afterhours...

...and long after they have all gone
friends, aquaintances and family
back to their own worlds
of 'lived ever after happily'

the void returns, grinning and teasing
and creeps into its usual place
and as i look, it looks away
then slow and steady it holds my gaze

And in its eyes
i see today as it is
devoid of all masks
and each of life's falsities

in that one moment
it all comes back to me
the sudden twist in the gut
and an all-sweeping melancholy

and today is a blur
tomorrow is even so
but the past is all mine
to touch and go

all ifs and buts
surround me - unabsolved, unvindicated
wondering how i have lived
by the terms life has dictated

i hold the void by its little finger
and escort it out to the ramparts
with a last sigh and look
it kisses me lightly and departs

and i return to my reality
in part, never in the whole
the void has left in my life
a big 'void-shaped hole'...

homecoming...

she came back today..as silently and unexpectedly as had she left me one fine day last october.no questions were asked back then...no explanations solicited or offered. nor did i feel the need for it today. ironical isn't it? my whole being thrives on these little scrawls that she attaches so much meaning to. words.sentences....paragraphs. the minutes, hours and years of my life....
but today am happy in my sea of silence with no ripples of words titillating the surface.

change they say is inevitable, but old flames dont die.

Bizzare...

Two days back I was sitting in class with a long-dead great grandaunt of mine. And after class we walked to my apartment in Bangalore where we did homework together over piping hot coffee and samosas.
Last night I walked out of my hotel room to find Sachin Tendulkar staying next door. My husband (damn…I don’t recollect his face!!) was very glad to meet him and they both agreed to let me play in the team’s tour to West Indies.
And that is why I love dreams…the space time boundaries just go ‘poof’ and you are effortlessly treading across generations and continents alike with the unbounded imagination of a young child.

Vagaries of the filled inbox

‘600 messages? That’s a helluva lot !!!’, I thought as I read the description off the back of the box in the Mobile Store.

Cut to June 2008…a year later and I sit on the bunk bed in the PG (Paying Guest, for the uninitiated) contemplating which message to delete from the deluge that of 580 messages that inundates my Inbox.
I scan through the messages one at a time reading them from start to end, right down to the sender name. I have done this a thousand times earlier. When the person with you is having a personal conversation on the phone and you want to make yourself unobtrusive while keeping an ear on the conversation, open your phone and scroll through the messages. When you are waiting for a friend at the mall and want to avoid eye contact with the thronging mobs, Inbox comes to the rescue. But today I look at them the same way a barber looks at a full crop of hair wondering which portion gets the snip.

Messages from my sister….no!! They are sacrosanct. I cannot delete any one of them even if it just says ‘Have I left my purse at home? Reply stat…’
Birthday wishes…sacrosanct again. And also useful to crosscheck if the same people remember my birthday the next year.
And then there are the stinkers. Messages that are loaded with accusations and politically incorrect words. Ammo in a cellular war. Someone once said that hatred should not be carried in one’s heart. Well…too bad he forgot to specify the Inbox. And so they stay on for the day when I can look back and have a good laugh as to how silly we once were.
There are some forwards too. The usual set of inspirational messages, graphics created using standard keyboard characters…creations of a jobless mind encouraged by free sms schemes. They are the first ones to be given the boot and they get just one chance to make me smile or bring a lump in my throat to hang on to that coveted Inbox space. Surprisingly today all of them manage to do so. Either the jobless minds are getting more creative or I am mellowing with age.

There are messages from a friend, which go somewhat like this
Message #1 : breakfast
Message#2: cm to mess
Message#3: chai
Message#4: dinner?
Message#5: sleepy…night mess?
And they go on in this infinite loop… one for each day spent on campus, only interspersed by a few other messages sent across the table during frustratingly boring classes. I attempt deleting two or three of them. But somehow they seem a part of me….my only link to the campus life that is now plain history. These messages are like pointers that open up a boxful of memories in my head as I read them. Priceless.

