Elementary

I'm Indian, dude. There's straight up only one thing I can be in life: Wife.
- IISuperwomanII (youtuber and goddess of cool https://www.youtube.com/user/IISuperwomanII )


Here's the deal; I like playing big sister. If criminals can play at running India as politicians, I can definitely play big sister- I am the eldest and hence highly qualified for the part.

I'm also the kind that wants to imbue the younglings with my feminist ideals. Even the boys. Of course, you can have penises and still be feminists. Get out from under the right-wing rock you've been living under.

Considering my sibling domination dreams, when I found out lil sis' appreciation for the BBC series Sherlock (OhMG Sherlock- mwaaaahhhh, I wanna die. He's zzzoooooo cuuuuuuuuteee), I was over the moon.

Together we were moping about how we'd have to wait for 2016  (excluding the 2015 Christmas special) for season 4 to air and get our fill of not-cumbersome-at-all-on-our eyes Cumberbatch at his socially awkward genius best.

That's when my 16-year old diva sprung what she believes and expects to be, a life fact on me.

"Well, I'll have less competition vis a vis Cumbercutiepiebatch."
Innocent, idealistic doofus (Me): How?
"You'll be nearing 25 and hence married fo' shizzle by then. Elementary, duh. "

I was hoping for "you'll be working for a respectable, longstanding publication abroad, traipsing around the world and being too famous and successful to bother with Cumberhottiebatch of 2016.".

But never mind, she'll watch and learn that that's how it's going to be and it's an option for her too, because in Sherlock's words: "there is nothing like first-hand evidence

Hungry

A.S.- This is being written at work.Oh, for the uninformed- yes, I've entered the working world. But I’ve been slogging my arse off for two months without pay or necessary appreciation, so god help me, but a redirection of my creative energies to my own pursuits is deserved by this publication. I could do worse in retaliation but I’m not.

Have you ever had that feeling? The one where you’re really, really hungry because you’re supposed to be fed by someone who isn’t doing it but is very inconsiderately carrying food to others behind you (because you’re sitting with your back facing them) and your stomach’s growling. Growling because the smells wafting around, yummy food smells has triggered the hunger centers in your brain which have in turn activated the acid refluxes of your stomach? Because at this point your stomach is co-relating the smell to expecting a sizeable amount of food to reach it via your gullet. But it isn’t getting any (pun unintended) so the corrosive acids eat away at the tender cell lining of your stomach and you feel like, well, shite. That’s irony at its best. Excretion without any ingestion.

By this point of the post if you haven’t realized that I was biology whizz at school then honey, you need to stop reading. RIGHT NOW. There's not even a sliver of a chance that you’re not going to understand any of the below jokes then.

Now I haven’t reached that pathetic plummeting level of food craze yet. I will soon, if I keep following in the footsteps of Liz(goddess) Lemon of 30 Rock. All that graphic food description was an analogy. Now depending on what kind of a reader you are, the kind of ironic dry humour you prefer and whether you have the patience at this particular moment of your reading (you could be wrestling cerelac into a 2 year old toddler’s mouth for all I know) you’re either pissed, or your nodding your head in complete agreement going ‘like yes man, we’ve totally been there , we totes get you amazeballs, whatevs.’

Without beating around the bush anymore what I’m talking about is money. So you now replace food with money, eating with paying /being paid (like editors say, use your discretion or like I would say common sense) and just retain the feeling shite part. Apparently, money retains that quality of grub even if it isn’t edible.

Now after you’ve done substituting and your brains overworked from zillions of angry bird/ temple run games and reality television shows (I know what you do every evening because I do it too) has processed the final outcome and if you still feel ‘like yes man, we’ve totally been there , we totes get you amazeballs, whatevs’ then go ahead, nod that head, feel my pain and join me in cursing the revival of colonialism.

That’s a whole nother post.

Falak

Falling

Twisted words, simple meanings overlap.
As tiredness laps up dreams.
Lugubrious, weighing down, inexplicable
Tiredness.
Burning eyes;
Red rimmed, hot, shut up against all tangible reason.


Against reality
Of you, that is not to be.
Blankets drawn to the chin-
Blanketing out sound, sight and smell.
Except those that breed under the
Inky shroud
Of sleep.


Twisted memories,simple meanings,
Overlap.
As slumber inches its way in, lapping
everything in its wake.
Awake? Not yet.
Asleep? Not yet.

All’s Well That Ends Well

There is a war in Syria, Congo, problems in Iran and Spain and between China and Japan, the Middle East is messier than a plate of food in a one-year old’s hand and the European Union has become the butt of a lot of new jokes.

Meanwhile there are terms like ‘cuts’, ‘silhouettes’; materials like brocade, felt and trends like the peplum and spikes and studs when you write about fashion. They do matter and make a difference. Duhh.

Incidents world over have proved that having a pair of ovaries and mammary glands each aren’t your best assets. The Anglican Church doesn’t want Bishops with them and drunk, sleazy vagabonds in India apparently aren’t getting enough of them.

