Just like a good laugh, I like a good cry sometimes. I don’t know whether ‘good cry’ is grammatically correct but what the hell!

Guy friends have often wondered and aloud: “How can you enjoy crying? It doesn’t make any sense.” I just smile and nod for I absolutely refuse to spend time on something or someone who will simply fail to understand even if I were to explain it to them in detail the nitty-gritty of crying and enjoying the feeling.

But my soul sisters understand very well and it brings peace to my heart that they do.

It is a completely different feeling: Watching a sad (preferably romantic) movie and feeling and going on the emotional journey of the characters. The pain of waiting for someone (Lamhe) or losing someone (Salman leaving Ash’s house in Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam), oh the pain!!!! And then the pleasure when the tears are shed and we feel light as a feather! Nothing could compare with this feeling.

When I was little I watched Hum Aapke Hain Kaun and how I cried when the elder sister (the very pretty Renuka Shahane) dies after slipping from the stairs and hits her head. Or when sense is knocked into Ash’s brains and she finally goes back to Ajay Devgn (Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, again! I know) and he asks her to pick one hand (ohhhh, I feel so mushy right now). Isn’t it an amazing feeling when warm tears flow down your cheeks and you feel like a huge burden is off your chest/shoulder? I bet it is.

Recently, on a superb trip to Jaisalmer with my good friend Chara, I met a Danish actress. And when we got talking and slowly as the talk moved towards human emotions (she’s to portray it so often), I almost felt like I found my soul sister. She understood what I feel and we both were like “Yes, that’s what am talkin’ bout!”

It’s the warmth, the bidding goodbye to hurt, pain, agony, the lightness, the calm after a good cry that I like.

Science has also termed it good for people to shed tears sometimes. Also, I had read once that men are more prone to heart attacks because they don’t shed tears, no matter how much it hurts!!! So gentlemen, it will only do you good if you didn’t shy away from those tears. But please spare me the river and don’t expect any extra tissue rolls from me!

He was busy counting money and wouldn't even look up. I was losing my patience and started tapping my feet. The girl in front of me stood motionless, it didn't matter to her how long the process was taking. Probably she didn't care for her time, I think.

My gaze went back to the man and his grey hair. There were a few strands of black, as if in competition with the all-black crop on my head with a few strands of grey. I think he coughed a bit. His hands were all wrinkly and they had turned a bit dark. Is it with all old people or only the ones I know and meet? All old people have dark skin - too much sun bathing i think.

He reminded me of my grandmother, he clearly looked as old as her. My grandmother is 79 and has 16 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren and a Lhasa Apso named Brownie.

How many kids does he have? Does he have any grandchildren? And why he is working? Shouldn't he be home, enjoying the comforts that he must have worked all his life to collect/gather/work towards?

He was wearing what looked like a scruffy grey sweater, grey/brown pants (I couldn't see his shoes behind the counter) and an old white shirt underneath. Often when we look at old people and especially those whom we see working, we feel sad for them. I don't know why but we do. But of course we never stop to chat with them, ask them things, just keep them company.

So I felt sad for this old man, working away even at such an age. But it never struck me that may be, just may be, he wants to work. He wants to be there at work, following his daily ritual of getting up at 7 every morning, brushing and getting ready, just so that he feels relevant, feels like he isn't redundant now, feels like he still has it in him to do things, to make sense of things or just to know that he's living. It never struck me.

My mother once called me and said, "Your grandmother screamed at me today saying 'you don't let me work." We both laughed over it and forgot the episode.

My grandmother (my father's mother) has worked hard all her life. She bore seven children, her husband died very young, so she had to take care of all her kids by herself. The god of money also didn't cosy up to her very much, it was a difficult life. But that under 5-foot woman is so strong that till recently, she was around 76/77-years-old, she lived on her own. Only a couple of years ago she decided to throw in the towel and stay with one of her sons (my dad).

Having my grandmother living with us is great. We get to hear stories we never knew, about how I made my father give up smoking when i was little, telling him he was a bad person because he smoked (My eyes filled with tears somehow when she told me this), how I used to declare i will write till "one thousand" (i don't know what) but give up after one line. But I see her feeling desperate sometimes and it isn't a good feeling.

I think it was one of those frustrating days when she screamed at my mother, telling her to shut up and let her cook. So now my grandmother cooks regularly, she even sends me my favourite karela whenever my folks come to meet me.

I think this is my grandmother's way of staying relevant, staying in control, just like the old man in the bank.