Messages from a friend who had jaundice ‘ I had chicken today…lightly cooked but it tasted awesome’…little moments of joy. Farewell messages sent from the train….little moments of sadness. Messages from a friend who has suddenly stopped being in touch with me….little moments of retrospection. EOL. End of List.
And I start all over again. This time just sighing and smiling to myself as I wonder what it is that makes it so difficult for me to press that little red ‘delete’ button.

chance encounter...

I got a mail about the greatness of the woman....I smiled to myself and spent a day gloating in the glory of my gender.
Sipping coffee in the evening at the campus adda, I saw a woman running through the streets with two crying children in tow, searching for her husband who had just bought himself alcohol induced relief from poverty with the days earnings. Her hands were moving fast - joining together one moment to plead with him to come home, moving as far apart as possible the next moment to hold her children close to her.....
I gulped my coffee in one go - a toast to the greatness of the woman in her and in thousands like her in unknown, unnamed streets of India.

Reality check...

You know you have to a pay a lil more attention to your personal life when-
somebody asks you to name 10 men you would like to have in your 'harem'
and after thinking for what seems to be an eternity, all you can come up with is -
George Clooney, Roger Federer and a couple of teenage crushes..... :|

post from the past...

something written months ago and left as a draft...may it see the light
of the day... :)

I wonder from where I learnt discontentment...when did I move out from the comfort of my cradle and start coveting the leather upholstery in my neighbour's sedan?
When did I stop running after the butterfly and start chasing higher pay packages?
There was a time when the only place with grey faces was my drawing book .When did I start seeing shades of grey in myself?
It seems like just yesterday when cynicism was yet another of the tough cookies in a spelling bee. When exactly did it make the shift from my rote memory to my conscious behaviour?
I wonder.....
How was I naive enough to think that metamorphosis is only a complex geographical phenomenon for rock formation?

Realisation...

Misery is self-made.
Is that why we hold it so close to our hearts and refuse to let go?

Passing by...

I look at the guard stand up in attention as the top honcho walks by, a frail hand trembling with the effort of staying taut and touching the temple. The honcho walks past with a perfunctory nod of his head.
The humble salute is a helping hand for the small sense of self of that big man....
I smile to myself at my own philosophical interpretation and walk away with a little icicle of pain in my heart.......

sometimes CRM is just a piece of cake

A week-long course on Customer Relationship Management(CRM) and the class was all jazzed up with the fundas. Discussions on "what kind of customer are you?" would spill over into the chai-break. While K admitted that he was the "show me the price tag baby.." kind of buyer, S asked for some sensitivity on part of the seller (read that as: never EVER say "maa'm that size won't fit you"). I was too tipsy on the whole 'Customer is the king' concept to do some "constructive contribution" to the discussion, till the chai-boy sobered me down with a big fat drop of chai on my bag.

*********
Three not-so-glorious weeks later, my friend and I walk into the Imagine store. My friend wanted to enquire about the Apple Protection Plan..and I...well I was just visiting. Before you assume that I am an Apple fanatic who goes visiting an Imagine store a good 10 kms away just to ogle at those works of art..lemme clarify. The day was Valentine's day and the store owner had casually mentioned to my friend the previous day that there would be cake in the shop....a good enough reason to go visiting :)
So lets get down to the dirty details...
Entry: My friend and I.
The normally minimalist and antiseptic store is oozing oodles of the Valentine spirit with red and white "dil-shape" balloons fluttering on the floor (remember Dil to Pagal hai?). And if you look at the heavens in exasperation...gotcha...they are smugly hanging from the ceiling too...
The pink iPod nano is being touted as the ultimate valentine gift on posters all around. The men in the store can't take their eyes off the price tag while their girlfriends are drooling all over the floor (yeah...dil shape balloons et al). I say my customary hellos to the owner and the staff while trying to rip my gaze off the two cakes kept on the centertable. Just one small piece had been cut off...just the way the Apple is bitten.
My hands start itching. I pick up a balloon from the floor and fiddle around with it. The owner tells me to put it down. With a Ohkay fiiiinee....I let it join its dil-shaped brothers on the floor. I hover around the cake area looking at the products, reading the description tags and waiting for them to offer me the cake. In my mind, I am rehearsing how to say "Oh no I am full really" and still accept the third piece of cake. But no cake is offered. My friend is taking a lot of time and I have browsed and re-browsed annnndd re-re-browsed thru the products n number of times.My feet are beginning to ache. I target a plump lil balloon and make him the object of my frustration. A kick here...a kick there...a stare from the owner.....peace..I walk away.
Finally I decide to take matters into my hands. "So I thought there was a cake and all..." breezy.very very breezy.
"Oh...its only for couples"
I think the owner is joking.
"But why? Valentines day is not just for couples. I wish my parents happy valentines"
"thats okay...but the day is basically for lovers and couples"
Still joking right?
I half smile "Oh save me those cake saving tricks"
We always have this buyer-seller banter going on. Nothing new.
The owner walks away. Casually..unobtrusively.....which I think is to cut me a slice off the cake. And DOESN'T COME BACK.

