Ladies' Night

I walk in and about twenty faces beam at me… they’re busy doing their own thing, but they appreciate that I came. I smile back to each of them. Like one person we all stare back at ourselves, trying to locate spots to work on, with whatever weapons we have. If we need to share, we just have to ask, this is probably the only state in which we could share hairbrushes or glosses. Still, I try to make up with whatever I have in my little Gucci.
“Lovely bag! Gucci?!” someone asks.
“Yep! The perfect birthday present” I respond not really taking in the blond with a fun bob. What a friendly place!
The sound of the flush going makes me turn around. The scene I behold numbs me for a second. I am speechless. A child-woman- I say so because she looks like a child, say about fourteen-fifeen, but dressed like a very-how do I say- painted (?) woman; is standing on the commode and peeping into the other cubicle. Half a smile pasted on her face. Another of the same species is looking on from outside of the open cubicle, with curiosity. Like sizing the one standing on the commode, thought she was thinking what I was- of calling- umm i dunno- the asylum?? So I ask- “What’s happening here? What is she doing?”
Girl 2 turns around to face me- “My brother thinks, she is hot, do you?” The poor dear seriously seemed confused. So, I answer – “Umm… the one standing on the commode?! Yeah, sure… I mean, she is dressed to kill, right?”
“That’s what I thought, just her stupid, skimpy outfit...”
Hmm… friendly place, I wonder.
She tries to explain some more but the girl on the commode starts screaming, I rush into the cubicle, since no one was undressed I didn’t feel as awkward.
“What happened?” She must have understood what I ask but somehow only keeps pointing to the cubicle she was peeking into and then the floor. I trace the pointer- and there they are- a hand and a leg lying limp show up into the cubicle I stood in.
Maybe they belong to someone, I pence. As the girl confused by her brother’s choice of attraction yells “Oh my God, she passed out!!” major water works emerge as the girl on the commode, now climbs down and rushes to pacify her.
Maybe I should call someone… but I have to do what I came here for. I begin fishing in my loyal Gucci again- tada, my gloss finally decides to show up. I do the needful and pout. The girls with the passed-out friend clap, I look around and wave and kiss the air, and the girls cheer. I go out find the security guard- “Someone passed out inside a locked cubicle”
He is looks unperturbed and maybe a little bored- “Your friend?”
“No, her friends are in the washroom trying to coax her to get up”
Now he looks interested “Locked in the same cubicle?!”
“No!! They’re outside! Jeez!” and I walk away from where the muffled sound of Shakin’ Stevens was coming... and there it was my favorite place on a Thursday night! Thank you God, for Ladies' Nights!!!

Closed Doors

How many times does it happen?
While walking through the corridors,
Our own winding lanes, or the trodden ways
A room rests somewhere,
Obvious, yet obscure.
No signs on the knobs to declare,
Yet the closed doors make it obvious,
Obvious, yet obscure.
They want to remain shut.
But do we want to go in?
Do we wait for them to decide,
To light up the within?
Or does the within light outside?
Which side do we stand on?
Outside the door?
Or the inside of the other side?
Nervously we reach out,
Then pull away with a shudder,
We don’t want to know.
We don’t want to know the obvious,
Obvious, yet obscure.

Thinking...

A lone hour, a sole hour
Looking into the emptiness of the Creation,
Is it there, is it really there
Or is it just an illusion, all this?
Waking thoughts and silent dreams
Ambitions and destinations,
Like fork in the road,
Run parallel, never meeting;
Do they every converge?
When The Calling calls, the clock opposes
-biological, logical, all explanations.
Do we ever answer?
Is it an illusion, all this?
Some fascinated ideals established,
Always elusive?
Questions and more questions,
Time answers some, others pile on.
Yet we live, we move on,
Or do we really?
Is it an illusion, all this?

To BT

If life is a journey,
I want you to be my companion.
If life is a game,
I want you to be my team.
If it is a lesson,
I want you to be my ink, my partner, my teacher.
If life goes on,
I want you to stand by.
If there's another life,
I want you to return with me...

