The last seventeen months

Crammed up houses. Filth strewn everywhere the eyes can roam. Clogged roads turning seconds into hours. What is it that Mumbai uses to charm and attract? 17 months and I'm as clueless as the day I got down at Mumbai Central to give this city a try, like million others pouring in like tea from a kettle. It might be an old, ragged and an overused cliche, but this city is alive. Something beats through it constantly, pumping energy from god knows where. It's not just one city, it's a collection of thousand ecosystems striving each day, somehow. The rich jog on the same carter road that is home to a colony of fishermen. Spoilt kids tap on their smart phones while sharing the bench with a 10 year old rag picker who has discovered treasure in the form of a half-eaten burger.

The elitist South Bombayites or SOBOs look down upon anything north of Worli. Worli looks down on anything north of the sea-link and this hatred of north stops only at Delhi. It's a crime in Mumbai to be from the capital. As soon as you share your origins, snide glances are exchanged, judgements are made and artillery to put you down is loaded inside mouth shaped cannons. But then I found out, much to my amusement, that a poor Andheri dweller suffers from the safe fate. Being from Mumbai isn't enough to win you approval.

Everyone has a story to tell in this city, for everyone who washes up to the shores of Mumbai tugs along some baggage. People sit for hours eyeballing the setting sun near the sea, as if trying to reason the befallen misfortunes. They search for answers in low tides. Look for some deep-rooted meaning when the tide is high. I can vouch for it myself, having spent many a night at Bandstand, watching the Arabian Sea play Taliban to the horny couples on the rocks. Ofttimes you do silly things when alone.Like, make small talk to the guy firing up his make-shift stove to make bhutta. Only to be deterred by his talkative nature. Then feign interest and listen to his grouses, his aspirations. Get sucked into his story and suddenly feel shit that you can't even share your trivial problems with this guy. No one needs a psychiatrist in this city. We all help each other out.

This city is a barren wasteland for a loner and a throbbing melee for the rest. There is something for everyone here. Cold as a stone at times and warm as an embrace on occasions, it confuses the fuck out of you. You can't love it, you certainly can't hate it. This city could be your first love. It could very well be the one who cheated on you. It can pain you and also play the doctor. Mumbai is a teacher. Mumbai is a rapist. Mumbai is anything you want it to be.

So the question still lurks. What is it about Mumbai?
I don't know. I guess nobody knows.
What I do know is, I loved every day of my 17 month stay.

Voice of the Banana

A banana is a fruit ridiculed worldwide for its striking resemblance to the male reproductive organ. And almost all the flak that comes the way of this innocent fruit is uncalled for. The bent in the shape isn't what he got customized when God was creating all the fruits. The reason that would make maximum sense is that God had a tiny memory malfunction when he was chiseling the final touches to the Penis.

He must have been all "Why do I feel I've seen something like this before. Where dammit where have I seen the same shape. Aah...let it be, not like anyone would question me. And if anyone does, I'll send Rahul Gandhi to their home to satiate himself with the last remaining morsel of grain in their house."

Is that the Banana's fault? NO. Is the Banana entitled to feel wrongly done? YES. Is there an end to the Banana's life of shame and suffering? NO. Should the Banana be given a right to speak up for the atrocities it has faced over centuries? YES.

When will people wake up to the plight of the Banana? We fight for women, for kids, for blacks, but when it comes to the Banana, no one gives a fuck. Give a fuck.
What if that Banana was a member of your family, being oppressed and subjugated every single day of his/her pathetic lamentable disgustingly unfortunate existence. Would you tolerate it then. I doubt it. Because supposedly ties of blood weigh more than ties of fruit.

Stand up for the Banana. The Banana would stand up for you. Because it might look like a dick, but it isn't one.
It is a fruit.

Of days Bai Gone

The crumpled sheets on my bed remind me of her. I see clothes strewn all over, like little pieces of misery. I stare at the door, longing for her to walk in and fill my life with eternal joy and happiness.

Oh BAI! How I miss you. Come back soon, its been more than a week and I am running out of clean underwear. I contemplated refurbishing my wardrobe with new set of undies and boxers, because that seemed a lot easier than washing the old lot. Sadly that plan never took off thanks to stupid shops that close their shutters by 8. Out came the deodorant and their claims of long lasting freshness were put to the ultimate test, under extreme conditions. Let's just say if the Axe commercials were true, then all the angels would have been dangling from my dick and slipping off my balls.

The pile of dirty dishes is so tall, that the insects in my house are enjoying the comforts of a multi-storied skyscraper that they can feast upon as well. If I could understand their buzzes or their tentacle talk, I am sure I'd be thanked over and over.

Please come back in your sweaty attire and non-coherent sentences that I don't understand in one go. Bring along your tantrums and even your half-hearted working style. But please come. Its been too long. If you were well read you would have come across the phrase 'Distance makes the heart grow fonder'. Baby, I mean it, every word I mean it for you. From the bottom of my pile of dirty clothes and dishes, I mean it.

If you had BBM, I would send you cute emoticons of my crying and being sad. I would dedicate my status updates on FB to you and only you, if you had an account.

Oh Bai! ab bohot hua, wapas aa jao.

One neat orange juice please, thank you.

This is my usual order each time I walk into a place that serves alcohol. Sometimes it changes to a diet coke, although that usually depends on how gassy I am feeling at the moment.
I'll be honest, I look around the bar after placing my order just to check if I was low enough. What follows next is the silent smirk of the bartender. Who I'm sure thinks of me as some kid who got a high just by walking inside a bar.
But he doesn't know the reason behind my amateurish order. About the horrible medical problem I suffer from. Which is commonly known as the Doctor's Advice.

Some six years back I suffered from acute pancreatitis or pancreitis I am still not sure. It was terrible pain that makes you want to wish there is a god somewhere, who can just clap his hands together and take your life away in an instant. I must have sent him atleast a 100 instant prayers per day to rid me of my pain by snapping the life chord, but I guess those prayers never made it past the ozone layer. So much for the holes in it.

Years passed and I continued to whisper orders without once questioning the doctor's logic. So once I sat at home twirling a stirrer in my neat orange juice, pondering at my plight. Some really startling questions popped up in my mind. Like, there is some problem in my pancreas, but alcohol usually affects the liver. Which means either the liver secretly passes excess alcohol to the pancreas or maybe my pancreas are those snooty neighbours who throw a strop by callign the cops on the party next door. Anyhow, it just didn't make a lot of sense.

But to be honest, I was too tempted to try what I was missing. Call it the lure of the forbidden or the non-existent peer pressure. Non-existent because I am blessed with some lucky bastards who don't let me drink. They think I am a better designated driver than a drinking buddy. And frankly, who has ever got lucky picking up a girl whilst holding a virgin mojito?

I'v decided that I am going against my doctor's prestigious educational degree and well compensated concern. At the risk of drinking myself to an early grave, I've decided to flirt with booze. I've watched people drink themselves silly and act completely bonkers. I want to do that too. I don't want to be the guy who watches people roll on the floor and then takes them back home. I want people to clean my vomit. If not as a friend then as someone who can ruin a nice sofa in their expensive apartment.

Lastly and probably the strongest reason why I drink is so that when I die because my pancreas can't take the load of a grey goose or whatever, people can say 'He went on a high'!!

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.