A speaks.

The inside of an ambulance is scary. The IV tubes, the blood dripping from the sheets, the lighting on the top, the ominous signal, pointing to the imminent end. There was complete havoc inside, the nurses frantically engrossed in keeping everything together, the doctors working in a hustle. The driver in a hurry, cursing the traffic jam, as every second is precious, precious to a life. There was a single flickering bulb on the ceiling. I tried to look away from it. It stared at me straight in the eye. I flinched, closed my eyes. There was a slight hustle as we stopped at another traffic signal. I could hear the driver’s harsh hoarse voice.

“Payncho. Gaadi chala raha hai ya desh ! ( Are you running a car or the country )”

I tried to laugh, but couldn’t. My class three quiz contest was ringing in my ears. It was the final round and the heartbeat was rising. The drop of sweat trickled down Tanmay’s forehead. It was his dream. Everything was his dream, I never could relate to his eagerness. The teacher proceeded with the question paying no heed to the nervous shaking of his leg and quivering lips.
“Why is ambulance written in reverse on the ambulance van?”
Buzz. I hit the buzzer in a split second. It was the first time I heard of an ambulance.
Tanmay struggled to form a sentence.
“Mirror, rearview, front car, read”
I wondered what could be made out of these incomprehensible words. But the teacher understood. We won the contest. I was ecstatic, but still did not know what it meant, and how Tanmay knew it ? I tried to laugh but I couldn’t.

I felt a chill – the sort when you feel life is going bleak, dreary or the AC regulator is not working. We were at a traffic signal. the nurse besides me opened the window. A shock of breeze came in. I realized it was the chill of fresh city air. I couldn’t control my smile. I tried to twitch my lips, it hurt. The paint across my side was peeling slowly, inching towards me. As the signal turned green, the ambulance started with a hiccup, like a rickety old man suddenly awake from his slumber. The paint peel fell.

“Cover the wounds, nurse.” Screeched the doctor, who till now had been chewing on his stethoscope.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” Barked the nurse. She must’ve been around 25 years old, her face was a picture of grit and serenity, the sort that comes with an un-fazed self confidence of hardships. And she cursed under her breath, “payncho”, ever so slightly. I have always had a knack of picking up abuses. I tried to read her name, without staring at her breasts. Ananya Rajan.
Meanwhile, the doctor embarrassingly got up and put a sheet on my stomach. Saumik Rajan, read his flat chest. And it struck me then. And then, again. I flinched.

“Shut up you sissy! Can’t you stop crying for once..” Shouted my dad at me as I stood red-faced after a scuttle with Shruti at school. I always liked strong women. They get me. And I also liked accepting my fault. It also gets me, gets me into trouble. So, I accepted having stolen her pencil, and she hit me. And that was why, I was the sissy, again. I vowed never to cry, even in the most desperate, agonizing pain, ever ever again.

But that was 20 years ago, 20 years is almost forever. So, I flinched, and the single tear drop escaped my eye. I readied myself for another one of those, wounds build character story, I wanted it bad. But, now there was no one there for me. I miss home.

In an ambulance, you miss a lot of things. Like a wall clock on the wall. I mean, when time is of essence, life and death essence, you need to have a clock, ticking away ever so slowly. I loved looking at the clock, as the hands moved past each other at the stroke of midnight, leaving behind a trail of misery to meet again, at the same time, same place – quite like a daily soap. A wall clock symbolizes everything.

I tried to look outside the window, into the hearts of our beloved city. There it was, on the hoarding, what said it all. It was the advertisement of a push-up bra. I wondered what my dad would have said to such an ad, that is if he would have said anything at all. Anyhow, what I am coming to is, is that
Life – is like a strangled bra strap, you turn it right on the front and it twists and marks your skin on the back. My life was like that. Everything was topsy-turvy, a lovely phrase indeed, intertwined and messed up. That was one of the many revelations of that swinging ordeal between life and death. Another one was this ..

They were husband and wife. Ananya and Saumik Rajan. And I was the patient in the ambulance. And wall clocks are not there in ambulances to prevent further injury as they are quite heavy and the drivers are rustic abusing bastards. And I was on laudanum, for sure, because I could see the blood, but not feel the pain.