Seventeen Missed Calls

The house of full of smells; of pickles, saffron, spicy curries, fresh marigolds, henna, raw turmeric… Everyone is dressed well and bustling about, busy with their own things, Everyone is in a hurry. The only person who isn’t dressed well, or bustling, or busy or in a hurry or even interested is supposedly the most important person of the event.
She cannot move, there she is, sitting near the window, an orange-ish lazy afternoon highlights the browns of her hair. The mehendi-wali keeps doing her job, carefully creating intriguing and delicate designs on her unassuming hand, the other one rests at the window sill as if heavy with the dark brown intricate, pretty snakes which are now dry. She keeps staring outside the window without registering, when a sparrow flies out of nowhere on a branch, holding a twig.
Every now and then her mom or one of her aunts keep coming to her and asking her if she needed anything. She denies all the time. They keep kissing her cheek; and when that happens she shuts her eyes tight and an eyebrow goes up. But when she faces them, she smiles and turns her face towards the window again. The sparrow has gathered enough twigs and kindling, yet she keeps at it. Flying away again after arranging the newest twig on the clump, only to return with a blade of dry grass or weed.
There is a plate full of delicious sweets, munches and glass of lemonade besides her. To her right is her cell phone, it says “17 Missed Calls”. She knows who they are from. The screen comes to life every now and then flashing only one name. Its weird, she thinks, the name which never failed to bring a smile to her face only drops a small lump in her stomach and engulfs her beating heart into oblivion. Only the number of Missed Calls keeps increasing. Her eyes start itching, “Not again”, she moans softly to herself. Then, without wasting another thought to that, she tries making amends in the mehendi being applied, changing a leaf or curving a flower petal.
After sometime, the sparrow stops flying out of the clump that is now a nest. The sun is about to set, a pink gold hue sprays the sky and reflects on the tree tops. Only for a moment, nature flashes an exotic scene of beauty and completeness. And, then, without another warning, disappears behind a navy sky… then rapidly, shades keep darkening, and as if someone has spilled ink, it’s inky black. For a few seconds, there is nothing- only loss and regret. As if someone is pulling a string of her heart out, she feels a numb pain in her bosom. Just as her eyes start itching again, stars peep out and twinkle a brilliant pallet of red, silver, blue. Her eyes moisten, a quiescent silver but there is a smile on her lips, her eyes smile too.
The door bell rings, there are loud heys, hellos and hugs. There is a loud chatter and a girl of her own age appears in front of her. Both smile at each other. They hug and have tears in their eyes. Just as she is letting go, her best friend whispers into her ear, “It’s a right decision. You will move on”. And she knows, she will.

At Every Step

At every step there is a turn,
Every road has a bend.
Every shrub has a different root,
Every leaf is a different green.
With every night a different moon
Shines against the inky sky,
Each morning brings a different sun
Spraying different reds and golds.
Each season has its own song,
Sometimes chilly, sometimes warm.
Everyday a different hue,
Paints the canvas of life.
Everyday I mould myself,
Discovering, learning, remoulding,
For better or for worse I still tread along,
Changing, at every turn and every bend.

Blasted Normalcy

After a long day at college, I came home thinking of all the assignments I have pending and how much I have to do when I saw the computer. Its times like these I wish I didn’t have a P.C… like hypnotized I went to it and sat myself facing it, switched it on. It had been ages I hadn’t logged into my Yahoo messenger. I did just that, not even a second later a friend who was already online pinged me, and we were chatting away to glory when he mentioned something gave me the “greatest news of the day”- Delhi Blast.
“God! They have been showing that since centuries now… the news channels… don’t they get bored?”
“What’s the news they’re ranting about now… aliens kidnapping cattle, again?” I asked.
“No… haven’t you heard, blasts in Delhi… 20 dead… atleast they say its 20!”
I was horrified! I received the Abhi-Ash wedding news in a much serious way!! The next day it was of course, all over the papers: Blasts in Jaipur, Hyderabad, Ahemdabad, Surat and Delhi. What shocked me more than the news of the blast is the way in which it is told! It’s almost like a routine, bomb blasts in India are. We are so accustomed to hearing things like that, its NORMAL talk when we’re talking about it. That is what bothers me no end! How can we get used to things like that? Adaptability is one thing and downright shameless apathy is another… and I am not sure where our reactions lie between the two.
Its not just bomb blasts… floods, starvation, train accidents, corruption- NOT NORMAL! I think it’s because of the attitude like this that it’s as if nothing is being done. There were articles written all over about The Survival Spirit of Mumbaikars: right after the blasts, people resumed their lives; work, schools, colleges went on like before. It was not much the survival spirits than the hungry stomachs that had to be fed that made us resume our “normal” lives. We need to rethink what is normal… maybe knowing what normal is will help us be aware of our subnormal existence! To change the behaviours, attitudes and thoughts need to be changed… that is entirely in our hands. If we want a change, it should start with ourselves.