Scars

Scars, I say, are like people in that they come in every imaginable shape, size, colour and position on one's body (sorry, I just had to)! There's no questioning that. The question to be asked here however is, are they aesthetic at all? On one hand are those who run to the open gates of plastic surgeons to get their scars less pronounced, and on the other hand are those who have it in them to pull a ‘Tina Fey’.

 A couple of months ago I left the hospital with a rather prominent scar on my neck. A neck scar is one thing that I have in common with Elizabeth Taylor and Catherine Zeta Jones, the other thing being our flawless beauty, of course. Now how I ended up with it is an entirely different (and important) question to answer which I can write a book! While I have lots to say about the history of my scar, I find myself at a loss of words when I think of its future. Certain questions regarding it, of which I am both the addressee as well as the addressed, are brought to the limelight every time I face a mirror. These questions being ‘am I going to keep it’, ‘am I going to get rid of it’ or ‘am I going to fidget with the scar enough to let it be visible but not let it seem like I have a problem with it’!

 My other prominent scar is the one I got done intentionally. A tattoo is what I am talking about here and not some evidence of masochism. This tattoo, on my right arm, reads ‘fortitude’ and means courage in adversity. They say your scars tell your story. Sure, together mine tell a wonderful story too. But whether or not I want to let these scars do all the talking, I remain unsure of.

Men

They are inevitable and they are everywhere. It doesn't matter what your job or designation is. You run into them on railway platforms, in queues for payment of bills and sometimes, by mistake, they enter the ladies' washroom at work while sunken in deep thought, before running out abashedly. Men. The ultimate specimens of confusion, humour, annoyance, but mainly, of juxtaposition. True to every top notch product in the market, they are available in various different sizes, shapes and colours. Agreed, objectifying men is wrong. That is one right they hold over us ladies. The point that I’m trying to drive home here is, hate them or love them, but you cannot ignore them. The following are examples of some specific categories of men that I have come across in my almost two decade long existence on this planet.

The Brother from another Mother:

You’re 10 years old and he is the new kid in school. He was rocking the ‘silky smooth hair swept across the forehead’ look years before the Biebs. You are instantly drawn to him. Your girlfriends convince you he’s your first crush, but the voice in your head says otherwise. On Raksha Bandhan day, your art teacher tells boys to draw the sketch of a girl from the class they would like to be their sister and vice versa. You draw unflattering caricatures of one another and thus your story begins. Over the years, he calls you names, teases you to death with boys you don’t even like. He kicks you from under the table in tuition just to distract you as it’s your chance to answer the question. He argues the Bhaji Pav stall owner gave you more Bhajis in your Pav out of partiality and snatches the one in your hand, replacing it with the one that was originally given to him. Years after school too he feels it important that you meet his girlfriend. He updates you on his life from time to time. Looking back, you think of yourself as a fool for complaining you didn’t have a brother (sibling or cousin) close to you in age, relation or distance. You were wrong because you had one all along. It’s just that he was from another mother.

The Resident Heartbreaker:

There’s one of those in every co-ed school. And what too seems to be the set norm is the fact that when you proudly show a picture of him to your girlfriends from other schools, they don’t think he has a morsel of cuteness in him. But that doesn’t matter. In your school, he’s the ultimate jock. He gets given the role of the King in every play every year while others give in to their fate and stand with mount board cut outs of trees and mountains year after year. The other boys refer to him as their future brother-in-law because they are convinced the closest relation they themselves can have with the girls is that of a brother and sister and this jock is going to end up marrying either one girl or the other from class. No, he is not haughty or imposing. But give it some time and another half a dozen girls and he’ll get there. Dating him was kind of a Right of Passage and if you missed out on the opportunity, something terrible is going to happen with you in your future life to come. Now you know why your chappal broke while crossing the road at Linking Road yesterday.

The Man of Your Dreams:

He is the said Resident Heartbreaker’s buddy and you know in your heart that he is a better looker too, but you’re too scared to say it loud in front of the girls. That doesn’t mean you can’t dream about him. Dimples intact and mischievous grin at the ready, you dream of playing tic-tac-toe with this unconventional hero or pray that the paper plane he makes and throws around lands at your desk. Years after school ends too you get juvenile dreams of which he is the centre. Today you may not exactly be in touch with him, but you can without doubt call him a good friend whilst keeping constant tabs on his love life via the internet.

The Rich Spoilt Brat:

This one is a hero in the true sense of the word. He has learned to drive before he’s even of legal age and but of course, drives himself to college. “Oh my God, he was talking about Pokemon in the lab today. How cuutteee,” you hear girls squeak on campus. Everyone knows his name and some girls even know the number on his car plate by heart. He is in the constant company of rugged and sometimes, shady men. If you are a girl who hangs out with him and one of these shady men get too close for comfort, he steps in and like a true knight in shining armour, he saves the day. He is scared of no one. Except his grandmother.