There isn’t a lot of difference between Indian and British politics. The colonial connection is as clear as day. It’s crazy.

In other news it remains to be seen if it’s Kim Kardashian or Kate Middleton who’ll have the glitziest, most media hyped delivery.

The world hasn’t ended. Ha! In your face, Mayans. But for a few millions of Indians the world has come crashing down- God has stepped down from One day Internationals. I’m on the lookout for a new religion. Ideas, folks?

To have or not to have? The debate on guns is as enlightening as the chicken and egg conundrum. In Manchester two cops died for lack of them and in the U.S innocent children and temple goers died because some random psycho did.

Journalism is on the cusp of change. Or so they say. BBC/Jimmy Saville scandal, The Leveson Inquiry report etc etc etc. As long as I get a job…

On the personal front,

In London, Autumn isn’t a riot of colours, and winters aren’t COLD. I’m too scared to hope about spring. It rains here and that’s wonderful because it’s clean. And I have constant access to hot chocolate.

Ballet is… an experience. I highly recommend it. As is living on your own.

Writing about things because you HAVE to, is an exercise in procrastination and performing under pressure. There are ways to make it rewarding too. I still need to hunt for a few apart from positive feedback and comments from professors.

Once a literature student, always a literature student.

Writing. Snorts, sniggers. Just one word- blog archives.

Oh yeah, the Bombayite (yes, I like calling it Bombay, sue me) is now on her way to becoming a Londoner and a journalist.  It’s not always easy; it’s mostly fun, and yayiee? This still has to sink in.

Dear 2013, please replicate the pleasant surprises of 2012, let news writing involve more happy things and less of war, deaths, rapes, murders, scams and quoting The 88 “give me some more time in a dream, give me the hope to run out of steam”.

Here’s to the beginning of another 12 years before we’re flooded with a new swarm of apocalyptic scares and funny/stupid/catchy adverts like this one. 

Falak                                     

PS: Happy New Year :D

Up above the world so high

To and fro. To and fro.

The never ending, velvety blanket of inky black stretching above. The same blue-black around, beside and behind.

The wind atop a mountain at night.... Ever heard it? An invisible, ginormous millstone at work- that’s what it sounds like.  No breezes and zephyrs here. Just the wind, and laughter.

Hearing nothing, but the whoosh of the wind rushing into your ears; past you ; after you ; with you - a whispering, stalking presence.  

And the scale of the rocks: immense, towering, two hundred times your girth and three hundred times your height. Big, so big that everyone feels little. The mammoth summit looking down in disdain at the diminutive person’s antics; at it sparring with the wind; at.... the wind.

You can almost hear it grumble affectionately at the wind. The wind with all its wily ways.

                   H

            G

        I

 H

I see a carpet of fairy lights spread out beneath me, whirlwind in my tummy.

L

    O

        W

The impenetrable cloak of the firmament.

The wind is a live wire let loose: rattling, isolating, accommodating and dictating. No wonder the mountain’s fond of it.  Thank God for huge metal clamps that hold on with a tenacity equal to the gusty element’s.

The eye of my heart is stretched out below, glimmering; twinkling; pulsating with light, the grey asphalt arteries calm and quiet. Now, a womb to the sleeping alive who are dead asleep.

                         h

                   g

                i

How  h                    can I go?

                                                   A spinning top in my stomach.

Everything is slave to the wind. Even the formidable mountain, whose winding paths are full of curvy secrets and secret hairpin curves.
Seduced by its murmurs moving in sway to its rhythm I see with my watery eyes

Blue lights

                       Yellow lights

White lights

                        Red lights.

Will my hair touch the ground if I bend backwards and my feet the sky?

Now, I’m moving parallel to a silken black shroud.  Albeit, one covering the alive.

Unlike my heart’s eye, nothing’s verdant here. Every available bit of moisture, every bit of life is drawn out to fuel the invisible furnaces of the wind......

Sparse spindly vegetation sporadically adorning the bare rocks exposed to the wicked wind.  Oh, how keenly they must feel it slicing at them relentlessly; their varied contours and forms evidence of its artful cruelty.

That one looks like a crocodile.

                                                      That one there, a lot like a human face.

I smile, wincing as my chapped lips stretch. I feel it keenly too. Its icy cold touch as it loops, whirls, dips and twirls around us.

........to fuel the invisible furnaces of the wind and to infuse my hair with existence.  My medusa’s locks, newfound companions to the wind, together they defy gravity, each personifying the other.

Churning, spinning, heaving, flitting......

With a vitality of its own.

The wind pushing us: the swing and me

High

Whirling in my tummy,  so I screw my eyes shut and squeal with glee.  Can’t see anything except the patina of warm yellow.

Now I only hear. And feel

            Low

Toes scraping the ground.

Laughter in the background-maybe, there’s an age limit to do this.

Twisting the chains to spin faster than the wind. Perhaps, I've spun back in time. Maybe the velocious, hypersonic wind  and isolated mountains create an insular realm impervious to time.

