Incomplete conversations

Its been sometime since we last spoke. Since we last shared every little detail that makes no sense to the world but us. Since the time I told you I had bad food. Since the time I got sounded off with a warning for doing so. Its been a while since you last told me about you finally settling down in office.
I haven't bored you with football talk in the longest time. Neither have you pretended that you don't mind it.
Its been a while since you're no longer part of my life.

Wading through each day I think of things I want to tell you. Just you. No one else would get it. No one else would get me. My idiosyncrasies have a full access permit to your mind and heart. Every little detail about me finds itself in a remote corner in my mind, neatly packed, never to be opened again. So many times I've dialed your number, only to cut it before the bell goes. I hate myself for wanting to speak to you, when I clearly said I don't want to. I hate the urge to tell you every good and bad moment that passes me by.
I wanted to tell you that I climbed the highest peak in Maharashtra. That it felt good. That I couldn't feel my legs for the next two days. I thought you would like to know that I try and go for a run every 3 days or so. That I found a group who is accommodating enough to let a dilliwala play football with them.
But is it just me? I wonder if you you want to dump on me all those unsaid moments that probably were itching to be released. I wonder if those unsaid moments have found a new set of ears. If you have, I wonder if those ears are as genuine. I wonder of you still watch Gilmore Girls when you need a smile. I wonder if that nose pin still hurts. I wonder if you ever tried to reach out in one sudden burst of emotion, but restrained. Do you still wrap the tea bag around the spoon to squeeze every little drop? Do you look at the milk pot next to it and think of me? Can you pass a single day without once wanting to tell me how it was?

I don't know the answers, but I know you know me. You know me like no one else does. And I know you more than you think I do. But what we both know is the fact that we can't talk anymore. For we know each other too well.

My one trek mind

I am not much of a cards guy but this particular day I was killing it. I was among seasoned seasonal gamblers and yet I had more counters than I could count. And let me tell you, I am so bad at cards that I used to think a trail of colour meant three red cards or three black ones. In all this excitement which stretched till 3 in the night, I almost forgot I had to leave in 3 hours for a trek to Kalsubai Peak - the highest natural point in Maharashtra.

So after finally encashing the counters and bidding a groggy goodbye to the people I won money off, I was off to bed, dreading the sound of the alarm I have truly come to hate. So with unmistakable six-sigma certified irritation, my alarm went off at 6. Followed by equally irritating sounds of friends who were already on their way to Dadar station. I must admit, I came really really close to calling off the trek in exchange for a few hours of sleep. But adrenalin prevailed over laziness, and so did better sense.

I met Sudeep and Nishant at Dadar station and in true mumbai fashion was greeted with well disguised inadvertent pushes and shoves at 7 am even on a Dussehra holiday. Sudeep was wearing a United jersey ( good man!) while Nishant was dressed as if he was about to hop across the whole Himalayan range just to show that he can. Anyhow, amidst commotion, confusion and lack of coordination we saw the 7:30 Local to Kasara leave the platform right before our eyes. We then had no option but to wait for the 8:50 Local now, which meant more morning mumbai maniacs to share the seats with. So we got into the train and managed to wrestle three seats from the morning mumbai maniacs. While perched on cold steel seats with our soft overfed asses, my part gujju genes helped me decode a discussion amongst a gujju group about our destination being two hours away. But I'm guessing they weren't true gujju's because in those two freaking hours they never once took out Dhokla, Khandvi or any other awesome gujju snack.

We got down at Kasara to the relief of our clenched butt cheeks. But a bigger pain in the ass awaited us in the form of taxi drivers waiting to rip us off. Which they did. We spend 550 bucks on a ride that the locals paid 80 for. That moment I felt deep sympathy for the foreign tourists who pay 250 rupees to see Qutub Minar, while our home-grown love birds pay only 10 to see the back of a 14th century medieval wall. Needless to say, we were the foreigners this time. Dresses in our touristy clothes, armed with Nishant's tripod stand, cameras and god knows how many lenses. That man was a walking photo studio willing to click anything from a dumb sleeping crab in the mud to camera friendly semi-naked men bathing in their undies. Our man with the lens saw beauty in everything except for the climb.

On our way we met a friend. A four legged one who kept following us. From now on, he( i saw his balls, plus no bitch would do what he did for us) shall be addressed as Tommy. Only because I haven't met any dog named tommy,ever since that dog name went out of fashion in the early 16th century.He walked when we walked. He ran when we ran. He eased off when we eased off. And he stopped when Nishant stopped. To be honest, our man with the photographic eye had the stamina of a chain smoking chihuahua. He stopped times to catch his breath in only the first 100 meters of the trek. Although I must say that Tommy displayed amazing patience to stick with him, for I would have just bitten the fuck out of him and carried on.
Not only was he a patient guide, Tommy was a courageous fighter as well. You know how people say that your whole life flashes before you when you are about to die? Well, its all horsepiss. When a bull comes thundering down a mud path that is big enough for only one of you, you don't see shit from the life you've been living. All you see is the bull and the fact that you will be mince meat even before you can spell it. I went through the horror of staring a rampaging bull and the only reason I am alive to tell this tale is because of Tommy. He leaped forward to my rescue by barking his guts out at the bull. The bull suddenly stopped, kicked Tommy and then changed its path. I stopped trembling after 10 minutes or so I guess, but more importantly I was alive.

One passing couple spotted the dog trailing us and very proudly boasted with their puffed up chests and sparkling eyes that the dog was a local celebrity of sorts who had even made it to a local paper for being a guide to all the non-locals.

