Burnt bridges

After my move from Hyd to Bombay late last year, I rejoined work in the first week of March ’11. Colaba-BKC it would be. A 22 km commute didn’t daunt me much, it being against the rush traffic, and a relatively easy ride through some of Bombay’s prettier areas like Marine drive, Bandra-Worli sealink etc. Yes, I was cabbing it, instead of plying via the local. Mostly because I’d been on 2-3 local rides, and hated it. Also, two days before my work had begun, the Bandra station’s walkover bridge had been partially burnt. I wasn’t sure if getting a much closer view into the station’s adjoining slums was a great idea.

Of course, little did I know about fellow Bombayite road travelers’ incessant honking skills and sub-zero levels of patience .. and how *much* it would turn me off. Heck – even the cabbies would step on the pedal without being asked to, and give away a mouthful of gaalis to anyone who so much as wasted half a precious second.

So then, few weeks later, after a long day in office, I flagged down an auto. I asked him to take me to the station. Getting out of BKC takes a cool 20 min, and this hot evening was no exception. The autowala got talking.

‘Do you know who burned the bridge?’, he asked me.

‘Well, I read that it started as a fire in one of the hutments, engulfed the adjoining tenements and brought a part of the overhead bridge down with it’, I responded. ‘Or who knows – maybe it was the work of landsharks, in an effort to drive away the slum dwellers..?’, I added as an afterthought.

‘But none of the hut dwellers were killed, or even injured, you see? Only a few beggar men and children had injuries’, he goaded on.

I wasn’t reading the newspapers that religiously to know whether what he was saying was correct. But I was curious to know his version of it. So I went, ‘Oh, you’re saying it was an inside job?’

‘Now you are talking!’, he said, cheerily. ‘These overhead bridges came as a death-knell for the slum residents, you see. The walkers on the bridge aren’t good customers, they walk straight into the platform – no water, no chicken tikka, no vada pav for them. Means no business for these shops below. So these guys decided to bring the bridge down, to divert the walkers down to the road.. you understand?’

‘Hmm..the bridge will come back soon enough, how’s that a permanent solution to..’

‘And most of these are bloody Muslims!’, he went on, obviously mistaking me for a non-Muslim.

‘Oh!’, I said. I didn’t want to break his interesting conspiracy theory of the burnt bridge.

We were in the last 100m stretch towards the station, but at least 5 min away because of the traffic. A kaali-peeli cab with two mullah-like men drew up beside my auto. The men had long black beards, had white caps on, and were dressed in white kurta pyjamas. They were within earshot distance of us. The autowala now had an audience of three, at least two of whom wouldn’t have liked to hear what he was saying, but he continued unaware, and loud enough:

‘Yes, most slum dwellers here are Muslims. And these Muslims.. they are pretty stupid people, you know? They survive on chickpeas, which is cheap food, but gives them enough strength to work through the day. It is what you feed to horses, after all, ha ha! But you know what chickpeas do to your brain? They make one numb, and imbecile. That’s why Muslims breed like rabbits, knowing not that with their meager incomes they cannot support a family of a dozen kids. And then they burn down bridges to solve their miseries. Stupid, stupid people!’, he ranted.

By this time the adjoining cabs’ men were peering at the autowala – their heads half out of the windows, and eyes widened with shock at what they’d just heard. They darted a stare in my direction as well, with an expression: ‘Wtf?’

‘Bhaiyya, are you from the MNS?’, I asked the autowala.

‘No madam, why do you ask?’

‘Oh, I thought you would be. You sounded like one of them. You stand a good chance of working with them, though, if you believe so strongly in such views. It’s amazing how much hate you have towards Muslims. I wonder why!’, I summed it up, and handed him the fare money, not waiting to receive my change back.

I caught the confusion on his face, as I left. A confusion which would have been in part due to an attempt to figure my real loyalties (was I was a Muslim myself, was I speaking on behalf of them?) and why did I choose to dissent so late.. when for the last 15 min it seemed like I agreed with his intelligent worldview. He might have even felt bad for hurting my sentiments!

I felt amused, not hurt. Amused because he was, after all, an autowala. He wasn’t part of an educated, evolved, aware, and a well-read class. I also felt amused at the thought of just how many such autowalas dwell in the above mentioned class’ heads!

