“Hey sweetie, u look a lill umm.. what shall I say different”, said he taking a peep out of the newspaper. I look different. Now that is an understatement, putting it way too mildly. Five hours and a grand later all I can look is different! Crazy! If ever there are creatures that are born who can beat bats at blindness then those are MEN. But I just managed to be hope personified and cleared my throat. “Umm..How do you mean different?”, I asked, flashing a wonderful smile. The smile could have been done away with. Madhur did not even look up from the newspaper. “Beautiful, what a lovely”, said Madhur, still engrossed in his newspaper. It really is “our” newspaper but he uses it so much oftener right from when I want some help in the kitchen to when he wants to avoid answering my eternal “Do I look fat questions” that I have started associating the newspaper with him. But here was some hope. Had he not mentioned the words beautiful? Wow, some progress I thought and was even congratulating myself on a grand well spent. “Swats, just check out these innings, what a beauty! I am so pissed I had to miss it”. Oh so it really was the match after all and before those twenty two men even his wife “dressed to kill”, seemed to fade away. “Umm.. Madhu, you were mentioning that I look different. So what were you saying”, asked a desperate me, making another vain attempt at getting him to steer the conversation away from his “lovely” cricket. “Oh! That!”. He took one quick look away from his all encompassing newspaper and there judgment was formed. “Umm… Not bad, but u know Swats, you looked better before all that make up I suppose”. The god has passed judgment. I let it sink in slowly. It beats me how every time I do something, the previous thing seems so much better. Like the other time when I went in and got that short hair cut, he felt the long hair falling on my bare neck seemed sexier and when I, with great difficulty grew it longer, fighting the heat all the way, he seemed to think the short hair looked smarter. Arrrghhh! And now after I put myself to endless facial scrubs, putting maids scrubbing floors to shame, straightening of those wild curls, wincing all the pain that comes from a hot wax, wishing I never had eye brows when they were being plucked, all he can say is “different”. I see. What’s more he prefers the un-scrubbed face. But of course all was not yet over. Now I had in my possession those lovely pair of heels and when I wheel them around then he can’t help but remark how “tall” I am and how I reach his shoulders, well almost. These additional inches will go a long way in overcoming that foot long difference. I unpacked those shoes, they seemed more like glass crockery and the living room show case seemed befitting of their presence as compared to the old shoe case. I was so careful with them, even bordering on mild care and stepped into them. “Ouch!”, I screamed, when I tried those first steps with them. Man! Did they hurt? You bet. It felt like I was standing on long thin sticks and was trying impossible acrobats. Now all I needed was a long stick to balance in my hands and I can pass on for those wannabe tight rope artistes. But then being a persevering soul, I continued on, unmindful of all the pain and actually walked 10 meters, slipping every now and then of course. “Madhur, do you want to have lunch outside and then head for the movie”, I asked from our bedroom. “Oh! We had planned that right! I had almost forgotten about it”, said he in reply. Forgot! He must be kidding. We had done one of those advance booking things after so much consultation with his n number of match schedules and now he pretends to forget.
2 hours later
Our man is bent over tying his shoe laces when I emerged from the bedroom all done with my cat walking practice. It did hurt a bit but never mind the pain when there was so much (height) to be gained. Hee hee!
“I am done” said he and stood up or maybe I should say stood tall, definitely taller than usual.
I stole one quick glance at his shoes.
“Oh! those” he answered following my eyes.
“I forgot to mention about these amazing shoes, Swats. Last week I was just getting back home on my way when I just saw them on display and just could not resist the temptation and bought them.”
I reeled. Did he just say he bought shoes on an “impulse”? Heloo! Unplanned shopping is a woman’s forte and these men have no business stepping into zones prohibited. And shoes which have those raised heels for men is a strict NO! NO!. And if the man in question happens to be breaking the scales of height, then such shoes should be considered no better than the plague which struck Gujarat a few years ago. Discard them is what I say.
