Like a Bird

(Note: This post has been selected as one of BlogAdda's Tangy Tuesday Picks, here. That's a second pick from this blog. Thank you guys... I'm honored!)

I was on the cliff. With every quivering step I took towards the edge, skittish pebbles rolled off the steep precipice, into the vast abyss below. Although it was impossible to watch them plunge all the way down, I could imagine them hitting several mean boulders along the way and bouncing off them, glinting in the setting sun as if performing their last dance, and then touching terra firma; at a drop of some 2000 feet from where I now meekly stood. But I was planning to go this very way and that was certain. A few more centimeters now away from the edge... a few more pebbles skittle away. Now... anytime now I would join them. Suddenly, something pushes me forward with gusto. I jerk violently, my feet now slipping, screeching swiftly off the steep slope. I reach the edge, run out of land and then.... I LEAP!

The post mid-day sun was cruel, scorching down on us with all the heat it had in store for the day. The landscape was equally unforgiving, with the flat, plateau-like land absent of any vegetation, save for a lone tree at a spot someone had dispiritedly named - 'One Tree Point'. Nonetheless, our rickety carriage trundled along, a spirited equine named 'Saajan' (?!) leading the way. The guide rattled on, for the thousandth time perhaps, his rehearsed speech of the history of this forsaken, baked-land. I was thoroughly disinterested as anyone could be; the only thing I looked forward to was the guide's assurance that he would help us make contact with a man who could fly. And who would eventually help us fly too.

The miserable tour was finally over; but not without cheerful sayonaras and some corn-feed to an exuberant Saajan. Now we get to met THE man. Half imagining a dude with biker-gear, spiky gelled-mane and a fake accent to match; we follow the guide to the dude's hangout. Comically, the hangout turned out to be 'Anna's Fast Food'; the dude replaced by a portly, deeply-tanned man with an opposite color on his pressed shirt, oiled curls for the hair and a heavy accent that frequently used the phrase, 'Come you here!!' (?!) I tried to ignore that. After all, he knew some useful people who could paraglide, and that's what we focused on. "We want to paraglide tomorrow. Could you give us details?" we asked him. To which he replied, rolling tongue and all, "Czee, if you waaant to do it naw, then I have my men parraglidingg naw. It is sunzet and the wind is perrfekkt. Toomaarrow, no garrantee." We looked at each other, "NOW?!!!" None of us were ready for NOW! We weren't psyched-up enough, not loaded with the required adrenaline for this sport, not at that moment. But we had no time, it was now or never. One said yes, the other followed and the third's aye made it a trio of wannabe-paragliders. Whooppeee!

The wait was most excruciating. Awaiting your turn on the cliff, watching other mortals plummet off the edge and then craning your neck to see their progress in the sky... it was frightening, especially for someone (read yours truly) who loathes heights. And I don't even want to recall the terrifying drop below. It nearly paralyzed me to watch trees and buildings the size of lego-blocks. I tried not to look down and fixed my eyes on the sky. If I get through this God, I know for certain you exist. Let me survive this, please!

And so I found myself being called out (again)- COME YOU HERE!! In a few seconds I was strapped on with all the safety gear; these guys were nimble. I was going to fly in tandem with an instructor, 3 times my weight (for obvious reasons). Soon, I was all buckled up and ready to go, all this time my legs trembling quite embarrassingly. Now, all that was needed was a gentle breeze to set the wings in motion. The breeze would give flight to the wings, and would tug me and the instructor alongwith it. I was told to move forward, towards the edge of the cliff. Sure, I must've died a few times out of fright alone as I advanced forward... but move ahead I did, and not without solid resolve.

I was on the cliff. With every quivering step I took towards the edge, skittish pebbles rolled off the steep precipice, into the vast abyss below. Although it was impossible to watch them plunge all the way down, I could imagine them hitting several mean boulders along the way and bouncing off them, glinting in the setting sun as if performing their last dance, and then touching terra firma; at a drop of some 2000 feet from where I now meekly stood. But I was planning to go this very way and that was certain. A few more centimeters now away from the edge... a few more pebbles skittle away. Now... anytime now I would join them. Suddenly, something pushes me forward with gusto. I jerk violently, my feet now slipping, screeching swiftly off the steep slope. I reach the edge, run out of land and then.... I LEAP!