Hydi-ness

Of course, this is too small a list to sum up a city I’ve lived in for 24 years, but here’s my top 10 favorite Hyderabad experiences, anyway! Penned it down on the request of a fellow-blogger-friend Zishaan, who’s trying to pick fellow Hydis’ brains to do his list!

1. Old City charms – Friday congregation at the Mecca Masjid, seekh kebabs at the Chowk ki Masjid, bylanes of the Laad Bazaar with those gleaming bangles, the beautiful Chowmahalla palace (it still looks beautiful even after an overdose of 6 visits in the past 1 and a half yrs!), the grandeur of the Nizam era, reflected in its buildings, mosques, and marketplaces.
2. The Deccan plateau topography, which makes driving around so cool…up again…down again. Straight roads are so boring!
3. Food…glorious food! Hydi mutton biryani is by far the best I’ve ever had! And that brings to mind the fabulous Hydi weddings…the sheer display of nawaabi-pan, those royal ladies and their royal heirloom clothes and jewelry…awesome sights!
4. Hydi Urdu – damn funny and warm, both at the same time! Some typical phrases: “pukaar le rahein”, “kya howlon jaise baataan karrein”, “maa ki kirkiri”, “kya hai ki kya nahi ki”, “abhi parson parson ich”…!
5. A walk by Tank Bund in the night, with a neat dose of gol gappas, and an orange chuski. Small pleasures ‘em.
6. A secure ride in those yellow three wheelers a.k.a autos even at 12:30am, with usually a funny, talkative Hydi autowallah…who will be more worried about your safety than you’ll yourself be!
7. Any place in Hyd is 20-30 min away. Yes, we belong to a small city, and we like it this way!
8. A drive to Osman Sagar / Gandipet / Golconda / Taramati Baradari / Qutub Shahi tombs in the rains.
9. Sunday roadside book markets – Abids, Telephone Bhavan, Sec’bad…hell, even the road close to my home has one!!
10. And finally, the comfort and familiarity that comes with having lived, loved, grown up and spent a lot of your formative years in a city that you call your home!

Soul Curry

Coming back home (after a night of partying) half a day later than I was actually supposed to, I was obviously expecting *the* silent treatment from my very angry mother. As it turned out, as evening approached, this time around she actually broke the silence with the announcement (to me, in particular):

“I’m not making any dinner. You can choose to make some, or we could order in.”

Five continuous days of eating out made me instantly mentally puke at the idea of any more outside food. Plus if I had to give in an apology of sorts, this was my only chance, I suppose. So, my absolute detest for the kitchen and related activities notwithstanding, I chose to go with the lesser unfavourable of the two options. And I feebly answered, “I .. can cook.”

Yeah, right.

I could’ve as well muttered, “I can navigate an airplane.” Or, “I can swim across the English Channel in 5 hours.” Well, anyway, you get the drift.

“What .. shall I .. make?”, I inquired. The question seemed so ridiculous to me, I couldn’t have imagined an answer other than ‘Nothing’.

“There’s mutton in the freezer, so, you decide.”

Hmm. Right, then.

From past observations of mom’s preparations’ times, I decided to go with one of the ‘quickies’ – the aloo tamaatar mutton curry. Once that was decided, I took approval of the exact portions of the ingredients required, and braced myself. The first task of the ordeal was onion-chopping. With (onion-induced) tears rolling down my cheeks, I found myself swearing (under my breath, of course) at the knife for causing my index finger to swell and hurt. And I was not even halfway through the chopping.

“Do we actually need all of this?” I asked from across the kitchen serving window. It was a genuine question. It really looked like too many onions! Apparently…not. So, I continued, teary eyed. When I was finally done, which was about half hour later, I asked her to check before I tossed them into the hot oil. Half amused and half pitiful, she joked, “That’s why it took you so long. Chopping it sooo fine, omelet style. But we’re not making an omelet, no?”

Drat! Did I look like I would’ve known about the level of chopping for this kind of preparation?

Onions, mutton, more onions, tomatoes, masala, potatoes, all thrown in, in that order, at appropriate times, I waited, curry-stirring, and full of curious anticipation. “How much more time?” I asked mom. Only about 10-12 minutes more!

