Dear Mr.Psychiatrist...

Hell!!!what have I done? I have begun to sound so morbid!! I'm surprised no one left me a comment giving me the contact details of a psychiatrist whom I should see asap. Thanks about that dear readers.( Now I can safely say that) Speaking of seeing the psychiatrist, these are my thoughts.

As I walked out of my office elevator this morning, Ms.Gossip Gossip (Ya I'm right!!!thats her first name and last!It pretty much defines her.) had something to say. Poor thing , the few seconds of silence in the travel from the ground to the third floor, and I felt she would just explode. Even I have felt like that many times before because:

a. someone decided to impregnate the little atmosphere in there with the scent of jasmine flowers.
b. the few times when my sixth sense functioned, I had a bad bad feeling that the lift was going to defy gravity and stand levitating in mid air. And I'm stuck all by myself, in the damp, dark space!!!(I'm hoping that sounded scary enough...atleast thats usually enough to spook me out!!!)
c. I'm stranded with dear darling E.D.(executive director- for the benefit of those who think it stands for eggs and donkeys or something) and even the molecules in the air have defied nature and crystalised as a mark of ahem...respect!!!Duh!!!Not really.As a matter of practise, I guess.

But not because I had to share a piece of the most consequential information of the day. Ofcourse Ms. G.G. was vying for spot number one among her fellow contestants. So as if her brains would just liquify under pressure, she spurted out: "Unnaku theriyuma???Saravana Stores lai inniki karthaala fire!!!"Aaaahh! What a succulent piece of crap! For the benefit of those ignorant souls who do not know about the phenomenon called Saravana Stores, kindly permit me a slight detour:

Saravana Stores is a retail scale of what would put even Harrods to utter shame. Its where man turns into mass. Where shopping becomes as fundamental to life as breathing. Where degeneration has just begun. Selling hair pins to hammers; saris to sanitary ware; bedding to beet root!!! this place is worth a visit.

Anyway, getting back, Ms.GG went on about how she saw a black cloud of flames (believe me even the guy who spotted the ice berg that wrecked the Titanic would have sounded less horrified) just as she was boiling the milk to make coffee for her husband. I'm sure she was like: "Damn the coffee!!! Look at the spiralling sensation. And Oh my God!!! I actually witnessed it. So what if i could see the twin towers collapse only on T.V. ?I can see the live version of Saravana Stores flare up!!" Not funny? I agree. So I become the first audience to the Arson event (well thats GG's version), in my own little backyard!!! Mr Psychiatrist, I've got you business.

Then came the rest of the tribe in the office who were decked and dazzling today, as if there were a competition of who was wearing the most amount of gold. You know what, anyone wants to make a loot or something, I'll tell you a secret. Just drop me an email and I'll tell you when you could ideally plan to rob the women folk at my work place. But one slight hitch. The designs are horrendous!!!You'll get the jewellery, but the worst!!! So if you are planning to give any of the stolen stuff to your girl friend/ wife/ mother, be prepared for a double bashing. For stealing and that too poor taste.(anyway we'll share the booty. At least that would save me of looking at my boss' face evry morning) They were shimmering as if today was the only day Gold was permitted, and as if there were going to be a law that had the effect of declaring that possessing gold is like possessing dope. Dear Mr. Psychiatrist, some more on the way!!!

The next one takes the cake. I finally make it to get the exmination form of a course I'm doing. needless to say, its kinda a Government of India enterprise- the Institute of Company Secretaries of India - SIRC chapter. Wow!!!that sounds like a hot guy. But wait and watch. I thank my stars at having reached in time. MISCONCEPTION. The board reads 5.45 p.m. as closing time. I'm there at 5.10. But
' Don't you know? The cash counter shuts at 5.15.'
Even then I got 5 minutes before its supposed to shut!
The guy screeches: "Girl!!!You teaching me rules? eh?"
"No Sir. Come on How can I? I'm a sweet girl! I'm not here to teach you rules. Just to get the godamn examination form."
"Don't you have change? What? You think I run a bank here? Too rich to give me change?"

