The spin and reel of it

I sometimes wonder whether some of us (film reviewers especially) are losing the ability to be entertained. Or whether we like to set ourselves up as tough customers, who put up intellectual barriers between our minds and a movie, where having fun is not a virtue unto itself. What else could explain the negative/wishy-washy/pursed-lip reviews that Jhoom Barabar Jhoom has been getting?

Is it because we no longer enter a theatre with a little skip in our pulse, and when the lights go dim, our hearts do not thud with the anticipation of being whisked off into a different world? Is it because 'real' can only be equated with dark, gritty, gory, violent, depressing? Is it because we ourselves have lost faith in the power of fantasy, and we no longer believe in simple premises like girl-meets-boy-at-a-railway-station?

Or was it because some of us are so alienated from our own cultural contexts, that we just do not get the 'reality' of this fantasy? A fantasy in which ordinary people tell lies, not necessarily to get out of trouble, but also because those lies are their dreams. Dreams in which your lover is rich, foreign, exotic. And willing to marry you. Dreams in which you acknowledge your hard-headedness, your greed, your crookedness, even your self-defeating racism.

Is it that a whole generation has grown up without those classic, allovertheplace, Bollywood films that this film is contantly referencing? Do they not understand the slightly accented Punjabi peppering most of the dilogue? Do they not hear their mothers talking, when the mothers in the film talk? Do they not hear their own happy, romantic subconciouses tumbling towards the inevitable happy, romantic climax?


I, of course, loved Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. Saw it last night and could see it again tonight, if only movie-watching was not so expensive. If only I had the option of a third-rate theatre where tickets cost Rs 12, or even Rs 25, and the cold-drink man comes 'cold-ddrrrrink' clinking glass bottles with the metal opener during the intermission... If only, I could go see it again and again, every weekend for the next month.

Lest it appear as if I'm saying that 'it's a Hindi movie, so why not leave your brains outside the theatre', I'm not! This is actually a fairly intelligent movie. Not only does it experiment with the story within a story mould (which many people have done before in different ways, and of which Roshomon is the most obvious, most famous example), it also seeks to tweak the mould. I don't think we have seen this particular format of storytelling in mainstream Bollywood, so far. Nor have we seen a single theme song being used so cleverly, so successfully, so constantly in any other film. It is terribly hard to listen to the same song - high on beat and lyrics, low on quiet melodiousness - for half an hour or more. But here, the audience is begging for more of the same, because it never is quite exactly the same.

What's more, the filmmaker Shaad Ali has his finger on the pulse of the people. Not the whole nation; I don't mean that he's familiar with, or bringing to life, each class and caste in each corner of our very diverse counry, but he's very definitely got a grip on one vein - that of the aspiring, small-town Indian, who may not be hungry for food but is hungry for love and adventure and exotica and money and bigger, wider canvases. This was very evident in Bunty Aur Bubli (beautifully summed up in the song - chote chote shehro.n se, khaali bhor-dupahro.n se, hum to jhola uthaa ke chale), and to a smaller degree, in Saathiya (two subtly poignant scenes are stamped upon my memory - one is when Rani Mukherjee's family is sitting down in the evening, playing cards; her father is drinking alcohol, the mother and sisters are drinking tea. The other is the scene in which Rani wants to hug her husband in the film, after a hard day at work, and he is embarassed because she's doing so in the balcony, with other peole looking on; her resentment and frustration is a remarkably fine mix of just about everything in that frame, that moment, that life.) In Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, Shaad Ali has taken one step further, and opened the door between the audience's fantasy and that of his characters. For instance, there is an obvious reference to Punjabi illegals (immigrants) in the UK, and this was all the more delicious for me, because I have covered that story, and know just how big that aspiration - and that racket - is, and what a huge deal it is, to have made it from Punjabi Indian or Pakistani, to British Citizen.

Speaking of characters, all are well-sketched, well-cast. All four of the major roles are meaty in their own right. Of course, they're stereotypical too. But the beauty of it is that, because they're a fantasy, because they are and are not themselves, they have the scope for stereotypical, overthetop representation.

For those who like to read stuff in lists and boxes, for the following reasons, Jhoom Barabar Jhoom is immensely enjoyable:

1] The title came to the screen studded, as if with little fake diamonds.

2] Abhishek Bacchan's mobile phone's ring tone. It goes 'Ae Handsome! Ae Handsome!'

3] Hearing Lara Dutta abuse - like a good, authentic desi. The scene where Preity Zinta attempts an impromptu slanging contest with Dutta is particularly, er, endearing.

4] The guy playing Abhishek's friend-mentor, Hafiz Bhai. His tone, his diction, his dialogues, his expressions are priceless. (what's his name?)

5] Amitabh Bacchan is NOT playing sutradhaar, again.

6] It's funny. I was laughing out loud every five minutes.

7] The boys' costumes are to die for. The women's clothes are nice too, but to see silk and colour and glitter on men, for a change, is such joy.

8] The theme song (and dance) grows on you, and it assumes a special growth curve when you 'see' it. Listening to it is just not the same thing. Once you've seen it on the big screen, the song somehow slips into your blood and throbs there, willing you to get up and jhoom-o-fy.

9] Bobby Deol as he is in the second half.

10] The sizeable flirty young desi girl, with the spectacles stuck in her cleavage, and her Punjabi invocation of mum's advice.

11] The Mr and Ms Southall contest.


If anybody hasn't yet, go watch it. And if you've been to see it, and didn't like it... oh, forget it. Go see Roshomon.


Footnote: I hadn't been keen on film initially. The half-wit print interviews with the stars of the film had a lot to do with that, I suspect. None of the fun, none of the spirit, none of the cheek with which the film was made shines through.

UPDATE: Saw it once again! Yay!

UPDATE 2: Saw it once yet again!

A number-plated memory

Young man. Striped shirt. Big-ish car... cannot tell which make; never cared enough about models and names.

Young man leans out to ask for directions. The rest is a familiar, old story.

'Where is PVR Saket?'
'Do you live around here?'
'Would you like to come with me to PVR?'

And after I say 'No', he says, 'Fucking bitch'.

I stop, turn around, take a good, long look at him. No words. I glance down at his number plate, and walk on ahead.

He follows.

'Excuse me, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am.'

Whoever was driving HR29 Q 1782, on Monday evening, June 18th, 2007, is not a very nice young man. The apology was not accepted.

Kaash

If only, brokers didn't have to be paid.

If only, people built houses meant to be lived in. Rooms with large windows, and doors right across so the breeze knows it is welcome and the air is not weighted with claustrophobia.