Perhaps, I’m just giddy. Giddy but happy.  

Up

Creaking chains.

 I’m flying. I am the wind-powerful, frisky and bursting with energy. Also, closer to heavenly territories.  If I jump off before the swing stops will I land there?

Down

Legs pumping the air, kicking the wind out of it, and laughing; because I have been right from the start.

To

Up above the world so high

Fro

Diamonds at my feet. Not in the sky.

On the mountain tops,

Swinging it in style.

Falak

Exam Time Musings

Every time I appear for an exam I’m always appalled by how much information the human brain manages to cram and retain.

That’s something worth mentioning because I’ve been studying for the last 17 years and with an average of 4 exams, give and take, in an academic year I must have attempted at least 68 of them. Not to mention the competitive exams which don’t come under the ambit of the above mentioned school and college exams. So with a minimum of 100 exams and a maximum of many more, that’s quite a lot of torture I’ve undergone.

Every year, my brain compresses humungous text books, reams of Xeroxed sheets, material from millions of websites, piles of notebooks painstakingly filled with handwritten notes and snatches of my lecturers’ explanations in class. I’m sure that in the course of my primary and secondary education I must have easily read at least 1000 books from page to page.

I’m in awe of my temporal lobe. Under the stressful conditions of an exam hall it has the ability to retrieve information word to word, random lines that have been branded into my frontal lobe with just one reading -“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo”. With the next question it’s geared up and visualizes the page long answer on Dryden’s life history and zooms in on the particular line on the left side in the 3^rd or 4^th paragraph highlighting the names of the poems  “Annus Mirabilis”, “The Hind and the Panther”, “Absalom and Achitophel”. Points about Baudrillard’s theory of simulacrum and hyperreality flow from the temporal lobe through the millions of motor neurons, with their many neurotransmitters and electrical  and chemical impulses directing my finger muscles to clutch the pen as if my very life depended on its functioning and scratch away on sheets of paper trying to fill in as many lines as possible. This is as much of 10^th grade biology that my hippocampus has decided is important enough to remember. And the fact that all this scientific jazz happens within seconds, that too, with the fluidity of an orchestra practising a symphony for the nth time stuns me.

Not during the exam, of course, as that would mean going blank and freezing midway through the paper, unable to right a single alphabet, let alone a word. Somehow whenever I see numbers or anything remotely mathematical on a question paper the neurons decide to stay what in scientific lingo is known as the “resting state”. There is, I think, an automatic sublimation of all the neurochemicals from my nervous system and my body enters a state of partial paralysis.

Thank God, the Universities and the many jobless souls who run them for language based subjects like literature for people like me who have a right hemisphere that is more evolved and developed that the left one. Also, I happened to find out the reason for my under developed left brain and the subsequent mathlexia today. My mom very gingerly revealed my having rolled off the bed and crashed headfirst on to the floor when I was 6 months old. She describes it as having sounded like “the cracking of a coconut”. Sigh... Like my Prof. says, all parents have their deep, dark secrets about having dropped us on our heads someplace, sometime. 

Until the next set of exams I’ll go back to taking my brain and nervous system for granted.

Falak

Starting Over

If you thought I gave up writing and blogging altogether, I'm glad to announce that you're wrong :D.

I just had some pressing matters to deal with before they'd press me into a quicksand of problems.

If anyone likes this or is intrigued enough by it, please suggest a better name/title. Lets see if an entire year of doing poetry has rubbed off  or should be rubbed off :P

Starting Over

Sometimes.   

Sometimes she finds it very difficult to write.

When she puts pen to paper,

Thoughts fracture into vapour

Gliding past her, away from her,

                         

Floating above:  clouds that seem

Touchable if only you could tiptoe a little higher.

Like the memory of something, a taste 
devoid of a name to chew on; eyes that gleam

Open into frozen, depthless hollows.

They stand impassive: a twin watching the other.

Not to assist but to scoff, “You think we are

Worth a fraction of eternity, of someone’s precious

 Moment in time?  Relics that gather

Human ken amassed over a million years,

In a concentrated heartbeat?”  She mutters

“Maybe....” and it dies in their face of incredulity.

Resonance of trepidation in her voice, she flutters

Between a yes and a no. “Why not?” with renewed

courage she enquires. They announce

“Look at our construct. Tasteful phrases, sophistication

Of design, erudite allusions: are these the terms you would

Outfit us in?” “Perhaps....” “And yet, uncertainty

Colours your utterances.”, cutting off her contention

Into shards of probing silence.

“I trust in your merit above mine. I do”. They contort

Into a leer. “We are a likeness, a shade, a shadow,

A silhouette without essence, reflecting you. Only as 

Credible, as you are. You us I me they we, better not

To be. No questioning our ineffectuality."

Came the rejoinder echoing, debilitating the hope that

Nourished her dreams.  Empty, unending, vacuous, void. Until,

She traced her course back to the beginning-parchments

From the past inked with wit, crossed anew with faith  ,

And smudged with feeling, pregnant with possibilities,

Giving birth to a chuckle, the ghost of a smile

Somewhere. “Beauty is as beauty does, and you are stirred

Up from tranquil passion, making you me us

Worthwhile."