As though reading my mind and waiting to refute the facts, he started singing praises of the shoes, how comfortable they were, how good they looked.
No ways I was going to relent and fall for all that crap. How can men’s shoes look good, they all looked the same and pretty bland if I may add.
Few months later, dusty boots and heels were heard inconversation.
“We have been lying unused for so long now” said the boots to the heels. “Except those few minutes when she wore me the other day. Every morning she looks at me longingly, lets out a sigh and says “A deal is a deal!” and wears one of those flat backed ugly slippers”, replied the heels. “What do you think he does? He still curses that day when he gave in to Missus’ wishes about discarding me in exchange for getting her off you, you hideous looking heels, and one cricket match at the stadium”.
And so they fought on till the night wore at the quiet house waiting for the Mister and the Missus to return and discard the beastly slippers and shoes they wore.
p.s:- This was sort of inspired by Gifs long ago post lying in the wild jungle just yonder
She was waiting in a crowded station, waiting for her train to arrive, waiting to be taken to a destination far from the madding crowd surrounding her. Suddenly weariness began to take its toll on her and she wanted some place to rest her tiny feet. She looked around and saw all the men, some women and little kids lost in myriad conversations, saying those good byes and talking about taking care of each other, promising to keep in touch soon after they reached the destination. She took in all of this and was still searching for a place to rest her tiny feet. That is when she took notice of the heavy suitcase she was clutching. Soon a vertical cuboid became a horizontal one and she sat down. Hands cupped her chin, looking at all the people hustling by, not waiting to even so much as even chance a glance at her. Oh yes, some did, the ones who were so irritated that she was sitting in their way, gave those cold glares and continued on their way heaving heavy suitcases. The familiar noise emanated from the tracks, steel rolling on flattened steel, smoke from a chimney, the approaching sirens of the vehicle that was to carry her, house her for the next few hours. She waited patiently till the vehicle pulled in and came to a halt. The whole platform was ablaze with activity and everyone seemed to be heading towards her train. There were those that were so destitute that they had no business in a train yet they scourged the train looking for any remnants that can feed them their next meal. An old lady stepped out and her jewelry bespoke of a certain class. She looked along the length and breadth of the platform looking for someone who would help her with her suitcase. Mary decided it was time she headed towards the train to claim her seat. She was willing it to be the one next to the window. Window seats were so exciting; she could take in all the sights and landscapes that the country threw at her. She read the charts to double check that her name was there and went in and sat down near the window. She had her knitting kit which was to be her companion for most part of the journey. For the rest she hoped she would have something more human. She looked down at the hem of her skirt, it seemed to be giving way and the skirt had lifted and rested just above her ankles. She looked at her legs with interest and saw the well toned legs. Well toned legs that went with her well rounded breasts, and legs extending from a sleek waist. She was small on the whole, a tiny frame that could fit snugly anywhere just as now she was seated at the very edge of her seat clutching her knitting kit. The train began to slowly inch its way out of the familiar platform and approached the country side soon enough. It settled into a familiar speed, flying past paddy fields and cotton ones with equal ease. She saw men and women working their way in their fields and stopping every once in a while to chance a glance at the trains inching their way past them. Her glance shifted around her coach and she noticed that her bay was practically empty except for a cross old man sitting with crossed brows. He did not seem friendly and she did not dare try and initiate a conversation with him. He had a soiled piece of paper in his hands that looked familiar enough to pass on for the ticket yet dirty and made into a ball that was far, far away from any ticket. She started to knit the woolen scarf she had promised herself for Christmas and every once in a while looked around to take in the warmth of the sights they crossed. She loved the sound the train made when it was over a bridge as it was now. Night soon began to fall and the old man was packing his belongings. Her soul companion was also going to get off the train when the next station came along. She sighed, made a comfortable bed for herself and curved herself in the tiny seat. She soon fell asleep and started dreaming about a castle where she was the princess and her knight in shining armour was giving her a massage. It felt so good, the touch of the hands on her legs, cupping them and making their way slowly upwards. Now they had moved upwards and were clutching her shoulders and felt so strong. She could hear her own breath coming haltingly and could smell mint at close quarters. Then she felt a slight heaving close to her, and the hands were working their way under her blouse. She was enjoying herself so much that she urged the man to just go on and on. In her dreamy state she could catch sight of only a thin moustache and a silver chain falling from his neck exhibiting the letter A. Soon all was quiet and she fell into a deep slumber. The sun came pouring into her compartment and she woke with a start. She tried to remember all that had happened when the train was passing through the wilderness when she realized she had company in her bay. The old man was no where to be seen but in his place were two strong men, one looking just like the other. They were nattily dressed, each donning a suit. They had well rounded shoulders and a thin moustache. They each had those exhibitionist chains displaying the letter A with all pride and glory. The train soon halted to a complete stop and it was time for her to alight. The men followed her too and she tried to search their eyes for a look of familiarity. They both flashed a smile at her and continued on their way.