Here I am..well..here we are (my friend was interested in the cake too), Apple loyalists, brand campaigners, emotionally attached consumers and whatever jargon there is to it...with our mouths wide open, wondering what we have done to deserve such treatment. I thought buying a macbook, getting an extended warranty plan, getting a couple of repairs done, spending hours in the store and recommending the store and the brand to any and everybody in sight is good enough to warrant some cake. But looks like the store owner's Valentine spirit was just limited to those sickly ugly balloons.

So I still love Apple but the Imagine store has just got itself ticked out of my favorites list.
With due respect to my CRM faculty, I think customer relationship management is just a piece of cake. And my dear Imagine store owner, if you are reading this....hurry to the bakery, you have my address.

Pain

Reflections on one of the most telling scenes of human pain and anguish that I have seen

His belly was full of anger; resentment that had been passed down to him as though a family heirloom. With every word that he sang, the thick bile of anger rose from his guts and shook his body with a vengeance. "Who decides what merit is....isn't sowing seeds in a straight line in the black cotton fields merit?"..the words formed on their own. He could not stop them, He didn't want to stop them. He could hear his voice ringing in his own ears. A voice full of pain and anguish. A cry of despair. A scream of a wounded animal. He beat the drum faster to drown out the voice. More venom spewed out of his singing mouth. He could feel the droplets of his own spit settling themselves on his bare arms. Impure spit....impure arms. "Why isn't the air polluted by my breath? We share the same sun"..he asked the vast expanse of barrenness before him. He knew there were no answers. He knew there would never be any. The drums were beating faster now. Possessed, captivated, maddened. He knew every being was full of anguish. So much of pain....that if every human were to give a voice to that pain, it would be a loud scream that would reverberate throughout the entire universe. "Why? Why?" He gave one final flight to his anger, his pain and put down the drums. He felt empty. He felt immense solitude. He felt something somewhere move in his own universe.

no title....

Missing a warm hug
to make me feel snug
is it the winter breeze
or is it just the blues ???

A long time ago....

Sometimes I wake up with a sackful of butterflies in my stomach anticipating a surprise test.
Sometimes when I close my eyes, I am standing outside the gate to Sky lawns parking my cycle, thinking whether to have the veg mayonnaise sandwich or the chilli cheese one.
Sometimes when the cold Ahmedabad breeze caresses my face, I am sitting on the wall in the freezing January fog with a cup of coffee sending piercing pangs of warmth through the woolen gloves on my palms.
Sometimes when I am sitting at Chai gate with my friends, having Laloo's ginger laced chai served a sipful in a cute little ceramic cup, I am sitting at Nagarji's redi having sam chat and coffee with another group of friends.
Sometimes when the day ends in Ahmedabad, the lights go on in C'not and the pigeons return to roost on the Pigeon path.
Sometimes when I am in the auto waiting at the traffic lights amidst the chaotic city traffic, I am riding my cycle like crazy in the middle of the road, my hands off the handlebar, concerned friends in pursuit shrieking their disapproval.
Sometimes when I am brushing my teeth standing at the washbasin, the mirror reflects the Rajasthani dhobin with the paloo pulled all the way over her face.