I was going to finish it off by cooking the rice, but mom decided to complete my experience by making me try out even the roti. Rolling out nearly round rotis, I was just about bloating with joy at my perfectly aerating roti, when the pressure from the adjacent cooker decided to go off. Throwing the roti aside abruptly, I felt proud about my alertness in having saved myself from an injury – if that was possible at all – from that cooker blowing off its top unexpectedly at me. I continued, bravely, and went on to make six rotis.

I couldn’t wait to eat my very first mutton curry. The aroma from the concoction had somehow turned that ordeal into a mini achievement for me. I could finally…cook! The verdict was soon out – the rotis were pretty decent for a first-timer and the curry was a bit short on chilly spice. Well, then. Not bad at all!

“Anyone can cook!” opined my mom, just like that chef does, from the movie Ratatouille. To which – if I remember correctly – Ratatouille goes, “Doesn’t mean everyone should cook!” And I couldn’t agree more, for reasons of my own. Because I believe that to delegate this task, it helps if you know how to cook all your favourite / standard stuff you’ve grown up eating – and especially if you’re really fond of ghar ka khana. And who isn’t? :-)

26/11

I am very angry right now. Who isn’t, after witnessing one of the most dreadful attacks in recent times that brought India to its knees? In what seems to be a never-ending saga of blood, bombs, and perpetual shadow of terror, 26/11 has struck us hard. We finally realise, India is bleeding. For far too long, too often, and too easily.

Even if we start from as recent as 2006. Mumbai train blasts in July 2006, train blast in India-Pak express in Feb 2007, Hyderabad’s Mecca Masjid blasts in May 2007, twin blasts in Hyderabad again in Aug 2007, simultaneous blasts in Lucknow, Varanasi and Faizabad in Nov 2007, Jaipur in May 2008, Bangalore / Ahmedabad in July 2008, Delhi’s 2 blasts separated by a fortnight during Sept 2008, Assam blasts in Oct 2008 – they rocked the nation too, innocent people were killed in these too. But these incidents never left an indelible impression on us – the only people whose lives changed forever were the immediate family, the friends and the beloved of the killed. Now, if killing the elite, the businessmen, the representatives of India Inc, the symbols of prosperity is what it would take for India to sit up and take notice, these psychopaths couldn’t have chosen a better target. I guess the Article 21 of the Indian Constitution treats a few elite lives more equal than the rest. The terrorists made use of this very inequality that runs through every organization/institute/system and what we have is a lasting impact on the Indian psyche. The image of the heritage Taj Mahal Hotel engulfed in flames. Our 9/11. Etched in our minds, forever.

Carrying out this terror attack wasn’t as easy as arriving on a speeding moped, throwing away bombs in a crowded marketplace and fleeing off; or coordinating the blasts using cellphone bomb triggers – this was a well-coordinated, well-planned, well-researched assault, with months of training and backing from a well-fed-networked terror outfit, which here, is clearly the LeT. Which brings me to Pakistan. Well, the lesser spoken about it, the better – an immature polity, unstable & corrupt governments – a perfect breeding ground for terrorism, helped even more by its seamless border with another poverty/terror stricken nation Afghanistan. And the world’s paying for it. The messed up nation needs to be saved from itself, so that the world can be safe. A combination of poverty, laissez faire administration (in the nations which breed their kind), and misplaced ideals ignite these terror minds, who in turn program their men – as easily as one would program robots – to carry out these attacks.

While the sickening media is going overboard by crossing all lines of sensitivity and even security (the airdropping from helicopter was telecast live!); sensationalizing everything to make extra monies in such times, our dear Indian politicians have been hiding in their rat holes for the past 4 days. If they now emerge and play the religion card – they should be lynched and asphyxiated to death. Religion has got nothing to do with it. All such extremists – our very homegrown Modis / Raj Thackerays / Sudarshans / Shiv Sainiks or the international terror organizations are made up of psychos. Sick sick people. Who think that gun is the solution to everything. But our politicians don’t get it! All they’ve done to ‘tackle terror’ is gone ahead and mindlessly kill innocent youth (“terror attacks suspects”) picked up from various cities’ slums or done “encounter killings” at Batla Houses and the likes. While the opposition govt. has done nothing else but point fingers and play the traditional blame game. How convenient for everyone! All these eyewash exercises and lip service around an “iron hand” to deal with terror is enough crap. Enough is enough. Bombay isn’t okay. India isn’t okay. This is no physics class and Indians are no guinea pigs to be tested for their frikking resilient spirit – it’s been stretched too many times and is snapped and broken. Now, will you act? Will you walk the talk? Will you do something…anything…to instill the nation’s confidence back?