Shoring these fragments of hope against her ruins, she sighs and starts again.

Last Friday Night

I came home at around 4:00 pm. As I entered the house my brother welcomed me with irritated looks.

“Thanks a lot for coming this early. I was supposed to go to my friend’s place to study.”  Unplugging the ipod earphones from my ears I said, “You should have messaged me, Sanju. I can’t dream that you were waiting for me to arrive to leave the place”

“I can’t leave her on her own can I? She’s in bad shape”, he declared.

My grandmother has been suffering from a bout of bad cold and fever since the last 1 week. She’s been on medications since Monday but there hasn’t been much improvement in her condition.

“Alright you can leave now that I’m here.”

I showered, changed had a late lunch and it was already 4:45 pm by then. I decided to take a break till 6:00pm and then start my reference work since the exams are less than 25 days away and I have done zilch.  Watching the rerun of Bones from 5:00pm to 6:00pm was my treat to myself for the day. I wanted to sleep for 15 minutes till 5:00pm as I was awake for most of last night with my gran’s coughing and then waking up to check on her and only slept soundly by around 1:30 am waking up again at 6:00am to attend college. I stayed back in college till 2:15pm to attend a meeting where we discussed the upcoming department  journal and since I wanted to write for it this year too, it was imperative that I stay put and show my face, make my presence felt, note down the dates for deadlines to submit drafts and smile away.

At 4:15 the phone rang and I had to go up to answer that and make polite conversation with someone who called up to check on my gran. At 4:30 my gran requested for some coffee and I dashed to the kitchen to make some and got back to Bones at 4:40. At 5:50 my gran started groaning from the bedroom and her speech sounded garbled and low as a result of her weakness. I ran to check if she was okay. She wanted biscuits. We had no biscuits at home and since biscuits were the only things she was enthusiastically eating for the last many days without throwing up I ran down to get some from the shop below our house.

It was 6:05pm when I reached home. I looked at the watch and thought ‘behind schedule by 5 minutes, but that’s okay’. I spoke too soon.

I switched the lights on as it grew dark outside with heavy rain clouds rolling in and not to my surprise noticed that my house resembled a place that hadn’t been lived in for a week; this despite the maid having come in earlier in the day and claimed to have ‘swept’ and ‘mopped’ the house. My blood started boiling and before it could steam out of my ears the phone started ringing. The darn thing’s been doing that a lot since my gran’s fallen ill, with people calling up to check on her health.

At 6:15pm I decided to sweep the house since everywhere I walked I could feel dirt under my feet and saw some of it on the bed too with every customary visit my gran made to the bathroom and back. I spent the next 45 minutes sweeping my 1BHK house: every single nook and cranny, all the while cursing my maid. She’s a 4 foot something, frail, old woman who could easily be above 65 years of age and looks like she’ll faint every time she takes up a strenuous chore. She supports her widowed daughter-in-law and 2 grandchildren by working as a house help. I know I should be kind and considerate to her but not today of all days. She should have done a decent job since she’s taken it up. She shouldn’t have taken advantage of the fact that my gran is sleeping off her tiredness most of the time so she can shirk her work and gather most of the visible dirt and shove it under the fridge. I thought I’d burst a nerve when I realised she conveniently didn’t mop. During the rains mopping up the house is vital to keeping it clean. I spent the next 30 minutes skating around on a floor wet with water and floor cleaner with a sad, old mop for a dance partner. At 7:30pm after I was done with all the cleaning I switched on all the fans for the floors to dry off.

“Ok, Luck, the nurse-maid (pun intended)” I thought to myself “We still aren’t all that behind schedule, we can do both reference for exams and probable topics for the article you’d like to write for the journal.”

The bell rang, I thought my brother was back and skated across to open the door. It wasn’t. My relatives had come over to help and look after my gran.

I sat around till 8:00pm relaxing my sore back, catching my breath (which has been giving me a lot of trouble since the last two weeks with wheezing: something I never had before)talking to them then decided to retire to the bedroom to do some studying. They came in to be with my gran. And then my gran started coughing like crazy and calling out to God and lamenting out loud why God was doing this to her and many other such things. This happened till around 9:00pm ,9:30pm and attempts at burying myself in a book about Spenser made my gran  angry and hurt that I wasn’t paying attention to her despite the fact that her brother, sister-in-law and nephew were hovering around her waiting to answer her beck and call.

Long story short research for exams and journal never happened.

I felt like crying and banging my head against a wall.

My college principal wants us: the last batch that comes under Mumbai University, to have exams the same time as the rest of the college which comes under the autonomous system and has already had two internal assessments and are well versed with their syllabus unlike us.

My classmates; editors of the journal can set 7^th September as the deadline to submit topic proposals since they don’t have to clean the house, cook or order food from out or nurse their ailing grandmother.