Sometimes I don't know where I am...
Sometimes I don't know what I am to whom...
I didn't leave a part of me behind in that place....I just carried a part of that place inside me, into this place... into this time.

Yet again...

Am I the river meandering along my way…bending and twisting myself in any whichever direction…
Am I the river desiring to touch new lands in my final journey towards that all-consuming ocean…
Am I really that free spirit which is not bound by anything except its own imagination…

Or am I the piece on the chessboard, counting the squares, calculating the moves each time…
Am I the brave knight or am I the crafty bishop with its crooked ways or am I just the unassuming pawn trundling along with hopes of a nobler destiny at the end of the road…
Am I just one of them, moving as per the rules, hoping for a win but preparing for a paltry draw with the game of life…

Am I right in asking myself “Who am I?” when all others have failed with no answer in sight…
Am I really courageous to look myself in the eye and answer the question or am I just indulging in calisthenics with words…
Am I the one I think myself to be or is my mind playing mind-games with me?

on my mind...

The disillusionment on realising that you are living in a much diluted version of someone else's beautiful dream.........

A page from the past...

Here's something I wrote 6 months ago....just felt like postin it out here....


Experiencing a homecoming without going home…how would that experience be? Well….I had never actually pondered on it till I set foot in Bangalore. The cool morning breeze hit me...just the way it would on mornings a year ago… Maybe the gods were with me too…I found an auto driver willing to charge me as per the meter reading :) The 5-odd km long déjà vu made me recollect everything which till that moment seemed forgotten in a hazy vague misty past in my head. The name of the school where my CAT classes used to happen, the restaurant in the street corner, even the number of the bus that I took to office. It might have just been another morning of 2005-06. And that’s when the whole ‘homecoming bit’ dawned on me and I swallowed it as a wobbly lump in my throat.

As the auto rounded the corner of 8th cross road, nostalgia swamped me in its welcoming arms. The house had changed. The place where I had stayed on the first floor was gone. In its place stood a proper house with a sweet old couple. The terrace had to be moved to a less important second floor. I entered the ground floor apartment. It seemed so much like home. The bed sheet, the pink and beige slippers that my friend had, the soft toys frolicking on the bed. The kitchen stood all equipped and set for cooking and yet the cobwebs and carelessly discarded wrappers slyly slipped to me the information that it had been a while since she had cooked.

I took a long refreshing bath. The bathroom had the same narrow washbasin, which so irritated me and the same kind of door, which split from the hinges at the slightest excuse. My wandering mind was seeking solace in these minor details.

I was hungry. The choice was obvious…pasta. I offered a light to the good old stove and it responded with a passionate burst. Hmm…. old flames don’t die ☺
Pasta, mango-flavored Tang and Lord of the Rings. I devoured them all for lunch. The bus journey had taken its toll on me and sometime later I slipped into a migraine-laced sleep.

The evening was in its prime as I emerged out of the house. A light drizzle had sizzled on the sun-baked roads and finally made its peace to settle in little puddles. I walked down to the BDA complex, unconsciously scanning the sea of faces and bodies for a familiar face or even a shirt or skirt or bag. The efficient booking system still marveled me…a year later. Having booked my blore-goa return ticket, I went to book the ticket to Pondy. What I thought would be a cakewalk turned out to be a nightmare. Not a single ticket to Pondy on Friday night. Well…there was one. But I was not given the seat as it was a “Gents Seat”’ (it amused, angered and pleased me at the same time) So I had another day in Bangalore. Hallelujah!!!

Meeting after a year and still being able to carry on from wherever you last left off…that’s a luxury you can have with very few people in your life. And so it was with my friend and me. Roommates for a year and a half, there was so much to talk about. It went on right through home into ‘Village’ restaurant and into CCD (the weekend ‘adda’ as we called it back then), meandered through the walk back home and ended just when the fairies of the night hushed us and led us by our hands to the chasm between today and tomorrow.