Ode to a Toad:

He is the one you made the mistake of going on a date with. He asks you what you like to talk about so that he could talk to you about that. Everything that comes out of his mouth seems rehearsed in front of a mirror not less than twenty times. In his defence, he hasn’t noticed the awkward silence. So how can we expect him to cover it up? He’s clearly a virgin with silverware and you casually offer to eat the pizza by hand and he gives a disgusted expression that is so strong that you regret saying anything at all. You notice his hands are a little small as compared to his body. But that’s beside the point. The date is coming to an end and he calls for one sizzling brownie with vanilla ice-cream. “Won’t you have one as well?” you ask. To this he replies saying you’re going to share one. SHARE a sizzling brownie? I can have one entirely on my own! Heck, I could have TWO on my own. But for now you just want to pore the one that comes on his head.

The Social Nitwit:

You are really flattered that this one guy at college or work is talking to you for quite a while. He may comment on each of your Facebook activities and you sense something brewing here. But a deeper look may reveal he shares the same level of compatibility with many other girls as well. Now if there is anything at all that I have learned from a chick flick and taken seriously, it is a quote from the movie ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’. Justin Long’s character Alex says, “If a guy wants to be with a girl, he will make it happen no matter what.” Play the same game he is playing and keep your options open.

The One with Suppressed Chivalry:

This category may include even those men who we do not know. There are some men who will let you enter the lift first and act as though they would have to enter after you anyway as they were standing away from the lift. Then there are those who are nice enough to let a woman driver cut them in line at the petrol pump. But they make it look like they weren’t paying attention when they were told to move ahead. THIS category of men, I personally don’t get. What they want to prove by these ambiguous mannerisms is yet to be deciphered. To them I’ll say just this- Chivalry is a good thing, sillies! Why hide it?

And finally… The ONE:

He will come.

Bandra Bandar

They say you don’t realize the value of something till that thing is taken away from you. You realize what a big of a deal it is only when you look at it as an audience. I couldn’t agree more.

Born and brought up here, as a school-going girl, Bandra was the perimeters of my movement. Having then lived here for fifteen years of my life, I was unaware of the hype that surrounded the 'Queen of the Suburbs', something I only recently learnt it was called. Only when I spent a year away from it did I realize what everyone had been fussing about. Now, two years after my ‘Back to Bandra’ movement, I wonder why I was chosen to live where I live, over the million others who would like to take up my home, if put for sale, only too willingly.

Eighteen and jobless (when I say ‘jobless’, I mean ‘activity-less’), I am a most boring Bandraite. I come to know of any event happening at Bandra-Kurla Complex only when I see flashy lights put up on the big grounds from my window. A few years ago I came to know THE Raj Kumar Hirani had moved in my society only when I saw Boman Irani drive in (my claim to fame being we shared a house-help with the Hiranis)! So I’m not the stereotypical ‘Sandra from Bandra’ one would expect a girl living here all her life to be.

Now let’s talk about all that hides behind the glitterati, or ‘Behind the Veneer’, as I say. Let’s talk about the thermocol-eating beggar-child on Carter Road or the English-speaking, burkha-clad other one in its by-lanes. Let’s talk about the sprawling slums behind the Sea Link and let’s talk about the illegitimately built buildings housing Government officials.

Bandra is far from the Utopia it is thought to be. And as a citizen of this suburb (as opposed to an audience to it), these are the things I know form the under-layer that is conveniently hidden and neglected. One can say they understand the true essence of this suburb only when Shah Rukh Khan’s ‘Mannat’ on one side of Bandstand and the vulnerable huts of fishermen and beggars on its other side attract their attention equally.

Something needs to be done to bridge this gap. Then again, one might say someone who has the potential to make this happen must be found. But you really need just one person to start a revolution (a moment to salute Anna Hazare for his recent victory). It could be the vexed wife of a celebrity living here whose house-helps didn’t come to work one day because their houses got burnt down by local goons as a political conspiracy or it could simply be someone who is ‘eighteen and jobless’!

I hope to witness a time when the picture one sees when they hold a magnifying glass towards Bandra is as beautiful as the one they would have seen had they held a rose-tinted glass towards it. ‘Bandar’, the word of which ‘Bandra’ is an adaptation, may mean ‘port’ in Persian. But we all know what it means in Hindi. And till the day comes when we accept what an epitome of paradox this suburb is and work towards diminishing these differences, that is exactly what we all are, Bandraite or not. We are fooling ourselves. We are Bandars.

Mr. Foreigner

Lonely corridor, interrupted sunlight,
Lonely girl, something troubling me inside.
I looked up and saw a stranger's face,
Mr. Foreigner smiling as though a best friend.

My heart did a round-off back hand spring,
My lips turned upwards into a smile.
Unfamiliar yet familiar he felt when he said 'Hey',
Mr. Foreigner didn't realize he just made my day.