p.s. just checking: is Raj Thackeray dead? For we haven’t heard a single word on NSG / Marcos (non-Marathis) saving the Bombay civilians from the carnage.

the existentialist

“The charm, or should I say, the cushioned comfort of fat pay checks that the corporate world brings has numbed our dream lifestyle. Money has taken precedence over what we cherish. 2 options in this case: Option 1: The easier one. Compromise on your dreams and well who said there isn’t any life in glitzy malls and posh restaurants and plush apartments and fancy discs. Of course you can carry on the favorite corporate pastime – cribbing. Option 2: Extremely tough. Get out of your comfort zone. Go find your dreams and live in peace. Do what you have always wanted to, do what gives you satisfaction, do what makes you feel good. Quite a few of us have been actively considering taking up Option 2. But I must add that it takes a lot of guts to follow it. I personally haven’t been able to gather the courage to take the plunge. Hats off to the person who takes up option 2. Till then it’s back to enjoying my money…”

- Manku

“I think there’s an option 1.5 somewhere here – where you try to make the most of your job and also seek some joy outside of it. I think I’ve been 50% successful with that model…you guys should try it. Join some classes… languages.. or dance.. or music.. or some instrument.. weekend classes. You CAN make time for it if you want to. Get people to watch movies and plays with you. Catch up with people…for dinners lunches…whatever. Get back to your old hobbies…like buy books and read them with fervor; even if it means you come back at work at 9 and are reading yourself to sleep at 11:30-12. I know it sounds like a sermon…but, try it.

- Sandhya

“You don’t have to be in a village or a city particularly, to be happy. Find out what you really want to do, be it travel, sports, bike rides or any other thing. Most importantly, be prepared to take some effort to get it. If you say I want to be in a city/village so that I can do something I like, then it’s not the city/village that you are looking for, but for things to be served on a platter to you.”

- Swap

Some profound lines them, spoken by XL classmates, back in October ’07.

Given the good money we earn, I think, most of us have, by far, been able to indulge ourselves in whatever we’d have liked to. Unless if it’s those folks for whom work’s been so overwhelmingly killing that they don’t remember the last time they watched a movie in a theater (or even on their laptops!); their friends think they’ve died and gone to heaven ‘cuz they’ve stopped responding to calls, leave alone meeting up with them; or they keep postponing that visit to their parents’ for months together, or worse still, haven’t found the time to get a haircut even!

But. That’s a different story. For I find myself at another crossroads of life, in a quarter-life crisis of sorts. I’m besieged with questions that I’ve been racking my brains, without much ado, for the answers. Questions like-

“Do you see yourself in this line 5 years from now?”

“Is your education being (or in future sense, will be) utilized in what you do?”

“What do you want to do career-wise, like, really really want to do?”

“Want. Can. Difference. Yeah?”

To cut it short: “What *are* you chasing…what is it that you want: from life…?”

Nothing but a “what would I like to be when I grow up” sort of a question, at a ripe age of 25. *:-/*

In the name of God

My watch had just struck 9:15 p.m. I got off my office shuttle and gingerly crossed the road. As I hurried inside the theater, I caught the dulled shiny poster. I was already miffed that the movie had released in one of the shadiest theaters in town – I thought it’d deserved better screens. The worn out poster only made me angrier.

Khuda Kay Liye.

Apparently the movie’s genesis lay in an incident around Shoaib Mansoor’s (the director) singer friend, who suddenly shunned music and everything else connected to it – to walk the path of Islam. Anyway, the first Pakistani movie to release in Indian theaters in around 43 years, and a marked departure from the usual nonsensical song ‘n’ dance Lollywood fare, the flick focuses on a topic that I’m sure any thinking Muslim can instantly relate to – the question about what really makes up a true Muslim. It shows the average middle/upper middle class Muslims in the post 9/11 scenario and their dilemma in dealing with the world’s ill-informed and narrow perception, fed by the ‘true keepers’ of the faith: you’re either a suicide bombing fundamentalist / jehadi, and hence a true Muslim(!), or, an utterly depraved and blasphemous westernized liberal! As if the religion gives no credit to those following it in spirit, but only to those who swear by its letter!