This moment...

a song that ruled my heart and mind three years ago.
a close friend's wedding snaps.
the peace of solitude in the hostel room.
diary entries written a year ago.
the tension of pending work lurking at the ramparts of my conscious mind.
Dilbert cartoons with cubicles n coffee guzzling managers
a mild bout of tonsilitis
offliners on msgr to two of my closest buddies
a gentle night breeze
a sudden craving to go home.

Do the Diu !!!

After many months of planning and postponing and replanning, we finally decided to 'Do the Diu'. So on Friday night, there we were - a group of 8 people on the bus to Diu, all set for the overnight journey with packets of chips and peanuts. I was overly excited about the trip for two reasons...well actually three reasons.

a) Goa Daman and Diu was one Union territory before they decided to make Goa a state ( a landmark day for all the MLAs who till this day are 'party-hopping' and making the best use of this decision). So I was curious to know what Diu is like.
b) Having stayed close to the sea most of my life, I feel a special bonding with the sea. Surprisingly the more I stay away from the sea (Pilani,Bangalore,Ahmedabad), the more I feel attached to the sea.
c) Fish Fish n more fish :D

So once we reached Diu and dumped our luggage in our rooms (the very "creative rooms" made out of cargo containers) at Sea Village, we hit the sea. Then we had breakfast and hit the sea again. Then we had a quick spin of Diu, had lunch and hit the sea again. I learnt to float. It is an amazing feeling to just surrender to the water and lie on your back staring into the clear blue sky above. I rediscovered swimming. :)) I realized that playing frisbee in water is twice as much fun as playing it on land. Post-dinner my chicken and fish-chilly laden belly did not quite agree with my heart's decision to hit the sea. So I sat overlooking the waves (or rather just the white foam on the waves visible in the inky darkness) and had silent conversations with them. Come next morning, and we hit the sea again. And then we did the quintessential 'Diu Darshan' on bikes. Fort->Diu Church->Gomatimata beach->Nagoa beach->Naida Caves(spoooookkyyyy.Do not even attempt to go there in the night). And took the night bus back to aapnu amdavad.

Some learning from my Diu trip:
a) Whoever coined the term 'sun-kissed' was definately sitting in the shade. (This sentence was written with one hand while with the other I was applying Lacto-Calamine on my terribly sun-burnt face :( )
b) Never ever go to Diu on a secret trip. Your tan will say it all when you get back. (thank heavens our trip was a well-publicised trip on the weekend and no classes were bunked for it :D)
c) Imagine this. You are all bathed and clean, wearing the last pair of dry clothes that you have. You have sworn a lil' while ago that you are DONE with the sea and salt-water. But now you stand on this cliff, just three metres away from the spot where a thousand white droplets of water from the waves crashing below rise up in a frothy mist and engulf you. WHAT DO YOU DO???
Just walk those three metres and get soaked to the skin in the frothy misty shower. Never know when you will get such a moment again :)
[Note: spending a day and night in sea-water covered clothes causes a mild to severe itching and rash on the skin :( ]
d) Diu is not very similar to Goa in terms of the people and culture. But you find a very strong Portuguese influence out there -just like you do in Goa. But what the heck....its a grreaat place for a quiet and peaceful vacation.
e) Fish is yummy whether you have in Goa, Diu or Timbuktu...... :)))))))))))) [burp!!]
For all those who have been inspired to do the diu after reading this - try the fish at the 'laaris'. You get to choose between a 40 Rs. pomfret, a 50 Rs. pomfret and so....and its aaaweeessoommmee.

Note: (for mum n dad): all the floating and swimming was done in very shallow water, within a distance of 5 meters from the shore, in the presence of people who are good swimmers with prior experience of saving people from drowning. The sea at Diu is very placid and "user-friendly" :)) :p

To end the post....a link to the lyrics of one of my favourite songs...which seems much more relevant to me at this moment.
The Sunscreen song :D

Caveman instincts....