A sixteenth century chemist, german-swiss, a something-ius, discovered that opium alkaloids were more soluble in alcohol than in water. And since that day, the world thanks him, over and over again. Its easy, you take a quarter of ethanol – procured from the chemistry lab earlier, and the defunct chemist shop now – and mix some opium latex – or powder, whichever is cheaper in your access – and bang ! 10% opium and 1% morphine, the most potent soporific, analgesic beyond belief, self curing prescription. Laudanum. I was climbing stairs to a light, a heavenly abode of calming soothe. The music was awe-inspiring, nerve-wreckingly serene. It was quiet and light. The air was silent, pure and energising. I was uncomfortable, until I saw a used condom on the stairs. This can’t be heaven. They don’t have sex in heaven. It was contradictory, really. No sex in heaven. So, this is not heaven, is this hell.

I tried to open my eyes again. The makeshift stitches in my left eye pained. I felt inexorably in pain and helpless about it, similar to the bat wound on my ass, that I could not access, I got in 1994. It was a painful year. With my right eye and half of my left eye, I can see the ambulance’s intestines again, stenching rectum of a withering system of hospice and care. There was that uncomfortable silence between Ananya and Saumik. I wanted to help them out, to avoid one more ambulance on its way to a hellhole. I wanted to help them, for the urge was strong to not be me again. I wanted to help them, because I could see in Saumik, what I saw in the mirror, three years ago .. in my then scarless, almost beautiful, face. I am you. I am everybody, or rather, I was everybody. Now, I am case no. 138673 in ambulance #7, Wockhardt.

A self-obsessed male chauvinist to a number in the register of a rickety ambulance, in just three years.

Aao Saathi Sapna Dekhein

Picture this – I am standing aside looking with a smirk on my face and a hope in my eyes, as a queue of folks – an interesting ensemble indeed with the young lad and his boisterous college friends, the lady in green with the quiet intelligentsia look, the arty family et al. – enpass their internet booked, phone booked, pre-ordered tickets at Rangashankara. Probably I should have booked early – rings my mind, keeps ringing. And then, that angel of a young man comes with spare tickets and with a gleam in my eyes and a spring in my feet, I stumble forward and in a quick motion, procure the ticket from him. I am watching “Aao saathi sapna dekhein”, yes I am.

A dream – what is it? – what we see in our sleep and ponder over during day, or what we dream in the day and ponder over at night. I like to think it is both. Every waking moment is a reflection of what you dreamed of as a kid, forgot to do so as and when you got more mature, but yet it remained with you, somewhere somehow, egging you on .. that is for you – in a gist, the introduction to the play. Mumbai Cult presented a dream like musical by the name Aao Saathi Sapna Dekhein, set in Chandni Chowk, Delhi. The plot clearly etches out the cultural milieu of the cobweb of identities that is Chandni Chowk, without losing the simple human feelings and joys. The music and lyrics complement some really fantastic acting by the crew which comprises of some famous faces. All in all, the sheer energy of the actors does good justice to the premise and the smile does not die for even a second during the entire act, even in the 10 minute interval.

The narrator, Bahumukhi, is the whole-and-soul of this love story of Baiju and Gauraiya, puppets in the conniving and endearing plot of their fathers to get them married. There is the quintessential third angle with Lallan Pahalwaan – whose “oh ssit” was a hit – the local lovable gunda. The act goes along in a pacy and subtle way – etching out some latent emotions as the dream goes on. But, with it comes the harsh reality as the boy and girl face a painful separation, laced with misunderstandings and ambition. And it all ends of a fundamentally happy note !

The music is what sets it apart from your neighborhood love story. There is an uncluttered, simplistic use of the props and some fine nuances that the director subtly puts forward that make it enjoyable as ever. I am not an expert on playwrights and music – but the fullhouse and a standing ovation just said it all. A Sunday well spent, indeed.

The image is coutesy Rangashankara.org

2 States – A review

Chetan Bhagat strikes a chord with the readers at the cover page itself, with Punjab and Tamil Nadu, extending hands to each other. The struck chord is re-struck, played magnanimously, melodiously and all in tune as is evident several times in the book. And in a brave sycophantic effort, he dedicates the book to his in-laws ! – a self-proclaimed first. The novel has all elements characteristic of Chetan Bhagat – youthful modern characters, mildly abusive conversations, a messed-up relationship and a twist in the end. It says the story of Krish and Ananya, a madly-in-love IIMA couple, who being from different states go through the perplexing meandering process of convincing each-other’s parents. The always-in-trouble Hari from IITD comes of age in IIMA, sincerity and calm brimming not only from the character, but the book as well, as it begins with a not-so-whirlwind romance between the-hottest-girl-in-the-batch and our central protagonist. The courtship with parents is endearing and central to the plot – in fact that is the plot itself. The distinctive characteristics of states are well-etched out and integral to the story. Although, I felt the narrative did lack a compelling characterization, especially of Krish’s father. A pinch more of believability would have added the zing – atleast for me – to the novel.

