton bag who relieved him of half my shortlisted clothes!

“Ah well, at least you’ve got your mug”, my friend patted me on the arm encouragingly when she saw my fuming ‘I-shall-murder-the-thieving-lady-with-the-fake-bag’ look. I nodded, slightly abashed. I was abashed because I had dragged my unsuspecting friend into the Shopper’s Stop store earlier that morning to buy a mug. And there I was 3 hours later with 2 pairs of shoes, a summer dress, a tulip skirt and yeah, one mug but still mourning over the loss of a couple of peplum dresses that I had shortlisted. And all she had to show for the 3 hours was, well, infinite patience and empathy! Uggh, shopping does bring out the ugly, ungracious side of me!

My friend Simi once told me that I turn in to some sort of a weird Zombie when I shop. Apparently, when I spot a dress or a pair of peep-toe shoes that takes my fancy, I zone out, my eyes glaze over and I eerily glide towards it with my arms outstretched; impervious to all external stimuli / internal logic.  I stopped for a moment to ponder over that hard-hitting truth (after I had tried out that new pair of peep-toe shoes, of course!) I realized then that I seem to have more of a physiological response to shopping. Retail Therapy which has been touted to be the ultimate mood enhancer for most of (wo)mankind seems to go one step ahead to act as a performance enhancer for me! In fact if you’d put me in a 100 m sprint alongside Usain Bolt with the finish line at the Zara store, I’m pretty sure I’d elbow him and surge ahead.

I am not kidding. There is nothing like a LBD or a pair of kitten heels to get the adrenaline pumping. After several years of dedicated research in the Retail space (read indiscriminate shopping) I have logged the following observations on the physiological effects of Retail Therapy:

1.      Blood rushes to the brain. (I believe this also happens when one runs into George Clooney)

2.      There is a heightened sense of sight and touch. (Yes, there *is* a difference between cyan coloured chiffon and cerulean tinted crepe.)

3.      And the reflexes are distinctly sharper. (Well, sharper than that on a Monday morning and sharp enough to elbow Usain Bolt out of the race to Zara!)

Add to that the forbidden four letter word – S*A*L*E and you’d have me on a leash! I was probably hypnotized as a kid as a part of some socio-economic experiment to boost the Retail industry in India. I presume ‘sale’ would have been chosen as the key word that would snap me in and out of a dream-like state (where I would charge about mindlessly emptying my wallet). Anyway, if any of those evil scientists are reading this… Congratulations! It works. I even rush into ‘Lungi’ exhibitions at Co-Optex thanks to the rainbow coloured sign-board that screams “SALE”!

So the way it usually works is - twice a year I wake up early on a Saturday morning to a phone call from my friend Vani with the joyous news of the end of season sales. We plan our strategy and our circuit which like a medieval hunting expedition mostly involves getting a head start. Until recently, our circuit mostly revolved around Phoenix Mills and Atria Mall. However last year, with due deference to our geographical status, we foraged the hunting grounds up north. I shall have you know that we wore down the escalators of Phoenix Market City, R-City mall and Oberoi mall all in one day! Well, the Oberoi sojourn was for a movie but I’m counting it anyway. Bite me! Oh dear, there’s my retail-induced mean streak again. If any of the shoppers from R-City mall are reading this… Sorry about the black eye, but that *was* the last yellow cardigan in the store after all and I saw it first.

And finally, if Arjun, Vaibhav or Kunal are reading this… “Girls Will Shop”!!!

Salaam Bombay

The wheels of the plane kiss the tarmac on a late January evening and the runway lights zip past the window. The airhostess announces that it is 7:45 in the evening and the ‘outside temperature’ is 30 degrees Celsius. My fellow passengers on the flight from Bangalore groan (well, natural thing to do if you had found yourself less than two hours ago in an 18 degrees clime). But me? Ah, well I am in paradise. The announcement sounds like music to my ears and when I disembark from the plane to feel the warmth and humidity embrace me, it does feel like a warm welcome. I was home!