We all rushed towards the mess with posters. The rival camp was already there with their posters and had cordoned off the area closest to the door. The door was closed and would open only an hour later. And there we stood - a grimy mass of paint-covered limbs and sloganeering faces filling every inch of the staircase. All for occupying as much of space on the mess walls as we can with our posters. Fun and games. And yet I have seen best friends in opposite camps screaming into each others faces with a language that would make their parents think about their bad karma in all their past lives. Even a budding romance is put on hold during the 'Poster War' week and the girlfriend is all too glad to give the silent treatment to the dude. All for just one objective - possession. Possession of space. Possession of the cobweb-covered mess walls which reek of stale dal and rice and don't even elicit a second look (or whiff :) on usual days

And this got me thinking (which given the commotion and the push-pull that went on in that one hour is indeed an achievement) that 'what if humans were devoid of this urge to possess? What if the caveman had never used clubs to possess any and every woman that caught his fancy?' It would save me all those hours of going early to the popular classes to possess a seating place on the bench, floor or the windowsill. I thought of all the fights that I have had with my sister just because she wore my T-shirt or used my mug to drink her daily Horlicks dose. Images of my favourite shoes, book and perfume were flashing in my mind. I had a vague recollection of a protest march that my sister and me had staged (complete with slogans and posters) to coerce my parents into buying yet another Barbie for us. I got thinking about how the entire family had stood at the door as we sold off our ten-year old vehicle and kept waving till the number-plate disappeared around the road-bend. And then there was this time when my friend and I had a crush on the same guy and fought for hours over him (despite the fact that he didn't even know that we exist).

On a lighter note, I thought the filthy rich would probably throw away their money without the urge to possess it and I would get a part of the booty. But would I even want it ? Or would the filthy rich be filthy rich without the urge to possess? And then I had this scary apparition of a woman handing over her child to vagabond-like character who is standing at her doorstep and asking for her child. And that jostled me back into reality. Back into the pushing and sweat-dripping blob of bodies waiting to clamber over tables and beams - all for that last inch on the grimy mess wall. And I was thankful to the fighting. Thankful to the urge to possess. Thankful to the caveman who plastered another caveman's brain to the ground to possess the hairy cavewoman with the cute dimples. :))amen

A visit to change it all....

I hate going to somebody's house when i don't really know them. When they open the door half-expecting you to be a door-to-door salesperson (i guess its the kurta jhola look that makes them think I have some homemade pickles stowed away in my jhola), my mouth runs dry before i break into my toothiest grin and introduce myself. And the greatest fear that grips my throat and makes me nauseated at the very thought of visiting people i don't know is WHAT DO I SAY? I mean I love to talk and all that. But after I know their entire family tree, the name of the dog they owned in 1978, the entire school curriculum of their third child and the 'inside story' about all their neighbours, WHAT NEXT??? I hate gaps in conversation when you just lie back on the couch and grin like an idiot or dust imaginary crumbs from your shirt, while your mind is desparately trying to grab onto another thread of talk with a longer runtime potential.

And thats exactly what went through my mind when they told us that we have to do a field study for our project. I am working with children and my field study involved spending time in the school with the Senior KG Class. (which was a really nice experience....the bunch of kids were well-behaved and my bag didnt get plundered. Neither did they make fun of my red chappals with big black knobs between the first two toes - which I have realised over some time are objects of derision among the very old and very young and everyone in between :(( ) I also had to go to their homes and interact with their parents and siblings which was what bothered me in the first place.

Anyways...there I was in the auto fighting an urge to stop the auto and go back the campus. Finally after 15 minutes of road-rage and gujju galis by irate drivers, the autowallah deposited me in front of a huge pharmacy. Another 10 minutes of asking around and walking finally got me to the society where the child stayed. I took a deep breath and walked up to his house. Thankfully, I had met his mother and sister earlier. That would spare me the 'oh-are-u-another-salesgirl?' look.