If only, homes were not created to earn - each square foot put there so that it can forever become a tiny mint all by itself. A thousand for a bathroom, two thousand for a kitchen, five thousand for a kitchen that doesn't send a woman into a depressive tailspin. If only, they didn't try to tell you that this is quite enough for your needs... what more could you possibly want?

If only, you had nothing but your clothes and books. Or that the cupboards understood - a woman's needs are king-size.

If only, you weren't afraid of bumping your head against the shower, or risked having a nervous breakdown each time you looked at the toilet.

If only, the walls weren't lilac. Or pink. Or green. Or both.

If only, there were railings on narrow staircases.

If only, people who had room to spare would give two rooms, instead of just one, keeping the adjacent one empty and utterly, senselessly, locked up.

If only, they wouldn't assume you cannot live without air-conditioning. And would believe you when you promised you wouldn't use it.

If only, you were a pigeon. So you could fit into the holes a city rents out. Or were free to sleep on other people's windowsills.

If only, landlords returned deposits without a fuss, without making you feel like you were cheating them.

If only, they didn't ask you your caste. And when you refuse to tell them, they didn't stammer, didn't press on with questions about where you belong. If only, they didn't care. If only, they didn't stare at you when said you were alone. If only, they didn't need the lie of respectability. If only, they weren't so afraid of 'boys'. If only, they didn't threaten to treat you exactly like their own daughters.

Oh, if only!

Sunday afternoon

Sunday morning and a knock on the door. A stranger.

Who hands me a picture of guru nanak, benevolently gazing at nothing at a forty-five degree angle. I take it, finger it, and look expectantly at the stranger.

He says that there's a special function organised by the colony. At the gurudwara close by. A langar for the poor and water stalls for all thirsty passersby. I begin to calculate mentally how much I could spare.

The stranger whipped out a tiny bill-book. "Whatever you find it in your heart to give... sister. What is your name?"

I hesitated. Though I was half-willing to pay, shut the door and go back to sleep, something was holding me back. Yet, this was common enough. Every year, every festival, a knock on the door.

He extended another photo to me - some sort of religious ceremony underway. I glance at it but do not take it.

He asks, "Are you Punjabi?"

"No."

"That doesn't matter. Everybody has given. Even the students living downstairs."

For some reason I don't understand, I said "No, I don't think I can."

"Whatever you can. It is god's work." And that just made it worse.

"No thank you, I cannot attend and I cannot help." and I handed back the tiny picture.

He simply rustled his bill-book. "But you must. Sister, come tell me your name... And you should also pray. Every morning, you should spend some time, hold out your hands like this, and -"

Snap. "I have no faith. I don't pray."

"This if for the poor. They will be fed at the langar."

"When I want to give to the poor, I can do so directly. I don't need you to organise it for me."

"Everybody else has given."

"Sorry, I cannot."

He half-turns to go. "Are you a student?"

"No" and I shut the door.

It took me ten minutes to figure out what had happened. Why, despite being half-willing to pay up and be done with it, I refused so stubbornly. It was the awful mixture of religion and money. It was the pressure. It was the attempt to make me do somehing on the grounds that everybody else had done so. It was the invocation of the poor in that pitying-bullying tone.

And it took me another half an hour to realise that gurudwaras have langars anyway (a tradition that I admire and wish all other religions wouls emulate). All are free to step in, cover their heads and eat. I have never heard of a gurudwara organising a langar on the strength of door-to-door collections on a Sunday afternoon. What, then, was this collection for? Who was this young man?

On my way out, later in the afternoon, I checked to see if there was any water stall set up on the road outside the colony. There wasn't.

Why don't they speak up, then?

In Delhi's buses, about one-fourth of the seats are reserved for women. The first seat on the left is for the conductor(s). The second is for the handicapped. The next four rows (on the left side) are marked 'ladies'. Most often, there will be men sitting on these, until a woman shows up and dislodges them. (Just for the record, I do not dislodge men from ladies' seats. If, however, a young man - not an old one - gets up and offers me the seat, I usually, gratefully, accept).

The other day, a blind girl got onto the bus. She was accompanied by a young man, and it was very clear that they were much in love. For some strange reason, she also wore a ghoonghat that covered her face entirely. As she stood beside me, her fingers scraped the air around us, fumbling for something to hold onto. At first, I thought the was because of the ghoonghat, and it irritated me. I wanted to say something suitably biting about wearing viels and inconveniencing everybody else too. Then, I noticed that she was fumbling for the man's arm too. When she found it, she held onto that for dear life, and made no attempt to even peep through the folds of the fabric before the eyes. I realised that she was probably blind and was going to offer her my seat, when she began to move ahead. The progress was very slow, for she could neither see the people pressing in from all sides, nor figure out how to separate them and push ahead. Her fingers continued to scrape the air, in soft futile circles.

The young man apologized, to nobody in particular - she cannot see.

A woman sitting ahead of me beckoned - why don't you take her to the handicapped seat?

He said - ok. And he tried to guide her ahead.

The crowd did not move an inch. The couple seemed stuck for a while. Then, they reached the handicapped seat. A heavyset man occupied it. He sat there, staring straight ahead. Unseeing.

The same lady called out again - let her take the handicapped seat.

The man did not move. As if he had not heard. Could not hear.

Another lady beside her called out - hello! Let the girl take the handicapped seat.

Someone else said - where's the conductor? Conductor bhaiyya, get her that seat. She's blind.

The conductor got off his own seat quickly (which was quickly filled by another passenger), and moved towards the back of the bus, selling tickets. As if he hadn't heard.

The girl still stood there, fumbling, feeling, faceless. The young man stood there, silent.

From beside me - why isn't the conductor saying anything?

And suddenly, silence.

Then, I leaned forward and called out - hello! That's the handicapped seat. Please tell him to vacate it.

And the lady next to me also spoke up - conductor bhaiyya, tell him.

The voices - mostly women's voices - murmured again, called out again.

And the heavyset man finally turned around, for a brief instant, as if startled, and then vacated the seat.

The blind girl sat down. Everybody else sat back.

The conductor standing nearby mumbled under his breath - why don't they speak up for themselves, then?

One of the worst things about my job is the tears. Grown men and women breaking down.

You can handle kids' crying. They scream their lungs out, they whimper until something distracts them. They sniffle, their faces contort, and all of a sudden, they stop. But how do you handle an old man's tears? How do you handle the crack in an adult voice, sentences disappearing into illogical whimpers of protest?

