Muchas gracias Señor!

Sometimes, after a long day at work, you just need tequila. You just do. There's no explaining why, or justifying it. You. Just. Need. To. Do. Tequila. Shots. In 2007, I had one of those days. And lucky for me, so did my friend and flatmate. We just didn't know it, until we did. Let me explain.

We had this annoying boss at work. An army man, in a fun office, who just didn't get the 'fun' that work was supposed to be. He just made an average work day feel like an exhausting one. When we got home from work, we decided to relax and watch some TV. We changed into comfortable pyjamas, found the right channel to watch, and then looked at each other and said in unison, “Tequila!”

For a few minutes, we relished the thought of tequila burning down our throats, while to hit our work-addled brains. Then we realised there was no tequila at home. Bummer. No tequila at home. How bloody unfair! How could we live like this? How could we deprive ourselves of the one thing we needed, no, wanted that evening?

In a few minutes of determined and synchronised thought, both of us put on our home slippers, picked up our wallets and keys, and walked out the front door. We were on a quest to buy tequila. We walked down to the nearby store, and found...NO TEQUILA. We walked to the next nearest store, about 500m away, and once again, NO TEQUILA! What a cruel universe! We tried a third shop, another 700m away. The guy looked clueless when we said the word “Tequila” as if we had just asked him for the freaking kohinoor diamond.

We got into an auto rickshaw and went to the heart of the city, on a Friday night, in our pyjamas and house slippers, looking for tequila. Potential low point. But what the heck?! We were both adults, very much in control of our alcohol consumption, which was clearly less than the two drinks a week mark. We just wanted tequila! That's all we wanted. We arrived at our favourite pub. A pub that has people dressed for a Friday night party, while we wore pyjamas. Obviously, the bouncer wouldn't let us in. ROADBLOCK!

We were women on a mission. We called our DJ friend, and asked him to send our regular waiter outside for a minute, and in hushed tones informed him of our tequila requirements. Señor Jose Cuervo HAD to make an appearance soon. The waiter told us to meet him in the basement parking, by the employee entrance. Black Market tequila it would have to be. So we went to the basement and waited all of ten minutes, and Jose Cuervo Gold greeted us with his happy red sombrero.

We paid a little extra, and left. We even had the auto rickshaw wait for our getaway.

We got home, and with a thrill, reached in the refrigerator for lemons. NONE. But we did have sweet lime and oranges. Well, they're both citrus, so we improvised. Shot after shot, we toasted to our perseverance. We toasted to our creativity. We toasted to innovation. We toasted till our bottle was empty. By this time, we may have even forgotten that we were employed. We forgot about sending goodnight messages to family members. We actually forgot we had cellphones. But, we did remember food. Our growling stomachs reminded us very loudly. I quickly made a kichdi, and we decided to take a nap while the pressure cooker cooled down. A power nap if you will. At 2am.

A while later, I woke up partially on my beanbag, and partially sprawled on the cool floor. My friend was curled up into a comfortable ball on the only armchair in the house. I walked into the kitchen expecting warm kichdi, when I found the pressure cooker was cold. And the obnoxious smell seemed to be permeating out of the thick steel. I opened the pressure cooker to find congealed and bubbling kichdi, clearly gone bad. I was befuddled. How could this happen? Then I looked at the time.

It had been fourteen hours, in the middle of summer, with the food left in a pressure cooker till 4pm. I threw the food in the bin and slammed the lid shut, trying to get away from the stench in my hungover yet disgusted state. I went to look at my phone and saw several missed calls and messages from family and friends who wondered where I was. I then looked at my friend's phone screen to see several messages and missed calls waiting for her too. I gently woke her up, and we sat for a few minutes, stupefied at the time. We guzzled a bottle of water each, and began returning calls and messages.

We reassured our family and friends that we were fine, and just detoxing from electronics. Nobody needed to know that while we detoxed from gadgets, that we were actually intoxicated otherwise. Most of Saturday had gone by without our knowledge, so we made another quick meal, ate, and went back to sleep.