You know what they say about having an out of body experience. Well, this must be something like that. It felt as though I'd left my body behind and it was just me, my thoughts and soul in the sky. I couldn't speak (I didn't even yell when I jumped off the cliff), I couldn't even form an 'O' with my mouth. So this is how birds must feel. Light but powerful, vulnerable but safe, gliding steadily, yet soaring higher and higher. It was magical, simply astounding. With the setting sun as the perfect backdrop, the hills and the valley engulfed me in their endless beauty. We soared in the sky for a few more magical minutes - defying gravity, flouting nature's laws for some more time. Soon, the sun would go down. So it was time to land. Hesitant as I was, I complied.. remembering the landing instructions. So I pulled my legs up, holding them straight before me. We were descending swiftly now. And I could see two men running towards us. Before I knew it, we were down.... my feet grazing ground zero. Ah, Mother Earth! Never have I been so glad to touch down! The men helped me off my gear.. I was entangled in all those wires! I found myself thanking my instructor profusely - he risked his life for my fix of adrenaline too. Then, I sprinted off towards my friends... never before being so glad to be alive. Though it may sound dramatic; I can honestly say the entire experience was like being born again - being liberated from the womb of your fears, as you touch down. Definitely worth trying again.

As for you, dear reader, you have to fly first to feel that way. Wouldn't you?

The Storm

There were five of us, seated around a table. It was late in the afternoon, and we were making arrangements for the dinner to be held at the grand table tonight. "Don't place me next to the womenfolk, please," Ed was saying. "They'll babble a lot, and I would be thoroughly tortured." The others gave a nervous laugh. No one spoke against Ed. He was broodier than usual today. So they nodded in agreement. And I, very hesitantly and slowly, put a comforting hand on his hand, which was resting on his lap. I would ask him later, what was bothering him? And then, just as I was framing the possible questions in my mind, to my astonishment, he too, almost reluctantly, placed his other free hand on my hand, covering it. I turned to look at him in surprise. Ed never wore his emotions on his sleeve, leave alone on his hand. This was wildly different. It meant Ed trusted me. And it meant a lot to me.

Suddenly, we hear shouting. It was Giri. He was now streaking across the room, the curls of his hair flying amok, like Medusa's serpents. "It's Mischa," he almost yells, breathlessly. "He's not to be seen anywhere. I've searched the entire mansion. He's not here!" By now, the occupants of the house have all gathered around, alarmed by the shouting. Maa speaks up, "Mischa must've gone out somewhere... he'll be back. Why are you so worried?" And why would Maa be? Maa - the reason I was with Ed and not with Mischa. "He's been missing for 8 hours now." Giri replies, flustered now. "I don't think he's 'gone out' for that long. Besides, there's nothing around here except for the desert. Where would he go?" He had a point. Soon, we were all searching for Mischa, his name echoing in the mansion. I was getting restless. This was not like Mischa. He didn't disappear just like that, without informing anyone. I remembered his face, with that silly, crooked smile spread across it - the one I fell in love with, many years ago. Apart from his spirited ways, funny one-liners and I-give-a-damn-attitude. I was very, very fond of Mischa. And I would still do anything for him, Ed or no Ed.

And then it struck me. The temple adjoining the mansion! Mischa's favorite hangout. Not the temple itself (Giri must've already looked in there), but the temple towers housing the mansion's 2 tanks. I began to sprint towards the temple. In that godforsaken outfit they call the saree. Maa had insisted I wear it today and I had, in hindsight, foolishly agreed. I was running like a crazed woman now. Towards the temple and towards the tower housing the dual tanks. Suddenly, Maa was behind me, yelling at me to stop. I turn back to face her. "Where do you think you're going? You're not climbing those tanks. Its dangerous." I began to tell her that I've climbed the tanks with Mischa many times before. But she didn't know that and I didn't plan on informing her now. "Maa, I have to go. Maybe Mischa is hurt or even worse, unconscious up there... I HAVE to go check!" Maa, on any other day, would've retorted back with a plethora of replies to that, especially in matters concerning Mischa. But she didn't. "Go," she said. Like the father to his daughter in Dilwaale Dulhaniya... But this is no movie. And I do not wait for the director to say, "CUT!" So I run again, with Maa yelling behind me to be careful. I hike up the godawful saree to my knee and climb onto the first step of the ladder. The first tank was easy. It was only a few feet high. The second was the toughest. And it didn't help that I feared heights. True, I had easily negotiated the tanks several times with Mischa, several years ago; but that was with HIM. When he was around, I could even challenge Goliath and easily come out winning. But now I was alone, and the height scared the daylights outta me. I took a deep breath and shut my eyes partially. I can do this. For Mischa.