Weeks after the Varanasi trip, two things have stayed stuck in my head. One, is the weeping of old men and women. At least four of them broke down, without warning, leaving me tongue-tied.

Manni, the grandmother who still climbs trees, braves broken ankles and survives by making pattals. Her legs tremble now, she said. And she wept. Her daughter lost a child to malnutition, but was dry-eyed. In the Musahar hamlet, the women don't have the time enough, tears enough, for buried children; almost all have lost one in its infancy, or two or four. They cannot afford to keep accounts of regret.

Mullain, father of Kanhaiya who is now dead. Former weaver. Father-in-law of Bhagini. Dependent on Bhagini, who makes about Rs 25 a day, washing dishes and sweeping other people's homes. I asked them how they live, and he said, "We live... eat two days, don't eat two days." I made the mistake of asked his opinion on the weavers' situation. His voice trembled. "Think? What should I think? What should I say?"

Nirhu. Sixty-five years old. Former weaver. Lost two young sons... to illness... to weakness... to malnutrition... who knows? The elder one was about thirty-five and a father of three himself. The younger one was about twenty-five, and father of one. Now, Nirhu must support all these children. How? "I dig in the groumd. Work on construction sites. In brick kilns" And his voice trmebled. "My eyes are gone.... Within 8 months, I lost both sons....my back has been broken by their going." And after a pause, I asked, "Are you okay?" He said, "Okay? Well, I'm not ill at the moment. I suppose I am okay."

Chamila, Nirhu's wife. Who has lost two young sons. She also goes to work on construction sites and brick kilns. I squat next to her, near the earthen stove. A small fire is lit. A pot is simmering. What is cooking? Potatoes. And what do you eat that with - rice? daal? "There is no daal, no oil, no chillies, no haldi. What daal?" And she started to weep.

I left that village feeling sick at the heart. And then I walked into the other thing that is stuck in my head. A swimming river of stars.

Jugnoo.

I hadn't seen fire-flies before, not in such glory. Not at such proximity. Here, in this village where there was no electricity, where my own step on wet mud sounded loud, here, I step almost into the centre of a shimmering, invisible web of pin-pointed light. Like restless, warm diamonds. Like crystals of live poetry. Like having the stars laid out in my path, at my feet.

ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si

Was stuck to her cell phone outside a small 'mart' while it poured in sheets more solid than water can be.
Was cursing her decision to carry cloth bags, cursing the monopoly of white shalwaars in her wardrobe.
Was buying shampoo to the tune of a hundred drops melded into one mechanical drone melded into the drrrr of a sewing machine.
Was leaning into the whip of the wind.

ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si
Was trying to flag down auto, mini-bus, anything. No cycle-rickshaws in this part of town.
Was cursing the government and its urban transport policies.
Was looking in the bus that had stopped beside her. The conductor saying, get on, we'll take you as far as the bend.
Was debating whether or not to - less than six people on the bus and she cannot tell whether they are passengers or friends of the driver.
Was thinking of what she'd read about buses and being the only girl on board.

ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si
Was warned, 'bheeg rahe ho, madam, log kuch kuch keh ke jayenge'.
Was struggling between wanting to accept the polite offer of bus-drivers in the rain, and the fears that lurk within that bus.
Was finally standing in the bus, near the door, ready to get off in an instant.
Was told to sit inside. Was ignoring the request.
Was sitting on the conductor's seat, right near the door, because it had been vacated for her.

ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si
Was waiting, pointlessly. The rain would not let up and the bus would not move. Traffic snarling half a kilometre ahead.
Was hopping off, without an umbrella, cloth jhola bleeding its handloom truth onto her white shalwaar.
Was rolling up her shalwaar, which would slip down and unravel. Rolled up again, unravelled again.

ek ladki bhegi bhaagi si
Was listening to 'aaye-hai' and 'oye madam' and 'madam ji ko bhi bhithaa le'.
Was turning about to glare at the comment-passer. It was a khaki uniform. A cop, on a bike, riding pillion behind another cop.
Was turning to a wolf-whistle, at her elbow. A face in the car window. The car ramming into the jeep ahead. Headlights crunching and smashing and glass silently falling into the gushing gutter water, rising, rising.
Was wading through rising gutter water.

ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si
Was rushing up a dark stairway, to a dark house and for once, wasn't missing the electricity.
Was listening to 'your room is practically air-conditioned!'. Wind-conditioned. Rain-conditioned.
Was no longer bheegi bhaagi si.

A voice, like a call.

Can't remember where I've heard it, but I always carry it around - this idea that the body is the soul. The body is all you have. It is the body that creates, the body that feels, the body that runs away, the body that gives up. You cannot lose more than a body. The body is ultimate.

This idea is reinforced every time I listen to good music. Being musically illiterate, (well, almost), I respond physically to most singing. In fact, my tastes can be summed up in one line: either the music should move me, or it should make me move. If it does neither, it's not my sort of thing. But if it does, if it moves me, I feel it like food, like fabric, like flowers. Like, my gut responds to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Like, my mouth responds to the peppy fifties filmy songs. Like, my chest responds to Begum Akhtar and Farida Khanum.

Sain Zahoor... I think the back of my head and eyes have decided that he bears a little of that magic. This man, whom the world is comparing to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, this man who sings Sufiana kalam, they say, like the sufis did; this man was singing on the last day of the (awfully named) Hungry Hearts theatre festival. And I was listening. At first, with my eyes wide open. For he walked onto the stage carrying an ektara festooned with bright strings of multicoloured.... what is the word? They are like bunches of colourful parandas that village girls wear in their braids. Like the strings that auto-rickshaws in small towns will hang from their rear-view mirrors. Rarely have these strings acquired such brazen dignity as they did on that ektara.

We'd waited long enough for his performance, but the wait itself had been worthwhile. The first part of the evening, in fact, was absolutely enthralling. Sabir Sain and Abdur Ghafur Sain were on the dhol, in a jugalbandi with Warsi Ballu on the tabla. All I can say about it was that the drumming pulsed in my blood and despite the freezing air-conditioning, I felt warm. If I'd been in an open space instead of being confined to a seat in a packed auditorium, I'd have gotten up to whirl.

[The singer that followed this piece, Mohammad Hanif Multani was, well, alright. I suppose. He was followed by Inayat Ali Beli, who was fun. The energy was tremendous, and the audience was happily clapping along.]

And then, finally, Sain Zahoor walked onto the stage. With strings of ghungroos wrapped round both ankles, carrying his ektara in both arms, like you carry a sleeping child. Dressed in a shimmering, tinselled, red shalwaar-kameez, and a black turban, and quiet confidence. And he began to sing. And my eyes closed, my neck threw itself against the back of the seat; in minutes, I was filled with questions. About purity, about purpose. What is the purpose of this man here, his voice? What is the purpose of colour? Of sound? Of beauty? Of language itself? What are these words he is singing?