On Sunday morning, we woke up fresh and hungry, seeking the perfect breakfast after a stomach-full of Cuervo- Eggs. As we ate, we relived the joys of tequila shots and tried to recollect the stories we told. But what stood out in our conversation, was the sheer delight and contentment we felt, having exorcised that Friday from our conscious mind. For the rest of our lives, everything that happened at work that day would be overshadowed by our night of debauchery with Señor Jose Cuervo. Señor Tequila, you are a lifesaver!

Somewhere in the heart of a Rainbow.

I was visiting a friend in 2009. When he introduced me to a group of his  friends, I was amused. It was a group that would have seemed very comfortable with each other to anyone walking past, but there were a few dynamics I just didn't understand.

There was my friend standing next to his, then, girlfriend. Then there were girls who lived in the same building as her or were at the same campus. The gal pals. Then there were the other guys. The boys. None of these people seemed like the kind of friends I pictured with MY friend. To me, the auras were all wrong. As if in the matrix, I saw various ties criss-crossing in the group, some strong and some kind of polite.

I realised I'd been standing and smiling a while, thinking these thoughts, without saying a single word. I must have appeared strange to everyone. But then I realised it had been only a few seconds because my friend hadn't even finished introducing them by name. I said hello, and sat down at the green picnic table. For convenience and anonymity, I'll give each person a letter as a nickname.
 I noticed that my friend's(A) girlfriend(B) seemed to be the Alpha in that relationship. That one of the girls(C) observed B very carefully, yet in a dissatisfied way. Some sort of hostility that I couldn't place. One of the guys(D) was looking at (C)'s cleavage from the corner of his eye, trying not to be obvious.
 And then there was one girl who seemed deep in thought (E). She had a lovely smile and she waved, but seemed lost in thought. It's as if I could see the wheels turning in her head, but each wheel was a different hue all together. It felt like watching rainbows doing cartwheels.

While I casually chatted with A,B,C and D, I kept trying to figure out where those colors in E's mind came from. It took me a few minutes to realise that those colors were not in her mind. They were on her clothes. But I was seeing her in MY mind in brilliant hues. She looked on the outside what my brain felt like on the inside! It was a magical feeling!

But it was time to go, so A said goodbye to his friends and we left. At A's room, we recalled childhood memories and pranks we'd played on each other, and then he told me about his friends. His description of B,C,&D were very generic. But when it came to E, he gave me no details, but simply said "You'd really like her". But it turned out that E didn't live near A. So I didn't really see much of her till we went on a little roadtrip. On the trip, A was busy clinging to his girlfriend. C and E seemed to be deep in conversation with another friend F who had joined us on the trip. So I found myself talking to D. Since I am a chatterbox, it seemed to be a good idea sitting in the navigator's seat and keep chatting with D while he drove. The road trip was fun, but that story us for another time.
We returned to A's room late that night and I flew back to my city the next day. But the very next chance I got to visit A, I flew straight back. I'd been meaning to talk to E to understand her better, and this time, A was bidding goodbye to B. A was preoccupied and abandoned me with D, with instructions to drop something off at the building in which C & F lived. I asked D about E and was told that E designed really beautiful jewelry, bags and accessories. That fit straight into my image of E. There was an exhibition of art at the university, and D and E had their work on display in different sections, so I spent sometime with D and then with E. Finally.
E wore dark kohl on her eyes, just like me. She wore colorful jewelry and clothes, just like I usually did (I had packed light for the summer), she had a wide mischievous grin, just like me. We were kindred spirits. In that moment, i christened her 'Rainbow Girl'. We talked a lot and then it was time for me to go back to my city yet again. After that trip, I never got to meet E in person. When I got back to Bangalore, A was already back, and we met on and off. But I kept in touch with C and Rainbow Girl. C had gone back to her country, and even though the time difference was only about 30 minutes, I found myself unable to keep in touch with C. When I see her on Skype or Facebook, we chat easily, but we're drifting apart I think. It's not a sad thing, but it's just how life moves on.