Well, I do think of Bombay as my foster home, in a weird sense of the term. I was born and brought up in Bangalore, but Bombay is where I grew… as a person, as an individual, as an entity. There has been much that has been said about Bombay – both generous appreciation as well as acrid criticism; but to me, its beauty and character lie in its duality.

Where else would one find stubborn slum dwellings jostling for space with snooty high-rises? Which other city would attract equally, such a huge influx of starry eyed B-school graduates and assiduous cab drivers from the heartlands? And where else would a roadside kebab stall stand alongside swanky nightclubs and woo the patrons with equal sanguinity at 1 in the morning.

That’s the thing about Bombay - it is a city of anomalies. But in the same breath, I would venture forth to say that this incongruity in itself is a testimony to the openness of the city; the willingness to give you a shot at making your mark, irrespective of who you are and where you’re from. It is after all (pardon me for using this cliché)... the City of Dreams!

But let me not be biased. There is an ugly side to this duality as well - ‘Micro-security in macro-uncertainty’ seems to be an unspoken tenet that rules the city. You can hop onto the local trains at twelve in the night and not worry about getting harassed or mugged; but sadly, you can’t be completely sure that it won’t blow up under your feet on your way to work.  The narrowest alleys and the most crowded stations would permit you to pass through without being groped or grabbed by unsavoury elements but sometimes even the finest of five star facilities can’t guarantee that you return home unsullied by bullet holes.

Yet, year after year the wave of starry-eyed souls pouring into the city with certificates in their suitcases and dreams in their hearts continues to swell. And Bombay, being the generous city that she is, stands with her arms outstretched to give them all a warm, humid welcome home!

Magic At The Creek

It was a quaint summer’s day.

The sky smiled a benign blue.

A raspy wind teased tousled heads

And the vibrant kites they flew.

And the tousled heads that didn’t fly kites

Or play a game of hide-and-seek,

Were not engaged by a game of ball,

But by, the magic at the creek.

The creek in itself, was an exaggeration.

It had less water than it had hype,

For it was a mere trickle by the main road,

Caused by a crack in the municipal pipe.

I was among the bunch of kids that day

Assembled there to verify

Reports of baby fishes spewed forth by the creek,

With my own credulous eye.

And with the enthusiasm of little kids

Who’ve never lived by the lake or sea,

We promptly reached out with jars and tins

To take home pet fish for free.

I clutched the rusty tin close to my heart.

My fishes smelled rather foul

So I put the tin on my window sill

Until I could find a respectable fish bowl.

But like most tousled heads with fleeting minds,

With a thousand thoughts coming through per minute,

Other thoughts soon replaced the rusty tin

And the bunch of fishes in it.

Until, one day I was beckoned by

A throaty croak from the rusty tin,

And was amazed to see that the baby fishes had grown

Into the couple of frogs that lay within.

Mother said something about tadpoles

And life cycles at their peak.

But I stuck to my logical explanation that,

It was because of the magic at the creek!

Bitter Pill

I would not quite call myself a hypochondriac, but I do end up visiting the Doctor a tad more often than most other people do. Well in my defense, I have always ended up a victim in the eternal tussle between my desire to eat everything and the ability to do so. It also doesn’t help that where most normal human brains would conform to the “Fight or Flight” reaction in stressful times, mine deviously registers “Throw-up” as the only response. 

When I first moved to Bombay, my version of acclimatization involved throwing up every once in a while. Vani, my friend, flat-mate, and fashion pundit very succinctly summarized the situation and labeled my weekend vomiting bouts as the “Sunday Syndrome”. Being new to the city, I refrained from visiting the smaller neighbourhood clinics; not due to a misplaced sense of snobbishness but because of a generic assumption that the bigger the medical facility, the more credible it would be. 

The first center on my list, was what seemed to be a fairly huge medical college and hospital. A familiar landmark around where I lived then. It was a weekday and Simi, my friend, flat-mate, and philosopher very sweetly offered to take me to the nearest hospital before heading to work. I found myself in an elongated room with three doctors sitting at identical tables aligned in a row; two of the Doctors were already attending to the patients seated opposite them. A grim-looking nurse brusquely waved me towards the empty stool while the remaining patients at the doorway watched on impatiently for their turn. A scene from the CET counseling room during my pre-engineering days suddenly surfaced from the depths of my memory as I walked towards the Doctor.