Bulle Shah... singing of dancing to please the beloved, and losing his caste, because a dancing girl has no caste. Bulle Shah... singing of black - his black beloved, the black letters of the Quran, and who wants the fair ones?

My heart is sold to words, and I only understand Punjabi in bits and snatches. Bulle Shah makes me work very hard. But Zahoor is making is easier - the words reach me, and even if they didn't, they wouldn't need to. His voice is translating them for me into a language that doesn't beg understanding.

The accompanists weren't helping. The harmonium was almost drowning out the ektara, the tabla and flute were irritants. I wanted them to stop, and when a stranger's voice yelled out, between songs - 'Sirf ektara!' - it became obvious that that many others did, too.

This is a voice that does not need, and perhaps, does not even brook, any company. It is a voice you want to be alone with. Perhaps, it is not even a voice meant for auditorium and stage. It is a voice that calls to you as if from over a distance, and stops you, inside your head. It is the voice of a wandering singer. The voice of a sain.

Between verses, with a 'ha!', or is it a 'haq!', the voice snaps its fingers at you. That single syllable, that half-word is like a tap on the knee, and then he stamps his feet and begins to dance in circles, ghungroos filling the room.

And then, Zahoor is singing... Allah Hu.... Hu.... Hu....

And I'm wondering - what is the significance of this? All the sufi singers sing it so - 'Allah Hu...' In your prayers, you are supposed to say 'allah hu akbar'. God is great. But they stop at 'allah hu.'. God is. And sometimes, only 'Hu...' Just the verb. Is. What is this 'is'? Is it an assertion of being, of existing, and thereby, of everything else?

Each time my mind wandered, with each drawn out, gently warbling 'hu...', Zahoor's voice would drag me back. Like, being tugged at with muslin threads. Like, being woven in and out of a pattern. Of the here, and now. And forever.


Is he like Nusrat sahab? I don't know. Not really. The great qawwal's voice had something dry and crackling in it. I never heard him in concert, but even over the stifling distance of a CD or tape, even then, his voice would touch me like a fist. Zahoor is different. Like, something firm and baked.

And finally, when the accompanists are persuaded to stop, finally, after Zahoor has touched his fingers to his eyes and extended his hands to his listeners, and bowed, he is persuaded to sing one last song. There is his voice and his fingers on the ektara, and you can only draw in your breath once, deeply, and exhale. It is a voice that calls out to you. Like a hand beckoning in a dream.

I love Patna.

Because I am delighted by the poster-plastered walls that inform me of a range of entertainment options, which include:

1] Narhau Rickshawala (angry young man carrying small child occupies the centre of the poster, with faces of villanous-looking men all around)
2] Sasurara Zindabad (two cheerful young women, one in western dress, one in ghagra-choli; many other faces.)
3] Kaam-wali (an emphatic 'kaam' being printed at a distance from 'wali'; picture of young woman having erotic fit on her knees)
4] Chinese Nagin (simple white poster with text)

Right next to it, an ad for Chetan Coaching Classes - X, XII etc. Simple white poster with text.


And because of the backs of the cycle-rickshaws - shimmering fabrics, edged with silver gotaa, covered with motifs of horses, fish, hanuman, a new moon... and very often, a Taj Mahal type monument, in shocking pink satin.

And because of one sober rickshaw that has neither satin nor silver lace nor motif. His vehicle is done up in soft, brown faux-leather. Written on the back, quite simply - 'I love You'.

What's not to love, haan?

The man from Melbourne.

He began by asking for directions.

So many of them do that, that I almost didn't bother to turn my head towards the voice. And yet, it is not a nice thing not to give somebody directions, even if they are strangers, male, and even if it getting dark and you're walking alone.

So, I stopped when he said, 'Excuse me, do you know this area?'

'Yes. This is Lajpat Nagar' and I walked on.

He fell into step beside me.

'And where does this road go?'

'Lajpatnagar market in this direction, and if you go in that direction, there's Jangpura.'

Yet, he did not leave my side.

'And so... do you live in this area?'

I sighed. Any moment now, he would want to 'make friendship'.

'No.'

'So... do you live in Delhi.'

My first instinct was to turn on him, tell him to get lost, not to follow me, yell at him. But one corner of my mind was asking me not to. Yelling would only confirm fear. Besides, perhaps, yelling was not called for. Relax, you can handle this. R.e.l.a.x.

Walking at a regular pace, I quickly swept the lane with a glance - some shops still open; some people still around.

He spoke again. 'So... where are you from?'

'Here.'

'Oh? I live in Australia.'

I suddenly wanted to laugh (but didn't). He was speaking in English, with an accent that bordered on American. The sort of accent I've heard often in Jaisalmer, mostly in the mouths of waiters who work in hotels frequented by American tourists. What did he hope to achieve by telling me where he lived, anyway?

'In Melbourne,' he offered.

I didn't say anything.

'So...where are you from?'

'Here.'

'Where are you going right now?'

'Home.'

No need to be rude. Just say 'no' nicely, if he asks.

And he asked. 'Would you like to be friends?'

Well, at least, it wasn't 'I want to make friendship'.

'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

He kept walking beside me. Still, I told myself, there was nothing to be afraid of.

He said, 'But I want to be friends... I like your hair.'

And I couldn't resist saying, 'You choose your friends on the basis of hair?'

'Er, no. I mean, I like everything about you... your walk. Your looks.'

The accent had dropped off entirely by now. I've would've asked him his exact street address and phone number in Melbourne, but this was not the time. There were no rickshaws or autos in sight and I was beginning to worry.

'Do you work here?' he persisted.

'Yes.'

'Where are you going?'

Silence.

'Can I walk with you?'

'No.'

Still, he continued to walk with me. And still no rickshaws to be seen.

'Why you don't want to be friends?'

Silence.

The last few shops were downing shutters. The street was deserted.

'Can I have your phone number?'

'No.'

Just when I thought there was no alternative to fury and bitter words, an auto appeared. And the man from Melbourne, melted away.

Lest we forget

Poetry, it is said, is called into service when other, words fail you. When newspaper reports, essays, stories, conversation itself fails. Poetry speaks the unspeakable.