One of those many software engineers sitting in front of the PC, listening to foot tapping music. Suddenly the soul in q hears Civil War by GNR enqued in her playlist. A man reasons with the world about the atrocities of war, saying how war can never please neither the perpetrators of the crime nor the lashed out. In the end, with the guns and bombs as a witness in the background he says “What is so civil about war anyways”. Is there such a thing as a civil war, much like civil rights, civil manners and all those phrases you can dole out? I personally think it is the biggest joke one kind is playing on the other going in an infinite never ending cycle. Only here there is never going to one with the LAST LAUGH
“Did you check your mails”, an excited co-worker yelled. “Why they have announced yet another hike or what”, asked a bored soul. “No no, there may be a holiday tomorrow ‘cos of some bandh”, continued the co-worker, packing off her bag. Silence was all the bored soul could give for a repartee. Silence and maybe a verse, though of course the verse is not going to make any difference to neither the bomb blast nor the bandh, not even to a callous co-worker. But at the moment this is all she can do.
Thick black smoke in a holy city, A little girl evoking so much pity.
Bombs replacing the sound of silence, Is this what a believer gets for all his years of penance?
Innocents mired in a little game THE OTHERS choose to play, Where the keywords are attack, kill and slay.
Is a bandh the best reply? When terrorism is still being bred by the sly.
Or can we choose to ignore it and the pain? Believing it is always “someone else” who gets hurt in vain.
Can we not put an end to all of this? And lead a life of eternal bliss.
Appa and I saw your performance the other day on television. It was disgusting to say the least. I feel so sad that I spent years training you to become the very best classical dancer, a bharathanatyam whiz only to see all that reduced to some weird numbers for some western songs? Is this what you want to give back to our culture? Kick it, so to speak every time you lift your legs. The legs that should have been doing Shiva Thandav and which should be dancing for thillana are now swaying to waltzes and salsas and sometimes worse, third rate folk lore. The calls we have been receiving since that shameful performance of yours in the States last week, has only disgraced us further. Looks like the entire world has caught your shameful act and now I am sure no respectful guy will ever marry you.
A very disappointed, Amma and Appa.
Dear Maya,
Just because you choose to ignore the previous e-mail does not mean we are going to keep any quieter. I just wanted to mail in to let you know that the particular pose where you have your right leg lifted high up and bent forward resembling a silly bird was the most shameful of all poses. Both Appa and I are thankful to God that we were not there in the States to witness this “event”. Just to save our dignity we would have been forced to attend the show. In any case take care, Amma and Appa.
Dear Mays,
You are but a natural. I was there sitting in one of the front rows watching you transform from the girl that I knew to a woman. You looked so beautiful and graceful swaying like a bird to the music, that I just sat mystified. I was entranced by that particular pose where you have your right leg lifted high up and bent forward resembling a confident beautiful bird waiting to soar way upwards into the sky. I am just so glad that I made it in time for the show. I wanted to meet you soon after the show but I had a flight to catch and also thought you might be busy. A part of me was also unsure how you would react seeing me after all these years. Surprise, happiness, or just plain nonchalance? In fact I was not even sure if you had noticed me in the front row. Anyways I hope to hear from you soon enough.