Rainbow Girl, on the other hand, is very much a part of my life and routine. I met her fiancee on Skype, wished them lifelong love, and teased them about their wedding pictures. But since Rainbow Girl and I are kindred spirits, she's on my mind everyday. Even my house is full of brilliant hues. Every brilliant hue of art, every brightly embroidered kurta, bag, shoe or bangle I see reminds me of her. To me, rainbows don't mean LGBTQIA. To me, rainbows mean Rainbow Girl.

We've both been through a lot, stood by each other in tough times, and brought out the bright colors in each others' soul for the last eight years, and we'll always keep doing so.

Rainbow Girl, my Darling, one day we'll meet, and it'll be like we never lived in different parts of the world!

Gypsies of the Blue

In 2009 I was studying at Monash University, Melbourne. It was a liberating experience, with professors who inspired me to write from the heart, while also helping me discover who I am professionally. My core units were Issues in international communication and Research & Travel Writing. These units made me realise that by interacting with people from different countries, and understanding their cultures while being in a foreign country myself, I could really get a new perspective.

I used to write my assignments sitting on the beach, when the weather was about ten degrees centigrade. People thought I was insane, but to me, it was the perfect setting. An empty beach, the soothing ebb and flow of the waves, a crisp breeze, absolutely no distractions whatsoever. I would write the first draft of a 3000 word assignment in one sitting, and go home to edit and polish them before submission.

One Thursday afternoon, after what felt like a long day of research in the State Library of Victoria, I decided to take the evening off and go to the beach. I was nervous about my assignment, I'd had a restless night before, I was annoyed with a few of my friends, and I just needed some space.

I had been sitting on the beach for about two hours, feeling alternately philosophical and nihilistic, when I noticed four guys playing volleyball nearby. I was surprised to note that these guys were as insane as I was, playing volleyball in the cold sand. They seemed to be having a great time, and their close friendship was evident.

As I took off my shoes and socks and walked to the edge of the water, the ball came my way. I tried to stop it in time, but it got caught in an ebbing wave and I missed the block. Missing the block turned my currently philosophical thought into a nihilistic one so fast that it could have given my brain a whiplash. I kicked the wave in annoyance, and walked away. As the guy came to pick up the ball, now neatly deposited on the sand by another big wave, he smiled at me, only to get a scowl in return. It occurred to me that the guy must have thought me a grumpy lady, sick of life. Just as that thought occurred, he stopped and asked me if I was OK. I nodded the typical non-committal Indian nod.

I didn't expect him to continue talking to me after that. But he did. He said, “Hey, are you OK? You're not planning to walk into the water and hurt yourself or something are you?” I was startled at that assumption. I quickly assured him that I was fine, and that I was just in a bad mood and was complaining to the waves about it. He smiled at me, told me to take care and ran back to his friends.

I continued whining and grumbling to the waves a few more minutes, collected my things and went to the nearby pub.

As I was gulping a delightfully huge glass of fruity stout, the four guys walked into the pub and got a table at the other end from me, and ordered their ales. I took out my phone and started playing a game on it. About ten minutes later, the guy from the beach spotted me and walked up to my table. He invited me to join him and his friends for a drink. They seemed like decent guys, so I joined them and introduced myself as 'Shivi'. Their names were Aaron, Jake, Todd and Nathan. They were from Sydney, and currently in Melbourne scouting venues for Jake's wedding and as an impromptu Bachelor's vacation. Aaron was a lawyer at a mid-size firm, Jake was a chartered accountant, Todd was a teacher at a public school, and Nathan was a sports writer.

We spent about an hour chatting about music and movies when Nathan asked me if I knew of an alleyway with a plain white wall. He said that they wanted to project a movie on a wall from their pick-up truck and chill out. That really got me intrigued. How could you project a movie from a truck?! I mentioned that about 300 meters up the road was an alley that had just been painted white after a nasty graffiti incident. We paid for our drinks, and headed to the alley, while Nathan drove up in his pick-up. They had found a documentary about gypsies who travelled all over the Caribbean, called Gypsies of the Blue. I sounded fascinating to me, so when they invited me to join them, I jumped at the chance.