Bev is constantly texting me about starting research work while eating Dosas her mom made for her.

I didn’t have time to go to the Doctor to get my wheezing checked until my gran had to be taken to the clinic but Universities I’d like to apply to next year would like me to have had some work experience which is a minimum of four weeks. I have none. My classmates do, but then they can always go back home and not have to worry about leaving a 70 year old grandmother who is prey to bouts of mood swings due to loneliness alone at home, keep in mind never ending lists of household stuff needed to be bought, constantly vacillate between fighting with an annoying 17 year old brother to being a considerate sister and ease his worries and pressures off about the imminent board exams.

This was my Friday Night and I’m sure next Friday Night I don’t want to ‘do it all again’. I’d like to be a normal 19 year old kid who’s really scared and can always expect her Mom and Dad to be around to reassure her and give a hug.

Hoping you had a Katy Perry style Friday Night. Sans the stranger in the bed, breaking the law, maxed out credit cards and other scary scenarios.

Falak.

Two To Tango

Last year I very conveniently skipped putting up a post on this day: the day my blog turned one. I have personal superstitions about being too happy about a good thing. This year I have decided to pack that irrational thought into a bag weighed down with stones and throw into the overflowing gutter outside my house.

When I started writing ,it was to pass time since colleges in the city of Mumbai were in a state of partial shut-down as Professors across the city were striking for an increase in wages. God bless their souls since that incident gave me a lot of free time with not a clue about what to do with it. Like most things I take up (and my mother will vouch for this) I thought that this will end up being a passing fancy and my four posts a month trend would dwindle into nothing in the span of the next six months.

How on earth is a blogger supposed to wish his/her blog a happy birthday? A most confounding problem this is, I must say.

That’s when I remembered a friend’s opinion regarding the blog the other day. She said “The blog is you and you are the blog”. A simple statement free of embellishments but very appropriate for this particular occasion if you give it a little thought. So keeping that in mind I’ve decided to compare the points of view in the various posts I’ve written till now and if there have been changes in my opinions in these last two years.

When I started the blog I had no clue about what I wanted to talk about to people. I just wanted to express myself. The first four posts are living proofs of this fact. Writers blog

I believed in the sanctity of the joint family and considered any problem that arose was the result of my inability to adjust. It was just a case of sweet lemons. I might very soon delete this post. The Good, bad and the ugly. It isn't worth the effort when only the Ugly remains.

I had a problem with people’s opinions about anybody's dusky complexion. I hardly have time to worry over petty ideals of beauty now so I care less about it but I still do. The Sisterhood of Strawberries and Chocolates.

Travelling is a still a hurdle I have to deal with every 6 months. To meet my family I’ll continue doing it for the next 6 years if the need arises. A Thousand Times Over

My baby cousin was welcomed into this world a few months after the blog. She’s two now and I’m enjoying the last few months of my teen hood. She’s busy exploring the world and imbibing the truths of life. So am I.  Right Angle

I thought youngsters doing drugs needed help and they could come out of the mess they’re in. I still do. 

High Strung

My brother and I missed each other a lot. We fight a lot now; really serious fights which begin and end with blows. I still love him although I don’t know what the response is from his end. Sibling Mail Order

Unity in diversity is still the foundation on which India stands. But I fear I see it cracking up slowly day by day. Bangles All The Way

I still enjoy the small things in life. It’s the big things that I’ve yet to come to terms with.  Sweet Nothings

My parents and Grandma are my biggest inspirations when it comes to writing. There are a few names after theirs which have been added to the list though.   The Shinning

I like writing short stories. They need a gigantic amount of work done on them and the space for improvement available is enough to play football in. Webs

Pakistani’s are human beings. There are myriads of kinds of people in every country, not just India. 

Guess Who Came to Tea

God Almighty and I are great pals still. It’s a symbiotic, mutual understanding of sorts. ( If you’re reading this God, please be informed I’m kidding ;) I’m the only dependent one here). I still am petrified of exams.  

Ardently Fervently Selflessly Selfishly 

I miss my family a lot still. Even though this is the fifth year running that I’m away from them. Percieve-r-ance

 Birthday wishes will and have to work. They just seem to take an awfully long time. I could really use a wish right now

The situation in Indian hasn’t changed much.... If anything we are now moving into a more profound state of corruption and anarchy. I’d rather talk about this some other day. Road.Rage.Rules

Children are the father, mother and everything else possible  of mankind. Wordsworth knew what he was talking about. Different Strokes

I haven’t stopped losing things, but I‘ve stopped letting them affect me. Sort of. The Inheritance of  Loss

Oh! And how can I, how DARE I forget the wonderful fellow bloggers I’ve met here? People I’ve never met in person but friends nevertheless. They have for these last two years taught me a lot more about writing, interacting with people, and dealing with life and at the same time entertained me thoroughly without really intending to do the former. The blogosphere has proved to be the most interesting kind of contemporary classroom I’ve come across.