The late afternoon sun glinted mercilessly in my eyes. This was more difficult than I thought. Almost instinctively, I turned to look down. Bad idea. I was in a very, very precarious position. Several, several feet above ground zero. My legs began to tremble and my palms began to sweat. But the thought of Mischa up there kept me going. I yelled out his name, but there was no answer. Slowly, but steadily, I reached the top of the ladder and climbed on to the second tank. Relief! But that was short-lived. There was no one here. I was dejected. Where are you Mischa? I yelled out his name again. And then, to my great comfort, I heard his voice. His beautiful, wondrous voice. "What do you want?" It was coming from the loft above the tank. How the hell did he get up there? "You come right down now, Mischa," I shouted, desperately wanting to see him. "Who sent you here?" he asked. I thought about this for awhile and replied, "Maa". To that he laughed, "Which one?" "Both," I said. The mortal and the immortal one. I needed both to reach here. "Go back. I'm not coming down," he stubbornly said. "Come down, please Mischa. Whatever you want to talk about, lets talk down here. Its not safe up there." No reply. I yell out his name again, pleading and begging now. And again. And again. And yet again. But the silence was deafening. Mocking. Silently chiding.

And then, I hear a thud.

It sickened me to the core, that sound. It was so loud, it pierced my eardrums, traveled all the way down my throat and pounded at my chest. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn't. I stood there, transfixed on that damn tank. I stood like that, the pallu of my saree bellowing around me like a cape, for 10 whole minutes. From far away, I could hear a mild commotion, maybe someone yelling out my name, but those voices were immaterial. Insignificant. Just like me, a speck of dust in the whole wide universe. Mischa would know, he was one with the universe now. Leaving me alone here. Just a speck of unimportant, atomic dust. I collapse down to the floor. The sun has given way to clouds now, the sky darkening swiftly. A storm is arriving, maybe. But nothing as dark and turbulent as the one that has just arrived at the hole in my heart. I shut my eyes and began to pray slowly, like a monk chanting a silent verse..... waiting for the storm to pass. Waiting for the world to end. Waiting for the darkness to descend. Infinity awaits..... and I can hear its mild chuckle now.

Note: The above is an excerpt from a dream I had last night. The characters in this fictional account have no semblance whatsover to any person living or dead. My dream was so vivid, I had to put it down. Yes, it is dark and depressing. But not all dreams are happy, bubble-gummy, right?

Trouble

My car's idling at yet another traffic signal. I'm stuck at the red lights for the third time already. I want to whack someone, yell my lungs out at the bumbling rickshaw ahead to move his rickety ride, godammit! Traffic in Mumbai can test the patience of a saint. Just as I was thinking of new ways to vent my anger, John-McEnroe-style, there's a knock on the car's window. I roll the windows down and see a suave, criminally gorgeous fella - smile on his lips, hope in his eyes. I had a sullen look on my face and swiftly try to repair it, replacing it with mild incredulity. "Yeah?" I manage. "Are you going to Malad?" he asks me. Incredulity is now replaced with disbelief. That's the last thing I ever expected him to say. I continue to give him a dumb look. "Could you give me a ride to Malad, please?" he persists. 'Yes, yes yes!' my mind shrills. I mean c'mon! He's a Greek God, for crying out loud. I would be but a mortal fool to refuse. I began to reply in the affirmative. And then, swift as lightening, a voice creeps into my head. It is the voice cultivated out of years of education that is indoctrinated into every girl. 'You fool,' it admonishes. 'Are you out of your mind? Don't you know that thing they say about talking to strangers? This guy could look like a fashion model right off the rampwalk, but that doesn't mean he couldn't be a mugger. Or a rapist. Or a serial killer. Or a psychopath. Or a dangerous combination of all. Refuse right away! And roll up those windows. Lock your doors. Yell out loud if Greek God lashes out. Do you have a sharp object that you could use? A knife, a filer, a scissor? Nothing? ARRRGH!'