Most of the points the movie tries to make about the fundamentalist approaches to Islam –

“It’s not like there is a forced choice between music OR Islam…”
“There is beard in religion, but no religion in beard.”
“People look for halal meat shops with haraam earnings in their pocket.”
“I hope we are not making Abu Jahls, because even he had a beard and even his appearance was similar (to the supposedly ‘aptly’ dressed Muslims)..”

– will obviously sound controversial, since they are totally inconsonant with the interpretations that the holier-than-thou mullahs/moulanas have been preaching us. And hence, so much weighed down from rituals and practices is the religion, that somewhere, to my mind, the essence is lost. As a colleague of mine – Mj – once told me:

“Islam is probably one of the most scientific religions. I read somewhere that “Islam is the best of religions but has the worst of practitioners” (George Bernard Shaw’s quote, that). Lot of traditions and customs that have become identified with Islam were practiced by the tribal Arabs and pagans and have been passed down from generation to generation along with the basic tenets of the new religion as a package, without being questioned.”

The director is certainly not being blasphemous or anti-Islamic in getting us to realize the gross errors and crimes that have been committed in the name of God and perpetrated by the fundamentalists of any religion. Perhaps before one can do justice to the religion of one’s birth, there is another supreme religion to be answerable to too – that of humanity. And despite its amateurish feel and loosely etched main characters, it’s *this* essence why the movie worked so brilliantly for me. It made, may I add, more of a Muslim out of me.

As we drove out the theater, I noticed that the poster had changed. How I wished it hadn’t. And that more people could’ve watched (and understood) what I’d just did.

Calcutta Diaries

3rd Feb 2008, 18:00 hours

I could see the mist already crawling up in the vast empty lands, as my taxi sped through bumps and potholes, and I closed my eyes again. Another Calcutta trip coming to an end, I thought, in my half-sleepy, half-dazed mode. Another trip without my ferry ride, my share of Hoogli through sunset, the sun hiding behind the Vidyasagar Setu (or Howrah?). Another time, another date with the city…then.

Going back to XL is, besides the obvious purpose, also my excuse to discover Calcutta – I don’t even understand what draws me to it. There is something about the place – yes! despite the dirt, the annoying traffic, the rustiness…I can’t help falling in love with it, that’s all! The place, to me, is that of Bangali language – so awfully romantic and sweet sounding (it takes its place only after Urdu/Parsi, of course!)…of pretty women – endowed with tresses-to-kill-for and their expressive eyes…(I’ve never much taken to Bong men though, but funnily enough the feeling has not really been mutual!)…of ol’ British charm intertwined with modernity, lending a timewarped and enchanting feel to the city…of the literati / glitterati – the stalwarts and divas that we’ve been gifted from this land…of a certain grace that I can’t seem to find in any other Indian cities…

It wouldn’t be long before I’d reach airport so I tried to remain awake, but just couldn’t … the last two days had quite taken their toll on me.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind …”, assured Joy, almost as if he’d read my mind, maybe catching my dazed guilt beneath the listlessness. He’d volunteered to drop me all the way from Magnolia restaurant to Dum Dum.
“You shouldn’t, you robbed me off Hoogli, after all”, I’d in turn caught his guilt from the unkept-promise.
“But that can’t be done if you book yourself with just a day to do the city…”
*Ha..right, so my fault eh? We could’ve done without the 3-hour lunch, you know?!*
“There’s more to Cal than that, Nabeela.”
“Uh huh…of course.”
“I’ll take you to College Street, where you see useless youths graduating with degrees that are even more useless..”
“Somu and you?”
“Nevermind!”
“Coffee House…where the ol’ Bengali intellectuals spend hours making intelligent conversations, over endless cups of coffee…discuss the best and most amazing of ideas/thoughts…and the jazz. And go straight back home, and come back again, day after day. Whoever mentioned ‘action’? Laziness is in our genes, y’know!…”
“You said it!”
“And then the ferry…pucca..”
*Sigh*
“And the clubs…there are so many o’em here…”
“Not so in Hyd…as in, there are clubs alright, but reserved for the nawabi-kebabi…what with a waitlist of scores of years…”
“Park Street’s breakfast….Durga Pujo…” And so, he must’ve mentioned other baits to hook me to the city, but it was lost on me, for I was in my somniac state again…

As I bid him adieu at the airport, I renewed my promise yet again:
“Alright Joy, we have another date together…with the City of Joy…” :-)

Howdie?