Gujarat. Five years ago, it turned into a word for which I have no words. Now that it is a time to remember, lest we forget, I turn to poetry. Hindi poetry. Or call it Hindustani poetry. There is a collection of poetry in two volumes, titled 'Das Baras - Hindi Kavita Ayodhya Ke Baad', a compilation of contemporary poems about the identity, about poetry, about writing and speaking up, fear, denial, love. The tragedy is that you could easily replace 'ayodhya' with 'gujarat'.

(Am putting up two poems; I can find no English translations on the web, and so am attempting rough translations myself. Let this be my way of remembering.)


Against Forgetting - by Manglesh Dabraal

Not the first, always the second
Second life, second light, always the second darkness
Because I am the second, not the first, each time the second
The first is always absent, always forgotten
The first is always lost, always missing, shifting places
I am the second, in the memory of the first, always taking his place
The first is always pulled down, destroyed
I am, like the remaining rubble, the second
The first is burnt, dead, always a corpse
I am the second, rising from the ashes of the first
Answering to the rollcall in his stead I am, I am, I say
I am the second, a foggy shape of the first, a feeling of the first
For I am not the first, but the second
The scream of the first, the grief of the first, the love of the first
An eternal calling out to the first, a second.

----


No poem is mine - by Bodhisatva

They wanted to measure
the depth of my eyes
with a trishul
my heart
with a spear.

They say
I must not love and
I must set my home alight
like a diya and perform an aarti
for them
and I must sacrifice my wife and kids to them
and sing their praises.
They say
I must salute them. Or
even better, not say anything at all,
give up my tongue in exchange
for the badge of life
and go about, happy. Or
better still, dig my own grave
and settle down in it
along with all my dreams.

They are dear to Khudaa
They are beloved to Bhagwaan
They are pure.

They make offerings to the sun.
The sun becomes theirs.
They bathe in the Ganga
The Ganga becomes theirs.
They run the country
The country becomes theirs.

I am asking, over and over
sleeping and waking, they keep calling me
an outsider
Does that make me one?

They want me to leave
my land, my possessions
my full moon
my sown fields and
the country dissolved in my blood.
They want me to say
that the Ganga is not mine
this country is not mine
But then,
the sunshine is not mine
the full moon is not mine
and
no poem is mine.

He, who weaves.

They opened the door reluctantly. I stepped inside the house hesitantly, prickling with the knowledge that I am not very welcome. Siddique sahab was aware too, but pushed ahead anyway. 'They need to speak up. Their ideas of diginity are secondary to the battle for survival.'

But how hard it is! Half-remembered stories came back to me - about the landed rich of the area who grew so poor that everything in the house was sold, and there was nothing to eat, but the old man of the house would still step out in his sherwani. Of people starving to death but nobody knowing because they would not speak of it.

It is not easy to speak of hunger. Especially for those who once had enough. The weavers of Varanasi once had enough. Now, they describe their handlooms as a sort of living grave.

The analogy is curiously fitting, you realise, when you see a 'workshop'. The looms are fitted into a hole in the ground. Take away the loom and it does look like grave.

The ground floor of the home of the Ahmeds had once been a busy place. There were four looms. There were employees. Nizam Ahmed took his sarees to the mandi, where customers and traders from near and far awaited the weavers. They were paid on the spot. Then, somehow, things changed. The 'mandi' no longer existed. Traders began to claim that the benarasi saree no longer sold. There was no demand. They could not afford to pay so much. The weavers, pushed to the wall, began to accept lesser and lesser. The sarees that once fetched them Rs 1500, now go for Rs 600.

The Ahmeds had shut the workshop up for the day when Siddique sahab knocked on their door, but they unlocked it for us to look inside. One loom had been dismantled long ago. Two lay silent as death. Only one was still strung with anticipation, looped with silk and silver and golden threads.

The son, Riyaz slipped into position and started work. The father brought out a bit of graph-paper on which a design was printed. This design can be the border or the 'booti' of the saree. The more elaborate the border design, the harder the weaver has to work.

I was somewhat awed to see what it takes to actually make a saree, a zari border, the simplest booti. The loom was strung and overhung with what looked like cardboard streamers with holes punched into them. Turned out, these bits of cardboard represented the border design. Imagine that each pixel on the design graph had to be represented in a linear fashion. Thousands of dots go into a pattern. Thousands of holes have to be punched into cardboard and strung together, and finally attached to the loom, with thread passing through the holes at the appropriate places. It takes weeks to just set up a handloom, if you're going to create a new, exclusive design. (This part of the contraption was invented locally, it is said.)

The hard work begins much earlier, though. Silk has to be acquired, skeins organised, rolled into spools etcetra etcetra. This too takes weeks, and is usually done by the wives and daughters of the weavers (it goes without saying that they are not paid and their labour is never taken into account).

And here, the young weaver's son sits, legs dangling in the mud floor. His fingers work swiftly, his eyes rarely the fabric that he creates, line by line by line. With a sort of awed fascination mixed with a tight-rolled terror in my heart, I watched. The endlessness of it. The spool moving from right hand to left and left back to right, the wooden loom making a dull racket, as rhythmic as a heartbeat. It would be easy to slip into a sort of trance here. And line by line by line, the fabric is created. Silk thread seems to be melting under his fingers. He pauses just an instant, replacing the silk with silver, then gold, then silver, then silk. And while I am talking to his parents, his grandmother, while I am listening to them speak of families mixing poison in roti and feeding it to hungry children, of widows of suicides making a barren living by cutting off the tiny rough edges on the underside of the embroidered fabric, of weavers not yet taking to crime of any sort - except one incident when a man snatched a bag of food from a passerby in the market - my eyes and ears stayed with that live loom.

And Nizam Ahmed was saying - "This saree will take us 15 days to make. I know I will not sell it for more than Rs 600."

Saying that it is not that the weavers don't want the market to change. "Tell us what the demand is like and we will meet that demand. Tell us what the international market wants, what people in Bombay and Delhi want. We will make it."

And Siddique sahab was telling me of how, when he visited weaver families and stayed overnight, they would often ask him to go and sleep in a neighbour's house. It took him weeks to realise that he was being sent away because the family had no food and so, sent him to the house that could provide dinner for a guest.

And I was wondering - how hungry do you have to be, before the hunger becomes official?
Weavers - about 5 lakh of them - living like this. And this family is better off than many others. In rural areas, artisans have simply taken to lifting mud at construction sites. Weaving brings nothing. There is nothing to weave.


But I am glad I came here. Glad that I was given a chance to see what six yards of Banarasi means. Glad that I can finally see the hope and time and blood and skill that go into line upon line of expensive weave.