Meanwhile me and Sudeep had already charted out pattern for our climb, which was fairly simple. Walk for 5 minutes, stop, and then bitch about Nishant while he catches up. Our plan worked well for a bit and then eventually a visibly fucked up Nishant gave up his adventurous streak in order to continue the great journey called life. Normally, we don't leave a man behind, but when the man himself wants to be left behind, its always better to scamper off before he changes his mind.

This climb to the top was the most conflicting in terms of emotions. It made me feel great on one hand, as with each step I surprised myself for making it this far. But deeply embarrassing and shame inducing on the other, as I wtinessed women in chappals and gallivanting geriatrics going about the trek at half the distress it was causing us. Now I am no fitness freak, in fact as a punju-gujju who loves overeating I am right at other end of the fitness stick.
But seeing all those locals looking at their puffing and panting city cousins with mocking eyes was a rude wake up call. But we did it. We made it to the fucking top and I am fucking proud of it. Fucking yeah! One more time. Fucking Yeah!

We made it down in almost half the time and ass breaking as it took us to ascend. We even caught up with Nishant who looked fresh as a flower in a flower shop sprayed with water every two minutes. Tommy followed us all the way till the bus stop from where we took seat in a tempo normally used to ferry goods. We perched our aching city bottoms on a tiny little plank of wood where even a rabbit would complain of discomfort. But we slugged it out like brave people who have no other option.

After 5 hours, a congested auto trip, a relatively comfortable train journey in the general compartment we finally made it to our patch. The brightly lit up city, with no trees but buildings. With cars to replace stones we dodged on the trek. The place where the closest I come to a trek is the walk to my apartment.

The three of us then wrapped up the day with a sumptuous meal to fill up spaces vacated by all the calories we burnt on our little expedition earlier. We had plentiful servings of prawn chilli, stuffed bombil fry, tandoori chicken, mushroom tikka, palak rice and dal khichdi. Along with copious amounts of beer for the other two adrenalin junkies and orange juice for me.

One final word - this trek guarantees to rip your butt cheeks apart if you're a couch potato. Which is why I had to tape mine together to wear jeans today.

You don't get it that I get it.

' You don't have to be shot to know that a bullet kills'

The first time I uttered these words, I knew I had hit upon a fabulous insight capable of bringing down all the pointing fingers belonging to the Naysayers. It was like a neatly devised counter-attack at all claims that attempted to undermine my capability of 'getting it' just because I wasn't in the same situation as the person supposedly 'getting it'.

These words when used collectively perform admirably as one giant middle finger to every 'chuck it, you won't get it' ever thrown your way.

No, I would never know how it feels on the first day of chumming. Probably not even on the second or third. Fuck how many are there? Probably equal to the times a boyfriend needs to say sorry for doing nothing. I digress. So, coming back to the point -If girls chum then I have been kicked in the nuts. That too with several different objects of differing weight, sharpness and force. Which qualifies me to sympathise with the pain, if not the reason behind it.

I would also fail to shed a tear or two for the loss of your beloved pug, but my condolences will be real. I have lost toys too. Lost them to fires and sometimes even the depths of the commode. And they were precious to me. Precious because I have always been an above average student. Something my folks never quite came to terms with. For them I was Einstein reincarnated with a callous approach and normal hair. So basically, with grades like mine, new toys were as rare to come by as spotting a semi naked lady with a broken down car on a rainy afternoon, while you good sir are her only hope. Not only of a ride but also accommodation for the night.

So don't look at me with soggy eyes, a lump in the throat and mildly suppressed anger if I don't understand your loss just because I haven't picked up dog poop in parks, or in some cases secretly kicked it in the bushes after the business was done.

Because I can't take a bullet to prove that it kills. But hand me a gun and I will be more than willing to prove my theory.

Sitting Ducks

So its been three months since I shifted to Mumbai. Before I came here, I got a lot of advises like - be safe, avoid crowded areas, don't take the locals.

I merely smirked and feigned gratitude at their concerns, for I was driven by logic and stats. My analytic yet gullible mind thought that post 26/11 the city of Mumbai would be a fortress, as promised by the government. You know how you protect what is more vulnerable. I thought that was the agenda after the horrific 26/11 or the train blasts or the several bomb blasts that now seem passable. I thought tough measures were being taken, as promised by the government.

My belief was driven by the simple fact that no other city in India has been a bigger target for terror than Mumbai. So according to common sense it should now be the safest city in India given the deployment of security forces in their fancy new tank like vehicles.

But it wasn't to be. It was deja-vu all over again. Like some anticipated yet dreaded yearly occurrence.

There was a blast. There were body parts strewn all over. There were horrified faces. There were faceless bodies. There was public outrage. There were police officers at the spots. There were official statements and condemnations.
There was no action taken. There was no attempt to punish the offenders. There was just an open invitation for the mercenaries of death to come and kill some more of us.

This governmental impotency aside, I don't understand the crap we are fed daily in the form of the 'spirit of Mumbai'. Its not spirit that forces people to get out of house the very next day, its need. The need to survive and provide for the family. People are used to such acts of terror that they have accepted it as a part of their daily life. Getting scared and staying at home is not an option for the regular mumbaikar, because frankly hunger kills more people than bombs do.
No one steps out in the face of a tragedy with a Rambo style bandana and wild chest thumps. People step out because that's what they have to do. Life never stops, it just ends. There is no spirit in being one of the many name in a dead list.