Nathan maneuvered his truck perpendicular to the wall, took out a projector from a box under the passenger seat, and hooked it up to the top panel and plugged one wire into the car system and another one into a laptop. I stood fascinated, wondering why I had never thought of doing that before. Then he turned the keys in the ignition, and BAM, the alley wall had become a movie theatre.

We hopped onto the back seating of the truck, and cracked open a six pack of beers, and a few packs of chips. The movie was amazing, with stories of travel, different foods, minimal expenditure, and a lot of new friends. It occurred to me, that since I had friends in Sydney, that I could book myself into a backpackers and travel on a shoestring budget too! I made a mental note to plan that trip, and returned to watching the movie.

After the movie finished, we went to a little café nearby, grabbed a few slices of pizza, and went our separate ways. I have no last names, addresses, or details of those guys, but I do have the memory of having a perfectly platonic evening with some nice guys who gave me a brilliant idea for travel, and a relaxed and fun evening that made me forget all about my troubles for the rest of that day.

When I got home that night, I slept peacefully, knowing that the friends I had made that evening and the experience I just had is exactly why studying in a foreign country is so wonderful. The next day I figured out exactly how to finish the assignment that had me worried, and later got a high distinction on it with a note from my professor that said, “The life of a travel writer never ends with one experience. Onward, Away and Good-luck!”

Understanding Your Body as a child

When I was about 8 years old, I had a UTI after playing in a muddy pond. When I went for a bath that day, I felt itchy and uncomfortable. But when I poured cold water on myself, it felt soothing. So I moved the bucket out of the way and opened the tap all the way till cold water poured directly onto my genitals. Not only did this soothe the infection, but it began to feel really good! It felt kind of ticklish and made me smile. A few days later, my mother gave me “The Playbook for Kids about Sex” by Joani Blank. At first I was embarrassed and a little scared that she had found out about my secret discovery of the cold water tap. She told me to ask her if I had any questions or didn't understand anything in that book.

So I took the book and hid in my favourite place in the house, the balcony. As I read the book and looked at the pictures, I realised that the tap was a common discovery for children and that I had no reason to feel embarrassed. It also explained the joys of sliding down a banister or bicycling on a cycle with a long seat.

The book was an eye-opener. It taught me about keeping myself clean, avoiding infections, being safe, knowing the difference between an adult who wants to help me take care of my body and an adult that is trying to use my body, Essentially the good touch-bad touch information. It taught me the names of different parts of my body as well as the names of parts on a boy's body. It told me about how our bodies function differently and grow differently. It taught me about how I may feel impulses and how to safely handle the impulses without getting hurt or misunderstood.

I read the book cover to cover 5 times in two days. Then I asked my mother to make a little alone time so that I could talk to her about the book. We talked in her room for about an hour, with the door locked, so nobody would intrude. She answered all my questions and told me that it was OK to talk to my father and ask him questions too. The main question I had was very simple. I wanted to know:

1. If I didn't want to have children till I was at least 30, could I stop my breasts from growing and my periods from coming till I was ready?

2. If boys had body parts that stuck out like a water hose, how did they sit down without hurting themselves, and how did they turn off the tap?

I expected my mother to laugh at me, but she didn't. She told me that our bodies adapt to help us stay comfortable. She told me that having children takes a lot of work, and that your body needs to practice for years, so that when you are ready to have a baby, your body already know what to do automatically, like learning to write by hand from a young age, so that you can think and write fast simultaneously to pass your tenth grade exams.

I then went and asked my dad the question I had. He told me that the switch to the tap is in the head, and that the same way I know when I want to go to the bathroom and when I am finished, a boy's brain knows too. He then told me that boys' fathers teach them how to sit and stand and walk without getting hurt, and that all boys are also told to be very careful about other boys accidentally kicking them when they play sports.

I had my book for reference, I had parents who answered my questions, and I was ready to take on the world. I felt like I had a secret knowledge about my own body, that nobody but my parents knew about!