I fish out all the permutations and combinations to sum up to the cost of the form. God!!!Next in line was another scandalised kid. And the meteor shower started again. I wonder what really drives these people. Dear Mr Psychiatrist, time for you to take over.

Arranged Marriage & the Associated Aarbatam...

I'll tell you what, I have been thinking of doing this for a very long time now. I did not realise until recently, and now that have, I just surprised myself, that the reason for the refrain is that I seemed to have acquired my parents fears. But now that enlightenment has dawned upon me, I just don't care about what the repurcussions of doing this would be. Well, enlightenment should prove a point right?

An obvious fall out of my sad saga of singlehood (not sure if its so sad, but I like alliterations....so) was the tragic triumph of the arranged marriage institution. Coming to think of it now, it reminds me of an ambulance for the following reasons:

1. it is a rescue vehicle for the singletons who like me have failed to incidentally saunter upon their love.

2. once you are in it, it will send out flashes of red light and a deafening siren of your arrival on the scene of the 'eligibles'.

3. it will take you no where else, but to a hospital where you will poked, pricked, and pierced(i know they all mean almost the same, but i love the alliterations) and most probably end up dead, injured or at least scarred for life.

Somewhere along the way, i think i just turned out lucky. Plus of course, I'm intelligent (yes I am!!)and I'm a woman. So that gives me the sixth sense advantage. I could smell the fish in the pie (well thats my own idiom if you were wondering, I'm a contributor to the english language) and since I perpetually run a campaign to 'save my life', (i'm experienced at this you see) I decided to jump off the emergency vehicle, because after all, there was no emergency.

But as long as I was on it I met people who should rightfully have made a reservation in Madam Tussad's before they embarked on their earthly visit. There are different kinds of atrocious people. Let me list them out for you:

1. The type who has not tried magic oil for rejuvenating hair growth (on the head, before I am misunderstood), or hair weaving, or Dr. Batra's helpful homeopathy, but expects his girl to have spent every penny of the savings of the seven generations before her on VLCC or Talwarkars. I really think what such men need is a mirror, not a wife.

2. The foreign maaplai, whose marketing, advertising and branding is all done by his mommie dearest who is already jealous that the daughter-in-law would get to see the Niagra falls before she does.

3. The poor software engineer whose education failed to teach him that slavery was abolished really long ago, and that therefore if he is expecting servile dedication towards his parents he might as well do it himself and not look for a personal assistant under the falsified designation of a wife.

4. The super duper desperate men, I'm talking about the ones who will be the real beneficiaries if prostitution was legalised, (and I stand for it) and who stare at your breasts before they take a look at your face. (I don't intend to be funny here. So those who are laughing, its not a joke please). I don't think they need a wife, rather they don't deserve one.

5. The type who list out specifications about the wife-to-be with the confidence that bio technology has advanced enough to provide genetically adjusted wives, only there is a slight hitch there. Mothers of such boys should have within years after the birth of the slpendid son found another woman, who agreed to modify the genes of her prospective off spring. Marriage would then indeed be a contract, and I would have been spared preparing that really painful essay on my analysis of why marriage under Hindu Law cannot strictly speaking be termed a contract.

6. The type whose idea of a perfect first date involves a discussion about whether the next government would be formed by the Congress or the BJP or if life may be discovered on Pluto or if oil resources would last another decade or ten? Why do I care? For this type, you know what, you don't need a wife, just write in to Barkha Dutt to be a part of her show. That will serve your purpose.

7. The type who almost deserves a wife, those who will almost make you say that this world is not so bad after all, but just in time to nick your dreams, will look at his mommies face, the decision making authority of his life. The one who is a complete shame to the notion of all the masculinity one can reasonably associate with men. Grow up son! Then look for a wife, once you have managed to struggle free of her pallu.

8. Those that think marriage is a risk, and who will try and find insurance policies to try and cover them. Those who think they are standing at the tip of a tank full of H2SO4 and who will ultimately die inhaling the fumes or rather kill themself inhaling it. You know what, consider Sanyasa, it's the best option for you, and has the added feature of assuring a place in heaven and freedom from the cycle of re-birth.