The door was open. And through the door I could see atleast ten people bustling inside - eating, cooking, hurrying about. I had called earlier, so they would be expecting me. But maybe they had had some unexpected guests. What should I do? I stood at the door and didn't really have to wait much, for I got dragged in with a nice boisterous welcome. They were all unknown faces and yet seemed so familiar when they gave me that understanding smile. I made a feeble explanation about how I was late cos I had a little trouble in locating the house. But it was lost in the hoopla of making way between all the people and escorting me to the first floor. A glass of very cold water put me at ease. Who I had mistaken for 'unexpected guests' were actually family members who now surrounded me as I sat on the bed and pulled out my guideline questionnaire and book and pen. Two little girls with big round eyes which followed every movement of my hands. An elderly woman who sat on the floor with the mother and gaped at me with faint curiosity (thank god I left my chappals outside the house). A bhaiyya and bhabi duo who sat next to me and nodded vehemently when I told them about my project. And of course, the child under study, still in his school uniform scrawling away to glory on his slate oblivious to the fact that he is a guinea pig (albeit in a social setting :)

I started with the usual questions about age and family details and stuff. They are 6 siblings the eldest one being 23 years old (married with a 2 year old child) and the youngest one being 6 years old. The mother proudly said 'India is such a huge country thanks to women like me. What is this 1 or 2 children thing? See...I bore 6 children. If we have to play cricket , we dont even have to look for outside help. We will make a great team." She laughed as she talked and playfully hit me on my arm while making a point. She then went on to explain how people from her community have many children in the quest to have a son. She is a very spirited woman, considering the fact that two of her children are deaf since birth. But never once did she speak of the problems and difficulties.

Somewhere in between the conversation, a cup of tea surfaced from the ground floor. I was thankful for it . But the mother held it in her hand and would not give it to me. I guessed that she may not want to interrupt my questioning process. So I kept quiet for a while. But still she wouldn't. Finally I gave up and resumed my questions while watching the tea getting cold in her hand. Her reluctance I later realised was because she had asked for biscuits to go with the tea and didn't want me to finish the tea before the biscuits arrived. Later I had the reheated tea with half a dozen biscuits. :)))

For a novice surveyor, I do a decent job. But this cheerful lady almost had me. When I asked her husband's occupation, she said 'majdoori' which is what day laborers do at construction sites. The family looked quite affluent. I never knew majdoori could be so profitable. I was thoroughly confused. I changed the tack of questioning. But it still rankled me. So I hazarded another question 'does his father work quite far away?' and the bhaiyya-bhabhi duo nodded and informed me that he owns a jewellery shop nearby. And the entire lot of them laughed politely at the ignorant visitor (yours truly) who had in her academic zeal and confusion missed the giggles from the little girls and the gleam in the mother's eye as she said 'majdoori' with a poker face.

The more I spoke to them, somehow I felt drawn into the family and so much a part of them. I understood their subtle jokes. I could grasp the mechanics of the mother daughter relationship when the daughter jovially called her mother as 'uneducated' and 'angootha chaap' and she retaliated with how she managed the family jewellery business so well. They invited me to stay over for dinner with promises of yummy Rajasthani food and offered to drop me back to my hostel. I so wanted to stay. Or rather my stomach wanted me to stay and the rest of me agreed. But then thinking about my earlier feelings and reluctance made me feel guilty and I didnt want to impose my 'hale-n-healthy' appetite on them. So I refused.

After having taken some photos (more because I felt like it than for academic record), I said my goodbyes. They all stood at the door, waving me goodbyes as the mother accompanied me till the road. The small walk was seized as the perfect opportunity to advise me, a young girl unknown to the ways of the world, about how it is unsafe to travel alone and that I should not do it again, especially so late into the evening. (I considered telling her about how I once travelled from the airport to the campus at 1 am all alone....but spared the the good lady a cardiac arrest by keeping mum)
And then she made sure I got safely into the auto (which was driven by a sweet-looking old uncle and not some young driver with shifty eyes) and haggled with the driver to reduce the fare from the usual 40 rupees to a special just-for-this-good-little-young-lady 30 Rs. She asked me to visit again and held on to my hand till we drove on.

I still feel paranoid about visiting people I dont know. I still have the dry-mouth syndrome when I stand on their doorsteps. But after that day's visit, I have this faint hope in me that the next family I encounter might be like them. And that is what makes me go on. :)