I do not buy benarasi silk, and if I did, the temptation to buy cheap, to beat down the price would be great. But ever since I walked into that workshop, my attitude to clothes has changed. I can do with one good Benarasi saree; nobody needs fifty. If it cost me a month's salary, I'd happily pay up; I now know that it is worth every paisa.


I've begun to wonder if our inability to judge the true value for things has something to do with the fact that we don't have a clue about how they're made. We don't see fields. We don't have the stain of soil on our toes. We don't look at the sky with aching eyes and have terror sieze our soul each time cloud passes us by, each time the earth develops another crack. We don't know how each fibre is drawn out of our fingertips as a wheel turns between our knees. We don't know how yarn must be rolled over and over and over until the wrist turns into a numb machine, and we don't know of the pleasant shock of having one inch of silk and glittering thread forming suddenly a border, in such glamourous contrast to the cardboard festooning our heads. We don't know how things are made.

And so we stand at bazaar stalls, haggling about why a pair of leather jootis costs two hundred rupees, haggling about why a dupatta should cost three hundred, haggling about how a painted wooden doll can cost one hundred.

I wonder how much we'd think these things were worth if we had to make them ourselves. I wonder what price we'd put to a silk saree if we were born into the Ahmed household in Varanasi.

A personal LoC

A line of Control. A dress. A word. A slut.

It is not an easy admission to make, but I have used the word 'slut' whilst referring to another woman. And I have regretted using it.

In fact, I regretted using it within ten seconds of it having escaped my lips. It wasn't about what she wore. I wore less. It wasn't about make-up. She used none. In retrospect, it was about anger, and a shade of envy.

This is about four years ago. I was sitting around with a couple of young male friends. They were talking about the difficulty of getting girls to attend parties. They asked me, half joking, if I could get them through to some girls.

And stupidly, sanctimously, I shrugged and said, 'I don't know any girls who'd go out partying with strangers. Well, maybe I know one. She's a bit of a slut.'

The boys reacted unexpectedly. They exchanged glances and one said, 'Shhh. Don't ever use that word for a woman.'

My humiliation has rarely been so complete as it was in that instant.


What had been going on in my mind? Did I disrespect girls who went out with boys too soon? But I too have hung out with men, when introduced through other friends. What did I disrespect about the girl?

It took years for me to figure out what and why. I envied the girl a little. She did what she wanted. She seemed not to be afraid of being judged by her family or other people like me. It is a different story that a lot of her recklessness and defiance was rooted in her fear of being judged by her own city-bred peers, of not 'fitting in' in glamourous circles. But I did not judge her because of her fears; I judged her because of mine.

There was another reason why I was so flippantly moralistic. The man who shushed me had not been paying enough attention to me. And I craved his attention. I wanted to win his approval, somehow. To show that I was better than those 'easy' girls he hung out with. After all, all my life, I had been told that men like girls who play hard-to-get; that they respect girls with the hands-off approach.

Unfortunately, the effect was opposite to the one desired. But the good thing was that I was immediately chastened, and flung into (a miserable soggy pit of) self-reflection. Here was a man I liked and, in an uncomprehending, instinctive fashion, respected. And whose respect I may have lost.

I began to think about why I respected him - not because he partied, not because he swore and provoked and argued. Perhaps, because he was one of the few men I'd met who was neither awkward around me, nor aggressively friendly. He seemed to ask nothing of me and never crossed any lines - physical or social. Never once did I fear either him or his morality.


Never again has the word slut crossed my lips, or even my mind.

In fact, when a bunch of us journalists were outside a restaurant, an acquaintance leaned over and whispered - 'See those girls? They're sluts!' - I was surprised.

The women being referred to were in tight jeans, skirts and halter tops, lots of mascara, no male escorts.

I asked, 'How do you know?'

'It's obvious.'

I simply noted that the clothes were very smart, and considered asking them where they shopped.

'See! They're waiting to get picked up,' she continued.

'Are they?' I said, in a deliberately bored voice, and turned away.

A retraction

About two years ago, I had said some things about provocation (in a post titled ' Provocation', which then led to some very provoked comments).

I go back to it now because I have rethought the sexes, gender, bodies, public space, and also because, I was asked to think of 'crossing lines'. When it comes to clothes - attitudes, lifestyles, whatever - what amounts to a line crossed?

With reference to clothes specifically, back then, I had said that bodies - male or female - attract attention, and often admiration. To quote myself, "We do not like the way this admiration is expressed. But that is something we have no control over. There will be whistling, song-singing, comment-passing, the works...And yes, I don't think we have a right to stop this expression of admiration."


Two years later, I apologize. I no longer believe that. I especially retract 'the works' and that last sentence.

I believe (I think) that there is only so much we can do to control other people's reactions but we can try to change the reactions, the public space, and the attitudes that lead to unpleasant reactions. And we have every right to seek such a change, albeit as non-violently as possible.

At this point of time, I no longer believe in any fixed rules with reference to women's bodies and men's reactions. There was a time when I was conditioned into thinking that the responsibility (and fault?) for these reactions lay with a woman. I no longer think so.

I continue to have very mixed views about what exactly harassment is and whether irritants like comment-passing, whistling, song-singing, staring should be classified in the same bracket as pinching, grabbing or otherwise touching without permission.

I am aware that most of the time it is not worth my while to react violently to any of the former and that I will invariably react with a spontaenous burst of violence to the latter. However, if I was fifteen, and being followed by a man who kept passing comments that seemed threatening or intended to humiliate, I'd feel differently. I now recognize that language (singing, commenting etc is part of a public, gendered language) is a tool of aggression and dominance, a tool of power play. If somebody calls your mother a whore, and you beat him up, most people would understand perfectly and stand up for you. If some random man on the street calls you a whore, and you feel insulted by it, and beat him up, I would understand perfectly (even if I don't think that there's anything wrong with whores).

I still don't wear certain clothes in public. And I recognize that this is not always because I respect other people's sensibilities but because I am afraid of them. Afraid of what they will do to me. I do not wear spagetti-strapped tops to the local market or a backless dress in a rickshaw, not because I'm concerned about how I'm affecting the men out there, but because I'm afraid that if some blighted idiot decides to insult me or touch me without my permission, I will find myself isolated, and humiliated even further by the idea that the fault was mine.

I stand by what I said about us wanting to attract admiration, and wanting it only from certain men/women and not from others, and that class and race are huge factors here. But I retract what I said about being prepared for the impact our bodies have upon these 'others'.