Life
Life is what happens to you while you’ve been making plans. And I haven’t been planning. Not for anything. It’s been a little over than seven months into my first job and that’s that. I haven’t yet invested even an iota of my big-fat-pay anywhere. I haven’t taken stock of where/how my job is going (it’s just going, and beyond that I refuse to introspect). I’ve become pretty immune to searching/strategising/planning for the impending and the inevitable loss of spinsterhood. Forget that, I’m carefully dodging men/relationships too. Travel has taken an edge over mindless partying/pub-hopping (not that I was too much into all of that anyway!). But I am lovin’ it. As I remarked to a junior, “Life begins when you start earning”. At least for me, it did. Only, I’m wandering about it, and enjoying it too much to find a way.

Timepass pastimes
No I haven’t picked up the paintbrush or even touched the canvas that has been lying in my room. I haven’t joined those painting classes either. Nor that rip-off photography class. Time is being killed at the hands of the usual suspects: work, books, music, movies, travel (and with it some photography) and yes, shopping.

Books
Anyone who hasn’t read “The Kite Runner” yet should really go for it. It’s just an awesome book. Many people haven’t been able to find the same magic in Hosseini’s second offering “A Thousand Splendid Suns”, but I’d just say, try to understand it without the Kite Runner hangover. The tale is heartwarming in its own way. Really, what it means for centuries old civilizations to be wiped out, for cities to be razed to the ground, for years of history to get erased .. just like that. Bush/Taliban/the likes, you rogues will perhaps never know the monstrosity of the crimes you’ve committed..

I’ve asked my father to fish out some Ismat Chughtai books from his collection. I could never lay my hands on Lady Chatterly’s Lover or Sons and Lovers type of literature. Chughtai should be a good start, I guess :-)

Movies
I’ve taken to Bollywood bigtime! I guess I am just getting old…either that, or Hollywood cinema just got shittier! Thoroughly enjoyed Jab We Met, hated OSO / Heyy Babyy / Laaga Chunri Mein Daag / Loins of Panjab, loved Chak De!, laughed much at Dhamaal. Also have been catching up ol’ classics on t.v. And yes, eagerly awaiting Sudhir Mishra’s Khoya Khoya Chand. Whatever it is, bring it on!

Travel
Oh no no…before it brings lofty pictures of phoren places that most b-school youngsters get a taste of, just a disclaimer: I’ve been up to some modest desi travel only. It started with a one-day trip to Srisailam. I couldn’t understand what all the fuss about the place is. The coracle ride was brilliant, but I wouldn’t recommend anyone to go 225+ km from Hyderabad, just to get that. Next was a trip back home to XL. Had the privilege of sitting at the other end of the table so soon – a funny, warm and a powerful feeling. The whole visit, ’twas great and all that, but also depressing in a weird way. ‘Cuz I felt so happy to be back…but had noone to share that happiness with. Sound, traveling through vacuum, really. Plus my 5-hour Calcutta darshan plans went straight out of the window. I was so tired, I just reached my friend’s home and slept, and returned home and slept some more. Aurangabad was simply superb. I think I’ll go back there after a couple of years, the place deserves another shot! Off to Panchgani this weekend. So..clearly..wanderlusting ;-)

Meaaow!

I was all of 11 when I was first introduced to felines – courtesy a close friend of mine, who used to have a whole host of them at her home. Whenever we’d go to their place (her folks had also become our family friends), by some strange coincidence, there’d be fresh litter of kittens. I used to be very enchanted looking at those beautiful little creatures, seen in all possible combinations – brown with white stripes, white with black speckles, plain white (very rare), one green-eye (who my friend was convinced was the feline form of a djinn), and yea..some more such permutations by virtue of their female pet cat having found a new mate every season!