Warm Regards, Mayank.
Dear Mays,
I think you are caught up again in one of your busy schedules and hence have not replied to my earlier mail. I know you have always treated me as nothing but the best of your friends and for sometime even I wanted to believe that I just like you loads as this special friend and nothing more. But then off late I have started questioning my feelings ever so much and have realized that I do love you a good deal. I know this is the last means I should have resorted to speak about something so close to my heart, but then this is the best way I could think of to let you know how my heart pounds faster every time I see your eyes dance to the music. I just love to look at your hands move with clock work precision to accompany your legs, those legs that can do wonders. I have known you for so long now but every time you dance, be it to “Asaindhandum mayil ondru” or any of the folklore, you are equally enticing. Can I but help remembering those times when you tried in vain to teach me some salsa? I would love to hear from you, but if you feel you don’t want anything more to do with me then just don’t reply. I don’t think I can take a NO from you in print.
Love, Mayank.
Dear Mayank,
Did I see you in the front rows? My eyes were scanning the audience much like a scavenger hunts for food, scourging those strangers walking in and rested only when I set eyes upon your lean frame seated among a sea of unfamiliarity. From that moment on everyone ceased to exist and I danced only for your eyes. I have always had this special place for you in my heart but I was really not sure about your feelings and I was scared to let my feelings out, afraid that I would be hurt. But I am so on top of the world right now. I want to sway with you to music that will move me completely. I will call you up presently.
Loads of love, Urs always, Mays.
Dear Mays,
I am so amazed that we have been “going around” so to speak for almost a year now. In this one year I have only realized how made for each other we are. I wish we could be in the same city so that we could have been living together right now. There is so much that I want to tell you but I guess I shall whisper all those sweet nothings over the phone.
Love, Ur Mayank.
Dear Appa and Amma,
I know that I have resorted to long bouts of silence ever since I got to the US. Whenever you had sent those mails about my dance, about your dislike for my particular kind of dance, I have resorted to silence. Maybe I should have responded then, made you understand how much I love what I am doing. Maybe I should have told you that my dance is my life, and it flows in my body just as naturally as does blood. Amma, this dance I inherited from you, you gave it to me amma but sadly this has been the issue of most of our contentions. But strangely this same dance that you wanted me to abandon has also found me the other love of my life. Oh yes, you heard it right and again I am resorting to mails in favour of calling you up and letting you know how I feel about Mayank. Yes, that very same Mayank who was my best of friends all these years. The reason I am telling you about him now is that, otherwise it will be very late. We are getting married tomorrow in Chicago. That is where he is staying right now and I am taking the 11:15 flight tonight and we shall be man and wife tomorrow. It shall be a quiet affair, the way the both of us want it. I know you will be all the more disappointed but then I do not think I have done too things that you are too proud of and this is only going to add to the seething ire.
Love, Your daughter, Maya.
Dear Mays,
I guess this shall really be the last time that I shall write to you and I know you can never forgive me for what I am doing right now. But this is really the only way out if I have to be honest with myself. That night when your flight to Chicago crashed, my heart nearly stopped beating. I thought I lost you, a part of myself and that drove me to desperation. Then I found out that you were in the hospital done up in a lot of plaster and I came running in to see you. What I saw shocked me into silence and I went away while you were still lying there unconscious. Yes Maya, I walked right out of your life at that very moment when I realized that there was just empty space where your right leg should have been. This was far worse than death. In death I would have still lost the Maya I loved but now I had to live with a Maya who wasn’t even her any longer. I realized that I loved your legs more than anything else. Your legs defined who you were, it was that very same leg that turned you into that beautiful, unconquerable woman and I desired THAT woman. Without THAT you would no longer be the person you were. Dance was your life and that made you that mysterious illusion, that made you Maya, without those legs, you are hard reality and reality is something I have never been able to come to terms with. I am far too selfish to continue the relationship that we shared and at a moment when I should be next to you I am moving far, far away. Don’t ever try contacting me.