Today, I tried to locate “The Playbook for Kids about Sex” by Joani Blank on Amazon.in, Ebay.in and on Google. Ebay and Amazon don't have it in stock in India, and there are no eBook versions available for download in India. This is exactly why many Indian children resort to Googling information about their bodies, end up looking at WebMD and other sites that are inappropriate for their age, and get the wrong impression of what their bodies need to look like. They see images of surgically modified bodies, that tell them they ought to developed at a certain rate, without letting them know that each body is different and assuring them that someday, when the time is right, that they will have all their body parts in place. To my friends who have children, please look up this book, and if you are comfortable enough, please find a way to get a copy for your children.

It's simple when you're a child.

When I was about 11, I used to love the swings at school. The swings were at one corner of a playground, with the cemented basketball court in front of them, and a sand pit facing a stone wall behind them. Most of the girls at my school faced the basketball court so that they could watch the other kids as they swung. On the other hand, I used to like swinging facing the sand pit and wall because I used to love jumping off the swing onto the soft sand. It made me feel like an Olympic pole vault champion! That high point of the swing, just before you start your descent, when you're almost in line with the swing pivot, was such a thrill! The swoosh of the air against your neck as you came down and swung the other way to see the pivot, back and forth was delightful! I always had a big smile on my face after going on the swing.

One day as I waited for my van to pick me up from school, I was swinging and singing my favourite song when I saw the school Principal walk past the swings. Normally, as per convent school rules, one had to go and wish her according to the time of day (Good evening Sister.). However, I was way to high on the swing to suddenly stop and go wish her. So I continued swinging. Unfortunately for me, a few minutes later, I was asked to get off the swing and follow the school Principal to her office. I thought that I had missed my van and had to wait for one of my parents to pick me up from school. It didn't occur to me that I was in trouble.

When we reached the Principal's office, I was made to kneel outside the door and wait till I was called upon. I didn't understand why I was being punished. I started to get nervous. Had she seen me passing a note to my friend in class? Had I worn the wrong colour ribbon in my hair? Was my uniform untidy? Had I dropped something from my school-bag and accidentally littered the grounds? As I was kneeling, my palms began sweating, my heart beat a little faster, my knees beginning to feel every grain in the rough stone flooring.

When I was finally called into the dreaded Principal's office, I was asked to provide my home phone number. I called out the number as she began dialling and followed by telling her that there would be nobody at home for another 40 minutes. She slammed the phone down and yelled at me for speaking out of turn. I tried to justify my actions by explaining that both my parents work and that my elder sister would be off at college and that the house would be locked and empty. She then accused me of being sneaky and trying to escape trouble by giving me the wrong number and demanded to see my school diary. She then called my mother's office and told my mother to come and pick me up as I had behaved badly at school. I stood there terrified. As far as I knew, I had attended all my classes, done all my homework, albeit I did get caught talking in class during the third class of the day around 11am. Had the teacher reported me? Is that what this was about?

My mother drove the four kilometres to the school, and got to the Principal's office looking worried. Once again I was made to go outside and kneel till I was called in. My mother was told about my 'bad behaviour' after which I was called in to have my say. “What do you have to say for yourself?” the Principal asked? I stood there blank, unsure of what I was supposed to say. I didn't know what I had done, what I was being reprimanded for, and whether I was to apologise, cry, promise to listen, never talk in class again, wear cleaner shoes, not pass notes in class....What do I say? What had I possibly gotten into trouble for?! Then the Principal said it. “Your daughter was going very high on the swing, facing the wrong way, so that every time she went high, she could look across the road into the boys school, Class VIII A.”

I stood there dumbstruck. I knew there was a boys' school across the road, it was a landmark I had learned if I ever needed to explain where my school was located. I figured there would be a class VIII A. I also knew there was a wall around the boys' school just as there was one around my girls' school. Besides, why would I want to look into that classroom? What was in it that I may want to see? It's just a classroom! I turned to look at my mother and saw the same confusion reflected in her eyes. It felt like the silence lasted about twenty minutes, when it probably had been only five.

Then my mother said “Is that all Sister? I thought my daughter had behaved badly!” At once I knew I had done nothing wrong and I had my mother on my side. The Principal then went on to explain how gawking at boys is not lady-like and how such behaviour cannot be condoned at the school and that if I could not behave appropriately that I would be expelled.