The moment I seated myself on the rickety stool, I was assaulted with a barrage of questions in rapid Marathi by the Doctor. When I hastened to explain to him that I didn’t quite understand Marathi, the ward-boy (who in this case just happened to be a burly, middle-aged lady) clucked disapprovingly and nodded her head reproachfully with a ‘Don’t-know-where-they-keep-coming-from’ expression. The Doctor switched to a less rapid Hindi interrogation and I answered with equal parts relief and uncertainty (my barely functional knowledge of Hindi was no match for his medical terms in textbook Hindi). I must have managed fairly well though, for I did end up with a prescription (albeit in Marathi) from the Doctor; but the Consultation fee of a mere thirty rupees left me quite confounded. When I went to a Chemist to buy the drugs, my confusion was fuelled further, for they told me that they did not stock “that kind of medication”. It was when my confusion switched to alarm that they patronizingly explained that I had just been to the local Ayurvedic hospital!

If the thirty rupees fee raised my eyebrow, I soon ended up at a hospital where the consultation fee made my jaw drop. This time around it was a case of burning eyes and a nagging headache. Triggered by suggestions from colleagues at work and a spot of ‘Googling’, I went to a renowned (non-ayurvedic) hospital close to my locality. They had insisted upon creating a file for me so that “it would be easier when I would come for a treatment the next time around”. Their confidence in my falling ill again was mildly disconcerting. I was then ushered into an elaborate eye examination room where after much ado I was told that the discomfort was not due to some exotic eye infection but because my power had increased from -0.5 to -0.75; and yes, the fee was an astronomical eight hundred rupees! It only added insult to injury when Simi (who had in her unfailing show of solidarity accompanied me to the hospital) wanted to pick up a pair of glasses. When we reached the Optics Showroom, the optician offered to check her power; and yes, for FREE!

That did it.  The day I was attacked by a vicious bout of cough, I resolved to advance to the next segment – non-ayurvedic, non-highway-robbing medical centres. This time, I took my Landlord’s advice and visited his family physician whose clinic was a stone’s throw away. When I turned up at the hole-in-the-wall clinic however, I was a little miffed to find that he was a child specialist. I hung around nevertheless amidst wailing babies and curious mothers (probably wondering where my ailing child was, for clearly, why else would I have turned up!). I was the last one to see the Doctor who thankfully, unlike the mothers outside, wasn’t very curious. In a very matter-of-fact-way he asked me for my symptoms and before I could finish, he started penning down the prescription while simultaneously calling out to his assistant to bring the prescribed drugs.

And that was when I practically fell off the stool in shock. I don’t quite remember which caused the greater impact - the prescription that he handed to me on a yellow Post-It note or his instruction to his assistant “Sheela, woh naye sample waale tablets lekar aana”! I quickly spun around to scan the room for some sign of reassurance- a framed MBBS degree certificate or even a graduation photo with a stethoscope around his neck but the search was interrupted by the sight of Sheela walking in with a big yellow box with STD, ISD, PCO written on it. She went towards the small bed in the corner and emptied what was clearly a public telephone booth signage box. Out came a deluge of colourful pills in various shapes and sizes. She sorted through them and handed over a few of her favourites to the Doctor who promptly folded them in a used math notebook sheet and passed it over to me. I just managed to register a blur of blue capsules, yellow tablets and a dozen baby pink pills staring at me with a few algebraic equations in the background. No expiry date, no pharmaceutical composition, and definitely no logic. 

The Doctor mistook my incredulous expression for one of gratitude and launched into a friendly banter which was more of an interrogation of my personal life (definitely more detailed than the discussion of my symptoms). When he surmised that I was working in a bank, staying on rent and had done my Telecom Engineering before my MBA, he actually said, “Why don’t you send me your resume and I’ll try and get you a job with BSNL. Government jobs are more stable and you will even get a Government quarters. But no promises, huh?”

This time around I left with both, a raised eyebrow and a dropped jaw.