Anyway, after many requests (“of course I will give it food, clean its poo, put it to sleep and all that, Mummy”) to my parents to please let us have one of those cute little whiskered animals brought home, I got my first pet, Timmy. The year was 1994. The whole family was in love with the new pet, who on its part, quite enjoyed the attention it received. It’d come purr by you when it felt like giving you attention, but would not even care two hoots if all it wanted to do was majestically pose on the sofa or dawdle through the sunny lawn. After a year, it died a mysterious death. A cold war between my friend and I made it impossible for me to secure another kitten from her, so I put my Dad on the job on getting me one as soon as he could. Numerous rounds to the goshtwala finally resulted in finding tender little Brownie.

There were many more ever since – Jimmy, Catty, Billu, Bammaash, (though I don’t think anyone except me called it so :D), Poshu, Baby, and a lot other cats which came and went unnamed. The last of the lot was in 2005. In between there were 2 pairs of pigeons too, who one by one disappeared even before a chidiyaghar could be built for them. Goldfish arrived and departed. Our last pet, was in 2006, the male (the female died as soon as it arrived) of the pair of white rabbits Mom and sis had brought from Old City. I was away in another city doing my PG, so I could hardly grow fond of the rabbit, but in any case, I never really liked the rodent. “Beget like no other species…ouf! Guess they need to, the dumb creatures get killed at an almost equal rate, after all!”, I would secretly opine about this new snowy pet – a furry white bundle with red innocent eyes, a noisy chatter with which it would eat a carrot out of my hand – and none of it would melt my heart.

So then…cats and me. I can’t deny the similarities – cold (how about ‘very very private’), arrogant (just self-assured, really), and snooty (though I’d like to think of it as independence!). What’s more amusing is, I find this pattern in other people too, who like cats (over dogs or any other animals). I find them just as majestic as those felines, different from the pack, carrying with them (an often misunderstood) pride that I somehow seem to understand. Pooh!

Do your pets and you have a common story too?

L’enfant terrible

I was mostly sure that the answer would be a No. But I’ll ask him still. Or shan’t I? He was in a rush to leave the place, so I had to make up my mind rather quickly. I went over.
‘May I have a dance with you?’, I said, finally.

‘Oh dear.., I got to go!’, he said, with a look that showed amazement, at the question thrown at him. And then a kind look came over his face, at having had to refuse me. Had to go, he did – and there were a few people nearby, waiting for him, impatient and unsure of the conversation that held him up, because the music was much too loud and there were too many people around.

‘Oh!’, I mumbled and before I could trace my steps back, he spoke again.
‘Hey…a jhappi for you!’, he smiled, in a most benevolent way.
I stood there confused, wondering what on earth could a jhappi mean, but in a moment, seeing the man’s outstretched arms, I went ahead to get a big bear hug that almost engulfed me. He was after all, way too tall and broad for a petite girl like me.
‘Take care, god bless’, and with that, he sauntered off with his posse of men.

Bits of this early 2003 incident came back to me in short flashes now, as I gingerly turned the pages of a noted weekly mag. I was reading a cover story on this man. Sanjay Dutt.

The son of mother India who never grew up!, signed off a noted film journalist in another article. I wouldn’t debate if her, or for that matter, the judge Kode’s – verdict was harsh. Who are you and I to judge Dutt, anyway? Yes, he housed not one but three AK-56 rifles with him. Yes, he also tried to destroy it when the concerned authorities got the wind of it. Yes, he maintained links with the big bad boys of the underworld. Yes, certainly the law of the land is above all, celebrity status notwithstanding. Yes, he was an enfant terrible and will always be, in some ways.

But there is a moot question: Did he cause harm, or was there any intention to cause harm, in the first place?

If it is mere possession of arms which has changed his address from the plush Bandra to the current hell at Arthur Road, I’d shudder to think where all those rogues from the horrifying Godhra riots, or even Babri would go, if a dispassionate judge like Kode were to be doling out the sentence. They are the real criminals who mock India and her secularity in its face – they have bled cities, and brought upon carnages of the most appalling order. Or maybe the guardians of the law have forgotten that those riots have also scarred the Indian history – for they are too busy bringing to book lesser mortals who possessed arms, but didn’t hurt a fly.