Good bye, Mayank.
Dear Sandy,
Appa and I had a lovely vacation and we spoke so much. He told me a little story about a wonder WOMAN and her MAN’s MAN, a story that I knew all along in bits and pieces but when the jigsaw puzzle was unraveled in its full, a lot of things began to fall in place and I was able to appreciate what I had been offered. Now the writer in me comes up in full spree and you shall hear a truly remarkable story. This story as Appa told me was about a little woman who was the greatest dancer according to him and according to half the world. Only the little woman’s parents were always displeased with her that she refused to perform “their” kind of dance. The little woman met a little boy she grew to like and even decided to marry him. But that is when life decided to play a little game with her. She lost her right leg in the very same flight that was to take her to her lover boy, her soon to be husband. He was devastated, but was such a wimp that he refused to continue playing the game they had set the rules for. He walked out of the little woman’s life at precisely the same moment that the little woman needed him so very much. She was definitely shattered, she lost her first love, her dance and her second love, Mr lover boy all in a little journey that was not her fault at all. The days in the hospital waiting for him to come, day after day, nearly drove her to desperation. She used to cry all day long and refused to close her eyes in the night because it was too dark and she could not see any future. That was when she met Dr Shekar, who was treating her. Shekar not only taught her to get used to the fact that she was never going to have her own leg and will have to learn to walk with artificial ones for the rest of her life, but also taught her to fight right back. He used to speak to her for long hours and in the beginning she spurned him, thinking he was being sympathetic. Then she grew to respect him, admire him and before long, she fell in love with him. They married soon enough and he taught her to come to terms with the fact that she would never be able to dance again the way she did before. But he opened a dance school in her name and told her how her art shall live through so many other people’s dreams. They weaved these dreams together and she could not have been happier in her life. That was when her husband, doctor, mentor, friend, philosopher all rolled into one revealed to her that in the accident, along with her right leg she had also lost her ability to conceive. That shattered her, and she was angry with Shekar for marrying an infertile woman, a woman who could never satisfy him fully. But that was just how remarkable Shekar was, and in his most practical tones said they will adopt a little girl, a girl who would grow up to be as remarkable as her mother is. That little girl they named Swati, and she grew up among the best of people. Parents who taught her to love by showing how they loved and cared for the other. She wanted to look like her mom did and wanted to think and act like her dad did. Now that their little girl had grown up they thought it was time that some mysteries were unraveled to her. Her eyes brimmed with tears, not tears of sadness that some woman had abandoned her years ago but that she was so gifted that she had found such amazing parents. What is more she was so moved that she decided to write her MAN about this and that is how she is in front of the comp typing. She knows that He will understand it all; he will love her still as much as he did before because he loves her for the WOMAN she is, not for the part time dancer, part time journalist that she is. He loves her not because of but in spite of.
Loads of Love, Swathi.
p.s:- This post would have ended where Mayank left her had it not been for him
Bright red ribbons holding neat long pigtails, Pleated skirt showing bruised knee, Sitting on the porch awaiting unread mails, From lands so far, one can’t even see.
Short silky bouncy hair, Adorning a bright cheery frock, Writing furiously sitting on a chair, Shaking legs wrapped in silken sock.
Memories cloud them thoughts, Of playing games at twilight, Of enacting plays thick with plots, Of very many silly fights.
Each hoping against hope hopen, Of returning to times of eternal childhood, Hiding and seeking the other in a den, Laughing in wonderment at times far too good.
As pen strokes fill white paper, As waiting hands clutch unopened letters, They each know that childhood is really over, To reveal times that may be worse, may be better.
Amidst a deluge of emotions and mental turbulence, They each embark upon the final journey, Of leaving behind sweet girlhood in all its innocence, Graduating into little women creating their own destiny!