Two years , 30 posts and Two entities (the blog and I) partaking in an intricate dance of words, opinions, thoughts and feelings. Impressive. Specially keeping in mind my track record when it comes to pursuing things wholeheartedly and continuously.

 I'm hoping that the tango is complicated.

Falak

Tu m’as manqué

I missed you.

Sweet sounding words that make you feel marvellous like no other three worded sentence can, maybe except ‘ I love you’ but that has become so common place, now every random affection felt towards another living creature is expressed in terms of love.

The privilege of being missed....

I haven’t come across much else that beats the gratifying sensation that floods every inch of your body when someone says they missed you. Getting good grades or being appreciated for something I wrote, yes. But being missed still stands a notch higher than the rest.

It makes having been away for all that time pining for familiar things and people, voices and smiles all that much more worth it. It fortifies the raw, sketchy hope I have in the human ability to connect, to value and to cherish. But most of all I love those three words when they are said to me because well..... It feels great to be loved and yeah, I am a narcissistic soul.

So I’d like to thank my mom, dad, grandmother and my three loving friends whose ebullient expressions of joy and beatific smiles on seeing me made my day. I’d like to thank my newfound friends I met at the summer school I attended for two weeks in Scotland for missing me. We bonded a lot more in those two weeks than I have been able to with some people I’ve known for over two years. Our differences in age (there were those in their 30’s and 40’s), nationalities, educational and cultural backgrounds never was an obstacle to forge what for the present looks like longstanding friendships. 

I’d like to specifically thank my cousin and his wife with whom I spent some time in London for missing me. I count those five days with them as one of the most memorable vacations I’ve taken and I can very confidently state that I haven’t met many people who have been so hospitable, welcoming, loving and free and yeah... who have in a just a span of spending five days in person with me and two weeks over the phone giving pep talks when I was in Scotland like me enough to miss me.

I also want to thank my professor for giving me a warm welcome on returning to class after a 3 week hiatus and also for being more interested in knowing if I had a good time instead of reminding me of the mountain sized heap of work that I have yet to catch up with.

Since I’ve spent most of this post rambling on about being missed I’d like to now mention what I missed the most.

I missed this blog of mine. I spent most of May and June preparing for the summer school and then the whole of July in UK. I’m really sorry for having neglected this one thing in the world that serves as the perfect outlet for my thoughts, ideas, opinions, feelings and other synonyms you can come up with. This is the only place that soothes my urge to write.

So during my 22 day stay in the UK, having the most marvellously unforgettable time of my life (apart from learning Modernism in English Literature) I’m glad I met people who believe that if you love someone or value something enough to miss it just spit it out because I haven’t yet developed the supernatural ability to look into someone and see what I mean to them. Those 3 simple words help me live every coming day to the fullest. And in this world that’s worth something. Trust me.

But I still don’t get why the French have to say 'you missed me' for 'I missed you' and then say what it actually means is 'you were missed by me'. It's another story that it sounds better the convoluted way.

Falak

The Inheritance of Loss 3: The cycle ends (hopefully).

So I’ve lost my wallet, my cell phone and a few days after the cell phone I realised I lost a green notebook I set a lot of store by along with a white hair band  that I owned since my primary school days.  I can survive without the last two, as, of all the things I’ve currently been losing those two are the ones that are the least important. However, those two are  things I hold the closest to my heart.

That notebook had a rough draft of a poem, notes from the research I’d done on William Blake which was the groundwork for an article I wrote for the English Department journal; my first ever published article...... It also held ideas, jottings for new blog posts....

That white hair band must be the plainest accessory I’ve ever owned but it was a constant reminder of my school days, my friends, and my childhood. In some bizarre fashion it sort of linked my childhood in UAE to my teenhood in Mumbai.

As usual I have no memory of where I last saw them. Not a single clue. No one around me does either. Already bogged down by the stress of too many things missing I’ve given up on the last two, albeit after the ritualistic hunting process.  Nothing great has happened. Eventually I had to give up on them what with my final exams staring me in the face and my friends hammering it into my thick skull that I have bigger fish to fry.

So to quote the Indian media’s favourite cliché, "How do you feel now?" and in reply to that I don’t feel much, to be frank I don’t feel anything at all. After all the initial madness filled with anxiety attacks, eerie dreams, disturbed sleep and obsessive ranting about my lost objects I feel nothing. Zilch. Rien.

It’s simple really; the point of it all is I’ve learnt something out of it. You can’t hang on to things in life or people for that matter and being the hoarder that I am it’s an important lesson learned. No single person or thing in life are ever ‘the most important thing' of our lives because eventually, we learn to live without them. All the voids and hollow spaces they leave in and around us fill up. There might be the occasional bad day; times when you suddenly long for that thing from the past but then it goes away and you learn to cope with it. I can’t say I’m completely cured of my negligible strain of OCD but I’m on my way. 