I draw a deep breath. Had I let that control-freak-of-a-voice possess me, I would have been classified as a nutty oddball and landed myself in a room full of padded walls. Instead, a calm voice takes over. "I'm awfully sorry," I say, "but I have friends to pick up at the next signal. I can't help you." Greek God looks dejected. "Its okay," he politely says and moves away to search for alternatives. I kick myself. Had I not been a girl, I would never have faced this quandary. What does that station master say in Jab We Met? Akeli ladki ek khuli tijori ki tarah hoti hai. Sad (and slightly crude) stereotype. Substantiated by countless horror stories of women being victims of brutal crimes, simply because they were careless or just plain unlucky. No matter how well trained you are in self-defense or are Wonder Woman yourself, you don't go around talking to strangers, even if it means genuinely helping a person in need. You don't take risks. That's what we are told, and most of us dutifully follow.

Not that I regret I was born a girl. It doesn't matter much whether you are from Mars or Venus, not in today's world anyway. However, more often than not, we become subjects of stereotype, which forms the basis of gender prejudice. You're a girl. So it is presumed you are weak and vulnerable. No late nights, no traveling alone, no talking to strangers. I find it highly regressive; although, it would be premature to conclude that the premise behind these restrictions is entirely wrong. Some of us may know how to take care of ourselves. There are countless women who party late at night, travel to far-flung destinations alone or can confidently handle a conversation with a stranger, without getting the heebie-jeebies. Good for them; I wish there were more of their kind. But maybe, just maybe, our parents are right Maybe that voice in our heads, control-freak or not, has some credibility. You can't push your luck too far. Its an insane world out there, increasingly unsafe for women. And sometimes, perhaps just sometimes, you need to take a step back. Even if you're raring to go. Take precautions. always. Better to be safe than sorry. After all, its only for your own good, as our parents love to say :)

Man vs. Food

Have you ever lunched/dined out with that remarkable species on earth - the insatiable, ravenous, voracious, mindblowingly incredible, true-blue Punjab da puttar? No? Count your blessings then. Yes? Pat... no, thump yourself several times on the back, 'cause you've come out of the tribulation alive and have survived to see another meal - a humbler version of course, the kind that befits the average homosapien. It may not mean such a great deal for the more piggish kinds out there who impulsively develop multi-appetites (and consequently, multi-tiered bellies) at the mere glimpse or scent of food - the ones who can down the entire menu in one tremendous gulp; BUT to a barely-there, gangling, tweedy weed like yours truly, the sight of an acre-wide dining table grandly laid out in its full, leg-wobbling glory makes me weep, even furiously chanting silent prayers in yesterday's case, because it may have very likely been *My* Last Supper.

Goosebumps. I have several of them now. Its all replaying in super-slow-mo in my mind. The said Punjab da puttar thundering in a guttural voice - 'AUR LAO!!!' and Auntyji running... no, flying to the rescue - like a Goddess with several arms - each bearing a dish more sumptuous, more greasy and more fattening than the other; she apparitating in front of my pleading (for no more) self, and again, like a Goddess that is mighty pleased with her disciple, bestowing more of the dreaded, sinful stuff on my quivering plate, meanwhile beaming a splintering smile that is akin to a thousand arrows puncturing my feeble body; what's left of it atleast. My stomach's at war by now, my mouth is so stuffed that no requests for mercy are able to escape it and my brow is lined with fine sweat; while Auntyji is on a blitzkrieg of sorts - serving scoops and mega scoops of her largesse (both food and that smile.... oh that wicked, wicked smile), making me fervently wish I was stranded in the bleak Saharan desert instead. As if in endorsement, my stomach gives a low rumble now. In testament to all the wadis, dhoklas, 3 tiered rasmalais, pistachio cookies, dry fruits, crispy veggies with schezwan sauce, veg seekh kababs, paneer manchurians, paneer makhanwaalas, dal fries, aloo parathas and veg kadais that I downed yesterday, ALL within a tormenting span of 2 hours. Burrrrrp. Its a record of sorts for me. Something I can brag to my grandchildren about.