A quiet return



One fine day she was not there anymore.
I am coming back to my blog after more than two years and what years!!! My whole world turned upside down in these last two years but i have only emerged stronger and much more loved than before.
One of my best friends decided to leave all of us, her loving parents, friends, all of a sudden. Very-very bad of her but all of us have forgiven her. She is such a loving child that no one could remain angry with her for such a long time. But every day i wish you were here with me Sou so that I don’t have to remember you.
Then some tragic things happened at home but we have only got stronger – the big rock that my mother is and the bigger and stronger foundation that my dad provided all of us but especially her, his wife/partner/best friend/travel companion/room mate/agony aunt of 30 years, keeping his promise of being there in sickness and in health.
And now here I am today, two years down the line, happy and contended (almost...the excuse of we r humans, blah, blah).
Delhi is getting more and more polluted day by day but my love-hate relationship with this great city is somehow sustaining me, making me continue in the city i want to leave the moment i get a chance.
But the love of my life is here, how could I leave. My sisters have found a niche for themselves in this big bad city. I hate to say it but it has become a second ‘home’ now, no matter how much i want to deny it. So i am giving myself some time to see for how long this flirting continues. May be i will develop a lifelong relationship with Delhi, who knows.
But my relationship with words continue, and thank god for that. My books keep me company, they are my best friends, making my metro commute easier and filling and aiding the silence that i enjoy so much after being away from home for so many years.
PS: Some of my best, beautiful friends got married during these two years to wonderful boys, who are now handsome, responsible men. Here’s to the wonderful partnership these ladies have formed with these gentlemen par excellence. Wishing them a very happy married life .

A few days ago I shifted to my new room in north Delhi.
Besides my giant almirah, I had a fridge, four bags full of clothes and over 12 boxes, both big and small with all my stuff. This excludes my shoe boxes and other two bags with my kitchen stuff.
Since I have been away from my family for so long (over four years now) I have a lot of stuff. And I wanted everything. I couldn’t leave behind anything.
While at work, I was going through the pictures of the floods in Bihar. People are affected everywhere and a region as big as Delhi has been engulfed by the raging waters of the Kosi river. I can’t imagine living in an inundated Delhi, besides the fact that we won’t be able to live then.
I saw a picture in which a family was walking towards a dry and safer place. Father, mother and their three children. That is all. In another picture a little girl had a broken suitcase on her head and two pairs of worn out chappals. She was standing in waist-deep water and she looked barely over 12.
In some pictures people were fighting over relief food, while in some they had lined up to take clothes, dry clothes sent from all over.
I never understood the logic behind sending clothes to victims of natural calamities. As a younger person, I used to wonder why someone would wear worn out clothes people send.
Calamities are the time when people can dump their unwanted clothes, serving double purpose. On no other occasion can one be proud and at the same time relieved of helping and getting rid of clothes which you couldn’t sell to the kabadi wala guy.
“They are left with nothing in this world, they will accept even torn clothes now,” is the most common answer when pointed out that the clothes they are sending is not worth wearing anymore.
This is besides the fact that there are many more who genuinely come forward to help and do everything in their capability to help.
Coming back to the pictures from Bihar. The family had nothing but themselves to save. Before the floods they might have had a small house, family belongings and most important – cattle and their agricultural land. All they could save from the raging water was themselves.
The girl had a broken suitcase which can barely hold anything. And worn out chappals? What would she do with them? And is she left with any family member? The picture didn’t show any.
I can’t imagine restarting my life from scratch at age 35. So many people in the floods lost everything they had. And I am not even talking about the lives lost.
A baby was born two days after the flood water started rising and the family had to evacuate in a hurry. The grandparents, old and frail, were left behind. Under normal circumstances, the family would be celebrating the birth. The grandparents dancing with joy, while the pandit busy performing puja to name the new born.
Now no one has time. In the relief camp, the family is trying to find a dry place amid the pouring sky. A baby without a name. I wish to give her a name but even in the comfort of my house, I can’t think of any name for her. I wish to give her a happy name but won’t it be ironical. Happiness born out of the womb of misery!
I scan my room and it is full of things that I have. Do I need all of it? Do I really use all the things that I have? What if Delhi were to be hit with an equally devastating flood?
What all would I pick up? What would I leave behind?