Suddenly, things and routines I couldn’t do without; an absence of which would evoke fear, doubt and unreasonable apprehensions, that would keep niggling at the back of my mind stirring up a lot of negativity in the process, have stopped looming over me thus losing their larger than life appearance. The first step has been accepting the fact that ‘Alright, I do get more nervous than socially accepted and permitted levels of nervousness’.  Second step: realizing that a small event or string of events can affect the bigger picture of my life only if I want and make them too. Three: this is going to be a long, long process and requires a lot of belief and faith in myself. I shouldn't be expecting any overnight miracles and nor should anyone else.

So basically, losing 4 important items on 3 different occasions brought to the fore a problem I’ve been pushing aside as ‘just an annoying habit’. That’s looking at the bright side of the situation. Getting back to the realistic side of me I wish that this annoying disappearance of personal articles ends once and for all.

Hoping that, like Sonya says, "3 is the charm".

Falak

The Inheritance of Loss 2: Tragic encounter with cops shatters myth about magic of numerical codes

I have to and have to and have to, just have to get that phone back. Need my phone, need my phone want my phone want my phone WANT MY PHONE.....

So after a lot of tears, cursing, lamenting, searching and bemoaning my luck Beverly and I went to the Police Station 2 days later to file an FIR and submit the magical IMEI number that would help trace my darling cell phone and bring it back to me.  As we got out of the rickshaw we were in we spent some time ogling at the building that was the Police Station. We looked at each other and then started walking towards the station compound. We climbed up a few stairs before finally stepping into the part of the structure that actually housed the cops. I wanted to snigger. Uncontrollably.

What would people say? Girls from good families never even skirt the boundaries of a Police Station, let alone step inside one. Cops are not to be trusted; half the rapists and killers and smugglers in the city are policemen. Police stations are filthy and unsafe.

While my head was swimming with voices yelling out all the stereotypes attached to Police Stations and Policemen my common sense was stating superfluous facts blithely.

 Looks like the outpatient section of a hospital with linoleum flooring and off white walls, no smell, no lock ups in view {what a letdown...} no cops in sight either....Why do they have a foyer? An empty one at that too. Oh, there’s another room to the left. I spy cops. What do we do now?

“What do we do now Bev?”          

“Ask someone what we should exactly do?”  Bev and I, we have a penchant for rhetoric.

“Madam, what are you looking for? {On second thoughts} How can I help you?”

“We needed to lodge a complaint regarding a lost cell phone.....”

“Please enter the room to your left and let Inspector Mhatre know what your problem is.”

Oh yes, yes! I remember Inspector Mhatre... His kid was in kindergarten with me.{Rolling eyes}

Bored cop looks at our bemused faces and then on an impulse decides to rephrase his sentence, “The policeman in the cubicle on the left end of the room, Maam”

We ‘Thank You’d’ in tandem and walked to meet Inspector Mhatre. He was busy on the phone talking nineteen  to the dozen in Marathi: a language Beverly can come to terms with after grappling with a sentence or two per second and a language that is as alien to me as being overweight is to a model. Inspector Mhatre smiled at us mouthed ‘cell phone’ and then gestured us to the other end of the long rectangular room. He smiled once again, held the phone a few inches away from his ear and yelled out loudly

“Shinde, Ya  Madamcha mobile missing ahey. Tyachi complaint londavaychi ahey” {Ma’am has lost her phone. Lodge her complaint}

Constable Shinde escorted us to the far end of the room and sat us down on two identical, thankfully not battered plastic lawn chairs. He removed huge horn-rimmed glasses from his breast-pocket and fixed them onto the bridge of his nose. I felt like we were in an eighties Bollywood movie; the aggrieved female leads about to file a complaint and cops who weren’t the least interested about what we had to say. But I was wrong, they were interested.

“Where do you live? Are you working or are you a student? When exactly did this happen? Where did the phone get lost?”

“I don’t know  exactly where.....I came home and realised that my phone was missing. I travel to and fro from home to college by train. I can’t precisely remember where I last used it or when it went missing.”

“So did it go missing in the train?” Questioned the constable, “Because if it did then you’ll have to go to the Railway police and file a complaint. So I’ll write that you lost it in the bus while travelling from the station to your house, right?” His eyebrows were raised quizzically, a conspiratorial look in the eyes.

Policemen 101: They make you run from pillar to post. He’s doing the opposite and helping us....Surprise Surprise

“When did it exactly go missing?”

“On the 17^th of February, Sir. Most probably in the afternoon.”

“Well it’s 19^th evening today......”

I know that, didn't I just confirm my occupation as a student?

“I’ll lodge a complaint for the 18^th..... You lost it on the 18^th, right?”

Bev and I look at each other, both our eyes mirroring the same expression: amazement , “Yes, Sir”

Policemen 101: Cops are sticklers for facts if it aides in harassing the public. False.

In walks top cop Inspector Kadam and seats himself on the chair before us. He starts interrogating me in Marathi and I stare at him dumbfounded. The Inspector looks from the constable to Beverly. I know what he’s thinking. Is she slow or what?