I continued to stand there confused thinking, “Why would I want to look at boys when I could go high on a swing?! What is so great about boys?” It hadn't even occurred to me that if I strained my neck, kept my eyes wide open while going high on the swing, looked across my school wall, across the main road, over the boys' school wall, that I may probably be able to look into a classroom that MAY or MAY NOT have boys in it at the time. But my principal had said that I was. Is that what the other girls did when they went high on the swing? But they faced the other side! What were they looking at when they went high on the swing? Was I not like the other girls because I faced the wrong way and didn't want to look over the walls at the boys' school? I began doubting my own behaviour. Maybe I was not as smart or developed as the other girls. Maybe there was something wrong with me. As this occurred to me, I began to cry. I was afraid that I was different and may be teased.

My mother seemed to have read my mind, and recounted my thoughts, almost verbatim. She explained to the principal that by making such accusations and judgements, that she was planting thoughts into my young mind. Thoughts that had never occurred to me. She also asked the Principal to get on the swing and go high and see for herself whether the boys' school was visible to her, and that since I was at least three-four inches shorter, that it is almost certain that I would not be able to see anything at all in the split-second that I am that high up on a swing. She then proceeded to inform my principal that making me kneel outside her office and not telling me what I was being punished for was inappropriate and that she was taking me home. She said that she would deal with the matter in the house, and that my principal had just ruined one of my favourite activities with her ignorant assumptions and that she is very disappointed in the principal and the school.

We left school and my mother took me to a shop on the way and bought me a sugar-cane juice. She reassured me that I had nothing wrong and that I should continue to swing any way I liked. I asked her if I was not normal for wanting to face the wrong way and swing. She then told me never to think that doing something differently from someone else was 'wrong'. She said it was a different perspective and that it was always good to think differently. She told me that people who succeed in life and people who are remembered long after they are gone are all people who thought 'differently'

And how right she was about that.

But the reason I wrote this, is to share with you that at the age of 11, I was made to feel insufficient, abnormal, nervous, afraid, doubtful, and punished for something I never did, never intended to do or never knew I could do. I was lucky enough to have a mother who stood up for me when I needed her. I was lucky enough to have a mother who trusted her. But what about parents who trust the school system more than their own kids? How many of them are going to be treated like I was, and nobody to fight for them? What happens to them?

MESMERIZED BOOKWORM

Pages filled with words
Scurrying across the page
Building the suspense
That grips the mind
The knuckles tighten
The heart pumps
The eyes widen
The breath quickens
You turn the page
The cycle begins again
You turn the page again
And again
The thrill of turning pages
The night no longer drags on
The world shrinks
To the size of that book
You must find out
Curiosity grows
Heightens your cognitive powers
Damn it
It's not who I thought it was
You succumb
To the cunning,
Conniving
Clever
Author's ploy...

How I imported an "obscene poster" into the country.

 

 

In July, 2010 I had just returned from my studies in Melbourne. I had shipped home about 60kgs of "memories and stuff" along with the gazillion clothes I had bought. Posters unfortunately needed to be sent safely in a poster case.

 

 I packed my Murphy's Law poster, Pink Floyd Back catalogue, Dali's "Three Young Surrealist Women Holding in their Arms the Skins of an Orchestra" , The Beatles-Abbey Road poster, and my poster "guestbook" from Melbourne.

The Office of the Assistant Commissioner of Customs, Postal Appraising Department- Bangalore got the shock of their lives to receive these posters and probably enjoyed examining them. 

The letter that arrived mad my dad and me fall off our dining table chairs laughing.

When we went to the Post office to discuss the letter and colelct my posters, I was accused to hiding the obscene posters--Floyd and Dali-- with the hope of importing "pornographic content" into the country.

They refused to return my posters unless I bribed them. I wished the perverts a happy time and left. For the Guestbook poster I never recovered I have cursed the dolts with the worst sex the rest of their lives and with irritable bowel syndrome as well.

Obscene posters!!! Sheesh!