Thoughts on Mother's day

I was watching one of the singing reality shows today- oh how they bore me. But I do not have a choice because my sister comes home every Sunday from her hostel and all she does is watch the singing shows. I can go on and on about her obsession but let’s stop here.
They are amazing singers no doubt and today was a special day. It was, rather it still is as I write, Mother’s Day. I called up my mother and wished her and so did my youngest sister in Dharamshala (my younger sister, middle one, doesn’t have time from her singing show).
Coming to the point. As expected it was a special episode dedicated to mothers. Each and every contestant had his or her mother coming on stage and the usual rona-dhona happened. Then this singer called Debojit came. He sang beautifully, though I can’t remember what he sang. Some Kishore da number.
What got me hooked to the show today was the message he had for the people. He said he used to enjoy being pampered by his mother- she would put oil in his hair and give me a head massages, he would sleep in her lap and other things. But he said, “today when I am in a position to do something for my mother, I don’t have maa with me”. His mother is no more. I felt his pain and was so grateful (don’t know to who…I am an agnostic and we have these occupational hazards more often than not) that my mum was still with me, cracking jokes, smiling, scolding me but with me.
It was very touching that he had got some old women from an old age home to be a part of the show. As he sang, all of them cried.
Debojit had a simple message – do not leave your parents in old age homes. “They are like gods and how can you leave them in such a condition,” he said and buried his head in the lap of one of the crying old women. It was truly very moving and for once I forgot that I was watching a stupid show. I called up my mother and she said, “ I have already shed my tears last night.” Turns out we were watching a repeat telecast!
My point – They nearly go mad with joy when you are born. They celebrate your birth like there is no tomorrow, they shed tears when you get hurt, they rejoice in your success. But when you grow up why do you forget each and everything that they have done for you. Why do you make them go mad once again by dumping them in old age homes?

Your endless talks, will it be the same?

Ten years down the lane, will you call my name?

Lhapso Ri, that is what we call this mountaintop back home in Shimla. Whereever Tibetans stay, they hoist prayer flags and offer prayers at a high point in their area. In my hometown in the hills, this is the highest place and thus, a perfect place for a Lapso Ri.
Every year, whenever it is an auspicious day, one can see colourful prayer flags and thick smoke from incense twirling towards the sky from there. Blue, white, red, green and yellow prayer flags were a source of peace for someone like me who usually finds peace in strange things.
I would spend hours there, thinking and talking to myself. At times I would take my books, which I hardly read, and walk up the steep hill. The moment you reach the top you feel a sense of relief, feel like you have scaled the Everest.
Now I rarely get to go home, except on holidays which is like once or twice a year, and ven during my rare trips I prefer spending time at home. Suprisingly, now I spend my hours reading books. My house provides me with a magnificent view of the valley (i dont know whether it has a name) and my books, ample space for me to get lost.
I miss the Lhapso Ri and I miss my friends. Every one has grown up and now we don't have time for each other. Someone is even married and has a daughter. I hope he takes his daughter there and tell her stories about our gang and our antics.
At times I wonder if anyone even goes there now. No doubt the place looks amazing with new prayer wheels and colourful pillars supporting them, but I wonder whether the place still has its charm left. I went there this February during with my family. We hoisted our prayer flags, said a prayer and played in the snow. I wonder whether the old tree remembers me, remembers the silent tears I shed under its shadow.

“First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.”
By Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

I don't think I can say I am from Delhi but as long as I can remember I have always loved Delhi. It was a place I longed to visit during my winter holidays. MY sister was obsessed with the idea of going to Delhi, so much so a few days before we were to leave for Delhi, she would start saying, "The house smells like Delhi. Oh I love it sister, I am so happy." Though I never experienced such extreme feeling but yes I would also eagerly await our yearly visits to Delhi. Our parents used to leave for their winter business in Delhi in October or beginning of November. We would then stay with our grandparents for our schools would close only in December.
I loved everything about Delhi - from its dusty roads to its traffic, the street food, Appu Ghar (I am really sad it is going to be closed soon), the zoo. I loved being in Delhi; I loved being a part of this mad place. Since our parents would be busy, our help (we fondly called him Pradeep bhaiya) would take my sister and me to Jama Masjid area. Somehow at that time I was never apprehensive to going there, probably because I was just a kid. If I were to go there today, I think twice. Not that there is anything wrong with the place but just that I feel out of place whenever I visit Old Delhi. But when I was small, it was my area and the people mine. The fruit chats and the biryani in the mosque premises - oh how I miss those days. One more incident I clearly remember (my friends say it is gross but I don't think so), I was once in the Jama Masjid area when I saw chickens being slaughtered. And it strikes me now that it was a jhatka shop if I am not mistaken. Strange.
And now I am in Delhi, living Delhi, breathing Delhi, day in and day out after a long gap of close to seven years. The innocence of childhood is lost now but that doesn't stop me from loving this place. There are many things about the city that I absolutely hate but it has given me many more reasons to love it too.
I hate the Blueline buses whenever I am forced to take them but I love the fact that the Metro has made life so easy (I am just waiting for it to start functioning in my part of the city). I love going to Central Park in Connaught Place and reading a book there, feeling completely at home. I love it when I go visit a PVR with my friends, I love shopping in Delhi, I love living in Delhi. I love the buzz this city has, the feeling that life never stops here. Though it may not be as cosmopolitan as Mumbai, but Delhi has its own attitude.
And the best thing I like about Delhi is that it gave me the love of my life – loads and loads of books ;)