I think that men have a right to 'look' if we happen to be in their line of vision. But they do not have a right to assume that a woman is available (even if she is stark naked), or open to insults, or that she will appreciate their admiration and attention. Unwelcome attention will simply provoke defensive-aggressive behaviour. And every woman has the right to define her own boundaries of (un)acceptable behaviour, and to defend those boundaries as she sees fit.

Apologies to the sisters I offended by my opinions earlier. I stand corrected, and wiser.

He, who ferries.

His name I know well. He repeatedly told me - Ramji - and repeatedly told me not to forget.

I'd only wanted to get away from the shore, not a guided tour. But the boatman was determined, now that he'd struck a deal, to give me the complete package. At all the ghats, each nuzzling the next, he'd tell me the name, the name of the king, queen, pundit or merchant who'd financed it. The information slipped off my ears like water off his oar.

At one point, he mentioned Narad, the mischief-making god.

'A couple should never take a dip together at this point. If they do, they're sure to fight. Narad makes sure.'

At another, he told me the whole story of Raja Harishchandra. I listened as if I hadn't heard it before.

At yet another, he stopped and ordered that I take a palmful of water and sprinkle it over my head. Every few ghats, he'd direct me to fold my hands in prayer, at the very least.

At one point, he used the phrase - 'our Hindu brothers...' and caught himself.

He asked my name. I told him.

He repeated - 'Naini, is it?' and I did not bother to correct him.

Then he wanted to know about my brother, my mother, my father, my work, was I married, why not, and why was I in a white saree?

Exhausted, I turned his questions round on him - how many years has he been a boatman, what did his father do, will his son do the same, are his daughters in school, why was the eldest married so young?

When the talk showed no signs of ceasing, I asked him to let me take one of the oars.

With no hesitation, he agreed, making space for me and spreading his red gamchha so my saree wouldn't get wet.

And finally, there was silence.

Except that he clicked his tongue impatiently each time the oar slipped from my hands, and made encouraging noises whenever it seemed like I was finally getting the hang of it. Fifteen minutes later, the wind was against us and my muscles were protesting.

'This is hard work,' I said.

He cocked his head and stopped rowing for a moment, as if thinking this over.

'Yes, I suppose it is.'

The minute I returned to my passenger status, the commentary and questions started again. He was saying something about a curse by Shiva, so that there must be an eternal pyre, some loved one turning to ashes, forever, at a certain ghat.

And he was also admonishing me.

'Didi, next time you come, you must come with Jijaji.'

'Yes.'

'Don't wait any longer...time enough.'

'Yes.'

'And when you come with Jijaji, make sure you ask for Deepak Maajhi. Actually, my name is Ramji, but the boat belongs to Deepak Maajhi.'

'Yes.'

'Didi, shall I tell you something? When I first saw you, I was a little worried. Especially when you said you wanted to be alone. We get suspicious because people who want to go alone will often jump off the boat. And you... in your white saree... I thought...'

'That I wanted to commit suicide?'

'Hehe, no, but we worry. We're poor boatmen and the passenger is our responsibility.... you must not wear white... Once, there was a man - must be ten years older than you. He also wanted to go alone. I took him, and at the end, he was so pleased, he promised to buy me my own boat. He gave me a phone number and asked me to call up after six months.'

'Did you?'

'It has been only four months. I will call. My own boat will cost Rs 30,000-35,000.'

'Didi, you will not forget my name, will you? You will remember Ramji?'

'Yes, I will.'

He, who asks nothing

I didn't ask his name, but now, I wonder. In Benaras, this man was unusual. He was one of those who had a chance but didn't ask for my name.

It ought to be easy - anonymity in a city of millions, which also has millions of visitors, domestic and international. A city used to faces of all colours, tongues of all timbre, wardrobes of all vintage. Why should it care what I am called?

My silence is precious to me. Especially in strange places where talk is no obligation, where there are no acquaintances, when I know I must listen and talk and listen and ask and listen all through the next few days... Why should the town care what I'm called?

But in Benaras, they all ask.

Starting from the garrulous pre-paid auto-driver at the station, who wanted to know not just my name but my surname, my address, my work-place, my knowledge of Delhi's roads, my family, their names, etc. In exchange, unasked, he offered little factoids about himself - his name, the number of years he spent in Delhi, the number of siblings who live in Delhi, their addresses, their professions, his parents, his parents' sickness, his return to Benaras, the kind of car he used to drive, his philosophical take on old parents and responsibility, his kids, their exams, his plans for the summer, holidays in Delhi and Mumbai and if he can afford it, Goa.

After numbing me suitably, the auto-wala tried taking me to a different hotel. I insisted that I already had a booking.

He wanted to know how much I was going to pay per night.

I told him and he clicked his tongue and offered to get me a cheaper deal.

I protested and insisted that I had a booking.

He began to insist that I look at the alternative hotel.

I refused.

He insisted.

I pointed out that it wasn't right - to get someone to make a reservation and then not show up.

He said he'd get a commission if he brought me to the other hotel.

I refused.

He sulked.

Too bad, I thought, and went on to where a booked room awaited.

Later in the evening, at the hotel, when I expressed a desire to visit the Annapoorna temple, the travel desk summoned this rickshaw-wala.

All he said was, 'sixty rupees' and didn't speak again until we reached the place.

A constable blocked our path, saying rickshaws were not allowed into the lane. I got off and started walking, but within a minute, the rickshaw was at my side again, asking me to sit.

I asked him how he got past the cop. He told me - by paying ten rupees.

Outside the temple, he waited while I pushed through the two-way crush of the narrow Vishwanath lane and when I returned, too soon, he asked if I wanted to go to the ghats.

'I don't know... Is there anything nearby?'

He pointed towards the Ganga.

Nothing to do and a little daylight still clinging to the sky: I stepped down to the ghats and was swallowed by a sequence of cries and whispers in three languages - all offering to sell something, ask something.

I wanted to sit alone, in peace, but there seemed to be no way of escaping except into the river. A boatman beckoned; we struck a deal so that I would not have to share the boat.

The rickshaw-wala saw me go, and said nothing except that he'd be at the stand (a parking lot for cycle-rickshaws).

When I returned - having recounted my name, birth-place, family details etc to the garrulous boatman - he stood waiting at the shore.

He asked if I wanted to wait for the maha-aarti.

'Is it was worth waiting for?'

He shrugged. 'People come to see it.'

I sat down on the steps. A boy stopped by, selling tea in tiny kullads, as small as diwali diyas, for Re 1. He asked me my name. A boy of about twelve came up, selling booklets. He asked me my name. I sighed, and told him. A young man of about twenty parked himself on my right. He asked me my name. I smiled, and did not tell him.