If you think I'm exaggerating you are free to do so, its a democracy you see, and a constitutional right to think. But somehow after the brief experience I have decided to leave my life to the game of mathematical probability rather than exert any kind of efforts in the direction. The risk is not worth the patience, but is sure entertaining. Variety is certainly the spice of life, but when the spice is so strong that you nose and eyes and ears feel like a fire engine, you can rethink the measure of spice you want.

Goodbye...

There are some people I cannot bear to see go. I cannot just stand there and wave a cheery good bye and hug and kiss in the modern style, whilst advising the other to ‘take care’. It was something that had become more habitual than meaningful. Many times the people who tell you that, will definitely not be the ones around you when you really need the ‘care’. Yet, the ‘muaah’ ‘muaahs’ on either side of the cheek bear a close semblance to motherly love, care and compassion.

Having said that I should admit that I am one of the worst ‘bye’ say‘ers’ in the whole world. For I don’t exactly implement the hug and kiss gesture, but will stand there and look and if you would care to notice, you would notice my battle with my tears. I am a law graduate, and have been tutored to learn the skills of separating ‘law’ from ‘fact’. Still, when it comes to the ‘goodbye’ word, I feel like a scrambled egg, the white and the yellow, all mixed up. Someone sang that ‘goodbye’s the hardest word to say’ and if he came alive before me even once I would definitely hug him and kiss him and tell him that he could not have been more correct.

I hate to go, and to let go. Given the opportunity I would really love to keep the favourite people of my life, around me in close proximity and accessibility. But since that is hardly plausible, I am repeatedly forced like today to pack my loved one(mind you I have no issue in using the word, although it sounds a tad mushy) into an auto and then run back home into the bathroom letting myself loose, now that there is no obstacle in the way of my emotion. For a long time after they have left I will brood, an occasional tear welling up in the corner of my eye, wishing that the two days could have been slightly longer.

If this is the outcome of a temporary good bye, one can easily fathom the ‘goodbyes’ of finality. When I know there is never going to be a next time. I vouch for the fact that those are the worst, and when it has been accelerated by facts and circumstances that are simply beyond one’s control, it will have the same effect as a death by slow poisoning. (Indeed I have never experienced it to draw the parallel, but what do they call it? Literary license?) If it were in my control, I am sure I would definitely nail the person, without hurting him at all, of course, to the spot he currently occupied so as to prevent his going. But these are only wishes I can dream of, being sure without an aorta of doubt that it will never come true.

So I have had my little ‘dramas’ at places of all sorts, which I shall not publicly announce in my own self interest. Notably, I have been involved in these performances ever since I was a child, and age has not exactly contributed in simplifying things for me. The people I have met, liked and loved (and I don’t mean it in strictly the romantic sense) most often know how much they’ve meant for me. I do not however know if they understand the pain I’ve associated with the word. I relive the little moments I have spent with them. It will be always be a fresh bunch of flowers. To all of them with whom I am in touch and out of, for reasons we know and don’t, all I can say is a hearty ‘miss you’. And I mean it!

Glimpses...

I caught a glimpse of her from across the road. She was sitting in an autorickshaw, lips moving as if in prayer, but her facial expression continually changing to confirm that she was engaged in a conversation with herself. Through the passing traffic, the noise, the dust, the smoke, smelly pedestrians in the humid summer heat of Madras, there was little I could notice. But, having a world of time before the signal turned green for pedestrians my eyes were rather riveted on noticing her. She could have been pretty. There was plenty of scope for that. But her lovely curls were combed back with an excess of sticky oil, and tied at the back. She must have been tired, but through the distance between her and me, there was not much room for details. She sat holding her laptop case as if she was clinging on to the last remnants of her life occasionally checking to see if the signal had given a go. She did not seem to be hurry. She had stopped her conversation, and was looking distant, chin held high in the air, as if she was teaching herself to be brave. And I had been nearer I had a strong feeling that I would have been able to see her expressive eyes well up, and if I had been even more proximate I might have even been able to catch a drop of her tear before it fell to the floor.