I loved it none-the-less and read it in one go, from page 1 to page 269 without a break !

- Now onto “Anne Frank – the diary of a young girl”

2012

I had front row seats to the mass destruction of world today, as I sipped on ice cold Pepsi – and by golly I thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, I would go ahead and say – excuse moi francaise, sil vous plait (excuse my french, please) - oo la la ! If I could have the world end, I would let it end like this.

In case, you know me, I am not a big fan of sci-fi – which is ironic given that individually, I love ’sci’ which gives me money for the ‘fi’ – and I practically live for ‘fi’, in fact my own life is pure fiction – and yet, I am here praising an insane story-less debacle of an imagined end of the world. Why ?

Comprehensive, I would not say. Thorough fare, nobody would say. Acting Skill – as good as a block of wood. Story – I wrote a better one at the age of 5, while pee-ing. Logic – has holes I could fly airplanes through, and mind you not the small toy planes. And yet, it was entertainment. You see, whenever the world ends, we – the pessimists – tend to enjoy it, howsoever mindless it may seem. And if the scale is such as it was here, we enjoy it with cola, fizzy. I mean, solar flares, melting core, tectonic plate shifting, magnetic pole rearrangement, earth displacement, and massive massive destruction. Kudos to the special effects team, they have worked wonders on celluloid, and it was grandiose ! I do despise that among the saved there was no Indian, despite the discovery being made by an Indian – who curiously spoke Hindi with an accent – and the fact that all turns out well in the end with some saved in the ‘Noah’s ark’ for a new beginning. If it is the end-of-the-world story, why doesn’t the world end ?

Anyhow, I had a wonderful time and I would look forward with anticipation to 21st December, 2012.

Can I ..

Can I be a kid again ?

.. when rain meant holiday from the school, the yawn extended to the afternoon, cold lunch from the tiffin box eaten with hot tea as breakfast, a run-in with madness as we drenched our way to oblivion, loud shrieks and a free mind !

.. when I wanted to be everything, everyday and mostly would be – a pilot now, a cricketer then, a police inspector after that !

.. when I could blow bubbles back into my cold drink, uncaring of hygiene and ‘oh-what-would-she-think’ !

.. when nose-pricking or ass-scratching were not social taboo, but just frowned upon !

.. when future meant the next Sunday and the summer vacations, and was not meant to be afraid of !

.. when crisis meant a broken window, not a broken heart !

.. when I thought of pain while at the dentist’s and not the bill !

.. when every noise from the sky was an airplane, and the gaze angled its way across the sky till you hit the scooter on the road !

.. when there was no B added to the school, and engineering was just a word with a tough spelling !

.. when Recess meant taking food, playing hide and seek and that long line at the water cooler, not a financial crisis driven by bad mortgage loans leading to loss of jobs and hike freezes !

.. when percentages were only discussed after results, in a cursory way, and had no effect on the money in your pocket !

*Inspired from a modest salary ‘melt’ in the modest life of yours truly!

The dream job

He hung the puppets back on the wall, no strings attached. It had been a long hard day. Yet He longed for satisfaction. It was meant to be a stop-gap arrangement, but He never managed to move out. Sometimes, He figured, it’s not a question of options, it’s more about inertia – an innate tendency to let things stay, unruffled. A deep exhale marked the end of yet another day. He looked at the fogged window pane with a tinge of bitterness and wrote His name on the droplets with a finger. As He looked outside the window, there it was – the usual humdrum going on, a world that never slept – the lights flickering, the hum of the traffic, slow but moving, moving towards another day, at a rummaging grumpy confident pace of a giant.

It had been a long time, and yet He never got used to being a part of the usual goings on of His world. It felt strangely apprehensive to be on the top, alone, working odd hours, hours and hours of mind numbing repetitive work day in and day out. Sometimes, He wondered aloud, whether anything He did made any impact, and there was not a soul in the vicinity to hear His musings. That led Him to make indistinct maneuvers to make it interesting, subtle and yet endearing. He felt needy, mildly depressive and yet in control. Another one bites the dust .. played in His walkman. His beeper read in gold font, A.G, blinking, on the desk, signified the end of His break.

The hand written ‘Almighty God’ on the window slowly melted away as the street light lit up the room for the next shift.

P.S Even the dream job is not that dreamy after-all, playing god is tough and I bet He feels feel underpaid, and overworked !

Disclaimer: I have all creative liberty without being blasphemous. In my defense, I have used, or at-least tried to use, a capital ‘H’ for Him everywhere. And finally, I am sure I would have loved Him if I had faith.