Noticing a protective shadow hovering on my left, I turned to find the rickshaw-wala standing there, making no attempt at conversation.

I told him he could sit down if he wished. He did so.

A few minutes into the aarti, the smoke got too much for me. I stood up and followed the rickshaw-wala out to the stand and rode back in complete silence but for the rough sound of wheels rumbling over stones, through potholes, and the swishing of the pedals in the dim dusk.

Back at the hotel, I paid him almost twice the amount agreed on. He accepted with a wide smile. And did not, god bless him, ask my name.

Another book, another contest

A must-read, and a please-acquire book. And not just because I was included. These are 21 stories written by South Asian women under 40. I'm particularly kicked about the fact that this anthology breaks several stereotypes about 'women's writing'. There's a graphic short story, a detective story, an internet story, a prostitute story (except there aren't any hearts of gold), a tender killing story.... Worth reading.

And

A FLASH FICTION CONTEST

Toto Funds the Arts, Delhi Chapter, invites entries for its flash fiction contest. The winner will get a cash prize of Rs. 3000 and two runners-up will be awarded Rs. 1000 each. A public event will be organized for the winners to read their stories along with an established author.

Submission Guidelines

1. You cannot be older than 30 on June 1, 2007. Include a statement confirming your date of birth and that the story is original and unpublished.
2. The contest is limited to young Indians residing in Delhi and NCR. No NRIs, please.
3. Only one submission is allowed per person.
4. The story cannot exceed 500 words.
5. Entries can be either sent by e-mail to tfadelhi@gmail.com or by snail mail to:

TFA Contest, D/377 2^nd Floor, Defence Colony,

New Delhi 110024.

6. The deadline is 20 April 2007. Please mention your name and contact details separately, not on the entry itself.

She, who provides

Benaras.

Everything I thought it might be, it seemed to be. But who knows... I did not go out much.

Except that one evening, for someone told me that the city's patron goddess is Annapoorna - the grain provider. The goddess of food. And prosperity. But no prosperity or happiness is possible without food, after all.

And I was here to investigate hunger, after all. It was only fitting that I look up the goddess that fills bellies, for someone told me that nobody sleeps hungry in Benaras. Its holiness was built, he said, upon the hunger of those who flocked here, knowing that here, the virtous, the freshly-rid-of-sins were anxious to give.

I wanted to look up this mother-goddess. Perhaps, because it is so hard to understand what has gone wrong - has she stopped providing, she who provides?

I went prepared for security stress. It has been just over a year since the blast at the Sankat Mochan temple and anyway, you get frisked and your bags get searched almost everywhere you go, these days. So, I took nothing but some money and my phone. However, after a half-hour rickshaw ride, a ten rupee bribe to a cop (paid by the rickshaw-puller, without my knowing), and a fifteen minute walk down the narrow Vishwanath lane and reaching the entrance, the police said - 'Phones not allowed'.

And suddenly, the desire to see her was gone. Annapoorna, I'm sure, would understand.

A book, a book!

Finally, it's out there.

Update: It is definitely available in Landmark bookstore, Gurgaon (and in Chennai and Mumbai, I hear). I spotted it, unfortunately, under 'Quotations', right next to 'Psychology', instead of in the poetry section. It made me fret, but I felt foolish about fretting personally, so got a cousin to get the shop assistants to correct the mistake. But in case anybody goes there and can't find the book under 'poetry', you know where to look.

Dilli mein raat bhar baarish, phir se

When words begin to curl up in the corners, and meaning begins to drip off the blurry edge, you know it has rained all night in Delhi.

Adhchini, Gurgaon... the words patter with a sweetness, a slippery clayey texture that hadn't been there before. And to your ears, 'gurhganva' is firm, a vagabond word with tight calf muscles and a checked vest. Gurh-gaanv-aa. Gurhganva. The word is like the sweet, heady smell of the first light shower on a hot afternoon in a dusty town.

But that is left behind. In Devnagri, the word asserts itself firmly on the metal chest of a bus - 'gurhganva'. Not Gurgaon. Not glass. Metal. Rust. Rain.

Over the awful rev and roar of Dilli's sarkaari bus, there is a sound like a cross between a tyre bursting and a string of firecrackers muffled in cotton. There is such a blinding flash that for a minute, you think there are cameras around. Then you look at the sky. At ten in the morning, it was like before dawn. Dark and full. There is no threat, just a certainty. Firecrackers muffled in grey wool sky.

The bus driver changed the music from haryanvi folk to trance. The sky roared. The music hammered down as hard as the waters.

With each little lurch, water filled up in the ridges of the windows and spilled. Spilled.

All thoughts slipped and spilled into each other. All shades of green turned melty through the refractive window-seat. The word 'subz' floated through your head. That's the shade. 'Subz'. That it is not a shade, is meaningless. All meanings are melting.

The driver changed the tape again.

Ae door ke musafir, humko bhi saath le le
hum reh gaye akele....

I look at him closer. Wet hair. Plump. Joking with the boy-conductor.

The gear-stick is covered in scrunchies. Girls' hair scrunchies. An entire rainbow of them. Red, pink, blue, lilac, green, neon. A sticker of five film actresses in a row, holding up filmfare award trophies, with a little ditty below:

"Titli udi, bus pe chadi, seat na mili
driver bola - aaja mere paas; titli boli - hat badmaas."

In felt pen, there's another curliqueing bit of text: 'Love is God'.

And Rafi sings:
"Mere haathon mein tera chahra tha
jaise koi gulaab hota hai..."

Orange, velvety flowers have falled into a heap of fallen yellow leaves.

In the nursery, potted flowers stand ruefully straight. Resigned to the battering of the night, but all the fuschias, scarlets, pinks are coloured a deeper shade, as if a drop of meloncholia has fallen into their pollen hearts.

... jaise joi gulab hota hai...

Outside, the puddles are deep. A girl in pure white lifts up her salwar half-way up her calves. Her friend, in rani-pink, follows. They stop and look at each other and their smiles stretch from horizon to horizon.

Titli udi...

The auto-driver slows down near Nehru Park and his head is turned so that he's looking at the grass, and he takes his time rounding the roundabouts.

You breathe. Each breath is crisp and wild and slow. You shiver and think: This air does not belong to now. It is the air of February, and has been dragged back, howling and lashing, by the crackling skies of a strange hot week in Delhi.

Dilli ke is lamhe mein, kisi ko koi gham nahin hai. Raat bhar, din bhar, baarish hui hai.

And there is no sorrow possible in a moment that does not below to now.