I wondered what her worry could be. The signal had turned green for both of us, and it was time for us to move. But I still wondered what the tears could have been for. To me it felt like she was losing a part of herself with each precious drop…how much more of her had gone?

I checked my own phone for the time. With the coming of the mobile phone I never felt the necessity to wear a wrist watch. Back home my grandmother had always looked at my bare hands each day as I left for work, staring rather disapprovingly. I did manage to purchase a pair of gold bangles as a respectable investment, but never got around to adorning myself with it. The time was closing in on seven, the sun almost down leaving the city like a pre-heated oven. I was in no particular rush, as I did not think I had to put in effort to push the globe by a few inches. Things had been rushing past me, faster than the seemingly slow traffic driven by impatient drivers. Everyone seemed to be in a great hurry, as if they had Cindrella’s dead line to meet. I could not fathom what they were racing towards. My own life was racing past me. It was eight months since I had joined my first job, my prize possession. I had acquired it of my own. And I had relished every moment since I walked into the impressive building on Nungambakkam High Road. But the days rolled into weeks, then months and now my day had become rather mundane. I even took the same route home everyday.

The day had been tiring and as I neared home I had to sing aloud to keep myself awake. Soon night would fall, followed by the rising sun. It amazed me as to how without an effort, the entire globe went a full circle.

lost...

The drab pouch caught the glance of my irritable eye. It had barely been a week since I moved in with my maternal grandmother and it seemed like it would take me a couple of rebirths before I could get her house in order….and that only if there was no mercy in awarding me with salvation for my heavy duty patience. But something caught me thinking in that pathetic disarray.

A stay at my grand parents place had always been a treat to me….One part may be I could attribute to the spoiling I received at that at end, in stark contrast in the way I was handled at my own home. But that I realised was not why I looked forward to these short trips to her place. It was the chance of discovery that always thrilled me. It was that serendipity that I associated with those visits…it was a special sensation. I had built my own stories amongst the broken things in my grandmother’s store room…my imagination was let to run wild in that quietitude. In that spacious house there was always room…room for everything – emotion.

It was a great deal of comfort I feel when in this house - a sense of belonging. A sense of identity, not with people, but with things. Nothing ever changed. Even after the death of my grandfather….many things, in fact most things remained the same. The furniture, his belongings, his handwriting, his books, his glasses, his letters, his lists….nothing. And that was what I realised….gave me such a complacent comfort. And that was caught the attention of my monkey mind.

I saw that familiar design…red and white stripes….with the star spangled banner….Yes it was the American flag….but nothing in association with nationality or patriotism or politics. It was a mere design, and now the coincidence strikes me. It was the design on my grandfather’s pouch. And that sight was worth some reflection. I had always seen my grandfather as one who had bountiful of everything – of love and anger, of money and sympathy, of class and innocence, of ambition and despondency, of stories and history, of strength and simplicity. I loved to be around him. He was always my equal. Yet I looked up to him…because he was many times my guiding force.

But that pouch that had now gathered dust of the years…had eroded in its youth. As if it was quietly mourning the absence of its true owner. I remembered how sometimes I was given the privilege of holding it on rare outings with him. I saw it as a great deal of responsibility. No ordinary feat. And I felt like I was holding a trophy in recognition of the respect he had for me. My grandfather called very few things his own and to partake in that was my sheer pleasure. I remembered how when I bid him teary good byes when it was time for me to return to my own home, he opened his pouch to fish out some money that he would thrust into my hand. I knew that even he could not bear to see me go. I remembered him asking me to fetch it from his cupboard when he met important people. Sometimes I remembered him even looking for it hastily to find some money to send me to buy cheese…the food for which we both shared a common passion. I had gone on that errand for him and so would escape my mother who was worried even at that age that I was gaining far too much weight. One day he wanted to get me jewellery and took me to the jeweller and asked me to choose what I liked. My choice was not questioned, just executed. So simply, so skilfully so respectably. That pouch just went with my grandfather for as long as I saw him and today I realised I could not bear to see it without him.


I had lost those little pleasures. I had lost him. I had lost that familiarity. And in the process I had lost a part of myself.