Being in my line of profession, I get to read a lot stories about development taking place in the country, especially in the national capital. Recently I was editing some stories about various expressways coming up on various national highways in many parts of Delhi, Haryana and Uttar Pradesh. most of the copies glorified and gave in explicit details how much development and how many new things the areas can expect with the development of the expressways. As I sat editing those copies, I could't help but wonder what sort of development would it bring. The expressways will make life better for thousands of commuters plying on those roads everyday. GOing from one place to the other, which takes them hours right now, won't even be a half and hour to 45 minute ride then. But I am a conventional person and I like my trees and old cottages. I was horrified just to imagine all the buildings that are going to come up on both sides of the highway, towering above the human beings like giants. I would feel reaaly intimidated I am sure. Even now when I go to all the glitzy malls that I visit in Delhi, I feel so small. They just seem to overpower me and everything that I am. Now I am all for development btu I feel the loss of what we had and what we have right now will surely pinch me, if not others. When people zoom past in their cars, I think of those long walks that I used to take with my friends back in College. Thank god my hometown in the hills is still untouched by the development but for how long. I pray the day is later than sooner. I like the flowers and the garden, the wild grass and the pebbles. It kills me sometimes to think that the place where I stay in Delhi doesnt even have any pebbles lying around except for those that are made of cement. Nothing natural has survived. I long to go home.

The friend I lost to Tibet


I was in class twelve when I got the news about some Tibetan students being caught by Chinese soldiers near the border. Someone told me that the students are from Upper TCV and Mussoorie Homes School.I was lost for words as one of my close friends had also gone to Tibet to meet his family. I cried and prayed for him. I remembered the last time we had met in Mussoorie, bidding farewell to each other and promising to meet after the holidays.Excited as we were, we would chat about college and especially about the time the two of us spent studying economics. He was my god brother and even more than that, a good friend.I had heard stories about chinese soldiers using tibetan children to built railway tracks in tibet. I would start imagening lobsang, covered in coal dust, dragging carts full of coal and my heart would cry.But my prayers were answered one day. Back in mussoorie to take my results, I got to know that Lobsang is safe and sound. I jumped with joy and tears of happiness flowed down my cheek.Although we were in two different schools- he in Tibetan Homes School and me in CST-, Lobsang and I were very good friends. The students of the two schools would always be fighting with each other- a little teasing here or a small fight there. But once out of mussoorie, everyone was from mussoorie school- no Homes no CST.We used to study economics together and I would always be screaming at him, telling him to study more. In fact, whenever we would meet i would be the one telling him about the important questions to prepare and what he topics must definately prepare. Many a times we would get lost dreaming about college and how it would be so cool if we would take admission in the same college.That was five years ago. Today Lobsang is back in Tibet. Though I resisted, he went back. I wanted him to stay back, study in India and make a career for himself here, in India, in a free country. But he didn't listen and went to Tibet.I got some pictures from him some days back. In between we chat sometimes and I ask him just one question. Are you safe there? He always says yes, with a smile on his face. He looks happy, I hope he is happy. Take care

What if I die tonight?
Who all will cry? Who will be happy? Who will miss me the most?
What if I become a manager in a big company?
Who all will know my name? Who will recognise me on the streets?
I walk on the road, not even the dust recognises me
I sit here in a corner, wasting my time doing nothing
no one will come and see me, look for me
I am nothing for I was nothing
Will I be something soon?

Some times you want things to look different and feel different. You don't want the day to start the way it normally does. You dont want the maid knocking on the door to let her in when you are sleeping peacefully and probably dreaming of the nice guy u saw the other day or about the gorgeos pair of jeans you want to buy.
It's not that one is trying to get away from the daily grind. Some may even call it being an escapist. I beg to differ. It is just that you think may be it could be different not because you want to run away from it but because having something different in life to experience, something unusual...it's not a bad idea....it's always welcome.
so just bring it...ya that's to what ppl call god....yes god u...just bring it. am here waiting all alone, waiting for u to show me ur powers...the 'power' to cure, the power to heal.....the power which ppl say u can turn things around....coz i want them to be turned around...
i am sick n tired of the things am expected to do....time n again...it is being put into ur head...dont do that...dont do this...think of ur family, ur sisters, ur relatives......
am tired and i give up......
so i challenge u...GOD.....to bring something new to my life. i dont know what u gona do to me....challenge me in any way u want...make it good or make it bad .....i don't know...am just waiting....n waiting....
may be someday i will meet u if at all u exist....then may be we will go to barista for a cup of coffee or may be i will take u for a dosa to sagar ratna...coz i really like the dosa they make u know. may be then i will ask of a couple of questions...questions i dont have answers to or may be havent accepted the facts right in front of me!!! lets see...kya hota hai...

A little trip

My little trip took me to places i usually dont visit. or rather places i do not want to visit. places that i want to ignore and do not be associated with...places that i want to forget, forever.