HOW does one eat so much? And make it look SO easy at the same time? I mean, you can't have bottomless pits for stomachs, can you? The said puttar, his wife, his son and the latter's wife - all fine Punjabi folks - the most amiable, genial, gregarious and friendly lot that I have EVER come across (they can even make a grumpy bear feel at home) - they have appetites the size of the Himalayas (they mauled the ENTIRE menu), while mine huffs and puffs its way to a measly 10% of theirs. The said hosts looked down at me with the slightest hint of pity, making it a mission of sorts to kinda beef me up before I leave their abode. They tried their best to stuff me, and were wildly successful too, obedient child that I am. But whatever aspirations they had to land a spare tyre on my belly, it failed. The waiflike Avanti reigned supreme and still does, neither lard nor fibre able to flab her up. In the case of my well-meaning, generous hosts, the food always wins, while for moi - it is always me thoroughly beating the food by a couple of miles any given day! So go ahead Auntyji, beat that! Or should I say, catch me if you can! ;)

And the show (down) begins!

Its back! And it promises to be larger, louder and meaner than its previous two outings. On the flip side, it also guarantees (embarrassing) situations where grown men behave like a bunch of tribal Aborigines hollering and dancing at their annual jungle grassraiser event. You would not be wrong in saying that one could, in all probability, witness a rise in divorce cases (or atleast separations) during this dratted season. Because wars erupt at home. Over something as humble as the modest remote, God bless its existence for lazy-loafs like us. The charged up, tongue-hanging-out, jumping-on-the-sofa, dumb-as-a-pin bloke, along with his entourage of boisterous, unruly and equally brain-dead buddies, refuses to zap channels from Set Max while the thoroughly repressed and depressed woman insists on her daily antidose of tear-jerking, over-the-top family, ageless (literally) family dramas. Tensions are bound to rise and tempers are liable to be lost. Soon, before he could realize what's just hit him, the poor guy could find himself biting the bullet and signing a hefty alimony cheque.

Ohkay. Maybe I've over-dramatized the entire sequence of events that may occur during the IPL season. But wouldn't you agree you'd find the sexes battling it out, throwing abuses (and dishes, perhaps) at each other, mainly because they cannot STAND the other's preferred choice of idiot-box-entertainment? I don't know why the women-folk are complaining though. I mean, you just have to switch on the TV whenever you want and watch one of them regressive, numbing daily soaps; never mind if you've entirely missed last week's episodes. I guarantee you will STILL understand every single scene. You may even be in the applaudable position of predicting what's gonna happen next. No replays needed, no sleepless nights mulling over who cheated on whose domestic donkey, who married whose toothless grandmother, who slapped whom (with 3, it is ALWAYS 3, back to back slow-mo repeats and fake 'chaata' ka sound) and who returned back from the (ir)reversibly dead lot, for the three hundred and forty seventh time in the show's short history.

That said, one cannot deny or for that matter, ignore the tremendousness that IPL brings alongwith its flashy, glittery arrival every year (although this year's opening was a damp, flop affair). The eclectic crowds, the shenanigans, the star team owners, cheerleaders (aren't they, by far, THE biggest draw?), the ridiculous pay packets, the jumbo prize money and the 2-month-elaborate-shindig conducted by all possible media worth-their-salt, going gaga over the teams... it really is, at times, larger than life. Everything else comes to a screeching halt for these 2 months. Producers shy away from releasing their movies, travel plans are delayed, the workplace/college canteen is a riotous place full of heated discussions and school-children beg to stay at home on match-days. Even non-fans of the game have switched loyalties. Mention the word cricket in India and you're bound to get flashed by a toothy grin that starts from one ear and ends at the other, like a drunkard does on spotting a bottle of his favorite rum. We are a mad, mad nation of cricketophiles.

Speaking of madness, I was witness to one such insane IPL match in its inaugural season. At the magnificent D.Y. Patil Stadium in Navi Mumbai. Started by cheering for the home team - Mumbai Indians and ended up rooting for the winning team - Deccan Chargers. Who the heck cares anyway?? Spectators were only interested in dancing and yelling every time some batsman (never mind which team's) hit the boundaries or a bowler took a wicket, hooting at the cheerleaders and making paper planes and throwing them from one stand to another. Match gaya bhaad mein. People were there to enjoy themselves and scream as though the Texas Chainsaw-wielding baddie himself is chasing them, baying for their collective blood. No wonder the firangs consider us a weird lot.

Here are some of the pics I took of Mumbai Indians vs. Deccan Charges match at the gorgeous D.Y. Patil Stadium, a place best experienced at night when it is in its full floodlit glory. Stunning!

I'm gonna visit again this year, this time - the Brabourne stadium. Which teams, you ask? As if it matters! ;)