Living in an age of calculated actions,
Pros and cons prevent acting on impulses.
Not saying 'hi' suddenly being in fashion,
Mr. Foreigner lifted a troubled girl's spirits.

I don't know who and from where he was,
As easily he disappeared as he had come.
In a five second long rendez-vous,
Mr. Foreigner I almost fell for you.

Thank you, Vyomster

There were no sparks that flew
When we first met.
The opposites attracting thing
Hadn't happened yet.

But there was this one time at CO's
November 14, 2004.

To the boys she was the local Megan Fox
Weird girl, she loved that stupid Miffy box.
Thank you for sharing your tiffin with me.
5-foot-8 and hair poker straight
Pooj, just be your whimsical self, she said.
Thank you for always playing pillar to me.

Throw up, whoever thought of
Cooking Pasta in Maggi?
Where's the camera? Laugh and point
At the boy in the red kurti.

Quite a dork she is really
Studying like nobody's business.
One of the few people who know
What to do when I'm in a mess.

Got a best friend all thanks to Chesbo,
November 14, 2004.

To the boys she is the local Megan Fox
To my Jen Aniston she is Couteney Cox.
Thank you for sharing your secrets with me.
5-foot-8 and hair poker straight
Pooj, just be your whimsical self, she said.
Thank you for always playing pillar to me.

Just Yet

I stepped out of the church,
There you were dressed in blue.
Hadn't seen you in a while,
Forgot I'd decided to be mean to you.

Quite a paradox it was really,
Seeing Jesus and Satan in the same frame.
Never having learned to be nasty like you,
I smiled real wide when you called out my name.

Your hair and soul the same old mess,
You're one person I keep trying to forget.
Had hoped I would be famous before we met next,
It's sad I'm not the CEO of Coca Cola just yet.

My naughtiness having always been malice-free,
I never got why you played China to my Tibet.
Wished the news channels helped you keep tabs on me,
But they don't call me the next Barkha Dutt just yet.

Your core competencies and claws drawn out,
When I said 'Arts' you smiled like you just won a bet.
While I'm having a déjà vu, you enjoy your moment,
For you see, I've not won an Oscar just yet.

Our thirty years age difference meaning nothing to you,
On giving me and my girls hell you were set.
The next time we meet you're going to know what I've been up to,
Guess what? Angelina Jolie hasn't adopted me just yet.

Dadarchya Baika

I sat in the window seat in a Borivali-bound fast train leaving from Churchgate station. I was returning home without attending any lectures in college. There had been a problem in the trains due to which I reached forty-five minutes late for college and thus missed my only lecture for the day. Sitting in the train back home now, I put on my headphones and shut my eyes.

About three minutes or a song later, the girl sitting opposite me got up and an old lady took her place. The old lady wore a crumpled purple sari and minimal jewelery. Sitting down, she took her ragged cloth bag on her lap and looked out of the window. Reclining, I shut my eyes, only to open them again when the train stopped at Dadar and all the women already in the compartment mouthed with disdain- "Hmph. Dadarchya baika". The true Drama Queens of the Western Railways, these women, I've concluded, yell and push and shove just for the sake of it. The train always stops for enough time for all of them to get in. But I believe they derive some kind of sadistic pleasure by unnecessarily elbowing each other. It is almost as if they'll be fined if atleast one of them doesn't make a scene each day.

When I opened my eyes to have a look, I noticed that all the women sitting around me were staring at the old lady in the purple sari. Looking ahead, I saw she was crying hysterically. No one seemed to know what to do. I pulled my earphones out of my ears and sat up a little. Staring at the lady, I remembered what my grandmother, our local Mother Teresa, always says, "Whether a person is in physical pain or emotional pain, the one thing that always helps to comfort them is water". Instantly, I drew a bottle of water out of my bag and placed it in the lady's hand. She gave me a rueful yet thankful look and with great speed gulped down two-thirds of the water in the bottle. I was glad that helped her cool down a little.

It was soon time for me to get off the train. I stood up, patting the lady's hand as she handed me back my bottle. Pushing my way through the women who were standing, I wondered if the old lady would be fine for the remainder of her journey or if anyone would even notice, leave alone sympathize with and help her should if she break down again. Suddenly, two ladies who had gotten in at Dadar station, started throwing the worst of Marathi slurs at each other. These swear words, I must add, were more funny than they were insulting and everybody in the compartment was now staring at the protagonists of the pandemonium, some suppressing their laughter and some laughing out loud, unabashedly. No one seemed to know what had happened that made these two start yelling so. I was too staring at them, very amused. Just then, the two turned to look at me, before looking at the old lady in the window. She was smiling now. Stunned as I was, I quickly looked back at the two ladies. They flashed genuine, heartfelt smiles at me. I could swear one of them even winked at me! Another lady who was selling oranges and who had gotten in at Dadar, passed one orange from her basket to the old lady who was no more crying. I was assured now. I got off at Bandra, bemused and laughing, two words in my head- "Dadarchya baika"!