“She doesn’t understand Marathi, Sir”, Bev supplied in Hindi. Inspector resorts to displaying expressions of mock hurt and insult. The man’s regional spirit has been crushed with my lack of knowledge of his mother tongue is what he’s implying.

Marathi  yeth nahi ka?! Mumbai mein reh ke Marathi aana chahiye na? {You don't know Marathi, is it? When you live in Mumbai you should know Marathi!}

If after living here for only four years you feel this distraught imagine how the Arabs are feeling ........

“Umar kya hai apki? Age Age....” he adds in English for my benefit.

I said don’t understand Marathi but Hindi I do, so please quit the subtitles.....

“Unnees saal , Sir. Hum SYBA students hai” {We are 19 year old SYBA students} I said. I was bored of playing scared, big-eyed, innocent alien. We threw in the prestigious name of our college for added measure, snobs that we are. Plus we wanted them to believe that we were serious about what we came and weren’t passing time. As I was rattling off all of my personal details, including my name age, address, surname, place of birth, father’s name, college and phone number a group of petty criminals who were cowering on the floor near us looking around listlessly were overhearing our conversation with the cops. Bev drew her chair sideways trying to appear unperturbed while making a conscious attempt to distance herself from the scruffy looking convicts.

We had one of our many telepathic conversations

What if they memorize my details and hunt me down? How smart are these cops?

C’mon Lucky, they don’t look bright enough to memorize all that AND act upon it.

Point noted Bevy.

Also note: you’re plain paranoid.

Iyeah! Ha! I drew the chair away didn’t I?

It’s called hygienic concerns.

Hmph...

Hmphh right back at you.

Inspector Kadam boomed, “Accha, Ok, Shinde tila lost certificate denyat yawe” {Please issue a lost certificate with the details to Ma'am}.  And after barking his command with practised flourish the Inspector went to wherever it was he had come from.

After furnishing all the details they wanted I handed them the magical IMEI number.

Fingers crossed, C’mon numbers work your magic. Prove your worth. Break my losing streak.

Constable  Shinde looked at me and said ,“Ahhhh , We’ve heard about this, but we don’t understand the technology and neither do we have it.”

"But Sir...."

Policemen 101: 5 year olds are technologically more competent than cops. These words resonate with nothing but the truth.

“Even though it’s not of much use I will mention it here in your lost certificate.” And saying so he wrote it down on the sheet of paper they had the gall to call a certificate. 

The lost certificate was for me to keep, in case I needed to claim my phone or check the status of my complaint. The FIR; the official version of the lost certificate that the cops kept with them had no mention of the IMEI number whatsoever.  There isn’t any mind-boggling rocket science involved with regards to the IMEI number. The cops just have to note it down call up the different service providers in the city and inform them that any new Sim Card that operates with this IMEI should be reported to the cops immediately and the co-ordinates of that Sim Card have to be provided to the IT section of the police department. Technologically incompetent moi knows that.

“Now what Sir?”

“Now nothing, we will wait and see if someone hands it over. Usually they don’t but just in case you know....”

Oh so basically after changing 2 buses and coming this far all you guys are going to do is wait for some public spirited citizen to hand it over? Classic......

“How costly was it? When you tried calling what happened?”

“I don’t know how costly it was Sir, but it was more than Rs 10,000 and when I tried calling my number I got the ‘switched off’ message even though the battery was fully charged in the morning.”

Who cares about the money {I do of course!} but the pictures of my family, school friends, videos from the JB concert, videos of my baby cousins and Bev’s first time on stage, my songs, messages , my things to do list, reminders...........Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

“Then it’s gone for sure. Either ways here’s you certificate. We will inform you if something crops up.”

They went back to watching the cricket world cup on the TV installed in an inner ‘cops only sanctum’.

Thanks for the extra helping of positivity. Wonder why it tastes bitter.

As we were walking out of the precinct Bev and I spoke out at the same time,

“What a waste of time and energy!”

“Although they were sweet and nice”

“Yeah they weren’t manner less boors.”

“We know most cops DO have potbellies and paunches”

“You bet”

“Look at the bright side, we know how a Police Station functions and we’ve been inside one! “

"Yeah! We were brave enough to go and deal with the cops on our own without any adult help Bev!"

"We ARE technically adults, you know......"

"Oh yeah..... I tend to forget that sometimes."

"Well, at least we tried"

"Yeah, we tried."

I’ve tried everything possible to locate my phone. Apart from obsessing over it and suffering from anxiety attacks there isn’t much I can do. So I sleep at night dreaming of my pretty little touch screen hoping that somehow, someday soon it will turn up flashing it’s backlight and notification lights cheekily at me.

The nut who stole it even stole the phone’s sassy red cover :(

Falak

 PS: If the Marathi translations are any good just letting you know that they are the handiwork of my friend Madhuri :) If they're faulty please give the brickbats to her too :P Special thanks to Kalyani for providing me with typical Marathi policemen surnames :) Yes, those aren't the real names of the cops I interacted with. Whatever made you think I'm going to risk my neck doing that???